by Sharon Bala
The room was dry. The air conditioner hummed in the background. Priya watched Mahindan swallow. He opened and closed his mouth without speaking. She scrawled a quick note and pushed her legal pad toward Gigovaz. H2O? Gigovaz wrote: Water cooler, lobby.
How’s it going? Charlie asked when she saw Priya emerge.
She and the others had found seats in a little lounge area and were chatting amiably in Tamil. Priya was surprised to see them looking relaxed, almost happy. A bored prison guard stood nearby. I don’t know, Priya said. Slow.
Watching opposing lawyers litigate, Priya usually had a sense of who was on top. But she had no barometer for reading these quasi-judicial meetings. What I know is mergers and acquisitions, she thought. What I don’t know is any of this.
It was nearly eleven. Joyce would be ushering the executives into a conference room. There would be jugs of water, a coffee service brought in. Priya would have been there too, if she hadn’t stared at Gigovaz at that stupid meeting. She’d be passing out booklets, sitting cross-legged at the edge of her seat, taking notes as Joyce presided over the marriage of the country’s two largest pharmaceutical companies.
Are there many judges inside? Prasad asked.
Only one adjudicator, Priya said. It’s not really a courtroom, just everyone sitting in a kind of square. It’s a bit less intimidating.
Charlie reported all of this to the others while Priya bent over the water cooler. She filled two paper cups and held them up as she passed. Bring water, she said. It’s really dry in there.
When she returned, Singh was speaking: We’re investigating hundreds of cases. Naturally, the process of verifying identity is slower than usual.
Priya placed both cups in front of Mahindan. He gave her a grateful smile. She tried to pull back her chair as quietly as possible.
Mr. Mahindan is being held in a prison with restricted privileges, Gigovaz said. His six-year-old son is living among strangers. It is important to consider the psychological toll, on the child in particular, of separation and detention.
The claimant is a foreign national from a country where known terrorists have spent the past three decades waging a civil war, Singh said. The Minister is anxious we conduct our due diligence to protect the nation’s sovereignty.
Sovereignty. That word again. Pitched high, like a dog whistle.
Nakamura held up a hand. Very well, I have made my decision. Mr. Gigovaz, I find your concerns premature. This man and his group only arrived last week. Some delay is to be expected. The migrant will remain in custody and we will review the case again in a week. Please bring in the next claimant.
Rama’s song
November 2002
Chithra and Ruksala scheduled their ultrasounds on the same day so they could all take the morning off and have lunch together. Leftover string hoppers with egg curry and extra hot pol sambol, which they ate with their hands at Mahindan and Chithra’s table, the ceiling fan ruffling their hair.
The LTTE have had it with the government, Ruksala said, coaxing an egg out of the curry pot.
The ceasefire had ended. The Tigers had left the negotiating table and even Rama thought it was for good. Their cousin Shangam had put his uniform back on and returned to service, but Prabhakaran, the LTTE’S leader, said it wasn’t enough. More fighters were needed. Every patriotic family was encouraged to send at least one.
They’re building up to something, Rama said.
What? Chithra asked, pausing with the sambol bowl lifted.
But Mahindan gave a twitch of his head and Rama didn’t answer. Instead, he complained about the replacement teachers at school. Untrained clowns who can barely add, fumbling their way through an algebra lesson, Rama said, tapping the tips of his gathered fingers on his empty plate.
Ruksala leaned over and tossed him another string hopper – a cobweb-shaped nest of rice flour noodles. What use is education to the LTTE? she said. Sooner boys and girls leave school, sooner they can fight. Sin, no?
Half the science equipment is broken and cannot be repaired, Rama said.
As a reprisal for the Tigers leaving the negotiations, the government had enacted embargoes on LTTE-controlled areas, halting shipments at ports and vehicles at checkpoints to inspect every crate and car boot. As a result, everything from milk to extension cords was in short supply.
Can’t get anything down for the garage, Mahindan said, rotating the cupped palm of his left hand upward. Brake fluid, motor oil…nearly impossible!
