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Journey
to Jaffna and Wanni - Part II Breakfast
was thosais and curry, the thosais paper thin, with a superb kiri
hodi. I ate like one possessed. My partner had work to do in the
kachcheri, leaving me to wander around in the morning. Our guesthouse
was close to the Nallur Temple. Perhaps I would take a walk down
there. I saw the other guests who had come the day before, and started
talking to them, a middle-aged couple. They were from Colombo as
well, accompanying their two cousins who were visiting from USA.
The lady was dissatisfied with what was on offer for sightseeing
in Jaffna. She said, "There's nothing to see." What did
she expect? It was like she had no idea of the history of this city,
of what had happened here.
Stifling
my urge to point her in the direction of Florida, I set off on my
amble. Right at the
bottom of our street was this small shrine to Thileepan, the LTTE
martyr.It was his death anniversary, and every street and wall had
tributes to him. The LTTE remembered their dead. Walking down the
narrow streets, white sanded, past houses both decrepit yet quietly
substantial, I had the sense of otherness. This was not a city in
the mainstream of Sri Lanka in the 21st century. This was a page
off an old, illustrated book from a bygone era, when Sri Lanka was
whole, unfractured, innocent of wholesale massacres, burning libraries,
burning bodies and the lexicon of war. I had the strongest feeling
that this was what much of this island was like long ago. In houses
such as these, generations had lived, dreamt and died, their passing
adding to the rich tapestry of culture and life that had been Serendib. Coming to a
crossroad, the view of a small, yet beautiful temple, white pillars
with yellow bases. Three massive trees formed a triangle within
the white sand borders, throwing their shadows on the red tile roofs
of the kovil. An old man, his sarong hitched up, swept the sand,
while bikes, scooters and the occasional car buzzed past him. It
was a juxtaposition of the timeless with the mundane. I came to the
statue of the last King of Jaffna, mounted on a horse. It had been
defaced but repaired. Below the pedestal was another shrine to Thileepan. By now the
heat was up a few notches, and I didn't know where the Nallur temple
was. I opted to walk back to the guesthouse rather than asking for
directions. The heat was dry, with a breeze: hot enough to burn
tar as the day progressed. The bicycle was the universal mode of
transport here-men, women, children sometimes doubling and tripling
up. Occasionally, a vintage Austin would cruise past. Back at the
guesthouse, my partner had returned from the kachcheri, but had
to meet an official at a kovil in Point Pedro. It was an opportunity
too good to miss. We took off to Point Pedro... We wound our
way into open spaces, leaving the city behind , passing agricultural
plots where vegetables like beetroot were being grown. The fertile
soil of Jaffna would support any crop. In the shimmering heat, people
were tending plots. Pretty soon, the scenery was of wide flat sandy
land on both sides of the road, broken up by clumps of palmyrah. We arrived
at our destination, the Vishnu temple in Point Pedro. Turning a
corner we came into a dense throng of people. This was Sunday, the
last day of the temple festival, and it was a big day. A water bowser
was slowly wending its way through the narrow roads, spraying the
heated road with water. It was incandescently hot now, close to
midday. There were rows of stalls selling food, flowers, incense
and whatever else. The kovil was
huge, and quite stunning; the main gopuram rose up into the blue
sky, its tiers packed with figures and ornamentation. Pale orange,
white and touches of blue were the primary colours. At its base
were depictions of Hanuman and Sugriva, perhaps, and at the pinnacle
was Vishnu. The structure which housed the Vel-cart too was huge,
like a mini-airplane hangar, tastefully adorned in mythical motifs.
