Lions and Tigers

May 2009

A United Nations convoy had finally arrived in the village, the first one Mahindan had seen in months: forty covered trucks and aid workers in flak jackets and helmets. They kept their voices low and their eyes on the uniformed cadres circulating among the masses, M-16 rifles slung over their shoulders. The aid workers were jumpy, flinching at every thump and sudden movement, as they handed out packets of rations – rice, beans, a bit of cooking oil – and in return requested information. How long have you been on the run? Are you injured? What supplies do you have?

Drones hummed overhead. From the A35 came the din of artillery, the army and the Tigers exchanging fire. A child ran in a looping figure eight, her arms held straight out like an airplane. Mahindan stepped out of her way to avoid a collision.

The government had dropped flyers, a warning written in clumsy Tamil that they should move, with directions to the No Fire Zone, and Mahindan and his family had arrived here three days earlier. They had come from Puthukkudiyiruppu with thousands of others, trudging on foot, pushing barrows and cycles bundled high with belongings, Tiger cadres marching grimly beside them, everyone heading east together, ducking and jumping into ditches at the whistle of incoming fire.

The village was tiny, two dozen concrete bungalows and a pockmarked temple. A tiny carving of Ganesha riding his mouse lay upside down at the temple door, no bigger than a stone. Sellian had picked him up and kissed his elephant head, then slipped the little statue into his pocket for safekeeping.

They were hemmed in on a narrow spit of land, the Indian Ocean on one side, a lagoon and the army in the jungle on the other. Every day, more people surged in, with their tractors and their cows and their last resorts. They slept in fields and coconut groves, in tents along the sides of dirt roads. They squeezed in where they could, occupying spaces left empty by the dead.

The village heaved, swollen with the fears and exhaustion of thousands upon thousands of refugees. The sun burned, relentless, day after day. Those without tents constructed shelters out of sticks, plastic tarps slung overtop. Others had only a mat, not even a tree under which to shelter. Saris had been cut up to make bandages. Scraps of fabric were used to patch tents and sewn into sandbags, bright splashes of pattern and colour against the mud-brown landscape.

Mahindan balanced a saucepan over a fire and squatted in a circle with his family. When the meal was cooked, they passed the pot around, eating straight out of it with their hands. Ruksala had one plantain left. It was big enough for everyone to take a bite.

They had a bottle of silty water from the lagoon that they used to wash their hands and another of drinking water from the well that they shared between them. Mahindan let Chithra’s mother have the last drop and ignored the shooting pains in his gut.

Some people had set up camp in the playground around the tiny infirmary and Mahindan felt fortunate to have found a space for their tents here. The clinic’s coordinates had been transmitted to the army. A red cross was painted on the roof. In its shadow, they would have some safety.

The Tigers had mobile artillery units: long-nosed cannons mounted on wheeled planks that fired off blasts of orange-grey smoke. The army had multi-barrel rocket launchers. The Tigers shot off five shells; the army hit back with forty. But by the time they returned fire, the Tigers had hitched their howitzers and rolled off to a new location. The horizon exploded in shellfire flashes and smoke plumes. Every day, the shelling crept nearer.

The last food packet had been doled out and the United Nations convoy was leaving, the vehicles snaking away like a slow-moving caterpillar, down the highway and back toward safe government territory. The field beyond glowed, lit up by a thousand cooking fires. In the playground, people swarmed all around, their legs brushing by the small family circle. They called to each other, groaned over injuries, and soothed crying babies. A murder of crows soared overhead in a sweeping circle then settled in the trees. Men wheeled out barrows through the back doors of the infirmary. No one had strength any longer to dig proper graves.

The playground equipment was dented and rusty. A little girl stood on the rubber seat of a swing, squealing, her plait flying out behind her. Boys swung like monkeys, reaching past the missing bars. The children shrieked and yelled. They tripped each other in jest, fell, and jumped back up unhurt. The children were indestructible.

