A slight noise made me look up. Jegan had risen from his chair. He started to walk away, and suddenly I didn’t want to be alone with my thoughts. I called out to him.
He came over. “How long have you been here?”
I looked at him to show that I had heard their conversation.
He began to push my hammock back and forth as if it were a swing.
“Do you think those riots will happen again?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. Instead he said, “Come, let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
I got out of my hammock.
“You know,” Jegan said, after we had walked in silence for a while, “this reminds me of Jaffna and the time I used to go for sea baths with my classmates.”
“I’ve never been to Jaffna.”
“Well,” he said, “this is not a very good time to go.” Then he added, “The police and the army are very cruel in Jaffna. They do terrible things to the Tamils there.”
“Torture?”
He looked at me in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“I know,” I replied, not wanting to tell him about Daryl Uncle.
“Were you ever tortured?” I asked.
He glanced at me quickly and then away. “No,” he said. “But I knew somebody who was.”
Now I watched him closely.
“A friend. We worked together in the Gandhiyam movement.” He looked at me. “In fact you remind me of him, when he was your age. We were … we were very good friends.”
We had reached a rock now and he motioned for us to sit down on it.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“He left for Canada as a refugee, and I went off and joined the Tigers.”
I stared at him in shock.
“Don’t tell anybody, okay?”
I nodded, still staring at him. “Are you a Tiger?” I asked in a hushed voice.
He smiled. “Not any more.” He saw that I was waiting for him to continue. “If you become a Tiger you cannot question anything they do. Recently they killed a social worker because he disagreed with their opinions.” He looked at the sea moodily. “On the other hand, what is the alternative? We cannot live like this under constant threat from the Sinhalese, always second-class citizens in our own country. As my father used to say, ‘It’s small choices of rotten apples.’ Here you can be killed by the Sinhalese and there you can be killed by the police or the Tigers.”
We sat on the rock for a long time, talking. He told me about the Tiger training camp in South India. He also spoke about his friend in the Gandhiyam movement. I could tell that he had loved him very much; his having been tortured had affected him deeply.
The bond between Jegan and I grew stronger after that conversation on the beach. When we were back in Colombo, he invited me to go jogging with him. Every evening, after Jegan came back from work, he would change into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and together we would set off for the Ministry of Sports’ grounds. We would take the bus down Bullers Road and get off near Radio Ceylon. From there we would walk to the grounds, which were next to Independence Square. Diggy was furious with envy when he found out about these outings. He wanted to come as well, but couldn’t swallow his pride and ask Jegan. For his part, Jegan never invited him, and I was glad of this. I had been excluded and humiliated by Diggy plenty of times, and it felt good to get my own back.
One evening, we were warming up before our run when I noticed that Jegan was looking at two men who were warming up near us. They noticed him now, and he raised his hand tentatively in greeting. They nodded, but they had a warning look in their eyes, as if telling him not to approach them. When we started to jog, however, they caught up with us. Gradually, Jegan picked up his speed and left me far behind. The two men kept up with him, and I noticed that they drew closer and talked to him. Once we had finished jogging and were seated on the grass, they came and sat somewhere behind us. Without turning around, Jegan said something to them in Tamil which I didn’t understand. They replied, and I noticed that Jegan turned slightly to his left to watch as three men jogged by. One of them, the older one, had on an expensive brand-name track suit, unlike the simple shorts and T-shirts we wore. After a while the men sitting behind us got up and began to jog again.
“Who were those men, the ones you talked to before?” I asked him.
“Oh, just old school friends,” he said casually, but he had a troubled expression on his face.
He stood up and said it was time to go. As we left the grounds, I noticed he was looking at an expensive car that was parked nearby. It had a small Sri Lankan flag attached to its antenna, and there were two men in uniform leaning against the side of it.
That evening, I was looking for the cinema page in the newspaper when I came across a picture of the man we had seen at the sports grounds in the expensive track suit. He was distributing awards at a school prize-giving event. I read the caption under the photograph and discovered that he was a Tamil minister in the government.
The next evening, instead of walking to Bullers Road to catch the bus, Jegan turned right and set off in the other direction. “Where are you going?” I asked.
“Oh,” he said, “didn’t I tell you? I’ve decided to use Police Park instead. It’s much closer than the Ministry of Sports and we’ll save on the bus fare.”
Although his reasons made sense, I didn’t entirely accept his explanation. Something was troubling him, but what it was I couldn’t tell.
Then a few days later I found out.
We came home from school one day to find Amma and Neliya Aunty sitting on the verandah, looking alarmed.
“What happened?” Diggy asked.
“The police were here,” Amma said.
“The police!” I said. Amma and I looked at each other, remembering our last encounter with the police.
“What did they want?” Diggy asked.
“They wanted to speak to Jegan,” Neliya Aunty said.
“Why?” I asked, feeling suddenly afraid.