The cart was a covered chariot, in a light mahogany colour, heavily
decorated. All around,
passing to and fro, were waves of humanity, the ladies dressed in
their Sunday best. We parked under the shade of some giant trees
on the perimeter, and got out. It was then I realised the point
of paying penance to a god. To cap it all,
was this extraordinary vignette in front of the Gopuram. Mounted
on a trailer was this contraption made of bamboo and wooden strips,
like a small crane, with a small shrine at the apex. Dangling from
this on four strips of rope, was a man with hooks driven into the
flesh of his back. In a white sarong, with a garland around his
neck, carrying a trident in his right hand, he hung a few feet above
the heads of the onlookers. Here was the epitome of penance. Back in Jaffna,
we had a quick look at some of the sights, like Nallur temple, which
was an oasis of calm after what we had seen at Point Pedro, and
some beautiful old houses. We visited the old fort or what remained
of it, and the new library. The library was white and imposing,
as yet unopened. The Fort area was a sad testament to the grim horror
of this war. The battlements which remained, showed the grandeur
of what had been the best Dutch Fort in the country. It was a wasteland
now, haunted by Brahminy Kites and crows. Back at the guesthouse, we crashed out for a while, before taking a shower and meeting a friend for a few beers. Dinner that night was delicious, prawn curry and assorted vegetables. The next day being Monday, we were scheduled to leave Jaffna by midday headed for the Wanni. It was a fitting end to a great day, where we had been lucky to see some of Jaffna's hidden faces. Ready
to go with hat and all Why the excitement?
Well, for one thing, I was following in the footsteps of my brother
who had just graduated and, it seemed (again, to me) that he had
attained the same academic status my father had done, long ago.
And another thing, this brother had the gift of making everything
he (and his friends) did, appear so very exclusive and adventurous
and wonderful. As the younger sibling I drank in all the tall tales
of derring-do, believing he lived in a semi-mythical world of impossibly
clever and witty professors, where rival groups of students were
identified as the forces of Good and Evil, where his chosen band
of companions were the cleverest, wittiest and best! That's it -
this was Camelot! And I was going there! And that was
not all, either. After years of promises, promises, the brand new
"campus" - the word was new to us - at Peradeniya was
ready and awaiting us, the students from the major Faculties. So
we were to be the trail-blazers who were going to set Kandy alight
with academic fire. I was also leaving home for the first time to
fend for myself. It was all heady stuff: no wonder I was excited. My mother took
in the whole scene more practically. I could no longer depend on
hand-me-downs, and had to be kitted-out. I had to teach myself to
look after my needs by myself: to sew on buttons, to cut the nails
on my right hand (I could already manage the left), to keep dhoby
accounts - all sorts of things I had depended on others to do for
me. Then came clothes.
I had to have new trousers and shirts, six of each, by her reckoning,
all white; some casual clothes, mostly inherited or gifted, of good
quality though mended, but a few brand-new; bed-sheets, pillow-cases,
towels. And all sorts of other things like shoes and socks and nightwear
and underwear and toiletries. It was like setting up house for the
first time. There were, also, things that had not been needed before.
The word was
out that there was that there would be high-table dinners in the
new Halls of Residence, when we would have to wear formal clothes.
So I had to have some white drill jackets (pretty formal for undergraduates,
and even working persons, in those days), one nattily double-breasted
coat and others the other kind. What a waste all that turned out
to be: the coats finally made it to the old-clothes man, barely
worn. Another kind
of new wear was required. Rain-wear. Umbrellas were considered insufficient.
What was needed was a raincoat and a hat. Plastic raincoats in rainbow
colours were being worn by girls and many of the boys were wearing
thin, but smart, khaki-coloured, rubber-lined ones complete with
caps like those worn by the Chinese Red Army cadres. I coveted these,
but they were quite expensive, and the family budget was not that
elastic. An uncle came to my rescue: he was a government servant
entitled to an official issue of a raincoat and it was time for
him to get a new one. So I inherited the old one, very good quality
even though old, with only grease stains from his motorcycle that
resisted all stain-removers, to mar it. Next came the
hat. A hat, in those days, meant what was called a "topee"
or "pith helmet". It was a light, rigid and very respectable
kind of hat. In rainy weather, you covered it with a thin, waterproof
covering with a thin elastic cord inside a seam that ran round it.
