A.H. Avenue Number Three

By Sheila Varghese

This is a story of one family, but it could just as well be the story of any family.

A story with beginnings in different countries, in separate times, narrated by three generations. It moves through three significant historical events, the despair of the 1930s in Germany; the 1940s civil unrest in Ceylon; and the stifling fear of the 1970s in India.

It is a story of the demands of class and caste, education and politics, wealth, and status in the lives of all people. It is symbolic of the pain and grief that all humans endure; the disruption they experience when their best laid plans go awry. But crucially, the innate goodness that lies entrenched in the human heart, causing it to rise above petty prejudices.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398476585

Sheila Varghese

Sheila Varghese was born in Bangalore, India. With many years spent in theological and neo-literate education, she also worked as a freelance columnist, book reviewer and special correspondent for several newspapers in India. In the 1990s, in a joint project between the Protestants and Roman Catholics, she co-edited a chronologically arranged, condensed version of the Old Testament using the text of the Jerusalem Bible1 with the late Sister Genevieve de Cordove2. The publication was for students in Indian schools. In 2019, she assisted and contributed to the publication of a book on holy people from outside Europe and the western world, to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the Committee for Minority Ethnic Anglican Concerns (CMEAC) of the Church of England3. A.H. Avenue Number Three is Varghese’s first work of fiction. The different cultural, ethnic, political, religious and social backgrounds described in this novel are known to her firsthand. 1 Genevieve SMMI and Varghese Ramasamy (eds), The Mini Bible: Old Testament (Indore: Satprakashan Sanchar Kendra, 1991). 2 Sr Genevieve de Cordove (1919-1995) was an artist, a nun of the Salesian Missionaries of Mary Immaculate (SMMI). She was a pioneer in the use of Indian symbols in Christian art. 3 Prentis (ed), Every Tribe: stories of diverse saints serving a diverse world (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (SPCK), 2019).

Book preview

About the Author

Sheila Varghese was born in Bangalore, India.

With many years spent in theological and neo-literate education, she also worked as a freelance columnist, book reviewer and special correspondent for several newspapers in India.

In the 1990s, in a joint project between the Protestants and Roman Catholics, she co-edited a chronologically arranged, condensed version of the Old Testament using the text of the Jerusalem Bible¹ with the late Sister Genevieve de Cordove². The publication was for students in Indian schools.

In 2019, she assisted and contributed to the publication of a book on holy people from outside Europe and the western world, to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the Committee for Minority Ethnic Anglican Concerns (CMEAC) of the Church of England³.

A.H. Avenue Number Three is Varghese’s first work of fiction. The different cultural, ethnic, political, religious and social backgrounds described in this novel are known to her firsthand.

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Genevieve SMMI and Varghese Ramasamy (eds), The Mini Bible: Old Testament (Indore: Satprakashan Sanchar Kendra, 1991).↩︎

Sr Genevieve de Cordove (1919-1995) was an artist, a nun of the Salesian Missionaries of Mary Immaculate (SMMI). She was a pioneer in the use of Indian symbols in Christian art.↩︎

Prentis (ed), Every Tribe: stories of diverse saints serving a diverse world (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge (SPCK), 2019).↩︎

Dedication

For Rajendran.

For Nadine.

And for those few who travelled with me in troubling times.

Copyright Information ©

Sheila Varghese 2024

The right of Sheila Varghese to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398476578 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398476585 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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E14 5AA

Part One The

Beginning

Chapter 1

A long time ago, or so they say, it had been called Arthur Henry Peiris Avenue. But with the passage of time and with so many prejudices, someone struck the ‘Peiris’ off the signpost with black paint. And much later repainted it to read A.H. Avenue. But it was Arthur Henry Peiris Avenue, the neighbours informed us as we prepared to move into one of the houses in Road Number Three.

Every Peiris was to be viewed with suspicion, as was every Fernando, Ranasinghe and Jayaweera and in fact, anyone who was Sinhalese, was what my science teacher, a Tamil, whose family hailed from the north of the country told us.

