It will be our home then.
CHAPTER 15
I awoke to the sounds of the city: honking horns, rush-hour traffic roaring along the road, buses braking, pedestrians chattering on the streets as they walked to work. I approached the young cleric and thanked him for allowing me to sleep there despite the great risk to himself.
I left the mosque and walked to a phone booth to call the office where my friend’s uncle would have my passport and ticket to Germany. Once I had them, I would be off to the airport. I dialed the number.
“This number is not in service.”
That is odd, I said to myself, not too concerned. I must have made a mistake. I consulted the phone number again and redialed.
“This number is not in service.”
I stared at the phone, confused. I dialed a few more times but kept hearing the same recorded message. What is happening? Why isn’t Jeya’s uncle answering the phone? It made no sense.
Okay, I thought. Think. What should I do now? There has to be a reasonable explanation. It’s fine. Not to worry.
I thought it through. First, there were no phones in Sangkaththaanai and therefore no way of getting in touch with Jeya to confirm his uncle’s number. Second, I only had the uncle’s number and not his address. Third, I didn’t speak Sinhala and I was utterly alone in a strange city in the middle of a civil war where I was the enemy. Suddenly my brain was running at a million miles an hour. If the Sinhalese find out I am Tamil, I will be robbed, beaten, or even killed.
I decided to look for my friend Nishan, who was living in Anderson Flats, an area of Colombo where a lot of middle-class Tamil families lived. When I got there, however, it was a ghost town. Burned-out cars and vans sat on the side of the roads. After the Black July riots, the Tamils had fled, and it seemed no one had returned. The neighbourhood was completely abandoned.
I wandered the city with no destination in mind other than a travel agent, who might be able to help me out. I must have walked for hours before my feet gave out and I flagged a bus and climbed aboard.
“Oba koheda yanne?”
I had no idea what he was saying, but I guessed he was asking my destination so that he could issue a ticket. I was scared of speaking Tamil, though, and instead pretended I was mute; I signed that I couldn’t talk and exited the bus at the next stop.
I walked for a long time in the streets and alleys. The city was busy and crowded with people. I was famished, and the aroma of food from restaurants made my mouth water, but I decided not to spend any of my limited amount of money until I had received my passport and flight ticket. Remembering the discipline at boarding school, I put my self-control to the test.
Sunset was approaching when I saw a crowd of people walking and clapping. I went over to find out what was going on. Galle Face Beach in Colombo was a well-known area for street performers. One performer bent backwards and inserted a slender two-foot-long sword into his throat and then withdrew it again with no harm done! Another swallowed gasoline, lit his mouth with a cigarette lighter, and spat out flames. The audience seemed very impressed, and the performers circled the crowd after each act, soliciting tips.
Other performers, however, were beggars. Many were missing limbs or suffered from other deformities — one man was blind — and obviously had no means for making a living other than doing tricks. One man with no legs simply dragged himself along the ground, begging. No one applauded and most of the crowd acted embarrassed and ignored him.
The sunset was magnificent: bright orange and red lit the sky like fire.
By now I was incredibly tired and decided to find a secluded place on the beach to sleep for the night. As I had the night before, I used my bag as a pillow, curling up in the warm, soft sand. Once I had made sure my money was still securely tucked away, I allowed myself to relax and lie on my back staring up into the sky, counting stars. I hadn’t eaten yet, but, frankly, fear and worry consumed me so much that hunger was not even on my mind. I was exhausted and fell asleep immediately.
Again, the noise of rush-hour traffic startled me awake.
Three days had elapsed since I had left home and I hadn’t eaten any more than those peanuts from the train. My stomach ached from lack of food. I had drunk only water from the taps on the streets. I felt dizzy and weak.
I was feeling desperate. I was downcast and discouraged. As much as I did not want to admit it, I realized that I had been cheated by Jeya’s uncle. To be betrayed by a fellow Tamil was difficult to accept. What I needed was a person I could trust. But who? I had no relatives in Colombo. And there was no way I could trust a stranger. Colombo had been the epicentre of the Black July riots. What was I to do?