Mahindan was benefitting from the diesel embargo, though. The price had doubled overnight and everyone wanted their engines converted to kerosene. Drivers blew a few drops of petrol in through a tube and, once ignited, their engines ran on the cheaper fuel. It was a foul-smelling operation for Mahindan but necessary money, especially with the baby coming.
And see the state of the hospital, Ruksala said, frowning. I’m thinking of calling a midwife to the house.
Chithra slapped the heel of her palm against her forehead. Don’t tell me! Think what could happen.
Privately, Mahindan felt this wasn’t a bad idea. Their appointment that morning had not inspired much confidence. Patients on stretchers left idling in corridors, half the maternity ward cordoned off with plastic sheeting. The renovations – funded by UNICEF and begun during the ceasefire – had been put on hold indefinitely when cement embargoes drove the price of a bag from 600 to 6,000 rupees.
They’d waited two hours for their appointment, only to be seen by a trainee nurse instead of the doctor. Last month, two obstetricians left, the nurse told them, tapping a weight across the scale with her finger. People – especially doctors who were paid by the government – had been defecting to Trincomalee and Batticaloa, Tamil-majority areas in the east where the LTTE’S foothold was weaker and the army’s MiGs didn’t fly overhead.
Even after making it into the examination room, they’d had to wait for the ultrasound equipment. Chithra had sat shivering in her paper gown and Mahindan had seen the half-empty medicine cabinet behind her.
How many women before us just had their children at home? Ruksala asked, ripping a string hopper between her fingers and mixing in the curry. I am seriously considering.
Mahindan raised his brows at Rama, who just shrugged. He said: Twenty doctors for a population of what? Hundred and fifty thousand? It’s not enough.
Can’t blame them for leaving, Chithra said, picking cardamom pods out of her curry. Sometimes I too think of going.
Where? Ruksala asked, a handful of food paused at her mouth.
I don’t know, Chithra said. She rubbed her midsection absently with her free hand. She was barely three months pregnant but already had a habit of stroking her belly when she spoke of difficult things. With the baby…I don’t…If only there was a safe place.
India? Rama said. You’ll only get stuck in one of those camps.
Mahindan squeezed Chithra’s shoulder. Her talk of leaving had begun around the time they learned she was pregnant.
No sense in going anywhere, Mahindan said. Here we have a house and jobs and our parents.
We’ll bring our parents, Chithra said. She set her hand on her plate and leaned back in her chair.
Mahindan had his fingers tented over a little ball of string hopper and curry. We’ll only become like these displaced people going here and there. Is this how you want to bring up our baby?
Trinco and Batti. Those are still Tamil areas, Chithra said.
Ruksala lifted the lid off the water jug and, holding its fragile neck, refilled their tin cups. Embargoes and shelling, she said. We’ve lived through the troubles before.
Difference is, there are children coming, Chithra said. With the ceasefire, I fooled myself into thinking…but now –
Now we have become our parents, Ruksala said. And in another twenty-five years, who knows? Our children may be having this same discussion.
Don’t speak like that! Chithra slapped the table. Her lip trembled and she covered her eyes with one han
d.
Hormones, Mahindan thought. Chithra, normally so stalwart, was fretful and teary in her pregnancy.
It’s not so bad, Rama said quietly. Only one bomb, and no one has been hurt.
We are used to this, no? Mahindan added, rubbing Chithra’s back. As long as the Tigers hold the area, there is nothing to worry.
Aiyo, sorry-men. Ruksala reached across the table.
Chithra sniffed and waved Ruksala’s hand away. Mrs. Ramamoorthy at the office is saying they are recruiting men.
Construction workers, Mahindan reminded her. Jobless fellows who have nothing else to do.
Mahindan was annoyed at Chithra’s boss. The silly woman was filling her head with unnecessary worries. All through the occupation, when the army’s garrison held the town and Sinhalese soldiers patrolled the streets, Chithra used to walk past their leering gazes with her head held high, long plait swishing at her hips. Mahindan would cringe at her stories, how she’d once mouthed off to a soldier who was giving an old man a hard time, but Chithra always said: Can’t live in fear.
