Once, when she emerged dripping from the pool, I teased her, ‘You should have taken part in the Miss Lanka beauty pageant when you were young.’
She laughed and said, ‘This country became a killing field because of the actions of the husband of a former Miss Lanka.’ I understood without needing any further explanation. ‘Peter, as in any other culture, beauty is a curse for Sri Lankan women too. If she hadn’t been beautiful, would the lion have kidnapped Suppadevi?’
I thought it a joke. Can lions have aesthetic sensibilities? After she came back wearing a sarong, she said, ‘It is women who are most affected by dictatorship and fascism. It is the idea of power, not beauty, that influences dictators. The feeling that all beauty must submit to them is born out of this. It is said that the chief justice was impeached for being more beautiful than Miss Lanka. My beauty was the reason for my troubles. But I’ve decided to forget the past. After meeting you, I realized that life is to be celebrated.’
As we were going downstairs, Mary and Christie were coming up. ‘Oh! Aunt Julia and the scriptwriter,’ said Mary. Juliet and I enjoyed the joke as we loved Llosa’s novel.
When Juliet started living with me, my life became more organized. She kept our room meticulously clean. She had a strict routine too. Work until five and then live, that was her style. It wasn’t difficult, because Christie and Mary felt the same way. Though I tried telling her that writers and film-makers couldn’t function like office workers, she ignored me. Her unwritten rule was that I spend all my time with her after sunset. Juliet enjoyed sitting on the balcony and talking to me while sipping whiskey. She would tell me incidents from her life. She would also try to find out more about me. When I thought we knew each other very well, I asked her, ‘What happened to your son?’
‘I don’t want to speak about it. Why should I think about painful things?’
‘Sorry, you don’t have to talk about it.’
‘No. I will tell you. You must know the truth. Though I hated the Lion, I loved my son. His men kidnapped him from school when he was only three-and-a-half years old. I found his body on the beach in Colombo the next day. Later, I came to know that he was killed because it was feared that, one day, he would ask for his share in the Lion’s vast property. Peter, I want a baby.’
‘Do you?’ I reflexively asked. She looked into my eyes. I could see the plea in hers. I couldn’t control myself. I pulled her close and kissed her on the forehead. She understood that the kiss conveyed my consent. I don’t know how long she remained in my arms. She was weeping and the words, ‘thank you, thank you,’ could be heard between her sobs.
It was dawn when I drifted into sleep. Then Manju called.
‘Are you in Colombo?’
‘Yes.’
‘I got here yesterday. It’s a new assignment. This time, I’ll be here for a while.’
‘What is this assignment?’
‘You remember that I am now considered to be the lucky charm of gamblers, don’t you? Have you heard of James Packer? The Bill Gates of the casino industry? Don’t you know Kerry Packer, the Australian who invented one-day cricket matches? His son. A billionaire. The head of the casino group, Crown Resorts. He is planning to open a casino in Colombo. A thirty-six storey building, with four hundred and fifty rooms – Crown Colombo. His partner here is the Lankan casino king, Ravi Wijeratne. Ravi is a good friend of mine. Ignoring the protests of the Buddhist monks, the president has given his clearance for the project. Fortunately, like other gamblers, Ravi too believes that I’m a lucky charm. I’ve been appointed the project coordinator in Colombo. Right now, I’ve nothing much to do. My brief is to influence the government in case any problems arise. My salary is huge, so I won’t need to steal from you the next time I leave your bed in the morning. I live in a posh apartment in Park Tower.’
‘Congrats, Manju! But sorry, there is no vacancy here.’
‘What happened? Did you meet Devanayaki.’
‘No. But I have a friend, Juliet, with me. She’s an archaeologist in the government service. She is working with me on the movie. Anyway, you are in Colombo – let’s meet.’
‘Sure. If you give me a night or two, will Juliet get angry?’
‘Not at all. We have a working arrangement.’
She laughed. ‘Good luck. I’m busy this week. My boss is arriving, and I have to prepare his keynote address for the Commonwealth Summit. Let’s meet next week. I’m throwing a party.’
