Kamala woke while it was still dark and recognized the anxious, restless feeling in her. She allowed herself to wonder if she had forgotten something important: Paying her daughter Nilanthi’s cram class fees? Mailing her oldest son Manju’s university acceptance letter? Enrolling Lalith, her youngest, for his grade five exams? Buying a new writing pad for her middle son, Rajit? In her mind, she checked off each of these errands as she used to, assured herself that there was really nothing she had forgotten, and hoped the anxiety would subside. But she knew these little games of avoidance wouldn’t work any longer. She reached out for her husband’s back, rising and falling in the dark—lately she had been envious of his easy sleep—but still her nervousness remained. She swallowed hard and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Knowing that her nerves would distract her until she was consumed with the bustle of the day, she made her way to the kitchen, the house still dark, to prepare the children’s lunch.
Nilan, her husband, had noticed her recent absentmindedness. He teased her about it, but Kamala knew he was worried. It was unlike her to forget to pick up his new shirts at the tailors. It was unlike her to burn the fish curry or to pull on the loose strings of her sari until the train looked frayed and shabby. He scolded her gently—My dear, do you plan to burn down our house? If you are looking for something grander, there are simpler ways of hinting—but she saw his concern, and that added to her anxiety. She tried to follow her husband’s lead. Just as Nilan approached each day with his usual efficient cheeriness, Kamala tried to protect her children from her worries. Every morning, she continued to urge them on to school with full bellies and crisp uniforms, waving after them with a broom under her arm. Their last glimpse of her would still be one of purpose and calm.
KAMALA HAD BEEN trying not to let her distractions get the better of her, but she was changing. She sensed it, and so did her children, no matter how much she tried to shield them. The burnt fish curry was only one example. A few weeks ago, the whole family had been watching a teledrama from Brazil. The central character called Juliana was being forced to marry a high-class officer-friend of her uncle’s, though her heart belonged to a poor horse groomer. Kamala could see the silliness of the plot, the melodramatic twists of fate, but as Juliana sat in front of her makeup table, wiping away tears on her wedding day, Kamala couldn’t stop her own tears from streaming down her face. She quickly dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and left the couch with the excuse that she was craving tea, but Nilanthi’s eyes had caught hers. Her daughter turned away, perhaps to save her mother some embarrassment, but after a moment Nilanthi joined her in the kitchen, silently gathering teacups onto a tray. Kamala felt Nilanthi’s concern, but she worried that if she attempted a reassuring smile, it would bring back the tears and she would have no explanation to offer her daughter.
If Nilanthi had asked Kamala what was bothering her, she would have made something up, pretending the story reminded her of a former classmate. Or perhaps made an excuse about feeling tired, not sleeping well. But that would have come too close to the truth. In fact, she hadn’t slept well since her most recent trip to Batticaloa Town, when she was stopped by a boy-soldier who couldn’t have been older than Rajit.
This was over a month ago now. Kamala had gone to town to retrieve a parcel from Nilan’s aunt at the central post office. This aunt, who had been living in southern India for ten years now, often sent packets of spices or bundles of fabric to her nephew’s family. Although Kamala knew that Nilan’s aunt meant well, she often felt resentful as she retrieved these gifts sent from the north. Had their relative forgotten that spices were quite abundant in Sri Lanka, too? When Kamala felt particularly impatient on these errands, she saw these parcels as reprimands that she wasn’t offering her family the very best and needed handouts from distant relatives, people she had met only twice. In these moments, she conducted imaginary conversations with the aunt. Thank you very much, Auntie, but we have plenty of spices from the local market and my own garden. It is very kind, Auntie, but our tailor only stocks the very best materials, too. She was lost in one of these exchanges when she noticed the boy a few yards in front of her.
He was wearing a camouflage uniform and clunky black boots; a rifle hung nonchalantly over his shoulder, its point tickling the back of his head. He was handing out flyers to every woman who passed by, as were a series of other uniformed boys dotting the main street. Kamala had heard about these young recruits from her neighbors, but she had brushed aside the rumors, along with the recent reports of anti-Tamil uprisings in the south. And now suddenly they were blocking her path to the bus stop. There was nothing overtly menacing about these boys, looking like schoolchildren playing dress-up, but just their presence sent a shock of panic through Kamala.