He echoed her words back to her now. No use in fear, Chithra.
Better to stay here than live in the east, Ruksala added. One thing about the LTTE, they keep us safe. In Kilinochchi, you can go here and there, even alone at night, and not worry. But in the east, in government-controlled areas? She shuddered. Even in their own homes, women are getting attacked.
I don’t know. Chithra’s gaze wandered to a gecko upside down on the ceiling. She pushed her chair back but didn’t move her hand, lying flat, fingers together, on her empty plate.
Mahindan knew she was thinking back to their appointment, to the moment when the trainee nurse finally wheeled the ultrasound machine into the room only to have the power flicker off because there was no diesel for the generator.
These embargoes will kill us, Chithra said.
They rose from the table and went behind the house to wash their hands and rinse their mouths under the pump.
We’ve lived with embargoes before, Mahindan said. We’ll survive them now. He shook his hands, flinging water droplets, and squinted at the sun.
Funny story about embargoes, Rama said, pushing his glasses up his nose as they returned to the table. I nearly got stuck on the Sinhalese side on the way back from Anuradhapura last week.
Mobility was another thing they’d lost when the ceasefire ended. Government land and LTTE-controlled territory were now divided by razor wire, a mile of no man’s land in between. Anyone crossing from one side to the other had to clear both army and Tiger checkpoints.
And don’t you know, Rama said, at six, fellows shut everything down and go home for the night. Had to speed on the A9, sweating the whole way. And not only time, petrol tank was nearly empty too. He gave a quick side-to-side nod of his head and continued: But managed to arrive at the barricade and naturally soldiers want to inspect the motorcycle, make sure I’m not sneaking in some embargoed this or that.
Chithra snorted.
Fellow put a gull look on me and took the batteries in my torch.
Mahindan choked on a bit of toffee. Don’t tell me!
Rama wagged a finger, imitating the soldier: Don’t want this falling into rebel hands.
What nonsense, Ruksala said. The Tigers are bringing in ammunitions and multi-barrel rocket launchers from North Korea, never mind this meaningless embargo. Meanwhile these fools are worried about double-A batteries.
Rama chuckled. Fellow spoke half-decent Tamil, at least. First time I’ve heard a soldier even try.
Mahindan noticed the clock and said, Ah! Are we going to temple?
There was just enough time for a quick puja before Mahindan and Rama had to return to work. The girls, who had taken the full day off, said they wanted to stay in and nap. Later, they would have tea and devour old romance novels, reading the bawdy parts aloud for a laugh. Mahindan hoped an afternoon with her best friend would cheer Chithra up.
As they were cycling down the lane, Rama said: I didn’t want to tell Ruksala, but a funny thing happened on our side also. The fellow saw my identification card and asked my profession. What subject did I teach, since how many years, in what school?
Mahindan frowned. He sometimes went through the checkpoints too, on the rare trips he made to meet distributors in the south. Are you worried? he asked.
Usually the Sinhalese ask the questions, but our people, once they see I’m Tamil, they just wave their hands and say, Go.
But they let you pass, no?
Yes, yes. I’m sure it is nothing. Don’t tell Ruksala.
The Murugan kovil was a modest building with a covered colonnade and a lovely sandstone tower, every inch of which was decorated with carvings and sculptures. To the left was a stand-alone bell tower under which the temple boy was braced with the rope. The huge brass bell was tolling as they cycled up, and they hurried to kick aside their shoes, strip off their shirts, and run their feet under the taps.
The interior was dim, heady with camphor smoke and sandalwood. Mahindan and Rama sat cross-legged on the floor in a circle with a dozen other bare-chested men around brass platters of fruit and flower garlands. The inner sanctum was devoted to Murugan, the temple’s main deity. Enthroned, the god presided, beholding the devotees, while the priest intoned in Sanskrit. Mahindan folded his hands, closed his eyes, and settled in, letting the smoke and incense, the familiar rhythmic invocations, wash over him.