At ten years of age, I had only one feeling: happiness. Happiness that finally I had a more respectable address. Instead of the commonplace Medurugoda Lane and First Cross, Old Poor House Junction, which betrayed the fact that I lived in the poorer sections of the town, I, like the well-to-do girls at school, who came in their chauffeur-driven cars, had a decent address. Never mind if it lay on the outskirts of Samanilayava, a village best known for brewing illicit alcohol and police raids. Never mind if there was no electricity and no running water.

No one would learn of these discomforts if I remembered not to speak of them. When the other girls spoke of where they lived, I would simply say I lived in A.H. Avenue and since no one knew where it was and were in any case impressed by the ‘Avenue’ part of my address, I felt I had received their sanction to stand on the fringes of their little elite groups and listen to their conversations.

Every now and again, I would inject some nugget of knowledge I had picked up from the radio that was kept full blast in the teashop down the road from where I lived or the day’s newspapers, which I had peeked into at the bus stop newsstand. They thought me knowledgeable and ever since I had made it known that I lived in an ‘Avenue’, they thought it proper for me to be admitted into their affluent circles. But once at home, I went back to being what we had become, lower middle class and struggling.

The lower middle classes, said my Civics teacher, Mrs Ranaweera, are the special legacy the British, Dutch and Portuguese left behind in their colonies. They are those who have to keep up a semblance of respectability, but do not have the means to do so.

How very true, I thought to myself.

They are the university gold medallists who are forced to pawn their mothers’ wedding rings to afford a second-hand suit to be worn at their graduation ceremonies, she concluded looking very smug and allowing her eyes to wander around her classroom of 10-something-year-olds. I tried to avoid her glance, as I suddenly began to feel quite hot around the ears and imagined that she was talking about my family.

I had sensed quite early that we did not belong in this place. Perhaps it was to do with Ammi¹ having drilled it into us so many times or perhaps it was an instinct. I remember Ammi explaining to us that our homeland was India. We were in Ceylon only because Abbu² was working here and in a few years, we would be returning to the country that was our home. I imagine that even if Ammi had not told us this, I knew by some sixth sense that I was not quite the same as my classmates and friends.

For one thing, anyone looking closely enough would see that our appearance, our names, the way we lived, what we ate and just about everything about us was different. However, these thoughts, if they ever surfaced would be pushed into the background because they made me feel uncomfortable. I, so very much wanted to be a part of everything; the urge to belong sometimes suffocated me. But everyone at school seemed to know that I was an outsider, a foreigner and so I had to double my efforts to be accepted by them.

But that day listening to Mrs Ranaweera, my mind drifted back to my younger days. I could remember a time when my sister, Marya, did not live with us, but a time when we lived in a very large house and were quite well off. Abbu was then a well-known overseas news correspondent based in Ceylon, working for the ‘South Asia News Agency’ or ‘SNA’ as it was popularly called; the biggest and most prestigious news agency in south Asia.

We would often see his name as the writer of the lead story for all the best-known newspapers of the island. He would use his full name, Shivaprakash Nambiar. And Ammi would very proudly have a display of all the day’s newspapers on the teapoy in the veranda for all who called at our home to see. Yes, life was very different then. We seemed to have everything we wanted.

Lavith, my brother, who we called Lucky, and I, had our own rooms in our very expensive house and there were large green lawns both at the front and back where we could run about and play. We both attended a private primary school and were taken to school and brought back in our car, a black Morris Minor, driven by our chauffeur.

I do not quite remember how or when it all changed. All I recall is our living in this beautiful large house in Colombo seven, one of the most affluent parts of the capital city and then as if overnight, living in a rather small house with just three rooms, with no electricity and no running water. My memories of that sudden change in our lives were of Abbu rising up very early in the morning to trudge down a steep hilly pathway to the communal well to carry up buckets of water and fill the waterpots before he left for work.