Sellian had been eyeing the see-saws, and the moment one was free, he and Prem jumped up and ran to it. A Tiger cadre toured the perimeter of the playground with a megaphone. She wore fatigues and a cropped haircut. Her tone was calm and even, a soothing cadence. There is no reason to worry, she called out. Our line is secure.

There was a burst of machine-gun fire in the distance, an angry retort. The army, relentless, had finally chased them here, to the eastern edge of the island, penned in a cage with the soldiers bearing down. From the aid workers, Mahindan knew the army had used the United Nations convoy as cover to move their line forward. They were now reportedly closer than ever.

You must go, Chithra’s mother said.

Take the children to safety, Chithra’s father agreed. We are old. You must leave us.

They spoke quietly, all of them leaning into the circle, holding their hands to the fire as if to keep warm.

They will shoot us if we try, Ruksala said.

The Tigers had cadres stationed along the length of the lagoon. People said they were firing at defectors. But there were other rumours too. People spoke of a counter-strike, another Tiger victory to embarrass the government. The United Nations convoy had revived hope of international intervention. Standing in the food line, Mahindan had heard an old man weep: Will no one help us? But the convoy had left and Mahindan knew in his heart no one else was coming.

Anyway, we will die, Chithra’s father said. Carry the children. Run fast. Go to the army.

Do it first thing in the morning, his wife agreed.

There were land mines in the jungle and there would be more shelling. And then, of course, even if they made it, there would be the Sinhalese.

We do not know, Mahindan said, what it will be like over there.

Might be safer on the government side, Ruksala said. Might be more dangerous.

Mahindan watched his son, straddled on the wooden board, suspended in mid-air. He’d long ago lost track of the days but thought it might be May now, maybe even Sellian’s birthday. The see-saw was painted in camouflage with a tiger-stripe pattern. There was a wooden toy rifle affixed to each grip. The boys were playing their favourite game: Lions and Tigers.

Tamil Eelam! Prem shouted. We will have freedom!

Sellian imitated the juddering blasts of an AK-47. I will rape your mothers, he yelled to his cousin. I will eat your dirty Tamil babies.

There is no reason to worry. The cadre’s voice came to them again, magnified over the cacophony. The Tigers will protect you. You are safe here.

They watched her pick her way around playground equipment and cooking fires. Bits of bright silk and paisley fluttered in the breeze. Children had made kites out of palm fronds and sari scraps. One had got caught in a tree and a boy climbed up to retrieve it, feet spread apart, bare toes gripping bark. His mother stood below with her arms out. Come down, she called. Aiyo! This child! You will fall and break your neck and then you will die!

Let us not speak of this now, Ruksala said. Tomorrow we will take a decision.

Mahindan pitched his tent in the last of the evening light. A million stars shone in the sky. This was the tent he had inherited from his father. As a boy, he had strapped it to the back of his bicycle and gone to the ocean with his cousins. They had camped on the beach and woken up covered in bites, angry red bumps all over their arms and legs. At home, the mothers had yelled: Look what these foolish children have done now!

Life was always high drama. The mothers were martyrs and their sons were visaran, tiny lunatics, fashioning trouble from mud and sticks and garden snakes. But in unexpected moments, the mothers would soften. Frying onions or pumping water, they would suddenly pull the boys against them and squeeze until they yelped. Amma! I can’t breathe!

Sellian stumped over, his whole body sinking under the weight of exhaustion. The rush and excitement of a cooked meal and the see-saw had faded and he was ready for sleep. They called good night to the others in the tents beside them and Chithra’s mother blew a kiss. Ruksala’s eyes were red and raw. The gunfire had gone silent, but they could still hear the drone high in the sky. Mahindan lay with Sellian in his arms, wishing Chithra was with them and thankful she was not. He was asleep in moments.

—

A scream pierced his dreams. Mahindan clutched his son instinctively. Shells and rockets crashed all around, the ground under them quaking. Shouts of fear and anguish were drowned out by the whistle of incoming fire and the thud of falling debris. The tent shook. Mahindan was terrified it would come unmoored.

