Happy to be here

The authorities were giving out bananas and water in exchange for documents. Mahindan had everything in his suitcase, inside a sealed plastic bag – birth certificates, national identity cards, Sellian’s vaccination record. He was waiting in the tangle of people for his turn, holding Sellian’s hand, when a frenzied movement caught his eye, Ranga hobbling over at top speed, waving as if they were old friends. When the guard gestured for his paperwork, Ranga glanced at Mahindan for assurance before producing a battered identity card from his pocket. Mahindan turned away, irritated.

When it was his turn, Mahindan handed over his papers with pride, knowing how carefully he had prepared for this eventuality. This one thing was properly done. They took his suitcase too, but when Sellian began crying, the guard with the blue eyes allowed him to liberate the little statue of Ganesha and then patted Sellian’s shoulder with a purple-gloved hand. Mahindan gazed at the battered old suitcase with regret. Hard-shelled and sturdy with brass locks and snaps, it and the meagre trinkets inside – a wedding album, Chithra’s death certificate, the keys to his house and garage – were all that remained of his worldly possessions. But he reminded himself he had something more precious. Safety. Here, it was possible to breathe.

The men and women were separated and forced into orderly queues. The adults had their wrists and ankles shackled. Mahindan understood by the way the guard fitted the two ends of the cuffs together, careful not to pinch skin, that the task was performed with regret.

Only for a little while, Mahindan assured Sellian. It is for our own safety.

There weren’t enough Tamil translators and the masks the Canadians wore made it difficult to decipher expressions. Mahindan focused on eyes and was amazed by all the colours, the shades of blue, flecks of green, the different saturation points of brown. The only white people he’d seen before were United Nations workers, though he did not like to think of them now.

Mahindan had always thought of Canada as a country of whites, but now he saw dark eyes too, Chinese and Japanese and Blacks and others who might have come from India or Bangladesh. Here was a place for all people.

Ranga sidled up. At last we are safe, he said, absently scratching at a long scar that ran down the length of one cheek.

Mahindan frowned and edged away. Every time he and Sellian turned around on the ship, there was Ranga and his gimpy leg. Behind them in the food ration line; unrolling his mat next to theirs at night.

A police officer barked into a radio. A Red Cross volunteer made emphatic gestures as he spoke. Mahindan heard the unfamiliar sounds, the harsh, guttural consonants falling flat, one after the other. In time this would be his language too. English. A new language for a new home.

His grandfather had spoken English. He had gone to London for his studies and worked as a civil servant in Colombo until the Sinhala Only Act ended his career. It was his grandfather’s old suitcase that was now with the guards.

Officials and volunteers in scrubs and uniforms called to each other, their voices overwhelmed, their gestures and movements harried. Seagulls circled, screeching overhead. The disorder reminded Mahindan of being processed for detention in Sri Lanka, at the end of the war, when the Sri Lankan Army rounded up the Tamil prisoners. Except here there was nothing to be scared of, and even Sellian surveyed the unfamiliar landscape and the line of buses with more curiosity than fear.

Mahindan understood they would be boarding soon. He waited with the other men, trying and failing to inch away from Ranga. The queues lengthened as more people joined. Mahindan nodded to a family he knew from the detention camp, but they either did not notice him or purposely avoided his eyes. It had surprised him, when they boarded in Sri Lanka, how few of his customers were on the ship. All those days at sea and not once had they seen another boat. Maybe it was for the best they weren’t here; it was good to make a clean break. Still, he wondered: had they been left behind? Had their ship capsized? Were they drowned in the ocean? He felt his teeth rattle and focused his attention on Sellian for assurance. We are safe.

It had been hours since they’d disembarked, but he could still feel the sea in the sway of his legs. When he remembered the first rough days on board, the storm-churned waves, the low-grade nausea that dogged every day, he vowed to himself: never again.

He would have liked to squat, to take the pressure off his aching soles, but the shackles made it awkward. Everyone was quiet and even the children, pacified by food and drink, managed to behave. The mood was hopeful.

Sellian held up a juice box. Do you want some, Appa?

No, Baba, Mahindan said. You finish it.

Purple liquid shot through the straw. Sellian sucked in short, urgent bursts, his eyes flicking left and right. Mahindan watched him, overwhelmed with love and relief. He shuffled to the right, put his bound hands on his son’s shoulder, and bent to kiss the top of his head. Sellian snuggled against him, and Mahindan felt emotion well up, joyous tears threaten. They had lost everyone and everything, but Sellian was alive and unharmed and now they were here. Sellian was here.

