Unable to stand Theivanai’s badgering and using the sketchy information that she had provided, Shakthivel approached some people who had been supporters of the Movement although not actual combatants and asked them to enquire about Sathuriyan.
After much effort, snippets of information about Sathuriyan began to trickle in. Shakthivel was surprised to learn that Sathuriyan was a mathematics graduate.
‘What’s so surprising about that?’ Theivanai had asked. ‘The Movement hadn’t discriminated against anyone; its list of recruits had included illiterates, semi-literates or undergraduates like me, thousands of graduates like Sathuriyan and people with even higher technical qualifications.’
Sathuriyan was a key player in the Movement who knew everyone who was directly or covertly connected with it. His real name was Nesan. His father’s name was Arumainayagan. They had been able to piece together all the facts that they had gathered about him.
From the fragments of the clues unearthed, it came to light that in the beginning of 2008, Sathuriyan, stationed in the Batticaloa region, had been urgently summoned by the chief of the LTTE to Kilinochchi to discuss the capture of Poonakari by the Sri Lankan army. He travelled through Manalaru to Neduntheevu and from there to Vellamullivaikkal. He was rumoured to have been seen even at the discussions between the LTTE and the Sri Lankan army on the surrender.
During his investigations, Shakthivel realized that Sathuriyan’s chance of being alive was highly improbable because he had been hand-in-glove with the lead figures of the LTTE.
‘Shakthi, I’m telling you all this only because you’re my closest friend,’ Kumaran had said. ‘Please don’t blab about this to anybody. It could get me killed. When the army set foot on Kilinochchi, they first targeted all the important people. None of those who stood by the chief until the end escaped. You do understand, don’t you? There was no way to escape. Only those traitors who snitched on their comrades were spared. Sathuriyan was a true warrior, he would never have reneged on his people. The main reason for the failure of the Movement was because our people betrayed their own. Otherwise the army would have found it impossible to harm even a hair on their head. Anyway, what I mean to say is, when we know that all the top leaders were killed, there is no chance that Sathuriyan could have survived.’ Kumaran’s information was a hundred percent reliable, Shakthivel told Theivanai. As he narrated all this, Theivanai’s heart grew heavy. We live in a hopeless world, she thought; we’re helpless, down on our knees, faced with a situation where even faith or lack of faith doesn’t exist.
Sathuriyan was a graduate; but why didn’t he tell Yoga that? Yoga would’ve definitely mentioned it had she known this. Perhaps Sathuriyan didn’t tell Yoga about any of his achievements in life out of modesty. Perhaps he thought that Yoga would spurn him driven by her inferiority complex in view of his education or perhaps he dreamt of surprising her with this after they had got married…
She dreaded having to break this news to Yoga.
She felt that there must be some inexplicable, extraordinary cosmic force beyond human comprehension which dictated why or how things happened in life.
The punishments meted out by Time on his random victims aren’t necessarily for crimes they’ve wittingly or unwittingly committed, but to change the course of their lives.
Life’s deepest experiences are branded permanently into the brain as Theivanai was amazed at how successfully she had sequestered her own love in the recesses of her heart.
Even though it was a love that was never declared, if Chaminda was someone she could never forget, how could Yoga forget Sathuriyan who had vowed to return to her? How would she be able to deal with the news of his death?
Theivanai’s love had become a corpse in a grave before it could be declared. She had let it rest only in in the darkness of her own inner self and kept it away from the light of the day. As she felt that it had not been necessary to open her heart and tell anyone about it, she had not done so and also felt that she would gain nothing by doing so.
She could understand the pain that would be caused to Yoga by the death of Sathuriyan.
Her eyes shed tears; were they for Yoga or for herself?
It was in the year 2002, during the time of the peace agreement, that that ephemeral episode happened in her life. She still found it hard to believe that she could fall in love with a man in her enemy’s uniform.
But it had happened.
Every time she passed the Thuraiyadi army camp, she still remembered his eyes focusing on her as he stood there with his rifle slung on his shoulder.
