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| Sunday,13 November 2005 |
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Short story War Wounds by Priyadarshana Jayamaha Amanda was off to school, she was a second grader, who attended a leading convent in Colombo. It was a sky clear morning promising a bright day although a torrential down pour the previous evening, had flooded the capital which is famous for garbage blocked drainage, It's early November, the onset of the northeast monsoon, when Siberian air flows in through the Bay of Bengal.
Instead it aggravated the situation. Tills A group of men were pausing with tills. As one could find many groups with tills gave due consideration to such groups. This group was of a unique kind as most had got either arms or limbs, amputated. Some were helped by crutches, wearing artificial limbs, some wore dark glasses covering their blind eyes and had cut marks or bruises on their faces. They told a sorry tale from their appearance but told a more pathetic one from their hearts. Which was caused by war wounds. Yes "War Wounds" the kind that never heals. They offered red paper poppies in singles and wreaths to the contributors. Some considered them mercenaries who employed themselves in the military as bread winners, to many, they appeared as a set of invalidated coins or victims of circumstances. To a few did they become heroes of their time who fought bravely at the expense of their blood and breath in military regalia. The gods could have certainly spared them the coins and a better fate. The war 'remnants' offered their lot to the mother and daughter when it was their turn. The lady unwound the power shutter of the front passenger door, as the smiling man offered two poppies with his good hand to the girl, another extended the till Amanda was told by her mother to drop a few coins to the till. "Who are they?, Why do they collect money? What are these flowers?, What has happened to them?". Countless queries were made by the second grader. The mother was uncomfortable, with these questions. She almost knocked the front car. She never thought that the question shot by her little daughter would cause nostalgia and rekindle a familiar forgotten feeling from her past that was filled with bitter sweet memories. They reached the school with great difficulty. She pulled over at the car park and stepped towards the convent chapel. Was it in retreat?, or in reminiscence?, may be it was in search of redemption, but the confused mind gave her no chance to figure out. A group of school girls were walking along the beach. They had come to visit a classmate in their April vacation; they were playful teenagers in their cheerful adolescence. The sea was calm as the south western monsoon was a month away. The screw pine grove demarcated the boundary of the seashore and private land, fishing rafts of the hamlet were returning with the day's catch of fresh sprats and varieties of small tuna, like herrings and barracudas. The girls were wading through the waves. Who wants to see the memorial of the world war pilot, asked Andrea. Me one, me two, me three, me four, the friends expressed their willingness simple and stupid, yet in their own special way. They walked a little northward along the shore and turned towards the high grown screw pine grove that gave the name to the lovely village. Minguella Appuhamy had burned down the temporary cadjan fence a few months ago, with the arrival of the calm sea season. The owner, Minguella was in his late sixties. He had snow-white hair, yet with thick black moustache and eye lashes. Further his features and complexion elevated his personality any person of his age would love to possess. All his children had migrated with their families. The old man lived with his wife and grandson who preferred to stay back. Unknown Soldier Andrea did not hesitate to enter the private land as she was certain the owner would welcome them. In the southern corner of the land near the screw pine trees stood the memorial. A work of sandstone, it stood around four feet above the grass with a cross carved on top which could only be seen from the overhead view. The epitaph read "God save the King" in three lines, below that the four letters LDJM appeared. The opposite face read "In Kind remembrance of J R Hall, Canadian pilot officer who died on 5th April 1942". Below that was a rough writing in the native language "nadunana hevayaku sihivenu pinisai", which meant in memory of an unknown soldier. Although it was not a work of art, the girls appreciated the simple elegance in silence that was broken by a radiant voice from behind. Mithra, the grandson of the landowner standing behind them had invaded their silence; the girls were taken by his handsome young outlook. He was simple, down to earth and friendly with everybody, giving real meaning to his name. Mithra attended a mixed school. He had many admirers and loved football. He never missed sea bathing with the village boys. For the rest of the time, he was a solitary man, every body loved and adored him. Andrea explained the intention of their visit and introduced the girls to the young man. With a pause he started a memoir in his spellbinding voice. Raid It had been a Sword Fish biplane of the royal air force, they nick-named the plane the "string bag" after the success it brought in the Toronto