by Sharon Bala
I see. An articling student.
She squinted at Grace. I’m also Sri Lankan, she said. And as a Sri Lankan, I can tell Ms. Singh that it is pronounced thali, not tah-li.
The student put her hands under the table quickly.
Singh said: Our expert –
The student cut her off: Well, where is it? She pulled an amulet from under her shirt. This was my mother’s thali. My mother was a citizen, not a terrorist. Show us our client’s thali and let’s compare.
The words tumbled out in a trembling rush and Grace was bolstered by the knowledge that there was someone else in this room who felt out of her depth.
Singh spoke directly to Grace: Our intelligence suggests this is a specific tah-li, not the generic one that formalizes all marriages. As I said, this one is only given to LTTE members. To signify the husband’s bravery, it has two tiger teeth with a tiger symbol in the middle.
The student spoke a little louder: I’m Tamil and I’m telling you there is no such thing as a Tiger thali.
Singh turned to her: Do you know that for sure? When was the last time you were in Sri Lanka?
The student banged her fist on the table and the sketch artist startled.
You can’t even pronounce it right, she yelled. So how would you know?
The reporters were thrilled. This was the most exciting thing to happen all week. Grace could just imagine them returning to their newsrooms, fizzing with the drama.
Okay, let’s all take a deep breath, Grace said. She let the interpreter finish speaking then added: I’m going to count to three silently and I don’t want anyone to say a word.
Grace flipped through her case file, feeling competent and finally in charge. Ms. Singh, she said. Is there a photograph of the jewellery in question?
It was sent to an expert overseas for authentication.
Who is this so-called expert? Gigovaz asked. I find this all rather curious. As Border Services has pointed out many times in this very room, there are 200,000 members of the Tamil diaspora already in Canada. Surely the Minister could have found a local expert.
Grace felt a spark of irritation. What was Gigovaz playing at, bringing Fred into this?
Ms. Singh, when do you expect to hear back from your expert? Grace asked. She didn’t know what to make of the necklace, but the documents they had found on the boat troubled her. Whom did they belong to and where did they fit into all of this?
Singh said, It could be months before his report is completed.
Nothing that has been said today by Ms. Singh sheds any light on why Mrs. Kumuran is believed to be a security risk, Gigovaz said.
Grace swallowed. Decision time. What to make of this conflicting soup of information? An iffy necklace and suspicious documents no one wanted to claim. A mother who spoke so callously about her own children’s deaths – what was such a woman capable of?
The Tigers were an equal opportunity employer. Women from the Black Tiger division planned and executed suicide bombings. What it came down to was safety. Grace thought of her daughters and decided she didn’t know enough about any of this to take a chance.
She pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. Given the elite role of women in the LTTE, there are sufficient grounds for doubt, she said. I feel it prudent to exercise caution and am ordering the migrant to remain in detention for another thirty days. Perhaps by then we will have heard from Ms. Singh’s expert.
Gigovaz was on the verge of cutting in and Grace addressed him directly when she added: I am satisfied Minister Blair is doing what is necessary to ensure the nation’s security.
The interpreter repeated her judgment in Tamil, and Grace marvelled at his ability to perfectly emulate her tone and pitch. The woman bunched her fists against her eyes and gave a low, keening wail. The sound startled Grace, regurgitating an unpleasant surge of sympathy. It was the last hearing for the morning. Pushing back her chair, Grace moderated her pace as she exited the room.
Peace and quiet
Appa wanted to know what was happening at the office. He laid his tiles down one at a time then turned the Lazy Susan so the game board faced Priya. She had been feeling sluggish after two helpings of prawn curry, but now she was alert and full of prickly foreboding as she moved her letters around the little wooden pew. The dishwasher rumbled contentedly in the background, the smell of fenugreek and ginger still lingering over the kitchen. Outside, the wind whipped up piles of dried leaves, sending them somersaulting down the sidewalk.
I’m still working with Gigovaz, Priya said, setting down her letters.
Furtive, Uncle read. He tallied the points under his breath in Tamil then said, in English: Twenty-one points. Very good, pillai.