It was something like a shower cap and fitted snugly over the fabric
of the hat. Now, there were two types of these hats. The better,
more expensive one was of a gaberdine fabric and the cheaper one
of khaki, and certainly less up-market. I got the better kind, and
was ready for Peradeniya's rains. All this seems
so little now, but I was deeply conscious of how much all this capital
outlay cost my parents. The graduate brother was yet months away
from a proper job. The youngest sister was yet in school. And the
one in between was looking around for something to do. So the investment
in me put a big dent in the family fortunes: I took what was given
to me and it never occurred to me to ask for what I really wanted
(a new raincoat, "Arrow" shirts, "John White"
shoes) as I knew this would be unreasonable. There was the
question of pocket-money, too. I had never had it, but it was a
necessity now. I could only be given ten rupees a month, a pretty
modest sum even in those days; but I had never had ten rupees a
month before and was confident I could stretch it to meet my needs. And so equipped,
I set out to conquer Peradeniya. We reached
it after one term's stay in Colombo. The same faces we had seen
in Colombo seemed transformed in the landscape of hills, river and
trees. My friends all looked happier, more adventurous, more devil-may-care,
more worldly-wise. And all the girls looked that much prettier and
certainly more desirable. The brand-new buildings and gardens were
a fitting backdrop: the new, "purpose-built" site was
picture-postcard beautiful, with imposing buildings on different
levels of the rolling hillocks bordering the river, winding roads
and secluded parks - a world created for us, awaiting our touch
to quicken into life. There was a
newness, and a delicious nip in the crisp, tangy air, which I drank
in deeply following, with relish, the cool shock of it passing through
the warmth inside of me. The initial
excitement lasted, with some intensity, the first few months. There
was the acres of park and miles of road to be explored. The Halls
were not yet fully furnished and the grounds yet in the landscapers'
hands; so making the rooms habitable, blazing new footpaths through
the yet unturfed hillsides was something we would do. There was
the ganging-up of kindred souls, weaving our own myths around ourselves.
There were groups singing their way round the roads, come night.
There was Kandy to be explored and educated. There were the hills
of Hantane to be climbed, picnics to go on, the river to be bathed
in. There were momentous matters to be discussed through each night.
I was exploring
the horizons of a freedom beyond my family, relishing the company
of peers, the exposure to radical new thinking; each of us trying
to argue and defend, deep into the night, the rightness of his own
prejudices; debating the emerging political problems; yet indulging
in rambunctious and schoolboyish escapades. And, providing a subtle
counterpoint to the wild, exultant peal of the jaz trumpet, the
more serious life in the lecture halls, the tutorial classes and
the libraries. And the serious business of the politics of Student
Council elections. All sorts of things. Soon enough,
though, routines set in. Exams were creeping silently nearer, and
a general mellowing of mood took place. But not for me. I still
lived in a state of suppressed tension, and even the looming exam
did not waken me. I had passed all my earlier ones without really
trying: what was the big deal? And so the lotus-eater syndrome continued.
I had, by now,
been absorbed into a mixed group and we would go picnicking or exploring
places. Unnoticed by me, all had found time to mix work with fun.
But no, not me. The day of
wakening was one such picnic day. We had, finally, conquered the
heights of Hantane; had climbed, sung, eaten and horsed around to
our heart's content; and had started back down. We may have conquered
the hill, but it was in no forgiving mood. Soon, we lost ourselves
and had to hunt out faded footpaths in the late afternoon - the
least pleasant of times when you are tired and the euphoria of the
morning is on the wane. Stops for rest were frequent. At one place
I bagged a good rock and stretched out tiredly on my back, my hat
by my side. Soon, though, there was a hail; someone had found a
villager who could show us the way down. What relief! With spirits
up again, we hastily scrambled up and followed our guide down past
a totally strange area and came upon the main road at an unexpected
point. Profusely thanking our saviour and with some of the lost
bravado and high spirits returning, we caught a bus back to the
University area and walked the rest of the way well satisfied with
ourselves. A couple of
days later, came the first rains. I reached for my hat, but - where
was it, dammit? I am sure I had kept it there. There was no time
to look for it: lectures were about to begin. By evening, after
a careful search, it was yet missing, and worry began to set in.
I had to have a hat. Had someone taken it by mistake? Then, suddenly,
the truth dawned: I had left it on the rock up Hantane. The hill
had claimed its sacrifice. The lost hat
was more than just a hat that got lost. It was not the rain or sun
that was the problem. Those, I could weather. But the hat was on
my Assets Register. It was one of the things that had been bought
for me, and something I had been expected to look after. I just could
not admit, to the family back in Colombo, that it was lost. To say
it was lost was to admit to a failure, an inability to hold in trust
what had been entrusted to me, to ask to spend more money on me.