She tried to scurry past the first boy, attempting to look preoccupied and purposeful. But he had reached out, surprisingly gently, and pushed a sheet of paper into her hand. As the paper scraped against her palm, the parcel under Kamala’s arm fell to the ground. She crumpled the paper into her fist and squatted next to the package. She needed to get as far away from this boy as possible and back onto the bus that would take her home, but he was even closer now, crouching beside her. She saw the surprising gloss of his boots against the dust-covered road and the handle of his rifle resting alongside her palm. “I’m sorry, madam.” His voice was gentle, but his presence seemed menacing. She wanted to shove him away.
Kamala got up quickly, placed the damaged box under her arm, and rushed to the bus stop. She did not look behind her to see the boy’s expression. She was trembling uncontrollably as she took deep breaths and scolded herself for her panic. She looked down at her hands, clenched into fists. There it was, the flyer, jagged and unmistakable, peeking from her fingers. It took her a few minutes before she could open her hand and read the thick black letters on the crumpled paper. RECRUITMENT A PEACEFUL TAMIL STATE IN TIMES OF WAR SACRIFICE SOLDIERES NEEDED. As the bus grumbled and swayed, Kamala folded the paper again and again into tiny squares until the dark letters became shadows. She tucked the paper into her purse and rested her forehead against the murky bus window. The trees and shops passed in a blur. Suddenly nothing looked familiar.
When Nilan came home that night, Kamala handed her husband the flyer. She watched him unfold it, square by square, until the dented page filled Nilan’s lap. They were whispering on the porch, the children off to sleep an hour before. Only Manju remained awake, the light from his room casting shadows into the garden and onto Nilan’s face. Kamala wasn’t sure what she was hoping for—perhaps for Nilan to fold the paper back up and reassure her that there was no cause for alarm, that as soon as the government settled things down in the south, there would be no more need for recruiting, here or anywhere else. But Nilan dropped his elbows to his thighs and rubbed his temples. He didn’t look up for a long while, and with each of his prolonged breaths, Kamala longed to snatch the paper from his lap, refold it into her purse, and pretend it didn’t exist. Before he even opened his mouth, Nilan had confirmed her fears: it was different this time.
Kamala had already spent much of the day creating morbid fantasies in her mind. She had pictured Rajit dressed in camouflage, drawing maps onto the sand, silent and steady. She saw him marching step for step alongside other boy-soldiers. They were teaching him how to rest his gun nonchalantly over his shoulder, how to stand in the heat in heavy boots without growing tired. She didn’t know why it should be Rajit who had so easily become a soldier in her imagination. On the way home, she had felt so guilty about handing Rajit over in her daydreams, she had bought him a new pack of drawing pens. “I’m not handing them over.” Kamala blurted out the words before she even knew what she was saying.
Nilan finally met her eyes. “What are you talking about?” He folded the flyer once and placed it on the table. He pushed his chair closer to Kamala’s, and she could feel the heat coming off his body. There was no breeze, even on the porch, and everything felt hot and still.
She leaned her body closer to her husband’s. “You’re not saying, ‘Don’t worry,’ like you usually do.”
“But I’m not saying we have to panic either.” Nilan attempted a smile. “We will wait and see.”
Kamala felt ashamed. She hadn’t meant to sound panicked; it was just that she had been so deep in her own thoughts all day long. She wanted Nilan to know that he could rely on her to be rational, to be sturdy, and to help keep all their minds at ease. But the reality was that she couldn’t even steady her own trembling hands. “I don’t want the children to see that.” She stared at the folded paper, angry at it for being on her porch. “I don’t want them to even know about it.”
Nilan sighed and rested his hand on top of Kamala’s. “It will be impossible to shield them from all news, my dear. Rumors will arrive from Batticaloa as they always do.”
Even though she knew Nilan was right, she felt angry. She was resolved to keep her children protected from these adult worries as long as she could. “But they need to feel safe,” she argued. “That is our responsibility.”
Manju switched off his light, and the garden fell into darkness. Kamala could feel Nilan’s calm, patient breaths against the side of her face. She imagined that he was nodding, though she was uncertain if he agreed with her. She could no longer see the flyer, but there was no point in pretending it didn’t exist. She knew its presence would wedge itself into her thoughts in the days and weeks to come. But even as she acknowledged this, she made a promise into the evening stillness that she would keep her children safe.