The car had gone and he would walk to the railway station to catch a train to his workplace in Colombo. He avoided taking the bus that would take him to the railway station as it would mean spending more money for the journey. All I know is, that it was a sad and muddling time. I could not for the life of me fathom what had gone wrong. Ammi’s explanation to us was, Abbu can no longer work at his newspaper job because we are foreigners.

Why then does Abbu go to work each morning? I asked her not quite understanding the logic of it.

He now has another job, Karni, she said simply. I could not really make sense of what she said, but I thought it better not to ask her.

Remember to hand this note to Miss D’Silva when you reach school, Ammi would say and I, invariably knew what was in it. She was asking for a few weeks’ grace to pay the nominal fees the school charged for ‘facilities’ as they called it. The payments were to be made at the beginning of each calendar month and of course by Ammi’s calculation she would be short of money if she paid this right away. Since I was not ‘grown up’, as they said and which simply meant I had not yet attained puberty, it seemed in order to entrust me with these errands.

I would deliver the note to Miss D’Silva who would very graciously thank me for it and sometime during the day she would bring me a tightly sealed envelope, a reply to be given to my mother. She would tap me on the shoulder and say very kindly in a whisper, Don’t worry about it, Karni. It was as if she sensed that I knew what my mother had written and her very sensitive and well-educated self would not allow her to add to my embarrassment.

But every errand I ran for Ammi did not meet with such kindness. Another day it would be, Take this note to Alice Akka.³ Alice Akka and her husband kept a grocery store. Again, I knew what the note said. It would be a request that a couple of items be bought from the shop, ‘on tick’, which simply meant, that Ammi was again short of money and obliged to buy on credit. However, Alice Akka was made of less cultured stuff than Miss D’Silva.

Have you brought along a bag with you, girl? she would ask me, employing the same tone she did when speaking to her housemaid.

"Yes, I have brought a mallè."

Pass it over, that tone still making me feel like I was a servant. I would give her my mallè, a strong bag made of coir. Your mother has asked for a lot of things today. Are you having visitors?

I don’t know, Alice Akka. Ammi just asked me to give her note to you.

Well, there is nothing to be done, if people do not know how to manage their money. She would continue muttering under her breath while loading my bag with the items Ammi had asked for. I would be getting impatient, all of this was taking far too long and I would now have no time to have at least a few games of hopscotch, batta, as they called it here, with Marya.

Stop balancing yourself on one leg and leaning on the wall, Alice Akka would bark amidst her ill-humour. Give this note to your mother and don’t open it on the way home.

I would grab the note and my mallè, which was now almost full to the brim and walk as fast as I could. I knew she would keep watching me until I had reached the bend in the road and from where she could no longer see me. I dared not look back to see if she was still watching me, so I would continue to hurry along with the mallè which seemed to get heavier as I went.

By then, the day was over.

Whatever took you so long, Karni, Ammi would shout the moment I arrived home.

You know how Alice Akka is, she was complaining and she took a long time to fill the mallè with the things you wanted. I was in no mood to be engaged in this conversation with Ammi. I just wanted to play at least one game of batta before it was dark and time to go indoors.

Marya, can’t we have one game of batta before attending to the lamps? I would whisper to Marya, my sister.

Karni, it is already getting dark and you know how angry Ammi gets.

Please Marya, just one game.

But before we could venture out into the yard, it was Ammi again, Karni, Marya, set the table it is time for supper.

I never have time to play, I complained. I do nothing else but help you with chores.

If you had not taken so long coming back from Alice Akka’s shop, you would have had time to play.

Yes, but I had to wait for Alice Akka.

Marya would see that this was going to be one of those endless arguments between Ammi and me and she would intervene. Come on Karni, let us help Ammi serve the evening meal. You don’t need to help with cleaning and lighting the lamps, I will do that myself.

Marya would then busy herself pouring kerosene oil in the little containers of the lamps and trimming the wicks. She had already cleaned the glass chimneys of the oil lamps. She would then light them.

After a fairly sketchy meal, mostly rice and sambar, a spicy dish made with red lentils and various vegetables, we went to sleep having said our evening prayers.

Sometimes in half sleep I would hear Ammi give Abbu details of her having had to put off certain payments and buy on credit from the grocery store.

