The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  Mahindan couldn’t face Chithra. What had he done?

  Pressure still dropping, the obstetrician called. Oxygen saturation.

  V-tach, the surgeon said.

  Epi! the obstetrician shouted. Where’s the damn epi?

  Can’t find it! Can’t find it! The nurse sounded close to tears.

  Chithra’s hand went slack and he clasped it, instinctively, as the exhausted heart monitor gave up. The monotone sound when the person on the other end of the phone hangs up. Mahindan saw the flat line on the screen at the same moment he heard their son give a full and hearty wail.

  Errand

  Charlie drove them out to the suburbs of Maple Ridge. Priya was incensed at being roped into this errand, Gigovaz’s last-minute order after she’d already worked late and was just powering down her computer and anticipating takeout sushi in her pyjamas on the couch, passing out to some brainless reality show. But now they were heading east on Highway 1 and she had to swallow down her umbrage so Charlie wouldn’t notice.

  I can’t believe they’re doing this, Charlie fumed at the steering wheel. What’s that expression you lawyers have?

  Cruel and unusual, Priya said, staring at her dark reflection in the window, because it had struck her too.

  Charlie turned onto the bypass road and Priya felt the familiar dread close in, the smothering gloom that lingered around the prison, a malignant force field that tightened its grip as they neared. The Women’s Correctional Centre was a grey, two-storey box on neatly manicured grounds with a flagpole and a short flight of steps to the front door. But for the lack of windows, it could have been a school or a middle-tier pharmaceutical company. It struck her how punitive the name was. Correctional.

  Charlie yanked up the parking brake and pressed the red button on her buckle so the seat belt reeled back with an angry zing. Truly, she said. This can’t wait until morning? Why are we spiriting the kid away in the middle of the night?

  Sellian was half asleep and tearful when the guard brought him out, but he perked up when he spotted Charlie and hugged her hard, eyes squeezed shut.

  He thinks he’s going to see his father, Charlie said when they were back in the car.

  Priya turned to smile at Sellian in the car seat, small and restrained under the convoluted criss-cross of belts and clips. Though it was after 8 p.m. and he’d been roused from his bed, he was still wearing the government-issued track pants and sweater she always saw him in during the day.

  Sellian asked a question in his high child’s voice and Charlie replied, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror. Illai, she said, shaking her head. Illai.

  Priya knew this meant no. Sellian bobbed his head as he replied and the hope on his face required no translation. Priya caught the refrain: Appa. Appa.

  It’s no use, Charlie said. He won’t believe me. She blew a hard breath, fluttering her bangs off her brow. But when she spoke to Sellian, her voice was cajoling, every sentence turning up at the end. What was Charlie saying, what words could she possibly find to explain where he was going and why?

  Priya flipped through her paperwork as they drove, reviewing the business she had to conduct with the foster parents, the forms they had to initial and sign, the copies she must leave with them, the ones she had to take. There was a picture of the couple – Rick and Maggie Flanigan – and their bungalow in New Westminster. Priya twisted back and held the photos out to Sellian. These are the nice people who will take care of you, she said. And Charlie translated. Sellian clutched Ganesha to his chest and shook his mute head.

  There are a dozen Tamil families who would gladly have taken him, Charlie said as she signalled to change lanes.

  None of them are accredited foster parents, Priya said.

  She’d already had this argument with Gigovaz. Haven’t we learned our lesson on this? she’d railed. Stealing children from their Native parents and putting them in white homes? What’s next? A special school run by pedophiles? She’d got so worked up, she hadn’t even known what she was saying. A small voice inside her pleaded: For the love of God, woman, stop! But Gigovaz hadn’t snapped or even taken his usual condescending tone. He’d only asked, with a bemused expression, Are you sure you don’t want to work in refugee law? And that had shut her up. But then he’d given her this assignment and she knew it was her punishment.

  Charlie waved an angry hand at the windshield and said, The government is going to all this trouble – jailing five hundred people in the suburbs, busing them to hearings, setting their lawyers on attack mode. They couldn’t fast-track a few foster parent applications and get our families certified?

