by Sharon Bala
They walked away from each other then came back together, the blanket stretching and folding between them.
I would like to be a teacher.
Mahindan thought of how Prasad taught them English, the slow, patient way he corrected their pronunciation. Ah yes?
That is the job I would have chosen at home if…
If not for the war.
Yes.
Prasad laid the folded square at the foot of his bed. Mahindan had given up on his bed months ago. No matter how closely he tried to emulate Prasad’s method, his own sheets were always creased and untidy.
You would be a good teacher.
Ah, but now we are here.
And so? Mahindan returned to the doorway and checked the corridor.
I have no qualifications and already schools will have teachers.
Mahindan watched Prasad sitting on the bed, staring at his hands, and felt exasperated. Days away from being released, and here he was, turning into another Ranga. What Mahindan wouldn’t give to trade places with him. Was there anything he wouldn’t do? He stared hard at Prasad, the tendon that stuck out on the side of his fragile neck, and thought, Yes, I would squeeze my hands around this man’s throat if it meant freedom, reunion with Sellian. End an innocent man’s life, even this I would do.
The certainty of his conviction – he could feel exactly how it would be, gripping and squeezing, skin on skin – lasted an instant, but it took his breath away. His hands trembled and he hid them quickly behind his back.
Prasad was watching him. What are you thinking?
Mahindan said, I’m thinking that is the point of coming here, no? You did not marry because of the war. You did not become a teacher because of the war. Now you are here and there is no war. Therefore, no excuse.
Maybe I will marry, Prasad said, and then my children –
Don’t, Mahindan said. It is a dangerous thing to live for your children.
He shook his hands at his sides, still feeling Prasad’s throat in their grasp, and thought of Sellian instead, bewildered in his puffy red snow costume. How to move around in this, Appa? If only I could send him to live with Prasad, he thought, and the fantasy assuaged his guilt.
Anyway, Prasad said, brushing his hands down his trousers and standing up. One thing at a time. Fourteenth of June. The next bridge to cross.
Fourteenth of June. The hearing in front of the Refugee Board. Prasad’s final test, and Mahindan knew he would pass that one too. Prasad’s case was straightforward and the judges were sure to be impressed by his English. Out in the world, interacting with shopkeepers and bus drivers, working at some new job, by summer Prasad would have picked up the accent too. He would pass to the other side, while Mahindan remained stuck here.
Longing intensified his envy. Gone were the days when he could easily summon his better nature, believe Prasad’s success foreshadowed his own. It was difficult now to hold on to any good feeling. Impossible even to pray, to repeat a mantra, without the interruption of some disquieting worry.
And after that, papers and permanent residency, Mahindan said. And then what?
After three years, I can apply for citizenship.
Freedom, Mahindan said.
So much optimism for everyone except yourself, Prasad said.
There were footsteps in the hallway and they both glanced toward the doorway, but it was only a guard.
Prasad retrieved a backpack Sam had given him. He’d been opening it regularly, decanting all its contents and laying them out neatly before packing them all back up. Now he unfurled the zipper, laying the two sides flat on his bed. Inside were two packages stacked one on top of the other. Socks and plain underpants, three pairs each, still sealed in clear plastic.
The clothes hanger on the back of the door, naked for months, was now dressed in a pair of folded black trousers and a checked long-sleeved shirt. On Friday, after his shower, Prasad would leave his jail clothes in the laundry bin and put on the things Sam had brought for him.
They’re not new, Sam had said, apologetic.
They are new to me, Prasad replied.
Sam had clapped Mahindan’s back and said, Your turn soon, machan.
But Mahindan was not so sure. Seeing Prasad’s backpack made him remember his grandfather’s suitcase and all the mementoes inside, his last tangible links to home. Would he ever get those back?
He craned his neck out into the hallway as Prasad placed all the items back in the bag. If Ranga succeeds at his admissibility hearing, Mahindan thought to himself, surely I will too.
It wasn’t only men who were being released. Every week, there was good news from the other jail too. Many of the women and their children were out and, like Prasad, one by one were passing their admissibility hearings. After nearly eight months, the tide was turning in their favour.
