The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  Aiyo! she said, panting and laughing. Nearly ran down someone’s Ammachi!

  Poodi visari, he teased. Nothing but trouble.

  Mahindan loved their lazy Saturday ritual. Slow mornings in the shade with a cup of milky tea. Idli if the rice and lentil mixture had fermented overnight. Then the weekly trip to the market. Later, they would go to his parents’ house for a big family lunch, where the women would cook while the men talked politics and told bawdy jokes. Bellies full, they would return home to nap away the hottest part of the day. For the rest of his life, the memory of those heavy-lidded afternoons, the whirr of the ceiling fan and the gauzy view through the mosquito net, would remind Mahindan of happiness, perfect contentment.

  They cut through the playground behind the Hindu Girls’ College, where two women were hanging a Welcome Back banner. Near the side entrance, a man pulled up a sign that had been staked into the ground, red with a forbidding skull and crossbones. It had been four years since the Tamil Tigers chased the Sri Lankan Army garrison out of Kilinochchi, but their parting gifts – land mines and booby traps – were still being removed.

  Mahindan and Chithra parked their cycles on a side street and went to the market on foot. Trishaws idled. Motorcycles with their kickstands down waited for their owners. People bustled by with their shopping and children, everyone hailing each other with relaxed weekend cheer.

  How machan?

  Come later to the house. Boys are arranging a cricket match.

  Meenakshi! I told you not to climb that thing!

  The woman who ran the Internet café leaned against the back door of her shop. She was ancient, her face pockmarked and lined from years of betel chewing. She gnawed the areca nut wrapped in a betel leaf, one cheek bulging out and her jaw working hard. When she opened her mouth, Mahindan caught sight of her red-stained teeth and the gaps between them.

  How Internet Auntie? he said.

  She pressed a finger into Chithra’s midsection. No babas yet? She turned to Mahindan, leering. Two years married already. You don’t know what to do?

  Older the spinster, longer the nose, Chithra muttered when they were out of earshot.

  Mahindan and Chithra were the first in their circle to settle down and marry, and they hadn’t been in a rush for children, especially with the political situation being so unstable. But ever since the truces in December, and now with the February ceasefire, the subject was up for discussion again.

  The girls all wanted to have their babies together, and he could think of nothing better than his children growing up surrounded by a gaggle of cousins, every auntie another mother, every uncle another father. Chithra wanted at least four, three boys and a girl. Must have a good number, she said. To replace everyone who died.

  The market was a ramshackle construction, shops and stalls in close quarters, customers vying for attention, vendors doing their best to keep up. Children and dogs milled between legs. Over the hullabaloo came the sound of men making kothu, the rhythmic clack-clack of their cleavers. Sarongs tied at their waists, they stood chopping roti over hot plates, bellies on display, smoke billowing to mix with the sweat and flies, the fragrance of fried vegetables and chili peppers.

  Mahindan could recall how the market had been during the army occupation. Unmarried and still living at home, he had accompanied his mother on her visits, ostensibly to carry the bags. Most stalls sat empty in those days. The few residents who hadn’t fled darted in and out with their eyes to the ground as uniformed soldiers patrolled with their weapons. His mother always gripped his arm a little tighter whenever they passed one.

  Now, the market burst at the seams, action and commerce spilling out onto side streets. Chickens stuffed in cages awaited their fate. Garlands hung from shop rafters. Chithra made a beeline toward the fish stalls and Mahindan got stuck behind a delivery boy. Hundreds of ripe bananas hung, still on their branches, from the bicycle he laboriously pushed through the crowd.

  Chithra was examining the mackerel, pressing with two fingers to feel the consistency. Fish were laid across the sturdy wooden table, a line of shiny scales and bright black eyes. There were plastic buckets for anchovies and sardines.

  The fisherman wore a sarong. His wife was big-made in a blue polyester sari. They handled the fish with their bare hands, holding out each yellow fin and large eye for the customer to sniff. The wife had a tub of prawns cradled against her hip like a child. With her free hand, she made change for a customer.

