New world

The television was a riot of noise and colour – the announcer’s voice sonorous over the hysteria, words spinning and flashing across the screen. The camera panned overhead like a drone as people in the seats screamed and clapped their hands.

Those who were chosen ran down the aisle, slapping outstretched palms, crying, hands on their heads or covering their faces. There were old women and young boys, black men, Asian girls, a man leaning on a cane, a young woman with a tie printed on her T-shirt. All of them wanting to win, each one hoping to beat the odds.

In the prison’s recreation room, the dilapidated folding chairs were arranged in two banks in front of the television and every wobbly seat was taken. Sometimes there were arguments over what program to watch (Mahindan could never understand why; comedy show or tele-drama, it was all incomprehensible to most of them anyway, and half the time the television broke down mid-program), but this prize show was the uncontested favourite. Everyone hummed along with the familiar, synthesized tune.

Mahindan did not join them. He was hunched at a table in the back of the room, labouring over a series of hieroglyphics in an exercise book. The symbols were arranged left to right with space underneath where Mahindan was meant to recreate them. He was making slow and plodding progress.

What he was good at was taking apart the innards of vehicles, reducing a trishaw or motorcycle to its component parts before putting all the pieces back together. He stared at the enigmatic figure in front of him, separating and reassembling. Two identical semicircles joined to a vertical line. It was full of portent and meaning, all of it inaccessible.

He had taught Sellian to write just like this, the fat red pencil clutched between his small, clumsy fingers. Sellian was forever distracted. Mahindan would go away to answer the door or check on the rice and when he came back, Sellian would be doodling pictures in the margins.

Ai! Mahindan would yell, smacking the back of Sellian’s head. Useless child!

Mahindan drew a shaky semicircle and tried to set thoughts of Sellian aside. It had been six long weeks since their separation and he found it unbearable to dwell on just how much he missed his son. This was nothing like sending the boy to school or packing him off to stay with relations for the night. In Kilinochchi, Mahindan had never worried about Sellian when they were apart. At home, he’d been grateful, relieved to have a break. But here, his inability to leave, to walk out the doors and go collect his son, stirred up every apprehension. Was the child well? Was he eating? How frequent were the nightmares? Had he wet the bed again?

Standing on the gangplank the month before, breathing the crisp, free air, he’d seen a new land stretched out at their feet, every opportunity theirs to earn. Now, Mahindan summoned that optimism once again. Sellian was not in any danger. And the best thing Mahindan could do was learn English.

The Tamil Alliance came regularly with supplies: exercise books, CDs, pencils, maps of the country. Mahindan and his roommates were learning the geography of Canada. They quizzed each other on the provinces, Mahindan closing his eyes and reciting while Prasad checked his progress. He could get as far east as Ontario. After that, all the names mushed up together. Nova Brunswick. New Prince Island.

They had a portable CD player on loan from the Tamil Alliance that they shared with the men in five other cells. Mahindan had fallen into a grudging coexistence with Ranga (what choice did he have?), and when it was their turn with the CD player, they sat on the bed, each with an earbud, sounding out the syllables of unfamiliar words.

At meals, they practised their English by pointing to various compartments on the divided tray and stating what was inside. Bread, chicken, carrots. There were things that had no Tamil equivalent. Prasad said lasagna was Italian. Lasagna. Mahindan took it out for a test run, feeling the foreign sounds rattle against his teeth, working his tongue around the vowels.

Make your tongue flat, Prasad coached him. Lah. Lah. Lah.

One good thing about this place: it kept them well fed. Chicken and pork and eggs, more meat in a week than Mahindan was used to having in a month. He was bloated with constipation. He had asked for kadukkay powder and coconut water, but Prasad said they didn’t have all those things here. He’d been given some tablets instead, but they weren’t helpful.

The symbols had to be drawn between the lines. Mahindan placed the tip of the pencil on the blue rule and drew a straight edge up to the red, keeping his eye on the original the whole time, taking care not to press down on the lead too hard. After he was finished, he would rub out his work and give the book to Ranga.