Mahindan told himself to have faith. If it goes well for Ranga, it will go well for me. Freedom in Canada. He deserved it more than Ranga, who had grown lazy in his torpor, who wiled away days and weeks in bed instead of practising his English.
It was a question of discipline, and Ranga had none, Mahindan decided. Not like Prasad. Not like me. This was a country of opportunity. Good fortune was available for those who would grasp on to it. But the assurances he had been repeating to himself for months had begun to sound empty.
There were voices coming down the hallway, footsteps. Prasad shoved the bag back under the bed and came to stand with Mahindan in the doorway. The three men who had left that afternoon were returning, Ranga bringing up the rear. His limp was more pronounced than usual, one leg lagging behind and his hand on its side, as if pulling it along. Shoulders hunched, Ranga stared at the floor, a convict on his way to the hangman. Mahindan’s stomach sank.
Ranga came into the cell and Mahindan closed the door, standing against it with his hands behind his back.
They are sending me home, Ranga said without raising his head. Deportation, he said in English, then slumped on the lower bunk, elbows on his knees. His voice was flat, matter-of-fact.
Prasad sat beside him. They made a decision? So quickly?
Mahindan’s pulse quickened. Prasad’s judgment had taken weeks. There was no way Ranga could know his fate already.
I cannot go back, Ranga said.
Prasad put his hand on Ranga’s shoulder. What happened?
They’re saying I’m a Tiger.
To them, we are all Tigers, Prasad said.
Ranga clutched his hands in his hair. No! No! he yelled. His pupils were large, his expression wild.
Mahindan grasped the doorknob. Shhh…quiet, quiet, he said. Ranga could not know yet. He was being melodramatic.
There was a battle in the sea, Ranga said. Some time…I don’t know. The Sri Lankan Army and the LTTE. They are saying this is how I got my…my injury. They are saying I was a Sea Tiger.
Prasad took his hand from Ranga’s shoulder. They have proof of this?
The identity card. Ranga howled into his hands.
Mahindan turned to the door and scanned as far as he could out the window. His knees trembled. The identity card. He had never considered…
It was not me, Ranga said. I was never in the LTTE.
Mahindan walked deeper into the room, blindly. The identity card. Ranga. The Sea Tigers. The thoughts pinballed around, refusing to be grasped. Light-headed, he dropped onto Prasad’s bed. The springs squeaked, startled.
Prasad, Ranga said, looking him straight in the eyes. I am not a Tiger.
Then how can there be proof? Prasad asked. They are saying your identity card belongs to a Sea Tiger? Have they made a mistake?
Now he will tell, Mahindan thought. And everything will be finished.
It was not me, Ranga said.
The speaker in the ceiling crackled on and Mahindan jumped up. Prasad and Ranga turned to him. Prasad’s brows were raised.
Dinner is available in the cafeteria until nine o’clock, the voice on the speaker said. Mahindan could understand all the regular announceme
nts now.
Come, Prasad said, ducking as he stood to avoid banging his head on the upper bunk. Eat something.
Ranga crawled beneath the sheets and rolled over to face the wall. Under the blanket, Mahindan could see him kneading his injured leg.
Ranga, Mahindan said. I’m…
Ranga didn’t move and Mahindan couldn’t finish the sentence. He joined Prasad at the open door, waiting.
Just come with us, Prasad said. For company.
Men passed through the hallway speaking of inconsequential things, exchanging news about wives and daughters in the other jail, people who had already been released. She has fallen sick again, but what to do? The child will not dress properly for this weather.
Ranga, Mahindan said again. He rotated the doorknob back and forth. Ranga did not reply. He lay like a corpse, barely breathing. Prasad tilted his head in the direction of the hallway and they left.
Mahindan was anxious to hurry forward and catch up with the others, but Prasad measured out each step at a metronomic pace, wrapped in a blanket of ominous silence.