  It’s my turn, Chithra said, putting her elbow out to prevent a man from cutting ahead of her.

  The man turned to Mahindan with reproach and he shrugged as if to say, What to do? while smothering a grin.

  The fisherman laid Chithra’s mackerel across the scale. Three hundred rupees.

  No?! she exclaimed, inflecting her tone so it became a half question. So much?

  But just see how fresh. The fisherman poked his thumb into the pink gills and flicked one cupped hand to the sky. This fellow was happily swimming only a few hours ago.

  Chithra cocked her head and put a hand on one hip. Ah, but he’s only a small-small fellow, she said. Can you not take two hundred?

  Brown paper was pulled out. The fish got wrapped.

  Two hundred, the fisherman said. How can I sell for so little?

  I’m only a poor woman on a budget, Chithra said.

  All are on a budget, he said. Two hundred and fifty.

  She handed over the money before he could change his mind and the fisherman shook his head in amusement. Your little woman is very clever, he told Mahindan.

  At the produce stall, Chithra said she wanted to make kool, a seafood broth. They picked out long beans, spinach, and manioc as well as carrots, bitter gourd, and a white-skinned eggplant. Chithra didn’t like the peppers.

  These are not so fresh, she told the woman.

  Two for one, the woman agreed. Have you seen my eggs?

  Mahindan was about to point out that they were out of eggs, but Chithra said quickly: We don’t need eggs.

  Only twenty rupees, the woman said.

  They left, weighed down with their purchases, Chithra grinning about her eggs.

  So happy to have a discount, he teased.

  What discount? The eggplant was overpriced.

  All around them, people played the game, batting prices back and forth, pointing out imagined flaws as leverage.

  How can you ask so much?

  Can you not go down a little?

  Last price, sir. Last price.

  They browsed the sweet shops, the air scented with rosewater and sugary syrup, and bypassed the butchers. The man who sold idols and oil lamps was doing a brisk business. Everyone is getting married, Chithra said.

  At the dry goods, Mahindan scooped red rice from a two-foot tub. Chithra weighed palmyra root flour. At the counter, the woman doled out their cashews and raisins.

  Can you not do something? Chithra asked, and an extra handful of nuts was added without comment.

  Mahindan was always vaguely embarrassed by these interactions. When Chithra truly got going – over a big-ticket item, she was really in her element – he would leave and turn circles outside. Chithra couldn’t understand his squeamishness.

  One Saturday early in the marriage, when Chithra was sick with a stomach ache, he had gone to do the marketing alone. She was appalled when he returned. Eighty rupees for a kilo of rice! Three hundred for a kilo of oranges? How much for eggs? She slapped her palm to her forehead and wailed: Aiyo! You’ll be cheated all your life. These catchers must be so happy to see you. Here comes the fool who was born yesterday.

  What would it be like to live with set prices? This was a premise Mahindan was testing at his garage. The first thing he had done after taking over the business from his father was to post a rate list and announce he wouldn’t haggle. His father thought it was madness, but a year into the experiment, Mahindan’s customers had got used to the new pricing scheme.

  Their last stop was the potter who sold
his wares behind the market.

  What do you think of this one? Chithra held up a water jug with a bulbous bottom and a long thin neck. It was orange terracotta with a geometric red design.

  They would take it home and season it, filling the jug with boiling water that they immediately dumped out, repeating the ritual three times before filling it again with water they would drink.

  Anything you like, Mahindan said.

  Chithra was particular about small household purchases. She liked to own things that were similar but didn’t actually match. The novelty of being the mistress of her home was still fresh.

  They waited their turn behind a young woman who was buying a similar jug. The shopkeeper named a figure and she paid without complaint. He wrapped her purchase in newspaper as she complimented his work. The young woman had an uncertain accent. She wore jean shorts and a red T-shirt. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. Australia, Mahindan guessed. Though he knew people were also returning from England and America. Canada too.

