The Beach at Galle Road

by Joanna Luloff

  She leaned her body closer to her husband’s. “You’re not saying, ‘Don’t worry,’ like you usually do.”

  “But I’m not saying we have to panic either.” Nilan attempted a smile. “We will wait and see.”

  Kamala felt ashamed. She hadn’t meant to sound panicked; it was just that she had been so deep in her own thoughts all day long. She wanted Nilan to know that he could rely on her to be rational, to be sturdy, and to help keep all their minds at ease. But the reality was that she couldn’t even steady her own trembling hands. “I don’t want the children to see that.” She stared at the folded paper, angry at it for being on her porch. “I don’t want them to even know about it.”

  Nilan sighed and rested his hand on top of Kamala’s. “It will be impossible to shield them from all news, my dear. Rumors will arrive from Batticaloa as they always do.”

  Even though she knew Nilan was right, she felt angry. She was resolved to keep her children protected from these adult worries as long as she could. “But they need to feel safe,” she argued. “That is our responsibility.”

  Manju switched off his light, and the garden fell into darkness. Kamala could feel Nilan’s calm, patient breaths against the side of her face. She imagined that he was nodding, though she was uncertain if he agreed with her. She could no longer see the flyer, but there was no point in pretending it didn’t exist. She knew its presence would wedge itself into her thoughts in the days and weeks to come. But even as she acknowledged this, she made a promise into the evening stillness that she would keep her children safe.

  KAMALA COULDN’T ESCAPE her daughter. Since the crying episode, every time Kamala turned around, Nilanthi was there. In the kitchen, preparing tea. In the garden, helping with the washing. Nilanthi was suddenly full of questions. Should she add more coconut milk to the pumpkin curry? Would they still be going to the tailor to pick out material for a new dress? Had she misspelled the word journey—Is it with an e or without, Amma?” she asked, handing Kamala her English homework. Kamala believed quite certainly that Nilanthi knew the answers to her questions, and though Kamala appreciated Nilanthi’s concern, having her daughter constantly underfoot had become an additional strain. Nilanthi’s wrinkled forehead, her constant pleas for attention and company, made Kamala believe she was failing her children.

  Over the past two weeks, as Nilanthi’s English Day competition drew closer, she had hounded Kamala to listen to her oration practice. “Take notes and give me suggestions, Amma,” she asked. “Be as harsh as you like.” Nilanthi had chosen a poem by a British man called John Keats. The poem had been rated the highest level of difficulty and could win Nilanthi a place in the national competition if she mastered it. Normally, Kamala would have been willing to listen to Nilanthi practice as many times as she liked, but something in the poem unsteadied her. It was called “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” and even with her A-level English training, Kamala couldn’t follow most of the words. What rattled her, though, were the poem’s final stanzas. She heard the words drifting out of Nilanthi’s bedroom, coming from the porch after Nilanthi returned from school, muted in the kitchen as Nilanthi practiced while preparing the evening rice. Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, / Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Her daughter’s voice filled the house, serious and sad. And, little town, thy streets for evermore / Will silent be.

  Why had her daughter chosen this poem about sacrifice, Kamala wondered, about a village by the sea growing silent and empty? With these unfamiliar words around her, Kamala drifted into frightening daydreams. She pictured Rajit in a soldier’s uniform. She saw empty markets. She felt a silence growing in her home. To avoid her own imagination, Kamala began hiding from Nilanthi, scurrying off to the market before her daughter could sense her leaving, making excuses about visiting their neighbor Mrs. Thiranagama, who hadn’t been feeling well, lying about a meeting with Lalith’s principal.

  Nilanthi, though, had become increasingly sly in keeping Kamala close. She planted herself next to her mother’s purse so Kamala couldn’t go to the market without her. She made egg hoppers to take along to Mrs. Thiranagama’s so her mother would have some company. But it was mostly Nilanthi’s pleading eyes, her bitten lips, that kept Kamala from finding ways to flee her. After a few days of these games of avoidance, Kamala realized that she was passing her anxiety on to her daughter, and to make up for it, she found herself dropping her shopping basket into her lap and agreeing to listen to Nilanthi practice her oration one more time before her English competition.

