Route 112
Damn it! Couldn’t the timing be any worse! Must it happen this month? On top of all the additional medical expenses for which I had to dole out, now this. True to the old adage, ‘it never simply rain, it bloody pours!’ Surely he could have seen that a pedestrian crossing was approaching? Are you not duty bound to let people cross over at such a demarcation? What a moron – in addition to the painstaking formality of registering statements at the police (which is certain to take all morning), what’s worse, I will have to do without my wheels for a better part of a week; tinkering, painting, oh yes, a week at least. I guess I’m back to my ‘bus’ days, at least for a while. But then, How bad could that really be?………
Sounds blast from all directions as the bus slowly but yet steadily makes it way down the congested road, tilting to one side as it carries twice the size of its intended capacity. The shirt I’m wearing clings fused to my body owing to the sweltering Colombo humidity compounded by the pressure-cooker environment associated with peak-time public transportation. Oblivious to the already ultra-jammed existence, the conductor keeps persisting with a commanding ‘issarahate yanne, issarahate yanne’ (go forward x 2) to those standing in the isle, whilst sticking his head out at brief intervals to throw out an open invitation to the masses now gathered at the halt. I number amongst the many who gaze at him in disgust with colourful pleasantries on the verge of slipping off my lips. Though the heat of the moment passes, I still find myself transfixed on this hitherto insignificant individual, pondering on what life’s journey has led this man to. What awaits him at the end of each day? Or perhaps the more appropriate question would be ‘what would he turn into?’… a ‘booze up’ on the cheapest alcohol with fellow conductors & drivers, gulping down a majority of the days earnings? At the end of which he will stumble home to a helpless wife – a mother desperately trying to keep her family afloat. She silently endures night after night of horrific abuse, rising before sun up to seek any work that came her way. Some days she would find work at the market place helping out the local grocer. But lately she found this hard coming by as the economy took a downward spiral deeming her surplus to the need. Often desperation set in. At times, even to the unimaginable extent of selling herself to keep the home fires burning. How cruel it would seem to label her with such despicable a title when all she did was display the fullest extent of a mothers love to fill three tender stomachs.
My trend of thought is broken by an object that halts at my foot having travelled along the floor from the nearest seat. It turns out to be a potato which has seemingly escaped from the basket belonging to the elderly woman on the aisle seat. Though clad in bright garb, her troubled line-riddled face tells a thousand poignant stories. The basket at her feet had definitely seen better days. It now sports a gaping puncture midway to the right of the handle (where the potato got away from, no doubt). This small provision of vegetables would barely suffice for a week in the most stringent of lower middle-class households, but she would have to somehow make do with this for the month – It was all she could possibly afford. Money was so hard to come by. The only funds that trickled in each month was the pension that now comes to her after her eldest gave his life for the cause in the north. Her daughter got married three years ago, & off she went. The recent floods had ravaged their little hut robbing them of their basic necessities, condemning them to dependence on a charitable hand – the very thing she prayed would never befall her. Now rest with her the seemingly insurmountable task of seeing her youngest through, till he gets on his own two feet to make tomorrow a better place for both of them. Despair seems to be spread through the seat, as the young man with a pile of files & books on his lap looks equally disoriented. Are you familiar with the feeling of having been denied entry to a lecture, or an exam because your course fee had not been paid? This was the second time it had happened in as many months. How do you go back, & face everyone else? ‘If you cannot afford the fees, you shouldn’t be here’ is what the principal had greeted him with at the exam registry. Frustration consumes him. Why even bother spending those countless hours on mind-boggling theories. All for nothing, except the sharp pain of insult & embarrassment that spread to the very core of the soul. The books that dispense knowledge & insight into the intricacies of management would now remain a figment in his memory never to be recognized. First, the electricity, now – this! A divided family bares many scars, most of which are kept secreted from the prying eyes of the outside world. Financial constraints, of differing proportions, are a common stigma. But sooner or later the cracks appear & with time all, if not most is exposed. How he had begged his father to pay his fees when he saw him last month when he came to collect the last of what was left of his belongings from the house. ‘Yes, yes, I’ll pay it..’ he had said rather disgruntled as he walked out the door.
At last, a vacancy presents itself as a passenger in the last seat attempts to disembark. I make my way amidst the discontented murmurs of the passengers lining the aisle, often having to hurdle over many a bag & parcel along the way. I let out a sigh of relief as I settle into the opening in the back row. I look outside the window to my left seeking any familiarity in the surroundings that would tell me how far my journey has progressed. I realize I’m not the only one staring out – only my eyes were dry, hers were not. Perhaps you would have noticed the distinctly unique expression of sorrow that could result only from a broken heart. Such a wound spills so much of you, & takes many a day, many a night to heal. She wore the face of a million dreams shattered. Her transfixed gaze tells me the reel of unending memories plays on in her mind act after act piercing deeper & deeper with every passing minute. The whole time, she didn’t even notice me watching her. Suddenly I wondered where she was bound. Would she miss her stop? I guess in context, it didn’t really seem to matter…..
