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For seven-year-old Raami, the shattering end of childhood begins with the footsteps of her father returning home inthe early dawn hours bringing details of the civil war that has overwhelmed the streets of Phnom Penh, Cambodias
capital. Soon the familys world of carefully guarded royal privilege is swept up in the chaos of revolution and forced
exodus.
Over the next four years, as she endures the deaths of family members, starvation, and brutal forced labor, Raami
clings to the only remaining vestige of childhoodthe mythical legends and poems told to her by her father. In aclimate of systematic violence where memory is sickness and justification for execution, Raami fights for her
improbable survival. Displaying the authors extraordinary gift for language, In the Shadow of the Banyanis
testament to the transcendent power of narrative and a brilliantly wrought tale of human resilience.
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7/31/2019 In The Shadow Of The Banyan by Vaddey Ratner
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In the
Shadowof the
Banyan
SIMON & SCHUSER
NEW YORK LONDON ORONO SYDNEY NEW DELHI
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one
War entered my childhood world not with the blasts o rockets andbombs but with my athers ootsteps as he walked through thehallway, passing my bedroom toward his. I heard the door open and shut
with a sot click. I slid o my bed, careul not to wake Radana in her crib,
and snuck out o my room. I pressed my ear to the door and listened.Are you all right? Mama sounded concerned.
Each day beore dawn, Papa would go out or a solitary stroll, and
returning an hour or so later, he would bring back with him the sights
and sounds o the city, rom which would emerge the poems he read
aloud to me. Tis morning, though, it seemed he came back as soon as
hed stepped out, or dawn had just arrived and the eel o night had yet
to dissipate. Silence trailed his every step like the remnant o a dreamlong ater waking. I imagined him lying next to Mama now, his eyes
closed as he listened to her voice, the comort it gave him amidst the
clamor o his own thoughts.
What happened?
Nothing, darling, Papa said.
What is it? she persisted.
A deep, long sigh, then nally he said, Te streets are lled with
people, Aana. Homeless, hungry, desperate . . . He paused, the bed
creaked, and I imagined him turning to ace her, their cheeks on the
same long pillow, as Id oten seen. Te miseries
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No matter what awulness is out there, Mama cut in gently, I
know you will take care o us.
A breathless silence. I imagined her lips pressed against his. I blushed.Tere! she exclaimed, the insouciant ring and chime o her voice
returning. Ten came the sound o slatted shutters being opened, like
wooden birds released, suddenly taking ight. Te sun is brilliant! she
enthused, and with these easy words chased away the mornings gravity,
threw Nothing back out the gates like a stray cat that had clawed its
way onto Papas shoulder.
A shat o light ell on the ront o the house and spilled into theopen hallway rom the balcony. I imagined it a celestial carpet thrown
rom the heavens by a careless tevodaan angel. I ran toward it, my steps
unencumbered by the metal brace and shoes I normally wore to correct
the limp in my right leg.
Outside, the sun rose through the luxuriant green oliage o the
courtyard. It yawned and stretched, like an inant deity poking its long
multiple arms through the leaves and branches. It was April, the tail endo the dry season, and it was only a matter o time beore the monsoon
arrived, bringing with it rains and relie rom the heat and humidity.
Meanwhile the whole house was hot and stuy, like the inside o a bal-
loon. I was slick with sweat. Still, New Year was coming, and ater all the
waiting and wondering, wed nally have a celebration!
Up, up, up! came a cry rom the cooking pavilion. It was Om Bao,
her voice as voluminous as her ample gure, which resembled an over-
stued burlap rice sack.
Pick up your lazy heads! she clucked urgently. Hurry, hurry, hurry!
I ran around the balcony to the side o the house and saw her roll
back and orth between the womens lower house and the cooking pa-
vilion, her sandals smacking the dirt with impatience. Wash your aces,
brush your teeth! she ordered, clapping as she chased a row o sleepy
servant girls to the clay vats lining the wall outside the cooking pavil-
ion. Oey, oey, oey, the sun has risen and so should your behinds! She
whacked one o the girls on the bottom. Youll miss the igers last roar
and the Rabbits rst hop!
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 3
Te iger and the Rabbit were lunar years, one ending and the
other beginning. Khmer New Year is always celebrated in April, and this
year1975it was to all on the seventeenth, just a ew days away. Inour house, preparations would customarily begin long in advance or all
the Buddhist ceremonies and garden parties thrown during the celebra-
tion. Tis year, because o the ghting, Papa didnt want us to celebrate.