On the television, a woman in an orange shirt came racing to the stage, arms flailing. Two doors slid back to reveal a silver car. A glamorous lady in a short blue dress walked around it, trailing her fingers against the sleek chrome and metal. The announcer said words Mahindan could not understand. The audience shrieked its approval. Rainbow chevrons lit up in a pattern of arrows. Mahindan blinked against the flashing lights. He could not take his eyes off the car.

How to work with this racket? Ranga stuck his fingers into his ears and closed his eyes, reciting numbers under his breath in English.

Beside him, Prasad, unfazed, set his novel on the table like a tent and reached for the Tamil–English dictionary.

A guard came to the doorway and called out something in English. Mahindan picked out three words. Bus. Here. Now. Every day, his store of vocabulary expanded.

The guard read five names from a list, dropping vowels and mangling up consonants. The men he called stood and picked their way to the aisle. Mahindan watched them leave, the combination of hope and fear on their faces. Even though it had been more than a month since they arrived, no one had left detention.

Best of luck, machan! a few people said.

Don’t come back, someone called out.

No need for us to see your ugly faces again.

Every day, the same routine: breakfast, television, detention reviews. Later, when the men returned, shoulders hunched, there would be conciliatory murmurs, pats on the back. What to do? Only try again next time.

Some, like Ranga, were growing frustrated, but Mahindan had adopted the stoicism of his lawyers, confident all would work out in the end. Mr. Gigovaz had warned them – had he not? – from the very first day that they must be patient. What use was it to harp on about what had been lost in Sri Lanka, to pout and mutter about what little they had gained here? Mahindan was contemptuous of such lazy cynicism and prided himself on his positive attitude.

Whenever Ranga hissed derisively through his teeth and made some ungrateful complaint about this country and their rules, whenever he brooded on his old life in Mannar, the lost prosperity of his vegetable stand, Mahindan turned and walked away. He was forced to share a cell, even workbooks, with this man, but he refused to indulge his sulking.

Mahindan had already faced three different judges and failed all three detention reviews. From now on, there would be reviews only every thirty days, one bid for freedom per month. The first failure had come as a shock, the allegation that his identity was suspect. He had all his papers in order; what was the confusion? But Mr. Gigovaz had said not to worry. The government was being overly cautious. There were too many Tamils and not enough government workers to process them quickly.

You see? Mahindan had said to Ranga the day before, when another busload of men returned shaking their heads. No one is allowed to go. You aren’t the only one.

Not that it helped. Ranga’s expression only darkened. They’ll keep us here forever, he said. They’re no better than the Sinhalese.

How can you say such things? Mahindan had thrown up his hands. Have you forgotten how those devils made us suffer?

What was most difficult for Mahindan was feeling stalled. Every day he passed in this jail was another day he wasted fretting about Sellian instead of searching for a job.

Outside, a dismal rain spat half-heartedly against the window. In the exercise book, the next character was a single curve, like a crescent moon.

Mahindan missed working with his hands, letting his mind run free as he lay under a bus, fingers slippery with grease, inhaling the kerosene and rust. He missed doing the work he was good at – repairing brake lines, diagnosing faulty transmissions.

Hidden between the pages of the exercise book was a drawing Sellian had made in blue crayon – a cement block house with a palmyra tree in front and two stick figures, under which he had carefully spelled out in Tamil Appa and Sellian. He had labelled the picture Home.

Sellian would have taken over the garage if they had stayed in Kilinochchi. But now they were here, and when Mahindan saw professionals like Prasad and Charlika, people who wore suits and spoke in English, who were not frightened by the shower, he was proud to give his son a better legacy.

—

Sellian always ran to his father when he came for Saturday visits. Mahindan bent down and reached out as his son barrelled into his arms. Each time was a relief, like exhaling a long-held breath, the moment when the small, familiar body made contact, Sellian sweet-smelling in his arms, holding on as if for dear life and panting hard into his chest.

Don’t go, Sellian whispered. Don’t go.

Where to go? Mahindan would say. Always, I am here.

Mahindan was happy to remain in the hug for as long as Sellian wanted, marvelling at every change he noticed, every ounce of added weight, storing it up for later as a balm for his nerves when, alone, anxiety snuck in.

But Saturdays were also when Mahindan assigned Sellian his studies and checked his work from the week before.