KAMALA COULDN’T ESCAPE her daughter. Since the crying episode, every time Kamala turned around, Nilanthi was there. In the kitchen, preparing tea. In the garden, helping with the washing. Nilanthi was suddenly full of questions. Should she add more coconut milk to the pumpkin curry? Would they still be going to the tailor to pick out material for a new dress? Had she misspelled the word journey—Is it with an e or without, Amma?” she asked, handing Kamala her English homework. Kamala believed quite certainly that Nilanthi knew the answers to her questions, and though Kamala appreciated Nilanthi’s concern, having her daughter constantly underfoot had become an additional strain. Nilanthi’s wrinkled forehead, her constant pleas for attention and company, made Kamala believe she was failing her children.
Over the past two weeks, as Nilanthi’s English Day competition drew closer, she had hounded Kamala to listen to her oration practice. “Take notes and give me suggestions, Amma,” she asked. “Be as harsh as you like.” Nilanthi had chosen a poem by a British man called John Keats. The poem had been rated the highest level of difficulty and could win Nilanthi a place in the national competition if she mastered it. Normally, Kamala would have been willing to listen to Nilanthi practice as many times as she liked, but something in the poem unsteadied her. It was called “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” and even with her A-level English training, Kamala couldn’t follow most of the words. What rattled her, though, were the poem’s final stanzas. She heard the words drifting out of Nilanthi’s bedroom, coming from the porch after Nilanthi returned from school, muted in the kitchen as Nilanthi practiced while preparing the evening rice. Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, / Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Her daughter’s voice filled the house, serious and sad. And, little town, thy streets for evermore / Will silent be.
Why had her daughter chosen this poem about sacrifice, Kamala wondered, about a village by the sea growing silent and empty? With these unfamiliar words around her, Kamala drifted into frightening daydreams. She pictured Rajit in a soldier’s uniform. She saw empty markets. She felt a silence growing in her home. To avoid her own imagination, Kamala began hiding from Nilanthi, scurrying off to the market before her daughter could sense her leaving, making excuses about visiting their neighbor Mrs. Thiranagama, who hadn’t been feeling well, lying about a meeting with Lalith’s principal.
Nilanthi, though, had become increasingly sly in keeping Kamala close. She planted herself next to her mother’s purse so Kamala couldn’t go to the market without her. She made egg hoppers to take along to Mrs. Thiranagama’s so her mother would have some company. But it was mostly Nilanthi’s pleading eyes, her bitten lips, that kept Kamala from finding ways to flee her. After a few days of these games of avoidance, Kamala realized that she was passing her anxiety on to her daughter, and to make up for it, she found herself dropping her shopping basket into her lap and agreeing to listen to Nilanthi practice her oration one more time before her English competition.
“Thank you! Thank you!” Nilanthi clapped as she urged Kamala onto the porch. She quickly formed a half circle out of the wicker chairs and a podium out of a stack of books. Nilanthi stood straight and still, her shoulders back, her chin upturned. Kamala was surprised by how suddenly composed her daughter looked. Nilanthi’s confidence soothed her, and for a quiet, still moment before the poem began, the image of the boy-soldier retreated.
KAMALA FELT MOST at ease when she watched her children in their day-to-day routines. Nilanthi’s oration practice had reminded her of her daughter’s gift for language, the promise that Nilanthi would be welcomed into a teacher-training program one day, maybe even university. Her shoulders relaxed when she heard Manju thump his books onto the kitchen table. Her thoughts steadied when she found Rajit making sketches of the dog sleeping in the garden or when she listened to Nilan quizzing Lalith on his favorite cricket players’ statistics.
One recent afternoon, she followed Manju and Lalith as they headed to the cricket pitch. Lalith had lately become quite obsessed with the game, and Manju, though busy with cram classes, always seemed to have time for his youngest brother. Kamala kept herself hidden from her sons as she lingered at the edge of the field, and she listened as Manju gave Lalith tips. Keep your eye on the ball. Play smart. Block it if you need to. You don’t always have to swing for fours or sixes. Lalith nodded seriously and fixed his gaze on his brother’s bowling arm. But as Manju released a difficult pitch, Lalith swung forcefully at the ball, missing it completely, which was confirmed by the unmistakable thwack of the wicket. Manju approached his youngest brother, shaking his head disapprovingly.
