The Flower Boy by Karen Roberts

therefore they could get only what they could afford.
    Like Teacher, who was definitely at death’s door, mostly because he was almost seventy and drank like a fish every evening. Like Mr. Aloysius, who despite his noble intentions of English-educating the masses, had a large family to feed and whose only qualification was his burning desire. Like Miss Ranawake with her long unhappy face like a well-sucked mango seed, who was approaching thirty and had taken up teaching only because she couldn’t find a husband.
    Father Ross knew the limitations of his teaching staff. And so, while he wore his sympathetic church-face for Teacher, he could, in a sort of un-Christian way, understand why a bright young boy like Chandi threw chalkfilled dusters at Teacher.
    â€œTeacher, I shall speak to him this afternoon,” he promised.
    â€œDon’t talk, give good whacking then maybe behave,” Teacher said angrily.
    â€œTeacher, you know the church does not condone violence,” Father Ross said mildly. “Boys will be boys, and all that.”
    â€œThen what about the saints?” Teacher asked belligerently. “Put the buggers in boiling oil and whipped and flogged—suffered all that and became saints after, no? Mebbe some flogging make this one a saint.”
    Father Ross felt the smile begin to escape. Not only that, he could feel it becoming a well-rounded laugh on its way out. He called up his sternest expression, the one he used in the confessional.
    â€œTeacher,” he said firmly, “leave it with me. I shall take care of it.” And he beat a hasty retreat, allowing the laugh to come forth as soon as he was out of earshot, which was only a few feet away since Teacher was more than half deaf.
    As soon as Teacher had walked away, muttering darkly about the new generation and the severity of punishments in his day, the subject of his complaints emerged from behind the tall clump of rhododendron bushes where he had been anxiously eavesdropping.
    Unlike Teacher, he heard Father Ross’s mirth emerge, and walked slowly home feeling safe for the time being at least. He fervently hoped Father Ross wouldn’t decide to come home and have a talk with his mother once his amusement wore off.
    Chandi was also in trouble at home.
    Krishna had caught him sitting in the Sudu Mahattaya’s chair while the family was away in Colombo, and vented his general anger and frustration simply by telling Premawathi.
    Chandi’s ear was still sore from the twisting it had earned him, and he had resolved to make Krishna’s life as miserable as he possibly could.
    He put sand in Krishna’s mat. He put stones in Krishna’s pillow. He put dead cockroaches in Krishna’s food and a live centipede on Krishna’s stomach as he lay sleeping early one morning. The ensuing screams had woken up the entire household.
    Chandi had been caught every time and whipped soundly with the guava cane, but Krishna’s hysteria made it all worthwhile.
    Leela and Rangi were growing up too. Leela was now twelve and was becoming increasingly like Premawathi, both in appearance and demeanor. At school, she was an average student, not good, not bad.
    It was as though she had already accepted that she, like her mother, would go into domestic service as soon as she was old enough. That was fate’s scheme of things, and Leela was only a tiny dot in fate’s vast people plan. To imagine that she could be anything better or even simply different was a waste of valuable sweeping, brushing and dusting time.
    Rangi also swept and brushed and dusted, but differently. She moved through the months and years like a fragile fairy who’d come to earth just to visit and then got her wings entangled in its ugliness. Her gentleness only increased, her wisdom only grew. She was a nine-year-old woman with carefully concealed dreams.
    In some ways, she was a lot like Chandi.
    When Chandi was not in trouble, he