  For so long, the country had held its collective breath and now, finally, since the Norwegian-brokered ceasefire, it seemed as though everyone had exhaled. Farmers were returning to their paddy fields, families pulling padlocks off abandoned houses. People who had migrated decades ago were sending their grown children back, flooding the Tamil north with their Western money.

  A new town centre was emerging by the highway. The hospital had been rebuilt. The post office and bus station were fully operational. Reconstruction and repair, all the work that had begun when the Tigers chased the army out four years earlier, was now happening in a new spirit of optimism.

  Very popular today, the shopkeeper said when it was their turn. He wound newspaper and added, Three hundred rupees.

  Hundred and fifty, Chithra said firmly. I’m not one of these foreigners.

  Someone hailed them as they left the shop.

  It’s the bride and bridegroom! Chithra said.

  Ruksala arrived in a cloud of eau de cologne, Rama at her side. The girls sniffed at each other’s cheeks, right first, then left.

  How machan? Mahindan clapped his cousin brother on the back. Everything is ready for Friday?

  Rama bobbed his head. Yes, yes. Everything ready. Just came from Kumuran’s shop. You know he has taken over from his father?

  I heard something, Mahindan said.

  Garlands, food, all that is arranged? Chithra asked. Musicians?

  Ruksala linked arms with Chithra and they set off as a foursome, the girls ahead of the boys. Now nothing to do but relax, Ruksala said.

  And what of the oil lamp, have you taken a decision? Chithra asked.

  So, Mahindan said, draping his arm over his cousin’s shoulders. Last week as a bachelor.

  Last week, Rama agreed, his feet turning out slightly as he walked. Rama was one of those young men who could only profit from matrimony, from the respect he would gain when introducing his wife. As he had this thought, Mahindan wondered if that was how other people saw his own marriage.

  Mahindan and Chithra loaded their shopping into the baskets and pushed their cycles beside them. They left the crowds of the town centre and crossed the open plot of land behind the Amman kovil. It was a Dravidian-style temple with a tower like a pyramid, its facade covered with detailed engravings and three-dimensional sculptures. Like much of Kilinochchi, the temple was obscured by bamboo scaffolding. During the week, painters were hard at work bringing lustre back to its statues.

  You heard Shangam is back? Rama said.

  Ah? Tigers sent him home? Mahindan said.

  He’s coming to the lake tonight.

  On Saturday evenings, all the young people gathered at the lake to watch the sunset, bottles of home-brewed toddy passing hand to hand. Chelva would play his guitar and they’d sing old Beatles songs. Or Jeyanthi would bring her portable CD player and blast Tamil rap. Emboldened by the liquor, they would dance like devils until one of them, inevitably Rama, would trip and fall into the water while the girls screeched in faux despair.

  Must settle Shangam down with a nice girl, Ruksala said. Now there is peace.

  Depends for how long, Chithra said.

  The sun shone through the trees, casting diagonal shadows over the ground. Monkeys hung by their tails, purloined fruit in their paws. A dog nosed through a pile of garbage.

  A couple roared by on a motorcycle, both wearing helmets, and Chithra made a dismissive sound through her teeth. She thought it was madness, expatriates returning to an uncertain homeland.

  Why should we lose all our best people to other countries? Ruksala said.

  Chithra is only worried about prices going up at the market, Mahindan teased, trying to head off talk of war and peace at the pass.

  But Rama was already saying: Negotiations will succeed. See what the Europeans have done for Kosovo.

  Mahindan and Chithra exchanged a glance. Neither of them had any idea what was happening in Kosovo, or where exactly it was on a map. Mahindan raised his eyebrows as if to say, Now see what you’ve gone and started.

  Wait and see, Rama said. This ceasefire is only the beginning.

  For the past decade, the LTTE – Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam – had been running the north, Tamil Eelam in the making with Kilinochchi as its capital. Here, everyone spoke the same language and worshipped the same gods. Tamils had their own police force, banks, and businesses. The Tigers had built a bubble where the government’s quotas and language laws, all the rules designed to disenfranchise the Tamil minority, had no power. Now all that was needed was for the Sinhalese to make it official – section off the island and let the Tamils have their own country.