You took my spot, Rat said, and Priya stuck her tongue out at him.
Growing up, Scrabble had been a parentally mandated family ritual in which Priya and Rat had participated, sulky at certain ages and jocular at others. The weekly games were resurrected after Ma’s lymphoma diagnosis, when they found themselves spending more time in their childhood home than in their adult ones. They’d pull in an armchair from the living room so she could watch, but the bag would still be half full of tiles when Ma fell asleep, her cheek against the headrest, mouth slightly open.
For how much longer will you have to work with this Gigovaz? Appa asked.
Priya swivelled the board to Uncle. Forever, she said. Now that he’s caught his happy little worker bee, he’ll never let me go.
Aiyo! Uncle exclaimed, startling everyone with his outburst. He threw his hands out and said, You should see these tiles. Useless! Useless!
Uh…I’m sure you’ll think of something, Uncle, Rat said.
You must assert yourself. Appa pressed his index finger hard on the table. Tell them you want to work in this, this, this…what is it called…
Corporate law, Priya said.
She could feel her father’s stern gaze, the way he stared and scowled as if by force of will alone he could change her actions and by extension her future. Priya kept her eyes on her tiles, swapping them around haphazardly, forming gibberish non-words. It was so typical of her father to dictate solutions when what she needed was commiseration.
Corporate law, Appa said, at the same moment Uncle asked: Ah-ney! Michael, can you turn on the light?
They had been playing by lamplight supplemented by the pendants in the kitchen and Priya thought the dining nook was sufficiently lit, but Rat leaned back without complaint, his chair balanced on its hind legs, to reach the switch.
Corporate law, her father repeated, tapping the same spot on the table. If you want something, you must ask for it. He flicked his cupped palm in the air. Otherwise, how?
Appa, what do you think I’ve been doing? Priya said. But I’m hardly in a position to make demands.
Now see here, Uncle said in a false jolly way. I have a very nice word. P-R-O-T-E-C-T. Double word score. Eleven and two is twenty-two.
Good one, Rat said.
When are you finished at that company? Appa asked.
The board exam is in May, she said. And there’s a ten-week prep course before that. So basically, I have until March to get enough experience under my belt to land a job after I qualify. These cases won’t be wrapped up by then, so my only hope is Gigovaz lets me return to corporate.
Priya’s instinct was to remain on the neutral ground of her career, but Rat was plunging his hand into the bag of tiles and asking, What’s the holdup, anyway? Why haven’t they released anyone yet?
The government is taking a hard line. I mean, yeah, there are hundreds of cases to process, but Blair’s directing Border Services to drag their feet and play out the fiction that they’re hunting terrorists.
Of course there are former fighters on board, Appa said. He cut his hand through the air, palm down, as if announcing a verdict. A thirty-year war and these are the survivors? Naturally, some must have been involved.
Uncle stood abruptly, clattering his chair back so suddenly it nearly top
pled over.
Woah, Rat said.
Going to toilet, Uncle said, already halfway to the stairs. Keep playing, keep playing.
Appa’s mouth pressed into a line and angled down slightly.
Is that really what you think? Priya asked.
Yes, yes. Use your brain, pillai. In the end, all these poor buggers must have been made to take part whether they wanted to or not. But have they come here to make trouble? He shrugged. That, I have my doubts. Ninety-nine point nine only want peace and quiet.
Yeah, you know, Rat said, if I was a Tiger, hell-bent on relaunching the war, Canada wouldn’t be my first choice as a base of attack.
Appa played his signature move, adding an s to Uncle’s protect, and the tension dissipated. Or maybe it had never existed. Had she dreamed it, the taboo about the ship?
South India, Priya agreed. That’s what Gigovaz thinks too. Common sense and geography.
For real, Rat said. What kind of low-rent terrorist gets on a boat when he could just take a plane?
Never mind all that, Appa said. Why does this Gigovaz not find someone who is actually working in refugee law?
