The plumeria tree

By Parvathi ARASANAYAGAM

The shadows were lengthening in the large garden filled with tall, thick-barked trees with winding creepers weaving a pattern of secrecy and silence. Even during the day, when the rays of the sun were strong and unwavering, the garden managed to maintain its sense of privacy. The colonial-style building set in the middle of this garden was now a guesthouse for both local and foreign visitors. The guests would come at all hours from airports and railway stations, bringing their luggage with them. Sometimes their faces would be travel-weary. They would rush to their rooms after signing in. Accommodation was scarce in the city, most of the boarding houses and apartments being filled to capacity. Inland travel had increased, with many refugees seeking shelter in the city. Identity cards and identification papers were essential when one signed in at the guesthouse. Mrs. Vanda ran the guesthouse very efficiently. The large oval shaped centre table was polished and gleamed with a dull glow, while vases of flowers adorned each dining table. Magazines and past copies of The Reader's Digest were found in the book case outside, there was a long verandah overlooking the garden.

It was always with a sense of relief that the Shan's reached the guesthouse with its sprawling verandas and thick-walled rooms. They would relax on the large, comfortable chairs and spend a few moments glancing at the shadowy garden filled with Burma teak trees and clinging Vines. There was also a pond filled with gold fish and water hyacinths. During the day birds would swoop onto the pond in search of insects and fish. Strangely, the fish kept multiplying in spite of being consumed by the foraging birds that sat on the branches gazing at the greeny-brown water. There were many varieties of flowers in the garden. Bougainvillea bushes grew untrammelled in it and barbetons, chrysanthemurns and roses grew in clusters. Was this world separated from the realities outside its walls?

The Shans were aware of the unstable conditions in the country, A bomb had exploded in the city. The evening sky filled with billowing smoke as people rushed to their homes or lodging houses. New checkpoints were opened in the by lanes. The main road leading to the guesthouse was now closed and one had to use instead the side road that ran parallel to it in order to reach the guesthouse. The turbulence in the city had not deterred the Shans from attending the literary event which was to be held at the Language Centre that evening. When they arrived in the city they observed that it was deserted. A few crows flew in the smog-enveloped sky. The desolation which Meera saw in the city reminded her of her university which had been closed for sometime.

The literary evening, however was a success. The young poet, who was also an actor and journalist, sat in the shadows listening to someone present a paper on multiculturalism.

Later, he too sat on the stage and read poems on war and violence. His voice was resonant and radiated feeling and emotion as he described images of war, death and violence.

The audience was transposed into another sphere.

The evening ended with waiters in crisp white uniforms serving refreshments. Meera observed the young poet standing with a group of friends in the shadows. Outside, the ornamental plants in the Language Centre's garden gleamed softly. The moon shone in a static inky-blue sky. Everything was silent except for fragments of conversation filtering from the open veranda. The bougainvillea bushes, temple-flower trees and Queen of the Night , merged in the darkness. Abductions and deaths were recurring themes at the literary evening, yet no one imagined that the young poet-journalist would himself be a victim of violence and terror not long afterwards. The smoke over the city had not dispersed in the night air. The acrid smell of burning was concealed by the sea breezes that swept over the nightscape.

The invitees stayed on, in little groups. The conversation shifted to recent events. A curfew was to be imposed at 10.00 p.m. and the guests gradually departed. The crunch of gravel could be heard receding in the distance while the whirr of an engine echoed in the still air. Vehicles rushed shiftily and silently through the deserted streets.

The family reached their lodging at about 10.00 p.m. They waited while the security guard emerged from his little room. The road was silent. Suddenly the street was bathed in the headlights of a vehicle. Someone called out tersely, "what are you doing?" Mr. Shan blinked and took a second or two to realise the significant of the question. "We are visitors...we are only going to the guest house". This seemed to satisfy the occupants of the vehicle which drove off swiftly into the night.

Soon they were all seated in the veranda of the guest house, talking of the evening's events. "Wasn't poetry reading inspiring?" Meera said, thinking of the young poet who brought life into her mother's poem. "He reads into the text. He brings out so well the violence and inhumanity that your mother writes about".

The conversation continued as the take-away meal of thosai, chutney, vadai was brought out. The young reader would soon be ruthlessly eliminated. But at that moment Meera was thinking of the evening ...of the stage bathed in a golden aura, the potted plants and the voice reaching out into an endless timescape.

