An owl's cry

By Dilshan PERERA

Every eye is wet with tears. A poor mother is lamenting over her son's demise. The atmosphere is gloomy and passive. Yet Maduri, his wife did not cry nor did she lament. She stared vacantly, undisturbed at the unknown future.

What will happen to her? How can she accept that she has become a widow at a very young age? What will she tell her two year old daughter who is playing happily without knowing anything about her father's death? Senerath is no more. He will never come back. "Accept the truth; your husband will never be at your side even if you want him to be", she found her inner voice repeating.

"Are you out of your mind Victor? How can you agree to your daughter's wish? I can't believe you can even think of giving your one and only daughter in marriage to a soldier." She heard her mother's temper rising. "Now, now, you should be proud to have a son-in-law who happens to be in the forces; Think how gallant it is. He is a hero. Everybody respects him. I think you should learn to be proud him," her father said in a tone hoping that this conversation would end without a quarrel. "I will never allow my daughter to make the same mistake I have made; you cannot even think how much I suffered when you lost your leg. You never thought it was heroic then, did you?" She heard something slam on the table. Then her mother stormed out of the room in tears.

Maduri entered the room with guilty feelings over her parents' argument. She perfectly knew it was all about her. Her father agreed wholeheartedly to the relationship between Senerath and her. But her mother objected it vehemently. She said that she didn't want her daughter to suffer the same miserable fate as she, having married to a soldier whose life is always at stake. She perfectly knew that if Maduri loses her husband, she would never be able to cope with it. Maduri was not interested in any of her parents' reasoning. Only thing that influenced her decision was love.

"Love is blind." "Says who?" She asked in a childish manner. "Me," replied Senerath with an equally boyish tone. "They laughed heartily. If I ever marry some one, it would be none other than you." She pointed a finger at him.

Several years after this conversation Maduri lays clad in white in front of her husband's corpse. He lays motionless, the smile across his face no longer there.

"He died a hero." She heard someone saying. A massive crowd has gathered to pay their last respects to this hero who died in the battlefield. Gunshot wounds were never found on the back of his body. It was a grand funeral. Many army personnel were present to pay homage to this bold soldier who has been their colleague. They wished the widow of their dearest friend, their deepest condolences. Yet she did not drop a single tear.

"She is a stoic woman, she can bear any grief", an elderly woman said. "I feel sorry for the poor child; she will miss her father." At this moment a silent tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She began weeping with uncontrollable sobs.

"Who will take care of my daughter? How can I be both father and mother to her?" she asked from the gathering, wearing a blank expression at this sudden eruption of tears. No one could answer her. Not even the wise old men. She cried hoping her misery would be washed away by her tears. She knew that nobody had an answer.

Every day after putting her daughter to sleep, she sat in front of the television with a pounding heart to watch news, hoping against hope to hear that they have finally stopped fighting. Whenever she heard that war broke out she silently prayed that her husband would be lucky enough to come home unharmed. He has been lucky twice. Very lucky to be alive and come home, to visit his beloved wife and daughter; but not this time.Senerath did not have time to say how much he loved them before the bullet pierced his body. He died a gallant death. Yet he died as any other would die fighting against his enemy. They won the battle; but he lost his. He will never be able to see his wife again. Little Sanju will never be able to play with him. He will never see her grow up. Will she ever remember him? Will she hate him for leaving her without even telling good bye. Nothing can be changed now.The bullet does not understand whether what it is meant to pierce is black or white; friend or foe. It will perform its duty on man, woman or child alike. It is meant to kill, and so has it killed not one, but a whole family.

Senerath had the privilege of having a noble funeral. Many speeches were delivered admiring his heroism, love for the country he died for. They mentioned that his wife and child will never be forgotten. Their future will be taken care of. It would have been a great relief to him if he were listening to these speeches.

All this while little Sanju was looking at her mother who was gazing blankly at an owl who has been looking at them seated on a branch of a tree. Her mother was given compensation as gratitude to her husband's heroism. Sanju will never understand how money can replace her father's loss. Her mother would tell her that it is irreparable, if she ever asked.The owl hooted once again as it did on the day when her father's death was announced.

