Ganesha turning cartwheels

Mahindan watched, bemused, as a small bundle waddled in through the doors. It was a child, stuffed like a sausage into some kind of spacesuit, swaddled in head-to-toe red, a zipper down the centre. The child’s mouth was muffled by a long scarf. A band of blue wool covered his forehead. Only his eyes were visible. He walked stiffly, arms held out, marshmallow legs brushing together – swish, swish – his boots leaving damp tracks in their wake.

The child yanked off red mittens, letting them fall as he walked. The scarf unravelled, the hood was thrown back, and Mahindan realized with a start that this creature was his son.

I hate this stupid get-up, Sellian said, flinging away the woollen cap and thumping down in a chair across from his father.

Ai! Mahindan admonished. Take care!

He jumped up to collect the discarded clothing. The fleece lining the mittens was soft. The warmth of Sellian’s hand lingered.

See how well these things are made, Mahindan said. These are expensive, no?

Sellian bent forward, legs stuck out in front of him. His lip trembled when he failed to reach his boots, frustration threatening to turn into tears.

Mahindan crouched at his son’s feet and ripped off the Velcro fastenings. No problem, he said quickly. No need to cry.

Mahindan had been awaiting this visit all week, but now they had something difficult to discuss. Sellian had started taking things – coloured chalk, a classmate’s ruler, the chocolates from schoolchildren’s lunches. Nothing of value, just small-small things. They had found the box under his bed where he hoarded his treasures. Mahindan could not understand the motivation for this petty theft. Sellian lived with a middle-class family. He wanted for nothing.

Mahindan helped Sellian out of the winter costume, both of them struggling with the unfamiliar zipper, the cumbersome layers. Emerging from his straitjacket, Sellian was himself again, slight and trim, though Mahindan noticed his son had grown – but surely this had not happened overnight! – a sprout shooting up in the fertile Canadian soil.

Sellian’s foster people had taken him to get his hair cut. It was slightly longer in the back and shorter in the front, the fringe spiky and subtly different, more Canadian. But when Mahindan ran a hand through, it felt just the same, fine and silky, still the hair of his child.

Sellian was mutinous. I hate the milk here, he said. It is like water, not even milk.

Arms folded and grim, he looked so thoroughly like his mother that Mahindan was overcome with affection.

You have a list? Mahindan said. All right. So tell me. He counted in English on his fingers: Number one, milk.

Number two, rain, Sellian said. Rain, rain, go away. Even the sun hates Canada.

Mahindan laughed and Sellian’s expression was outraged. It was too delicious, this temper tantrum. It was Chithra all over again.

I hate that stupid Mrs. Ramamoorthy! Chithra used to fume after work. And to calm her down, Mahindan would make her itemize a list of grievances. (So bossy, know-it-all, her stupid finger, always wagging it at me. One of these days, I will bite it off.) What began in fury always ended in jest.

Point three, shoes. He kicked his foot out, knocked one boot over, and whined: I hate being made to wear shoes.

We never had shoes in Sri Lanka, Mahindan said, repeating one of his grandfather’s stories, until the Portuguese came.

I wish they had never come, Sellian said. I wish we had never come.

What else? Mahindan asked quickly, not wanting to linger on this new grievance.

Meat loaf, Sellian said, and folded up his nose.

What is mit loof? Mahindan asked, pronouncing the strange English words with difficulty.

And they…I don’t…I don’t want to speak always English.

Mahindan understood his son’s frustration because he felt it too. The language was exhausting, all the irregular verbs, the slow, tedious work of conjugation. Even the simplest sentence was an effort to construct. He laboured over every consonant and vowel, stumbled over the silent k’s, acutely conscious of how awkward and tongue-tied he must sound, how different his pronunciation was from that of Canadians.

There was no need anymore to lecture Sellian about his English. Living with his new family, going to school every day, it was a natural education. Sellian could converse now with the guards if he liked, and Mahindan heard the offhand way he formulated sentences, his thoughts free-flowing, how he substituted Tamil words for the English ones he didn’t know. Soon, English would be as good as a mother tongue. A foster mother tongue.

Everyone is saying your English is improving, Mahindan said. Why? Because you are speaking it all the time, because of this practice.

Sellian produced a small toy from his pocket – the Ganesha statue – and began tapping it on the table. I hate English. He kicked out and the other boot fell over. Stupid language.

These Saturday visits were the highlight of Mahindan’s week. But their time together was never as he imagined, and afterward, he was always deflated.

Come now, pillai. Appa has to ask you something.

When Mahindan had first heard about the stealing, he’d been livid. But then he felt powerless, which was worse. If they were at home, he would have known what to do. One good caning to the backside and the boy would shape up.

These things happen from time to time, Sam Nadarajah said. The child has suffered a trauma. Do not be too angry with him.

Sellian would start seeing a special doctor. A psychologist, Sam had said. It is nothing to worry about.

Why did you do this thing, pillai? Mahindan asked now as Sellian refused to meet his eyes. You must be a good boy, Mahindan said. These people you are staying with, they are kind to you, no?

Secretly, he wanted Sellian to hate them. He begrudged having to say generous things about the child snatchers.

Sellian was sullen, still focused on Ganesha turning cartwheels on the table.

They give you a nice place to sleep and clean clothes to wear. They take you to school, where you play with other children. And this is how you thank them, by making trouble?

Sellian kicked his legs forward and back, as if he were on a swing. Where is Prem? he asked. I want to see Prem.

Hearing his nephew’s name after all this time gave Mahindan a jolt.

Prem is gone, no? Mahindan said, composing his face.

I want to see Prem, Sellian said.

I know. I want to see Prem too.

And Ruksala Auntie and Ammachi and Appachi.

Pillai, you know they are gone.

In the camp. I know.

He fiddled with the Ganesha statue, turning it around in his hands. The colours had faded, the blue skin much lighter, as if the god had taken ill.

Sellian said: I want to go back.

But Baba, you have forgotten how dangerous it was there?

No, Sellian said. Not there. Not the jungle. Not the camp. I want to go home. To my house. And my real school.

Baba, how to go back? They will have bombed the school and the house.

I hate it here. Maybe they will make us to go back.

Mahindan felt the air rush out of his lungs, as if someone had hit him hard in the centre of his stomach. Maybe they will make us to go back. The fear that had lurked below the surface, trampled down after every failed detention review, was now flat on the table. Impossible to ignore.

He reached out to touch his son’s hair again, sifting the fringe through his fingers, off Sellian’s forehead. This brown-skinned child with his new haircut and winter costume who might pass like any other in a Canadian playground. Mahindan said, No one is going to send you back.

Sellian began to cry and Mahindan gathered his son up in his arms. No point thinking of what is in the past, he said, rocking Sellian. He inhaled the unfamiliar scents – laundry detergent, soap, and shampoo, brands he did not know. Foreign smells of an unknown life that now belonged to his son.

Now you are here, Mahindan said, whispering in his son’s ear, trying to cut through the soft cries and sniffles. It is safe here. And you will grow to be big and go to school and get a job and marry.

And have a car, Sellian said, gulping.

Yes, Mahindan said, amused. A car you buy, not a car you steal! Sellian, listen to your Appa. Please do not take what is not yours. Borrow and return. But do not steal from others. This is the beginning of trouble.

He saw Ranga, in conversation with Sam, and looked away.

You are here now and there is a future for you here, Mahindan said.