Black Tie sent for me in the second period. When I went into his office he was on the phone and he pointed for me to stand in front of his desk. I noticed that the cane was not on it. I turned my head and saw that Shehan was out on the balcony again. Our eyes met for a moment and then Shehan looked away. Black Tie put down the phone. “Okay, Chelvaratnam. Let’s hear those poems,” he said. Instead of reaching for his cane in the umbrella stand, he leaned back in his chair and waited. I began to recite the poems, and I was surprised how easily they came to me now that I was not under the threat of that cane.
When I was done, Black Tie put his fingers together and surveyed me. “Do you know the values these poems speak of?” he asked.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure.
“Good. Remember them, because the way the school is going, these values may soon disappear.” He glanced out at the balcony, a meditative expression on his face.
As I looked at him, I remembered what Mr. Sunderalingam had told me about the significance of the poems to Black Tie. On prize-giving day, next week, my reciting the poems was essential to Black Tie’s speech. That was why he had changed his behaviour towards me. It was not because he was fair that he had listened to Mr. Sunderalingam and removed the cane from his desk. Rather, it was because the poems were an indispensable part of his last hope of triumphing over Lokubandara. Without me his speech would fail and his efforts to save his position would come to nothing. A thought then presented itself to me, so simple I was surprised it hadn’t come to me before. Black Tie needed me, and because he needed me, power had moved into my hands.
I looked at Black Tie and realized that any fear of him had disappeared.
When I left Black Tie’s office, I walked down the corridor, thinking about my discovery. I considered the possibilities that lay before me. I couldn’t refuse to recite the poems. Mr. Sunderalingam and Black Tie would force me to. Further, while trying to save Shehan, it was necessary that I didn’t end up an “ills and burdens” again. I thought about pleading sickness. School would finish early on prize-giving day, and when I went home for lunch I could pretend to be sick. Yet, even as I thought of this scheme, I knew that unless I could produce a raging fever or something equivalent to it, my parents would insist on taking me to the prize-giving. Then I remembered the first time I had gone to recite the poems and the way I had confused them. A diabolical plan occurred to me. It was such a wicked idea I was shocked that I had actually thought of it. The plan was simple. Instead of trying to get out of reciting the poems, I would do them. But I would do them wrong. Confuse them, jumble lines, take entire stanzas from one poem and place them in the other until the poems were rendered senseless. Black Tie, who Mr. Sunderlingham said would write a speech based on these poems, would be forced to make a speech that made no sense. His attempt to win the cabinet minister to his side would fail, he would lose the battle to Lokubandara, be forced to resign, and that would solve things for Shehan.
As I waited for Shehan after school, I pondered over my plan. Part of me was scared and wanted to be relieved of it, of even thinking about it. Yet a stronger, sterner part of myself called me back not only to a sense of commitment but also to the memory of what Shehan and I had suffered at Black Tie’s hands. It surprised me that I was thinking of doing something the bravest boy in my class would not dare. Where had the strength come from even to contemplate such an action? Then Shehan came in through the door, and as I looked at his face I realized I had made my decision. A feeling of numbness, of inevitability, seemed to come over me, as if my destiny had now passed out of my hands.
On the day of the prize-giving a week later, school finished early. Even Shehan and the other “ills and burdens” were allowed to leave. I had not told Shehan what I was going to do. I was afraid to put it into words, for I felt that if I did speak of it I would lose my courage to carry it through. I had, however, asked him if he was going to attend. I wanted his physical presence there to remind me of my commitment in case I had any last-minute doubts. He said he would come, but he’d watch from the second-floor gallery.
When Amma, my father, and I arrived at the auditorium it was crowded with parents and students. The murmur of voices and the rustle of saris created an air of expectancy and excitement. I walked down the central aisle with my parents, glancing up to my right at a gallery that ran the entire length of the auditorium. This gallery also served as a corridor for classrooms that were on the second floor. Shehan was not there.