  Priya glanced over her shoulder at Sellian, wondering what he made of all this, Charlie ranting in English, and how much he understood. Imprisoned in the car seat, he sat quietly, holding Ganesha in his lap and petting his elephant head like a dog.

  —

  At the Flanigans’, Sellian begged to be carried and Charlie lifted him onto her hip. When Priya tried to pat his back, he flinched and snuggled away.

  The house had the air of a recent deep cleaning. Hovering under the potpourri was the sharp tang of something astringent, Lysol and Mr. Clean. Priya found her ability to hate the kidnappers – as she’d taken to privately denigrating them – flustered by this obvious effort and their benign, hopeful expressions.

  Charlie introduced Sellian to his new foster parents in both languages, enunciating slowly in English: This is Mr. and Mrs. Flanigan. They are going to take care of you.

  Maggie Flanigan put her face close to Sellian’s and he began to cry, quietly, in half-suppressed sobs. Charlie, pressing on, suggested a tour.

  See? Priya said. You’ll have your own bedroom.

  Sellian’s new room had a trim of nineties wallpaper; a parade of cowboys rode their horses along the top of the wall. There was a plastic bin overflowing with trains and Mega Bloks, and Disney sheets on the bed featuring characters from an animated movie about talking cars. The Flanigans had laid out matching pyjamas and Priya wanted to hug these strangers for their compassion. She thought of all the things Sellian would finally be able to do: hang from monkey bars, go to school. Though he didn’t know it, he’d be better off here than in jail. But then she thought of Mahindan, who must be learning the news right this minute, and felt like a traitor.

  Charlie was taking Sellian on a circle of the room, the Flanigans hovering behind. See all your new clothes? Charlie said, pulling back the door of the closet. She repeated herself in Tamil, but Sellian only pressed his face into her neck and whimpered. Priya’s stomach sank. How were they ever going to leave him?

  Maggie Flanigan suggested tea and they made stilted conversation in the living room as Sellian, in Charlie’s lap, drifted off to sleep, their voices dropping lower and lower with his eyelids.

  We only found out yesterday that Sellian was coming here, Rick Flanigan said. We would have tried to learn a little Tamil if we’d known.

  We’ve been fostering for three years, Maggie Flanigan said, setting her tea down untouched. But this is our first time with…a language barrier.

  There was a fleeting terrified expression on her face that made Priya and Charlie exchange a startled look.

  He’ll pick up English quickly, Charlie said. He’s got a little bit already…his alphabet, the numbers up to twenty.

  We’ve started the enrolment process for his school, Rick Flanigan said.

  If you could just sign here, Priya said, holding out a pen.

  Charlie put a finger to her lips and stood with Sellian cradled in her arms. He made a wakeful sound and she whispered, Shhh…shhhhh. Priya gathered up her paperwork and shook the Flanigans’ hands, feeling complicit.

  They were buttoning their coats when they heard a rustle in the bedroom and saw the doorknob turn. Charlie gave a quick shake of her head and jammed her feet into her shoes. The bedroom door flew open and Sellian barrelled down the hall. Maggie Flanigan scooped him up and Sellian, struggling for freedom, reached for Charlie through t
he air, his face twisted into a piteous plea, begging in Tamil to the only person who would understand.

  Get out! Charlie muttered to Priya. Go!

  Outside, the suburban neighbourhood was quiet. Across the street, a woman on a ladder hung Christmas lights. At their backs, Sellian screamed on the threshold, words blubbering out between sobs and tears as they fled down the walk, Priya’s heart ready to break.

  Jeopardy

  The lawyer who was against them asked: Is November twenty-seventh a special day for you?

  Mr. Gigovaz had coached Mahindan to look the judge straight in the eyes. To keep his hands folded so they would not shake. Mahindan said in English: Twenty-seven November is Martyrs’ Day.

  Singh turned to the judge and said: A day to commemorate suicide bombers. Also called Heroes’ Day.

