by Sharon Bala
Instead, they were herded like cattle into the back of a windowless van and driven fifty miles inland to Menik Farm, an enormous holding pen entrapping a quarter of a million people, all the Tamils the army hadn’t yet managed to kill. Seven hundred acres of clear-cut jungle, surrounded by ten feet of razor and barbed wire, the sun blazing down and not a tree left for shade.
Soldiers with rifles and batons patrolled on foot. Armoured vehicles came and went, throwing up dust like clouds of mosquitoes. At night, young people were forced into white vans and never heard from again. The week Mahindan and Sellian arrived, six girls who had gone missing were found dead in the river, their bodies face down and naked. The Sinhalese called this a welfare village.
There are land mines, the woman insisted. The child wriggled free and she caught him by the waist. Once they are cleared, we won’t have to stay. Mrs. Clinton is coming. I heard someone say. Mrs. Clinton is coming to close the camp.
Mahindan scratched up and down, a hand on each leg, feeling the relief of his dirty nails and the raw burn of his sores, mosquito bites that had burst open and bled. At home, he would have split an aloe leaf and let the gel ooze out, a cooling balm on his skin.
Mrs. Clinton! The man spat again. Why should the Americans care what happens to us?
In a corner, his wife stirred feebly under a thin sheet.
You think you can have your house back? the man asked. Place would have been looted by now. Sinhalese would have moved in. Your house, my house. How do you think they are paying all these soldiers?
The woman didn’t reply as she carried the child outside. Three days earlier, a white van had come for her teenaged son.
Leave her alone, will you? Mahindan said as he got up. Can you not see she is worried about the boy?
Outside, Sellian was one of a group of children clustered around the canal, egging each other on. The biggest boy stepped back several paces then took a running leap across. The canal was shallow and brown, everyone’s dirty water heading, lethargic, downstream, a buzzing layer of mosquitoes breeding on top. In this death camp, insects were the only creatures allowed to thrive.
Sellian had been up all night whimpering with nausea and burning with fever, heaving over a bucket, ropes of bile coming out. Mahindan had rubbed his son’s sweat-drenched back and felt his burning forehead, terrified of malaria. But when morning came, Sellian was in a boisterous mood, ready to play. Mahindan had given up on warning him against this game at the canal. Sellian knew to take care when the soldiers were nearby, to avoid eye contact and get into the tent as fast as possible. It was enough.
Mahindan put his head down and walked by quickly, before Sellian could notice. The child had grown clingy.
The woman sat ten feet away, beside a broken-down barrow, still struggling to hold on to her son. She stared blankly with watery eyes as he kicked his thin legs in protest and pointed at the canal. Mahindan’s stomach made a mournful noise. He had fed Sellian their last packet of biscuits the day before yesterday. He gave the woman a wide berth as he passed. There was enough to worry about without getting involved with other people’s problems.
By the supermarket, two children tugged on their father, one at each beleaguered arm.
Appa – just one icy-choc. Appppppppaaaa!
As Mahindan passed, the man grumbled, They won’t stock anything useful like an axe or a sun hat, but Ribena and ice cream? Those they will happily sell.
The Lak Sathosa was a shiny new building, papered with adverts of fair-skinned women drinking ice-cold Coca-Cola and three flavours of Elephant House ice cream. People said it was the first thing built here, even before they brought in the tents.
Six hundred rupees a kilo! Mahindan said, gesturing to the display of oranges in the window.
The United Nations is banned from bringing fruits and vegetables, the man said, raising his voice over the hollering of his children. All so this Sinhalese chain can rob us.
Mahindan had become adept at idle chatter, striking up fleeting friendships with strangers. He chose people carefully, picking out targets in advance while holding his breath in the early morning latrine queue, following them around surreptitiously.
People like this man were good candidates. He had children, maybe even some money to be loitering outside the Lak Sathosa. But Mahindan sought out the desperate too – women with teenaged daughters. He made small talk for a few days, watched carefully before approaching. Let me do you a favour.