My parents had now found their seats. A chair had been reserved for me next to Mr. Sunderalingam. Amma kissed me on both cheeks and wished me luck. My father put his hand on my shoulder and beamed at me proudly. As I made my way to the front, I turned to look at the empty gallery again. Mr. Sunderalingam was seated in the second row, behind the school’s board of directors.
He patted the chair next to him and said, “Not nervous, are we, Chelvaratnam?”
“No, sir,” I replied.
The stage had been decorated with coconut leaves and tall brass lamps whose lights were almost indistinguishable in the bright daylight that came in through the auditorium windows. The school choir stood at centre stage, the choir teacher to one side of them. Mr. Sunderalingam opened his program and showed me the order of events. Once the chief guest arrived, the national anthem would be sung, followed by a presentation by the Sinhala Dramatic Society. Then it would be my turn to recite, and after that there would be the address by the principal. The program, with my name on it, made my recitation seem more real than it had been before. I felt a flutter of fear in my chest. Before it could turn to panic, I heard a hush sweep through the auditorium. I looked up the aisle. Black Tie and his wife were escorting the minister and his wife towards the front. Black Tie’s head was bent courteously towards the minister, with whom he talked in a quiet tone. When they had taken their place in the front row, the choir began the national anthem and we rose to our feet.
When we were all seated again, the choir filed off the stage. A tabla player began to beat a rhythm and a figure wearing a mask walked out onto the stage in time with the beat. Thus began the performance by the school’s Sinhala Drama Society of the tale of Vijaya, the father of the Sinhalese nation, and his arrival on the shores of Lanka and his conquest of Kuveni, the Yaksha princess. I watched the figures leap about the stage in rhythm with the increasingly fast beat of the tabla, and I felt as if they were my heart personified, beating madly at the approaching moment when I would have to go up on that stage.
The tabla reached a deafening climax and the piece ended abruptly, like a life taken in mid-breath. There was silence for a moment, and then the audience began to clap enthusiastically. I alone remained quiet, hating that the performance had finished, wishing that it would continue. The actors started to leave the stage and Mr. Sunderalingam nudged me. I stood up unsteadily and started to go the wrong way. He took my arm and gently steered me in the right direction. As I passed, some of the teachers patted me on the back. I walked slowly down the side of the hall and then up the stairs to the stage. The curtains had been drawn following the actors’ exit so that I would not be lost against the vast expanse of the stage.
When I reached the middle of the stage, I noticed that a microphone had been placed there. I stood looking at it, for a moment not realizing its purpose. The technician, thinking that I had not begun my recitation because the microphone was too high or low, came out and adjusted it slightly for me. I stood behind it and surveyed the expectant faces below me. Right in front of me was Black Tie and the minister, to my left Mr. Sunderalingam, and I could see my parents, not far back in the auditorium, looking at me proudly. Then I lifted my gaze to the gallery and saw Shehan leaning against the rail, watching me. He smiled. I took a deep breath and began my recitation. I kept my eyes fixed on the back wall, not looking at anyone, my ears attuned only to my voice as it mangled those poems, reducing them to disjointed nonsense.
Only when I was finished did I lower my eyes to the audience.
Black Tie was looking down at his hands, his mouth slightly open. The minister had a bemused expression on his face. I didn’t dare look at Mr. Sunderalingam or my parents. As I began to walk off the stage, I glanced up at the balcony. Shehan was staring at me in dismay and bewilderment. I came down the steps and made my way to my chair, squeezing past the teachers seated in my row, who seemed to recoil from me as if I carried a contagious disease. When I was seated, Mr. Sunderalingam leaned towards me and whispered kindly, “Never mind, Chelvaratnam. You did your best.”
Black Tie had come to centre stage now. He was silent for a long time, then he took a deep breath and began.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “Ladies and gentlemen, this young man who has just spoken to you was given the honour of reciting the words of a great poet. But he has taken it upon himself to defile a thing of beauty, wreak havoc on fine sentiments.”