Unlock the door

Dear readers,

While rummaging through my inbox I came across this very unorthodox - what shall I call it - a short story? Although it's very concise, it seems to possess several layers of underlying meaning.

I am not an expert in short stories and was wondering whether our readers - amateurs and pros alike - would be interested in helping me crack this story.....

Please send in your comments through email or snail mail.

************

The Key

By Asantha ATTANAYAKE

Shouldn't we get together to do something from our side as artistes? We shall do an exhibition of a different sort. I'll tell you, we can collect something from everyone for the exhibition.

A totally different territory, a totally strange domain.

In my own island, in my own home.

How could I not know?

How could I be so blind?

I, a so called writer-cum-translator, wrote ardently and translated passionately about the racial discrimination in South Africa, the traumatic apartheid that made people treat their own kind like animals.

Separate schools to study, separate beaches to play, separate restaurants to eat in, separate, this, separate that....How very passionate I was when I was possessed by each character? Digging deep into their beings, delving deep into their souls, to feel them, to know them, to give them the bliss of understanding of being totally understood.

And all the time blind to what was happening right under my nose.

Stupidity. Nothing but stupidity.

Is it?

Or, could it be ignorance?

But what difference would it make?

The exhibition.

People brought something from their memory. Something from their past, that they have been clinging to, they have being clutching with greed, with so much fervour.

Unable to let go.

Unable to let lose.

A doll with a broken leg.

Ashes of a loved one.

A worn dress.

A tiny shoe.

A key.

Oh, the key!

They locked the house in haste, for they had been asked to do so quickly, just to run away from the enemy. Temporarily, of course, for peace was to be restored as soon as possible.

After twenty five years, the key was still with them. Till we went.

They trusted us.

For they gave the key to us.

To exhibit.

Explosions!

Roofs came down to the earth and the earth went up to the sky. False hopes never die, for if they die, you will also die.My imaginary island had cozy homes for everyone.When we all go to my brother's house for a weekend or so, just for a change, my mother says; 'forget the house' when my father insists that he needs to go home, just to check on, in case.Let anybody take anything, I don't care, for all my loved ones are here with me now. So don't bother, she says to my father.But he goes nevertheless. He goes in the morning the seven mile distance and comes back in the evening. With a triumphant smile on his face.My mother would return that smile, in her own way of course.

And my father would give the key to her.

A grasshopper Laments

On rainy days I sing
The songs I wrote for my love
I sing with a plea full voice
For her to hear and come back
In to my life

My laments and my wailings
My pain and my joy
My everlasting love for her
And the story of our love
I sing my songs filled with emotions
For my love to hear me
And come back to my life

Nisansala Dharmasena
 

Contrast

When I'm engaged in my studies,
Poring over the lecture notes,
Leafing through the text books,
Working sums,
And taking copious notes,
About important facts and points,
I'm irresistibly tempted,
To let up my efforts,
And relax for a while....

The moment I put away,
Those books and notes,
And let my thoughts roam,
Like a footloose wanderer,
I feel myself like a cloud,
Floating freely across,
The borderless, boundless blue....

But just when I pull my mind,
Back to my lecture-notes,
And resume studying,
All my happiness fades away,
Like an evanescent flower....

Jayashantha Jayawardhana

Teacher

Brain full of education
Stuffed with memories to the utmost,
Mind full of thought
Squeezing and squirming to get out,

Me, the most, the best,
The angel to be.
Zoomed in by morning train
To their grim world, to give them all.

"The crops destroyed for the rain"
"We couldn't sell onions"
"No money for books"
"Teacher we are hungry"

The vacation arrived
To drive 'The one' home,
Graduated with honors
In their subject "life"

Chintha S

Rain!!

Nourish us; the earth
Or otherwise,
Where is flora and fauna?
Have to starve and will be steamed.
Limit and Halt!
Galore of you
Give floods and storms
You wash away all of us
Unlimited. All good and bad.
Be Reasonable you.
Don't be too lavish or too stingy,
But, Keep to a limit.

Esala Erangi Malawithanthri