New Year was a time o cleansing, he reminded us, a time o renewal.
And as long as there was ghting in the countryside, driving reugees
into our city streets, it would be wrong or us to be celebrating anything.
Fortunately, Mama disagreed. I there was a time to celebrate, she ar-gued, it was now. A New Years party would chase away all that was bad
and usher in all that was good.
I turned and caught a glimpse o Mama standing in the corner o the
balcony just outside her bedroom, liting her hair to cool the nape o her
neck. Slowly she let the strands all in gossamer layers down the length
o her back.A buttery preening hersel.A line rom one o Papas poems.
I blinked. She vanished.I rushed to the broom closet at the back o the house, where Id hid-
den my brace and shoes the day beore, pretending Id lost track o them
so I wouldnt have to suer them in this heat. Mama mustve suspected,
or she said, Tomorrow then. First thing in the morning you must put them
on. Im sure youll fnd them by then. I pulled them out o the closet, strapped
on the brace as quickly as possible, and slipped on the shoes, the right
one slightly higher than the let to make my legs equal in length.
Raami, you crazy child! a voice called out to me as I clomped past
the hal-open balcony door o my bedroom. It was Milk Mother, my
nanny. Come back inside this minute!
I roze, expecting her to come out and yank me back into the room,
but she didnt. I resumed my journey, circling the balcony that wrapped
itsel around the house. Where is she? Wheres Mama?I ran past my par-
ents room. Te slatted balcony doors were wide open, and I saw Papa
now sitting in his rattan chair by one o the windows, notebook and pen
in hand, eyes lowered in concentration, impervious to his surroundings.
A god waxing lyrical out o the silence . . .Another line rom another o
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his poems, which I always thought described him perectly. When Papa
wrote, not even an earthquake could disturb him. At present, he certainly
took no notice o me.Tere was no sign o Mama. I looked up and down the stairway, over
the balcony railings, through the open doorway o the citrus garden. She
was nowhere to be seen. It was as Id suspected all alongMama was a
ghost! A spirit that oated in and out o the house. A rey that glowed
and glimmered, here one second, gone the next. And now shed vanished
into thin air! Zrup!Just like that.
Do you hear me, Raami?Sometimes I wished Milk Mother would just disappear. But, unlike
Mama, she was always around, constantly watching over me, like one o
those geckos that scaled the walls, chiming, Tikkaer, tikkaer! I elt her,
heard her rom every corner o the house. I said come back! she bel-
lowed, rattling the morning peace.
I made a sharp right, ran down the long hallway through the middle
o the house, and nally ended up back at the spot on the balcony in theront where I had started. Still no Mama. Hide-and-seek, I thought, hu-
ing and pung in the heat. Hide-and-seek with a spirit was no easy game.
Pchkhooo!An explosion sounded in the distance. My heart thumped
a bit aster.
Where are you, you crazy child? again came Milk Mothers voice.
I pretended not to hear her, resting my chin on the carved railing o
the balcony. A tiny pale pink buttery, with wings as delicate as bougain-
villea petals, ew up rom the gardens below and landed on the railing,
near my ace. I stilled mysel. It heaved as i exhausted rom its long
ight, its wings opening and closing, like a pair o ans waving away the
morning heat.Mama?In one o her guises? No, it was what it appeared
to bea baby buttery. So delicate it seemed to have just emerged rom
a chrysalis. Maybe it was looking or its mother, I thought, just as I was
or mine. Dont worry, I whispered. Shes here somewhere. I moved
my hand to pet it, to reassure it, but it ew away at my touch.
In the courtyard something stirred. I peered down and saw Old Boy
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 5
come out to water the gardens. He walked like a shadow; his steps made
no sound. He picked up the hose and lled the lotus pond until the
water owed over the rim. He sprayed the gardenias and orchids. Hesprinkled the jasmines. He trimmed the torch gingers and gathered their
red ame-like blossoms into a bouquet, which he tied with a piece o
vine and then set aside, as he continued working. Butteries o all colors
hovered around him, as i he were a tree stalk and his straw hat a giant
yellow blossom. Om Bao suddenly appeared among them, coquettish
and coy, acting not at all like our middle-aged cook but a young girl in
the ull bloom o youth. Old Boy broke a stem o red rangipani blos-soms, brushed it against her cheek, and handed it to her.
Answer me! Milk Mother thundered.