Kamala relaxed into the silence of her spying. When she looked out at her sons, she felt the tangible presence of their childhoods, and it erased the recent anxiety of the Batticaloa flyer and the uniformed boys. She let herself sink into believing the possibility that all the trouble would blow over as it had in the past, that things would quiet down in the south, and that here things would remain much the same. Manju would go away to university next year, and soon Nilanthi might follow; Lalith would trade in the blue shorts of the younger students for the long white trousers of the O-level boys. Rajit would pursue his arts A-level and continue to amuse them all with his own made-up teledramas scripted for the family to act out. If only they could stay just like this, she thought as Manju released another pitch. But the uncertainty that hovered over all of Kamala’s recent thoughts crumbled her peace of mind.
IT HAD NOT been easy to protect the children from unsettling news, even as Kamala tried to keep the promise she had made that night on the darkened porch. Two weeks ago, Kamala and Nilan were having tea with their friends Dinesh and Suchinta. The couples had been friends for over ten years and easily sank into the familiar rhythms of conversation. If Nilan and Dinesh discussed politics, it was rarely in the company of their wives, and Kamala and Suchinta’s exchanges usually centered on their children or their duties on the school volunteer board. So Kamala wasn’t prepared for the sudden shift in the conversation when it turned to the recent reports of Tamil purges in the south. Kamala did not even know who had initiated the shift, but Dinesh had suddenly sat up straight and begun telling them about his cousin who owned a share of a hotel in Tangalle, on the southern tip of the island. The cousin had been urged by his partners to leave town as soon as possible, but he couldn’t make up his mind. “He has put his entire inheritance into that place, not to mention years and years of hard work,” Dinesh explained. “I think a part of him fears that the partners are trying to steal from him, even though he can see all around him that things are becoming dangerous.” So far, the cousin still hadn’t sent word either way.
Kamala began to tug at the end of her sari. She didn’t want to be rude to her friends, but she desperately hoped to change the subject. She sensed Nilanthi roaming about—she probably wanted to practice her English oration in front of their guests. She passed a plate of biscuits to Suchinta and asked how her daughter Chamini was liking her new home in Bentota. “I sometimes wonder what it would be like to live along the opposite sea,” Kamala said, forcing a smile. “The sunsets must be quite lovely.”
Suchinta reached for a biscuit. “I used to be glad that our Chamini had gone to the south with her husband.” Suchinta nodded seriously at Dinesh. “And she was lucky to find her receptionist job at Serendib Resort, but now I wish she had stayed closer to home. Near her family and people like her.”
Kamala did not recognize her friend’s tone. She had never heard Suchinta suggest concerns that her daughter was among Sinhalese; in fact, she had always boasted about the cosmopolitan culture Chamini now enjoyed on the western coast. Kamala passed the biscuits around again. “But you’ve often said how friendly the staff were at the hotel, and how, during the off-season, she’d have lots of holiday time to come home to Batticaloa for visits. She really must be quite happy.”
Dinesh sighed. “But it’s not our daughter’s happiness Suchinta is worried about. It’s her safety.” Even though Dinesh had spoken calmly, Kamala felt scolded. It was unlike Dinesh to be condescending. She wanted to explain that she wasn’t naive, that she understood the dangers of the recent unrest. It was just that she still hoped the feuding might be only temporary and things would quiet down again, just as they had always done.
“I understand your concern, Dinesh.” Kamala was surprised by the weakness of her voice. She tried to smile at Suchinta, but her friend would not meet her eyes. “I just think we need to be careful not to overreact. Our children need to feel safe.” Kamala’s words had grown rushed as she sought her friends’ understanding. But she was met with an uncomfortable silence, even from Nilan.
Kamala’s anxiety filled her, and she thought of the flyer hidden in her wardrobe. She could show it to their friends; perhaps it would help them see that she understood what was at stake. She felt certain that Suchinta at least would understand her point of view—that their children should be able to remain happily rooted in their lives, in their routines, for as long as they could. Their parents should see to this. But there was the other question to consider, too, the one she was afraid to ask: If the fighting gets closer, how will they keep their children safe?
When Kamala returned from her room, the flyer in her hand, she heard Dinesh explaining to Nilan that if he didn’t hear from his cousin in the next few days, he would journey south to fetch him himself.