It was a major calamity. I was devastated, yet forced to keep my
worry to myself and not show it to anyone around me. What would
my parents have really felt, if I told them? Without today's hindsight,
I guessed wrong. The problem was mine. I had to show them that the
hat was still there. After a night of troubled dreams, I made a
resolution: I would dedicate my entire (well, not all) pocket money
towards buying a replacement hat. Somehow, just the making of the
resolution seemed to absolve me of my sin. My way of flagellating
myself. So I went to
Kandy and walked the shops that sold hats, trying to find a bargain.
There were none: all hats were priced alike. The gaberdine kind
was Rs. 15 and the khaki, more pedestrian one was 10. My heart sank.
A whole month's pocket money. And three months before I went home
on vacation when - so I thought - the loss of the hat would stare
everybody in the face. But ten rupees! And barely two-and-a-half
months' pocket money the only income! But there it
was. I had no choice. Budgeting, scrimping and scraping were called
for. In a way, this was not a big deal for one who was used to making
a rupee stretch like rubber. But strict rules had to be imposed
on slap-dash economizing and a hitherto happy-go-lucky lifestyle.
There had to be more "Don'ts" than "Do's". For
a start, the tuck-shop - seat of socializing - was to be avoided.
Now this was difficult and it called for some diplomatic lies to
break away from friends when they were heading in that direction.
Films at the University cinema were next on the list. They cost
50 cents, and were cheap at the price, but - "Machang, I have
some heavy catching up to do", whenever there was a film. Fifty
cents saved. "We're going to Kandy - lunch at the Chinese joint";
but "Stomach a bit haramanis today - going guru-guru - next
time, OK?". A rupee or so saved. It was all
done in deadly seriousness. For the first time I had set myself
a target and I really felt my standing in the family - and in my
own eyes - was at stake. Every day the savings were counted, Scrooge-like
and, every day, the target yet seemed as far away as ever. Drastic
measures were now called for, with excuses running out. Cups of
tea generously offered were shamelessly accepted, but I kept forgetting
to return the compliment. Another penny saved. My toothpaste ran
out and I took to borrowing from others - no crime in a hostel existence,
but not really my style. Shoe-polish ditto, and my room-mate's was
airily dipped into. Razor blades were stretched out till there were
more cuts on my face than hairs. The ways of a miser began to be
familiar to me, and I found I could dissemble easily enough. The quest was
as if for the holy grail. The impending examination failed to make
an impact. The grim shadow of my self-imposed task haunted my waking
hours. Studies took second place; necessary, but of lower priority
- not a conscious decision, but an inevitability. Gradually,
the target became closer and, came the day when it was reached.
I went alone to Kandy that momentous day. I went not like a furtive
bargain-hunter but as one who had TEN rupees to buy a hat with.
I was confident in the shop and tried on several hats for the perfect
fit. I insisted that the all-important cover was fitted for inspection.
At last, I walked out, hat on head, light in spirit and purse, a
heavy load of guilt lifted. That night
I slept well. I must have been the life and soul of our nightly
gatherings. It's too long ago to remember. The long twilight
of despair was over: I could go home with not a care in the world
hoping, only, that the eagle eyes of my siblings would not note
the (slight) change in colour of my hat. All this had
taken its toll on my studies. The early neglect born of over-excitement
and over-confidence had been compounded by the devil on my back
-the lost hat. I started at it again and did what I could. At last
it was over, vacation began, and I went home, for a three-month
break, without a load of guilt. Came the day
of reckoning and, as I must have unconsciously expected, I had failed
the exam. The failure was a greater disappointment to the family
than to me. My parents' disappointment was unstated and unemotional,
but my siblings', uninhibited and sarcastic. And I couldn't
even use the saga of my heroic self-sacrifice to justify my failure.
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Copyright © 2001 Wijeya Newspapers
Ltd. All rights reserved. |
know
what it meant to the others. It was my turn - the third in a family
of two boys and two girls - to go from school to university. I had
done just about well enough to get in. Having changed schools four
times, going to yet another - the "super school" the "Big
one" - meeting and making new friends was, in itself, no big
deal (I told myself). Still, the excitement was very real. I sensed
a change was imminent, unconsciously looking forward to what we
would now call a "rite of passage". I did not know the
phrase then.