Om Bao scurried away. Old Boy looked up, saw me, and blushed.
But nding his bearings right away, he took o his hat and, bowing at
the waist, oered me a sampeah, palms together like a lotus in ront o
his ace, a traditional Cambodian greeting. He bowed because he was the
servant and I his master, even though he was ancient and I was, as MilkMother put it, just a spit past seven. I returned Old Boys sampeah, and,
unable to help mysel, bowed also. He ashed me his gappy grin, perhaps
sensing his secret would be sae.
Someone was coming. Old Boy turned in the direction o the ootsteps.
Mama!
She made her way toward him, her steps serene, unhurried.A rain-
bow gliding through a feld o owers. . . Again a line uttered through my
mind. Tough I was no poet, I was the daughter o one and oten saw the
world through my athers words.
Good morning, my lady, Old Boy said, gaze lowered, hat held
against his chest.
She returned his greeting and, looking at the lotuses, said, It is so
hot and now theyve closed again. She sighed. Lotuses were her avorite
blossoms, and even though they were owers or the gods, Mama always
asked or an oering to hersel every morning. I was hoping to have at
least one open bloom.
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And you shall, my lady, Old Boy reassured. I cut some beore
dawn and placed them in iced water so that the petals stay open. I shall
bring up the vase to your room when His Highness nishes composing.I can always count on you. She beamed at him. Also, would you
make a bouquet o the closed buds or me to take to the temple?
As you wish, my lady.
Tank you.
Again, Old Boy bowed, keeping his gaze lowered until shed oated
past him. She ascended the stairs, her right hand pressed on the ap
o her silk sampot to keep her steps small and modest. At the top, shestopped and smiled at me. Oh good, you ound your brace and shoes!
Ive practiced walking slowly in them!
She laughed. Have you?
One day I want to walk like you!
Mamas ace went still. She glided over to me and, bending down to
my level, said, I dont care how you walk, darling.
You dont?It wasnt the pinch o the brace or the squeeze o the shoes, or even
what I saw when I looked in the mirror that pained me the most. It was
the sadness in Mamas eyes when I mentioned my leg. For this reason, I
rarely brought it up.
No, I dont . . . Im grateul you can walk at all.
She smiled, her radiance returning.
I stood still and held my breath, thinking i I so much as breathed,
shed disappear. She bent down again and kissed the top o my head,
her hair spilling over me like monsoon rain. I took my chance and
breathed in her ragrancethis mystery she wore like perume. Its
good to see that someone is enjoying this stiing air, she said, laugh-
ing, as i my oddness was as much an enigma to her as her loveliness
was to me. I blinked. She glided away, her entire being porous as sun-
light.
Poetry is like that, Papa said. It can come to you in an intake o
breath, vanish again in the blink o an eye, and rst all youll have is
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 7
A line weaving through your mind
Like the tail o a child s kite
Unettered by reason or rhyme.
Ten, he said, comes the restthe kite, the story itsel. A complete
entity.
Oey, oey, oey, theres not a minute to waste! Om Bao rattled on rom
below. Te oor must be mopped and waxed, the carpets dusted and
sunned, the china arranged, the silver polished, the silk smoothed and
perumed. Oey, oey, oey, so much to do, so much to do!Te branches o the banyan tree in the middle o the courtyard stirred
and the leaves danced. Some o the branches were so long they reached
all the way to the balcony, the shadows o their leaves covering my body
like patches o silk. I twirled, arms stretched out, mumbling an incanta-
tion to mysel, calling orth the tevodas, Skinny One, Plump One . . .
And just what are you doing?
I swung around. Tere was Milk Mother in the doorway withRadana on her hip. Radana squirmed down to the oor and immedi-
ately started stomping on the shadows with her chubby eet, the tiny,
diamond-studded bells on her anklets jingling chaotically. It was normal
or Cambodian children to be covered with expensive jewelry, and my
much-adored toddling sister was bedecked in the most extravagant way,
with a platinum necklace and a tiny pair o hoop earrings to match her
anklets.Tis was not a child, I thought. She was a night bazaar!
As she toddled around, I pretended she had polio and a limp like me.
I knew I shouldnt wish it on her, but sometimes I couldnt help it. De-
spite her bumbling and babyness, you could already tell Radana would
grow up to look just like Mama.
Eeei! she squealed, catching a glimpse o Mama oating through
one o the doorways and, beore Milk Mother could stop her, she ran
jingling through the hallway, calling out, Mhum mhum mhum . . .
