The aftermath
by Chathurani Ranathunge
Nonahamy stirred the contents of
the pot in a quick, vigorous movement. Taking a spoonful on her palm,
she tasted it and felt the soft milky aroma fill the stuffed, smoke
filled the kitchen. A blissful smile lit her deep wrinkled face. Wiping
the beads of sweat from her forehead, she lifted the pot of milk-rice
from the fire and laid it gently on the rickety wooden table.
 It was not the dawn of yet another January 1st nor was it the
auspicious moment to light the fire during a Sinhala Hindu new year. It
was sometime in mid June but it was indeed a special occasion for
Nonahamy’s family. Her only son was coming home. It had been four long
months since Amal left.
The long wait for his return had stretched on and on until Nonahamy
had found it hard to ask God for anything else but his return. Amal was
a soldier then, with a rank she could never quite remember.
Now he was a hero, and everyone remembered. Nonahamy carefully
flattened the milk rice on a tray laid with banana leaves, her hands
working skilfully as she smoothed the edges. Amal had always liked
milk-rice, she remembered and her mind drifted to good old days.
It had been an early January morning, some twenty years ago. Nonahamy
had been in the kitchen, hastily preparing breakfast when the
six-year-old Amal came racing towards his mother with an ear splitting “brrrroooooom”.
Nonahamy laid the tray of milk-rice on the table and eyed her son with
narrowed eyes. He was still in his vest and blue shorts, as she had left
him ten minutes ago.
It was his first day at school and he hadn’t bothered to put on his
shirt yet nor his shoes or socks. Before she could utter a word, Amal
had blurted out in a clear firm voice. “Amma, I heard there’s a big
playground at school”, he gazed at her with wide, delighted eyes. “Saman
told me”.
Nonahamy struggled to hide her annoyance. It’s the first day and all
he can think of is the size of the playground. Will he study at all? She
turned her back to him and sent a silent prayer to Gods above.
As Nonahamy had predicted Amal never turned out to be a hard working
student. Instead he eagerly divided his time between a number of sports
and other activities. The Gods had turned a deaf ear to her continuous
prayers, she thought. But she couldn’t dwell on her anger for long.
After all she was thankful for his safety. To everyone in the
neighbourhood he was a tall, lean boy with an unruly mess of dark hair
and an impish grin that never failed to charm the grandmothers but
Nonahamy knew better. He was strong willed, determined and rebellious
when he couldn’t agree, yet she loved him unconditionally. It was only a
few days from his twentieth birthday when the lurking storm finally hit
home. It came in the form of an official looking letter.
Nonahamy ripped it open with trembling fingers. In the days that
followed Nonahamy demanded, threatened, and finally begged Amal to
change his mind but he firmly stood his ground. In her struggle to
reason with her son, her husband never took her side, instead he kept it
all to himself, somehow knowing that it was useless to argue. In the end
no one could stop Amal from being what he wanted to be; a soldier and
Nonahamy had to give in. It was fate, destiny or karma as Lord Buddha
had preached, and she knew it was beyond her control. She was abruptly
brought back to reality by the sound of someone clearing his throat.
Nonahamy realized that it was her husband who had come back from his
visit to town. Drying her hands in her old, worn out skirt she made her
way to the small dining room adjoining the kitchen.
Her husband Sediris placed a parcel on the table. “Noné, I brought
the butter cake but couldn’t find the milk toffees”. He turned to walk
towards his room. “I searched everywhere for them”. Nonahamy glanced at
the table. It was now laid with plates of oil cakes, kokis, sweets, and
bananas. She had placed the tray of milk-rice at the centre. Nonahamy
called out to her husband.
“What took you so long? You left nearly two hours ago” “I met Loku
Hamuduruwo on the way back”, he replied going in to the sitting room
with the newspaper tucked under his arm.
During those dark, gloomy days when Amal was stumbling through the
thorny jungles in the north in his heavy boots and armour, Nonahamy was
dressed in her only white sari, treading carefully on soft white sand
with a basket of fresh flowers in her hands.
 She was a regular sight at the temple, a small forlorn figure who sat
hunched with her hands clasped together, mumbling inaudibly to herself.
At times, Loku Hamuduruwo would come to talk with her; knowing her
distress he would preach about karma, and about consequences of
attachment to loved ones.
Nonahamy would listen intently, nodding her head in agreement with
occasional “hmms” but she couldn’t help thinking, “What does he know
about a mother’s love to her son, after all, he doesn’t have children”.
Realizing that her mind had strayed, she would hurriedly try to
correct herself, fearing that Gods would hear her sinful thoughts and
take revenge from her son. Unknowingly, she became superstitious in
everything she did and Nonahamy tried to be good at all times thinking
that it would ultimately keep Amal safe. Nonahamy leaned against the
door frame and sighed with relief, reminiscing the not too distant past.
Somehow the war had ended and her son was coming home and that was all
that mattered.
He was the one small beacon of light in her otherwise insignificant
life. Suddenly, from the far corner of the street, a tall figure
appeared dressed in a blue short sleeved shirt and trousers, carrying a
heavy travelling bag in his left hand. Nonahamy called out to her
husband in delight, “He’s coming!” Nonahamy walked stiffly towards the
gate, blinded by her own tears that poured down her face. Sediris
followed her and suddenly stopped in his tracks. Amal walked steadily up
to his mother.
Placing the bag on the ground, he bent to ask for her blessings.
Nonahamy reached forward and ran her palms affectionately along either
side of his face and then along his shoulders and all of a sudden she
stiffened.
Her hand clutched hopelessly at his empty sleeve. Nonahamy looked up
to meet her son’s searching gaze and her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Amme”, he held her close with his one good arm and the old impish grin
softened his expression. Nonahamy gazed up to the Gods above. After all
he is safe.
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