(This story was published in Write to Reconcile Anthology in September, 2013)
The sun is scorching outside. It sends its
angry rays through the window. Rays that once gave me warmth now irritate
me. I look through the windows. Sutha walks towards the gate; her
head slowly disappears into the crowd.
Being a man of thirty-five, I am not
supposed to cry, yet I can’t control the pumping emotions inside my
heart. I can’t control my tears. I want to wail, “Why was I given a severe
punishment like this? Is it because I married Sutha without her
parents’ blessings?” I am not a thug or a murderer. I am an ordinary man who
wants to live happily with my family. But I am no longer the Suresh who
never cried, just a patient in the Maharagama Cancer Hospital.
Sutha, my loving wife who lights up my
horizon visits me every week. My kids Raji and Ramesh are always
expecting me back home, asking Sutha a number of questions everyday—“Amma
where is Appa? When will he come back?” Their innocent hearts do
not understand that their father will never come back. When Sutha visits me
next week, will I still be alive? My eyes rest on the grey clock and my mind
travels back to my university days when I met her. It was in
October 2000 and I was in my second year at Jaffna University, doing a
special degree in Economics. We, the seniors, were sitting on benches, looking
forward to the arrival of the first year newcomers, especially the
beautiful girls. The first year students approached the
premises fearfully. Boys and girls neatly dressed, trying to avoid the
searching eyes of the seniors. A gang of seniors were at the gate bullying a
group of newcomers. A boy was ordered to remove his shirt and circle a tree near
him. Some boys were riding bicycles with helmets on their heads inside the
university premises, a form of ragging invented by Vinoth to embarrass the new boys.
A broad-shouldered boy was standing in front of the Parameswaran
Temple on one leg, both hands above his head, like an ascetic. A group of
girls were ordered to propose to the boy circling the tree.
My pals spotted one girl. “Hey blue
churidar, come here.”
A girl slowly drew near us, her hands
tightly grasping her books, drops of sweat on her forehead. She was
very pretty. Her big round eyes rolled up and down with fear, her face
with its chubby cheeks reminded me of the pictures of angels I had seen in my
childhood text books. A feeling of warmth sparkled through me. I wanted to
look into her eyes and lose myself in them.
Vinoth, known to be a strict senior,
demanded, “What’s your name?”
“Su- thaa”
Sutha – a lovely name that echoed in my
mind.
“Place your books on your head and do ten
warm up exercises. If the books fall on the ground you should repeat
it. Your exercises must include bending down with books on your head. Your
time starts now, come on do it quickly.”
Sutha looked at us pleadingly.
“Come on girl, if you don’t do this you
have to run around the entire premises with a load of books on your
head,” Vinoth shouted.
Sutha started crying. I wanted to punch my
pal.
“Machan let her go,” I said to Vinoth.
“What! We haven’t started ragging. Come on
girl, do it will you,”
Vinoth snarled.
“Sutha go to your class.” I couldn’t
believe my words.
She looked at me thankfully and walked
quickly away. I avoided the stares of my pals and walked behind Sutha like a
veil following a bride.
Soon I was Sutha’s devotee and I finally
wooed her and won her love. Our love story was well known in our
university. “Suresh – Sutha”, you can find our names everywhere – on the desks,
benches and trees.
Sutha did a special degree in English
literature and introduced me to her world of writers - Shakespeare,
Wordsworth, Frost, Shelley and Keats. It was difficult for me to understand her
world as I was very poor in English.
But Sutha nagged me to learn the language.
Often we would sit under our favourite
Banyan tree, the gentle breeze embracing us, a pigeon cooing in
the branches, and Sutha’s curls gently moving as she instructed me. Her
cheeks glowed in the sunshine. I did the English exercises grudgingly,
feeling burdened by them.
“Come on Suresh,” she would say, “why are
you so stubborn? Please do this one.”
“Sutha we have only thirty minutes to
love. I’ll do this as homework, please?”