  “Thank you! Thank you!” Nilanthi clapped as she urged Kamala onto the porch. She quickly formed a half circle out of the wicker chairs and a podium out of a stack of books. Nilanthi stood straight and still, her shoulders back, her chin upturned. Kamala was surprised by how suddenly composed her daughter looked. Nilanthi’s confidence soothed her, and for a quiet, still moment before the poem began, the image of the boy-soldier retreated.

  KAMALA FELT MOST at ease when she watched her children in their day-to-day routines. Nilanthi’s oration practice had reminded her of her daughter’s gift for language, the promise that Nilanthi would be welcomed into a teacher-training program one day, maybe even university. Her shoulders relaxed when she heard Manju thump his books onto the kitchen table. Her thoughts steadied when she found Rajit making sketches of the dog sleeping in the garden or when she listened to Nilan quizzing Lalith on his favorite cricket players’ statistics.

  One recent afternoon, she followed Manju and Lalith as they headed to the cricket pitch. Lalith had lately become quite obsessed with the game, and Manju, though busy with cram classes, always seemed to have time for his youngest brother. Kamala kept herself hidden from her sons as she lingered at the edge of the field, and she listened as Manju gave Lalith tips. Keep your eye on the ball. Play smart. Block it if you need to. You don’t always have to swing for fours or sixes. Lalith nodded seriously and fixed his gaze on his brother’s bowling arm. But as Manju released a difficult pitch, Lalith swung forcefully at the ball, missing it completely, which was confirmed by the unmistakable thwack of the wicket. Manju approached his youngest brother, shaking his head disapprovingly.

  Kamala relaxed into the silence of her spying. When she looked out at her sons, she felt the tangible presence of their childhoods, and it erased the recent anxiety of the Batticaloa flyer and the uniformed boys. She let herself sink into believing the possibility that all the trouble would blow over as it had in the past, that things would quiet down in the south, and that here things would remain much the same. Manju would go away to university next year, and soon Nilanthi might follow; Lalith would trade in the blue shorts of the younger students for the long white trousers of the O-level boys. Rajit would pursue his arts A-level and continue to amuse them all with his own made-up teledramas scripted for the family to act out. If only they could stay just like this, she thought as Manju released another pitch. But the uncertainty that hovered over all of Kamala’s recent thoughts crumbled her peace of mind.

  IT HAD NOT been easy to protect the children from unsettling news, even as Kamala tried to keep the promise she had made that night on the darkened porch. Two weeks ago, Kamala and Nilan were having tea with their friends Dinesh and Suchinta. The couples had been friends for over ten years and easily sank into the familiar rhythms of conversation. If Nilan and Dinesh discussed politics, it was rarely in the company of their wives, and Kamala and Suchinta’s exchanges usually centered on their children or their duties on the school volunteer board. So Kamala wasn’t prepared for the sudden shift in the conversation when it turned to the recent reports of Tamil purges in the south. Kamala did not even know who had initiated the shift, but Dinesh had suddenly sat up straight and begun telling them about his cousin who owned a share of a hotel in Tangalle, on the southern tip of the island. The cousin had been urged by his partners to leave town as soon as possible, but he couldn’t make up his mind. “He has put his entire inheritance into that place, not to mention years and
years of hard work,” Dinesh explained. “I think a part of him fears that the partners are trying to steal from him, even though he can see all around him that things are becoming dangerous.” So far, the cousin still hadn’t sent word either way.

  Kamala began to tug at the end of her sari. She didn’t want to be rude to her friends, but she desperately hoped to change the subject. She sensed Nilanthi roaming about—she probably wanted to practice her English oration in front of their guests. She passed a plate of biscuits to Suchinta and asked how her daughter Chamini was liking her new home in Bentota. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live along the opposite sea,” Kamala said, forcing a smile. “The sunsets must be quite lovely.”

  Suchinta reached for a biscuit. “I used to be glad that our Chamini had gone to the south with her husband.” Suchinta nodded seriously at Dinesh. “And she was lucky to find her receptionist job at Serendib Resort, but now I wish she had stayed closer to home. Near her family and people like her.”

