by Sharon Bala
When the electricity had cut out, he’d lit all the hurricane lamps, luxuriating in the indulgence while he could, now that there was no need to conserve. It was dangerous – the house luminescent, an easy target. But Mahindan decided if they died here, tonight, in their own home, struck down by hellfire from the sky, it would be God’s will, perhaps even a mercy. He’d drunk the last of the arrack and fallen asleep with the rush of jets overhead, wrapped up in Chithra’s wedding sari. Picture frames rattled on the walls, but pressing his nose into the rich embroidery of the pallu, he felt he could almost get her scent again.
In the morning, he’d steamed idli, which they ate at the table with the fan spinning overhead. Mahindan told Sellian the story of how this table had come to them, a castoff from an uncle that he and Chithra had lugged between them from five streets over, laughing and teasing the whole way.
They didn’t bother to clear the table or wash the plates, but Mahindan couldn’t bring himself to leave the house unlocked. He had held Sellian’s hand on the threshold and surveyed the space one last time, committing it all to memory, every crack in the wall, the beaded curtains dividing the rooms, the dusting of sand over the linoleum floor, his favourite rattan chair, the biscuit tin where they stored batteries and rubber bands and other odds and ends. Mahindan had kissed the key before slipping it into his pocket, praying the day would come when he would need it again.
Are we going to see Nila Auntie? Sellian asked now, when a female Tiger marched by.
Maybe, Mahindan said.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had word from Chithra’s sister. Beside him, Ruksala sobbed silently.
I’m sorry, she whispered.
They passed the water tower, felled and on its side, water gushing out. A bleeding giant. At the signpost, instead of heading south into government territory, as the United Nations vehicles had done the day before, they turned east.
Solomon
It was a dreary Monday, the sky indeterminate, the air dense with mist. Priya wiped her face with her scarf as she stepped off the elevator. Her colleagues were turning on their computers and wriggling out of coats as they listened to voice mail. Everyone moved in the fog of lethargy with a post-holiday deflation, mocked by tinsel still drooping in doorways.
Gigovaz beckoned from his office and Priya slung her coat over her arm as she walked in. She was surprised to see Joyce inside, perched on the edge of the desk. Gigovaz skulked, hovering at her shoulder, a lumpy interloper in his own office.
Here’s what we’ve come up with, Joyce announced. Corporate two and a half days a week, immigration two and a half.
Solomon had decreed it: Cut the baby in half. The office had been closed for the holidays. For ten days, Priya’s BlackBerry had remained mercifully mute. When had they hatched this plan? Through text messages on Christmas Eve? Joyce in an apron surrounded by her family, Gigovaz with his greasy hand in a bucket of fried chicken? Already, Priya could see it would never work.
Newtown Gold rejected a buyout offer from CMP Russia, Joyce said. We think the Russians are going to bypass the company and go straight to the shareholders. And you know what that means.
A hostile takeover, Priya said.
That’s why I need you, Joyce said. She handed Priya a stack of binders. Familiarize yourself with the particulars. I’m briefing the team at eleven.
Arms weighed down, Priya waited awkwardly for a moment after Joyce left, wondering if Gigovaz would assign her more work or clarify the arrangement. Two point five days – how exactly did that break down? But he pulled out his chair and waved her away. She left his office feeling that she should have thanked someone.
—
A buzz of tension surrounded the firm’s articling students. After three and a half years, they had rounded the corner on the last stretch of their education. Everyone was fretting, speculating on job prospects and worrying about interviews.
A twelve-month contract, Martha said, turning off the tap. In-house counsel at the City of Vancouver.
Isn’t that part-time? Twyla asked, ripping a paper towel off the roller.
Tough economic times, Martha said. I’ll take what I can get.
Eavesdropping from her stall, Priya cursed her bad luck. Everyone else had already taken their licensing exams, but hers had been scheduled for the last session. In March, she would return to the classroom for ten intensive weeks of preparation. And then what? Would the paltry work experience she’d amassed over the past seven months even qualify her for a job in corporate law?
