Malini

by Robert Hillman

  The insect lights went out, not slowly but in an instant. Nanda reached out towards the boys and Banni and pulled them to her. They stood huddled close together in the darkness, scarcely breathing.

  Amal whispered, ‘Mama, what will we do?’

  ‘Just stay still,’ said Nanda. ‘Let’s sit.’

  They sat still for an hour or more. Gayan, with his knees drawn up, buried his head in his arms and whispered over and over the brief phrase he always repeated in times of dread. ‘I don’t care…I don’t care…I don’t care…’

  Amal had his own strategy for dealing with fear – a long, rambling story, also told in whispers, all to do with shooting his enemies and dropping bombs on their houses.

  Finally Banni said, ‘I am going back out to look for Sister.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Nanda.

  A faint scraping sound was coming from somewhere within this underground world, right on the edge of hearing.

  Banni whispered, ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nanda.

  ‘We must run!’ said Banni.

  ‘No. Don’t speak.’

  The boys hugged Nanda more tightly. Whatever was making the sound was moving towards them; with each passing minute, it grew a little louder. Was it a human sound? Nanda thought she could make out grunts of exertion. Gayan whispered, ‘Mama, it frightens me!’

  ‘Be still,’ said Nanda. ‘Be still and wait.’

  A voice came out of the darkness, too: a boy’s voice. What was the boy speaking about? Nanda heard the word ‘elephant’ distinctly, and ‘birthday cake’. What in the world?

  ‘…it was her birthday, you see…I have baked you a beautiful…lady elephant…Ha ha ha!’

  Banni whispered, ‘What is happening? Who is speaking?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Nanda.

  The raft crashed into the rock face with such force that it split in half. On one half, Malini with the two carry bags stayed wedged against the rocks; the other half was flung out into the current and spun in a circle before disappearing around a bend.

  The power of the rushing water was steadily nudging Malini’s part of the raft away from the rocks. She gambled everything and heaved first one bag and then the other up onto a broad ledge above the reach of the water, then jumped into the river just as the current seized the raft and ripped it away from the cliff face. Malini’s hope was that she could reach the tip of an overhanging branch before she was swept away. Shiva must have wished to honour her courage, for her grasp found a branch, and the branch held. Hand-over-hand, she hauled herself to the rock face and onto the ledge.

  She lay there, gasping. When she regained her breath, she wept. She couldn’t control it, howl after howl, and in the midst of her grief she called out, ‘Appa! You can’t ask me to keep going! You can’t!’

  If she was hoping for sympathy, she hoped in vain. The dense grey clouds above her opened and the rain came down in a torrent. She refused to move. She couldn’t possibly get wetter than she was already. She thought, Let the rain drown me. Let the stream take me. Let the world end for me. I will never find Appappa. I will never see Appa, I will never see Amma.

  Malini ‘All-will-be-well’ seemed further in the past than ever. But then her father’s smile came back to her: the smile he had worn on the day she overcame malaria. Nine years old she was, shivering uncontrollably for days, shivering and burning at the same time and so weak that she could not raise her hand to hold a glass of water. A sadhu had come to her bedside to bless her in the life she was about to enter, the life beyond life. Her mother on her knees in the corner of the room had wailed her heart out, cry after cry. The sadhu had said, ‘Everything here is finished for this child. She is awaited in another place.’

  Malini had suddenly glimpsed her father hold up his hand as if commanding the sadhu to be silent. And she had heard his voice: ‘The child is wanted here.’ The next day, the shivering passed, the burning passed. She saw the smile on her father’s face. And she heard his words, ‘You are wanted here, my beloved.’

  Malini roused herself. In her heart she sensed the grief that her sister must be feeling. It was almost painful, this rush of love for her Banni, the need to be with her, to hold her.

  The rain stopped, all at once and completely, as it did in most of Sri Lanka. Malini climbed to her feet and tried to get her bearings. The cliff rose before her, far too steep to climb. She explored a little further along the ledge, arms spread wide and fingers clutching the cliff face as if they were claws.

