by KUBOA
“But don’t worry, morning will come, eventually. And we will be in Chennai.”
Somehow, these words do not elicit from Rachana an indication of being comforted. Does she not trust Jaliya’s words? Or is it something else?
He makes his grip on her hand more felt upon her skin. A gesture that is probably a promise of more than words. And her fingers, entwined between his, fold closer, to reciprocate his gesture.
“Morning will come Rachana.”
What awaits them in the morning? The morning that is yet to give them any indication of its arrival? The morning that may even possibly seem to have decided to elude them? But then, what does actually await these two in the morning once the bus slowly draws into the Koyembedu bus station in Chennai? Well, Rachana certainly knows what routine she will step into. A cousin of her fiancé’s will come on a motorcycle to pick her up and drop her where she lives in Chennai, the comfortable little rented house she shares with three other female colleagues. And by 8.30am she will sit at her table and begin her day... Yes, that is what awaits her at the end of the night journey she does to the big city from Nandyal. And then, there is also her unuttered anxiety that becomes more pronounced with the arrival of the dawn, every day, every morning, as of some time now. Yes, she has her doubts about it. It draws closer with each passing day. And the uncertainness in her grows. It all awaits her, with the morning. The dawn.
“Jaliya?”
“Yes Rachana?”
“What will the morning look like?”
And what awaits Jaliya when morning comes? This young man who has thirsted for travel and keeps believing to be in perpetual motion means to craft one’s own fate, one’s destination. What awaits him? There will be another bus waiting for him, he imagines. And it will take him away along an open road.
“The first rays of sunlight. A rose like tender light red touches the dimming darkness. The sky gains its face again, slowly, as if waking up to the gentle whispers of a lover. The dawn arrives, gracefully, over a paddy field. The light green paddy saplings are grazed by a soft wind... And far in the distance Rachana, the mountains that slept under the cover of the night now appear, as the mist that wrapped them tenderly fades under the sunlight...The scenery passes us quietly, outside the window a world awakens gently...There are two elderly men, simple village folk, smoking, sitting together, on wood crates, at a wayside chai shop. The steam from the boiler drifts out passing the bunch of ripe yellow plantains hung at the front of this quaint little boutique...And as we roll on, along the gravel road of this tranquil locale, a bullock cart goes past outside our window. Sleepiness in the oxen falls off, like stalks from the hay load being carted. Dropping to the jerky jolts as the hooves move on the pebbly road...We see a small river approaching our sight. It runs through the green paddy field. We go over it, along a little iron bridge....On this body of water is a young boy on a plank ferry, his barge pole moves lightly, unrushed, taking him away from us...The river runs like a hazy road undefined in its tangibility, stretching out to the distance to meet the mountains, the sunlight now glistens bouncing off the water’s shaky surface... Our morning has arrived Rachana.”
“It’s so beautiful Jaliya. But, that isn’t the morning that comes in Chennai, when day breaks... Streams and streams of chaotic rushing around is what you see. The morning arrives to show a concrete jungle. That is what waits for us.”
“It doesn’t have to be... There is nothing visible outside Rachana. It’s like an empty canvas. We can let our minds paint whatever we want on it. Don’t be daunted by the darkness.”
“Is this real Jaliya? Have you wondered if this is real?”
“Do you feel my hand holding yours? The touch of my hand? ...Is it real to you?”
“Yes...Yes it is.”
“I feel the same.”
Has the silence around them undone itself? Has the darkness outside begun to fade against a ray of dawn? Well, actually no, not really. The darkness still persists outside the window Jaliya sits at, and not a speck of light inhabits inside the bus either.
But then, Jaliya and Rachana are no longer daunted by the darkness. And more importantly they are no longer daunted by the burden of ‘arrival’ at a given destination. Because, you see, they have decided, both in his and her silence of unspoken thoughts and emotions that they will remain thus. However unrealistic it may seem, they have chosen to remain in this unrealism. And it seems the burdens of the world are no longer fettered to them, for ports of arrival have ceased to be.
“Jaliya, it occurred to me...maybe, this bus
isn’t going to Chennai?”
Her head moves, to rest on his shoulder.
“Then tell me Rachana, where is this bus heading to?”
His lips, through the darkness, touch her forehead.
“Omunkashyu.”
***
Dlshan Boange is a writer from Sri Lanka who has authored three previous books –Consciousness: the Writer’s Primary pen (2010), Textual Tapestry (2011) and Hola El Che! (2011). His academic credentials include a BA in English (Hons) from the University of Colombo, a Higher Diploma in International Relations from the Bandaranaike Centre for International Studies. He has worked as a broadcaster for Sri Lankan national TV for over three years, and is a features writer for two national newspapers in his home country. Currently he is reading Law at the Sri Lanka Law College. Omunkashyu is his first published novel.
