– Tanuja Thurairajah
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As she lowered the clay pot onto the cement floor, she felt the pain pulse through her spine. She sat down wiped her brow and sighed deeply. Looking past the palmyrah fronds that outline her backyard, she saw the heat vapours rise from the earth, creating a mirage, smudging the burnt out palmyrah tree stumps and the endless warning signs against landmines. Sampoor with its dry, earthy beauty, looked more charred and distraught as each year passed by, each year filled with the echoes of the dead, the hurt and the homeless. Sampoor a village in Mutur on the Southern point of the Trincomalee Bay had been the home of many Tamils and Muslims, with the harmonies of a distant era still echoing and you may hear it still if you pause to listen on a clear, star filled night.
She heard footsteps near the entrance and stood up in what seemed like an hour-long second. As she stepped through the bullet-ridden passage and entered the small veranda, Kamalan sat on a cane chair, which had seen better days. He looked up at Nila and saw her eyes fixed on the capsule hanging around his neck. ‘I am hungry. Have you cooked any food yet?’ he said. She sighed and silently walked back into the kitchen. Kamalan followed her in and sat down on the cement floor as she dished out old rice washed in water and added some hot potato curry on to his plate. Sitting down on the step, which led to the backyard she said to him in a resigned tone, ‘I think you should stop coming here.’ He looked up sharply, and his forehead creased into a frown. Many emotions collided within his thoughts and he struggled to maintain his composure. He had been expecting this but in reality it felt as if she had twisted something sharp into his heart. He maintained his composure and stonily proceeded to eat the food. The silence between them stretched thin and threatened to snap. He stood up and walked past her to the well, washed the plate with a bit of water and poured water onto his face with his hands. He washed away the hot tears with it. Wiping his face on the sleeves of his shirt he walked back in and kept the plate near the ever-silver pans lined neatly near the kerosene stove. Nila stood up as Kamalan walked towards the front entrance, through the bullet-ridden passage. He turned to look at her and stared at her scar. The scar that bound them together, the scar that is now pulling them apart. ‘Nila, I cannot be without seeing you. I know why you don’t want me to come. This is nothing new between us. I have tried many times but it is impossible. You know it. I will come back’. Kamalan reached out and touched her scar. She did not feel it through its numbness but flinched at that moment of unexpected intimacy. She stood looking at Kamalan’s receding figure as the scorching sun climaxed in heat. Nila’s thoughts stretched into painful memories and she struggled to shut them out. Tears poured on her face and for a moment she thought she could feel its salty sting on her scarred cheek but it wasn’t so. It was still numb.
The days passed into weeks and Kamalan had not come by. She felt a hollow emptiness within her. She walked in the heat towards the shell shocked school building, her brown body, glistening with sweat. She entered the office and peered into it but felt sun-blind. It took some seconds for her dilated pupils to adjust to the darkness. Sankar master was intently reading a newspaper, but looked up sensing her presence. She smiled and moved towards his desk. He stood up and pulled a chair for her. ‘What brings you here? Is anything wrong? he queried anxiously. ‘I need your help’ Nila spoke almost as if in a whisper. ‘Can you help me to go to Colombo? There was a long pause before Sankar master replied. ‘But what will you do there? Do you know anyone? You need lots of money to survive in Colombo’. Nila studied her hands and tried to hold back her tears. ‘Sankar Sir, can you get me a job in somebody’s house as a servant? Sankar looked up stunned. Nila as a servant! It was unimaginable. ‘Are you mad? You might as well drink some poison and kill yourself! Sankar master retorted. ‘I need to get away from this place or else I will go mad. Memories are too vivid….’ Sankar master sighed and leaned back on his chair closing his eyes as his thoughts raced back into the years when he knew Nila as the young bride of the wealthiest man in town, Krishnamurthy Kannan. She was not beautiful but she was educated and everyone looked up to her in awe. Something about her presence, her nature, the way she would sit on the dusty earth amidst old betel chewing women and laugh with them, share their sorrows with them. She brought happiness to each child she came in contact with, she would run after them near the villu kulam[1) and the village youth would look at her with desire while the village women would look at her in obvious jealousy, and gossiping about her was the order of the day merely because she was the wife of Krishnamurthy Kannan the richest man in town. Sankar master returned from his reverie, when Nila said ‘I need your help. Please think about it and let me know if you think of a possible way.’ Nila rose and walked away, while Sankar master stared at her battered but proud figure.
