by Sharon Bala
Grace felt silly about overreacting in the car with the girls. A party in a suburban basement, what could be more innocuous? To have daughters was to live in perpetual fear of their violation.
From the bedroom, she heard Steve’s duffle bag being zipped up. She could picture him tugging up the handles and swinging it off the bed. It landed on the carpet with a muffled thump.
It was nine o’clock and her daughters were in an unsupervised basement with boys who could drive. Grace fought the urge to phone them.
Have you heard of this Taylor Barry person? she called to Steve.
The flautist? he asked. Sure.
She studied the photos again. The elder girl’s shorn hair kinked out in ragged, uneven edges, the longest hank barely reaching her chin. Grace touched her own hair, still up in a workday chignon, feeling the smooth strands, the outward bulge and twist of the updo she formed like a reflex every morning.
Men with weapons and displaced, vulnerable women. But women in the LTTE cut their hair short too. Grace knew what the lawyers would say: Circumstantial. We must defer to the best evidence rule. Even in her imagination, Gigovaz’s voice was grating. Best evidence. There was no evidence! Everything was down to what this woman said happened to her. And whether Grace believed it.
Steve was behind her, fiddling with the alarm clock. The flight is at eight, he said. What time do you think –
I have work too, she snapped. I had planned to put in a few hours at the office tomorrow.
Steve looked taken aback. His voice was wounded when he said: Why are you working on the weekend? I thought the point of this job was to take the pressure off.
Why on earth would you think that?
All the late nights and weekends, replying to e-mails at all hours…you were burnt out at Transport.
Burnt out? What are you –
All I’m saying is, I thought Fred was doing you a favour. But here you are stressing on a Friday night.
Work isn’t the problem. You were supposed to be home this weekend, Steve. I expected to have tomorrow free to go into the office.
Can’t you just work here?
Because that’s how I want to spend my Saturday night – writing reports while ten teenagers squeal at top volume downstairs. How am I supposed to focus? She gestured to the files spread across the desk. I have to review the evidence and think carefully.
He peered over her shoulder, at the photos she was holding, and shrugged. They seem harmless to me.
What to do?
Mahindan laid a hand on the window and felt the cold seep up the length of his arm. His yearning for Sellian was a physical ache, a low, vibrating hum deep in his bones. Outside, the sky was an unforgiving grey, the grass dead and tramped down inside the barbed-wire fence.
For months, he and Sellian had trudged along the roadside, the sun burning relentless. They had slept in open fields, longing for shelter, four concrete walls and a roof. Protection from falling shrapnel. A reprieve from the sun.
And now we might never see the sun again, Ranga said from the table. How can it rain so much in this country?
Ranga used a spoon to fish the tea bag out of his cup, wrapping the string around the handle. They were lingering over their toast, waiting for Prasad to return with a newspaper.
Word had come, the evening before, that Hema and her daughters had passed the admissibility hearing, and Prasad thought there might be a news story. Mahindan was glad, did not begrudge them their good fortune. Mr. Gigovaz had said all along they must be patient. Hema was proof there was hope to be grasped.
He wished Ranga would stop following him around like a stray dog, yapping on about his fears. What if they come to find…? What if they should ask me about…? What if. What if. What if. What if I had not helped you, Mahindan had finally snapped. What then? You would still be in that prison camp, no? Or a white van would have come for you. That had shut Ranga up. But only for a little while.
Red-and-green tinsel was strung across every window and doorway, despondent against the bland dining tables, the blank white walls. Even his own skin was paler, greyer, these days. What Mahindan missed was colour. The building that five months earlier had struck him as modern and clean now felt sterile and heartless, like the detached expressions on the judges’ faces as they stared down at him from their thrones and denied him his freedom.
Prasad returned frowning, head bent over a front-page article. Mahindan saw the boat in an inset picture. It always gave him a strange jolt of half recognition to see it from this outside vantage – a rusting hulk in the middle of the ocean, heavy and listing to one side, blurred brown faces crowding both decks.
Looking back, he thought those had been his happiest moments. When the Canadian boats circled the ship and the helicopter’s blades chopped the sky over their heads. Standing at the top of the gangplank, the sun gentle on his face, gazing out over the parking lot to see the crisp white tents, the Canadians in their comical face masks. Sellian light as a feather in his arms, waving ecstatically at the crowd and shouting: Hello! Hello!
That heady expectation, the profound relief, both felt distant now, far from his present reality. Windows that would not open. Guards at every door. Endless waiting.
Prasad swung his legs over the bench and sat down. His lips moved as he read. Mahindan tried to make out the headline upside down. He could only recognize the word ship.
They have taken a poll, Prasad said. He read in English, slowly so they could understand: Three out of five Canadians believe the vessel should have been turned away. Half of those polled think all the passengers should be deported, even if their refugee claims are valid.
They want to send us back? Mahindan was appalled.
He knew distrust and suspicion surrounded them, fears of Tigers hiding in their midst. Why else would they still be in jail after all these months? But he had thought, with time and effort, these fears could be allayed, that deep down everyone was keeping an open mind. Now to find this was how the Canadians felt. People he had never met hated him and wanted him dead.