She would squeeze my ear lovingly. “This
is classwork. Quickly do it,” she’d say stroking my hair and
squeezing my ear again.
I would do the exercise to receive more
caresses.
Vinoth and his gang often passed us and he
would crack jokes saying, “Machan, why Shakespeare? Come and
shake a beer.” We would burst into laughter. Sutha taught me English every day for
fifteen minutes. She covered reading, writing, listening and grammar. Soon I was
able to understand her world. She narrated to me the poems and short stories
she studied, moving her hands, widened eyes full of expression. I gazed
intensely at her eyes as she talked and I began to love Shakespeare’s famous
tragedies, especially “Romeo and Juliet.” Sutha was my Juliet. I put her on
a pedestal and worshipped her as a goddess.
When we finished our University career, I
joined a bank as a clerk.Sutha continued her academic career. As
usual, problems arose when we decided to marry. I had loved her, forgetting that we were
living in a highly caste-conscious society. Sutha belonged to
an orthodox Hindu family which gave priority to caste. Her parents would
never agree to this marriage as I belonged to a lower caste. My ancestors were fishermen. My
grandfather went to sea and fished. Appa studied engineering at
Peradeniya University and settled in Colombo. When we were living in Colombo I
knew nothing about caste and divisions. But Jaffna taught me that I
belong to one of the lower castes – the fishing community. Our conundrum did not
look like it would ever be solved.
One day I received a letter from Sutha.
Dear Suresh,
Appa’s friend came to our house yesterday
and informed him
of our love affair. I think he saw us
together somewhere. Appa
is furious. His eyes are like flames. He
slapped me and said,
“You idiot, have you forgotten your
pedigree? How dare you
be in love with that low caste bastard.
This is a well-planned
trap to mix with our caste. Are you trying
to bring disgrace to
my family? Never ever imagine you can
marry that scavenger.”
He does not allow me to go anywhere and is
planning to
arrange a marriage for me. Suresh please
do something.
Ever loving,
Sutha.
After I got over my initial shock at this
sudden development, I worked out a plan with my pals and relayed it to Sutha
through her friend. A week later, we were sitting in a van and waiting for Sutha
near her house. In the darkness, I saw a figure coming softly down the front
path. It was Sutha.
Their gate was locked, so we helped her
jump over the wall. Sutha hugged me, tears trembling in her eyes. We got
into the van and hurried away. The next morning we got married. At our marriage, I looked into Sutha’s
eyes and promised, “You are a princess to your parents. But from today
onwards you are my queen. I’ll adore you with all my heart. I’ll never
ever make you cry.” Sutha’s eyes twinkled like stars as she
smiled at me. I lifted her off her feet and hugged her.
Now I am a dried up river, thinking of
those moments. What bloody sin have I committed to arrive at where I have?
I take my eyes away from the grey clock,
to find Ranil, another patient in this ward, in front of me.
The ravages of cancer are apparent on him.
He is bald. His broad shoulders indicate that he was once a
strongly built man, but now his skin sags, his eyes are puffed up and his lips
are dried and cracked. He was given chemotherapy last week. Cancer cells have
developed even in his liver and his condition is more precarious than
mine. I am surviving with blood transfusions. Although he is suffering, he
always tries to be cheerful to make me happy. He is the most cheerful person I
have ever met. Unlike me, he is a bachelor with no one to think about.
From the first moment I met him, his face has always seemed familiar to me,
though I have never met him before coming here.
He hands me a handkerchief to wipe my
tears.
“Have you had your lunch?” Ranil asks
trying to distract me.
“If I eat will I live longer? My fate is
decided. I don’t want these meals.”
“Come on man, I am going to eat yours.”
Ranil slowly takes my plate and starts
eating. I ignore his teasing. Where does he get his cheerfulness from?
It is ironic that it is this man from a different race and religion who
tries to cheer me up even though he too is suffering.