Ever since their wives had got pregnant, he and Rama had taken to coming to temple once or twice a week during their lunch breaks. Mahindan’s prayers were always the same: a healthy pregnancy, easy delivery, a clever child. At night, before they fell asleep, Chithra would pull up her nightdress and Mahindan would put his mouth to her stomach and sing a silly made-up song. When Chithra laughed, he felt the vibrations through her belly and imagined their baby floating inside, hearing Amma’s laugh from within and Appa’s off-key crooning from without. You are loved, he told the baby each night. You are so loved.
It was incredible to think of the miracle Chithra’s body was performing. Every day, hands and feet lengthening. Eyelashes, fingernails, all the tiny details blossoming into being.
Whom would the baby take after? Would it have its Ammachi’s exuberant laugh? Nila Auntie’s photographic memory? Whole evenings passed in happy speculation, hours at a time when they were so focused on their nascent family it was almost possible to forget the turmoil outside.
The priest was shaped like a barrel. His forehead was marked by three lines of white ash, a dot of yellow sandalwood, and red kumkum in the centre, white stripes across his arms and wide chest. He balanced an oil lamp on a platter and moved the flame back and forth in front of Murugan, chanting mantras to coax the god to bring his holy power down and dwell in his statue. To his left, a temple boy banged a gong.
Mahindan was lulled into a trance. His lips barely moved, the verses so ingrained they intoned of their own volition. How many expectant fathers had come before him to recite these same prayers? He was filled with a deep sense of peace, taking his place in the ancient fraternity.
A safe delivery. A healthy baby. Requests his father too must have made, and his grandfather before him, at temples in Colombo. Places where his own child, if there was freedom, might also choose to worship one day. His greatest hope for the baby: a life uncircumscribed by war.
There was an old photograph of Mahindan’s grandfather from when he was deputy head of the irrigation department. In the photograph, Appappa wore Western dress: a suit jacket and tie with heavy black-framed spectacles and slicked-back hair. In his day, the family had owned a bungalow in Colombo 7, had servants and matching cutlery. If not for the terror of ’83, they might still be in the capital.
It wasn’t that Mahindan wanted servants or a house in Colombo. Food tasted better when he ate with his hands. He loved his work, the simple way he and Chithra lived, the family they were creating. But he wanted their children to have more choices. Choices his grandfather had enjo
yed before the Sinhalese got jealous and instituted quotas that stripped away Tamil rights.
The priest lowered his lamp and everyone, on their knees, bowed to the divine. Mahindan, face to the floor, prayed: Let these troubles end. Rising as the sacred fire was offered, he put his hands to the oil lamp, scooping the holy smoke in a swift motion and bringing it to his face and head. Inarticulate pleas circled in his mind. For my child. For my child.
The sacrament platter came around and Mahindan dipped his middle finger into the red kumkum paste, applied a dot to the centre of his forehead, and smeared the rest against the side of his neck. After puja ended, the priest invited everyone to the backroom for lunch.
Want to stay? Rama was always up for another meal. He checked his wristwatch and said, Still have a little time.
Mahindan touched the kumkum on his forehead absently. He felt restless, not fit for company.
Come, Rama said. Empty your mind.
They made a circle of the temple, palms pressed together and raised to their foreheads, bowing to each deity in its alcove. When they reached Ganesha, Rama stopped. He dropped his hands to his chest.
Ooooooommmmmm.
Rama had a beautiful voice. Deep and sonorous, it seemed to rise from the centre of his being. Mahindan joined in and together they held the sacred syllable until it swelled to fill the space, mingling with the camphor and incense.
Ooooooommmmmm.
Mahindan’s heart beat strong and steady. His body tingled, every chakra awakened, alert to the call.
Ooooooommmmmm.
Om. Oneness. Perfection. Everything. They held on to the note until their breath gave out and Mahindan felt the sound resonate, reaching the ears of each deity around the room, Lord Murugan in the inner sanctum.
Then Rama began to chant. Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha. His voice was steady, rich with certainty. The gan sound vibrated in the back of his throat. In another life, he might have been a Brahmin. Om Gam Ganapataye Namaha. Mahindan joined in and they traded off a call and answer, keeping time with their feet, every new om a slow exhalation that calmed his nerves.