Milk Mother turned back to me and asked again, with obvious an-
noyance, Just whatare you doing?
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Summoning the tevodas, I told her, grinning rom ear to ear.
Summoningthem?
Yes, Id like to meet them this year.No one ever met the tevodas, o course. Tey were spirits and, as
with all things spectral, they lived in our imaginations. Milk Mothers
tevodasat least as shed described them to mesounded suspiciously
amiliar. With names like Skinny One, Plump One, and Dark One, Id
say she was describing hersel, Om Bao, and Old Boy. By contrast, my
tevodas looked nothing like me, but were as lovely as court dancers,
wearing their nest silk and diadems with spires reaching all the wayto the sky.
Milk Mother wasnt listening to me, her ear tuned to a dierent kind
o noise. Pchkooo!Again, the tremor o an explosion. She strained to hear,
her head tilted in the direction o the din.
Te explosions worsened. Pchkooo pchkooo pchkooo!A series o them
now, just as Id heard in the night.
urning to me, Milk Mother said, Darling, I dont think you shouldput too much hope on the tevodascoming this year.
Why not?
She took a deep breath, seemed about to explain, but then said, Did
you wash yet?
Nobut I was about to!
She shot me a disapproving look and, nodding in the direction o the
bath pavilion, said impatiently, Go on then.
But
No arguing. Grandmother Queen will join the amily or breakast,
and you, my bug, cannot be late.
Oh no, Grandmother Queen! Why didnt you tell me sooner?
I was trying to, but you kept running away.
But I didnt know! You shouldve told me!
Well, thats why I called and calledto tellyou. She heaved, exas-
perated. Enough lingering. Go. Get ready. ry to look and behave like
the princess that you are.
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 9
I took a step, then turned back. Milk Mother?
What?
Doyou believe in tevodas?She didnt answer right away, just stood there and looked at me. Ten
nally she said, What can you believe in i not the tevodas?
I went down the ront steps. Tat was all I needed to hear. Te rest
was easy to gure out. Tey were things I could see and touchlotuses
opening their petals, spiders weaving tiny silvery hammocks on wispy
branches, slugs slipping through watered green grass . . .
Raami. Looking up, I saw Milk Mother leaning over the balconyrailing. Why are you still dawdling?
I placed one oot in ront o the other, swaying my hips slightly. Im
practicingmy walk.
For whatan earthworm contest?
o be a ladylike Mama!
I broke a sprig o jasmine blossoms rom a nearby bush and tucked
it behind my ear, imagining mysel as pretty as Mama. Radana appearedout o nowhere and stood in ront o me. She cooed, transxed or a
second or two, and then, as i deciding I didnt look anything like Mama,
bounced o. Where are you?I heard Mama sing.Im going to get you . . .
Radana shrieked. Tey were playing hide-and-seek. I had polio when I
was one and couldnt walk until I was three. I was certain Mama and I
didnt play hide-and-seek when I was a baby.
From above, Milk Mother let out an exasperated sigh: For heavens
sake, enough lingering!
Later that morning, in an array o brightly colored silks that almost out-
shone the surrounding birds and butteries, we gathered in the dining
pavilion, an open teak house with a hardwood oor and pagoda-like
roo, which stood in the middle o the courtyard among the ruit and
ower trees. Again, Mama had transormed hersel, this time rom a
buttery to a garden. Her entire being budded with blossoms. She had
changed into a white lace blouse and a sapphire phamuongskirt, dotted
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10 Vaddey Ratner
with tiny white owers. Her tresses, no longer loose, were now pulled
back in a chignon tied with a ring o jasmine. A champak blossom, slen-
der as a childs pinkie, dangled on a single silk thread down the nape oher neck; when she moved to adjust hersel or to reach or this or that,
the blossom slid and rolled, smooth as ivory on her skin.
Beside her, in my metal brace and clunky shoes and a rufed blue
dress, I elt ungainly and stilted, like a sewing dummy on a steel post,
hastily swathed in abric. As i this wasnt humiliating enough already,
my stomach wouldnt stop rumbling. How much longer would we have
to wait?At last, Grandmother QueenSdechya, as we called her in
Khmerappeared on the balcony, leaning heavily on Papas arm. She
slowly descended the stairs, and we all rushed to greet her, queuing on
bended knees in order o importance, heads bowed, palms joined in
ront o our chests, ngertips grazing our chins. She paused near the
bottom and, one by one, we each scooted orward and touched our ore-
head to her eet. Ten we trailed her to the dining pavilion and claimedour appropriate seats.