Returning to her desk, she tried to squelch down her trepidation by thinking of Sellian, who had started school that day. A month in, and Sellian was still miserable in foster care. On Boxing Day, Priya had taken him to visit his father. He’d been cheerful enough on the way there, but the ride home was excruciating. Sellian was frantic, kicking and flailing while she strapped him into the car seat, then bawling all the way back to the Flanigans’, begging her in broken English to turn the car around. She’d negotiated the highway with tears blurring her vision. Afterward, she’d sat alone in the Flanigans’ driveway, with the car still parked, gripping the steering wheel and gathering her wits, knowing that as hard as Sellian cried and as distraught as she felt, it was Mahindan who suffered most.
The phone rang, startling her. Her father’s number flashed on the display. This was odd; he usually called her at home.
Appa?
Ah, ah. You’re there, he said, as if he had expected the machine. Good.
What’s up? She turned her chair to the cabinet behind her desk, stretching the phone cord as she did, to multi-task.
No, no, nothing, he said. Just wanted to call and…and…so? How? First day back everything is fine?
I’m working with corporate again, she said.
Oh.
Priya was bent in half, phone clamped between shoulder and ear, flicking through the hanging folders. Which is good, she prodded. Finally, what I’ve been wanting.
Ah-ah. Yes, he said, distracted.
Where are you? she asked. What are you doing?
Nothing. Just at home. Not doing anything. So, you’re working with your Mrs. Lau again. Well done, pillai.
It’s only half time, she said, pulling out a folder. Fifty per cent corporate, fifty per cent refugees.
Well, what to do, he said. They need you, no?
She had a troubling flashback to three years earlier, when her mother had phoned Priya in the middle of a lecture, then spent ten minutes recounting the mundane details of her day before dropping the atomic bomb: Doctor called this morning.
Priya became very still. Fear droned in her ears. Turning back to her desk, she cupped a hand around the receiver. Appa? Is everything okay?
Yes, yes. Fine, fine. Okay, I know you’re busy. Just wanted to check you’re coming on Thursday.
Of course, she said, scouring her memory. Had her father said anything about a doctor’s appointment? He’d been healthy over the holidays, maybe a little tired, but that was all.
By the way, I was thinking…new year and all…there’s some kind of group, is there? Working with these people…Hema and the others.
The Tamil Alliance?
Are they needing help? Want volunteers?
The ringing in her ears cleared. I imagine, she said. In fact…yes. Do you want me to get the details for Thursday?
No, no. Tamil Alliance? She could hear him rummaging and guessed it was for a pen.
I will call myself. No need to…Tam-il All-i-ance…no need to bring…to say on Thursday.
But –
Baba, I have to go.
Before he hung up, she heard the front door open and Uncle’s voice in the background.
Ganesha turning cartwheels
Mahindan watched, bemused, as a small bundle waddled in through the doors. It was a child, stuffed like a sausage into some kind of spacesuit, swaddled in head-to-toe red, a zipper down the centre. The child’s mouth was muffled by a long scarf. A band of bl
ue wool covered his forehead. Only his eyes were visible. He walked stiffly, arms held out, marshmallow legs brushing together – swish, swish – his boots leaving damp tracks in their wake.
The child yanked off red mittens, letting them fall as he walked. The scarf unravelled, the hood was thrown back, and Mahindan realized with a start that this creature was his son.
I hate this stupid get-up, Sellian said, flinging away the woollen cap and thumping down in a chair across from his father.
Ai! Mahindan admonished. Take care!
He jumped up to collect the discarded clothing. The fleece lining the mittens was soft. The warmth of Sellian’s hand lingered.
See how well these things are made, Mahindan said. These are expensive, no?
Sellian bent forward, legs stuck out in front of him. His lip trembled when he failed to reach his boots, frustration threatening to turn into tears.
