Dance Of A Silent Snarl

He felt like an astronaut in his début flight, when he, Loganathan, emplaned from the Heathrow airport, to visit his remote hamlet in Sri Lanka, where he was born and reared. He had a twenty five year lapse in his memory. Wasn't even able to make a close guess, as to how his village would look. He was afraid, happy, unsure and felt insecure too. A whole mix of whirling feelings with no clarity in thought. He knew the village he went about, lived and played, was no more there. He knew twenty eight years would change the village most naturally. But this change he knew, was due to the war that turned the land inside out a few times, to make it a different land. He had over the past years seen on TV screens, men and women grabbing things they could carry with them and moving from place to place. It wasn't possible for Loganathan to even pick and fuse his old village, from his memory. Thousands of miles away, the dusty smoke, the tears and all the bloody scenes he'd seen on TV screens have chopped, mauled and amputated his memory, over the past twenty five years. Yet he, at times dreamt about his beautiful village, its Talipot groves, an empty field, an agri well, all, memories of his childhood life. Childhood memories, no devastation of land by any, can make a man forget.

Twelve hours of flight would land Loganathan in his homeland. But, he wasn't sure whom he would first see. Which relative, or which friend, was a question. He, nevertheless was impatient to see his homeland. That made him restless on the comfortable seat. He knew, he would not only miss his mother, father and the elder sister, but also the house in which he grew to be a youth, with all of them around. It was more than twenty years ago, he came to know that all three of them perished with the roof and the walls of the house, caving in. He wasn't aware which of his relatives are still living. But the little bag he carried, was full of gifts, bought in London. His subconscious mind probably asked him, how he could visit his village without gifts and presents, after twenty five years. Who would get to cuddle the blonde hair doll that speaks on battery and would say, "You are lucky. I love you" ?

Bob, his British friend, accompanying him in this trip, was fast asleep in the neighbouring seat. Loganathan knew, he wasn't the type who had that tribal feeling of wanting to see human tragedy. He was a man with a warm heart in a cold, automated society. Used to much air travel, he wasn't excited over foaming white clouds, beneath the belly of the air plane. He would sleep endlessly, till the green canopies of coconut groves visible from air, are shown, thought Loganathan, who couldn't yet sleep. Loganathan looked at the sleeping face of his colleague. This man does not belong to a society that has all its relationships automated, thought Loganathan. He is one who looses anger when confronted with injustice and is never reluctant in hugging with warm affection. Then he wondered, where he, Loganathan belonged to. He still felt alien, after twenty five long years in London. He feels foreign, the moment he steps into a packed tube train. He shivers within when he steps in to a pub once in a way, feeling an "outsider" in him. Feels an outsider, when he goes about in a shopping mall, trying to pick stuff he wants. His feet, now the feet of a British citizen, yet finds unbalance on London streets. He still feels a reluctance to caress a flower or to feel its fragrance in a London garden, how ever attractive they are.

Loganathan was again thoughtful about whom he should first visit, after landing on his homeland. Five years after landing himself in London, he saw the name of the Reverend Father who helped him escape death from his own kith, in a printed list of names, of people gone missing. It pained Loganathan when he remembered, the reverend priest who helped him escape, was one threatened from both sides. He knew the editor who chose to publish his youthful poems, is still under military detention, even after the war was declared over. He then tried to think of relatives who may still be living. He had been flying eleven hours for now, when he suddenly remembered a distant relative, who worked in a jewellery shop in Chetty Street, Pettah. For Loganathan, it was like a dream in the early hours of a cold morning. This person had left his birthplace very young, remembered Loganathan. Had come to Colombo, married and settled in Colombo. But his relatives, all lived there, back in the village. He ought to be an old man past seventy now. That is, if he is still living. To meet this distant relative, Loganathan thought, it would be to Kotahena where he lived in a municipal housing lane and not Chetty Street, that one would have to go. Loganathan de-planed, wanting first to go to Kotahena.