They both shrugged.
“Anyway,” Amma said, “I called the office. Jegan and your Appa should be here soon.”
We went to put away our schoolbags. As we walked down the hall, Sonali took my arm and asked what I thought was happening. I shook my head. I couldn’t help remembering that conversation Jegan and I had on the beach. I wondered if the police visit was connected to his having been a Tiger.
When my father and Jegan arrived home, I was surprised to discover that my father was thinking along the same lines I was. Once Amma told them what had happened, my father turned to Jegan and said, “I’ve never asked you this, son, but I need to know. Were you or are you connected with the Tigers?”
Jegan was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. My parents looked at him, appalled. “But not any more,” Jegan said hurriedly, trying to reassure them.
“Are you sure, son?” my father said gravely. “This is not the time to hide anything from us.”
“I’m sure, Uncle,” Jegan replied.
“But what do the police want, then?” Amma asked anxiously.
My father telephoned a friend of his who was high up in the police and explained the situation to him. Then he just listened and nodded for what seemed like a long time. When he put down the phone, Amma asked what the man had said.
“He’ll look into it,” my father said.
“Meanwhile, what do we do?” she asked.
“He advised us to go to the police station without waiting for them to come to us. That way they’ll know we’re innocent.”
“Is that the best thing to do?” Amma asked.
“I’m afraid so.”
Amma and I looked at each other doubtfully.
My father stood up. “Better put on a fresh shirt and tie,” he said to Jegan. “Things like that are always important.”
Jegan nodded but didn’t get up. He looked very frightened.
My father patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, son,” he said. “You
are innocent, so what can they do?” As an afterthought he added, “Anyway, it’s best not to mention this Tiger business.”
That evening, we sat around on the front verandah and waited for my father and Jegan to return. Even though the next day was a school day, neither Amma nor Neliya Aunty forced us to go inside and do our homework. I glanced at Neliya Aunty and Amma, and I was reminded of that terrible morning when we had sat on the verandah, waiting for the police to come and take them to identify Daryl Uncle’s body. As the hours passed, Amma and Neliya Aunty got up from time to time to do little tasks, but they always returned to the verandah. Gradually the darkness obliterated the red glow of the sky.
Finally, we heard my father’s car outside, and Amma sent me to open the gate. The glare of the headlights prevented me from seeing into the car; it was only when it had passed me on the way to the garage that I saw that Jegan was not inside.
I closed the gates and went up the driveway. Amma had come down the verandah steps, and she saw the expression on my face.
“Only Appa came back,” I said.
She drew in her breath. My father had closed the garage door and was walking towards us.
“What happened?” Amma called out to him. “Where is he?”
“Oh, they just kept him for the night,” my father said. He was trying hard to sound casual.
“What?!” Amma cried.
“Just routine stuff.”
“How can it be routine to keep someone in jail overnight?”
By now Neliya Aunty, Sonali, and Diggy had joined us.
My father looked at Amma, irritated. “They just wanted to ask him a few questions, that’s all.”
“Couldn’t he have gone back tomorrow morning?”
My father shrugged.
“You didn’t say anything?”
“I did, but under the Prevention of Terrorism Act they have the right to keep him.”
“But he’s not a terrorist!”
My father was silent for a moment. His face looked suddenly tired. “Don’t be so sure about that,” he said. We stared at him.
“Evidently they spotted him at the Ministry of Sports’ grounds chatting with two men whom they later arrested. The men were planning to assassinate a prominent Tamil politician because he is considered a traitor by the Tigers.” I gasped involuntarily. Everyone turned to look at me.
“Wait a minute. You go jogging with him, no?” Amma said to me.
“Did you see him talk to these men?” Neliya Aunty asked. I nodded.
“Son,” my father said gravely, “tell us exactly what you saw.”
I told them all that I had seen. How Jegan had recognized the men and how they had chatted briefly while they were jogging and later as well when we sat on the grass. I also told them about Jegan’s decision afterwards to change sports grounds, a decision which now made sense to me.
“He’s innocent,” Amma said, once I was finished. “How could he have been involved in the assassination plan?”
“How do you know he’s innocent?” my father asked. “We can’t be a hundred per cent sure.”
“You mean you honestly think he’s guilty?” Amma asked, astonished.
My father was silent. We all stared at him, angry and hurt that he would really believe this.
“Look,” my father eventually said, “the best thing is to get as little involved as possible. If they find out that Jegan is connected to the assassination attempt, we could be accused of harbouring a terrorist.”
“Nonsense,” Amma said. “Why would they accuse us?”
“These days, every Tamil is a Tiger until proven otherwise.”
“So you’re just going to leave Jegan there?”
My father turned to her, impatient now. “You forget, Nalini, that I have a business to maintain. There are many Sinhalese in this city who would love to see me go under. I have to be very careful.”