I could hear a rustle in the hall and people whispering behind me.
“He is a perfect example of what this school is producing,” Black Tie went on. “The kind of scoundrel who will bring nothing but shame to his family and be a burden to society.” His voice had reached a crescendo, but he had spoken too loud, for the microphone let out a sudden high-pitched squeal.
There was a titter of nervous laughter. The technician stepped out of the wings, but Black Tie waved him away and continued. “This young man is a prime illustration of what this country is coming to, of the path down which this nation is being led, of –” Black Tie suddenly broke off.
In front of me, the minister straightened up in his chair.
Black Tie was silent for a moment, then wiped his brow with his handkerchief, put on his spectacles, and took out his speech. He seemed to have regained his composure. He placed the pieces of paper on the podium, took a deep breath and began to read.
“Honourable minister, ladies and gentlemen, those poems that you just heard so …” his voice faltered “… rendered by a student of this academy speak powerfully of the values this school stands for, values that are now in jeopardy.”
There was another titter of laughter. “In the poem, ‘The Best School of All,’ that we just heard, a few immortal lines ring even now in my ear, their message clear and succinct as only the words of a great poet can be.”
Black Tie lifted his hand and quoted from the poem. “ ‘For though the dust that’s part of us, to dust again be gone, yet here shall beat the heart of us – the School we handed on.’ ”
A few coughs could now be heard, the coughs of people trying to suppress their laughter.
Without looking up or acknowledging the disturbances, Black Tie continued his speech. “As I listened to those poems, I was reminded of my own youth as a student of the Victoria Academy. And I am wondering if those poems reminded you of your youth too.”
The sounds in the auditorium grew louder, and I turned around and saw a few people leaving. I stared at Black Tie as the laughter and coughs buffeted his voice. He became silent now, staring at his speech. Gradually the auditorium became quiet. Everyone was looking at him, wondering what he would do next.
After a moment he picked up his pieces of paper and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I now invite our esteemed guest to speak to you.” With that, he introduced the minister, then turned and left the stage.
There was a smattering of applause as Black Tie came down the steps. I watched him as he took his seat. He looked tired and defeated.
I waited until the distribution of prizes began, and then, taking advantage of the movement of boys coming on and off the stage, I left the auditorium. I hurried down a corridor and up a set of stairs that led to the gallery. Shehan had seen me leave and he was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
“What happened?” he called out even before I was halfway up.
I didn’t answer. Instead I bounded up the last few steps and then took his arm. I led him along the gallery and into a deserted classroom. I was panting now from climbing the stairs too fast. He looked at me searchingly as I recovered my breath.
“You know those poems perfectly. How could you mix them up like that?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I know them.”
Then I began to tell him everything that Mr. Sunderalingam had told me about the importance of the poems to Black Tie’s speech. As I spoke, his eyes widened in understanding.
“What made you do it?” he said to me almost in a whisper.
I didn’t reply. Instead, I crossed to the window and looked out at the quadrangle below. As I gazed down at it, I recalled my first day at the Victoria Academy and how I had been so terrified of the older boys who were playing a game of rugger. That person seemed quite different to the one standing here. Even though barely two months had passed since that day, it seemed a long time ago. I turned away from the window. Shehan was waiting for a reply to his question.
“I did it for you,” I said. “I couldn’t bear to see you suffer any more.”
There was a look of surprise on his face, then understanding. He moved to me and I put my arms around him. From the auditorium below I could hear students’ names being called out and clapping, but this seemed a distant reality compared to the rhythm of Shehan’s breath against my neck and the warmth of his back under my fingers.
After a while, I became aware that the clapping had ended, and we heard a stirring of chairs as people stood up for the school song. Shehan and I moved away from each other with a sigh. We both knew that it was time to go down and face whatever had to be faced.