The bus at the front of the line opened its doors. A guard waved his arm and the women shambled forward, hands and feet fettered. Children held on to their mothers’ shirts and trousers. The men looked sharp, straightening out their line in readiness, everyone restless to move on to the next stage of freedom.

The guard turned to scan the crowd and when he spotted Sellian, he beckoned.

Appa, what is he saying?

I don’t know, Baba.

The guard held up a hand for each of them: stop for Mahindan and come for Sellian. Mahindan could not read his expression. The guard repeated the same short word over and over then strode toward them, impatient, and grasped the top of Sellian’s arm.

Appa!

No! He’s my son! The metal between his feet rattled and Mahindan felt his weight tip forward. The men on either side of him yelled as Ranga reached bound hands out to catch him. By the time Mahindan was upright, the guard had Sellian draped over his shoulder and was carrying him away. Some of the women in line had turned to watch. They shouted at the guard in Tamil to stop. Sellian was mutinous, kicking and beating his fists on the man’s back. The juice box fell; purple liquid pooled in a puddle on the asphalt.

A loud voice cut through the racket. Mahindan saw the nurse who had taken his blood pressure hurrying to the guard. She spoke English with the voice of a Tamil mother, full of reprimand and authority. Her chin jutted forward. Her index finger jabbed. The guard rubbed his palm along the back of his head, finally setting Sellian down.

Mahindan struggled to crouch in his shackles as his son ran over. Sellian grabbed his arm with both hands and held tight, panting hard, his eyes large and teary. He pressed his face into his father’s side. Mahindan felt the tightness of Sellian’s grip, how easily it could be wrenched away.

Where are we being sent? he asked the nurse in Tamil.

He knew there was a very big country stretching out before him, but when he tried to imagine what it might be like, he had only a vague recollection of his grandfather’s stories of England. Sheep and tall buildings, policemen who carried batons instead of guns.

The nurse did not wear a mask. At Mahindan’s question, her eyes slid sideways and the corners of her mouth turned down. But when she spoke, she raised her voice so all the men in line could hear: Normally, there are some rooms close by where you would stay. But when this many come all at once…there is only one place with enough beds.

Mahindan felt foolish. Free men did not wear handcuffs.

The nurse turned back to Mahindan and softened her voice. Where the women are going, there are facilities for children.

Chithra had died in childbirth. For Sellian’s whole life, Mahindan had been both his father and his mother. Not a day had passed when he hadn’t seen his son, and the thought of letting him walk away, board a bus to an unknown place without him, made his insides twist.

Sellian began to cry. Appa! Don’t leave me! Don’t leave me!

Mahindan’s throat constricted. What choice did he have? He must be brave for his son.

Baba, it is all right, he said. You want to play with other children, no? And see, all these Aunties will take care of you. It is only for a short time.

The nurse took Sellian’s hand. See that small boy? Do you know him?

Sellian gulped and nodded. He wiped the back of his hand across his snotty nose. Mahindan’s mettle faltered when he saw who it was – Kumuran’s son. He said to Sellian, You know that child. Remember?

I will ask his mother to take care of you, the nurse said. I’m sorry, she said to Mahindan as his son’s arms wrapped around his neck again. This is very rare. A ship and so many people…everyone is doing their best.

We’re just happy to be here, Mahindan said, holding his son tighter. Ganesha’s elephant trunk dug into the back of his head.

The guard called something out.

Come now, darling, the nurse said to Sellian.

Be a good boy, Mahindan said. Show Appa how you can be brave.

Sellian hiccupped, holding in his sobs, twisting his head to look over his shoulder as he was led away. Mahindan’s chest closed up. Most of the women were in the bus now, staring out the windows. The men focused on their feet. Mahindan could feel Kumuran’s wife studying him, her hard, unforgiving stare. He struggled to keep his face calm and encouraging. When he looked at Sellian, he saw Chithra’s eyes, her front teeth jutting out.

Sellian disappeared into the bus and the doors wheezed to a close. Mahindan felt anguish like a tsunami surging to the shore. The wave crested up. He squinted at the back window as the bus pulled away, but all he saw was darkness.