The next morning, I’m at the halt again in eager anticipation for my ride to arrive. After a brief wait, a shuttle displaying the number of my route pulls up, upon which I duly proceed to board. A few minutes later, fortunate favours me & I find seating towards the front end of the coach. I suddenly remember my last journey & spin my head around in optimistic search, but to no avail. The bleak old ‘archchi’ (grandma), the dispirited student, the broken lass, none of them were there – not even the scraggy callous conductor. But yet, the same aura of dejection, hurt, deprivation, & hopelessness is found in the many faces that have taken their place…
Carry-on Luggage
Its 15 minutes to boarding time. A subtle sense of claustrophobia overcomes me as I am engulfed by the magnitude of fellow passengers, completely alien to me. Having surveyed the environment in front of me, I follow a path that leads me to relative tranquillity – the seats at the north end of the lounge. For some reason, many passengers prefer to lay down their anchors as close as possible to the departure point. Perhaps, this could be of a direct consequence of public transport services in South Asia, where buses tend to take off before you’ve managed to get both feet on the footboard. I finally settle in. A wondering eye takes in the activity around me, as I subconsciously consider the many assigned tasks to be fulfilled in the week ahead. A click later & I find the clock being turned back a couple of weeks to many unsavoury events that preceded my intended departure. The familiar shooting pains which closely accompany those thoughts strangely & rather inexplicably wither away as I find myself being transcended to a new realm of apprehension. Has the brutal combination of sleeping less & working longer finally caught up with me?
A largely accepted norm is that one’s family forms the foundation on which he or she progresses both personally, as well as professionally. May I re-iterate that this is considered to be just the norm. However, rather ironically, the greater the attachment & closeness of this bond, the more excruciating the pain is when one of your kin fails to live up to the billing. Perhaps this could transpire by way of a derogatory statement? An act that proved insensitive to your feelings? Or more so when one feels the lack of support during times of peril. But yet, the most bitter of all pills to have to swallow remains a lie – a simple lie. It was a cocktail of the aforementioned that suffocated my mind of any pleasantry that looked to creep in during the last few months. Every good deed done out of which I was the beneficiary appeared to have a hidden agenda. Commendation of any sort carried with it a stench of sarcasm. Those attempting to encroach on my minds patch of fondness were playing hopscotch on a minefield – certain to be blown to smithereens. There was a massive vacuum, a gaping hole I looked to have filled by so-called friends, though acquaintances resulting largely from sharing common leisurely interests & water holes would be the better assessment. Meeting up for drinks served as the perfect sedative that temporarily numbed the infested wounds of emptiness. But was it this newly acquired lofty association, or the bumper doses of alcohol that distorted reality? I could not tell.
My mind goes back many a year, to the time we travelled to most parts of the island. More often than not they were spur-of-the-moment trips where the suggestion would be made the night before. We were one of those families – ‘Irregular’ in most facets that often brought about many surprises. Some of the nice kind, & well, some of the not-so-nice type. Staying fixed on the former, there was such joy in the simple things such as shivering under a ‘Peella’ shower in Nuwara Eliya, or building sand castles on the wonderful beaches down south. So many wonderful memories etched away. There was an ever-present sense of security that encircled you in whatever you aspired to do. Fear was never a factor. You would fling your bag to the darkest corner of your bedroom soon after returning from school. The order of the day – slip into a pair of shorts, swallow the rice & curry that was served up to you (spicy as hell as always), & then fly out to the dusty streets with bat & ball. Funny, the heat & humidity were never a problem then. Nor was it a calamity when you ended up with grazed knees & elbows having fallen time & time again on the tarred road. My brother & I would bravely take on the neighbourhood ‘aiyas’ in cricket or any other sport that seemed appealing at the time. Though we’d more often than not end up on the losing side, & some by large margins, it was never ever due to the want of trying. So aggressive was our approach to anything competitive some of the neighbours forbade their kids from mingling with us. Such ‘softies’ we used to think. We’d come home & get severely reprimanded – hold on..that’s way too complicated a word for 12 year olds – simply put, the scolding of our lives with the trimmings of a ’kane’ each for the double offence committed. That being – a. Staying out beyond the set curfew, & b. (the more serious offence of) dirtying the house with our filthy feet. We’d keep a low profile for the rest of the evening, with the next & only public appearance being at the dinner table. There was not much time for talk, how could there be amidst the spread of delicacies that burgher mothers have a happy knack for turning out. So, that is how it was, till you grow up one day.
So much water has passed under the bridge since then, with your life inculcated by experiences & challenges of varying kinds & degrees. Schoolmates you were inseparable from at a time have dispersed to all parts, seldom to be herd, now effectively a distant memory replaced by fresh faces. Some have walked into your life, swept you off your feet, & then let you go freefalling headfirst on the concrete floor. Others have tip-toed in without much-ado & grown in significance leaving a lasting imprint………..”Good morning…” the flashing images clear out having been interrupted by the greeting & announcement that the flight is now ready for boarding. As I gather my thoughts I tuck away my passport into my side pocket, pick up the carry-on & head for the gate. As I show my boarding pass to the stewardess & head down the gangway, I look back one last time to where I sat…..where I left behind what could not be carried any longer….