Kotahena wasn't much changed, being where it was. Loganathan was able to locate the place, although he had only been there, just once before when he was young. It was wholly neglected locality and looked unsuitable for human life. He was also able to recognise the old, haggard face of his distant relative, that had stubs of the beard chopped indiscreetly. Yet the old man took time scratching his beard and his head, to recognise his relative who appeared at the door. If the white man next to Loganathan with his pleasant smile and his bags clutched to the stomach wasn't there, it would never have been easy for Loganathan to convince the old man that he wasn't an officer from the police intelligence.

Having recognised them without doubt, the old man invited them in and started talking endlessly. He was a store of information, spanning twenty eight years. His stories included those bombs that exploded in Colombo and killings of those labelled as traitors by their own kith. Stories of fear and death that ran through whole, dark nights. Stories about police raids in late nights that took whole families to police stations for questioning, abductions from white vans and stories about dropping abducted persons somewhere on a roadside, after interrogations. His narratives were endless while his wife stood behind a door curtain trying to stop him with her mimicking by her hands and eyes and by making odd noises, all understood by Bob who wouldn't know a single Tamil word.

"From what I heard, a few old families had returned to the village....our people are still in camps......can you remember Jesudasan ?......who was close to your place ?.....One of his daughters had gone back....with her children..."

"That's his job now.....looking for those news and talking about them.....what use now in searching for them ?" said his wife in an irritating tone, while going into the house, having failed to stop him with all her mimicking and noises. She came back with a broom and started sweeping, ignoring there were visitors.

Bob whispered to his friend, "why does he talk so much ?"

The old relative fell silent. Loganathan eased himself on the chair, closed his eyes and seemed to relax. That information he got was like a gem to a miner, down thirty, forty feet below the surface of the earth. He rolled it in his mind, as if trying to polish it like a gem. He remembered Jesudasan. He remembered Jesudasan as a railway guard and that he had only one daughter. That she was a very good dancer from her childhood, Even from her tiny age of three and her name was Shyama. That was Shyama, who was naughty, talkative and sweetly cuddle some. Shyama who sat on the bonnet of her father's black Morris Minor car to sing pieces of songs. Whom Loganathan had taught during the time he was schooling himself.

Loganathan started the journey to his village in a rented vehicle, his old relative managed to organise. He had no reason to bargain for the hire.

Travelling through war ravaged areas, all the damage and devastation they saw outside their closed shutters in the vehicle, was nothing unusual to both Loganathan and Bob. They had seen most of it in news papers and on TV screens. Even those new stereotype military bunkers that had come up after the war, with new tiled roofs and cleaned up lawns, didn't seem unusual to them.

It wasn't easy to find his birthplace. There were patches of grass in the empty land that had been cleared of debris by bulldozers. The new sign board that said "Paranthan" was just ahead, told them they had passed their turn off to the village by six kilo metres. Loganathan ordered the driver to turn back and drive slow. He was watchful from inside the car. He was able to identify the place where the Tamarind and the Nuga tree was. The trees were no more. It was the short, sawed trunks that told Loganathan the place. He was uncertain and doubtful. Yet was able to locate the cart road that took off from there to his village.

The land of his birth was there. But not his village. He was not surprised. He knew the village would not be there. There were two Mango trees that had survived death and a line of crest fallen Talipot trees. They stared at a cloudless, barren sky. The old, tile roofed houses, white washed with lime, were no more. Where the rubble of those old houses were, are a few half built, clay slammed, partly tin roofed abodes, more closer to the road. Loganathan got off the vehicle and walked towards one of those makeshift shelters. He walked, leaving his baggage in the vehicle. That was more a small, rusty boutique. A few biscuit packets hung on its doorway, had discoloured with a beating sun. On a small table were a few, coloured aerated water bottles. A feeble bunch of plantains, with a few fruits in them half baked by the sun, was hanging from a rafter.

