Nila took her time getting dressed in their bungalow, wearing a cream silk saree with a bright red border. She’d selected it from the mill store the previous week and had managed to finish a simple sleeveless blouse the other night.
As Nila was pleating the fabric, the largest pleat at the back and the smaller finer pleats at the front, she looked up at Raju, who was tidying up their home. ‘Who was she? That girl who was here that morning I came back from Kotahena.’
Raju looked up, confused.
‘You know. The girl who was here? You even drew a rough outline of her.’
Raju looked very uncomfortable. ‘She was a prostitute.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘She’s a devadasi. I needed someone who wouldn’t be too modest to take off her clothes.’
‘But she spoke of her parents – do they know what she does?’
‘I hired her from them.’
Nila was speechless for a moment, then felt suddenly grateful. Though her parents had never treated her well, they had never demanded that of her.
‘Congratulations,’ Miss Gauri said melodiously once everyone was seated in the indoor temple, the only space large enough to hold everyone.
‘The students you see here today have completed a gruelling six-month apprenticeship. Of the sixteen of you who started, only twelve remain. That is a testament to your tenacity and skill,’ she smiled. ‘The arrangements for this morning have been explained to you previously. When your name is called, your model will walk across and display your work and you will need to answer any questions the panel may have for you.
‘At the end of parade, the panel will take a few moments to decide the top four designers, who will be awarded positions here at the mill. The winning saree makers leave with Guru Raju to attend the exhibition in India this very evening.’ She paused to draw breath. ‘I shan’t try your patience any further – we’ll start now with Punsala Abeywardene.’
As the first model sashayed across the temple floor, the diminutive Punsala hesitantly fronted up to answer the judges’ questions about ‘her’ design. Not that she had actually done Nila’s design any justice, heaping insult on injury by poor execution. The motif was badly woven, with the edges fraying, and the colour she’d mixed up had turned out a virulent lime green instead of the colour of young shoots that Nila had imagined.
There were two students after Punsala before Rangana’s name was called. Everyone stopped their fidgeting to watch as the graceful model pirouetted and ducked as she walked. The saree Rangana had created shimmered and glowed in every shade of green and blue, depending on the angle the light caressed it at. It was as if the model was walking through alternating waves of the sea and river. ‘I made every fourth thread silver to give it brilliance,’ Rangana explained. ‘And yes, those are fish – the rathu kailya you see in the river.’
Next up was Devika, and her piece was so electrifying that it even elicited an involuntary ‘Shah!’ from Mr Pantipuram, the head of fine arts at Colombo University. ‘I mixed Indian ink with a ground green crystal to get the bright deep green,’ she told the judges. ‘And that is the temple motif from the river temple in Kelaniya.’
After Devika came Renuka. She’d spent a great deal of time discussing how she wanted her saree displayed when they’d all been dressing their models, pulling the model into a corner and showing her pictures of how she wanted her to move. And it paid dividends and then some. For as the model walked onto the temple floor, she released the length of potta like a rolled-up carpet that unfurled as she made her way across the floor. When she reached the judging panel, she twisted her shoulder to display what was on the fall of the saree – a tapestry of life on the river.
‘Of course, I could not have done it without the help of my most excellent teachers. I will forever be in your debt, Guru Lakshmi,’ Renuka cried, tears dramatically streaming down her face.
Then came the Tamil student named Seevan. His saree was spectacular too – he’d dyed it a stone grey, but with silver beads threaded through which gave the impression that his fair-skinned model was cloaked in a garment made of granite.
A whisper went through the crowd – the competition this year was very stiff.
Then it was Nila’s turn. The chattering immediately stopped, even before Nila’s model appeared. For almost everyone had to take a second look to confirm that it was indeed Nila Mendis standing before them. Her saree was flattering and the drape faultless, her hair carefully put up in a bun. Colour matching the bright red border of her saree was painted on her lips. More than that, Nila looked radiant. Blissfully radiant. She glowed with an inner happiness that showed in the delicate smile on her lips and the bright twinkle in her eyes.
