The Boat People

by Sharon Bala

  He felt the impotence of his rage. Already Sellian had been taken, and no one had asked his permission or even his opinion.

  He remembered Ranga asking: What to do? The answer came to him in Sam’s silence: Nothing.

  The happiest day

  May 2003

  Chithra was curled on the settee moaning in pain. Mahindan rubbed circles against the small of her back and kissed her head, the floral scent of shampoo wafting off her still-damp hair.

  A squeezing pain, she gasped. Squeezing, squeezing.

  Mahindan had an eye on his watch. Thirty-three seconds, he said. Longest one.

  His job was timekeeper. Later, he would tell their parents the exact time of birth and an astrological chart would be drawn. The child’s entire future mapped out – auspicious numbers and days, best matches for marriage. Mahindan and Chithra were agnostic when it came to these things, but their parents were devout and this was the first grandchild.

  What Mahindan anticipated most was the name-giving ceremony, when he would whisper the baby’s name in its right ear. They had a few options chosen but hadn’t yet made the final decision. When the elephant comes, we will know, Chithra said.

  He peered out the window and prayed the dusky sky would remain quiet. Leaves shivered in the breeze. A stray cat slunk around the trunk of the mango tree. Every day for the past two weeks, they had asked themselves: today?

  Today! The thought jolted him. Today they would meet their first-born.

  Mahindan helped Chithra lumber off the settee. She made a slow, laboured turn of the room, pressing a hot water bottle to her back with both hands.

  Get out, she said, speaking to the giant ball straining against her skirt, her navel popping out in a hard knot. Wicked child, you’re evicted.

  She was frightened but determined, jittery with nervous anticipation.

  Nineteenth May, Mahindan said. Today is our child’s birthday.

  Let it be quick, Chithra muttered. Just let it be over.

  Earlier, they had said a prayer to Parvati, and the sweet smell of incense still hung in the room.

  On the radio, Chithra demanded, holding the back of a chair and practising her squats. Must have a distraction.

  The Voice of Tiger Radio was playing a drama about the ancient Tamil king Ellalan. The Chola King was renowned for fairness and good leadership, the narrator said. He was loved and respected by Tamils and Sinhalese alike.

  There had been an uptick in nationalistic programming recently. LTTE flags were strung across streets and triumphant banners hung down the sides of buildings. Mahindan worried about the Sinhalese in their MiGs and Kfir jets overhead. Did the red flags only goad them?

  Chithra groaned and Mahindan checked his watch. The pains were coming quicker now, each one closer on the heels of the other. He hoped labour would be swift. It twisted his insides to see Chithra like this, eyes squeezed shut, teeth gritted.

  Paining, paining, she wailed.

  Mahindan stroked her hair and told her he loved her. He wanted to siphon away her agony, bear some of it himself. He kissed her hot forehead and she reached back to squeeze his hand.

  Why does it hurt so much? she asked in tears. It was not like this for Ruksala.

  Ruksala had given birth six weeks earlier and Chithra had helped the midwife while Mahindan paced outside, a borrowed motorcycle at the ready. Ruksala scolded him for being overprotective, but the LTTE wouldn’t send Rama home and it was all Mahindan could think to do.

  Just as dawn was breaking, Chithra had come to find him slumped beside the cycle. She’d shaken the ball of his shoulder, and when he’d lifted his groggy head off his knees, she’d grinned and said: She’s had a boy! Come meet Prem!

  But seeing Ruksala through her time had only made Chithra more frightened. Now she eased herself back onto the settee with a grimace, wedging the hot water bottle behind her. On the radio, King Ellalan defeated his Sinhalese rival. I have conquered the Kingdom of Anuradhapura, the actor declared. In the name of the great Chola Empire.

  Chithra’s head fell back onto a pillow. I just want tonight to be over, she said. Then our baby will be here.

  He was going to be a father! The prospect was absurd. What the devil did he know about raising a child? He watched Chithra, panting, eyes closed. Mothers had an instinct. He only had to follow her lead.