  Kamala did not recognize her friend’s tone. She had never heard Suchinta suggest concerns that her daughter was among Sinhalese; in fact, she had always boasted about the cosmopolitan culture Chamini now enjoyed on the western coast. Kamala passed the biscuits around again. “But you’ve often said how friendly the staff were at the hotel, and how, during the off-season, she’d have lots of holiday time to come home to Batticaloa for visits. She really must be quite happy.”

  Dinesh sighed. “But it’s not our daughter’s happiness Suchinta is worried about. It’s her safety.” Even though Dinesh had spoken calmly, Kamala felt scolded. It was unlike Dinesh to be condescending. She wanted to explain that she wasn’t naive, that she understood the dangers of the recent unrest. It was just that she still hoped the feuding might be only temporary and things would quiet down again, just as they had always done.

  “I understand your concern, Dinesh.” Kamala was surprised by the weakness of her voice. She tried to smile at Suchinta, but her friend would not meet her eyes. “I just think we need to be careful not to overreact. Our children need to feel safe.” Kamala’s words had grown rushed as she sought her friends’ understanding. But she was met with an uncomfortable silence, even from Nilan.

  Kamala’s anxiety filled her, and she thought of the flyer hidden in her wardrobe. She could show it to their friends; perhaps it would help them see that she understood what was at stake. She felt certain that Suchinta at least would understand her point of view—that their children should be able to remain happily rooted in their lives, in their routines, for as long as they could. Their parents should see to this. But there was the other question to consider, too, the one she was afraid to ask: If the fighting gets closer, how will they keep their children safe?

  When Kamala returned from her room, the flyer in her hand, she heard Dinesh explaining to Nilan that if he didn’t hear from his cousin in the next few days, he would journey south to fetch him himself.

  Suchinta look worried. When Kamala approached her, Suchinta stood up and wrapped her arm in Kamala’s. “Let’s walk around the garden a bit.” She half nodded at the men.

  When they had achieved some privacy, Suchinta whispered, “I asked him not to go. I told him to wait a few more days, but he is insisting.” She shrugged her shoulders, but Kamala could see that Suchinta was concerned. “He claims it is family responsibility—this decision to go in search of his cousin. I asked him, ‘What about his responsibility to us, to our family?’ ”

  “And what did he say?” Kamala asked.

  “He offered to bring Chamini home with him.” Suchinta pretended to examine one of the spider orchids. “She’ll refuse, of course, and he knows that. But I still wish he would do it.”

  “Why do you think it will be better for her here?” Kamala hadn’t meant to ask her question so abruptly, and when she saw Suchinta flinch, she wished she could take her words back. She realized she was not being a good friend, so she tried to soften her voice and to ask her question more carefully. “It’s just that things seem to be changing everywhere. Do you think the trouble will stay confined to the south?”

  Suchinta shook her head noncommittally. Before Kamala realized what she was doing, she handed Suchinta the flyer. Kamala’s mind was busy with questions. She saw that Suchinta, too, was obviously worried about protecting her family. Certainly the flyer was evidence that things were growing bad even in their neighborhoods, that there was a reason to question whether Chamini would be safer here. Kamala hoped they could discuss these dangers together and work out a plan.

  She watched Suchinta shake her head as she studied the words on the crumpled paper. Kamala felt all her questions rush through her mind. What will we do? What if the recruitment stops being on a voluntary basis? How can we protect our children? But Suchinta was already folding the paper. When she lifted her gaze, her expression had hardened.

  “I never believed I would feel relief at having only a daughter and no sons. But suddenly I am changing my mind.” Suchinta pressed the flyer back into Kamala’s hand.

  Kamala suddenly felt an enormous distance open up between them, one she feared she had just now created. After all, Suchinta had tried to express her fears to Kamala, and Kamala, instead of comforting her friend, had only displaced Suchinta’s concerns with her own. She had thought they could share in each other’s worry, but that was not what Suchinta needed right now. Kamala’s realization had come too late, however. In so few words, Suchinta had made it clear that their fears were in different places and that they would not be able to comfort one another today, nor perhaps even in the future. The failure of their friendship stunned Kamala as she watched Suchinta brushing the dust off her skirt. Suchinta rested her hand briefly on Kamala’s shoulder, squeezed it once, before walking back in the direction of their husbands.