raid. There had been six of them flying to Ratmalana from Trincomalee on that Easter Sunday morning carrying torpedoes for a night raid against the Japanese carrier fleet, but the Japs who were famous to raise surprise were quicker to raid Colombo, he went on explaining. Unfortunately the string bags appeared on the scene to find them sitting ducks against Mitsuo Fuchida's air armada of roaring zero fighters who had the Pearl harbour fame. The poor fly boys took evasive actions which were not fruitful, all six were shot down. One pilot had died here while my great-grand-father and my grandfather had taken the other injured pilot and the air gunner to the hospital with the assistance of the villagers. Hey how do you know all this? Nimmi interrupted. My sister sent me a book that contains the details. War Memorial Now I doubt whether our good friend took us to show the memorial, or her cute lover boy, said Tovini mockingly. Wow! Wow!, Sounded the others. "What a perfect match" My! My!, Our princess had found her love at last said Nimmi. What's wrong with you? Questioned the girl, her tone itself explained that something was wrong with her and not with the friends. Was she in love?, may be. She was not sure. "Love at first bite would be sweeter than love at first sight". Hey I will never forgive you for that, threatened the poor girl. Some inner feeling forced her to continue, it was not obvious whether it was her heart or her head that forced her to do so. She always believed that the head was rational and the heart emotional, but in this case she felt the emotional heart had won over the rational head. Friends We used to meet each other in church, every Sunday evening as our grandmothers were good friends. I liked the small church that had a cadjan roof and wooden half walls. It had a picket fence as the facade, although the church is now modified with a permanent structure, it is an ideal place beside the sea for a Sunday evening mass. His grandmother wears cloth and jacket and always carries her bible in hand. She reads though her hand held magnifying glass to the small crowed as she was a frequent reader during the mass. I liked her amber pendent crafted of red amber found from the beach couple of centuries back. She is a very nice lady and likes me so much. Tea It was a fine evening; Andrea was enjoying tea with cookies in an estate bungalow in the hill country spending her post A/L vacation with her aunt whose husband was a tea planter. The childless woman loved her niece as of her own daughter. Things had been cool except the girl could not hear from her parents as the telephone had gone dead for the last few days. The military band played a mourning tune to break sensitive hearts in tears. All glittering brass instruments were covered in black linen. A charred body of a young handsome military pilot, covered in the lion flag was placed on the gun carriage. The pall bearers made their slow march, while an old man in tears carried a photograph of a smart youngman in ceremonial regalia. The funeral procession made its way from the church to the cemetery. A grandfather once proud of his grandson who would burry him one day was on his way to burry his adorable asset. Destiny had cheated the poor old man. "The last journey covered in a lion flag", a dream so few would dare dreaming of has come true. One who deserved a ceremonial wedding had been offered a ceremonial funeral. The coffin was lowered as the comrades paid their last salute to the "Last post". The gun squad fired "Three Volleys", chased the demons and opened the gates of heaven for the young soul. He was laid to rest with his great grandparents and his beloved grandmother in the family grave. The poor little girl was too late to learn about the tragedy. On her knees, she remembered the birth day card he once sent her. How strange, she could still recollect his writing. In lonely nights came so far. Caught a glimpse of a shooting star. To wish you not to be too far. Forget me not. -Mithra. Tears Her knees started to ache as she had been kneeling for long without any clue of time. Her thoughts were deeply with him and she could not hold her tears. Was he another termite who enjoyed a short flight that was killed by his inspiration? Could a noble inspiration kill a man? Perhaps, there could be fatal inspirations, she thought. She wondered how she found her war wounds and how they get buried in the past to erupt from nowhere to bowl you out. Her heart softened, she had found the solace that she expected. Mithra left his grandfather who never depended on him, but what about the others who left behind their dependants. Yes what about them? A few coins in exchange of a red poppy that symbolise their blood could mean so little, for so much they have sacrificed, she decided. She walked out with fresh thoughts after offering a short prayer for his soul. On her way home the radio played a classic that had a fine touch of piano. The voice of Elton John sang about a shot down pilot in his "Good Bye yellow brick road". |
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Andrea had tuned her car stereo to her favourite FM channel, and
matched the term "Colombo cookie" perfectly. Yet, her qualities
and temperament were diametrically opposite to her looks. The morning was
perfect except for the traffic that gave her a headache and the music did
not help her.