Beore us was an array o oodlotus seed porridge sweetened with
palm sugar, sticky rice with roasted sesame and shredded coconut, bee
noodle soup topped with coriander leaves and anise stars, mushroom
omelets, and slices o baguettea dish to suit everyones morning taste.
At the center o the table sat a silver platter o mangoes and papayas,
which Old Boy had picked rom the trees behind our house, and ram-
butans and mangosteens, which Om Bao had brought rom her early
morning trip to the market. Breakast was always an extravagant aair
when Grandmother Queen decided to join us. She was a high princess,
as everyone constantly reminded me so that I would remember how to
behave around my own grandmother.
I waited or Grandmother Queen to take her rst bite beore I lited
the cover o my soup bowl; when I did, steam rose like a hundred ngers
tickling my nose. entatively, I brought a spoonul o hot broth to my
lips.
Be careul, Mama said rom across the table as she unolded her
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 11
napkin and laid it across her lap. You dont want to burn your tongue.
She smiled.
I stared at her, mesmerized. Maybe I had seen a New Years tevodaater all.
I thought Id visit the temple in oul umpong ater breakast, she
said. My sister will send her chaueur. Ill go with her, so our car is ree
i youd like to venture out. She was speaking to Papa.
But he was reading the newspaper, his head slightly cocked to one
side. In his usual muted attire o brown wraparound pants and beige
acharshirt, Papa was as solemn as Mama was radiant. He reached orthe cup in ront o him and began to sip the hot coee mixed with
condensed milk. Already hed orgotten the rest o his breakast as he
immersed himsel in the news. He hadnt heard Mama at all.
She sighed, letting it go, determined to be in a good mood.
At one end o the table, ata oered, Itll be nice or you to get out a
bit. ata was Papas elder sisterhal sister actually, rom Grandmother
Queens rst marriage to a Norodom prince. ata was not her real name,but apparently when I was a baby, I came to identiy her as my tata.
Te name stuck and now everyone called her this, even Grandmother
Queen, who, at the moment, reigned at the other end o the table, bliss-
ully ensconced in old age and dementia. Id come to believe that because
she was a high princessPreah Ang Mechas KsatreyGrandmother
Queen was more dicult to grasp than the tevodas.As a queen who
ruled this amily, she was certainly unreachable most o the time.
I shouldnt be long, Mama said. Just a prayer and Ill be back. It
doesnt seem right to start the New Year without oering a prayer rst.
ata nodded. Te party is a very good idea, Aana. She looked
around, seeming pleased with the start o the day, noting the prepara-
tions being made or the celebration to take place on New Years Day.
In the cooking pavilion, Om Bao had started steaming the rst
batch o the traditional New Years num ansom, sticky rice cakes wrapped
in banana leaves. Tese we would give out to riends and neighbors dur-
ing the coming days as each batch was made. On the balcony o the
master house, the servant girls worked on their hands and knees waxing
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12 Vaddey Ratner
the oor and railings. Tey dripped beeswax rom burning candles and
rubbed it into the teakwood. Below them Old Boy was sweeping the
ground. He had dusted and wiped the spirit house so that now it stoodsparkling on its golden pedestal under the banyan tree like a miniature
Buddhist temple. Several long strands o jasmine adorned its tiny pillars
and the spire on its roo, and in ront o its entrance, a clay pot lled with
raw rice grains held three sticks o incense, an oering to the three pillars
o protectionthe ancestors, the tevodas, and the guardian spirits. Tey
were all there, watching over us, keeping us out o harms way. We had
nothing to ear, Milk Mother always said. As long as we remained withinthese walls, the war could not touch us.
I couldnt sleep a wink. Again ata spoke, spooning brown sugar
rom a small bowl and sprinkling it on her sticky rice. Te heat was
awul last night and the shelling was the worst its ever been.
Mama put down her ork gently, trying not to show her exasperation. I
knew, though, what she was thinkingCouldnt we talk about something else?
But being the sister-in-law, and a commoner among royals, she couldntspeak out o turn, tell ata what to say or not to say, choose the topic o a
conversation. No, that would be graceless. Our amily, Raami, is like a bou-
quet, each stem and blossom perectly arranged, shed tell me, as i to convey that
how we carried ourselves was not simply a game or ritual but a orm o art.
ata turned to Grandmother Queen sitting at the other end o the
table. Dont you think so, Mechas Mae? she asked, speaking the royal
language.