Paper cut
This used to be our favourite place…the amber sunset that illuminated the skies was a perfect replication of her natural beauty that culminated when her lips parted into the most amazing smile each time I surprised her with a little gift, or when I took her into my arms, looked into her eyes & told her that I loved her..the circling breeze that swept in from the vast distances of ocean..the cool, wet, but yet so soft touch that rolled over the surface of your skin always takes my mind back to the many times we just lay there kissing & caressing – just taking each other in. That was pure passion..pure magic of the most mystic kind…yes there were issues, there were harsh words exchanged & tears shed..but we would always work our way through….always… just like the heaviest crash of waves would still retreat back into the sea…calmly..but surely…….
That’s how it was…how it was…till last night…..
It still felt like it was our first date each time I hurriedly got dressed to pick her up. I thought that was the sign to know she was the one. We’d go some place quiet, to sip a cocktail while we’d talk for what seemed like countless hours & then we’d realize we were the only ones left there..This night was different..for some reason after 3 blissful years, that magic seemed to have deserted her captivating face..that electricity that ran through us when our hands connected seemed to have been short-circuited. Was it something I said? Something I did?…..the tears that now rolled down her cheeks told me that it was neither….
To think that we met quite by chance – my brother was as always has been the customary practice cramming 2 weeks before his CIM exams. Many who make such a bold attempt find solace in some ‘magical’ tutes that seemingly drop from some special place above. My brother had now possession of one such special scroll. Before he left for church that Sunday morning I was asked to hand this over to one of his friends who was expected to arrive within the hour. As I was to be home that morning, I duly agreed. “Her name’s Ruvina” called my brother as he stepped through the car door.
The feeling I had as I saw her at the door could best be described through the scene in the first Godfather movie when Michael Corleone first sets eyes upon Apolonia. His Sicilian bodyguards quite appropriately termed it a ‘as being hit by the thunderbolt’. I feel no further description is needed here. She looked beautiful, yet untouched. Like some beautiful garden of Eden that had just been discovered, ready to be explored. I almost forgot the tute that had to be given to her. We spoke briefly before & after the handover took place. Since that moment I just could not put her out of my mind. I don’t know what Hiran prayed for that morning, but I’m sure it was not for someone to run away with my heart. Ruvina is all that he heard from me for the remainder of the day. Finally he gave way & agreed to set up a meeting. With time an overwhelming crush blossomed into thoughtfully caring & then into love of the most divine kind. She was everything to me – the stars & moon that hid behind clouds at night, & the sunshine that lit up each day. I missed her so dearly when she had to go out of town on work. Though the momentary emptiness was hard to get through I sincerely felt these spells fuelled a greater desire that strengthened our bond.
The economic meltdown had made her work more challenging that demanded her to travel around the country more often. Or at least this was what I was made to understand at the time. Yet, I was too blinded by love to ever doubt her. How naïve could I have been? In all my years have I forgotten what the world is like? Do I not know how week the flesh is for us mere mortals made of flesh & bone? “There is something I have to tell you….” She began…and then with every sentence, every word that parted her lips I felt the dagger of painful truth pierce deeper & deeper into my soul. The last sight I caught of her was when I looked back for one parting glancing, as I headed for the door at Cavern’s. She stared back at me helplessly with her face drenched in tears. I knew then that I would never see her again.
I was back at our favourite place – the beach. How the world could change so fast. Today I was a tortured soul. The place that brought me to life had now transformed into a murky dungeon where invisible agents kept hounding me at every turn. All I could see in my minds eye was Ruvina’s tear ridden face. How could she do this to me? It was unbearable to hear her tell me that she had been unfaithful to me. But I was soon to find out that more was to follow that took despair to a new realm. A realm that I doubt I would be ever able to comprehend. She was pregnant.
As I made my way back inland, all I kept seeing were flashes of Ruvina attired in Kandyan sari, standing at the Poruwa, on the threshold of being someone else’s wife. What a price to pay for infidelity. She looked so beautiful….
The next day, Templer’s road was its usual buzzing self. Flashy sports cars whizzed by as bullock carts tottered along taking brief intermissions at petti kade’s for momentary relief from the sweltering sun. All was usual except that the gates at No.38 continued to remain chained, despite a greater part of the morning having come & gone. ‘Strange’ thought the kade mudalali. ‘Looks like he’s not up for string hoppers this morning…’ he said to himself as he got up to tend to some customers who had just walked in. No. 38 stood in the distance across the road. The salty Mount Lavina winds not only disturbed the hedges that lined the wall, but also raised the pages of the ‘Daily Mirror’ that lay in the drive way uncollected. In a tine corner lower down in the front page was the almost unnoticeable caption ‘Another suicide at Mount tracks’…….