When we came out of the classroom, the school song had started. I walked to the gallery and stood there, looking down at the audience. My eyes came to rest on my parents. As I gazed at Amma, I felt a sudden sadness. What had happened between Shehan and me over the last few days had changed my relationship with her forever. I was no longer a part of my family in the same way. I now inhabited a world they didn’t understand and into which they couldn’t follow me.
Shehan was standing by the classroom door, waiting for me. The school song had ended now, and the audience was beginning to disperse. We stood for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts, then we began to walk together towards the stairs that led down to the auditorium.
RIOT JOURNAL: AN EPILOGUE
July 25, 1983
6:00 A.M. Two hours ago the phone rang in the hall, waking us all. At first I thought that I was dreaming, but then I heard Amma’s and Appa’s door open and I knew that I was awake. By the time I got to my door, Sonali, Diggy, and Neliya Aunty had already come out into the hall. Appa was on the phone and, from the expression on his face, we knew that something had happened. Finally he put the phone down. “That was Mala,” he said. Then he told us that there was trouble in Colombo. All the Tamil houses near the Kanaththa Cemetery had been burnt. We stared at him, unable to believe what he was saying. “Why?” Amma asked. Appa explained that it was because of the thirteen soldiers who were killed by the Tigers two days ago. The funeral was held last night and the mob at the cemetery went on a rampage. Appa tried to dismiss the whole thing.
He told us to go to bed, that it was only a rumour, that there was probably some gang fight in a slum around Kanaththa which people were calling a communal riot. But I haven’t been able to sleep. I have tried to read, but that is impossible, too. The only thing for me to do is write.
From the dining room, I can hear the murmur of Neliya Aunty’s and Amma’s voices and the clatter of plates and spoons. It is their attempt to provide some normalcy to the day. Yet all it does, this everyday sound, is make me realize how frighteningly different this day has been so far.
9:30 A.M. Sena Uncle and Chithra Aunty came to visit an hour ago. The moment we saw their faces we knew that the situation was serious. Amma invited them to have breakfast with us. They had been to the area around Kanaththa. The rumours are true. All the Tamil houses there are burnt, and the trouble has begun to spread to other parts of Colombo as well. Chithra Aunty started to say something
more, but Sena Uncle stopped her and nodded towards us children. She became silent. After breakfast, my parents, Neliya Aunty, Sena Uncle, and Chithra Aunty went into Appa’s study and closed the door behind them. Diggy, Sonali, and I crowded around the door, trying to hear what was happening, but they were speaking very softly. Sena Uncle said something and Amma drew in her breath. “No,” she said. “No. That can’t be.” Chithra Aunty said, “Shhh,” and they spoke quietly again. When they came out, Amma and Neliya Aunty looked frightened.
Once Chithra Aunty and Sena Uncle had left, Amma called us into the dining room. “We’re going to spend a few days at Chithra Aunty and Sena Uncle’s house,” she said.
This was not something we had expected. “Why, Amma?” Sonali asked. “Never mind why,” Amma said. But then she felt a little sorry, for she said, “Don’t worry, it’s just a precaution. It’s safer this way.” Yet we knew she was lying. The situation must be very bad, for she has sent Anula away to stay with her aunt.
Amma said that we can only take a knapsack, otherwise it would look suspicious. We are supposed to bring a few clothes and one other thing that is important to us. I can’t decide which thing to take. I have asked the others what they are taking. Diggy says he’s not taking anything, but I noticed that some of his Willard Price books are gone. Amma is taking all the family albums. She says that if anything happens they will remind us of happier days. The picture of my grandparents is missing from Neliya Aunty’s dressing table, and Sonali is taking two of her dolls, even though she doesn’t play with dolls any more. We are not using our own car because it is too small for all of us. Sena Uncle is going to return with his van.
Amma and Appa have phoned the other aunts and uncles. So far, they are okay. Ammachi and Appachi’s area is particularly bad. Some of their neighbours have offered to hide them in their house if anything happens.
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