Akshi, how many times must I ask you not to do this? Alice Akka and her husband charge considerably more to those who buy on credit. They are not doing us a favour, I would hear Abbu say in despair. Whatever happened to the money I gave you this morning?

Ammi, at the best of times, never liked being asked about why she had done something. So, even in the darkness I could feel her becoming incensed. Well, what you give me is hardly enough to buy all the provisions for the day.

The money I gave you this morning was for the whole week, not just for a day, Abbu would say, so, you spent everything I gave you this morning and then had to buy from the fishmonger and Alice Akka on credit.

Why don’t you try buying the provisions yourself and then we shall see how well you do, Ammi would protest.

I give up with you Akshi, you are just useless at managing money and you have inherited that terrible habit of overspending from your mother. But at least she could afford to do it.

Stop getting so angry, Ammi would say almost in a whisper, you will wake the children up! But, of course, we were awake and had heard them.

I am not angry, Akshi, it is just that I can see no way of paying up all these bills when they are due. No one is going to wait forever for their money. It was difficult not to miss the pain in his voice.

Ammi would be silent for a while, but then she would become conciliatory, I am sorry, Shiva, but it is so difficult not having enough money…

I understand that, Akshi, but we have to just hang on here for the next two years and then we can return to Bangalore, Abbu’s voice would be almost breaking.

I am so sorry, Shiva, I did not mean to upset you, Ammi would begin to cry. All my years of hard work will be for nothing if we leave now. I must get back what they owe me and which they are rightfully obligated to pay me. It cannot go on forever, Akshi. And you must help me.

I never understood why Abbu had said he would have to stay on in Ceylon for the next two years and about the money that was owed to him. It was only many years later that I learnt of the grievous injustice that had been inflicted on him and many others like him, by a prejudiced and deeply corrupt regime.

And so, in all my sleeping and waking hours I thought of that magical number, two years. In my child’s mind, I was sure that after two years everything would suddenly switch back to how things were. But hopes and dreams are strange things. And what was to be two years stretched into almost four times that number. When we finally returned to Bangalore, eight long years and many life-changing events later, our family was not the same as we had been when we first moved to live in A.H. Avenue Number Three.

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An affectionate honorific used in the Indian sub-continent to address one’s mother.↩︎

An affectionate honorific used in the Indian sub-continent for one’s father.↩︎

An honorific used for a sister or an older woman.↩︎

Chapter 2

Why aren’t you coming to the Sports Day celebrations, Sara, my best friend at school, asked me.

My parents have to go to a party, I lied. I must help my sister look after my little brother.

They always go for parties, don’t they? remarked Sara, evidently curious. My father’s job is such, I lied shamelessly to Sara. And since we moved into that house in A.H. Avenue, they also invite friends and business contacts home, I continued, warming to my theme.

In my more quieter moments, I would justify what I had told Sara as being only partly a lie; after all, when Abbu was still in his previous role as an overseas correspondent my parents did socialise quite a lot and also entertain guests in our beautiful large house. At any rate, Sara seemed impressed by what I told her. Her parents were separated. I knew that Sara’s parents came from two different communities, her mother was a Burgher and her father came from the Malay community. There had been severe objections from both families to this marriage and her family had cut her off.

Once during a free hour, Sara started relating how her grandmother had later tried to become reconciled with her daughter. But my mother was stubborn and not willing to give in. It was a very interesting story and, as ever, all the girls in my class gathered around to listen to Sara. There was no reason for her to become friends with her family again, Sara told us.

I was curious, Why ever not?

Well, they are really badly off and I think my Nan was trying to get money off my Mummy.

Everyone agreed that Sara was right and that in those circumstances there was really no point in effecting a reconciliation. If any of us thought otherwise in private, we did not voice it. Sara was hugely popular and no one wanted to get on her wrong side by disagreeing with her.

Sara’s mother was a government employee and since there had been no legal divorce, her father paid alimony only when he felt like it. From some things, Sara had inadvertently dropped into our conversations, I understood that her mother found it difficult to manage with what she earned to pay all the bills and support three children.