The identity card. Ranga. The Sea Tigers. Mahindan had never thought…Had Ranga said? The judge had not made a decision. It was all speculation.
The canteen was busy and the line moved slowly.
Chicken noodle, Prasad said, pushing his tray along the stainless steel rungs.
Just like Amma used to make, a man ahead of them joked.
Wednesday chicken noodle, Thursday spaghetti, Friday thosai, another man said.
Behind the counter, women in hairnets ladled soup out of black cauldrons. Steam unfurled in ribbons. Spoons clinked together. Focus on this.
Chicken and noodle, Mahindan repeated.
The orange-haired woman served him. She was big-made with friendly dimples. Mahindan handed her his bowl over the plastic partition.
Chicken and noodle, he said again, to himself. Noodle and chicken.
The woman passed his bowl back, her hands forming two Ls on either side of the rim. She said, Careful. It’s hot. And Mahindan understood.
Okay, he said in English. Thank you.
He set the bowl down carefully. The inside was ringed in condensation. He moved along toward the basket of bread rolls where Prasad stood, holding his tray between two hands, contemplating the little packet of butter and the knife beside it. Mahindan thought: This man has the power to finish me.
Almost everyone had been served and they were clustered boisterously around tables in the canteen’s busy centre. Mahindan took a step in that direction, but Prasad gestured toward a deserted corner and said, Let us go over there.
Mahindan couldn’t think of a good excuse not to follow and they sat across from each other at a table by themselves. Prasad ate in an absent way, staring into his bowl. Sea Tigers. The identity card. Ranga’s limp. Mahindan could see him circling around the evidence, sniffing, getting closer.
Mahindan’s hand formed a fist around the handle of his spoon as he searched for a neutral topic. The soup was salty. Strings of noodles floated in the broth. The small orange cubes turned to mush in his mouth. They did not taste much like carrots. Canadian food was not bland, exactly. Its flavours were muted, like the colours outside. The green foliage, the blue skies, even the browns lacked a vibrancy that existed at home.
It’s the sun, Prasad said. Here, we are far from the equator, and anyway, now it is winter.
Mahindan didn’t know what the equator had to do with colour saturation. Prasad bent his head over his bowl and Mahindan watched how he ate, how he held the handle of his spoon between two fingers. He wondered if this was something else Prasad had been taught at the university. He changed the position of his hand to mirror Prasad’s then took another spoonful.
Soon, there will be appam for you, Mahindan said. And idli…
Never mind that, Prasad said abruptly. What about this business with Ranga?
Mahindan stared into his soup, at the swirls of oil floating on top. If they believe they have proof, what to do?
Do you think it is true, Ranga was in the LTTE?
You were always in Colombo? Grew up there, too?
Yes, Prasad said.
Mahindan let his spoon rest in the bowl. He said, In the north, there were two options. Join by choice or join by force.
He gazed toward the other tables, full of men joking and jostling. They had been following the Olympics and earlier that day had watched one of the snow events, boys balanced like surfers on boards rushing headlong down a mountain, winding in zigzags between flags. A man in the centre of one of the tables was recreating the demise of a German competitor. His hand crested the top of an imaginary slope and shot down.
I knew men who were proud to join, yes, Mahindan said. But for many, it was not like this. My cousin brother Rama, he was taken by force. My wife’s sister, Nila, she went to the Tigers before they came for her, to protect her family, so they would let her parents be. Now, you tell me if this is voluntary.
And you? Prasad asked.
Mahindan was honest. If not for my garage, they would have forced me to join. It was only luck that saved me. I was worth more as a mechanic than a soldier.
Ranga says he was not in the LTTE.
Mahindan broke his bread in half. Then the authorities must be confused. It was someone else. Injured in a sea battle, he added, because he knew this would remind Prasad of the limp.
Prasad tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl, thinking.
Saapidu, Mahindan said. Then in English: Eat before it is cold.
He dipped a piece of roll into his soup and watched the broth soak the bread. His stomach was hungry, but his mouth had lost its appetite.
The documents they found on the boat, Prasad said in Tamil. What do they have to do with all of this?
