‘What’s wrong with him?’ she whispered.
Malini’s father glanced at the soldier. ‘Drugs,’ he said. ‘The government soldiers use them, too. Don’t make eye contact with him.’
The soldier made Malini think of a boy from her school, Thiaku, who had been conscripted by the Tigers at the age of twelve. He came back to the town after two years away. He had lost a foot on the battlefield and was no longer expected to serve. Some of the boys of the town considered him a hero and would sit with him and beg for tales of the war. He never said a single word.
Malini had seen him one morning on her way back from the market, sitting on a bench outside the old courthouse built by the British a century ago. His crutch rested beside him and he was staring straight ahead. Malini sat quietly beside him. After five minutes or more of silence, she noticed that tears were forming in his eyes. She’d waited longer, then asked, ‘You have seen terrible things?’
Thiaku had glanced at Malini, then lifted his hands and held them out, staring fixedly at them. ‘Do you see?’ he’d said. Then he’d slowly hoisted himself up and taken hold of his crutch. He’d struggled away towards the part of the township beyond the courthouse, where he lived with his parents.
The next day, Thiaku had vanished from the town.
Malini, in the days that followed, thought of those three words: Do you see? Her enthusiasm for the war had faded away and never came back.
Malini’s father climbed up onto the low stone wall surrounding the cinema to report what was happening on the far side of the square. The soldiers appeared to be driving people, in groups of around fifty, onto the road to the coast. It was mayhem. Children were shrieking, adults shouting out to their family and friends as they attempted to stay together. The soldiers fired their weapons into the air again and again.
Beside Malini, an old woman sat down on the ground and dropped her head onto her chest. ‘Kill me here,’ she called out. ‘What do you want? I walk all day and then die? I will die here!’
Malini’s father, fearful of what the boy soldier might do, helped the old woman to her feet. ‘Say nothing, mother,’ he whispered to her. ‘Say nothing. Endure.’
Malini and her family, at the back of the square, were among the last to be forced onto the coast road by the soldiers. Malini heard her father whisper to his wife, ‘We are in a trap. We can’t even try to escape. If they shoot a few of us, it won’t matter to them.’
The sun was now high in the east, and father, mother and daughters shuffled onto the coast road and began a journey that Malini hoped wouldn’t end with the death of all of them.
More and more people from the outlying villages around Satham were forced to join the thousands already on the road. Some were praying, some crying. Malini acknowledged with a nod or a bleak smile her many schoolfriends in the crowd. Some looked unkempt after rushing out of bed; others seemed completely demoralised. Keeping close to her father and her mother, she glanced at the two soldiers nearest to her.
‘Keep moving,’ they shouted over and over, as if they were singing the words of a harsh, unending song. ‘Keep moving! Don’t stop! Keep moving!’
I have never been more frightened of this war than I am today, Malini thought, remembering something her father had once told her: When a war is ending, that’s the most dangerous time.
Malini kept a tight hold on her sister’s hand. Banni was whimpering softly, past pretending that she was untroubled with being awoken at dawn and forced to leave her home, her DVDs and her video games behind. Malini’s mother made no effort to hide her tears. Her father circled his wife’s shoulders with his arm.
‘Our home, Chandran,’ Malini’s mother whispered. ‘Will we ever return?’
Malini’s father replied, ‘I cannot say.’
For the sake of her mother, Malini said, ‘We will return,’ but she had grave doubts.
When Malini was much younger, she had been known in her family as ‘All-will-be-well’ because of her optimism. Her father used to tease her. ‘Malini, a meteor is heading for the earth! But all will be well, don’t you think?’
The older Malini wasn’t such an optimist. She had followed the war in the newspapers and on television for some years now, and she knew that some of the worst things in the world had happened in her Sri Lanka, episodes of terrible barbarity of which both sides were guilty. She had lost the innocence that had once made her say, smiling brightly, ‘All will be well!’