  A FEW DAYS later, Nilan came home from work, distracted and restless. Kamala watched him take a brief look at the newspaper and quickly toss it aside. She brought him some tea and bread layered with margarine and Marmite and waited for him to explain what was troubling him.

  After a moment, Nilan met Kamala’s eyes and explained reluctantly, “Dinesh left for Tangalle this morning. He showed up at work with a travel bag, asked our supervisor for a three-day leave, and barely said good-bye.”

  Kamala sat beside her husband. She felt his uneasiness enter her, and soon her hands began their trembling. The fact of Dinesh’s leaving felt as tangible as the boy-soldier and his flyer. She searched for a response so that Nilan would know she was listening and not just drifting in her own thoughts. “He is looking after his family,” she murmured. “It’s a brave thing he is doing.” She thought about Suchinta, who must have been overwhelmed with worry. She knew she should visit her friend first thing the next day, but at the same time she wondered if Suchinta would want to see her.

  “Why the seriousness?”

  Manju’s voice startled Kamala out of her thoughts. She saw her son standing in the doorway, his body large and casting shadows, his books tucked under his arm. She forced a smile as she swept the crumbs off the table. She couldn’t meet her son’s eyes. “Are you hungry, Manju? I’ve just made your father a sandwich—would you like one?” When she looked up, Manju was looking intently at his father.

  “What’s the matter?” Manju ignored Kamala’s questions as he kept his gaze fixed on Nilan.

  Nilan briefly looked at Kamala. She wanted to insist, No. We will keep this to ourselves. She hoped he could read this in her expression, but his face had already turned apologetic. He shifted his eyes toward his son. “I was just telling your mother that Dinesh Uncle has gone to Tangalle to look for his cousin who may be having some problems down there.”

  Kamala expected Manju to be full of questions; she braced herself for a look of confusion or concern to cross his face, but all she saw was a look of resigned understanding. “My classmate Rohin’s father has just gone down to Matara this week, too. Rohin’s older brother is at university there and his father wants
him to return until things quiet a bit.”

  Kamala watched Manju’s measured expression and listened to the calmness of his voice. How much does he know? she wondered. And immediately it became clear to her how foolish she had been in thinking she could somehow protect her oldest from the news, from the stories he’d be encountering. For all she knew, he had received a recruitment flyer himself and had kept his silence as guardedly as she had kept hers. She imagined him unfolding his own flyer onto the table. Perhaps he would rip it into tiny pieces and throw it into the trash pile. This is all the attention you need to pay this, Amma, he might say, and she would immediately be reassured. But as quickly as her mind had wandered into this fantasy, she scolded herself. It is selfish for a mother to expect her child to comfort her. It should be the other way around, always.

  Kamala sat down again, opposite her son and husband, and listened to Manju talk about Rohin’s brother. She listened as Nilan asked Manju what he had heard about the situation in Matara. She heard words like “nationalist youth” and “looting” and “terrorizing” come out of her son’s mouth, and she suddenly felt helpless and tired.

  EVENTUALLY, KAMALA HAD left her son and husband at the table, the conversation having long since turned to university courses and the necessary summer cram classes to prepare Manju for his first term. She should have been preparing the evening meal; she had measured out the rice, chopped onions and chilies and tomatoes, but the vegetables rested, abandoned in piles, on the cutting board. Kamala listened to the silence of the kitchen. If she tried hard enough, she could make out Nilan’s muted questions. She could sense Nilanthi studying in her room, Lalith reading his cricket magazines, Rajit curled up in some corner, scribbling into his notebook. But Kamala was struck by a feeling of emptiness and solitude that made her uneasy. She thought of Manju’s quiet resignation and she remembered the words of Nilanthi’s oration poem. She understood, then, that her children carried knowledge that she had no control over but that she would erase if she had the power to do so. She felt angry that they should even be thinking these things and she felt angry at her own helplessness.