How can these people be so wicked? Ranga asked. He rubbed his injured leg, stretching it back and forth under the table.
Prasad unfolded the newspaper and shook it open. He said, Just like at home, these things begin with the politicians. Prasad pointed to a photo of a man wearing a bow tie. He had round spectacles and thinning hair, parted at the side, sideburns that needed a trim.
This government minister, Prasad said. Just listen to what he has to say: The vessel and its illegal passengers are part of a larger criminal organization. Make no mistake, there are terrorists on board. We must not let the smugglers win.
Smugglers, Ranga said. How else to escape?
These politicians are very clever, Prasad said, his hand in a fist on the table. They know if they repeat something over and over, eventually people will believe them.
Mahindan could not understand it. Ordinary people he watched through the bus window while travelling to and from hearings, two women waiting at the corner for the light to change and one of them would have him deported. Even if their refugee claims are valid.
What to do? Ranga said, mournful. This is what they want to believe about us.
Then we must change their beliefs, Prasad said. He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.
—
Prasad spoke to the guards and got his hands on a different newspaper. That evening, he read another article out loud to a group at their dinner table.
Outside, it was pitch-black. Mahindan wondered what the night air tasted like, what stars could be seen in Canada. At least they had been free on the boat. A two-month spell of liberty between the falling bombs and prison.
From the upper deck, the stars had been numerous, thousands more than he had ever seen from the shore. He and Sellian used to huddle together with a blanket, teeth chattering, and stare up until their necks hurt from craning. Sellian could trace the path of the seven sages and Mahindan pointed out the sages�
� wives – the Karthigai, six bright stars in the shape of an earring. When Sellian couldn’t sleep, Mahindan would tell him the story of how the gods and demons had worked together to churn the ocean of milk, how for a thousand years they had toiled to release a nectar of immortality, only to find a terrible poison.
What stars could Sellian see now? Was Kumuran’s wife telling him stories? Occasionally, he saw the women when he went to his hearings, and Hema had told him their jail was not so bad. There was a room full of toys where all the children played. Mahindan liked to picture Sellian there, racing cars and building forts out of blocks.
When Prasad read, he quoted the article in English first and then translated into Tamil: The Sri Lankan government insists there is complete peace and that the army went out of its way to minimize civilian casualties during the final advance on rebel-held territory.
Even before he had finished the sentence, men hissed and shook their heads.
The final advance, the man in the wheelchair said, from the end of the table. That is when they tried even harder to finish us off.
Complete peace! another man grumbled, lifting his shirt to expose a torso singed with cigarette burns. This is what the Sinhalese call peace.
The man in the wheelchair bobbed his head from side to side and flicked his palm in the air. This is some kind of peace, no?
This is my point, Prasad said. The Sri Lankan government is feeding the Canadians a pack of lies. We too must have a chance to tell our side of the story.
He set the newspaper aside and the man with the cigarette burns grabbed it up, scanning the article. Mahindan wondered how much he could read. He had tried earlier himself, with the newspaper Prasad had left behind on the breakfast table. He had stared at the incomprehensible text, picking out the handful of words he understood. Ship. Tamil. And.
These days, when Mahindan met with the lawyers, he tried as much as possible to speak in English, deciding what he would say in advance and rehearsing, whispering the words to himself quietly. But his literacy was limited to children’s books. Whenever he felt he was making progress, something as simple as a newspaper would remind him of how much further he still had to go.
Prasad’s idea was that they should write a letter. In English, he said. But expressing all our sentiments. And those of the women too. We can ask the Tamil Alliance to distribute it to the newspapers.
Mahindan admired Prasad’s initiative, his ability to find solutions. Ranga, of course, had to throw cold water. He traced the scar on his cheek with his thumbnail, a habit that irritated Mahindan, and said: What’s the point? They have already made up their minds.
If you cannot be helpful, just go, Mahindan snapped.
Prasad unfolded a sheet of paper from his pocket and said, Now see what I have written.
A guard interrupted with a message for Mahindan. He had a visitor.
Now? Mahindan asked in English.
It was 8 p.m.
It’s your lawyer, the guard said, and Mahindan sprang up. Hema and her daughters were being released. The authorities must have reviewed his case and decided to let him go too. They walked down the hall, Mahindan’s mind racing ahead. Soon all this, the heavy-soled footsteps in the dark, other people’s night terrors, all this would be behind him. He would be reunited with Sellian and they could start their new life together!
It wasn’t until they approached the private meeting room that Mahindan realized none of this could be true. He had failed his last detention review and the next one was already scheduled for the following week.
Through the little window inset into the door, he caught sight of Sam Nadarajah seated beside Mr. Gigovaz. For a moment, he wondered if they had come about Prasad’s letter. But once in the room, he saw the grim expressions on their faces.
We have news, Sam said in English. Please sit.
Mahindan’s head became dangerously buoyant and he fumbled to grasp the back of a chair. Something had happened to Sellian.
