by Sharon Bala
His legs ached. They had been swollen for days, bloated ankles indistinguishable from shins. Ruksala had taken the children to collect cockles. You have a rest, she said when he’d returned from temple. I will put these two rascals to work.
The day before, a couple had been felled on the beach while casting their nets. Mahindan was making an inventory of his catch when he heard the warning whistle. He had tensed, jaw in a clench, anticipating the detonating crash, the eruption of sand, the screams. Then he relaxed when he opened his eyes to find himself alive, limbs intact. Later, he had helped throw sand over the bodies.
Mahindan groaned. A mosquito landed on his arm and he didn’t have the energy to swat it away. Exhaustion was a leaden weight; it pressed in from all sides. He longed for home, his bed in Kilinochchi. They had been on the run since September, the past three months spent like vagrants. Every morning waking up and wondering: Where to find water? What to eat? Was it safe enough here to stay another day? Knowing that all the worry and effort might be for naught. At any moment, calamity could fall from the sky. Even as he lay here, breathing in and out, barely thinking. Even as Ruksala and the children combed the beach for their dinner, wet sand like a sponge under their feet, the tide lapping at their toes.
And on top of everything else, Mahindan had lost his slippers. The next time they packed the tent and fled, he’d have to go barefoot.
The old men had moved on, their voices swallowed up in the hubbub of hammers and footsteps. Mahindan wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying down, if he had dozed off. Sellian might come back soon.
With a great effort of will, he hauled himself upright, unbuttoned his trousers, and removed the money belt hidden under his waistband. It was a relief to release the clips and peel the cotton pack from his sweaty skin.
Then, removing the wallet from his pocket, he examined it properly for the first time. It was well made from supple leather, expensive. Inside, he found a thick wad of rupees. Mahindan had never seen money like this before, crisp new banknotes, each one stiff and unmarked. He fanned the money in his filthy hands, counting and re-counting, taking in the zeroes. Thirty identical bills, two thousand each. He squeezed his eyes closed. Opened them. Sixty thousand rupees. Could this windfall be real?
The two-thousand-rupee note was orange. It pictured the ancient rock fortress of Sigiriya. There was a legend of a bastard prince who usurped his brother’s throne after murdering their father. He’d shoved the old man into a barrel lined with lime and rolled it down the hill. Then, terrified of retribution, the coward had fled, building his palace two hundred metres in the sky, on Sigiriya. Lion Rock. Even at that time, the Sinhalese were wicked.
Mahindan rubbed the bills between his fingers, enjoying the feel of the newly printed paper. It was almost a pity they were his now, and would be kept in his money belt with the other rupees, each note creased and permanently sweat-dampened, so worn the paper was on the verge of disintegration. Sixty thousand rupees. The man in the car had been carrying sixty thousand rupees.
Early that morning, Mahindan and Sellian had gone to temple. Returning to camp, they took a meandering path away from the busy town centre, Mahindan feeling the hot ground burn the soles of his bare feet. Entering a palmyra-shaded lane, they spotted the car. Abandoned on the side, it was a newer-model Toyota, sleek silver with a modern, aerodynamic shape. Even from a distance, Mahindan knew there would be no rust. Premonition tingled the tips of his fingers. It was mid-afternoon and the area was deserted. Go! Chithra whispered in his ear.
Wait here, he told Sellian. Close your eyes and let me hear how well you know your numbers.
The driver had his arms around the steering wheel, head cradled on the hub. He might have been asleep, pulled over to the side for a nap. Mahindan could spot no blood, no sign of injury. There was only the buzz of flies and stubborn rigor mortis. Sellian was well into the double digits. Muppatti aru, muppatti elu, muppatti ettu. The wallet was in the glovebox. It was as easy as that.
Now, Mahindan stripped it. A driving licence, a national identification card, two bank cards. With men, it was simple – one hand in a pocket and the wallet came out. Women carried less cash, but there was almost always a thali or a flash of gold at the ears. He hated the jewellery, the eardrops especially, the laborious process of unscrewing the backs, fingers brushing stiff, cold skin, insides roiling with the smell.
