Short story: May flowers

by Tharanga Weerasooriya

Being a Saturday and an evening the university bore the air and appearance of a public cemetery with its old and empty buildings looking like huge tomb stones. Of course on some of them one could read what they would normally find engraved on any grave stone.

Lasantha You died for our sake!?

On another wall it went on,

'In memory of our great heroes who shed their blood in their struggle against the suppression and neo imperialism'

The May trees which, when I was a student, offered a breathtaking spectacle with their bushy but not very tall tops covered with bright red and orange flowers now looked like skeletons without even a single leaf on them. They have now stopped producing beautiful and attractive flowers.

Few students could be seen wandering here and there, staring blankly into space as if they did not know where they were going; aimlessly. Girls hanging on the arms of their boyfriends look like some slender, helpless creatures that could not stand on their own feet.

Some boys who had placed themselves in and around a bench a little distance away from where we were sitting, were talking about something that seemed to highly interest them.

What are you thinking about?

Nimnas brought me back to the ideal world. Nimnas, yes she was the living incarnation of that goddess of beauty. Nimnas, she was my girl as beautiful and as fresh as a red and pink May flower.

What now seemed the world of the ideal was the world of the real then when I picked her up in the first few days in the university, from among a bunch of gorgeous girls when she was without paying much attention to the lecturer, playfully moving her head from side to side to look as if she took nothing seriously, when in fact she took things seriously.

On the second day when I was coming out of the lecture room, I managed to catch her by her hand and slip the poem I had written like an ode to her.

No one knows what your eyes are looking for

But I know they are looking for me?, the most creative work ever done in my life.

She hadn't taken it too badly. The following day a friend brought me a note to the hostel.

"Hey, did you ask Bambulatha anything" Eki told me to give this to you.? Bambulatha was her nick name.

"No one knows what my eyes are looking for

But I know they are not looking for a fool."

I didn't spare a second to answer back. Within the course of two weeks we were in love. The May trees were full of flowers.

After six years, though a lecturer now, I still come to the University with Nimnas to enjoy a moment of leisure on Saturday evenings.

Dreaming

"Are you dreaming?" I was disturbed.

"Yes, of a better tomorrow here"

"I know what you mean. You are thinking about that student's death, Lasantha?

Was I? I knew something was wrong somewhere, which was disturbing my peace of my mind. Yes, she was sensitive. Deep down, it was what was troubling me.

"How on earth can you kill one of your own colleagues in the same batch? Haven't they come here for the same purpose, education? She asked.

"It is the nature of politics"

"But what end are they trying to achieve by doing politics here?"

By now the students who had gathered around the bench seemed to have fallen into a heated argument over something. The rise and fall of the voice of different students could be heard though it wasn't very clear what was going on. I raised my head to see what was happening.

Nimnas continued,

"But, still there were people like you who knew what you had come here for."

"Yes most of these students are from poor backgrounds. They have got their priorities confused."

"What do you mean?"

"Rather than trying to change the system, why can't they make an attempt to change their attitudes; work hard for personal development? When each one makes sure that he develops his personality, society or rather the country in a wider context will automatically develop. Whatever it is, it is the individuals that make up society in the end."

"Easier said than done. Look! What is going on over there?"

The boys, who had been sitting on the bench, had also risen and they had now fallen in to two groups.

They were shouting threats and warnings at one another. One tall boy wearing a T shirt and denim trousers was pointing a pen knife in his right hand at a group of boys, who were keeping a little distance between the boy with the knife and themselves for fear of the knife, were trying to attack him.

Killing

"They are killing themselves once again, aren't they?" cried Nimnas.

One couldn't be so much sure whether the boy with the knife in his hand was trying to defend himself or was trying to attack them. The others on his side were standing a little afar as if they wanted to leave things to be handled by him alone.

The boys on the opposing side taking chances and exposing themselves to the risk of knife cuts made attempts to attack him. Obviously they got cut. One of them who felt a sudden sensation raised one of his arms and said he was bleeding. Blood was pouring down his arm.

When he saw the blood he sort of got wild and pounced on the opponent. But seeing the knife he held himself back. Another boy's neck was bleeding.

The boy with the knife in his hand, holding his head with his left hand still managed to keep his opponents at arm's length.

"Don't they have brains? That one has a knife in his hand."

Grabbing a chance one boy managed to attack the boy with the knife from behind. Getting the blow on the rear part at the back of his head he turned round and stabbed that boy in his stomach.

At first he didn't seem to feel the stab. When he attempted to attack the boy again he was conscious of some feeling in the stomach. He touched his stomach to see what it was. When he raised his hand to his face blood was running down his fingers. He uttered some incomprehensible phrases and holding his stomach with both his hands fell on the ground.

The boy with the knife was now aware of what was happening. He gave up the fight and with his colleagues began to run away towards the gate.

"Close the gate, tell the security people to close the gate."

"Don't let them run away."

Kill them, Roars came up from various directions.

Poor

On my way to his home I heard that he was from a poor family in a remote village, useless fellow, why couldn't he keep to his purpose?. Why couldn't he stick to his studies and work hard and be somebody? What end could he achieve by getting involved in university politics?

His parents would have had the same expectations like those of any other mother, for him to be educated, to do well in life. I tried to draw a picture of his mother, dashing her head against a wall, and mourning.

"Is this why I sent you to the university for"

Is this why I brought you up for?

Sir, we have come to the place. One of my student's woke me.

Many university students had come and were sitting here and there since there seemed to be nowhere to sit.

The new hut made of aluminum sheets and iron bars was occupied by more number of people than it could hold.

The small house which stood in the middle of a barren piece of land was itself a hut made of wattle and daub walls, thatched with coconut leaves. A deathly air pervated and there was a hush outside the house.

Proper door

When I entered the house I almost hit my head on the top part of the door frame. It didn't even have a proper door. Some people who looked like the boy's relations were sitting on mats, sobbing softly.

Some students were standing and gazing at the boy's face as if they were not sure whether the boy was what he had been.

One adult woman came forward and putting her two palms together welcomed me. Not a word was spoken. She silently withdrew to the place where she was sitting.

I saw the boy's face. I wondered whether it was the boy that I saw so vigorous when he attacked his opponent from his behind, now lying still and motionless. There was no hatred, enmity written over his face. It was that same village like innocent, yearning and pleading look that his face bore.

I looked round to see where his father and mother were and saw one woman pointing her finger at me and saying something to the woman who welcomed me. She stood up again and stepped towards me.

She was a short, brown woman and was wearing a sari blouse a piece of chintz. Her hair was awry and face was impassive. She bowed her head in an apologetical manner and asked me,

"Are you my son's lecturer

Yes? I said.

'Good sir I am Sahindu's mother'

I was taken aback by her manner; so plain and direct. She was not even crying. But I shouldn't exhibit my feelings.

"I know what you are thinking. I am not crying. After all why should I? My son fought for a cause. He fought with those who wanted to privatize the universities, those who wanted to deprive poor children like my son, maybe like you, of the free education system. At least now they will learn a lesson.

I know I have lost everything I had but the government and those who attempt to wipeout the free education system will not dare do that because of students like my son.

Thousands and thousands of poor children will still have free education, the only means for them to come up in their lives in this system. How many children from poor families have come to big positions in the country and abroad owing to this free education system, may be like you. Everyone will feel the scent of the good deeds he did. I'm proud of my son, good sir".

She lost control with an outburst of cry let out all the remorse she seemed to have held back. The writer is a lecturer attached to the Department of English, University of Sri Jayewardenepura.