  Mahindan squeezed his hands. Martyrs’ Day was for mourning – a day when Sellian stayed home from school and they went to the temple with Ruksala and Prem to say a prayer for Rama. In this country, he knew, they also had a Heroes’ Day, in November. Something his grandfather had told him: History is owned by the winners.

  Singh wanted to know how he observed Martyrs’ Day, and he was forced to admit he lit lamps in the house and went onto the road to watch the dramatic re-enactments.

  And you took your son with you to these celebrations? Singh prodded.

  Mr. Gigovaz interrupted: What would have happened if you had stayed home or not decorated your house?

  How many detention reviews had he already endured? Was this the seventh? The eighth? Mahindan had the Japanese judge again, the one who he was sure had given Sellian to another family. Some judges wore their opinions like clothes; Mahindan could glean their thoughts in their furrowed brows, the way they either watched him or didn’t. But he’d seen this Japanese woman more than anyone else, and she always had the same unreadable expression, mouth compressed in a severe line.

  Mahindan told the truth: If we had not taken part in the celebrations, the cadres would have beat us up, forced me to join them.

  Did she not know what it was like to have so little agency? To be faced with such cruel options it was as if there was no choice at all? These Canadians, with all their creature comforts, had such meagre imaginations.

  Duress, Mr. Gigovaz said to the judge, before turning to Singh and adding: Mr. Mahindan was a father and a widower living in an LTTE-controlled area. Would any of us have done differently?

  Priya was not here today and Mahindan missed her presence. Just having her at the table – another person on his side – was a comfort.

  Singh wanted to know why he hadn’t left Kilinochchi sooner. Why didn’t you take your son and move somewhere else – to a place that was not under Tiger control?

  Mahindan swallowed back his frustration. He told himself it was good she was asking these foolish questions because he had prepared his answers and practised them in English.

  He said: In my country, there is no freedom.

  Civilians living in LTTE-controlled areas required permission to leave, Mr. Gigovaz said. And after 2008, passes were heavily restricted.

  Mahindan looked from Singh to the judge, back to Singh again, unsure of where to direct his appeal. Even with the pass, he said, where to go? Without a Sinhalese name, without knowing to speak their language? The Sinhalese, they hate Tamils. In my country, we are treated like animals. They just do not understand life.

  Mr. Gigovaz appealed to the judge: The Sri Lankan government has engaged in systematic discrimination against its Tamil citizens ever since the introduction of the Sinhala First Act in 1956. This is all well-documented.

  The judge turned on him: These specious arguments may hold water with some of my colleagues, Mr. Gigovaz, but please give me a little more credit. Your client was born into a country at war. He might have tried a little harder to leave sooner. She glared at Mahindan and added: Through legal means.

  Mahindan panicked. All this time, he had thought the judge was bored; now, he realized she had already made her decision. Mahindan would never be allowed to leave the jail. His fate had been sealed before he’d walked in the door.

  I held everything, he said, rubbing a palm over his sweaty upper lip. He cast about for the English words, mind racing. Money, house, business. I held everything, but I could not do nothing. He heard the tremble in his voice and hated that he could not control it. Kilinochchi, Colombo…no safe place to be a Tamil. Blood rushed in his ears. He had to do something! He had to convince her! There was a boat to Canada, he said. I took my chance.

  The driver with the missing incisor, his pockmarked face leering in the shadows. The memory of it stopped Mahindan cold. Squeezing through a hole in the fence, alert for the sound of approaching guards. Sweat beaded the back of his neck. His stomach turned.

  Singh pounced: How much did you pay the agent for your passage?

  Mahindan knew better than to admit the true figure. He had not mastered the numbers yet and answered in Tamil: Five hundred thousand rupees.

  The driver was a small man, hunched from years of stealth. Black as a devil, the whites of his eyes shining greedy in the darkness. The van already full and Mahindan still at the back of the mob, terrified the doors would slam shut in his face before he had a chance to scramble in. Sellian at his side, face pressed into his leg.