Who knows? Mahindan took a bite, forced himself to chew and swallow. If Ranga pointed the finger, he would deny it. Where was the proof? Kumuran’s wife and all the others were gone from jail. There was no one else to speak against him.
Prasad contemplated the wall, staring over Mahindan’s left shoulder as if avoiding his face. He ran through the possibilities, muttering to himself: Either they are right and Ranga was in the LTTE, or the authorities have made a mistake. Or someone wants Ranga to be sent back and has caused the mistake to happen. Or –
What is the point of guessing? This or that or a third thing, Mahindan said, using his upturned palms to demonstrate. What is important is not what is true or false. The important thing is what these people, the Canadian authorities, believe is true and false. What they want to believe.
Lady doctor
March 2009
The patient had hobbled in an hour earlier with a shrapnel injury that had become infected. The wound gaped. Pus oozed out. The leg was dead, everything black and liquefying.
This is a very bad case, the doctor said. It must be amputated.
Mahindan closed his eyes to summon a happy memory of Chithra, but she refused to oblige. He tried to muster up a mantra, the sound of Rama chanting, the fragrance of incense, but again there was nothing. Only this man and his putrefying leg.
In January, Mullaitivu had fallen and they had all moved here to Puthukkudiyiruppu, a small farming town eleven miles inland. The two-ward dispensary was already overrun, so the doctors had commandeered the school as a secondary hospital. The operating room was set up in one of the smaller classrooms. Four desks had been pushed together with a plastic sheet thrown on top. The patient was now lying on this improvised bed with his trouser leg cut off.
The doctor used the sink in the corner to wash her hands. She wore a paper mask and plastic goggles and pulled a yellow gown over her head to cover her cotton sari. Supplies were scarce and Mahindan and the other volunteer wore the same soiled gowns all day. They had taken what they could from the hospital in Mullaitivu; doctors, nurses, and ordinary people all working together to load equipment into wheelbarrows and patients onto bullock carts. Even the retreating cadres had pitched
in, pushing the injured on their stretchers down the A35. A rare day of unity, everyone co-operating like a team.
In the hallway outside, patients moaned and gurney wheels rolled past. The lucky ones shared beds. Others were laid out on mats on the floor. There were five doctors and a dozen nurses in this improvised hospital, but most of the helpers were ordinary people like Mahindan, civilians who volunteered to escape the alternative. Every day, more and more people were conscripted into service by the LTTE, digging trenches, collecting weapons from dead bodies, or worse. Mahindan was thankful Sellian was only five, that near starvation had stunted his growth so he appeared even younger. Rumour had it they were taking children as young as nine.
There was a big green chalkboard set up on a wooden easel and children’s paintings clipped to a laundry line along the back wall. Sunlight streamed in through the naked windows. It made Mahindan’s skin crawl to be here.
The doctor had a small metal table on wheels where she laid out all her equipment. The doctor’s hair was hidden under a shower cap. Yellow ducks swam in a line across her forehead. Mahindan and another volunteer stood on either side of the patient. The man was breathing hard. Sweat dampened his moustache. The infection bubbled away, corroding his leg. The smell was rancid. It burned in Mahindan’s nose; his eyes watered.
He looked at the patient and tried to find something to hate – even disgust would make this easier – but all Mahindan saw was his own potential fate, how easily it could be him on this table, tomorrow or the next day, with no anaesthetic and no consolation.
You must be brave, the doctor said.
The doctor said the patient’s name often. She put her hand on his shoulder and focused on his eyes when she spoke. Mahindan tried not to learn anyone’s names.
Have one of you a belt? the doctor asked.
The other volunteer undid his buckle and the patient clamped the belt between his teeth.
Keep him from moving, the doctor said. Please, sir, try to stay still.
The doctor held a scalpel; her attention was focused. The patient trembled and whimpered, lips folded into each other. Mahindan had one hand on the man’s chest and the other on his arm. He ignored the queasy waver in his gut, the lightness in his head. He must not lose his dignity in front of the lady doctor.