Grandmother Queen, hal dea and hal daydreaming, said, Eh?
Te shelling! ata repeated, almost shouting. Didnt you think it
was awul?
What shelling?
I suppressed a giggle. alking with Grandmother Queen was like
talking through a tunnel. No matter what you said, all you could hear
were your own words echoing back.
Papa looked up rom his newspaper and was about to say some-
thing when Om Bao stepped into the dining pavilion, bearing a silver
tray with glasses o the chilled basil-seed drink she made or us every
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 13
morning. She placed a glass beore each o us. Resting the tip o my
nose on the glass, I inhaled the sweet ambrosia. Om Bao called her
drinka mixture o soaked basil seeds and cane sugar in ice-cold water,scented with jasmine owerslittle girls hunting or eggs.When
Old Boy picked the blossoms earlier they had been tightly closed, but
now they opened up like the skirts o little girls with their heads dipped
in waterhunting or eggs! It hadnt occurred to me beore, but the
basil seeds did look like transparent sh eggs. I beamed into the glass,
delighted by my discovery.
Sit up straight, Mama ordered, no longer oering me a smile.I sat up straight, pulling my nose back. Papa glanced at me, mouth-
ing his sympathy. He took a small sip rom his glass and, looking up in
surprise, exclaimed, Om Bao! Have you lost your sweet touch?
Im terribly sorry, Your Highness . . . She looked nervously rom
Papa to Mama. Ive been trying to cut down on the cane sugar. We dont
have much let, and it is so hard to nd at the market these days. She
shook her head in distress. Your servant humbly regrets it s not so sweet,Your Highness. When nervous, Om Bao tended to be overly ormal and
loquacious. Your servant humbly regrets sounded even more stilted,
when across the table rom His Highness, I was lapping up my soup like
a puppy. Would Your Highness
No, this is just right. Papa drank it up. Delicious!
Om Bao smiled, her cheeks expanding like the rice cakes steaming
away in the kitchen. She bowed, and bowed again, her bulbous behind
bobbing, as she walked backward until she reached a respectul distance
beore turning around. At the steps o the cooking pavilion, Old Boy re-
lieved her o the emptied tray, quick as always to help her with any task.
At the moment he seemed unusually agitated. Perhaps he was worried
that Id revealed his and Om Baos morning canoodling to Grandmother
Queen, who orbade such displays o aection. Om Bao patted his arm
reassuringly.No, no, dont worry, she seemed to say. He turned toward me,
obviously relieved. I winked. And or the second time this morning, he
oered me his gappy grin.
Papa had resumed reading. He ipped the newspaper back and orth,
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14 Vaddey Ratner
making sot snapping noises with the pages. I tilted my head to read the
headline on the ront page: Khmer Krahom Encircle City.
Khmer Krahom?Red Khmers? Who had ever heard o that? Wewere allCambodiansor Khmers, as we called ourselves. I imagined
people, with their bodies painted bright red, invading the city, scurrying
about the streets like throngs o stinging red ants. I laughed out loud,
almost choking on my basil-seed drink.
Mama gave me another warning look, her annoyance now easily
piqued. It seemed the morning hadnt gone in the direction she wanted.
All anyone wanted to talk about was the war. Even Om Bao had alludedto it when she mentioned how hard it was to nd cane sugar at the
market.
I hid my ace behind the glass, hiding my thoughts behind the little
oating jasmine skirts. Red Khmers, Red Khmers, the words sang in my
head. I wondered what color Khmer I was. I glanced at Papa and decided
whatever he was, I was too.
Papa, are you a Red Khmer? It came out o me like an unexpectedburp.
ata set her glass down with a bang. Te whole courtyard ell silent.
Even the air seemed to have stopped moving. Mama glared at me, and
when a tevodaglared at you like that, youd better hide or risk burning.
I wished I could dip my head in the basil-seed drink and look or
sh eggs.