Mahindan crouched at his son’s feet and ripped off the Velcro fastenings. No problem, he said quickly. No need to cry.
Mahindan had been awaiting this visit all week, but now they had something difficult to discuss. Sellian had started taking things – coloured chalk, a classmate’s ruler, the chocolates from schoolchildren’s lunches. Nothing of value, just small-small things. They had found the box under his bed where he hoarded his treasures. Mahindan could not understand the motivation for this petty theft. Sellian lived with a middle-class family. He wanted for nothing.
Mahindan helped Sellian out of the winter costume, both of them struggling with the unfamiliar zipper, the cumbersome layers. Emerging from his straitjacket, Sellian was himself again, slight and trim, though Mahindan noticed his son had grown – but surely this had not happened overnight! – a sprout shooting up in the fertile Canadian soil.
Sellian’s foster people had taken him to get his hair cut. It was slightly longer in the back and shorter in the front, the fringe spiky and subtly different, more Canadian. But when Mahindan ran a hand through, it felt just the same, fine and silky, still the hair of his child.
Sellian was mutinous. I hate the milk here, he said. It is like water, not even milk.
Arms folded and grim, he looked so thoroughly like his mother that Mahindan was overcome with affection.
You have a list? Mahindan said. All right. So tell me. He counted in English on his fingers: Number one, milk.
Number two, rain, Sellian said. Rain, rain, go away. Even the sun hates Canada.
Mahindan laughed and Sellian’s expression was outraged. It was too delicious, this temper tantrum. It was Chithra all over again.
I hate that stupid Mrs. Ramamoorthy! Chithra used to fume after work. And to calm her down, Mahindan would make her itemize a list of grievances. (So bossy, know-it-all, her stupid finger, always wagging it at me. One of these days, I will bite it off.) What began in fury always ended in jest.
Point three, shoes. He kicked his foot out, knocked one boot over, and whined: I hate being made to wear shoes.
We never had shoes in Sri Lanka, Mahindan said, repeating one of his grandfather’s stories, until the Portuguese came.
I wish they had never come, Sellian said. I wish we had never come.
What else? Mahindan asked quickly, not wanting to linger on this new grievance.
Meat loaf, Sellian said, and folded up his nose.
What is mit loof? Mahindan asked, pronouncing the strange English words with difficulty.
And they…I don’t…I don’t want to speak always English.
Mahindan understood his son’s frustration because he felt it too. The language was exhausting, all the irregular verbs, the slow, tedious work of conjugation. Even the simplest sentence was an effort to construct. He laboured over every consonant and vowel, stumbled over the silent k’s, acutely conscious of how awkward and tongue-tied he must sound, how different his pronunciation was from that of Canadians.
There was no need anymore to lecture Sellian about his English. Living with his new family, going to school every day, it was a natural education. Sellian could converse now with the guards if he liked, and Mahindan heard the offhand way he formulated sentences, his thoughts free-flowing, how he substituted Tamil words for the English ones he didn’t know. Soon, English would be as good as a mother tongue. A foster mother tongue.
Everyone is saying your English is improving, Mahindan said. Why? Because you are speaking it all the time, because of this practice.
Sellian produced a small toy from his pocket – the Ganesha statue – and began tapping it on the table. I hate English. He kicked out and the other boot fell over. Stupid language.
These Saturday visits were the highlight of Mahindan’s week. But their time together was never as he imagined, and afterward, he was always deflated.
Come now, pillai. Appa has to ask you something.
When Mahindan had first heard about the stealing, he’d been livid. But then he felt powerless, which was worse. If they were at home, he would have known what to do. One good caning to the backside and the boy would shape up.
These things happen from time to time, Sam Nadarajah said. The child has suffered a trauma. Do not be too angry with him.
Sellian would start seeing a special doctor. A psychologist, Sam had said. It is nothing to worry about.
Why did you do this thing, pillai? Mahindan asked now as Sellian refused to meet his eyes. You must be a good boy, Mahindan said. These people you are staying with, they are kind to you, no?