  The tidy room was sparsely furnished, quiet but for the actors’ voices and Chithra’s shallow breaths, an owl hooting outside. In a few days, the whole place would be turned upside down by a squalling infant and mounds of dirty nappies. And in a few months? One chubby hand in front of the other, a baby crawling across the floor, then later, tentative steps, Chithra crouched with the camera. He could see his child’s limbs, the soft creases and rolls, the gold drops in each ear if she was a girl, the thin bangle. He couldn’t imagine the baby’s face, though. Not yet. But soon. He caught Chithra’s hand and kissed it. Soon.

  Ominous music came through the speakers as Ellalan condemned his son to death. A grievous crime has been committed, the actor said. Atonement must be made.

  My God, Chithra said. Who writes this drivel?

  An involuntary cry escaped her lips and Mahindan, on his knees at her side, checked the time. Less than seven minutes! Hospital time!

  A voice broke in on the radio, cutting the king off mid-sentence: We have breaking news from LTTE officials.

  Chithra keened: Ehhhhhhnnnnnnnnnn. Mahindan felt the bones of his hands being crushed in her grip. He tried to rub her back again, but she yelped: No!

  The LTTE has declared a victory in Ratmalana, the news reader announced. A heroic martyr has destroyed seventeen enemies, including D.S. Samarasinghe, the Sinhalese minister for agriculture.

  EHNNNNNNNNNNNNNN, Chithra wailed.

  Mahindan switched off the radio. The baby was coming!

  —

  At the hospital, everything moved in slow motion. An apathetic young man with a lazy eye presided over the waiting room where half a dozen desultory patients slumped in uncomfortable plastic chairs. Everyone gave a wide berth to the far corner, where part of the roof had caved in after an air strike. Orange pylons cordoned off the area underneath, where tubs had been set out to catch rainwater.

  Mahindan filled in Chithra’s name in a box while she white-knuckled the arms of a chair and groaned.

  Will you call a doctor, please? he asked.

  Have to fill out the forms first, the receptionist said without turning around.

  He and everyone else in the waiting room was focused on the TV mounted behind the reception desk. It was tuned to the news on the local station, where a popular young journalist sat behind the anchor desk. She wore a red-and-yellow sari with a tiny black dot of pottu between her eyebrows.

  …has praised the martyr’s heroism and bravery, she said.

  Mahindan filled in Chithra’s birthday and wrote none under Allergies. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her breathing evenly with her head resting against the wall behind her. His pen was steadier as he printed their address.

  …the Tiger victory. Seventeen enemy combatants were killed, including the minister for agriculture.

  He brought the form for Chithra to sign.

  …young man from Jaffna…

  Mahindan glanced at the TV while Chithra balanced the clipboard on her belly and scrawled her name.

  A photo filled the screen. A boy no older than twenty with a smiling mouth and petrified eyes. What had possessed him to volunteer for this mission? And what had he thought as he drove into the airplane hangar? Did he close his eyes at the end, hands trembling on the steering wheel, foot on the pedal, speeding blindly to his death? Mahindan returned to the front desk, riveted to the television.

  Now the Sinhalese will have their revenge, an old woman said loudly, and a few people hushed her.

  Seventeen people at the Ratmalana airport. And only one politician. The rest must have been civilians. Pilots and air hostesses, engineers working on a plane.

&nbs
p; …Prabhakaran congratulated the hero before he left on his mission.

  The young man was pictured in front of a bus shaking hands with the LTTE leader. Mahindan caught his breath. Red with a blue stripe across the front. Could it be the same one?

  Hurry, Chithra called to his back.

  Forms are finished? the receptionist asked, turning to Mahindan.

  There was a rumble overhead and Mahindan tensed. The waiting room fell silent as heads swivelled to the ceiling. The ominous drone of an engine. Mahindan clung to the clipboard as the MiG bomber, loud and rushing, blocked out all other sound. It zoomed past and everyone exhaled. There was a colossal blast in the distance and the ground under their feet quaked.

  Hands trembling, Mahindan handed the forms across the counter. He caught the receptionist’s good eye and they shared a moment of mutual relief.

  I’ll call a nurse, the receptionist said. Please wait, sir. Only a moment.

  Thank you.

  The shock waves reverberated, juddering through his soles and up his legs. Seventeen dead in Ratmalana. What had he done?

