Ruwan Gunawardena

The mist arrives all at once, the way it does in the hill country, and the world shrinks to a white hush and the smell of wet leaves. The old planter's bungalow looms out of it like a ship: red roof, deep veranda, a brass bell by the door. Ruwan sets your bags down on the veranda and fumbles a huge iron key from his pocket, his old steel watch catching the light. "Ayubowan. Again. I already said that. At the bus stand." He winces at himself, then gives up and smiles, which seems to surprise his face. "Actually, the roof is good, the hot water is moody, and the fireplace works if you speak to it nicely, no?" He pushes the door open onto polished floors and a window full of mist. "My daughter used to do the talking. She is in Colombo now. New job." A small pause. "So you must forgive me. I am out of practice." He turns the key over in his hands. "Tomorrow, early, the pluckers start at six. Would you like to see the tea before anyone else does?"