‘You are smart. You’ve really got Packer’s key.’
‘Well, I’m not a great artist like you. The government won’t treat me as its guest.’
‘All the best. And don’t forget to demand sweat equity once the project is launched.’
‘Absolutely. But these Buddhists are a problem. The boss has asked us to target the new generation of the president’s family. Their weakness for Malayali women is well known.’
‘Be careful. Someone from that generation might snap you up.’
‘I wish they would. It would solve all our problems.’
She was laughing as she disconnected. Juliet was not able to understand our conversation in Malayalam, but she got the drift and looked at me accusingly.
‘My friend, Manju Gopal. She has joined as a project coordinator in James Packer’s casino project. I think Packer has appointed her to target the Indian middle-class who frequent casinos.’
‘Are you friendly with the casino groups?’
‘She is a failed actress. She only manages to survive with the help of these people.’
‘Oh, what an escape route!’ she said sarcastically and turned over to her side. I could see her face reflected in the mirror. Though she feigned anger, her eyes shone with happiness. I knew her anger would dissolve if I tickled her – once she started giggling, she couldn’t stop. So that’s what I did.
Soon, she was no longer angry, but she had a question for me.
‘I felt jealous when you were talking to her. What did you mean by working arrangement?’
‘What else could I say?’
‘If you don’t want to say, “she is my wife,” at least you could say that we are living together.’
‘I’m sorry, Juliet. I’ll do that.’
‘Thanks, my dear.’
She took my hand and placed it on her breast.
‘We have to meet a friend this evening. She lives outside the city. So we will return only in the morning. Please tell Christie.’
‘That’s not a problem. We can come back early tomorrow.’
We left before it got dark. Because she knew the place, Juliet drove us there. Her friend lived in Gampaha, a small town nearly twenty-eight kilometres from the city. After leaving behind the city’s traffic, we reached there in an hour.
She kept the identity of her friend a secret until we reached our destination. It was Gayathri Perera’s house. A secret meeting of SSF was to be held there. They had begun the meeting in Gayathri’s living room. Only women were present. A middle-aged woman, Kausuma Bandaranayake, was speaking when we entered. I later came to know that she was the secretary of the association, Sri Lankan War Widows. We sat silently, listening to her.
‘Sri Lankan War Widows is a large organization. It is not only war widows who are with us now. The partners of terrorists who were killed are also part of the organization. The number of widows among civilians is far greater. There are more than one lakh war widows in Sri Lanka. Most of them are with us. All of them want to take revenge on the people who pushed them into their present condition. That is why we decided to join hands with the SSF. If you plan a protest at the Commonwealth Summit, we will join you.’
‘Akka, our protest will not be sloganeering or marches. Though we have supporters from all over the world, we cannot organize a protest march in Colombo.’
‘Why?’
‘In spite of having committed genocide and suppressed freedom of expression, the president enjoys the support of the majority. Fascism does not merely affect an individual but a
major chunk of society. So we have to be cautious or lives will be lost.’
Everyone fell silent. It was then that Gayathri noticed us. She introduced us to the gathering. Heated debates followed, and though no one had any clear-cut ideas, their determination surprised me. The meeting was followed by dinner, after which all the visitors left. When Gayathri had Juliet to herself, she asked, ‘Juliet, what has happened to you?’
‘Peter loves me. We are living together, that’s all.’
‘I’m not concerned about whom you sleep with. But this man makes movies by taking money from Rajapaksa. How can you collaborate on such a project?’
‘Do you think I will take such a step for no reason?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I want access to Temple Trees.’
Gayathri did not ask any more questions. We discussed a lot of other matters and engaged in heated debates. Finally, we started talking about the Susaana Supina.
‘Peter, did you read the story in Bambarayak?’
‘I did, but I felt that some parts were written too hurriedly.’
‘Don’t you want to meet its author, Meenakshi Rajarathinam?’
‘Sure.’
‘She is in Canada. We are Skyping at ten tonight.’