  Rolling wheels approached and a familiar voice called: Mrs. Mahindan?

  The trainee nurse they had met months earlier held Chithra’s arm as she lowered herself into the wheelchair.

  I have finished my schooling, she said proudly as she led them to the maternity ward.

  The walls they passed were patchworked with squares of what looked like gauze and packing tape. A long tube snaked down from the ceiling into a black bin.

  But the doctor is here? Mahindan asked.

  Oh yes, she said. How busy the obstetrician is tonight!

  They entered a ward full of howling, bawling women. Women bent over beds while their husbands rubbed their backs. Women cross-stitching and chatting with their sisters. Women whimpering on their sides. All ripe to burst.

  What were all these people thinking? What had he and Chithra been thinking? Seventeen dead in Ratmalana. What kind of world was this for a child? A visceral memory took him by surprise, the noxious smell of kerosene as he’d converted the bus’s engine. He felt nauseous.

  Four centimetres, the nurse said from between Chithra’s legs. She stripped off her gloves and patted Chithra’s knee. Getting close.

  Please, Chithra said, catching hold of her arm. I want the painkillers.

  Two hours later, Chithra was still in agony and Mahindan held her as she howled.

  Must get through this part, she gasped.

  Then the baby will be here, Mahindan said. The happiest day of our lives.

  It was the consolation they had been repeating to themselves all night. He wanted to believe it was true, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the bus, imagining the poor fellow driving through the doors of the airplane hangar and blowing himself up. Seventeen people.

  None of the other women were in as much agony as Chithra, but the nurse said every mother was different and gave Mahindan a towel and a basin of water. When he pointed out the beeping monitors at some of the other bedsides, the nurse said equipment was limited. She wouldn’t meet his eyes when she said this and he felt resentful of the lucky mothers.

  It is too much, Chithra insisted. Can you not give me more painkillers?

  The nurse was dismayed. Very sorry, Mrs. Mahindan. The embargoes, you know. We have to ration. If it wasn’t for the shortages…

  The pains are every two minutes now, Chithra said. Where is the doctor?

  Be patient, the nurse said. Your waters haven’t come.

  She and Mahindan were helping Chithra onto the bed as she said this, and a flood of red gushed to the floor.

  Chithra squeezed her eyes shut, cresting another wave of pain. Now will you call the doctor? she cried.

  Mahindan saw the blood and the nurse’s horror-struck expression right before she sprinted down the ward. Chithra squeezed his hand and screamed. He couldn’t help staring at the pool of liquid, terrifyingly bright.

  Thank God, Chithra said, panting heavily and lying back on her elbows. Worst one yet. Help me, will you?

  Gingerly stepping around the seeping blood, he lifted her legs onto the bed.

  Where has that nurse gone? she asked. Waters have come, no?

  She…she…went to get the doctor, Mahindan said.

  An orderly hurried in and pulled up the bedrails.

  Please, madam, he said. Lie back.

  Finally! Then she saw his face and asked: What’s wrong? What’s happened?

  The orderly sped the bed through the ward. The cross-stitching woman glanced up as they passed. She gasped and covered her mouth.

  Chithra clutched his arm. Mahindan?

  The obstetrician met them in the corridor, shrugging blood-spattered surgical greens off her shoulders and letting them drop to the floor. The nurse popped out from behind a door and handed her a fresh gown. They had met the obstetrician twice before and Mahindan was relieved to see her competent face now. Chithra was seized by another contraction and moaned, uninhibited now, as they sailed down the corridor.

  The placenta has detached from the wall of the uterus, the obstetrician shouted over Chithra’s yowling. The orderly took a sharp turn and the foot of the bed bumped into a corner. The placenta feeds the baby, the obstetrician explained. Without nutrition, the child will go into shock. We must operate.

  Corridors passed in a blur of doorways. Staff and patients pressed themselves against walls when they saw the bed coming. More people had joined them now – nurses, doctors, Mahindan could not tell.

  A nurse called out: Thirty-seven weeks. First pregnancy. O-negative.

  The baby, Chithra sobbed. Please save my baby.

  Sooner we can get baby out, the better, the obstetrician said.