  Five hundred thousand rupees, Singh said. She was tapping the edge of a folder against the desk as if she knew something and was drawing out the big reveal. Others are saying they paid more. Is there some reason the agent would give you a discount?

  The judge was watching, curious now. His guts turned to liquid and he thought he might be sick. Mahindan took a deep breath through his nose and willed his face to show nothing but honesty. They all thought the agent who took their money was a man, that one person had coordinated the escape. They knew nothing. Not one single thing.

  My wife used to say first price is worst price, he said. In Sri Lanka, this is the way. Always try and try until we are getting better.

  Singh asked another question and Mahindan tried to follow, getting tripped up by her grammar and his own pounding pulse. He had to wait for the interpreter to explain.

  Isn’t it true the real reason you did not leave Kilinochchi sooner is because you were a member of the LTTE?

  No, Mahindan said to the interpreter. Please tell them. Never.

  He felt a little calmer. They didn’t mind about the agent. Everyone on the boat had used an agent, and some of the women, at least, had been released from jail. It didn’t matter what this or that person paid for the passage.

  My client was a mechanic, Mr. Gigovaz told the judge, and Mahindan understood this meant he repaired vehicles. His vocabulary had improved, thanks to news programs and reward shows, Peter Mansbridge and Alex Trebek. Jeopardy meant danger, but it also meant prizes.

  When Singh said, Tell us about the bus you repaired in April 2003, he knew this was jeopardy.

  There was a problem with the brakes, Mahindan told Singh, struggling to modulate his voice and make it sound calm. I had to replace them.

  It was a marvel to him – the power of the Canadian police. Their ability to reach back in time and riffle through the minute details of his long-ago life. Mahindan had replaced the brake pads on countless buses over the years – minibuses, school buses, the number 4 public bus that ran the Kilinochchi–Jaffna route six times a day. That the authorities here could sift through all the Tatas and Leylands and come up with this one bus was terrifying.

  This vehicle you worked on, Singh said. Did you do anything else apart from fixing the brakes?

  They were in a different room than usual and the judge sat at a raised dais. She stared down at Mahindan, her expression shrewd.

  Mahindan said: Only brakes had a problem. There was nothing else to repair.

  He told himself it was all right. Mr. Gigovaz had warned him Singh would bring this evidence forward. He was prepared to answer her questions.

  Exhibit F, Singh said. On
May 19, 2003, the LTTE drove a bus rigged with explosives into an airplane hangar in Ratmalana, killing seventeen people, including three children and Sri Lanka’s minister of agriculture. In repairing the bus, this man was directly responsible for the death of seventeen civilians.

  Mahindan heard the triumph in her voice, the way she tried and failed to smother it at the end after realizing how it sounded – victory at the expense of seventeen dead foreigners. Everything about Singh spoke of her conviction, how certain she was that she could keep him locked away forever. Seventeen civilians.

  Mahindan pressed his knees together to keep them from trembling and said very quickly, in English: Only I repaired brakes. I did not jig up no bombs.

  When the bus was brought to your shop, did you know it belonged to the LTTE?

  Mahindan shook his head. He was flustered by the injustice. Do work for the Tigers or be crushed by them. Give the Canadians a reason to deport him or tell a pack of lies. There was never a good option. He lapsed into Tamil and allowed the interpreter to be his mouthpiece.

  I was a simple mechanic. I repaired motorcycles and cars and public buses. When the Tigers came to me, I did not have a choice. I repaired what was broken and did not ask questions.

  Singh asked: It didn’t bother you that the bus you fixed killed seventeen innocent people?

  If he closed his eyes, he would see the green line again, hear the two doctors. Heart rate. Pressure dropping. His ears rang, the shrill so loud he could barely hear his own words. A cadre brought the bus and said to me, You repair it. If I had refused, he would have beaten me. If I had refused again, he would have killed me.

  The impassive machines, the high, flustered voice of the nurse. Can’t find it! Can’t find it! Chithra’s tears sliding sideways.

  Chithra! he yelped.

  He felt pressure on his wrist and saw Mr. Gigovaz, his face splotched red, his expression kind.