Nila’s model was halfway across the temple floor before anyone actually noticed her, but when they did, the entire room fell silent. First there was disbelief and then there was awed reverence.
‘Why have you chosen golden-white when the rivers are rarely that?’ Guru Hirantha asked her.
‘Golden-white is the colour of the goddess Saraswati,’ Nila replied with quiet confidence.
‘Why the goddess Saraswati?’ Guru Lakshmi asked.
‘She is the river goddess,’ Nila replied as her model pirouetted to show the spectacular fall of lace and the green-blue peacock embroidered on the potta. The totem animal of the goddess.
‘How did you execute that border and lace?’ Guru Sakunthala quizzed her. ‘I have barely mastered the skill of freehand lace making myself.’
‘My grandmother taught me,’ she replied. Grandmother was the name many gave to Saraswati.
There was no need for any further questions. It was clear that Nila was a master saree maker.
After the final students had presented their work, the panel retired to discuss their selections and tension gripped the room. The field was very strong – who would be selected and who would be rejected?
The members of the panel were gone a long time, and eventually the students learned that there had been an altercation between them. Guru Lakshmi was now insisting on Raju being brought into the discussion. He’d been sitting to one side, enjoying the show. Gauri and Raju then had a brief chat, Raju suggesting a compromise that Gauri agreed to. As the judges filed back into the room, she turned to the crowd and raised her voice to announce the winners.
‘Devika Goonethilake,’ she called out as everyone applauded. There were no surprises there, nor was anyone surprised to hear that Rangana and the Tamil student Seevan had been selected.
‘Nila Mendis,’ Gauri called next, but the words were barely out of her mouth before Renuka jumped to her feet.
‘I protest!’ she shouted. ‘Nila Mendis has cheated!’
Gauri looked to see who had caused the disturbance. Before she could speak, Renuka interrupted her again.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Nila Mendis is a cheat! She’s been cheating all along!’
‘That is a serious accusation – how has Nila cheated?’ Guru Sindhu asked, speaking for the first time.
‘She has cheated because she has received help from Guru Raju!’
‘I have not helped Nila to design or weave this saree,’ Raju protested. ‘I deny it categorically!’
‘But do you deny she is your whore? That you sleep with her?’ Renuka screamed, quite deranged.
‘I don’t deny that she is my wife,’ Raju replied hotly.
‘Renuka, you foolish girl, you should have waited before making such wild accusations,’ Gauri growled. ‘I was about to call out your own name. The panel strongly recommended we make an exception this year, and offer a fifth role here at the mill. It would have been yours.’
‘We will no longer be making you that offer,’ Raju said, his voice low and deadly, ‘since you have called my wife a whore.’
Renuka hesitated. ‘But this mill belongs to your father,’ she protested. ‘I will take my objection to him,’ she cried, turning to go towards the large house.
‘No, the mill bel
ongs to me,’ Raju said, drawing himself up to his full height as the chettie of the mill. ‘My father handed me the deeds of ownership a year ago. I would rather it be left to Gauri, but it is mine. So I order you to leave my mill at once.’
Renuka had miscalculated badly, expecting the other students to rally behind her. As she turned to go, genuine tears streamed down her face. ‘We’ll see who wins at the end!’ she called as she stepped out into the scorching sunlight.
It had not been easy to take leave of the mill. Once Renuka had left, pandemonium reigned. Raju and Gauri had bundled Nila towards the chettie’s house, hissing in her ears that everything would be all right.
Raju had rushed in to break the news to his bed-bound father – he’d rather the old man hear the news directly from him than the many gossips at the mill – but he found Shiva Nair already seated on the verandah with a steaming cup of tea and a beaming smile.
‘I gather the exhibition was a bit tumultuous this morning,’ he grinned.
‘Yes, Appa,’ Raju replied, and cleared his throat nervously. Turning to Nila and Gauri, he motioned them to sit down, only to realise that everybody – students, teachers and workers – had followed them to the large house and now stood crowded around, unable to tear their eyes away from the unfolding drama.