The roar of an aeroplane overhead brought the crowd on the road to a halt. Someone called out, ‘Kadavui, God save us!’
The most feared aircraft were the fighter-bombers that appeared far away in the sky but then only a few seconds later were above you, so fast and so loud, like the roar of a typhoon.
This was a smaller aircraft. As Malini watched, sheets of paper spread over the sky, like an enormous flock of white birds descending as one to the earth below. Malini knew what these papers were. They’d been raining down twice a week for the past month. Each sheet contained a message to the people beneath, written in Tamil: The Government of Sri Lanka guarantees the safety of all unarmed Tamil people. Do not enter the no-fire zones! And there would also be a picture of an automatic rifle with a cross through it.
The Tamil Tigers were thrown into a frenzy by the arrival of the sheets. They shouted, ‘Do not touch them. Leave them on the ground. Do not touch them!’
One of the soldiers close by even fired his rifle at the fluttering sheets as they flapped in the air. Banni shrieked and buried her face in her mother’s sari. Malini dropped to her knees and whispered, ‘It’s nothing, Banni – just noise. Don’t be scared.’ But the truth was that Malini was very scared herself. The wild looks on the faces of the soldiers made her realise that things could go from bad to worse in the space of a minute. A frightened young man with a gun, Malini knew, could do a great deal of harm.
Some of the soldiers were attempting to snatch up the sheets as they fell, in order to destroy them: they tore them apart, or dropped them in piles and set fire to them. Their task was hopeless. There were too many messages hanging from the branches of the rhododendrons and the taller sapu trees on either side of the road.
‘Keep moving,’ the soldiers shouted over and over. ‘What are you doing? Keep moving!’
As the crowd on the road began to shuffle forward again, raising red dust that settled back down on them, Malini’s father whispered to her, ‘Do you see what is happening, Daughter? It is as I thought. They will use us as shields. I’m sure of it.’
Malini could tell from her father’s expression that he had more to say.
‘Look up ahead,’ he said, ‘where the trees come close to the road. Do you see the place I’m talking about?’
‘Yes, I see.’
‘When we reach that point, I want you to take your sister and steal into the trees. Be quick. Once you are in the forest, hide yourself. Do you understand, Daughter?’
‘But what about you and Amma?’ said Malini. A sick feeling was spreading through her body. She glanced at her mother. Red lines ran from her eyes down to her chin, dust covering tracks of tears.
Her mother said, in a faltering voice, ‘Malini, do as your father says.’
‘But what will we do in the forest?’ said Malini.
‘You must use your wits, Daughter. You will hear from me,’ Malini’s father said as he slipped into her hand a small bundle wrapped in the big white handkerchief that he always kept in his pocket. ‘It’s my phone and the charger. Don’t look now. Later – when you are safe.’
Malini’s feeling of sickness rapidly changed to panic. She couldn’t leave her mother and father. Tears stung her eyes. ‘Father, I can’t.’
‘Daughter, for the sake of your sister.’
Malini’s mother bent quickly and kissed her on the forehead, then Banni. Her father placed one hand on the head of each daughter and whispered a prayer that called on Vishnu and many ancient heroes of the Tamil people to protect his daughters. The aeroplane
overhead had circled back and was dropping more messages. They’d reached the trees, and with the soldiers distracted, Malini’s father said, ‘Go now. Go now, Daughter!’
Malini tightened her grip on Banni’s hand. ‘Come with me. Say nothing, Banni. Nothing!’
Where the cinnamon trees reached out over the road, Malini bent low with her sister’s hand in hers and scurried into the forest’s understorey of ferns and marga shrubs. From a tall malaboda tree hung a dense length of lichen, known as old-man’s beard. This provided a perfect screen and Malini bustled Banni behind it and sat with her sister clutched to her chest.
Banni asked, ‘Malini, what are we doing?’
‘Shh, Banni. This is what Appa wants us to do.’