‘What if I married a Sinhala soldier, Akka?’
‘What kind of crazy talk is this?’ exclaimed Jothi. ‘I can’t believe that it’s really you saying this? Have you forgotten who you are? The people of our caste will spit on you, beat you up and ostracize your entire family if you marry one of the men who are baying for our blood. And do you really think that this Sinhala will marry you, a Tiger? What he will do is marry you and then strangle you to death!’
Jothi’s indignation at the very thought squeezed Theivanai’s heart. She then consoled herself that it was merely the product of Jothi’s vivid imagination.
One cannot say how society would react to such a situation or realistically foresee the outcome of its possible opposition considering the transient codification of the norms of societal behaviour. Anyway, she couldn’t resist the appeal of the thirst in Chaminda’s eyes.
Theivanai’s love for Chaminda would definitely have struck a chord in his heart as well. His love was unmistakable in the unspoken words that his eyes had conveyed to her.
The root cause of the war that had claimed the lives of thousands and caused the loss of property valued at many crores was the language barrier between the two communities. That same barrier formed an obstacle to their love despite which the unspoken words of their eyes were tirelessly striving to remove the fences between them.
It was quite some time before he picked up the courage to ask her name.
Love will make heroes of cowards, our ancient literature tells us.
Here, love played hide-and-seek with two brave warriors.
‘Mama Chamindaoyakenamamokaththa?’ he asked as she walked past the army camp. At that moment, the walls between them shattered and a miracle occurred as the roots of the two trees intermingled.
‘Theivanai,’ she had replied shyly.
He repeated her name twice or thrice to get the pronunciation right.
‘Thei…vanai…Theivanai…’
She smiled as she moved away.
She was a Tamil Tiger, for heaven’s sake! A warrior with the highest level of training. She had walked on to the battle field with her head held high and had fought many battles and had brought down many enemies.
Chaminda was one of the many in the enemy force whom she had vanquished or had vowed to vanquish.
Although the ammunition from the guns she toted had made sieves of her enemies’ bodies, she realized that her essential femininity had remained unaffected by her warrior skills. In fact, these very skills had served to enhance her womanliness.
He…
A brave hero! A soldier in the army. A man who had forsworn his life for his country!
Chaminda knew that Theivanai was a Tamil Tiger and that she took pains to conceal the fact that she was physically challenged.
Although he was aware that she was a deserter who had come home at the time of peace and had not returned to her outfit, his love for her prevented him from informing the authorities.
What did I do? How could I love Chaminda, someone who was part of the people responsible for the loss of my leg?
Questions rose like the flickering flame of an oil lamp but were engulfed in the blaze of love. Love had become a fire to extinguish another.
I am not a combatant. He is not a soldier. I am Theivanai. He is Chaminda. I’m a girl and he, a man. I, Theivanai, love a man called Chaminda. There is nothing wrong with that but history tells us tha
t we are enemies. There are circumstances and evidence to prove that. But yet our hearts talk to each other. One longs for the embrace of the other. To me, it does not look as if there is anything wrong with that. Even if it were wrong, I have no wish to purge this feeling…
A few minutes of gazing, a smile at the corners of the lips; the only two foundations of their love.
The waves of war had died down, and just when everyone thought that there was nothing more to fear, the fighting broke out again unexpectedly and began to rage fiercely.
Her love for Chaminda was one of the reasons that she broke the rules and didn’t return after her holiday while the peace agreement was in force. Love bound her and made her fling away her links to the Movement.
Now the war had started up again and with greater ferocity.
Fear seeped into her heart. The Movement could castigate her as a deserter. The army may take her prisoner. The woman who had battled with such single-minded aggression, couldn’t wait to get out of it now.
She couldn’t sleep a wink that night and kept questioning herself until she arrived at a decision to take action without further dilly-dallying.