Suchinta look worried. When Kamala approached her, Suchinta stood up and wrapped her arm in Kamala’s. “Let’s walk around the garden a bit.” She half nodded at the men.
When they had achieved some privacy, Suchinta whispered, “I asked him not to go. I told him to wait a few more days, but he is insisting.” She shrugged her shoulders, but Kamala could see that Suchinta was concerned. “He claims it is family responsibility—this decision to go in search of his cousin. I asked him, ‘What about his responsibility to us, to our family?’ ”
“And what did he say?” Kamala asked.
“He offered to bring Chamini home with him.” Suchinta pretended to examine one of the spider orchids. “She’ll refuse, of course, and he knows that. But I still wish he would do it.”
“Why do you think it will be better for her here?” Kamala hadn’t meant to ask her question so abruptly, and when she saw Suchinta flinch, she wished she could take her words back. She realized she was not being a good friend, so she tried to soften her voice and to ask her question more carefully. “It’s just that things seem to be changing everywhere. Do you think the trouble will stay confined to the south?”
Suchinta shook her head noncommittally. Before Kamala realized what she was doing, she handed Suchinta the flyer. Kamala’s mind was busy with questions. She saw that Suchinta, too, was obviously worried about protecting her family. Certainly the flyer was evidence that things were growing bad even in their neighborhoods, that there was a reason to question whether Chamini would be safer here. Kamala hoped they could discuss these dangers together and work out a plan.
She watched Suchinta shake her head as she studied the words on the crumpled paper. Kamala felt all her questions rush through her mind. What will we do? What if the recruitment stops being on a voluntary basis? How can we protect our children? But Suchinta was already folding the paper. When she lifted her gaze, her expression had hardened.
“I never believed I would feel relief at having only a daughter and no sons. But suddenly I am changing my mind.” Suchinta pressed the flyer back into Kamala’s hand.
Kamala suddenly felt an enormous distance open up between them, one she feared she had just now created. After all, Suchinta had tried to express her fears to Kamala, and Kamala, instead of comforting her friend, had only displaced Suchinta’s concerns with her own. She had thought they could share in each other’s worry, but that was not what Suchinta needed right now. Kamala’s realization had come too late, however. In so few words, Suchinta had made it clear that their fears were in different places and that they would not be able to comfort one another today, nor perhaps even in the future. The failure of their friendship stunned Kamala as she watched Suchinta brushing the dust off her skirt. Suchinta rested her hand briefly on Kamala’s shoulder, squeezed it once, before walking back in the direction of their husbands.
A FEW DAYS later, Nilan came home from work, distracted and restless. Kamala watched him take a brief look at the newspaper and quickly toss it aside. She brought him some tea and bread layered with margarine and Marmite and waited for him to explain what was troubling him.
After a moment, Nilan met Kamala’s eyes and explained reluctantly, “Dinesh left for Tangalle this morning. He showed up at work with a travel bag, asked our supervisor for a three-day leave, and barely said good-bye.”
Kamala sat beside her husband. She felt his uneasiness enter her, and soon her hands began their trembling. The fact of Dinesh’s leaving felt as tangible as the boy-soldier and his flyer. She searched for a response so that Nilan would know she was listening and not just drifting in her own thoughts. “He is looking after his family,” she murmured. “It’s a brave thing he is doing.” She thought about Suchinta, who must have been overwhelmed with worry. She knew she should visit her friend first thing the next day, but at the same time she wondered if Suchinta would want to see her.
“Why the seriousness?”
Manju’s voice startled Kamala out of her thoughts. She saw her son standing in the doorway, his body large and casting shadows, his books tucked under his arm. She forced a smile as she swept the crumbs off the table. She couldn’t meet her son’s eyes. “Are you hungry, Manju? I’ve just made your father a sandwich—would you like one?” When she looked up, Manju was looking intently at his father.
“What’s the matter?” Manju ignored Kamala’s questions as he kept his gaze fixed on Nilan.
Nilan briefly looked at Kamala. She wanted to insist, No. We will keep this to ourselves. She hoped he could read this in her expression, but his face had already turned apologetic. He shifted his eyes toward his son. “I was just telling your mother that Dinesh Uncle has gone to Tangalle to look for his cousin who may be having some problems down there.”