27
Like me, Juliet and Gayathri too were seeing Meenakshi for the first time. We were all anxious and shared what we knew about her, while we waited for the clock to strike ten. Gayathri spoke first, introducing us to Meenakshi.
‘Meenakshi started the SSF movement. In 2009, the freedom struggle ended, and in August, Meenakshi’s first post appeared on Facebook. It was titled “Black Widow”. It was a cartoon depicting a cruelly raped half-naked woman called Sri Lanka and a victorious president in military uniform who stood with one leg on her chest. The caption below it said, “Don’t you feel ashamed?” Her post went viral. It set off lengthy discussions amongst the activists in Lanka. But I found it hard to believe that the post was by a woman. I thought it must have been posted by a member of the Iyakkam. But I too participated eagerly in the discussions. Many people, including me, said that if this organization was anything like the Chechen Black Widows, we were against it.
‘But later posts revealed that this group was different. The fact that Rajini Thiranagama, who critiqued the Iyakkam, the Lankan military and the Indian Peace Keeping Force, was repeatedly quoted in the blog proved that our suspicions were unfounded. It was decided to observe International Widows Day on 23 June 2010. That was when I received the first mail from Meenakshi. She said that the profile “Sri Lankan War Widows” had been created by her, and that she wished to observe this day in Sri Lanka too. She said that she wouldn’t be here in person as she lived in Toronto. We made arrangements to observe International Widows Day in Sri Lanka as well. We called the meeting “Sri Lankan War Widows Day”. Citing the name as problematic, the government refused us permission. But the truth was that the intelligence wing had sent a report saying that we were a group which always criticized the president. Another group that had the government’s support observed Widows Day.
‘It was during online discussions the same night that SSF was formed. It was a strong campaign. The discussion on war widows quickly moved on to other topics. The historical, racial, political and cultural aspects of war were debated upon. Those discussions helped us understand the fascist tendencies of the government and made us realize that it was our responsibility to act against it. Within a year, we had more than a hundred thousand followers. Meenakshi established a connection with each one of them by sending personal emails. But she never revealed her identity. We only knew her by her Gmail address: [email protected]. But last week, I received an email that was quite personal in nature.’
Unable to contain my curiosity, I asked, ‘What did the email say?’
‘She introduced herself as a writer called Meenakshi Rajarathinam. Then she said, “I’m worried, Gayathri, by the trust and hope that the members of SSF have in me. I’ve never revealed my identity or anything else about myself. But you should know, because I feel that you will be able to lead this movement as I have some important personal matters to attend to.” I expressed my desire to meet her in person. Initially, she was reluctant. But yesterday, she agreed to meet online.’
‘Is this the Meenakshi Rajarathinam who wrote the story of Devanayaki?’
‘Must be. Once, there was a post on SSF saying that Meenakshi Rajarathinam’s story about Devanayaki attempts to read Sri Lankan history from a different perspective.’
‘But in Bambarayak, Meenakshi says that an archaeologist started reading the Susaana Supina. Has anything like that happened, Juliet?’
‘Yes. Three or four years after the Susaana Supina was discovered, a young lady with a pronounced British accent came looking for me. I helped her. But no one came asking for that book afterwards. When the Susaana Supina was published on the Bambarayak website, the government took the copy to Colombo. I feel that the book might have been destroyed. They were not able to take any action against Bambarayak as it was published from abroad.’
‘Juliet, was the young woman who met you Meenakshi Rajarathinam?’
‘I’m not sure. She gave me some other name. She told me that she was a Keralite who was doing research at some university.’
We were confused. Meenakshi came on Skype at ten. She was in a dark room. She had covered half her face with a veil. We could only see her eyes and forehead. I thought her eyes looked familiar. Her low voice could be heard.
‘Gayathri, this is a video recording. I am not in a situation where I can meet you personally. All the posts that have appeared in my name on Facebook and Twitter, the emails from me, everything was written by two girls called Arulmozhi Nangai and Yamuna Sridhar. They are singers who are part of the band SAD in Canada. I’ve written songs for them. They drew the cartoon for the first post by SSF. I only gave them the caption. As I don’t have the use of my hands, I’m dependent on them. They type out my poems, stories and songs. It’s been going on for three years now. Even this conversation was recorded by them. I agreed to this because Arulmozhi Nangai wants to record my life story in my own voice.
