thinking. If Anuradha Uncle’s spirit was here it wouldn’t be his own ghostly
face in a mirror that would keep him, it would be Mala Aunty’s heartbroken sobs.
The back of the room spills commotion. A sharpened finger points straight at Mala
Aunty’s heart and like an uninvited fairy, Anuradha Uncle’s mother lurches forth,
screaming, “Bad luck woman from somewhere!” Shocked relatives look up. Everyone suddenly
wide awake and alert to scandal. “This happened because of your ill-fated stars.”
A vast intake of air and then, “I should have locked my son up when he came to me
with stories of falling for a black-black yakshini . Some witchery you did to catch him. Yes, don’t think that we don’t know about you!
No one would even look at you! Only my so innocent son, and now your evil stars have
killed him!”
And Mala, breaking free from our father’s grasp, eyes spitting fire. Now she does
resemble the dread demoness Kali, hair flying, a dance of wrathful limbs and stomping
feet. “My fault! Hag! Old woman from nowhere. Did you see what happened that day?
Did you see the men pulled out of their cars? Did you see the women being burnt? Is
that my fault also? Did I give the mobs their knives and hoes and machetes? Did I
give them the burning tires? Did I gather up the men and put knives into their hands?
Me and my bloody stars! If I had the power I would have burnt you up, not your son!”
Thick spittle splatters across the old woman’s face. Mala is pulled away. She goes
quietly limp in our father’s arms. Gentle hands draw the old woman the other way but
she breaks away, throws herself on the coffin, gasping for breath, crying in such
huge heart-shaking sobs that it’s painful to watch. I remember my father whispering
to Mala Aunty, he must have asked if they should try to take the old woman away. I
remember Mala Aunty shaking her head against my father’s throat, him stroking her
hair. I remember Amma’s arms around us, sheltering us from the sound of those two
broken women. It is one of my last memories of the island.
* * *
A few months later we are packed and flying across the world to start a new life,
our hearts thudding fearfully in our mouths. As the plane takes off, I rest my forehead
against the window. Below me the island glistens verdant green. I imagine all that
it holds. Such things of horror and exhilaration as are seldom gathered together.
The striated lands of the north stretching into the sea; the lonely lagoons; the creeping,
fearful soldiers; the firework explosions; the villagers on bicycles; the gleaming
Colombo towers; the high-rise hotels of the tourists and expatriates; the clubs that
boast signs reading NO LOCALS ; the leprous beggar on the streets, his fingerless palm spread forth in supplication
to the slick fashionistas, the half-naked European women, the foreign men grinding
over the buttocks of brown boys; the serene-faced Buddha statues; the rock fortress
of Sigiriya, with its ancient long-eyed, swan-breasted nymphs; the black shape of
a water buffalo with its ubiquitous shoulder-riding white egret; the jade spread of
paddy; the deep green of tea; the lonely village roads; the dark forests; the wild
elephants; the stick-thin stilt fishermen poised over the surging water, praying for
their next meal while the cameras of tourists click away; the tired housemaid, newly
returned from the Middle East; the spired churches; the scent of jasmine so potent,
it catches the attention of traveling poets and writers, lures them here and will
not let go. And always, always, the ever-churning sea, returning on itself, wiping
away every footprint. These are the things I am saying good-bye to. I turn my head
from the window as fear and liberation beat in equal measures through my bloodstream.
seven
We fly away from the island and twenty-four weary hours later, Los Angeles lies framed
below
face in a mirror that would keep him, it would be Mala Aunty’s heartbroken sobs.
The back of the room spills commotion. A sharpened finger points straight at Mala
Aunty’s heart and like an uninvited fairy, Anuradha Uncle’s mother lurches forth,
screaming, “Bad luck woman from somewhere!” Shocked relatives look up. Everyone suddenly
wide awake and alert to scandal. “This happened because of your ill-fated stars.”
A vast intake of air and then, “I should have locked my son up when he came to me
with stories of falling for a black-black yakshini . Some witchery you did to catch him. Yes, don’t think that we don’t know about you!
No one would even look at you! Only my so innocent son, and now your evil stars have
killed him!”
And Mala, breaking free from our father’s grasp, eyes spitting fire. Now she does
resemble the dread demoness Kali, hair flying, a dance of wrathful limbs and stomping
feet. “My fault! Hag! Old woman from nowhere. Did you see what happened that day?
Did you see the men pulled out of their cars? Did you see the women being burnt? Is
that my fault also? Did I give the mobs their knives and hoes and machetes? Did I
give them the burning tires? Did I gather up the men and put knives into their hands?
Me and my bloody stars! If I had the power I would have burnt you up, not your son!”
Thick spittle splatters across the old woman’s face. Mala is pulled away. She goes
quietly limp in our father’s arms. Gentle hands draw the old woman the other way but
she breaks away, throws herself on the coffin, gasping for breath, crying in such
huge heart-shaking sobs that it’s painful to watch. I remember my father whispering
to Mala Aunty, he must have asked if they should try to take the old woman away. I
remember Mala Aunty shaking her head against my father’s throat, him stroking her
hair. I remember Amma’s arms around us, sheltering us from the sound of those two
broken women. It is one of my last memories of the island.
* * *
A few months later we are packed and flying across the world to start a new life,
our hearts thudding fearfully in our mouths. As the plane takes off, I rest my forehead
against the window. Below me the island glistens verdant green. I imagine all that
it holds. Such things of horror and exhilaration as are seldom gathered together.
The striated lands of the north stretching into the sea; the lonely lagoons; the creeping,
fearful soldiers; the firework explosions; the villagers on bicycles; the gleaming
Colombo towers; the high-rise hotels of the tourists and expatriates; the clubs that
boast signs reading NO LOCALS ; the leprous beggar on the streets, his fingerless palm spread forth in supplication
to the slick fashionistas, the half-naked European women, the foreign men grinding
over the buttocks of brown boys; the serene-faced Buddha statues; the rock fortress
of Sigiriya, with its ancient long-eyed, swan-breasted nymphs; the black shape of
a water buffalo with its ubiquitous shoulder-riding white egret; the jade spread of
paddy; the deep green of tea; the lonely village roads; the dark forests; the wild
elephants; the stick-thin stilt fishermen poised over the surging water, praying for
their next meal while the cameras of tourists click away; the tired housemaid, newly
returned from the Middle East; the spired churches; the scent of jasmine so potent,
it catches the attention of traveling poets and writers, lures them here and will
not let go. And always, always, the ever-churning sea, returning on itself, wiping
away every footprint. These are the things I am saying good-bye to. I turn my head
from the window as fear and liberation beat in equal measures through my bloodstream.
seven
We fly away from the island and twenty-four weary hours later, Los Angeles lies framed
below
Similar Books