The door closed heavy behind him and he glanced back, full of an urgent, panicked instinct to run to his son. They had last seen each other on Saturday. He should have held Sellian tighter. He should not have let him go.
What is happening? Mahindan asked in Tamil. Sellian is sick? Hurt? Is he –
Sam pressed the air up and down with his palms. The boy is fine, he said.
Where is he? In hospital?
Illai. It is nothing like that. Sit down. Ukkarru, ukkarru.
Mahindan pulled the chair out blindly. The boy is fine.
Sam and Mr. Gigovaz conferred together in English while Mahindan stared at the table, unable to follow along. He tried to tamp down the terror, the adrenalin that had coursed in. Another frightening thought: They had come about the documents.
Sam spoke in Tamil: We have come from the women’s prison. The thing is…Savitri is not well.
She has caught some illness? Mahindan asked. He took deep, steadying breaths. Alarm came easily these days and took great effort to dispel.
She has been very low, Sam said. Not eating, sleeping. It has been like this for some time. She cannot cope with two small children.
Okay. No problem, Mahindan said, using the English expressions. He saw now that the news, in fact, was good. It would be a relief to finally sever ties with that woman. He said, Sellian can come here.
Sam’s eyes flicked away, past Mahindan to the wall behind him. The authorities believe the best thing is for Sellian to leave prison, he said. There is a couple who have agreed to take care of him. They live very close to here, thirty, maybe forty minutes by car.
Mahindan was confused. He glanced at Mr. Gigovaz and saw the grim expression on his face. To the lawyer, the actions they had to take were clear, non-negotiable.
They want to put my son with another family? Mahindan asked Sam in Tamil.
Only until you are released, Sam said. It is just for the short term.
These people did not have their own children and now they wanted his son. Mahindan’s voice shook as he said: I thought the Canadians hated us. They wish the boat had been sent away. Now it seems they want our children.
It is temporary, Sam said.
He remembered the Japanese judge, the stern expression that held tight to her face every time she looked at him, as though he was nothing, just a cockroach she would stamp under her heel. She must have done this to him. To punish him further.
The room swayed, the door, the walls, all of it grew fuzzy. There was one light overhead and then there were two. He blinked and his head was weightless, came unmoored.
Mahindan! Sam was at his side, pulling back his chair, pushing his head down gently. Deep breaths, Sam said. Deep breaths.
Mahindan, his head between his legs, breathing through his open mouth, had a single thought: NO. NO. NO. Ears ringing, he pushed back against Sam and sat upright. He struggled to speak, but when he did, his voice was loud, threatening to become a shout: Why can’t Sellian come here? He’s my son! How is he to live with these strangers who cannot speak our language?
He had lapsed into Tamil. Mahindan glanced at Mr. Gigovaz, who watched, impassive. If he could just convince Sam, together they might be able to appeal to Mr. Gigovaz, change the minds of the authorities.
He lowered his voice and turned to Sam, pleading: How will they know how to care for him?
Just think clearly for a moment, Sam said. In an English-speaking household, enrolled in school, imagine how easily Sellian will learn the language. He’s still small, no? At that age, children adjust very quickly.
He will go to school? Mahindan said. The prospect was a glimmer in the darkness. He gripped the table and felt its stable surface. For months, he’d worried about Sellian falling behind, playing the fool instead of attending to his studies. To succeed in this country, he must have a good education.
A child should not be in jail, Sam said, switching to English. He should be learning his lessons and running around, playing outside.
With his father, Mahindan
said, also in English, folding his arms across his chest. There was only one light overhead. His body felt more solid. He took a deep breath to be certain, puffing out his chest.
Mr. Gigovaz shook his head, as if to swat away an irritating insect. Remember why you came here, Mr. Mahindan. It was for your son most of all. Try to focus on what is best for him.
You have children? Mahindan asked in English. A son? A…a…girl?
Mr. Gigovaz shook his head again, his expression momentarily dimming, making Mahindan triumphant then furious. Who was this white man to tell him who and what he had come to this country for? What could a childless person know of parenting, what it was to be a father, to live in a constant state of trepidation for the well-being of another? He was angry at Sam too, who would leave in a little while and drive home to his warm house and his family. For Sam, this meeting was only an unpleasant interlude in an otherwise ordinary day.
Mahindan thought of Hema, and now he really was envious. Had she truly earned her freedom? Did she, who had never suffered separation from her daughters, deserve it more than him? What fortune it was to be a woman.
Savitri is keeping her son, he said in English. But mine is getting stolen. Because I am a father.
We will make sure he visits you, Mr. Gigovaz said.
Every Saturday without fail, Sam added. Point is, we have no choice in this matter. We must make the best of it.
I must make the best of it, Mahindan said bitterly in Tamil. We are not Sellian’s fathers. Only I am.
Mr. Gigovaz leaned forward across the table. He wanted Mahindan to know he had met this couple personally. They were good people, a nurse and a school principal. They had a nice house, close to a school, across from a park. Priya and Charlika were taking Sellian there now. His son would have all the benefits.
What is wrong with them? Mahindan asked Sam. Why don’t they have children of their own? Why must they steal my only son?