Maybe he thinks a Tamil is the best person, Rat said. To another lawyer, it would be only a job. Maybe he wants someone who is invested in the clients.
Anyone would become invested, Priya said, thinking of Mahindan and the yearning in his voice whenever he asked about his son. She gave up on her letters and laid down Z-E-A-L, wasting a ten-point letter on a nondescript square.
He’s not thinking of the consequences for you, her father said. Because we are Tamil…the position he’s put you in.
What consequences? Rat asked.
Okay, okay, Uncle cut in loudly, returning to the kitchen. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, index finger to bridge, and peered at the board. Ah! Very nice words. Whose turn now?
Rat shook the cloth bag at Priya and she dove her hand in unseeing, attention wheeling from her father to her uncle, each, it seemed to her, determined not to acknowledge the other.
It’s your turn, she told Uncle.
What position is he putting Priya in? Rat asked again.
He and Priya stared at their father, but Appa was fixated on his tiles and did not answer.
Homeland
April 2003
Mahindan closed the bonnet of the car and straightened, then raised his arms like a cactus and stretched his shoulders back with a loud, indulgent groan.
The car was a gemstone. Bottle green and snub-nosed, a ’53 Morris Minor with an Austin-made engine that still ran as well as the day it was first driven. Weathered and rusted, with one back wing inexplicably painted orange, it was Mr. Chanakayam’s pride and joy. A solid British car.
The old man had finally consented to bring it in for servicing, and Mahindan had spent a happy afternoon examining the undercarriage and rooting around beneath the bonnet, delighting in the custom-made engine cover. You had to admire the brash showiness of the thing. Green to match the car and shaped like a steam train, with a brass nameplate on top. Morris in black letters. An unnecessary indulgence, like the bonnet ornament. Even the Japanese, for all their skill, didn’t make vehicles like this.
Mahindan wore slippers and a white sleeveless banian. He turned his shoulders in circles and pressed his chin to his chest to stretch out his neck. Wiping his hands on a rag and slinging it over one shoulder, he calculated sums in his head. He couldn’t find the receipt pad – he could never find anything in this place – and jotted down the bill on the wall with a marker. The cement walls were graffitied with decades of grease and spray paint, old notes scrawled out in his father’s hand. Motorcycle – chain tension. Hundred rupees owing. Order filters.
The garage was a three-sided block, open to a quiet, dusty road. The sun slanted through the thin, hairy roots that grew down from the branches of a massive banyan tree, throwing friendly shadows across the rust-coloured earth.
Mahindan was searching for his keys and the padlock when he heard the commotion. Outside, a lorry rolled toward him, dragging a Toyota Corona in its wake. In the cab of the Isuzu, the driver wore green-and-brown camouflage and a matching cap with a visor. As the lorry eased to a stop, two boys jumped off the flatbed. Mahindan’s stomach sank when he saw the driver was Arun.
Ah, good. You’re still here.
Arun slung an arm around Mahindan’s neck, as if to embrace him, then brought the other arm across his throat to form a vise instead. Mahindan found himself bent over and gasping, his head caught in the lock of Arun’s forearms. Their scuffling feet kicked up clouds of red dust.
I could break your neck, Arun said. That’s the first lesson the Tigers taught us.
Behind them, the boys called instructions to each other as they loosened the chains on the car and released it from the lorry. Mahindan’s head was twisted painfully. From this angle, he saw his garage upside down. The untidy confusion of fenders and headlights and other body parts. Paint cans jumbled with cinder blocks and jugs of petrol. A funnel he had searched for in vain earlier that day hung in plain sight off the handlebar of a broken bicycle.
You don’t think of joining us? Arun asked. He pressed Mahindan’s head down with one arm while tightening the stranglehold with the other. We can make you into a man.
And then who would repair your vehicles? Mahindan strained to get the words out. His throat was painfully constricted, but he didn’t want to give Arun the satisfaction of hearing him cough.
Arun laughed and let go. Yes, yes. A good point!
Mahindan stumbled to stand straight, resisting the urge to rub his throat as he inspected the Corona’s flabby back tire. A nail was wedged between the threads. It couldn’t be salvaged.