‘Are we escaping?’
‘Yes, Banni, we’re escaping.’
‘But I want Appa and Amma to escape, too.’
‘They will, but not right now. Be still.’
The tramping of the people on the road and the shouting of the soldiers went on for another hour. Malini softly counted each minute as it passed, encouraging Banni to join in. ‘One fat elephant, two fat elephants, three … ’ What Malini really wished for was the freedom to cry her heart out. Her father had told her, ‘You must use your wits,’ but Malini didn’t feel clever; no, she felt like Banni must – desperate to be in arms of her father and mother.
Malini decided they should remain behind the lichen screen for a further hour, just in case. Banni had to be shushed every so often. ‘I’m thirsty, Malini. I’m hungry. When can we go home?’
To distract her sister, Malini whispered, ‘Let’s see what Appa has given us.’ She pulled out the bundle from inside her sari and unwrapped it. It was, as her father had promised, their spare mobile phone and also the charger.
Malini put the phone to her cheek as if it were her father’s hand.
Banni grabbed at it. She probably wanted to play Buzz, her favourite game that was installed on the phone.
‘No,’ Malini snapped. ‘Do you want to use up all the battery? Are you that selfish?’
Banni looked as if she’d been slapped – something that had never happened to her in her life. Her lips began to tremble and she threw back her head and wailed.
‘No, Banni. No noise.’ Malini covered her sister’s mouth with her hand and kept it in place until she was sure that Banni would be quiet, but the instant she took her hand away, Banni let out an almighty shriek.
‘Banni, shush! People will hear you.’
‘I’ll make the soldiers take you to jail!’
‘Listen to me, Banni. This phone is very precious to us. And very important. You know what happens when the battery is flat? We can’t talk to Appa when he calls us.’
Banni pointed at the charger. ‘Fill it up again!’
‘Yes, but where? We need electricity.’
‘At our house!’
‘Banni, we can’t go back to our house. The soldiers will see us, and they’ll be angry. We have to wait in the forest until Appa calls us and tells us what to do. And, if you are a good girl, there’ll be sweets.’
‘When?’
‘When what?’
‘When will there be sweets?’
Malini had no chance to answer. Gunfire sounded from the east, where the coast lay. A minute later, trucks rumbled down the dirt road. Malini glimpsed soldiers in the back of the trucks with their rifles pointing skywards, government soldiers in their green and khaki jungle-camouflage uniforms with gold badges on their berets. Malini counted twelve trucks, and two other vehicles with machine guns mounted on the backs. She could guess what was about to happen, and it filled her with dread. The SLA soldiers would attack the Tamil soldiers from land and sea, maybe from the air, too. The civilians who were meant to act as human shields, her mother and father included, would be caught in the crossfire.
Malini stared at the phone in her hand, willing it to ring. As she waited, the sound of gunfire increased. Banni was gazing at her solemnly, expecting comfort or guidance of some sort. It struck Malini like a blow that she was all that stood between her sister and the danger of the world. She did not want such responsibility.
‘Why are there guns?’ Banni whispered. ‘What’s happening, Malini?’
Malini didn’t respond.
‘When will there be sweets?’
Malini sighed and shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
Tomorrow Malini would have started her birthday week. She would have bathed in the part of the river set aside for women and girls, washing her hair in the current to bring out the shine. Once her hair had dried, her mother would have plaited flowers into the long locks and made her a belt of blooms for her waist. She would have performed a dance in the back garden of her house with her girlfriends, and everyone would have called to her, ‘Malini, Malini, your dancing does you honour!’ Then the guests would have called on Malini’s father to read a verse from the great Tamil poets of bygone days, and he would have replied, ‘But what verse can do justice to this daughter of mine who excels in mathematics and geography?’ Then he would have read the verse, with tears in his eyes.
Malini was wrenched back to the here-and-now by Banni, who whispered, ‘Do you hear something?’