Secretly, he wanted Sellian to hate them. He begrudged having to say generous things about the child snatchers.
Sellian was sullen, still focused on Ganesha turning cartwheels on the table.
They give you a nice place to sleep and clean clothes to wear. They take you to school, where you play with other children. And this is how you thank them, by making trouble?
Sellian kicked his legs forward and back, as if he were on a swing. Where is Prem? he asked. I want to see Prem.
Hearing his nephew’s name after all this time gave Mahindan a jolt.
Prem is gone, no? Mahindan said, composing his face.
I want to see Prem, Sellian said.
I know. I want to see Prem too.
And Ruksala Auntie and Ammachi and Appachi.
Pillai, you know they are gone.
In the camp. I know.
He fiddled with the Ganesha statue, turning it around in his hands. The colours had faded, the blue skin much lighter, as if the god had taken ill.
Sellian said: I want to go back.
But Baba, you have forgotten how dangerous it was there?
No, Sellian said. Not there. Not the jungle. Not the camp. I want to go home. To my house. And my real school.
Baba, how to go back? They will have bombed the school and the house.
I hate it here. Maybe they will make us to go back.
Mahindan felt the air rush out of his lungs, as if someone had hit him hard in the centre of his stomach. Maybe they will make us to go back. The fear that had lurked below the surface, trampled down after every failed detention review, was now flat on the table. Impossible to ignore.
He reached out to touch his son’s hair again, sifting the fringe through his fingers, off Sellian’s forehead. This brown-skinned child with his new haircut and winter costume who might pass like any other in a Canadian playground. Mahindan said, No one is going to send you back.
Sellian began to cry and Mahindan gathered his son up in his arms. No point thinking of what is in the past, he said, rocking Sellian. He inhaled the unfamiliar scents – laundry detergent, soap, and shampoo, brands he did not know. Foreign smells of an unknown life that now belonged to his son.
Now you are here, Mahindan said, whispering in his son’s ear, trying to cut through the soft cries and sniffles. It is safe here. And you will grow to be big and go to school and get a job and marry.
And have a car, Sellian said, gulping.
Yes, Mahindan said, amused. A car you buy, not a car you steal! Sellian, listen
to your Appa. Please do not take what is not yours. Borrow and return. But do not steal from others. This is the beginning of trouble.
He saw Ranga, in conversation with Sam, and looked away.
You are here now and there is a future for you here, Mahindan said.
Hoard
December 2008
From inside his tent, Mahindan could hear a family building a shelter, erecting a frame of coconut planks and twine over the hollow they had dug in the ground. Their hammers kept a steady beat. The women called instructions to one another as they tied palm fronds together for the roof. Tighter, tighter! No, that one is too small.
Mahindan and his family had arrived a week earlier, here in Mullaitivu, the Tigers’ eastern stronghold. A city on the coast, it was both a launching pad for the Sea Tigers and a manufacturing hub – turning out arms and ammunition, with a shipyard that supplied lightweight fighting vessels.
Mahindan, Ruksala, Chithra’s parents, and the children had made a slow, months-long journey to get here, crawling down the A35, stopping along the way at one or another of the tiny hamlets that lined the highway. They would set up camp, exchange news with the locals, and stock up on whatever they could afford. But as settled as they became in any village, the sounds of fighting, advancing closer and closer, always spurred them on, the throng of people swelling as villagers too loaded their barrows and bicycles and took flight.
Close by, another group dug a protective trench. Their shovels made a ting! ting! sound whenever they hit stone. The clamour of voices and industry was punctuated by the distant thunder of artillery.
Mahindan lay on the floor of his tent and watched shadows play on the wall. Three child-shaped figures squealed as they ran past. Two men paused to greet each other.
How machan?
Small pain in my back. Otherwise, what to complain?
The men were elderly. Mahindan heard the croak in their voices, the small gurgle of phlegm in the back of one’s throat. What to complain?