Short Story

The whited sepulchre

by Niranjali Motha

"Why is that none of you wants to be farmers?" I ask the boys fancying a friendly smile. They all respond at once, nothing is clear to me. They talk too fast, a dialect that is regional. I try to grasp a few words... and I fail. "Sh..Sh..Sh.." shouts a tall dark lad, taking the leadership in calming the group. "One person at a time please..." The group obeys. Their responses vary.

I give them a patient hearing, making a mental note of the professions they were uttering. Three bankers, five teachers, one cricketer and two lawyers.

Seated facing me in a semi-circle was a group of adolescents from the border villages of Anuradapura. The girls in the front row, their white school uniforms filmed with a rusty shade of dust with two hued stripped ties around their collar. Some boys were in casual T-shirts and denim trousers the rest in school uniforms a white shirt with the same shade of dust and white trousers.

I was conducting an orientation on 'gender and life-skills' to a selected group of students in the area. The gathering is informal and the discussions continued on a casual manner. It is a time of fun and frolic for the young group with carefree humour. Some 'discussion points' though were of a serious nature the comments from the team were hilarious.

One boy wishes to be a clergy when he grows up.. to the others it is a joke. "That would be the end of your religion..." quips one and the others burst out in laughter. A few of them an extra decibel higher... shaking their heads, throwing their hands up... different gestures and varied acknowledgements. I foresee signs of budding leadership among them, wielding authority, many an aspiration written all over their faces... in their light coloured bright eyes...

Bus travel

We adjourn the meeting at 3.50 p.m. so that the distant travellers could board the 4 o'clock bus, or else they will have to wait till 6 p.m. The two buses allocated to their villages cross each other in two hour intervals. At times when one bus breaks down (which happens frequently) they have to wait for four hours till the single bus returns.

Some youth were destined to trek long distances through the thicket, daring the wild elephants and reptiles. The roads to some of these villages are not motorable hence no vehicles ply their area. Being mindful of the hardships of these hapless groups who have few buffers to impending dangers, I release them early to reach their homes before the darkness falls.

I watch a trail of bicycles entering the school compound. The riders were carrying empty water cans with them. I have a mixed feeling on letting the people in.

Fetching water from the school compound is prohibited to the communities unless during the drought season. This was not the dry season though most of the villagers did not have close access for potable water.

Our gathering creates a profitable journey for the villagers. On the pretext of accompanying their children, the parents were making a hayday to fetch water from the school well. This is a luxury they are deprived otherwise on a normal school day. In these communities well water in their home compounds lasts only for a few months during the rainy season.

The rest of the year people wade through rubble roads and thickets to reach state built agricultural wells for water. The wells in the school premises and the temples meet the need of the people during the dry season as and when possible. At times, the village prelate organises bowsers from the city to distribute water to the people.

I watch as the people make a beeline towards the well and wait patiently for their turn to fill up their empty vessels. The unity among them during the hour of need captures my heart.

Once the elders have attended to their tasks the children approach me to bid farewell. Some fondly clinging on to the hands of the parents while some others were maintaining a distance with other members of the family, depicting the varied generation gaps friendly, respectful and fearful.

One by one the children fall at my feet worshipping me in the traditional manner. I am too embarrassed, yet I am compelled to acknowledge them or it will be an insult or an offence to their humble gesture. I touch each of their heads and bless them, my palms getting soiled by the herbal oils from their hair.

I lean on to a classroom door post and wait for my transport. A few children from the group decide to stay back to play in the school compound. "We live close by", they say. (As for my understanding 'close by' would be a longer distance than we presume. During my early years of social service, I have trekked the villages for data gathering and research processes. The walk with the village community always left me with sore feet and an exhausted body. "Just a short distance' or a 'hoot away' would easily be at least a few kilometres in length.)

The girls were playing hopscotch and the boys 'running games'. They were running in circles overtaking one another while knocking at each other. The contempt in adversity cannot be measured by any object. Had these children any toys or sports equipment they would not resort to be running around one another to seek childhood recreational satisfaction. I could never imagine the children of my neighbourhood enjoying a game of this nature in an open space. It would have been 'boring' or 'not cool' in their vocabulary. Yet these children were deriving immense joy in just chasing each other.

All of a sudden something goes wrong with the boys group and a fight erupts. I see two of the boys wrestling in the hard ground. Their limbs firm on the grip of each other. Their long skinny feet, struggling to stay on ground trying to pin each other on the surface.