Now the family had to deal with the realities of alienation and desolation. Mr. Shan dipped bits of thosai in the chutney. He enjoyed the meal immensely. He hadn't eaten thosai for ages. In the past, things had been so different. He used to talk nostalgically about his childhood in the North, where platters of thosai were served at home. His mother now lived in a flat in the suburbs of the citv. Her days were measured by the dull routine of meal times and long periods of sterile

Silence. In the past achchi had made most of the decisions. Now she assumed a subordinate role. Years ago, when Meera and her sister visited achchi in her family house, she would rush to the avocado-green fridge and take out a bottle of Necto. She would then mix it with milk and serve it to them. Times had changed. She spent most of the day now gazing at the birds and squirrels rummaging for food in an untended garden.

Chris Shan was glad that the evening had been a success. She had read some of her own poems-poems dealing with both the past and the present.

The political canvas had now become more complex with new strands being woven into it. Individuals who had hitherto been uninvolved were now being drawn in. Everything had become so complicated. She was aware that the dinner was not sufficient for Shan. The thosais were small, quite unlike the large, plate-sized ones found elsewhere. At home, Mr. Shan had attempted to make a few thosais from an instant packet, but they had not turned out well. "It all depends on the mixture", said Mrs Silva, a friend who magically turned out dozens of thosais and idlis. There was also no way of purchasing more food. Everything was silent outside. Meera wondered 'what had happened to the vehicle they had encountered outside the guest house. She recollected an incident which occurred a few days previously which revealed the missions embarked on by different political groups. This had taken place in her home town of Kandy.

It had been late. The Housing Scheme was silent. Suddenly, Meera heard the sound of a motor bicycle just outside her gate. "I wonder who it is...' she thought to herself.

An unofficial curfew was now on. She thought she heard the gate creak open. Visitors. A t the time of the night? She peered through the half opened window and heard the sound of the motor cycle engine in the darkness. Suddenly the entire room was flooded with the headlights of the motorbikes, reminding her of the searchlights which swept over the northern seas in search of unauthorised boats. Fear engulfed her. She did not know who these visitors were. On what mission were they?

She continued peering at the scene outside. A lone rider sat on a bike. His companion had disappeared. His flesh coloured T shirt shone in the night. His face was hidden in the shadows. Meera was assailed by a sense of fear. She did not know who these people were. And yet she knew that they were on some mission. They did not seem to be concerned about the dangers of travelling in the night. Soon she heard the engine start up and saw another man, the rider's companion, arrive in the darkness. He was carrying a small package. He got into the bike quickly and they immediately disappeared into the night.

She had heard abductions and disappearance. Her friends in the Hall of Residence at the university had warned her about walking alone, even on campus.

" Students are picked up...many disappeared without trace" Images shifted in from the past. 1971. The silent Housing Scheme. Sitting on a grassy embankment, watching the white Kohas in the sky. Eating butter beans and rice. A birthday party in May. In 1989, Bucket lanterns lit in the garden at Vesak time. And then images of violence. Each day marked with few strategies of survival. Buckets of rain water filled because of the water -cuts imposed by the proscribed Party.

The deserted roads, bloated bodies in waterways, mutilated faces, and death. Nightfall. The sound of vehicles traversing the road. Uncertainty mingled with fear. A silence which spoke of death.

"Shall we order a pot of tea?" says Mrs Shan. All the shops are closed. There is no way of buying more food. Fortunately Perumal the room boy is still awake. He brings them a pot of tea which is most welcome.

As they drink the hot tea, they lapse into silence. "l wonder whether there will be a curfew tomorrow," says Meera. "We can catch a bus if there is no train," says her mother. Suddenly they see someone staring at them from the adjoining verandah.

"May I join you?" a foreign woman says. "I feel lonely." . The family invites her to join them, and their visitor climbs over the half-wall that separate the verandahs. She is tall, and her head is wrapped in a turban. She smiles at them. "I guess you're from Sri Lanka," she says as she sits in one of the bucket chairs. "Yes, we are," says Chris, looking forward to sharing the evening with someone interesting.

"We are from Kandy ... we came to Colombo for a poetry reading. . ."

"I'm glad I met you," the visitor says. "l was dying for company." She gladly accepts a cup of tea.

"Everything's so quiet here," she says. "l love sitting here, spending hours admiring the plumeria trees." She waves her hand towards the darkness...... The family look at her, surprised. Whatever did she mean by plumeria trees? Were these trees a mythical construction, an imaginary tree which grew out of her imagination? Something which gave her meaning in a world which had become uncaring and selfish?