With no real plan, I ended up walking the streets, first in one direction and then in another, not really knowing where I was headed or why or what I hoped to accomplish. I went to hang out in Gangaramaya Park near Galle Face Beach, where there were plenty of trees to keep me cool during the heat of the day.
By sundown I had lost hope. I went back to the same spot on the beach and fell into a troubled sleep. The bright twinkling stars seemed to mock my cloudy disposition. I thought about school, my home in Sangkaththaanai, my cousins and friends, my brothers and sisters, my mother. So far away, the stars seemed to be telling me.
I thought, too, of the soldier on the train. I thought of my dream of a new life in a place called Germany. A new life for me and for my family.
So far away.
I woke up more exhausted than when I went to sleep. I felt as stiff as a board and my stomach was tied up in knots. I was desperately hungry. I had not washed in four days, and I smelled. My hair was a mess. My clothes were wrinkled and dirty. I washed myself as best I could in the ocean, and while I dried myself off in the early morning sunshine, I thought about what I would do that day.
I took the picture my mother had given me from my bag. “Lord Shiva and Parvati,” I prayed, “I need your help.”
Once again I wandered the streets, without aim or purpose. I hung out at a park, looking for Tamil people who might help me. Colombo was so different than anything I had ever experienced. I finally understood the expression a fish out of water.
In my village, Tamil men always wore the thiruneeru and women put the pottu on their forehead and fresh flowers in their hair. The air was infused with the scent of jasmine flowers every morning, and the temple bells rang with the sound of peace and serenity. Families would go in groups to the temples or to the movies.
But the men and women I came upon in Colombo were different. They always seemed to be in a hurry. None of the men wore the thiruneeru, nor the women the pottu. Perhaps, I thought, some of them are Tamils who are afraid. The people I saw wore dresses, trousers, and shirts instead of traditional Tamil clothes like saris and sarong.
I wandered the streets as I had the day before, hoping to stumble upon someone or something that might help. I came upon a plaza in what seemed a nicer part of Colombo and on a whim decided to enter. It seemed like the kind of place that might have a travel agency.
It was becoming painfully clear that I had not been very resourceful up to that point. My plans had been haphazard at best. All my life, I had been an act-first-and-think-second type of person, but now my situation was truly desperate.
On my way through the plaza, I bumped into someone and muttered a hasty apology. Too late, I realized I had spoken in Tamil. I was seized with terror. Had I given myself away?
“Logathasan? Is that you?”
My terror turned suddenly to confusion. I stared at the young woman standing in front of me. She was smiling.
“Devi?” I could not believe my eyes! It was the young woman from the train.
She nodded and burst out laughing. “What are you doing here?”
I made a shushing gesture, my finger to my lips, and in a low voice I explained that I was terrified that I might be discovered to be a Tamil and beaten or killed. I might put her in danger as well.
She agreed and gestured wit
h her head for me to follow her. We went to a quiet place off the main road and made sure no one was around or within eavesdropping distance. “What happened to you? You don’t look good at all!”
I told her my story of how I’d been swindled. “So now I have no passport and no ticket to Germany.”
She was mortified and angry to learn that a fellow Tamil had cheated me. “Another Tamil did this to you!” she said furiously. “Shameful! Come with me.”
Since Devi lived in Colombo, she had grown up speaking Sinhala. And she likely had more experience dealing with Sinhalese than I did. She seemed confident, anyway; I was a nervous wreck. She grabbed me by the hand and practically frog-marched me to an office about five minutes away. Along the way, she asked me about what happened.
“Who is this Andrew?”
I explained that he was Jeya’s uncle.
She asked me who I gave the money and passport to.
“I gave it to Jeya and he transferred the money and sent the passport to his uncle.”