Up ahead, a small boy squatted in front of a pot, eating with one hand and swatting away flies with the other. He wore a T-shirt and nothing else. When a group of soldiers came into view, the boy scuttled away and Mahindan veered between two tents toward a back lane.
Most customers were grudging, waiting until the last possible moment before handing over their money, unhappy about having to adopt different names, learn strange birthdays. But some were relieved to don new identities.
A new name for a new country, one woman had said. It is like reincarnation.
Next life, please God, may we be anything but Tamil, Mahindan had replied.
An advertisement for the Ceylon Bank blared over the speakers. Who in their right mind would entrust their money to the Sinhalese? Mahindan wondered. He touched the heavy bulge at his waistband, surreptitiously. The nest egg he’d been incubating. Soon, it would hatch.
He took a circuitous route, checking over his shoulder from time to time until arriving at Unit 17, a rudimentary hut. A bedsheet was strung across the entrance and a man lounged in front.
Hot, isn’t it? he said.
Better sun than rain, Mahindan replied, scratching at a new bite on his wrist and wiping the blood on his sleeve.
He had given himself over to it – the dirt and the filth. Water was a precious commodity, reserved for drinking and cooking. To wash his face or slosh a mouthful, to spit it out, to clean his teeth, would have been a waste.
Sometimes, he dreamed of a proper body wash. Squatting on the tiled floor of his bathroom, upending a basin of water over his head, then attacking his skin with a hard pumice, scraping off the layers of grime.
There were a couple of dozen people in the hut. A young woman held court behind a wooden table. She was dressed like a Westerner in jeans and a shirt with thin straps that bared her shoulders. Her hair was frizzy, a thick fringe across her forehead. This was not the agent Mahindan had met the week before.
The air was ripe, heavy with fear and perspiration. A few people fanned themselves with newspapers. Mahindan wondered again, for the umpteenth time, whether this wasn’t a ruse.
After all, what had he been doing all these days if not perpetuating his own deceptions? Profiting from fear, the atmosphere of half-truths and misinformation. Proper identification, he’d learned to say in a practised, authoritative voice. More documents you have, easier it will be.
He’d hit on the idea when he overheard some strangers talking. What’s the use of sailing all the way to America or Canada without a passport or papers? one had said. They will only send me back.
For months, Mahindan had been carrying mementoes of dead strangers for no better reason than sheer superstition, only to find there had been a purpose all along. His posthumous gift from the dead: a one-way ticket out of hell.
Mahindan caught sight of a customer, the man’s injured leg dragging behind at an angle. He had done this stranger a favour, given him a discount when he was five thousand rupees short. It was a spontaneous action, a moment of weakness brought on by the knowledge that it was his final sale, that even with the price reduction he had enough for two fares. Now the man waved and Mahindan turned away, irritated. This is what he had learned from his short-lived business: Treat a man like a customer and he will see you as a professional. But do a man a favour and he will think you are his friend.
Next to the man was a face Mahindan recognized but couldn’t place. Fair-skinned. A woman. Had he seen her in Mullaitivu? In Puthukkudiyiruppu? Hunger fogged his memory.
The agent called the meeting to order. The boat is nearly full, she announced. Her warning echoed through the group in a murmur. Nearly full. Nearly full.
An old woman spoke up: But so much money! How to afford?
The young woman pursed her lips and Mahindan thought she would make a sharp retort. But when she spoke, it was with insistence rather than anger.
Ammachi, she said. What do you think? She ticked the points off on her fingers. First is the cost of transportation. The boat, the vans to sneak past checkpoints. How much fuel do you think is needed for such a long journey? And then you must eat. And have enough water. We are arranging a cruise, and here you are saying you want to come on board for free.
The old woman shook her head as if in rebuttal but lowered her gaze, contrite. Mahindan’s belly gave another empty grumble. He thought of appam – of ladling the batter into the chetti, cracking an egg and turning up the flame, watching the edges turn golden and crisp up.