Before the clouds of war produce another deluge, let us run away somewhere where there is no noisy war and disappear. We don’t need a language I respect you and your eyes tell me that you respect me as well. Let us go and communicate to each other with our eyes, just as we do now.
Although this was not a fictional soap opera with a far-fetched happy ending, Theivanai believed that her love had indeed purged her of all the hatred and violence within her.
‘Today, I shall tell him that I love him in my language. Hopefully he will understand me.’
Then she slept in peace.
She rose early that morning, bathed, prayed and put sacred ash on her forehead. She decided she didn’t need an identity marker for the declaration of her love – and erased the ash. The mirror showed her beauty to have acquired an additional radiance. Her round, brown face had rosy cheeks and her eyes sparkled.
Just as she flicked her long, thick, braided hair over her shoulder, after one final glance at the mirror, her mother hurried in. ‘Don’t go out, child,’ she panted. ‘Early this morning, a Sri Lankan reconnaissance group was caught in a Claymore land-mine and six men died. The situation is really bad.’
A chasm seemed to yawn open beneath her feet.
‘Oh God, why now? Chaminda! I have to go immediately to find out whether he’s alright.’
She ignored her mother and put on her slippers. However, just as she was opening the garden gate, Shakthivel came in.
‘Where are you going, Theivanai?’ he frowned. ‘It’s common knowledge that you were in the LTTE so it isn’t safe for you to go out now. Do you know what’s happening outside?’
‘What did I tell you, child? Come back inside,’ said Amma.
‘The men in the Thuraiyadi Camp were the ones who died…’
‘Why do these bad omens occur just when love has blossomed in my life and I’ve decided to declare my love?’Theivanai wept silently.
Her worried family kept her indoors for a week which felt like she had been placed under house arrest. The ache in the heart somehow manifested as a pain in her leg and Shakthivel kindly offered to take her on his motor bike to the big hospital in Batticoloa.
To Theivanai’s impatient soul, it felt like it took forever to reach the Thuraiyadi camp.
‘Dear God, please let me see Chaminda with my own eyes,’ she prayed in her heart. ‘I need to see his dimpled smile.’
Shakthivel seemed to be pushing the bike along that day, not riding it and Theivanai was growing restless with the interminable journey. The camp was moving further away, however far they progressed.
Finally – the Thuraiyadi camp.
Theivanai’s eyes quickly surveyed the camp.
There was no sign of Chaminda.
‘They must have shifted the old-timers from this camp to some other place.’
Theivanai was aware that although Shakthivel was merely a tailor, he kept abreast of what was happening around him.
‘No Theivanai,’ he responded. ‘It was the men from this camp who died in the Claymore mine-blast.’
Many Claymore bombs inaudibly exploded in her heart.
She welcomed the night and cried on its shoulders until there were no more tears left in her.
It was when she had sunken into the deepest trough of depression and wondered how she would carry on for the rest of her years, that the opportunity came.
The assistant’s post in the St. Theresa Home appeared to be heaven-sent and made to order for her.
It took her a very long time to forget Chaminda’s twinkling eyes and the enchanting curve of his smile. She talked to the children, played with them, told them stories and sang and danced for them and buried her disappointment in a grave that was strewn with the flowers of her love that had fallen off the tree even as they blossomed.
Even to this day, whenever she passed by the Thuraiyadi army camp, she could feel Chaminda’s gaze on her.
If an undeclared love could cause such pain, how would Yoga be able to bear the agony of Sathuriyan’s death?
However, it was time that the hard fact was revealed to Yoga because she needed to live her life in the real world with its harsh truths.
‘Only Thawakkul Akka can do that properly and would be the right person to convey the news of Sathuriyan’s death to Yoga,’ concluded Theivanai. She prayed that God would give Yoga the strength and maturity to accept the reality, forget her disappointment and carry on with her life.
Theivanai’s heart wept as the memories of the love that had not seen the light of day stirred within her.
6
‘ALLAH, WHAT! Someone come quickly!’ Nisha’s shriek shook the rafters of the house.