Raju shrugged and turned back to his father. ‘Appa, I have made a decision about who I want to spend the rest of my life with. It is not Shanthi, but this wonderful young woman . . .’
‘Named Nila Mendis?’ the old man chortled.
Nila sat on the floor next to Gauri, her eyes downcast.
‘Come here, child,’ he commanded, and she cautiously approached the old man.
‘Sindhu has spoken so highly of you that I can only thank the gods that my son saw sense and married you!’
‘It took him long enough,’ Guru Sindhu smirked, walking around to stand behind the old man. ‘I knew Nila was perfect for you, Raju, the minute I met her! Why, I even told your father!’
‘You knew?’ Raju accused his father.
‘Of course I knew – I gave you an entire weekend with her after your marriage ceremony as a wedding present, didn’t I? I had hoped I could meet her before you left for India, though!’
The planned exhibition celebration turned into an impromptu marriage celebration with cakes and iced coffee. ‘We’ll have a proper celebration when you come back,’ Shiva Nair crowed, holding onto Nila’s hand as Raju and the other students piled their luggage onto the newly repaired van for their drive into Colombo.
The plan was that Raju would see the group safely to the airport before accompanying Nila to Rupani’s wedding, meeting Mrs Vasha and then making a safe escape to India.
‘Blessing be on you, my precious children,’ the old man called, and everyone at the mill cheered as Raju drove off in the kombivan with Devika, Rangana and Seevan in the back seats and the bridal couple in front.
So it could well have been pure joy that blinded Nila to the risks of taking her husband into the treacherous lair that was her family. Danger was the last thing on her mind when they slipped into St Lucia Cathedral church hall, where the wedding was being held, only a little late.
The danger didn’t even occur to her when Raju cheekily joined the greeting line to congratulate the happy couple, thumping Albert cheerfully on the back when he couldn’t quite place the man. ‘We met at Cambridge, old boy – at Cambridge,’ he said. Nila smiled with pride at the dashing figure her husband cut as more than one woman turned her head to follow the darkly handsome man across the room.
May be the danger should have occurred to Nila when she finally spoke to her mother, halfway through wedding celebrations. ‘Wait till I get my hands on you, girl,’ Vera had growled through clenched teeth, but Nila thought she was angry because she had been late to the wedding.
Nila should have probably have known it when her brother Manoj looked at her and mutter nastily, ‘We’ll have a fiery celebration tonight!’ There was a menace in his voice she should have picked up, but Nila was too used to ignoring her brother.
She should definitely have known something was afoot when her relatives, especially her aunt from up country, refused to look her in the eye. She should have noticed the thunderous facial expressions of her male relatives and the pitying glances of her aunts.
But Nila’s heart was too suffused with joy to see – joy at seeing Raju seek out Mrs Vasha and spend a good hour in her company, fetching her glasses of iced coffee and making sure her plate of snacks was never empty, allaying any fears she might have of relinquishing Nila to his care. ‘I love her more than life itself,’ he’d assured the elderly lady. ‘And you must promise me that you’ll come stay with us. Our children need a grandmother.’
‘I’ll slip out now,’ Raju told Nila half an hour before the bridal couple were supposed to leave on their honeymoon. ‘I will meet you at the Hindu temple around the corner.’
Nila would spend most of her life trying to figure out what went wrong – how the fates could have been so cruel to her. What evil thing had she and Raju done to deserve what happened to them?
For as the newly married couple were farewelled amid a rain of rice and shiny silver confetti, Mrs Vasha took a bad turn. Nila and several of the local ladies rushed to her aid, carrying her to a small anteroom as she struggled to breathe. A doctor was called for, but by the time he arrived half an hour later, the old woman only seemed marginally better. Well enough to insist that Nila leave for the airport immediately. ‘Go child,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Have a happy life, my dearest – you certainly deserve it. He is a good man.’
The last thing Nila expected when she ran out the door of the church hall into the bright afternoon sunshine was to find her husband trussed up, with an angry mob led by her brother encircling him. And next to Manoj stood the tattooed thug from the shantytown in Panadura.