  She inched her way around a corner, and a second later was staring into the dark eyes of a boy in a Tamil Tiger uniform.

  The instant they saw one another he cried out, ‘Please! Sister, please!’

  Malini’s mouth opened in preparation for an almighty scream, but it stayed open without any sound coming from it. Rapidly she judged the danger she was in. The boy was seated on the ledge, which widened once around this corner. A gun lay across his lap, one of those guns that spat out bullet shells as it fired too fast to count – the soldiers who had driven her family from their town had carried guns like this. His right arm hung limply from the shoulder and the fabric that covered it was soaked in blood. His legs dangled over the ledge.

  ‘Who is with you?’ the boy asked. He was perhaps twelve years old, the same age as Thiaku, the boy soldier from Malini’s town, when he had been conscripted.

  Malini closed her mouth, but didn’t open it again to answer the question. She decided she was not frightened of the boy in the least. The gun, yes; this skinny boy, no.

  The boy said, speaking the Tamil of the far north, ‘Sister, help me or I will die here. You are of the faith. Do not let me die.’

  Malini, hanging precariously from the ledge with her fingernails biting into the cliff face, was in no position to carry on a conversation. But she said, ‘In my faith we don’t kill people with guns like that.’

  ‘I have killed no one,’ said the boy. ‘Not one person. I have never fired this weapon.’

  ‘Throw it away,’ said Malini. ‘Throw it away and I might help you.’

  ‘Throw it away?’

  ‘Yes. Into the river.’

  ‘Into the river?’ The boy seemed close to tears. ‘If my commander finds me without my weapon, he will shoot me.’

  ‘Where is your commander?’ said Malini.

  The boy looked away, his expression dazed. ‘He is dead.’

  ‘Then he can’t shoot you, can he?’

  The boy didn’t reply, but after a time he turned his gaze back to Malini. ‘A soldier must not lose his weapon,’ he said. ‘It is shameful.’

  ‘Then I cannot help you.’

  The boy pushed the rifle from his lap with his good arm. It fell clattering down the rocks and into the river.

  ‘There!’ he said. ‘Is that what you want?’ There were tears in his eyes.

  Malini said, ‘What is wrong with your arm?’

  ‘It is broken,’ said the boy.

  Malini left the other questions in her mind unspoken. It was plain that the boy was unable to move from where he sat. How he had managed to reach the place where he was now stranded, Malini could not imagine. But he would remain where he was until he died without her help. Or fall into the river and drown.

  Shallow steps hacked into the rock led up from the ledge to an opening in the cliff face: six or seven steps that you would only be able to climb with two strong arms to steady yourself. Malini could see the boy’s dilemma. He could not climb up the steps into what must be a cave, and he could not swim across the river with his broken arm.

  Malini knew that she couldn’t cross the river again with the two bags, but if she left the bags behind the children would starve.

  She asked the soldier, ‘Is there a cave at the top of those steps?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very big. It goes all the way through the mountain and back to the river upstream.’

  Ah, thought Malini, Shiva has brought me to this cave!
/>   She said to the soldier, ‘I will return to you.’

  ‘No! I plead with you in the name of my mother!’

  ‘Be calm, I will keep my word.’

  Malini made her way back along the ledge to the bags. She had the strength to pick up both at the one time, but the weight of two of them slung from her shoulders would make it impossible to get along the ledge. She would have to carry one at a time.

  With caution, she succeeded, her shoulders aching. She dumped the first bag beside the soldier. ‘If you touch the bag, I will leave you here for a hundred years. Do you understand me?’

  The second bag was heavier. She was only too aware that a tiny stumble would plunge her into the river. And this was the bag with the phone inside. If she lost that, she would be happy to drown.

  The boy was watching her get over the last part of the ledge with tears running down his cheeks. ‘My thanks!’ he said. ‘All of my family honour you with their prayers.’

  Malini unburdened herself of the bag and sat down on the ledge, completely exhausted. Once she had recovered her strength, she slung one of the bags over her shoulder and prepared to climb up the steps.