Plumeria. Meera had not heard of this flower. And yet she knew that it existed in the garden. The visitor looked at her incredulously." Haven't you seen plumeria trees? They grow so abundantly in the garden."

"Is there another name for this tree?" asked Meera. The visitor thought for a moment. "I only know that they are called plumeria trees..."

"We'll have to wait till dawn to identify the trees," said Rani, Meera's younger sister.

As time passes the visitor becomes more voluble about her past. She becomes more agitated and distracted. Her eyes gleam, winking in the darkness. She looks like an oracle, reading the past, the present, and the future. She has answers to unspoken questions.

"You have been refugees," she says unexpectedly. The Shans stare at her, surprised. "Yes," she says, "I know. You carry with you the baggage of the past. You still look weary and apprehensive."She also talks about her own past. And the uncertain present. The plumeria trees are her friends. They are landmarks in her journey in this island. The trees communicate with her in this urban landscapes surrounded by emerald green seas and sandy beaches-deserted at this hour.

"I left a monotonous life back home," she said. "I worked for many hours in the basement of a hotel, washing dishes." Her arms suddenly look like thick, sturdy branches. Even her fingers look gnarled and worn out. "I hated them," she suddenly said. What did she mean by this comment? Was she referring to the owners of the hotel or to the plumeria trees? Suddenly realization dawned on Meera. She was referring to her employers back home. "I sweated for hours and hours, washing plates and dishes. Scrubbing pots. My hands were covered with dishwater as I stooped over piles of unwashed cutlery and crockery. I was paid only a few dollars per hour." She suddenly winks. "You know exploitation of the desperate."

"Didn't you gain anything by this experience?"M eera asks her. "I think I only gained sufficient money to pay for the trip to this island," she says wistfully. "Upstairs, the diners would arrive dressed in the latest designer clothes, sip wine, and enjoy their expensive meals. We worked for hours in that hell hole."

"Didn't you want to change your place of work?" asks Meera. "There was no way ", says the visitor."I needed the money."

The conversation keeps drifting to her past. "I escaped, didn't I" she tells the family. "Moved out from my self constructed prison. I'm free."

Her hands stretch out like branches Meera is reminded of the writer earlier that evening. His hands stretching out to a spellbound audience. Constructing images of violence and death.

"I had no sympathy from my employers," she says.

"They got us to work long hours; they knew that I was desperate." Her voice sounds dislocated in the verandah. Outside, there is deep silence. "I escaped. Moved out."

Her face becomes contorted. "l have seen and heard many things," she says evasively Suddenly she is no longer talking about plumeria trees or the past, but about blood in a boat she was travelling in.

"Ram was my lover," she says. "He belonged to a militant group. I met him when I visited the North."

"Where is he now?" Meera asks her.

"I don't know." Her brown eyes become distant. The boat in which she travelled was attacked in mid-ocean. "I managed to survive because I was from another country", she says, as she recounts her experience.

"What became of Ram?" Mr Shan asks her. "Ram?" she looks at him bemused. "That was not really his name; he went by another name, Krish.,,

"Do you know where he is?" repeated Meera.

"No, he disappeared. I managed to survive because of my passport."

"And yet you wait", says Mrs Shan.

"Yes, I wait in hope."

"ln hope?" I echo.

She hears the gate open. Her head cranes forward.Silence follows. "And what do you hope to do next?', Mrs Shan asks the visitor. "I will wait till he arrives." "We hope that you'll succeed in your mission. She smiles. "I will succeed."

A passing vehicle bathes the garden for a moment in light. She points to a tree. "There it is-the plumeria tree. ,Meera is able to see the tree. "It's a frangipani tree, she says, reminded of the trees which grew abundantly in their garden in Kandy.

"There are many names for one item in life, says the visitor. "Each side believes in its mission."

Meera is unable to comprehend the future. Tomorrow she returns to Kandy.

Years later Meera thought of their Canadian visitor for she was Canadian-who spoke of the plumeria bees. Had she found out the whereabouts of Ram or Krish? Or had she returned to a life of washing dishes in a restaurant basement? Everyone has to resume their lives. Some survived the conflagration while others succumbed to it.

The plumeria trees remained inscribed in Meera's mind-their flowers, offerings for the departed.