Two loud planes roared eastwards across the sky – fighter-bombers.
Banni put her hands over her ears. ‘I don’t like them!’ she squealed.
‘Nobody likes them,’ said Malini.
She quickly murmured the Prayer of Destination for those starting a long journey, and hurried her sister into the shadows of the forest.
Malini knew that anywhere close to where the Tamil soldiers and the civilians were trapped was dangerous. Government soldiers were ready to shoot quickly. If they accidentally shot civilians, there would be no reprimand. Heading inland – far away from this battle – was the only option she could see. She must travel west until she reached the highway that ran from Trincomalee all the way to Kandy and Colombo. Then she could get her bearings again, and keep going west to Ulla Alakana, the village of her appappa – her father’s father – in North Central Province.
Appappa was her only relative who lived far from the fighting. She had once visited him with her parents, and with her knowledge of Sri Lanka’s geography – one of her favourite subjects at school – she thought she might be able to find the village again. The journey might take weeks and every step would carry her further from her mother and father. But what else could she do? She wanted to be as close as possible to her father and mother, not leaving them further and further behind. But Appa would expect her to find what safety she could. She felt she must head west, even if she hated the idea.
‘Do you know what we’re going to do, Banni?’
‘Find Amma and Appa?’
‘Yes, but that will be later. For the next few days, we’re going on an adventure. A big adventure.’
‘Like in my Snow White book?’
‘No, not like Snow White. Like in the stories Appa tells us of our Tamil heroes.’
‘Will we have swords?’
‘No swords. Just us. We’ll sleep under the stars and see amazing things.’
Banni looked at Malini doubtfully. She was only eight years old, but she wasn’t easily fooled.
‘I want to stay here,’ she said, perhaps for no other reason than to test her sister’s temper.
‘Well, we can’t,’ said Malini, abruptly abandoning diplomacy. ‘And that’s that.’
Malini took her sister’s hand and gazed ahead into the trees and vines. The forest was full of tracks left by generations of people harvesting the spices planted beneath the canopy of the taller trees – cinnamon, pepper and nutmeg – but Malini doubted that these tracks would last. The further she went from the coastal region, the more difficult the journey would become. She was trusting to good fortune to find her way to the big highway and beyond.
It was now mid-afternoon. Malini took her bearings from the sun’s position in the western sky and started into the fores
t with her sister complaining that her shoes were hurting her. Malini said, ‘If sore feet are the only hardship we face, we’ll be lucky.’ Then she remembered that this was supposed to be an adventure. She stopped and crouched down with her hands on her sister’s shoulders. ‘Sweetheart, listen to me. When we finish this adventure, Appa and Amma are going to be so proud of you. So let’s be brave. Okay?’
‘Sweetheart?’ said Banni, scornfully. ‘You never call me sweetheart!’
‘Well, I am now!’
Malini moved through the shadows of the trees wherever possible. For the first hour, Banni kept grumbling about her sore feet, her empty stomach, the insects that settled on her face, and the twigs that made a mess of her hair.
‘When I tell Amma what you made me do, she will punish you,’ Banni said.
‘Will she?’ said Malini. ‘We’ll see.’ Banni’s carping was a burden that Malini had to add to the grief she felt over the separation from her father and mother, but she had already promised herself that she would stay patient with her. Now she told herself, It isn’t her fault that she’s so spoilt.
Banni had always been pampered and treated like a princess. Malini’s mother had lost two children between Malini and Banni – one, a boy, was stillborn, and the other, a girl, suffered from a problem with her heart and died at the age of two. When Banni was born so full of health, Malini’s mother treated her as a great gift. Just as Malini’s father sometimes teased Malini, so he would tease her mother about her way of doting on Banni. ‘Oh, the Princess Banni is calling! Hurry, Wife – see what can be done to please her!’ To Malini, he said, ‘She is the beauty of the family. You are the brains. Brains last longer than beauty.’
Malini Page 2