Everybody leapt out of their beds in panic and rushed out their rooms.
Nisha, who had woken up for her Subah prayers, had screamed loud enough to even wake up the neighbours. ‘Magal, bring some water!’ Habeeb sat on the floor with Nisha’s head on his lap. Gulfer sprinkled water on her mother’s unconscious face.
‘What’shappened to Umma, Vappa?’ Gulfer asked worriedly. Sano began to cry. ‘Why did Umma scream like that?’
‘I don’t know, magal. Nisha,’ he said, gently patting her wet cheeks to try and wake her.
Nisha’s eyebrows moved, her lips trembled. Drops of sweat began forming on her face.
‘Nisha, open your eyes,’
‘Umma, what happened?’
‘Who screamed? What happened?’ asked their neighbours. ‘Carry her in, brother!’ Haniffa, their next-door neighbour, suggested.
Habeeb and Gulfer carried Nisha in and tenderly laid her on her bed.
The neighbours went into the front room to speculate on the possible reasons that had caused her to faint.
Nisha slowly opened her eyes, her eyes were looking for someone. When she saw Thawakkul, she sat up and hugged her.
‘Allah, keep my daughter safe, my lord!’ she whispered weakly.
‘Why, Umma, what happened?’
‘Allah! Did none of you see that?’
Mystified, a few went out to the front and looked out.
‘Why, ma, there is nothing here!’
‘Allah, look by the well. Look at the mango tree!’ cried Nisha closing her eyes.
‘Ah…Allah!’
A white goat had been strung up on the tree, blood from its slit throat dripping into the ground. The piece of cardboard attached to its hind legs bore the legend in crooked letters written in blood, ‘This will be Thawakkul’s fate too!’
‘What is this, thambi! Who has done this? Why are they targeting Thawakkul?’ Haniff whispered, his eyes popping out. Everyone turned around to look at Thawakkul.
Thawakkul stood rooted to the spot, her face pale and her eyes reflecting her fear. This kind of undesired attention distressed her.
Habeeb decided to give his neighbours a quick sy
nopsis of their problems.
Unfortunately, these neighbours, far from being sympathetic, had obviously been waiting for just such an opportunity to reprimand Habeeb for his emancipated views. ‘I knew that such things would happen, thambi. Why must your daughter take on the work of the villagers’ welfare? If our daughters behaved with decorum, no one would dare to criticize us.’
‘Go to the police, thambi!’ suggested Seylabdeen’s wife, who lived across the road. She wrapped the edge of her sari tightly over her head. Her quavering neurotic voice irritated Habeeb, but he said nothing.
‘No one talks to the police in matters relating to young unmarried girls, Habeeb,’ piped up another neighbour. ‘That would be like washing dirty linen in public. Considering you have not one or two, but four girl children and no male child, if you pick a quarrel, you shall just be asking for trouble. You should all just get out of the village for a while.’
This was not the time for arguments or discussions and they all kept quiet.
By daybreak, theirs was the only house that was still steeped in darkness. Wearing his lungi folded in half so he was covered only up to his knees, Habeeb was digging a pit in the garden. Despite the cool breezes of dawn, his vest was soaked with the exertion. He was saddened to have to bury somebody’s goat that had been killed by some unknown person. He felt that the weight of the sorrows in his heart would push him into the grave he was digging.
Nisha was going through her morning prayers like an automaton. The macabre image of the bleeding goat hovered before her eyes.
Thawakkul was getting ready for her morning prayers.
The symbolism of the act of killing the goat was overtly explained by the words, ‘This will be Thawakkul’s fate too!’
‘What idiocy! What a low, dastardly act!’ was the thought in Thawakkul’s mind. ‘This is like deliberately scratching the skin to create a wound. This is Talibanism! Talibanism is not restricted to countries where they have units with that name, it has spread its tentacles into all Muslim societies. Do they have a special kind of DNA that has violence imprinted on it, or do they inject themselves with such blood?
Ummath Page 28