You need to read and write in English if you are going to succeed in this country, Mahindan told him.

They sat across from each other at a square table in the visiting room. There were guards at the doors and a machine that belched out Coca-Cola in a plastic bottle when you fed it a gold coin. Sellian’s eyes flicked to its polished red surface every few minutes as he swung his legs back and forth under the table.

It is easier to learn when you are young, Mahindan said.

Yes, Appa. Sellian stuck his hands under his thighs.

On the opposite side of the room, Prasad was deep in conversation with that man from the Tamil Alliance, Sam Nadarajah. They spoke English, a newspaper on the table between them. Nearby, Charlika was clumped with Ranga and a group of men, engaged in an earnest debate about cricket. She made a joke and Sellian smiled faintly.

Don’t you want to be like Charlika Auntie one day? Mahindan asked. Successful professional with a Canadian passport?

Charlika Auntie has a car, Sellian said, perking up. A sports car.

And so? Don’t you want a sports car one day?

It’s red.

Come now, Mahindan said. Tell me your letters.

Sellian dutifully recited: A-B-C-D. Halfway through the list, he faltered. What is after L, Appa?

Mahindan didn’t know. The unfamiliar sounds were a puzzle he could not assemble. Ah, so you’ve been playing the fool all week instead of studying, he said.

Mahindan wished he could supervise his son’s work directly. He worried that Kumuran’s wife was no use. Women were too soft, and anyway, Sellian was not her son. She wasn’t mistreating him, at least. Whenever he asked, Does Auntie take care of you? Sellian only shrugged and said, She sleeps all the time.

Q, Sellian said. L…then P or T?

Mahindan folded his arms across his chest. I can’t be telling you a hundred and one times. Revise properly this week.

Yes, Appa. Sellian slouched in his chair. His gaze travelled to the group with Charlika.

Six runs! Charlika said, slap-brushing her hands together at the punchline. Match over!

The group cracked up, heads thrown back, hands banging the table. Mahindan thought: Sellian would rather be with them. He tried to be kinder.

Okay, pillai. Tell me about this car.

I had to sit in a special seat in the back.

Like a big man with a driver?

Sellian grinned. Like Prabhakaran.

Mahindan startled at the mention of the LTTE leader’s name. He scanned the area quickly. The guards were placid. The visiting room was full and their table was surrounded by groups of others, everyone talking loudly and gesturing.

Mahindan leaned closer and spoke quietly. Sellian, don’t say this.

Why, Appa?

The Canadians, they don’t like this kind of talk here.

Sellian’s brow wrinkled in confusion. What kind of –

And no more Lions and Tigers, okay? You must not play this game with the other children.

But, Appa –

No, pillai. This is important. Listen, all of that…Tamil Eelam, the Tigers, Prabhakaran…that is all in the past now. We have left Sri Lanka and we must leave all of this behind. Put it out of your mind.

But how to do that?

Just don’t think about it. Don’t speak about it. And it will go. He twisted his wrist in the air to suggest things disappearing with ease.

Ganesha too?

Ganesha is okay. The gods brought us here. We cannot forget them.

But –

No. Sellian. A guard was staring at them now. His expression was grim. Mahindan grasped his son’s arms. Now listen to me. We must make the Canadians happy or they will not let us stay here. Do you want to go back?

No, Appa. Sellian’s lip trembled and Mahindan felt a piercing guilt. I don’t want to go back, Sellian whimpered. Please, Appa…

Charlika and Ranga glanced over.

Mahindan quickly patted his son’s head. Okay, okay. Don’t cry. Be a good boy and no one will send you back.

—

In the recreation room, the television screen flickered, the image pleating like a sari and quivering for a moment before straightening out. The woman in the orange shirt ran on the spot and clapped her hands when she saw the car. She was wide on top and small on the bottom, a generous chest and stomach balanced on a paltry pair of legs. Mahindan did not understand what was being said, but the trajectory of the game was easy to follow. The man in charge carried a microphone. He had a big face and short-cropped hair. His eyes squinted out from behind thick glasses. Mahindan knew he was the boss because he was the only one in a suit. He presided over the competition with a detached boredom.