Kamala expected Manju to be full of questions; she braced herself for a look of confusion or concern to cross his face, but all she saw was a look of resigned understanding. “My classmate Rohin’s father has just gone down to Matara this week, too. Rohin’s older brother is at university there and his father wants him to return until things quiet a bit.”
Kamala watched Manju’s measured expression and listened to the calmness of his voice. How much does he know? she wondered. And immediately it became clear to her how foolish she had been in thinking she could somehow protect her oldest from the news, from the stories he’d be encountering. For all she knew, he had received a recruitment flyer himself and had kept his silence as guardedly as she had kept hers. She imagined him unfolding his own flyer onto the table. Perhaps he would rip it into tiny pieces and throw it into the trash pile. This is all the attention you need to pay this, Amma, he might say, and she would immediately be reassured. But as quickly as her mind had wandered into this fantasy, she scolded herself. It is selfish for a mother to expect her child to comfort her. It should be the other way around, always.
Kamala sat down again, opposite her son and husband, and listened to Manju talk about Rohin’s brother. She listened as Nilan asked Manju what he had heard about the situation in Matara. She heard words like “nationalist youth” and “looting” and “terrorizing” come out of her son’s mouth, and she suddenly felt helpless and tired.
EVENTUALLY, KAMALA HAD left her son and husband at the table, the conversation having long since turned to university courses and the necessary summer cram classes to prepare Manju for his first term. She should have been preparing the evening meal; she had measured out the rice, chopped onions and chilies and tomatoes, but the vegetables rested, abandoned in piles, on the cutting board. Kamala listened to the silence of the kitchen. If she tried hard enough, she could make out Nilan’s muted questions. She could sense Nilanthi studying in her room, Lalith reading his cricket magazines, Rajit curled up in some corner, scribbling into his notebook. But Kamala was struck by a feeling of emptiness and solitude that made her uneasy. She thought of Manju’s quiet resignation and she remembered the words of Nilanthi’s oration poem. She understood, then, that her children carried knowledge that she had no control over but that she would erase if she had the power to do so. She felt angry that they should even be thinking these things and she felt angry at her own helplessness.
When her thoughts then drifted to Rajit and Lalith, the younger boys, who still seemed safely preoccupied with their own childish distractions, she wondered how long it would be before they, too, learned words of fear and violence. Would Manju and Nilanthi be their teachers, or would they find these things out for themselves through the newspapers and neighborhood rumors? Kamala looked at the aunt’s battered box sent down from Tamil Nadu—it was now holding Kamala’s cooking coconuts. She wondered what it would be like in India, where their language was spoken but where nothing else would be familiar. The aunt was growing older; perhaps she missed her family, perhaps she regretted the decision to leave her childhood home behind. Kamala knew she would never be able to ask this aunt any of these questions, but she let herself imagine what it would be like to suggest to this relative and stranger that she meet her grandnephews and grandniece one day. If things became bad enough, could she write a letter to the aunt? Would she be able to do it—send her children onto a ferry to be greeted by an old woman they would have to call Auntie?
Kamala suddenly sensed Nilanthi’s presence in the room. She wasn’t sure how long her daughter had been keeping her company, but she smelled the rose Lux soap Nilanthi used. She heard the sound of oil sizzling on the stove and the crackle of the onions and chilies as her daughter stirred them into the pan. She suddenly felt guilty for the direction her thoughts had taken her just now. When she turned around, she attempted a smile for her daughter. “I was just thinking about your poem, and I started daydreaming, it seems.”
Nilanthi returned her mother’s smile. “The contest is in one more week. I think I’m ready.”
“Here, let me help you.” Kamala stood up to join Nilanthi by the burners and kicked the aunt’s box farther under the shelves.
A FEW DAYS later, Suchinta and Dinesh were sitting on Kamala’s porch again. Dinesh had brought pineapples from the south and Kamala had sliced them thinly, spread them out on a serving platter after sprinkling them with pepper. Kamala watched the men, their mouths full, laugh about a coworker whose mother forced him into consulting an astrologer to find a prospective bride. His girlfriend was furious, it seemed. Lalith periodically sprinted on and off the porch to ring his fingers with the fruit. Kamala tried to ease herself into the playful mood, but she and Suchinta had barely exchanged a few polite words and she sensed her friend’s body, rigid and distant, only a few inches away from her. Suchinta’s face showed signs of sleeplessness, and Kamala couldn’t erase their last exchange from her thoughts. She hadn’t gone to visit Suchinta while Dinesh had been away.