‘I can sense your surprise at my appearance and my faltering voice. You might wonder if it is the same person who posts fiery messages. Yes, it is me. My face was disfigured by acid. My arms end at my elbows. In 2009, I was captured by the Sri Lankan military in Mullaitivu after the last battle, along with Isaipriya. As I was beautiful, they wanted to present me to the VIPs. So they took me to Colombo in a military boat. My husband, Major Stalin, had been killed just three days earlier in an encounter with the Sri Lankan navy. Stalin was a Sea Tiger under the command of Soosai. I don’t know what happened to my three-year-old daughter, Kadalpura.
‘I was repeatedly raped for three days in a secret room near Temple Trees. It was on my body that the high-ups in the government celebrated their victory over the freedom fighters. My cries were drowned in their roars of victory. When they realized I was exhausted, they took me in a military truck to Divine Pearl. I was confined there for another three weeks. As I was fairer than the other Tamil women fighters, the military leaders were greedy for my body. This body that you see now is my punishment for trying to escape from the high security area they had put me in. I was trying to escape at midnight, wearing a guard’s uniform, when I was caught. The next day, I was questioned for three hours in the prayer room. It was rape using modern instruments. Unable to bear the pain, I confessed. When I admitted my guilt, the military chief ordered my hands to be cut off and my face disfigured with acid.
‘The next morning, the first step of the punishment was carried out. They woke me up before dawn and led me to a room equipped for torture. Officer Robert Jayawardene warned me, “If you lie still, only your beauty will be harmed. We will merely brush your face with diluted acid. But if you struggle, the acid will burn your whole body.” He had raped me two or three times before. But when he saw me, he wanted to kiss me before the tortu
re began. “Let the last kiss you receive be mine,” he said.
‘He took a crystal bowl filled with acid. With the meticulous care of a beautician, he dipped the brush in acid and touched my left hand with it. I screamed with pain. “No, no, I won’t hurt you,” saying this, he came and sat by me, stroking my hair. “My beauty! I will save you from this punishment.” I looked at him expectantly. “You must agree to rehabilitation.” I nodded. To be honest, I was ready to do it. “Good. But to be worthy of it, you must do four things. You must speak to the media in support of the government’s humanitarian operations. You must openly speak against VP and the Iyakkam. You must praise the president specifically, and commend his administrative skills. You must say that Mahinda’s ideas are the only way through which Sri Lanka can achieve development. If you agree to all this, I will stop the punishment right now. Female Tigers stronger than you have escaped by agreeing to these demands. Now, most of them are docile wives to Sinhalese men. Isn’t that more than enough for you women? You will be given a good job in Karuna Amman’s department. You will be married off to a Sinhalese soldier. You can live peacefully.”
‘I was so furious that I wanted to slap him. But since I couldn’t move, I spat on his face. “Mahinda’s ideas, his…” The worst expletives flowed from my tongue. Surprisingly, Robert was unperturbed. He wiped his face and took up the brush again.
‘I cannot forget the moment he painted my right cheek with acid. I felt that my face had caught fire. When I cried out, he taped my lips shut. The room was filled with the stench of burning flesh. I writhed in pain and every movement caused the acid to trickle down. Then he started brushing my left cheek with acid. Did it even cross his mind that he was destroying the same face he had once caressed? Not just him, many others had fondled these cheeks. From politicians to ordinary soldiers – they were all people I hated. I even hated Stalin, my husband. I had to marry him and bear his child as part of the Iyakkam’s disciplinary action against me. An uncouth wretch, he would only address me as “whore”. I had loved only one, but was not fortunate enough to be kissed by him. We can fall in love only once in a lifetime. All other relationships are merely glorified prostitutions.
Sugandhi Alias Andal Devanayaki Page 19