  Mahindan squeezed Chithra’s hand. Someone arrived with a blood pressure cuff and he was elbowed out of the way.

  Phone the blood bank, the doctor yelled to an orderly they passed. We need every unit of O-negative they have.

  The mob around them was larger now, medical staff in scrubs and nursing uniforms, all racing to keep up. The operating theatre came into view. Someone pushed a bundle into Mahindan’s hands.

  Stay here, the obstetrician ordered as the double doors swung open. The medical team surged forward, the bed in their centre and Chithra with her knees up, gripping the rails and howling.

  I love you, he yelled. Chithra! I love you!

  But the doors had already closed and he was alone in the long, silent hallway. Looking down, he saw what he was holding. Scrubs. He pulled the oversized bottoms up over his trousers and pulled on the shirt. There was a cap and covers for his shoes. Tears streamed down his face. His child was going to die and it was all his fault.

  Sir! A nurse in surgical gear scooped a hand through the air. Your wife is ready.

  In the operating theatre, Chithra was laid out like the victim of a magic trick. A blue screen hung between the two halves of her body. She had her arms spread in a T shape and a cap around her hair. The obstetrician and another surgeon stood behind the screen, covered head to foot in green. Chithra was attached to tubes and the monitors were lively, numbers flashing, a green line spiking up with a beep then plummeting to race across the screen. A plastic blood bag hung from a pole and rich red liquid shot through a tube into Chithra’s arm. Seeing all the technology, the reassuring beep every time the green line peaked, the nurses bustling this way and that, all of it made Mahindan feel better. He sat on a stool by Chithra’s head, took her cold hand, and kissed her clammy forehead.

  No pain now, she said, but her eyes were sorrowful and her lower lip quivered.

  Baby in distress, a nurse said.

  She’s bleeding, the surgeon said, and Mahindan thought: she. Their baby was a girl.

  Chithra gave a juddering sob. Her mouth twisted with grief. He pressed his face against hers, forehead to forehead, nose next to nose. I’m sorry, he whispered. I’m sorry.

  Where’s the blood? The obstetrician’s voice was a reprimand.

&nb
sp; Mahindan wept, his tears mingling with Chithra’s, her hand small and cold in his.

  We have the last unit, a nurse called from across the room.

  IV fluids, the obstetrician said.

  The baby, Chithra whispered.

  A boulder lodged in Mahindan’s throat. I’m sorry, he sobbed.

  At her side, the monitor beeped, each green mountain hitting its zenith a little quicker.

  Heart rate, the surgeon said.

  What had he done? What had he done?

  Baby in distress, the obstetrician said.

  Mother’s pressure dropping, the surgeon said.

  The doors opened and an incubator rolled in. Neonatal team is here, the pediatrician called. The monitor was insistent, its beeps puncturing the hubbub. Mahindan thought of the bus and knew his daughter was dead. Karma like a boomerang had circled back on them, merciless.

  Where are those fluids? the obstetrician demanded.

  Don’t have, the nurse yelled.

  Norepinephrine, the surgeon said, his voice steady.

  Chithra’s chest had stopped heaving, but silent tears still leaked from the corners of her eyes, falling sideways and wetting the hair at her temples. Mahindan sniffed. It hurt to swallow. He pressed his mouth to her face.

  Don’t have any norepi, the nurse said.

  The child had been cut off from her nourishment. Their daughter was in shock. He imagined the baby in suspended animation, her tiny mouth in an O of surprise. The utter disbelief. The sound and noise, the blast. It would have been over in a second. A blinding, wrenching instant. Life snuffed out.

  God sakes, the surgeon said. Vasopressin, then. Just bring us something!

  The baby? Chithra asked. Her voice was a whisper.

  And Mahindan saw a long, wrinkled body, bloody and slimy. The black hair slicked to its head.

  A boy, the obstetrician said.

  Surprised, Mahindan thought: A boy! He nodded and smiled at Chithra, but she had closed her eyes. The room was silent now, everyone waiting, the only sound coming from the frantic monitor, and Mahindan, watching the creature in the doctor’s hands, felt despair. The neonatal team swarmed in and carried the baby away. He saw their backs, gathered around his child, dead before he was born.