The place had an earthen, dusty floor. Loganathan peeped inside to see if there was any he could speak to and was confronted by two old and gaping suitcases, left on a wooden bench and a few pieces of clothes, hung on a line across the space. A little child was seated on two cement bags, kept one over the other and was staring at the backyard through the door. The little kid was wearing a pair of shorts, dirty and coloured close to his complexion. Another little one was dragging a small pup tied to a string. Trying to take it to the backyard. The little pup, with its throat half strangled, was making a crude noise.

"That dog would die.." Loganathan heard a female voice shouting in Tamil, from the backyard.

"Whose there......in the boutique ?" Asked Loganathan, in Tamil. An emaciated woman wobbled out from the rear of the makeshift shelter, from its side.

A much blotched memory though, but Loganathan was right. “Shyama....?”

The two remained stoned in silence, for a few minutes, staring at each other. And then Loganathan, blurted out the words, “Aren't you Shyama ?”

The woman stared at him, in a dumb stupor. Her eyes spoke nothing. Like staring over the horizon. Her face was empty. She wasn't suspecting anything. Wasn't surprised nor happy, either. Scared ? Not scared too. There was nothing there. Nothing in her face.

“Remember me.....?”

The woman stares at him, in a dumb stupor. Her eyes spoke nothing. Like staring over the horizon. Her face was empty. She wasn't suspecting anything. Wasn't surprised nor happy, either. Scared ? Not scared too. There was nothing there. Nothing in her face.

“ I am Loganathan......Loganathan who escaped to London …..?”

The woman stares at him, in a dumb stupor. Her eyes spoke nothing. Like staring over the horizon. Her face was empty. She wasn't suspecting anything. Wasn't surprised nor happy, either. Scared ? Not scared too. There was nothing there. Nothing in her face.

“I remember ….. you danced so well....when you were a child.” No, Loganathan did not tell her so.

“Where's your husband ?” No, he did not ask that either.

“How are you all managing ?” He didn't ask that question either.

“Can you sell these biscuits....these toffees....these stuff ?” That was also not asked.

Suddenly, something crossed Loganathan's mind and he turned back to go to the vehicle. He saw his friend behind him with the camera and told him stern, “No.....Don't.....don't need photos”.

Inside the vehicle, Loganathan pulled the zip open in his baggage and pulled out denims, coloured T-shirts, one by one, carefully. Carefully, he avoided taking the blonde haired doll, out. He then stayed glued looking at those clothes that scented foreign and put them back in his bag. Getting out of the vehicle, he pulled his purse out. After some thought, he put it back in his trouser pocket.

Then walked back slowly towards that makeshift shelter.

“Must go....” He murmured. “see you....” Shyama may have heard him.

The woman kept staring at him. Her eyes, still spoke nothing. Like staring over the horizon. Her face was empty. She wasn't suspecting anything. Wasn't surprised nor happy, either. Scared ? Not scared too. There was nothing there. Nothing in her face.

* * * * *
The vehicle was pulling its way towards Colombo, over pot holes and humps. After a long drive, Loganathan suddenly realised his British friend was seated next to him. He felt surprised as if he was shaken off a rude dream.

His friend patted him on his shoulder. “Loga.....are you alright ?”

* * * * *
Short Story originally titled as "Are You Alright" by
Jayathilake Kammellaweera
12 April, 2011
Colombo – Sri Lanka

Jayathilake Kammellaweera, is a reputed and an award winning novelist and a short story writer in Sri Lanka. He had been awarded the prestigious D.R. Wijewardne award and the State Literary Award for his creative writing.
Kammellaweera comes from a Trotskyite background, having worked as a full time trade unionist and been a member of the Nava Sama Samaja Party (NSSP), Central Committee. He quit active politics later in life, over theoretical differences with the NSSP leadership and thereafter earned himself a respected positioning in the Sinhala literary field, for his writing.

Translated by Kusal Perera
28 June, 2011