The boss thrust the microphone at the woman’s mouth. She could have the car, but first she must say the correct combination of words. In the audience, everyone was screaming, on their feet holding up two fingers or four. The woman in the orange shirt wore a plaintive expression. When the camera came close, Mahindan saw she was breathing hard, chest and shoulders heaving with exertion. She looked confused and scared, overcome by the good fortune within her grasp and the bad luck hovering just behind it.

Prasad moved his lips silently as he read. Occasionally he would chuckle and raise his head, as if wanting to share a joke, but when Mahindan or Ranga raised expectant eyebrows, he shook his head and returned to his book. Mahindan watched him read, eyes narrowed with attention, while the woman in the orange shirt bit her lip and spoke into the microphone.

Prasad must have been very clever to have earned a spot at the university. And those fools had forced him to leave. Sometimes, when he thought of home, Mahindan was overcome with rage.

He had quizzed Sam Nadarajah, so he knew how schooling worked in Canada. Our people work hard, Sam had told him. And in this country they reward you. Tamil or Sinhalese, brown or white, only thing that matters is the grades. It is not like back home. One Tamil for every seven Sinhalese admitted into the university – it is not like that here.

Twenty years ago, Sam had come to Canada just like them, a refugee on a ship. And today, he owned a sari shop, sent his daughters to university, had even married again. I was a widower too, Sam confided. With two small girls. There were times I did not think I could survive.

Mahindan was astonished to learn his second wife was a white woman, but Sam had just chuckled and said, I told you, here we are all the same. I teach her to speak Tamil. She shows me how to roast turkey. Best of both worlds.

Mahindan held this image of Sam and his sari shop close, a vision of his own future. Once he and Sellian got out of detention, Mahindan would get a job. Cars were the same from one country to another. He could work changing tires or even pumping petrol. It did not matter what he did once he got out. His motto: Learn English, get a job, find a small place to live.

Mahindan compared the two letters on the page – the one in printed ink, bold and sure, and his shaky facsimile beneath. There were a lot of straight lines in English. The language looked the way it sounded, harsh and utilitarian. Mahindan tried to draw a letter without lifting his pencil off the paper. Letters were the first step, then words, then sentences. A-B-C. Child, car, carrot. Hello, my name is Mahindan. It is a nice day. It is a very nice day. Good was another word for nice. The opposite of good was bad. This was a table and that was a chair and they were now inside a jail. Some English words they already knew – Internet, cellphone, television.

On the television, the woman struggled with her answer. She bounced on the balls of her feet. The crowd in the audience cheered. They were on her side. They wanted her to win. Hundreds of people sitting and watching, all of them hoping for their names to be called, for a chance to run screaming to the stage, to make numbers materialize on a board, to have the boss pat their back and declare them the winner. Hundreds of people who wanted to stand where the woman in the orange shirt stood. Hundreds of contestants, but only one winner. It all came down to this. The woman in the orange shirt squeezed her fists at her side. The boss waved the microphone under her chin. She tugged on her shirt and licked her lips.

When I get out, I’m going to buy that car, someone said.

And that beauty to drive it, someone else added.

Everyone snickered.

Everything on Canadian television was like this car – polished and shiny. It made Mahindan wonder if he had ever owned a single new thing in his life. Whenever he thought of his house in Kilinochchi, he recalled the sand between his toes, the damp floors in the toilet, the tilted old commode. It was impossible to imagine the silver car onstage parked in front. These glossy, gleaming things belonged here, in this new world.

The woman in the orange shirt took a deep breath. Her arms shook with trepidation, with hope – how closely those things were connected. The host pointed to the car and said something. The audience chanted. The microphone was a black egg. The woman leaned toward it. Her voice turned up at the end – her answer a question. She spoke with her eyes closed. She could not bear to know. The camera jumped to the game board, to the last blank square. A number appeared. Bells, cheers, the woman running on the spot, then down on her knees, in thanks, a close-up of the car, the blue-dress lady waving serenely because none of this, the lights, the screams, the hopes dashed and realized, the up-swelling music, none of it had any power over her. She was not part of the competition. Or she had already won. And this was the ultimate prize, being onstage among all the beautiful things.