“When are you supposed to pick up the ticket?”
“This week,” I said. “But the number I have is not in service.”
She frowned and nodded. “Give me the number.”
I must have looked completely confused. She explained. “Much of the business in Colombo operates … under the table. Do you understand?”
“No.”
She smiled. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I will see what I can do.”
She made a few phone calls while I patiently sat there. It only took a few minutes. “Meet me here tomorrow, ten o’clock” she said. “I have to go.”
I walked back to the beach, where I felt safe and blended in with the beggars, performers, and spectators. I continued to act like I was mute and avoided speaking to anyone. I was starving and weak, but I was no longer hopeless. I believed Devi would help me. I decided my priority had to be making myself stronger for my trip to Germany. I found a cheap street vendor and bought rice and two curry dishes for ten rupees (thirty-seven U.S. cents). The food was folded in banana leaves and wrapped in a piece of newspaper. The rice and curry warmed up the banana leaves, creating a pleasant, almost intoxicating aroma. I was so hungry I was drooling as I unwrapped the newspaper and folded back the banana leaves.
I ate as slowly as I could, meaning to savour each and every tiny bite, but it was no use; I gulped down half the meal very quickly. I did manage to stop, though, and forced myself to save the rest for later despite my hunger. Already, I could feel my spirits lifting. I felt warm inside and stronger.
I placed the remaining half of my meal inside my bag and resolved to eat no more until bedtime. For the rest of the day I wandered the streets but now more as a tourist would. I told myself that by the next day, I would be on my way to Germany and a new life. Even though Colombo was almost as exotic and unfamiliar to me as Germany, it represented my old life and I wanted to enjoy it as much as I could before I left.
That night I went back to the beach and, after enjoying the rest of my rice and curry feast, went to sleep happy and excited.
The next morning, I awoke early, even before the cars and buses, and bathed in the Indian Ocean, then let the sun’s rays dry my body. I was impatient and anxious, but when the time came, I walked back to our meeting place and waited for Devi. A car pulled over next to me, and the driver asked me to get inside. Devi waved from the back seat. There was a man in the car, and he waved to me in greeting as well. I jumped in and we drove off.
Devi did not introduce her companion, and I decided I would just sit in the car and keep my mouth shut. He was tall and very dark. He wore a short-sleeved shirt and dark trousers and looked very serious. He and Devi were speaking in Sinhala, and I assumed he was Sinhalese. I had no choice but to trust Devi.
The car seemed rather new and luxurious. I assumed Devi’s family was very wealthy. She also seemed to have a lot of connections.
Devi and her companion were talking animatedly. She seemed fired up about something. Yet my stomach was churning because of my fear of the unknown.
About a half-hour later, the car pulled up suddenly in front of a small hotel. The driver and Devi’s companion exited the car quickly and ran inside.
“What is going on?” I asked.
Devi didn’t answer me. A minute or two later she threw open the car door and jumped out.
“Come with me,” she commanded.
I got out of the car and followed her.
In the hallway the driver and Devi’s companion were banging on a door. A man opened the door. He was very tall, clean-shaven, and dressed in a smart suit and tie.
“Gaman balapatra saha mudal koheda?” Devi’s companion yelled in Sinhala.
The man looked confused.
“Paspottum kasum enke?” Devi also shouted in Tamil. Where is the passport and money?
The man suddenly looked very scared. I think he had expected the person knocking at the door to be his driver. He had a small piece of luggage at his side. The two men were yelling at him in Sinhala. I didn’t know what they were saying, but the man put his hand up and sat down on his bed. They continued to argue for about five minutes.
Devi explained to me that the man sitting on the bed was Jeya’s uncle, Andrew, and that he had sold my passport to someone else. However, she said, he had been convinced by the driver and Devi’s companion to return my money.
I was badly shaken. “Without my passport, how can I go to Germany?”