The young woman wasn’t finished. Her voice rose, indignant: Do you think we are doing this for a profit? What about the risk we are taking? If any of us gets caught to the authorities –
Speak quietly, will you? someone snapped.
Mahindan could just recall the taste of it, doughy and soft, the yolk, runny and yellow, in the centre. His mouth filled with water.
The young woman flicked her eyes to the aluminum ceiling. The goons are nowhere near. Anyway, they don’t know our language.
They don’t need a reason, someone else said.
Fried eggplant. Crab curry. Fresh chapati, hot from the iron griddle, ripping a piece off and watching the steam rise. Mahindan’s stomach rumbled expectantly. He chided himself to stop dreaming and pay attention.
We Tamils must take care of each other, the young woman said. I’m not scared of the Sinhalese.
Mahindan saw it was the truth. She was too young to be afraid. Or her heart was stronger than his, armoured with more valour. A fleeting thought: I could turn her in. The soldiers were constantly on the lookout; there were rewards for Tamils who pointed fingers. See how stout her courage would be when they came for her in the night – three men with their batons and their leers. It occurred to him that she might be working with them. That this was the source of her fearlessness and the boat was a ruse to ensnare them. How to trust a woman who put her shoulders on display?
The pains began again, cutting like knives through his belly. Not enough water, an aid worker had told him. Your kidneys need a drink. He had secreted Mahindan an extra bottle. That was four days ago.
One million rupees, someone said. This is the final price? Can you make an exception for small children?
Is there a third-class fare? someone else asked.
Even here, in hell, every price was negotiable.
Mahindan had conducted business on his own terms, set prices, and refused bargain hunters. And from the start, he’d been meticulous, studying the tiny photos every chance he got and scanning faces, alert for similarities, singling out customers, choosing only those he was sure were discreet.
But his final sale had been careless. He’d been observing the limping man for days, watching as he left the Red Cross stand with a single food packet and waited alone in line for the well. This man with the wounded leg was one of the few who went into the Lak Sathosa and emerged with a striped plastic bag. A man with money, alone in the world, and Mahindan only a few thousand rupees short.
The transaction was doomed from the start.
It can never work, the man had said, scratching his thumbnail down the scar on his cheek. I have heard stories. These boats are not safe.
The blankness of his expression, the insistence on defeat – Mahindan instantly regretted his choice. But now it was too late. The boat was due to leave any day.
Here is not safe, Mahindan said. He waved his hand toward the fence and added, The boat might be a little dangerous, but at least it is a chance.
I have never left this country, the man said. Being on the water, it makes me vomit.
Mahindan was incensed and terrified. How had he survived, this man whose only instinct was to lay down and die? And now his defeatism threatened to kill Mahindan too.
These agents are our people, Mahindan said. We can trust them.
A truck rounded a corner, uniformed soldiers sitting on the flatbed, their weapons held across their chests, legs dangling, ready to leap down at any moment. The soldiers had been chatting, but as the truck approached, it slowed to a crawl and they grew silent.
Mahindan and the stranger didn’t speak. They looked away from each other, away from the soldiers, at nothing in particular, holding their breaths.
Out his open window, the driver yelled something in Sinhala. Two of the soldiers responded. A third laughed. Mahindan’s heart pounded. He chanced a glance and one of them lifted his rifle, pointing the barrel straight at Mahindan’s chest. As the truck passed, so did the soldier’s aim, from Mahindan to the other man, who wavered on his feet as if in a faint. The soldier grinned and barked a single word. The truck sped off, flinging dust and stones in its wake.
The man bent over, his hands on his knees, and retched. Mahindan put a hand over his face, and squeezed his eyes shut. Blood was pounding loud in his ears, but he was also thinking. He waited until the man had got control of himself, then, very quietly, he said: Stay in this death camp and your story is finished.
After that, it was almost too easy.