The first time had been surreal. The old woman under the tree, her sari blown up, a dog nosing around. Hungry dogs were unpredictable, but this one flattened its ears and slunk away when Mahindan brandished a stick. He had been alone that time, dragging his blistered feet from village to village, trying to find a stand where he could afford a little milk, a few eggs. Mahindan had only meant to cover the woman up, pull the sari down over her wizened legs. He said a prayer of thanks when he got closer, that his own parents had been allowed the mercy of heart attacks at home.
He’d felt hopeless in that moment and so hungry, his stomach groaning empty. Seeing the woman’s clenched fist, the wrinkled skin around her knobby knees. Their lives meant so little, weren’t even afforded the slightest dignity. The sun glinted off a bit of hardware at her waistband. The buckle of a coin purse winked at him. (Take it! Chithra urged.) He reached carefully to pull the sari down and felt his fingers grasp metal, then tugged. He held his breath, not daring to look around.
The purse was beaded. He felt the rough texture in his palm as he closed his fingers, the weight of the coins inside.
Dinner that night had been joyous. Ruksala fried eggs with a sprinkle of chili powder on top. The children, bellies sloshing with fresh milk, slept straight through the night.
Well done, pillai, Chithra’s father had said as they washed the plates in the river. You have provided well today.
After that, Mahindan scavenged every chance he got. If Sellian was with him, he instructed the child to stay back, close his eyes, and recite a poem.
Keeping jewellery and cash was uncomplicated, but Mahindan was conflicted about the rest of it. The marriage licences and school certificates, immunization records and passports – these paltry collections were all that remained of people’s life stories. He could not bring himself to burn them in the cooking fire.
In the tent, Mahindan unzipped his suitcase and reached for the bag where he kept Chithra’s documents. Her birth and death certificates, her laminated bus pass. Let the dead keep each other company.
The coins he set aside for food and new shoes. The bills he slid into the pouch, securing the belt around his waist. He didn’t have a clear idea of what he would do with his hoard, only that it was security. He had left the garage and the house, all his tools, even Sellian’s bicycle, behind in Kilinochchi. He had his son and he had nearly two million rupees. Could they secure a future with this treasure?
Mahindan heard familiar voices. He arranged his shirt just as the flap of the tent opened and Sellian strolled in, his hands behind his back.
How? Mahindan said. You and Prem found many cockles? We will have a feast tonight? Tell.
Ap-pa, Sellian said in a singsong voice. I have brought you a pre-sent.
Prawns? Mahindan asked, wondering what could be behind his son’s back. A nice cuttlefish?
Sellian brought his arms forward with a flourish and held the gift out, beaming proudly. Straps worn but soles intact, near-perfect condition. A pair of men’s sandals.
Model migrant
At the end of January, with the women’s hearings already under way, they began admissibility hearings for the men. Prasad, their model migrant, was first.
You’re up, Gigovaz had told Priya.
Me?
Sure. You’ve researched the precedent. You know the case inside out.
Now, half an hour before the hearing, she loitered in the lobby with Prasad. Priya was preoccupied by a call they’d received the previous day, when Gigovaz hustled her into his office and put Singh on speaker. The RCMP had tracked down two of the people whose identificatio
n documents were found on the ship. They died in Sri Lanka, Singh announced. Last January.
Nervous? Prasad asked, nodding to Priya’s unconsciously tapping shoe.
Sorry, she said, and planted her foot.
It was nearly one thirty and the entrance to the Immigration and Refugee Board building was busy with people returning from lunch, everyone in ties and slick blazers, twisting around to stare at Prasad in his regulation sweatpants and numbered shoes. Even without handcuffs, he stuck out. Priya felt ashamed of herself for being so self-absorbed.
Prasad patted her shoulder. You’re a clever girl, he said. You’ll do well today.
His English – already fluent on arrival – had subtly transformed over the past seven months. How’s it going? he said these days, instead of How? In December, he’d given her the letter he’d written for the newspapers with a request that she remove the idiosyncratic turns of phrase.