That day when the humidity forced itself on the village and each villager struggled to undertake their chores despite the ruthlessness of its presence. Five years had passed since that August day when suddenly the skies had opened up and it had rained missiles. People ran amok to bunkers and schools. It was not an unusual event. It was like the monsoon rains. It pours the day you least expect it to. Only, instead of the rain, the skies showered missiles.
Krishnamurthy Kannan was sitting at the cashier stand in his hardware store. His thoughts were full of Nila. They had been married almost a year now. Whispers would flit about his house, from his mother’s room to his sister-in-law’s room and then the whisper would visit Pavalam Maami’s[2] house, go through the ears of her daughter Deepa and come back into the ears of his mother. Whispers as to why Nila was still not with child. His mother had approached the subject in a discrete manner but he had evaded it like any other son. He didn’t like to speak to her about such intimate things. He had hoped that his mother would not have attempted to talk to Nila about it and embarrass her. His face broke into a smile. Nila was a child herself. His mischievous, intelligent Nila… His skin tingled with desire just thinking of her. He felt intoxicated by the warmth of her brown skin and the wetness of her lips. He was obsessed with every part of her, body and mind. Kannan felt happy. He had everything a man could dream of wealth, a house and a desirable wife.
He didn’t hear the missiles at first, but the one that hit Arumugam’s house next to his shop tore into his senses. He panicked and shouted to the helper to open the bunker. He struggled with the cash box and as he was passing through the shop to the bunker a missile hit him. Cement dust, ripped steel, burnt flesh and bank note ash. Kannan was buried in it all. Kannan with his thoughts and happiness, buried with it all.
The silence that followed the bombing was eerie. Dead bodies were everywhere. Near the villu kulam, in the fields and on the streets, everywhere. Men, women and children. The burnt flesh lay open to the sky, as offerings to the god that they had believed in. The god that chose to turn a deaf ear, the god that they plundered, the god that they bribed, the god that they fought wars for.
Nila had been changing her clothes after a bath when the missiles began to descend. She ran in search of her mother-in-law and sister-in-law. They were screaming terrified. Grabbing Mani, her sister-in-law’s baby from the eanai[3] Nila ran towards the bunker followed by the others. They huddled together tears streaking their faces. Suddenly Nila felt a horrid feeling in her stomach. She felt sick as her thoughts rushed towards Kannan. She prayed for his safety.
She prayed for his soul to rest standing next to the bombed shop. The humidity had lifted, followed by a slight drizzle as if the heavens were feebly attempting at cleansing the bloodshed and gory. Nila’s feet dragged as she made her way back to her house and even before she could enter it she heard her mother-in-law wail, the loud, monotonous death cry. Whatever that transpired from that moment onwards was a hazy memory. The hasty funeral then walking to the refugee camp to live amidst sickness and sorrow. Here everyone was on the same footing. No caste or religious divisions. Nila was just another widow and her mother-in-law just another bereaved mother. Days, weeks, then months and finally the return to what used to be their home. Pock marked with bullets, filled with dirt and looted. The smell of urine and faeces seeped from the rooms now empty. Nila walked into the room that was hers and stared at the emptiness. The bed was just a skeleton. The emptiness echoed. She could smell stale semen, the markings of the man in fatigue. Everything was about domination. The power play between the weak and the powerful and with enough evidence left behind of it. Nila went near the well and stood looking into its seemingly endless depth.
The Krishnamurthy family cleaned their home and began to live another episode in their life’s story.