Now, Mahindan saw the fool still grinning at him. The woman whose face was a mystery called out to the agent: What about jewellery? Will you accept gold instead of money?
And with a jolt, Mahindan recognized Kumuran’s wife. Stripped of her kohl and pottu, her brows unkempt, she was haggard, unrecognizable. But her voice was just the same, the authoritative tone of a person who was certain of getting what she wanted. Embarrassed, he shuffled, trying to cloak himself in the crowd.
The agent bobbed her head in an okay-we-can-see way. Bring your money and your jewellery, anything you have. Remember: boat leaves tonight.
People rushed forward, crowding in around the table, but Mahindan hung back. He felt the reassuring heft of the rupees under his waistband. Was he willing to hand them over?
Kumuran’s wife was speaking with the agent, passing her a drawstring bag. She touched her thali, fingering the pendants as the agent peered into the bag, pulling out chains and bangles, coins and cash. Was Chithra’s thali in there? His Amma’s pendant? Or maybe she had sold those pieces long ago and was now using the profits – his money – to purchase her freedom.
Kumuran’s wife made her transaction and left, and gradually so did the others. He was alone in the hut with the agent, and still his uncertainty remained. Two million rupees. Think what else he could do. How he and Sellian could make a new start if they were released. What they could eat.
The young woman counted, her fingers deftly transferring bills from one hand to the other. She was comfortable with large sums, a professional. Was this reassuring or suspect? Mahindan felt an itchy movement and sank a hand into his hair. Head lice. All these bodily demands on his attention. It was impossible to think!
For how many? she asked.
Myself and my son. He is small.
She held out her hand and he hesitated. If you’re not interested, she said, irritated.
He caught sight of the bag Kumuran’s wife had given the agent. He remembered Chithra’s bangles, the dust-swirled air in the jewellery shop.
My son and I are ready to leave, he said. There is nothing for us here.
He saw something different in her expression then. Resignation.
No, she agreed. There is nothing left here.
How old was she? Twenty? Maybe younger. And where were her people? He thought of Sellian and felt sorry. At least they had each other. Otherwise, what? All this effort and trouble. It would have all been in vain.
Outside, Kumuran’s wife was waiting for him. He scowled and tried to walk away from her. He felt ligh
t but not unburdened. The young woman had given him a receipt with a few enigmatic words: One adult male, one child male. When he’d asked for a ticket, she’d said it was unnecessary. I know you. He wanted to get to a quiet place where he could pull the receipt out and peer at it – the young woman’s flippant scrawl, the dubious flicks of her pen – and search for a sign of legitimacy. One adult male, one child male.
Kumuran’s wife hurried along beside him. You don’t remember me?
I remember you.
A man inside said you helped him, she said.
I don’t know any man, Mahindan said.
But now he was worried. How much did she know? She could run to the main road, flag down a soldier, and…
He said you have papers, she said.
I don’t know anything about papers, he said. She had no proof, he told himself. The money was gone. All he had was a meaningless note. One adult male, one child male.
I lost our identity cards and documents, she said. In the jungle, during a shelling, I lost everything. And now everyone is saying how to arrive without papers?
The past two weeks had passed excruciatingly slowly, in the grip of nerve-racking paranoia. Approaching people, affecting a false authority, conducting furtive exchanges under the nose of the authorities. The final sale had been a relief. He hadn’t even been tempted to sell the remaining documents. Now, he reminded himself: why goad fate?
But they were nearing the Lak Sathosa and he remembered the oranges, the children begging for ice cream. He could taste the cold cream melting on his tongue, the citrus tang of the orange, the spray of the juice when his finger dug into the peel, pulled it away. He could buy Sellian bananas, chocolate biscuits. A big bottle of water!
If you do not help me, she cried, then this will be useless. She held up her fist and he saw a slip of paper rolled inside.
Could it be Kumuran’s wife was sincere?
Come, he muttered, and took her elbow. Don’t talk like this in the open.