“Aaah…” Ranil rushes for his water bottle
and drinks a gulp. “I munched a green chillie.”
“Have you been to Colombo?” Ranil asks as
he carefully separates the green chillies and puts them on the
side of his plate.
“Yes I lived there, but….”
“But, what?”
I stare at the ceiling. I loathed the
Sinhalese after the 1983 riots. The atrocities committed to Tamil families can
never be forgotten, the fear filled nights, the intense inner pain was
intolerable.
Ranil waits for my response.
“Your people chased us from Colombo.”
“My people…. I have no people, no
religion, no care, and no worries.”
“I am talking about your identity. People
who have the same identity as yours chased us.”
“Yes it was true, but it was an organized
act by some nasty politicians. Don’t blame the innocent
citizens. How many Tamil families were protected by Sinhalese? They gave
shelter to innocent Tamils.”
“Shelter? What the hell, we were not given
shelter anywhere.”
“Didn’t you have any Sinhala neighbours?”
“We had. Our next door neighbours were
Sinhalese. But they remained silent when the thugs entered our
house and set it on fire.” Ranil gets up and washes his hand at the
sink. He comes to sit on my bed. “I am sorry. Where did you live in
Colombo?” Ranil wants to dig into my past and I am
happy to give vent to my feelings of hatred. “We lived in
Wellawatte.” Ranil moves his lips, mouthing the name.
My mind is so absorbed in the past, I barely notice him.
“My Appa was an engineer at the State
Engineering Cooperation. Amma, Appa, my sister Kavi, Kumar Uncle,
my Amma’s brother, and I lived a comfortable life. Our next door
neighbours were the Jayawardene family. They were caring, helpful and considerate
neighbours. We celebrated festivals together. Amma and Dinali aunty
always exchanged their special festival food. The Jayawardenes never
missed celebrating Diwali and Pongal with us.”
Ranil’s eyes widen and he murmurs
something but I barely notice, lost in my story.
“My sole play mate was Wije, the
Jayewardenes’ son, a chubby little boy with a round face and curly hair. He
was fairer than me. He was a lover of chocolates and spicy items. As a result
he was blessed with a little tummy. We teased him, calling him ‘tummy boy.’ He
was one year younger than me. Wije came to our house on weekdays and I
was at his house on weekends. Wije ate at my house and I at his. We
built little mud houses. Wije had a kitchen set and we made mud rice and
curry. He was the cheerful leader. When making mud rice and curry, he was the
one who led. He would say, ‘Suresh, bring water quickly, no don’t put
mud now. We’ll do it later.’ ‘Wije I want to add some mud,’ I would beg, but he
would insist and I always obeyed because even his orders were cheerful.
“Kumudini Aunty, Wije’s aunt, sometimes
joined us, helping to make mud cakes. Wije and I were sometimes
taken to Wellawatte beach by Kumar Uncle and Kumudini Aunty. We would
cling to their hands and loved the evening walks. We would carefully
cross the railway track and step onto Wellawatte beach. The evening sun, at that
time, was slowly embracing the calm sea. The beach and rocks were
crowded with people. An old man walking on the shore, always greeted us. A
few children would be playing in the sea, splashing water on each other’s
faces, umbrella lovers cuddled together behind the shrubs and bushes.
Wije and I would start building sand houses while Kumar Uncle and Kumudini
Aunty sat on a rock and talked. In between chatting, their eyes rested on
us. They would hold hands and Kumar Uncle would sometimes move Kumudini
Aunty’s curls behind her ears. She in return adjusted his collar.
“Once, when they were sitting like this,
Kumudini Aunty suddenly started crying. Wije and I gazed at each
other alarmed, as Kumar Uncle wiped her cheeks with his hands. We turned
our heads from them and concentrated on our sand house.
“That was the last trip to Wellawatte
beach with them. After that we were not allowed to go. Amma warned me, ‘Suresh,
Appa is angry with you, don’t upset him.’ Wije and I felt that our
families were not like before. Appa and Jayawardene Uncle talked less.