Kannan’s brother hadn’t contacted them since the day of the bombing. He was working in Pettah as a trader. Sugirtham his wife, Nila’s sister-in-law sat in a corner wiping away her tears as she nursed her baby. Kannan’s cousin Babu spat a mouthful of betel spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Sister, I called Annan’s shop and some of his friends but no one knows anything. They suspect that he has joined the movement[4]. He had been quite active in collecting funds it seems,’ stated Babu. Kamalam, her mother-in-law started to sob loudly, ‘Aiyo, I have lost one son already now to lose the other.’
The days of endless sorrow for Nila began. She started to work at the school as a temporary teacher to make ends meet. All of Kannan’s money was used up to pay debts and the rest to the LTTE. What was left was the house and that was not hers. Kamalam would make rude remarks of Nila’s dowry-less marriage to Kannan and now it was time for pay back. The endless hole that Kannan had left swallowed Kamalam’s words and made Nila feel better.
That Thursday Nila had stayed back to mark the examination papers and didn’t realise that it was close to 7 in the evening. Under the dim dusty light Nila gathered the papers together and tied them into a bundle. She peered through the open door into the darkness and could make out the faint light street light on the road. Frowning, she walked out with her bag and called out for Ramaiah the school caretaker. Not hearing a response from him she pulled the door close behind her, locked it and slipped the key into her bag making a mental note to arrive early to school before the other teachers. Her footsteps echoed on the corridor as she walked towards the gate, her eyes still on the look out for Ramaiah. In the distance the dogs began barking and she felt an icy hand clutch at her heart making the hairs at the back of her neck stand up. The men in fatigues are somewhere near. She quickened her steps hugging her bag close to her chest. The gate groaned as she closed it behind her. The street lamp lit up the path as she walked hurriedly; her heart began to beat fast as she heard boot steps approaching her. Soon they came into view. Five men in fatigues. Five men with sneers on their faces. Her identity card was asked for and as she rummaged in her bag for it, she felt iron-like hands pull her roughly towards the bushes lining the side of the road. Nila struggled and shouted for help, screaming at the darkened faces that she was a teacher. She was a teacher but she was a woman and born Tamil.
She was found by Ramaiah who was returning with his dinner, in foetal position, unconscious, her saree torn and her nakedness gleaming under the street lamp, where the fatigues clad men had dumped her. The next morning Nila woke up with a splitting headache struggling to focus under the bright lights. She heard a voice speak to her, ‘Nila miss, you are safe. We have brought you to a hospital. Please don’t worry.’ The voice sounded strange but familiar. She tried to move but pain pulsated throughout her body and she cried out aloud. After a couple of hours, she sat leaning on pillows propped up behind her. It was painful. The nurse said that she had a bruise on her spine and in her mind’s eye Nila remembered being kicked hard. She raised her hand and touched the bandage on her face. She felt the heat from the wound burn through onto her hand. The diagnosis card read, ‘repeated sexual assault, spinal shock, left cheek ripped with sharp instrument’. Nila sat on the faded white bed; her body recovering speedily but her mental wounds remained gapping and festering. She had no visitors. She did not think it was strange. On the third day, the same voice that had woken her up from her unconscious state woke her up from her reverie. Looking up she stared at Kamalan, not knowing it was him, he seemed a stranger but strangely familiar. ‘The doctor says that you can go home tomorrow. I will come to take you,’ he said falteringly. Nila frowned and said ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t have a home.’ Kamalan sighed. ‘I am Kamalan. I helped Ramaiah bring you to the hospital. I work with the movement and I’m based in Trinco, in the Town. I know a place where you can live for sometime.’ Nila continued to stare at him. Kamalan stared back not knowing how to continue. Her eyes moved down to the capsule around his neck. She felt cold. She didn’t want his help. Kamalan left her.