Sri Lankan English is not Canadian English, he’d said. I’ve shifted here. Now I must learn the language properly.
Moved here, she’d corrected. Then added: But I like Sri Lankan English!
Prasad’s open letter had been reprinted in all the papers over the holidays and inspired a flurry of goodwill on open-line shows and in letters to the editor. Charlie reported that donations to the Tamil Alliance had spiked. Priya had been impressed by the quality of Prasad’s prose, the lines he had quoted from Niemöller (First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out…). She could see that he must have been a good journalist.
How are you? she asked. Are you worried about today?
Two people walked through the metal detectors, engaged in silent conversation. The woman signed at top speed; the man nodded his head, rapping his knuckles on an invisible door.
Prasad watched them as he spoke. When the president’s thugs forced me into the trunk of their car, I feared for my life, he said. But today, this is only a hearing. What is there to be afraid of?
The couple strode past them, hands flying, one barely completing a thought before the other jumped in. The man tapped the woman’s shoulder to get her attention then brought two fingers out, touching them to his thumb.
Mitchell Hurst is a good adjudicator, Priya said. He’s fair.
The couple paused at the elevators. Priya read frustration in their mannerisms, in the signs she could not decipher. She thought of Charlie. Language was a superpower.
I read all your articles, Priya said. You wrote bravely.
Prasad looked pleased when he turned. Thank you.
They stared at each other, nodding, grins gradually falling flat, unsure of what to say next.
Priya took a chance. Prasad, do you know who left those identification papers on the ship?
He didn’t answer immediately, and she could see him sizing her up.
Apart from pressing their clients for intel back in October, Gigovaz hadn’t taken further action. There was nothing to do, he said even now, but hold their breaths and wait. And hope nothing came of it.
I’m your lawyer, Priya told Prasad. I have to keep everything you tell me confidential.
Those papers were not mine, Prasad answered. He didn’t shake his head as he said this.
Do you know who they belonged to?
I have suspicions, he said. But not proof. I do not like to say more. They are only suspicions, you understand.
Two of those people died in Sri Lanka, she said.
I see.
They didn’t get on the boat, and yet their papers did.
Working for a newspaper, Prasad said, what I learned is that sometimes what is suspicious is not bad.
She didn’t tell him that, nefarious or not, if Singh found a way to connect those papers, even remotely, to any of the migrants, it would mean deportation.
—
The room was packed with reporters. Prasad’s open letter had been left unsigned, but most of the media knew he was a fellow journalist and guessed he was the key author. They were all there to see how he would fare.
A full house for your debut, Gigovaz whispered.
Jump in if I start to drown, Priya said. Then she was annoyed with herself. She would never have shown weakness in front of Joyce Lau. But then, shareholder meetings and stock splits weren’t life-and-death matters.
Mitchell Hurst walked in and took a seat at his elevated desk.
Okay, he said, turning on his microphone. This is how it’s going to work. I’ll hear from Border Services, then Mr. Prasad’s lawyers, and we’ll go from there. Please don’t raise your voices. Please don’t speak over each other. We’re all adults here, so let’s act like it.
Priya reached for her water bottle and took a deep breath. A low-grade tremor had gripped her entire body. She parted her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter in her head.
Singh launched in with her usual terrorist spiel and Priya listened carefully, each familiar refrain a balm on her nerves.
She was relieved to have Hurst in the adjudicator’s chair. He was frank and forthright and ran his hearings the same way, and though he didn’t always rule in their favour, his decisions were never arbitrary.
What’s the story with these adjudicators? Priya had asked Gigovaz once. Why are some of them so erratic?
They’re in over their heads, Gigovaz said. And it shows.
Singh came around to the evidence: Prasad’s articles. The migrant was well-known for his pro-LTTE stance, she said. I’d like to draw attention to Exhibit B, a February 3, 2009, opinion piece in which he compared the LTTE to freedom fighters and wrote that they were quote working toward a homeland to which they are entitled.