“Kumar Uncle introduced a new game to us
called letter-passing. ‘Suresh give this letter to Wije, he will
give it to Kumudini Aunty. She will send a reply tomorrow through Wije, and
Suresh bring it to me. Remember this is a secret game. The important rule
of this game is that the letters must not be shown to anybody. Keep this secret.’
“The letter-passing game was very
interesting. We ran up and down passing the notes. One day, Malini Aunty,
the shop uncle’s wife asked me, ‘Suresh, what’s going on between Kumudini
and Kumar? Affair?’ The word ‘affair’ was new to me. I shrugged my
shoulders and ran to Wije to clear my doubts. Wije rolled his eyes when I said ‘affair.’
‘I don’t know Suresh.’ Wije curled his lips, dismissively.
“A few days later, it was the Sinhala and
Tamil New Year. We wore new clothes and decorated our house with
flowers. Sweets and fruits filled our table and Amma and Dinali Aunty
exchanged sweets. Later, Wije came to our house and lit crackers with me.
Everything was going well, when suddenly we heard a roar. Jayawardene
uncle appeared with Kumar Uncle, his hand grasping his collar as he dragged
him up our front path. Amma ran to rescue him. Jayawardene Uncle shouted
angrily and pushed Kumar Uncle towards us. ‘I caught him red handed.’ ‘What
happened?’ Appa who had come out demanded. ‘What happened?’
Jayawardene Uncle replied. ‘He was trying to abuse my sister.’ ‘Mind your
words I was talking with her,’ Kumar uncle cried, raising his voice. ‘You
rascal, were you talking?’ Jayawardene Uncle retorted. Appa stared at Kumar Uncle
angrily, then turned towards Jayawardene Uncle. ‘Why are you shouting
here? Go and warn your sister. The fault is on both sides.’ Jayawardene
Uncles face became red and he cried back, ‘You Tamils are schemers. You are
trying to creep into our family.’ ‘Ha!’Appa retorted. ‘We don’t want a
relationship with your family. Kumar will not disturb your sister anymore. I will be
responsible for that. You’d better go and keep an eye on your sister.’
Jayawardene Uncle grabbed the crackers in Wije’s hands, threw them away, then
took his son’s arm and hurried back to their house.
“Wije and I were not allowed to speak to
each other. Appa ordered me, ‘Suresh, don’t go to that Sinhala
house. Always remember you are a Tamil, a minority race. You can never mix
with them - those domineering tyrants.’ But Wije sneaked from his house
and came to see me. His eyes were filled with horror. ‘Suresh, Thathi told
me not to speak with you. He slapped Kumudini Aunty. She is crying constantly.
Her condition is so pathetic. Thathi says Kumudini Aunty and Kumar Uncle are in
love. The letters we exchanged are their love letters. Thathi scolded me
severely for being a go-between. He is going to send Kumudini Aunty to Kandy
and planning to get her married to her cousin. I don’t think I can meet
you and play with you anymore.
Whenever I get a chance I’ll run to see
you. Bye.’ Wije ran away and I watched his head disappear into the trees.
He never turned up. That was our last meeting.