The next morning she stared at her face in the broken mirror in the bathroom. The bandage covered her left cheek; her red swollen eyes looked back at her. A stranger stared back at her. When she returned to her bed, Kamalan was standing next to it packing her medication and few cloth items into a plastic bag. He looked up as Nila came close to the bed, ‘Let’s go.’ She followed him numbly, not knowing whether this was a good decision. At the entrance of the hospital in the parking lot Kamalan pulled out a motor-cycle, put the bag into the luggage holder and turned back to look at Nila. ‘This is not the best way to travel for you but there is no other option’. He got onto the motor-cycle and helped Nila sit behind him. The journey was eventless but spasms of pain wracked Nila’s battered body every time the motor-cycle plunged into a pothole. They arrived at a plot of land with a few palmyrah and banana trees. A small bullet-ridden house sat in the middle of the land, which was surrounded by a fence of palmyrah fronds. This became Nila’s third home.
A travelling bag full of clothes sat in a corner of the room, along with a mat and a pillow. The kitchen had some provisions. Kamalan looked at Nila, ‘I hope this is enough for now. I will come see you tomorrow.’
Kamalan visited her everyday at different times of the day. They hardly spoke but just sat in each other’s company for an hour or two. He would bring provisions and eat what she cooked. She asked him one day what had happened to her in-laws and he smiled for the very first time. He said that they had moved to Trinco Town and that they were doing well. He had visited them after admitting her to the hospital and they refused to come see her. She knew that he kept away most of the conversation so that she will not feel hurt. One day when Kamalan came to see her as usual, he seemed distant. He left within a few minutes and Nila was confused by this. What was on his mind? Was he feeling the burden of supporting her? Why was he supporting her? She was utterly confused.
Life dragged on. No news from Sankar master. Nila sat in the darkness and traced designs on the wall in the moonlight. She felt very lonely. Her thoughts raced back to her childhood. Nila had grown up in Trincomalee, which was one of the most politically sought after strategic point in Sri Lanka. She was the only child to a widowed postmaster, a father who doted on her. After completing her bachelor’s degree she had been studying for her master’s degree commuting to and from Peradeniya situated in the hill capitol. She had met Kannan one day on the bus to Trincomalee and coincidence brought about their second meeting. They were married in a couple of months. Nila’s father had died six months after their marriage, a sadness that soon dissipated as her thoughts became more and more dominated by that of Kannan.
She heard knocking on the door. It was pitch dark with no moon. She was terrified. Slowly approaching the door she waited breathlessly. She heard laboured breathing and then Kannan whispered urgently, ‘Nila, Nila….’ Unlatching she swung the door open to see Kannan leaning against the wall. He seemed hurt. She pulled him inside and he moved into the house to fall onto the floor. ‘Kamalan, what is the matter? Nila asked choking in fear. When she rose to switch the electricity on he held on to her arm saying no. ‘I am hurt. A bullet grazed my shoulder,’ he gasped. An hour later, the wound cleaned and bandaged with old cloth Kamalan lay on the mat with Nila seated close to him. ‘You have to get to a hospital. This will not help. Shall I ask Sankar master to help? Nila whispered. Kamalan was silent. The night stretched obscenely slow and the dawn crept in on tiptoes. Kamalan was fast asleep after moaning throughout the night. A fever had set in. Nila walked to the town to meet Sankar master. He was able to speak to a doctor and get her some medication. Back at home she dressed the wound with the medicine. His recovery was slow. A week later he was able to move his arm without much pain and the fever had abated. That night, in the one-roomed house Nila and Kamalan sat opposite each other in silence, as usual. Kamalan removed the capsule strung around his neck and threw it aside. He rose, walked up to Nila and sat next to her. Silence. The sound of silence was deafening. She felt his hand slip into hers and as she turned to look at him, she saw the moonlight play on his face. The night stood still as their bodies entwined in a primeval dance; a fusion of desperation and resignation.
Nila looked forward to Kamalan’s visits every night, slowly moving with the shadows, trying to evade his enemies. She felt resuscitated, strangely born again. Eight months later, Kamalan’s body was found in a ditch several hundred miles away. He had been shot in the head and his eyes glazed in death seemed unnaturally calm.
The wind whispered across Nila’s scarred cheek but she didn’t feel it through its numbness. In her hands sat the capsule strung on a thin black cord….
November, 2007
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