Devi was furious that a Tamil had robbed another Tamil. “You are despicable! You are worse than a thief!” she told him.
Andrew finally agreed to make some calls. On the phone, he was talking vigorously, and his tone seemed to swing from angry to solicitous. Finally, after about fifteen minutes, he told us that he had some good news. He had found the passport.
“Where is it?” asked Devi.
He told her the address and Devi instructed the driver to pick it up and come right back. Meanwhile, Andrew wrote a cheque for twenty thousand rupees and handed it to Devi.
“Thank you,” Devi said.
Andrew did not look pleased.
Devi told her companion to stay with Andrew and me while she went to the bank to cash the cheque. Andrew did not apologize to me, and he hardly looked at me. He just sat on the bed and stared at the ceiling. If he felt any remorse at all for his theft, he didn’t show it. I guess this is what life was like for some. I realized how naive I had been.
When Devi returned with my twenty thousand rupees, I was overjoyed. I thanked her over and over. Still, I was wracked with worry. What if the driver never returned?
A few hours later, however, the driver returned with my passport. Unbelievable!
I thanked Devi and she said not to worry. Then she said that she had to leave because she was moving to France the following day and needed to pack. And just like that, she left.
One of my true regrets in life is that I was too stunned by all that was happening, I forgot to ask Devi for her contact details. I never had a chance to thank her for her selflessness. She had only met me briefly once in a train, but in a very real sense she saved my life. I only hope that someday she might read this and realize how grateful I am to her.
Back at the beach that night, I slept fitfully. It seemed every fifteen minutes I startled myself awake to check that my passport and money were secure. For most of the night I slept on my back with my hand over my pocket, where I had tucked my passport.
The next day, I was set to buy my ticket at the travel agency when the agent informed me that I needed a sponsor to bond my passport. The agent understood Tamil and could explain the requirement to me. It sounded very complicated, and I had no idea how in the world I could find someone authorized to be my sponsor. I was devastated. What was I supposed to do? I knew not one soul in Colombo except Devi, and I had no idea where she lived. And anyway, she was on her way to France.
Once again, I felt my plans collapsing. How was I going to find a sponsor in a city w
here I was not only a stranger but a despised Tamil who feared for his life? And even if I could find someone to bond my passport, it would cost me a fortune — maybe more than I had. My sky-high hopes crashed headlong into a black despair.
Then I remembered Jeya had once told me that his sister worked at the Bank of Ceylon in Colombo. Perhaps she could help me! When I was fourteen years old, I had visited Jeya and his family during the summer holidays. I didn’t remember the address, but I knew that they lived in a town very close to Colombo called Mattakkuliya.
I started walking. It turned out to be about a two-hour walk from Galle Face Beach.
Mattakkuliya was not as prosperous as I remembered it from my first visit. Many of the nicer buildings now looked abandoned or dilapidated, and some had burned down. It had once been a very busy area, but it was now rundown and mostly empty. Garbage was strewn everywhere.
I managed to find Jeya’s family’s home. The front part of the roof was burned, and some parts had fallen to the ground. However, their house looked intact. I hesitated at first, then decided to knock on the door. A young lady opened it, and I told her that I was looking for Jeya’s sister.
“I am his sister,” she said. “Nalini.”
I didn’t recognize her at first, but she recognized me and smiled. She told me to come inside before anyone saw us.
Nalini told me more about the Black July riots of a year and a half before. Gangs of thugs had burned down the Tamil houses and shops and beaten up any Tamils they could find. “Many were killed with machetes like animals,” she said. She told me she was petrified to live there.
I asked her why she stayed.
She stared into the distance and shrugged. “It is my home.”
“I have no intention to stay and be killed with a machete,” I said.
“No,” she agreed. “Boys and men are targets. You are not safe. But it is not safe for girls or women, either.”
I had heard stories about thugs hunting down and raping women. I quickly changed the subject and told her about my situation.
The Sadness of Geography Page 9