Sellian whimpered. His eyes were wide open, blinking with panic. Mahindan kept his arms tight around his son. His son who was still whole and unharmed. Every second was another scrap of life. Every second, they were both one moment closer to death.

The shelling went on for hours. Sellian would drop into sleep only to be jerked back awake by a crash. Mahindan rubbed circles on his back. He felt the wild thumping of his own heart, clamouring to be free of his body. He was desperate to know if the others were safe. People were dying all around them. Let it be fast, he prayed, holding his son. Let it be fast.

All these months they had spent limping across the country. What had it been for when now, at the end, they were all consigned to share this ignominious death? Here, huddled like animals, in an open graveyard. Pawns for the Tigers. Spoils for the Lions.

A shell exploded so close the whole tent shuddered. There was an almighty boom, then a bright orange flash, and for a split second everything was illuminated: the blue mat under them and the small brown suitcase. On the walls of the tent, the outside world was reflected in grotesque shadows. Shapes flung through the air. Then both sight and sound were extinguished.

Mahindan felt the heavy thud of rocks raining to the ground. Something large landed on part of the tent, the fabric collapsing under its weight. He gathered his son closer, turned his head away. This was death, this was how it came, with a great noise and then abrupt, hollowing silence.

He moved his jaw and heard nothing. The earth beneath them had stilled, as if it too had surrendered to death. Finally, finally, the shelling ceased.

Sellian’s whole body was damp with sweat and tears. He had wet himself. The smell of urine was sharp. But he was alive. They were both alive. Outside the tent, all around them, was the agony of the dying, and Mahindan’s consolation was being deaf to their cries. Ruksala, Prem, Chithra’s parents – dead? alive? injured? He was paralyzed by fear and horror and the slow wash of relief settling over him. His vision closed in, his consciousness grew faint. A black hole yawned open, and he gave himself over to it with gratitude.

—

Sound was the first sensation to reach him – a rooster’s grating crow. The tent was riddled with tiny tears and holes, singed by flying shrapnel. Pinpricks of light dazzled in. Mahindan left Sellian sleeping and crawled out.

The world, on fire all night long, now lay smouldering. Smoke made his eyes water. The stench filled his nose and mouth. Charred flesh, shit, and the metallic tang of blood. He choked, doubling over, and, opening his eyes, saw a finger on the ground, severed, a gold band still ringed around it.

He stumbled away in horror and saw the wreckage through the haze, the earth gouged, tents ripped to shreds, sandbags blasted open. A man, his clothes in tatters, limped past in a daze.

People were slumped in trenches, dead in the graves they had dug for themselves, their clothing blood-sodden. The swing set lay on its side, two people pinned underneath. The dead were dead now and the survivors wandered, aimless, crouching in front of bodies, turning over debris. No one called out to their loved ones.

There was a crater in the ground where his family’s tents had been. Bits of steel, flesh, and clothing were sprinkled like confetti all around.

His hearing was pitch perfect now. The slap of his sandals, the rusty gate of the playground squeaking back and forth, the tortured sounds of a crow dying in a bush, and the mournful caws of its compatriots perched on the infirmary’s roof. It was all very loud in the weak morning light.

Trees were snapped in half. A mother sprawled dead on a mat, two babies at her bared breasts, one still mewling. Another child, naked, hung flayed on the chain-link fence.

At the base of the slide, he found Ruksala’s torso, her hands cradling Prem’s head. Chithra’s mother had her arm slung over a tree branch, her husband’s upper body with it, sliced clean at the waist.

Mahindan remembered the amputation, the grinding saw, the man bucking, his eyes rolling back. Ruksala’s terrified eyes were open. Mahindan turned away and dry-heaved.

A voice came to him from the jungle, far away but crystal clear. Amplified by a megaphone, it rang out in Sinhala. Mahindan heard the foreign words and understood their message. The war was over. The army had won.