Priya had anticipated this line of attack. She fumbled through her papers to find the printout she needed. It was covered in Post-its and yellow highlights.
Hurst asked Gigovaz: Would you like to respond to that?
Priya leaned in to her microphone and said, Ms. Singh is cherry-picking. Her voice, magnified and distorted by the speakers, took her by surprise. She tried to ignore it and ploughed through her practised statements.
Read in its entirety, she continued, the article criticizes the extreme measures used by both the Sri Lankan government and the LTTE.
The stenographer was clacking at her keyboard, recording every word. Priya felt the sketch artist’s gaze, hard, on her. She heard the reporters shuffling behind her back. How do my clients do this?
Priya held up her copy of the translated article and said, Exhibit B. Third paragraph, second line. And I quote: This should not be read as an endorsement of the LTTE’S methods. The Tigers are ruthless and bloodthirsty. No question, they must be eradicated.
The migrant’s reportage was overwhelmingly Tiger-positive, Singh said.
Priya heard the perfunctory tone in Singh’s voice and was bolstered. Her hands had stopped shaking.
We have submitted other articles into evidence, Priya said. Our client is on record criticizing the Tigers for their tactics, including the use of child soldiers and civilians as human shields. The fact is, Mr. Prasad was balanced in his reporting.
Yes, I’ve read the articles, Hurst said. I’m not buying the terrorism angle on this one, Ms. Singh. So unless you have some other proof…No? Okay, let’s move on to the issue of protection. Ms. Rajasekaran, you’re arguing for protection on the grounds of political opinion?
Priya felt slightly light-headed, high on the thrill of doing well. Don’t get cocky, she told herself.
Mr. Prasad is a person in need of protection, Priya said, the voice in her head competing with the voice she heard, loud and declarative, addressing the room. (Is that the way I sound?) He was kidnapped and tortured, an incident from which he still bears the physical scars. His home in Colombo was sprayed with machine-gun fire.
The words were speeding out of her too quickly, a runaway train: His editor was shot in front of him and Mr. Prasad himself has received death threats. (Slow down! Slow down!) We have submitted photos, his editor’s obituary, and the death threats into evidence
…
She wobbled to a stop. Singh started to say something, but Hurst held up his hand and told Priya to continue. On her notepad was a message she had underlined to herself. More than a serious possibility.
It is our contention that Mr. Prasad will be tortured and killed if he returns to Sri Lanka. The prima facie evidence demonstrates there is more than a serious possibility of persecution.
Gigovaz wrote AMNESTY INT in large letters on the legal pad between them and Priya quickly added: Furthermore, Sri Lanka is a country with a notorious track record of suppressing journalists. Exhibits E and F are public statements to this effect from Reporters Without Borders and Amnesty International.
Hurst raised his brows. Finished?
Yes. Thank you. Priya heard her voice come through the microphone, small and embarrassed.
Someone behind her tittered. Gigovaz drew a happy face on the notepad. Joyce would never have done that, Priya thought, feeling grateful.
Hurst said, I’d like to hear from Mr. Prasad directly. Sir, I know this is difficult. Take your time. Please tell me why you believe your life would be in danger in Sri Lanka.
Priya sat back in her seat and reached for her water again as her nerves settled. She watched Prasad tell his story. The crowd at Priya’s back sat very still. She tried to assess Prasad objectively and she saw a man who was earnest, credible.
I am not a terrorist, Prasad concluded. Believe me. I left my country to escape the terrorists.
Thank you, Mr. Prasad, Hurst said. Does Border Services have anything further?
Singh said, I’d like to ask the migrant a few questions about his journey.
Amarjit Singh, Priya thought, irritated. With your pretty brown skin. What are you even doing here? But then Priya asked herself: What am I doing here? And she felt slightly less antagonistic.
Singh said: You came with a passport.
I did.
So why not take a flight? Why use this irregular means of arrival?
I was being watched, Prasad said. They would have killed me if I tried to board a plane.