A vapour of rusty dust rises and mingles into the air. I take no effort to separate the fighters. It is their right... their freedom and their territory and also their play... I keep a silent watch... a trait that's not in me.

There is something nice about the dust in the arena. It has a kind of an aroma. I take a deep breath absorbing all the scent I could, like a never to be missed opportunity.

"Miss" I hear a soft voice of a girl. I turn to face the person. Two girls stand next to me. "She wants to talk to you" says one girl pointing the other to me.

"Yes?"...

"Miss I can't study in the evenings. I get a severe headache, whenever I sit to read..." laments the girl. I give her a few tips... as per my knowledge. (I am glad that no medical professional was in my company or they may have risked the loss of their profession or me a few teeth!)

"Miss, how I can enter the Law College, queries the other girl who aspires to be a lawyer. I tell her to study hard and obtain higher marks in her A/L examination.

Suicide bomber

"If I don't become a lawyer, I will become a suicide bomber", says the girl to my utter dismay. Her voice was so firm and adamant. It took a considerable time for me to grasp the gravity of her statement and to steady myself up. "Why" it was a bark from my lips. "I want to kill all the Tamils" she spits...her voice now in slight tremble..." They killed my father and brother... they were killed in the bus bomb..." She utters...each of her words connecting my heart to her moisture filled eyes. I let her purge her anger till she is breathless. Her companion has chosen to abandon us by then.

My memory is still afresh of the bus bomb in 'Yakawewa' and so are the pains and the emotions I had suffered. I very vividly remember the many front page pictures of a wailing father holding the fractured body of his child flashed across the dailies of Sri Lanka. With trembling hearts we watched on television, the news of the mass funeral, an angering sight of a procession of rows of coffins being carried to the burial grounds... a weeping community following the caskets. A score of a single village targeted and killed by a ruthless bomb. They were laid to rest amidst morose curses of a battered nation.

Nayana the girl relates her story in no easy terms. The ordeal of her community.. her father and her only brother... she explains in details the aftermatch of the incident, explaining to me her mother's struggle for survival an ordeal which no human on earth should suffer.

I wait for her to calm herself and get into a therapeutic conversation, my tone overly gentle. I choose the simplest possible language while being mindful of the words.

A wrong word or a gesture of mine could ruin the life of this precious child. She calmly answers all my questions and shares her grief, the emotions. It was a lengthy discussion, the dialogue so painful...

I am rudely brought to my senses by a screeching halt of a vehicle. My transport has arrived. Nayana helps me carry my bulky books, while I reach for my laptop. I open the rear door of the cab to help Nayana to place the stationery on the vacant seat.

While I try to close the door Nayana's head knocks on my shoulder. She apologises profusely. I smile in acceptance. In a bewildered look Nayana turns towards me. "Are you a Tamil?" I smile gently. "How do you know?" "The Pottu" says the girl pointing at my forehead. I had completely forgotten about my kumkum (which I wore for fashion not so much for my identity).

I sense the change of expression in Nayana's face. Her eyes widening, her body language was not the friendliest, the innocence of the girl I had witnessed during the conversation was changing.

If heart is where all emotional pain is stored, I am glad it's hidden by my ribs and flesh, or else Nayana would have seen the crushed heart's bleeding.

Expression

I jump to the front seat and settle myself comfortably, tucking my long frilly skirt and shawl under my thighs. Nayana taps on the shutter. I open the door. "Madam you shouldn't have been born a Tamil...in vain you are a nice person..." (Aparade Miss demala vune, miss oya hondakenek)... Nayana shouts. I fail to fully grasp the expression in her face.

There was anger, disappointment, frustrations and many more emotions that the world is yet to understand and term in the encyclopaedia. I nod in affirmation, quite conscious of my response. I am not ashamed to do so. A group of people who spoke my mother tongue have hurt this innocent soul. They have destroyed her world. They have injured this child....

Nayana tries to continue her conversation, her voice slightly acidic.

I close the door abruptly and slide back to settle on the headrest.

It's nice and cozy inside the air-conditioned vehicle, the smell of dust no more.

"Tired madam?" I hear the voice of Kalum our chauffeur. I tightly close my eyes pretending not to hear. The roaring sound of the vehicle engine mixed with the sound of rubble crushing under the tyres indicates to me the hard journey through this path.

I peep through the windscreen. All I see is a long stretch of the dilapidated road ahead of me.