A few days later, Appa sent Kumar Uncle to Jaffna. “The black days of July 1983, that put an end to our existence in Colombo, came a few months later. The shop uncle came early morning and warned us that Tamils all over Colombo were being attacked, their houses prey to looters who set them on fire. We locked our doors and stayed inside the whole day. Our house was filled with fear and trauma. Amma began chanting all the mantras to the Gods and Goddesses. We huddled together in our shrine room. It was midnight, then two o’ clock. A loud bang on our door shook us. I held Amma’s hand tightly. Another loud blow! My heart was pounding and we were all sweating. My sister Kavi started crying. Amma closed her mouth and held her tightly. We heard harsh male voices outside. ‘Kowtha athula? Dora arinda.’ One final loud blow, our door cracked open. My hands shivered. Throat dry, I closed my eyes. A group of men were searching for us. They shouted, ‘Eliyatta varella.’ The sound of footsteps drew near. The door crashed open and the men were in front of us, laughing greedily. They were like ferocious lions eagerly staring at prey. All of them had big iron sticks and swords. They dragged us from the shrine room. We wailed helplessly. A big fat man put his sword on Appa’s neck. We sobbed loudly and Amma knelt down, pleading with him. ‘Sshhhhh palayang eliyatta.’ He gestured for us to leave. One man took us outside our house and ordered us to stay near the gate. He stood guard over us. The other men threw all our possessions into the middle of our hall, poured kerosene on the pile, then lit a fire. Our house burned and turned into ashes in front of our eyes. Our possessions and treasures gone forever. I looked at Wije’s house. They were inside, but no one came out to us, not even Wije. And so we fled to Jaffna as soon as everything was normal, in search of peace and familiarity.”
A few days later, Appa sent Kumar Uncle to Jaffna. “The black days of July 1983, that put an end to our existence in Colombo, came a few months later. The shop uncle came early morning and warned us that Tamils all over Colombo were being attacked, their houses prey to looters who set them on fire. We locked our doors and stayed inside the whole day. Our house was filled with fear and trauma. Amma began chanting all the mantras to the Gods and Goddesses. We huddled together in our shrine room. It was midnight, then two o’ clock. A loud bang on our door shook us. I held Amma’s hand tightly. Another loud blow! My heart was pounding and we were all sweating. My sister Kavi started crying. Amma closed her mouth and held her tightly. We heard harsh male voices outside. ‘Kowtha athula? Dora arinda.’ One final loud blow, our door cracked open. My hands shivered. Throat dry, I closed my eyes. A group of men were searching for us. They shouted, ‘Eliyatta varella.’ The sound of footsteps drew near. The door crashed open and the men were in front of us, laughing greedily. They were like ferocious lions eagerly staring at prey. All of them had big iron sticks and swords. They dragged us from the shrine room. We wailed helplessly. A big fat man put his sword on Appa’s neck. We sobbed loudly and Amma knelt down, pleading with him. ‘Sshhhhh palayang eliyatta.’ He gestured for us to leave. One man took us outside our house and ordered us to stay near the gate. He stood guard over us. The other men threw all our possessions into the middle of our hall, poured kerosene on the pile, then lit a fire. Our house burned and turned into ashes in front of our eyes. Our possessions and treasures gone forever. I looked at Wije’s house. They were inside, but no one came out to us, not even Wije. And so we fled to Jaffna as soon as everything was normal, in search of peace and familiarity.”
Ranil’s gaze is fixed on me, as I return
to the present. Tears glisten in his eyes. He moves closer and takes my
hand.
“Suresh I am your Wije, your childhood pal
who failed to embrace you when you were in danger. My pet name
was Wije. Ranil Jayawardene is my real name. So I introduced myself as
Ranil to you. My parents died years ago. I remained single. Kumudini Aunty
married her cousin. He was an Army soldier. He died in the war. How is Kumar Uncle?”
I am wordless. I can’t believe my ears.
“Kumar Uncle never married,” I finally say. “He was
fed up with the government and the majority race. He joined the LTTE.
We don’t know what happened to him.”
We look through the window, digesting the truths we
have revealed. A volunteer group who comes to help cancer patients,
is chatting happily with the other patients in our ward– a Tamil
man, a Sinhala girl, and a Muslim woman. I look at Wije. He smiles slightly,
both of us understanding the same thing.
Kumar Uncle and Kumudini Aunty could not marry because
of race, I struggled to marry Sutha, even though we belong to
the same race. But people, in the end, are the same when death is at their gates.
All Rights Reserved © Saambavi Sivaji
All Rights Reserved © Saambavi Sivaji