‘This is the filthy Tamil who raped my sister,’ Manoj yelled at the mob. Raju looked terrified as Nila ran to him, only to be intercepted by the strong arms of her mother just a few feet away from her husband.
‘You have brought shame and dishonour on our family,’ Vera screamed, slapping Nila across the face.
‘A marriage to a Tamil is no marriage at all,’ her father spat, slipping the belt off his pants. ‘They are our enemies. They are less than filth. Consorting with filth makes you filth,’ he roared, raising the leather strap again and again at her, the heavy buckle hitting her on the forehead and splitting her scalp.
Nimal, Mrs Vasha’s little servant boy, came running into the fray trying to help his mistress’s friend. Manoj felled him with a single punch across his scrawny jaw.
Raju pulled desperately at the ropes that held him down, trying to free himself and save his wife, but he couldn’t. His screams of outrage were muffled by the cloth stuffed into his mouth and would haunt more than one person there in the years to come.
Blood ran down Nila’s face as her mother took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘I never thought you capable of such treachery. When Manoj told me that his friend had seen you with a man at the mill, I didn’t believe him,’ she said, pointing to the tattooed thug. ‘But when a fine young lady came to me in tears this morning and told me that you were this man’s whore – that you sneak into his house at night to lie in his bed and pose naked for him as he paints – I knew it was true!’ she cried.
Nila fell to her knees at her mother’s feet and sobbed. Renuka had taken her revenge, its consequences deadlier than she could ever have expected.
‘I am sending you off to Badulla with your aunt,’ Vera spat, dragging Nila up by the hair and thrusting her into her diffident aunt’s arms.
‘Raju! Raju!’ Nila screamed. Her split head throbbed, making her dizzy, and she could barely see through cut and swollen eyelids.
‘Raju? I will give you Raju!’ Manoj shouted as he brought forth a can of petrol and doused Raju with its contents, tearing the potta off Nila’s saree to drape it around his neck. ‘
We’ll make it a little like suttee,’ he taunted. ‘Only in reverse. You Hindus like that. Burning alongside your beloved?’
Raju tugged at his bindings like a madman now.
‘Is there anything you want to say, Demala?’ the tattooed man asked, ripping the stuffing out of Raju’s mouth and leaning in close to his face.
Using the last of his strength, Raju brought his head crashing down on the thug’s forehead, the headbutt disorienting them both for a moment. Then the thug laughed, struck a match and tossed it at Raju’s head.
Raju looked up to see a bloodied and near-comatose Nila being bundled off into a car. ‘Seven lifetimes and more!’ he screamed.
The last Nila saw of her husband was him being lit up like an unfortunate lantern at Vesak; a halo of red, orange and blue as the saree draped around his neck caught fire first before the petrol took hold of the heat and started burning the flesh of his body.
The First Drape
Nayaru Lagoon, Sri Lanka, 1982
His voice trailed off. What was the point of speaking if nobody listened to you?
For most of Mahinda’s life, conversation had occurred around him or above him. As if he was not even there.
‘Yes, he is a very intelligent boy. He must go to Jaffna for further studies.’
‘It is a tragedy that has befallen his family, but he must continue with his studies!’
‘Of course he must go to university. He will be the light that shines on this entire village!’
It was as if his mind, body and soul did not belong to him but rather to the village he was born to.
And today was no different. The out-of-town examiners whose job it was to listen and assess him as he did his final oral exam were too busy looking out the window, watching the fisherman on Nayaru Lagoon. Karthik, from the far shore, had had a good morning. He’d pulled in cage after cage of live seafood: prawns, crabs and lobsters from the lagoon’s azure depths. Mahinda could almost hear the examiners’ stomachs rumble with hunger and the convulsive swallowing of saliva. Their meagre teacher’s salaries could not afford such delicacies. The catch was destined for the tables of rich businessmen further up north in Jaffna or the coconut plantation owners south in Trincomalee.
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