  The Sinhalese will never leave us alone, Chithra said. That’s what these ones with their helmets and sunshades don’t realize.

  But Rama had faith in a compromise: self-government without separation. Tamil Eelam as an autonomous province within a united Sri Lanka. He said, Who do you think funds the government? Norway. Biggest donor country.

  And now that Norway has brought both sides together, Ruksala added, the Sinhalese will have to give us something.

  It was always like this: Rama and Ruksala, their arguments buttressed by world news and international pundits, versus Chithra’s instinctual cynicism. Mahindan tried not to get involved with their debates. What would happen would happen. What was the point of them arguing? What effect could they possibly have?

  The Sinhalese are snakes, Chithra said. Norway or no, they will find a way to slither out of negotiations. She glanced around, then added quietly: Or Prabhakaran will. I don’t trust our buggers either.

  War is not good for business, Rama said. Bad economics. The Norwegians will find a solution.

  Ruksala had a different opinion: The Sinhalese are finished with war, I think. Now they have seen what our boys can do, they know better than to fight us.

  Family business

  It was as if no one had known she was coming. Grace was shown to a windowless room the size of a broom closet. The place looked as though it had been vacated in a hurry by the previous occupant. The drawers of the filing cabinet gaped open, immodest, a few desultory folders hanging inside. There was a computer monitor and a keyboard but no mouse, all the cords unplugged and strewn about.

  Your new office, Kelly from Human Resources announced, before glancing at her watch and scurrying to a meeting.

  The front pocket of Grace’s handbag hummed. A text from Fred Blair. Good luck today. You’ll be gr8. Grace sent a smiley face back. Thx. So far, so good.

  She crouched under the desk, hunting for an electrical outlet. A shabby office was not an ill omen. She would make this work.

  The computer demanded a password. A ten-digit number was taped to the phone on the desk.

  It was lunchtime in Ottawa and the guy who answered her call sounded as if he was chewing. Sorry, he said. We have no record of your employment with the Immigration and Refugee Board.

  Grace Nakamura, she said, then spelled out all the
letters. I’m a new adjudicator in the Vancouver office. It’s my first day.

  You need to fill out an H46, he said. H46, not H46A. Can you access the intranet?

  Grace stared at the blank computer screen and the rectangular password box. Not without a password, she said.

  Fill out the form, have your HR rep fax it to us, and we’ll get you up and running in five to seven business days.

  What am I supposed to do without a computer for a week?

  Grace tried to remember if it had been like this when she’d first started working for Fred. But that had been twenty years ago, before intranets and e-mail.

  H46A, she said, picking up a pen. There wasn’t any paper. She wrote on her hand.

  H46, the IT guy said.

  —

  Eventually, Kelly from HR returned for the ten-cent tour and to introduce her to the other adjudicators. Grace shook hands, knowing she had no hope of remembering their names. There was a lot of chatter about someone called Mitchell Hurst who had just come back from a year-long sabbatical.

  Paternity leave? Grace asked.

  Mitchell’s kids are in university, Kelly said. No, he took a year off to work with the UNHCR.

  It was 10 a.m. and Kelly had already pelted her with a dozen acronyms. Grace didn’t ask what this one stood for.

  Mitchell’s into the aid work, Kelly said. I swear one of these days the Red Cross is going to poach him. And then he’ll be off digging wells in Kenya. It’ll be a shame, though. He’s one of the best adjudicators we have.

  When they passed by his empty office, Grace lingered for a moment. A dollar-store garland was strung across the doorway, Welcome Home spelled out in shiny, multicoloured bubble letters. A backpack was slouched on the desk chair, a bicycle helmet on top. Grace had an urge to grab the upright stapler off his desk. She clasped her hands behind her back and caught up with Kelly.

  Grace spent the rest of the morning listening to collegial voices in the hallway. A few times she heard Mitchell’s deep bass, hale and friendly, saying, Thanks, yeah, it’s great to be back. She was starved for company and longed to skip ahead eight weeks to the point where she would know everyone’s name and be able to swap stories from the weekend.