  ‘I will carry these bags up to the cave,’ she said to the boy. ‘Then I will help you up the steps.’

  The boy, still sobbing, told Malini that he didn’t want to be a soldier, that he hated being a soldier, but that they had forced him.

  Malini said, ‘That’s all very well. But if you can’t be a soldier, at least try to be brave. I have enough children on my hands.’

  ‘You have children?’ said the boy.

  ‘Perhaps. Now be quiet.’

  The cliff face leading up to the cave was steep, if not sheer. With the weight of the bag hanging from her shoulders, Malini had to press herself to the rock, using the steps like a ladder, one foot below, hand reaching up, then the next foot and the next hand-hold. She wouldn’t have believed it when she was scaling the cliff face, but once in the cave she had to admit it was worth the climb. The narrow opening to the cave betrayed how vast it was inside. The ceiling was as high above her as the top of a great satinwood. Stalactites grew down to the floor, while the stalagmites rose up and up. At this time in the afternoon the sun shone straight into the cave from the west. Malini stared about in wonder, murmuring to herself, But this is a miracle, this is magnificent…

  She climbed back down almost to the ledge, one careful step at a time. In truth, she didn’t know if she would be able to find the strength to help the boy up to the cave. She wondered what her conscience would tell her if she decided to leave him where he was. Because she wished she could leave him, she truly did.

  She looked at the boy, who was gazing up at her with the eyes of a wounded puppy.

  ‘This will be hard,’ said Malini. ‘I hope you have the strength. And I hope I do, too.’

  She told the soldier to stand upright, put his foot to the first step and hold on with his good arm. ‘I will lean down and take your hand,’ said Malini, ‘then you take the next step.’

  The boy did as he was told. Malini, flat on her stomach, leaned down as far as she could, almost half her body overhanging the lip of the cave. She grasped the soldier by the wrist. He took the second step, shielding his broken arm as best he could. At the next step he began to lose heart and wailed to the sky that he would surely die.

  With even more wailing, the boy was at last able to struggle into the cave. The first thing he said when his breath returned was, ‘Oh, miss, you are honoured by every god on the earth!’

  ‘Lie on your back,’ said Malini. She had taken the knife from the bag and was preparing to use it.

  ‘I am Kandan,’ said the boy. ‘And your name, miss?’

  ‘Call me “miss”,’ said Malini. ‘That is enough for you, for now.’

  She cut the sleeve of his camouflage shirt up to the shoulder. The blood on his upper arm had congealed, suggesting that the wound was not very deep. Nothing on the surface indicated a fracture, but Kandan screamed when Malini pressed her fingers against his upper arm. She cut the sleeve off completely, then tore it lengthways into three strips. She used Pepsi to wash the wound, dabbing at the dried blood with the hem of her sari. When she was able to see the wound clearly it became evident that it amounted to no more than a rough scratch. The bruising was the source of all the pain. She sprinkled some of the antiseptic powder she’d purchased from the peddler on the wound, bound it with one strip of fabric, then fashioned a sling with the other two strips. Kandan whimpered the whole time.

  Even as Malini bound his arm, Kandan could not help glancing, between screams, at the open bag from which the Pepsi and the knife had been retrieved. With his wound bound and his arm in a sling, he again let his gaze slide towards the food on show.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ said Malini. ‘How long since you’ve eaten anything?’

  ‘Hungry? Oh no, miss! I mean, yes. But I cannot accept your food. Three days, miss. With no food. Three days.’

  Malini had noticed what looked like a folded map protruding from one of the bulky pockets in Kandan’s trousers. She said, ‘I have an apple for you. And you have something I would like.’

  ‘Anything, miss!’

  ‘Your map.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, miss?’

  ‘You have a map. In your pocket.’

  ‘Oh yes! Mannikkanum, sorry! I forgot about that. But it is six maps, miss, not one. Six maps that show the whole district. The captain gave them to each of us, but I could not understand them. They are not like proper maps, miss. They are military maps – a great mystery to me!’