The boys drove off in the lorry and he was left with Arun, who wandered into the garage while Mahindan crouched beside the Corona.
Choose a good replacement, Arun called over his shoulder. Not one of these wasted ones. He pulled out a tire that was leaning against a tower of others and sent it rolling out of the garage and across the lane.
Mahindan hadn’t seen Arun for some time. He’d lost weight. His eyes were jaundiced, the remaining ear prominent against his gaunt and shrunken face.
Some people joined the Tigers because they believed war was the only path to peace. Others, without jobs or family, had nothing to lose and saw the LTTE as their last hope. Arun had joined to terrorize. Even during the short-lived ceasefire the year before, when others returned, relieved, to civilian life, he had found a way to stay on.
Not all the cadres were like Arun. Mahindan liked many of them. Old classmates who hung around while he topped up the brake oil or diagnosed a faulty transmission, reminiscing about school pageants and game days, lime-and-spoon races, and the time Rama nearly choked on the spoon and dropped the lime, only to trip on it and break his glasses when his face hit the ground. There was something about joining the LTTE that made these men nostalgic.
Mahindan wedged a block of wood under the Corona’s front tire and secured the parking brake. Arun inspected the wrenches and pliers hanging on the wall. He stepped on the buzz box of a hand welder, balancing on one foot then the other before jumping up and down twice. Mahindan cringed. He only had one buzz box and if Arun broke it, he wouldn’t be able to get another. Mahindan glanced at the calendar and its picture of Lord Krishna, blue-skinned and serene, presiding over the business from his lotus position in the sky, and prayed Arun wouldn’t go searching for the cash box. Mahindan had tucked it under some dirty rags when he’d heard the lorry approaching.
Arun kicked an extension cord out of the way as he continued his tour of the garage. You must see how they treat us, he said. All these small-small villages, everyone cheers when we arrive.
Arun sang the same song every time, but Mahindan knew this wasn’t the case. They want nothing to do with us, Rama had said on one of his rare leaves. And when Chithra’s younger sister joined the Tigers, she brought home the same stories.
Mahindan stood on one
foot, braced himself against the car, then brought the other foot down hard with all his weight on the arm of the spider wrench. He felt the lug nut crack free.
Wives are taken care of, Arun added. You might think about it.
The carcass of a three-wheeler lay in pieces on the floor, awaiting resurrection. Mahindan was relieved to see Arun crouched beside it, far from the money box.
Where is that pretty wife of yours? Arun called. When does she come from office?
Chithra would be slinging her handbag over her shoulder and waving goodbye to the ladies at work.
She’s always going here and there, Mahindan said. These women. Who knows what they are doing? He cranked the handle of the jack a little quicker, but speed made his hands clumsy. Taking a deep breath, he tried to focus. And now that she is pregnant, he added, I can’t say anything.
Is she really? Arun stuck his head through the open window of Mr. Chanakayam’s car and pocketed something he found inside. Well, well. So you are a man after all.
She has put on a lot of weight, Mahindan said, rolling the flat tire away. He didn’t dare check the clock. Chithra would normally have arrived to collect him by now. Maybe she would take the back lane and bypass the garage. He wished he could send her a message: Go straight home.
Mahindan sweated with the spider bar, using both his hands and all his strength to tighten the nuts on the new tire.
Arun wandered over to watch. We’re bringing a bus on Wednesday night, he said. For special servicing.
Mahindan cranked down the jack. Wednesday night. He’d send Chithra to her parents’ or to Ruksala’s.
That pariah dog, she’d said the last time Arun’s name had come up. It’ll be a blessing if he gets caught to a bomb.
When Mahindan had hushed her and begged her not to say such things (One of these days your big mouth is going to land us in trouble), she’d shrugged and said, Well, there is always malaria.
He remembered malaria now as he noticed Arun’s legs. Even his knees were emaciated. Sick or not, the devil remained strong. Mahindan could still feel the constriction in his windpipe.