Te aternoon arrived, and it was too hot to do anything. All prepara-
tions or New Year came to a halt. Te servant girls had stopped cleaning
and were now combing and braiding one anothers hair on the steps o
the cooking pavilion. Seated on the long, expansive teak settee under the
banyan tree, Grandmother Queen leaned against the giant trunk, her
eyes partly closed as she waved a round palm an in ront o her ace. At
her eet, Milk Mother sat swinging Radana in a hammock lowered rom
the branches o the tree. She pushed the hammock with one hand and
scratched my back with the other as I rested my head on her lap. Alone
in the dining pavilion, Papa sat on the oor writing in the leather pocket
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 15
notebook he always carried with him, his back against one o the carved
pillars. Beside him the radio was playing the classicalpinpeatmusic. Milk
Mother began to doze o as she listened to the chiming melodies. But Iwasnt sleepy, and neither was Radana. She kept sticking her ace out o
the hammock, wanting me to play with her. Fly! she squealed, reach-
ing out or my hand. I y! When I tried to grab her wrist, she pulled
it back, giggling and clapping. Milk Mother opened her eyes, slapped
my hand away, and gave Radana her pacier. Radana lay back down in
the hammock, sucking the pacier like a piece o candy. Grandmother
Queen clucked her tongue in encouragement, perhaps wishing she toohad something to suck on.
Soon all three were asleep. Grandmother Queens an stopped wav-
ing, Milk Mothers hand rested on my back, and Radanas right leg hung
out o the hammock, at and still, like a bamboo shoot, the bells on her
anklet soundless.
Mama appeared in the courtyard, having returned rom her trip to
the temple, which took longer than shed planned. Quietly, so as not towake us, she climbed the ew short steps to the dining pavilion and sat
down next to Papa, resting her arm on his thigh. Papa put down his
notebook and turned to her. She didnt mean it, you know. It was an
innocent question.
He was talking about me. I lowered my eyelids, just enough to make
them believe I was asleep.
Papa continued, Les Khmers Rouges,
Communists, Marxists. . .Whatever we adults call them, theyre just words, unny sounds to a child,
thats all. She doesnt know who they are or what these words mean.
I tried repeating the names in my headLes Khmers Rouges . . .
Communists . . .Tey sounded so ancy and elliptical, like the names o
mythical characters in the tales o the ReamkerI never tired o reading,
the devarajas, who were descendants o the gods, or the demon raksha-
sas, who ought them and ed on at children.
Once you shared their aspirations, Mama said, head resting on
Papas shoulder. Once you believed in them.
I wondered what kind o race they were.
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16 Vaddey Ratner
No, not them. Not the men, but the ideals. Decency, justice, integ-
rity . . . I believed in these and always will. Not only or mysel but or
our children. All thishe looked around the courtyardwill comeand go, Aana. Privileges, wealth, our titles and names are transient. But
these ideals are timeless, the core o our humanity. I want our girls to
grow up in a world that allows them, i nothing else, these. A world with-
out such ideals is madness.
What about thismadness?
I hoped so much it wouldnt come to this. He sighed and went on.
Others abandoned us long ago at the rst sign o trouble. And now sohave the Americans. Alas, democracy is deeated. And our riends will
not stay or its execution. Tey let while it was still possible, and who
could blame them?
What about us? Mama asked. What will happen to our amily?
Papa was silent. Ten, ater what seemed like a long time, he said,
Its extremely dicult at this juncture, but I can still arrange to send you
and the amily to France.Me and the amily?What aboutyou?
I will stay. As bad as it looks, theres still hope.
I will not leave without you.
He looked at her, then, leaning over, kissed the nape o her neck, his
lips lingering or a moment, drinking her skin. One by one he began to
remove the owers rom her hair, loosening it and letting it spread across
her shoulders. I held my breath, trying to make mysel invisible. Without
saying more, they stood up, walked toward the ront stairway, climbed
the newly polished steps, and disappeared into the house.
I looked around the teak settee. Everyone was still asleep. I heard
droning in the distance. Te drone grew louder, until it became deaen-
ing. My heart pounded, and my ears throbbed. I looked up, squinting
past the red tile roo o the master house, past the top o the banyan
tree, past a row o tall skinny palms lining the ront gate. Ten I saw it!
Way up in the sky, like a large black dragony, its blade slicing the air,
tuktuktuktuktuk . . .
Te helicopter started to descend, drowningout all other sounds. I
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In the Shadow o the Banyan 17
stood up on the teak settee to better see it. All o a sudden it swooped
back up and went the other way. I stretched my neck, trying to see past
the gate. But it was gone. Zrup!Vanished completely, as i it had onlybeen a thought, an imagined dot in the sky.
Ten
PCHKOOO!!!PCHKOOO!!!PCHKOOO!!!
Te ground shook under me.