  Malini fished the wad of maps from Kandan’s pocket, glanced at them and put them into one of the carry bags. Then she handed Kandan an apple. He devoured it, core and all, in thirty seconds. She gave him three of the hard biscuits. He crunched them down without drawing breath. She allowed him to drink a little of the Pepsi. Then she said, ‘Tell me how you came to be here. Let every word be the truth.’

  Kandan accepted one more biscuit and another sip of Pepsi. Then he told his story.

  ‘We were conscripts, miss. Nine of us. Our commander was a captain. We came overland from the north to join the fighting on the coast. I did not want to be a soldier, but I had no choice. They wanted one from every family and my brothers were too young. My father said, If you die, we are honoured. Be brave.’

  Malini interrupted him. ‘How old are you, Kandan?’

  ‘I am twelve years old. I should be in school.’

  Malini shook her head.

  ‘Miss, I did not want to die. I want to see my mother and my father again. I do not like fighting. We had no time for training. I can fire my gun, that is all. Many times the captain struck me on the head for crying, but I couldn’t help it. I had to leave my rabbits behind. I had two English rabbits. I loved them, and now my mother will kill them and eat them. She thought they were foolish.’

  ‘Rabbits?’ said Malini.

  ‘I know. My mother said every day, This is nonsense.’

  Kandan began to weep. Malini wanted to laugh about the rabbits – she couldn’t help herself – but she managed to keep quiet, and even patted Kandan on the cheek, as a mother would.

  When Kandan had recovered, he resumed his story.

  ‘We came on motorbikes: two on each bike, five bikes. We were seen by a helicopter with red markings. Do you know what that means?’

  Malini said that she did not.

  ‘Commandos. Oh, they are hard soldiers! They fired at us and our bikes ran off the track. We ran then, as fast as we could. I hid in the forest but I heard shooting. I ran again, deep into the forest. Then I found the top of this cave – up there.’ Kandan pointed to the roof of the cave. ‘I climbed down into the cave – such a wonder as I ever saw in my life! That was two weeks ago – I think, I’m not sure. I was too frightened to come out. I ate all my rations. Three days ago I had to find water to drink and I came to this place above the river. Someone had made steps in the cliff, mayb
e a long time in the past. I climbed down to the ledge but the rain began, very heavy. And before I could climb back to the cave, a stone came loose up on the cliff and fell on me and struck my arm. Aiee – the pain! And then I could not climb back to the cave. I thought surely I will die here, but then you came!’

  Malini had seen young men from her town go off to fight in the war so full of confidence that they were telling stories of their bravery before they’d even seen an enemy soldier. Some of the boys, not all. The older ones, mostly. Young men could be turned into such dangerous creatures once a rifle was put into their hands! Those young men, they would do exactly what they were told, no matter how dreadful. But what of the conscripted boys who were like Kandan? No boy was ever ready for death – not for his own death, and not for the deaths he might inflict. Malini remembered Thiaku, whose soul had been destroyed by what he’d done, who’d looked at his hands and said, ‘Do you see?’

  But now it was time to find her way back to Banni and Nanda and the two boys. Malini packed the bags and told Kandan that he must lead the way to the opening of the cave upstream. ‘You have one good arm,’ she said. ‘You will carry one bag, and I the other.’

  Kandan was happy to oblige. As he led the way, one arm in a sling, the weighty carry bag slung over the shoulder of his good arm, he chattered without pausing, everything and anything that came into his head.

  Malini, anxious about her sister and Nanda and the boys, told Kandan to be quiet for five minutes.

  ‘Five minutes?’ said Kandan.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Exactly five? Then I can talk again? Oh, miss, I enjoy talking to you so very, very much! When I was a soldier—’

  ‘I said five minutes, Kandan!’

  ‘Of course. Manniththu vidunggal, excuse me.’

  Apart from talking an endless stream of nonsense, Kandan also had a talent for finding his way in the dark. Time and again he took Malini’s hand and led her around an obstruction – sometimes a pillar, sometimes a dip in the track. Once he stopped and suggested to Malini that she strike a match – he had noticed the matches in her bag.