But we do go to live with my Daddy during the school holidays. Sara confided in me, He’s got plenty of dosh and we do have a lovely time when we are at his home. And then as an afterthought she added, He’s got a girlfriend now and she lives at his place. But she goes away when we go to stay with him, she said.

Sara seemed to take all this in her stride and sounded very grown up. She thought it quite natural for families to live the way hers did. I did not, however, let Ammi know about Sara’s family. She would have forbidden me to be friends with her and what’s more, would have lectured me each time I did something that did not meet with her expectations.

All that mattered to me was that Sara was very popular at school and in addition, a hugely talented student and an excellent athlete. I felt quite honoured that she had chosen me as her best friend. I was certainly not going to change my story now and come clean and tell her that all the affluence and wealth and parties and the posh house in A.H. Avenue simply did not exist. I dared not tell her that my parents could not afford to send me to such luxuries as the Sports Day celebrations, which cost money. Precious money that could be used for something else.

This, however, was not the first lie that I lived. Everyone at school, that is, everyone except Miss D’Silva, my English teacher and the Vice-Principal of our school, thought Marya was my older sister. She was two years older than me and at certain angles, we bore a striking resemblance to each other. This was hardly surprising because Marya was the daughter of Ammi’s late sister.

She had died when Marya was a girl of nearly eleven. When I was still young, I was always told that she had died in a train accident. But as I grew older, I heard the whispered gossip, that she had committed suicide, throwing herself in front of an on-coming train.

It was her husband’s ill-treatment of her that drove her to this point of insanity, I once overheard Alice Akka tell a group of women. He now lives in Bombay in a monastery, she whispered. Whether all of this was true or not, was anybody’s guess. However, I already knew this version of the story, as it was the talk of the town. He didn’t even wait for the mourning period to be over, she continued, the court case was a real sham.

Can you believe it that he was presented in court as being the unfortunate victim of his wife’s erratic and insane behaviour, this from Loku-hamu, the village carpenter’s wife. It seemed that Marya, who was perhaps the only real victim of this ugly episode, was made to testify in court against her dead mother. She was just a child of nine-and-a-half and she was tutored to repeat words she did not fully understand, said Loku-hamu bursting into tears.

This was surely not taken as evidence of her mother’s insanity? asked Mrs Wilson, who lived in one of the large bungalows in A.H. Avenue and who was respected because of her wealth.

"You don’t know the courts, nona, said Loku-hamu addressing Mrs Wilson with the respectful term used for a lady. Do you know what that small child said in court, ‘My mother used to beat me daily and starve me’. Now if that was not tutored?" she finished.

But it was Mala, the servant, who had worked in that household, who was the prime witness, said Alice Akka in a whisper, She testified to how badly Marya was treated by her mother: ‘The poor child had her first meal for the day when I used to go in for work at two in the afternoon’, was what she said, ‘I used to find her hiding somewhere in the house, quite often asleep, while her mother lay drunk on the floor’.

It seems she was paid handsomely for having testified like this, said Loku-hamu.

Let’s not talk about it, said Mrs Wilson indicating me with her eyes to the other two, it is a most sordid and unhappy affair.

Listening to them, I wondered how they knew these things at all. In addition, I felt piqued by Mrs Wilson gesturing that I was listening to their conversation.

Ammi’s family lived in India and not in Ceylon, I blurted out. None of you were living in India to know what happened. Loku-hamu and the others were extremely annoyed with me.

Mrs Wilson asked me, What are you doing here? Children should not be listening to adult talk.

I was not to be put off by her, You have not answered my question, I said, I told you Ammi’s family lived in India and not in Ceylon. Mrs Wilson just walked off and the group of women listening to her followed.

Someone must have mentioned this to Ammi because when I got home, she began, Karni, how many times must I ask you not to start arguments with grown-ups? I did not reply but slunk off to my room.

It was many years later that I came to know the real story behind all of this. But that is all for another day. For the