Eventually, as she knew it would, the conversation turned toward Dinesh’s travels to Tangalle. Dinesh explained he had found his cousin in his air-conditioned office, signing paychecks and reprimanding a waiter for taking too long a break. “A day like any other,” Dinesh said. “He seemed truly shocked to see me. ‘Didn’t I tell you I’d write?’ he asked me. I must have looked pretty foolish to him.”
“Well, at least you got a bit of a vacation out of it.” Nilan chuckled.
“Yes—a swim in the pool and fresh lime juice and a room for the night next to some boisterous Australians.”
Kamala couldn’t help feeling that some things weren’t being said. Although Dinesh was certainly creating a lighthearted account of the trip, there was something forced in his laughter, and Suchinta’s sustained silence was unsettling her. “And he really didn’t seem at all concerned?” Kamala asked. “What about the partners’ warnings?”
“He claimed that it’s all blown over. Nothing to worry about.” Dinesh waved his arm as if to dismiss the earlier concerns. “Aside from a few checkpoints, everything looked like it always does down there.” He turned to Nilan. “News gets distorted over distances. I suppose I panicked a bit.”
Kamala tried to meet Dinesh’s lightness with a smile of her own, but she found herself not believing him. She thought about how, only weeks ago, Dinesh had scolded her for being naive, and how Suchinta had looked at the recruitment flyer with resigned acceptance. Perhaps she had been trapped for too long in her own imagination these past weeks, or perhaps the fact of the flyer, tossed days ago into the trash pile, still remained in her mind, but she was sure there were dangers and changes that were being left unsaid.
When the two couples said their good-byes an hour later, Kamala half listened as Suchinta promised that they would be at Nilanthi’s oration contest, and Dinesh made plans with Nilan to take the boys for a sea bath the following weekend. How do they do this? she wondered with some envy. How do they step into the future with their plans and their promises and pretend that everything is all right?
NILANTHI WON FIRST prize in the Grade Ten English Oration Contest. The whole family was there, nestled into the fourth row of the auditorium. Kamala was tucked neatly in the center, Nilan and Rajit to her left, Manju and Lalith to her right. Kamala had positioned them as centrally as she could so that Nilanthi, if she grew nervous, could look out from the stage and see her family there, offering smiles and encouragement.
But it quickly became clear to Kamala that Nilanthi had strength and confidence enough on her own. When her daughter approached the podium, she barely glanced at the audience and instead focused her gaze somewhere out into the distance, above all their heads. Kamala, in fact, seemed to be the only nervous one among their family. She braced herself for the poem as she willed her hands to stop their nervous fidgeting in her lap.
Nilanthi’s voice began strongly. Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, / Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time. Kamala let her daughter’s voice surround her. The English words and the formal rows of chairs made Kamala feel she was someplace unfamiliar. More happy love! more happy, happy love! / For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d. Kamala looked around her. There was Nilan, his face serene, proud of his daughter’s performance. There was Lalith, slightly bored, his cricket bat tucked underfoot. Manju, his face full of concentration, nodding encouragement after every completed stanza. And Rajit, his head lowered, perhaps listening the most carefully to the words themselves. But even as she looked at her family gathered around her, heard their sighs and their breaths, she sensed this image of togetherness was a false promise. Her own imagination had dented the safety and wholeness she had promised to protect all those nights ago.
As Nilanthi’s voice grew softer and increasingly mournful as the poem neared its end, Kamala felt a new sweep of panic. She readied herself for the lines to come, the words she remembered about sacrifice, about a village by the sea growing silent and empty. Nilanthi’s voice seemed distant and Kamala’s thoughts drifted to the boy-soldier, to the feeling of his hand on her arm. Kamala pushed the poem’s words away, but still the tears came. As her vision blurred, the familiar faces of her neighbors and friends retreated into haziness. She lost track of Suchinta’s profile; even Nilanthi became a fuzzy shadow of pink on the stage.
Nilan’s hand surprised her as it fell over her own, offering a comforting, tangible weight. And quite suddenly Nilanthi’s voice trailed off, replaced by a wash of applause. Kamala felt protected by the echoing sounds, but she knew it was only a temporary relief.