The next morning, I was awakened by the sound of my father calling to Amma. Just from the tone of his voice I could tell something had happened. I hurriedly knotted my sarong and went out into the hall. Amma and my father were leaning over the newspaper on the dining table. I came up to them and looked at the column they were reading. The heading read, KEY SUSPECT IN ASSASSINATION PLOT DISCOVERED.
“See that!” my father said to Amma, jabbing his finger at a line in the article. “The suspect, Jegan Parameswaran, resides with a well-known Tamil hotelier.”
He groaned and pushed his hair back from his forehead. He and Amma regarded each other for a long moment.
The phone rang then, and Amma went to pick it up. “Oh, hello, Mala,” she said.
I could hear Mala Aunty’s excited voice on the other end of the line. “Yes, we saw the article,” Amma said wearily.
For the rest of the morning the phone rang constantly.
My father came home very late for lunch that day. We had already returned from school when he arrived. He looked grim as he sat down at the table. We waited for him to speak, but he didn’t say anything until he had dished out some food onto his plate.
“The office staff have read Jegan’s name in the paper,” my father said to Amma. “Some were sympathetic, but others said nothing. It’s only a matter of time before the hotel staff finds out.” He took a mouthful of food. “You won’t believe what I found on my desk this morning.”
We waited for him to continue.
“A hate note,” he said bitterly. “Accusing me of being a Tiger.”
“But how did the note get on your desk?” Amma asked.
“How else do you think? A staff member put it there.”
We stared at him, shocked. I had been in my father’s office many times and I knew all his employees. It was impossible to think that any of them was capable of such maliciousness.
My father pushed his plate away. “And the filthy phone calls, both for Sena and me. Poor Mrs. Wickramasinghe, our receptionist, was in tears by lunchtime.”
He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to live this down.”
That evening, the police released Jegan. There were no charges laid. My father went to pick him up and we waited on the front verandah for them to return. When we heard the car outside, Diggy and I went and opened the gate. Jegan was seated in the front with my father. My father stopped the car in the driveway and they got out. By now Amma and Neliya Aunty and Sonali had come to the edge of the verandah, and we all looked at Jegan, not knowing how to react.
He sensed our discomfort, for he smiled and held out his hands, saying, “See, I’m all in one piece.”
This broke the tension, and we all began to ask him questions at the same time.
“Are you really okay?”
“How was it in prison?”
“They didn’t ill treat you, did they?”
“We were so worried, you can’t imagine.”
“It must have been such a nightmare.”
My father held up his hand and said jovially, “Please, please, the boy has had enough interrogation.”
We became quiet. My father had acted very shabbily in the whole affair, we all felt.
“Why don’t you go and have a bath,” Amma said to Jegan. “You must be dying for one.”
Once Jegan had gone to his room, Amma sent me after him with a fresh towel. As I went up the steps to his apartment, I could not hear him moving around inside. I knocked on the door and waited, but there was no response. “Jegan,” I called out softly, and after a while he said, “Yes.”
I opened the door. He was lying across his bed and he quickly sat up. He turned his head away, but not before I saw that he was crying. I stood in the doorway, not knowing what to do. “Amma told me to give this to you,” I finally said, and held out the towel.
He didn’t move.
I placed the towel on the table and turned to go, but he beckoned to me to come and sit by him on the bed. He rubbed his hand across his cheeks and then went to the bathroom. After a while, he came out and, apart f
rom the slight redness of his eyes, there was no sign that he had been crying.
“Don’t tell anyone about this,” he said.
I nodded.
Later, Jegan joined my father for a drink on the front lawn. I watched them from the verandah, where they couldn’t see me. For some time they didn’t talk, then my father said, “I’ve been thinking.”
Jegan studied him carefully.
“Would you like to take a few days and go to Jaffna?”
Jegan sat back in his chair.
“I mean, it would be good for you to take a small holiday after all this.” My father shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Why, Uncle?” Jegan asked.
“I just think you need the holiday. A chance to get yourself together.”
“I’m fine,” Jegan said.
My father looked at him and said irritably, “How can you be fine? You just spent the night in jail.”
“The best thing for me is hard work,” Jegan replied. “I need to get back into my routine.”
My father was silent for a moment. Then he picked up the newspaper that was beside him on the grass and gave it to Jegan. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to show you this, but I guess there’s no help for it.”
Jegan placed the newspaper on his lap and leaned over to read it. When he was finished, he sat back slowly in his chair. He picked up the paper and glanced at it again. He turned to regard my father. “The office staff read it?”
My father nodded. “It was in the Sinhala papers too.”
“What did they say?”
“Most of the Tamil and Muslim staff came by my office to say they didn’t believe it. But the Sinhalese staff, with the exception of Mrs. Wickramasinghe, were silent.”
“So they believe that I am a Tiger.”
Funny Boy Page 15
