Short story

by Ruki Attygalle

Wimal was 15 and only three years older than 1. Yet, he seemed older and was the richest young man in our village. Although most of the time he walked around barefoot like the rest of us, he did actually possess a pair of shoes — not just a pair of slip-ons or sandals, but proper lace-up shoes. ‘What’s more, he did not have to look at the sun, or the length of the shadows cast by the coconut trees to gauge the time. He was the proud possessor of a genuine watch prominently strapped around his left wrist. Yet, he did not swagger around or show off. He kept more and more to himself and somehow seemed to be adult, though still a boy.

Wimal’s family was no different from ours. His father was a fisherman, just like mine had been. In fact, most of the men in our village were fishermen. Ours was a small fishing village about two miles from Bentota. Until the time when his father (along with my father) failed to return from a fishing trip, Wimal’s family had been poor; even worse off than ours. My parents had only Nangi and me to worry about, while Wimal’s parents had five children. Yet, Wimal’s family seemed to have prospered since our fathers disappeared; while our situation worsened –desperately, after Nangi fell ill.

Amma was sweeping our back yard the day I mentioned Wimal’s wristwatch. She stopped sweeping and grabbed me by my hand.

“Don’t talk to me about that boy again. I know how he earns his riches!” she burst out angrily and spat on the sand. “I don’t want you hanging around with him anymore. Do you hear?”

I nodded as I struggled to understand what she meant. Was Wimal a thief? I just couldn’t believe it!

“Do you hear?” she repeated.

“Yes,” I said feebly, still puzzled.

“If I catch you loafing around with him, I’ll break every bone in your body!”

“Understand?” she threatened pointing the broom at me. “Yes,” I said, secretly amused. She had never raised her hand to either of us children.

She wouldn’t even swat a mosquito! But that day she seemed unduly annoyed or concerned. I made excuses for her; she had no time or peace of mind to be sweet, patient and motherly.

Anyway, there was little chance of me loafing around anymore. I hardly ever met the old gang on the beach since Thaththa’s death. I had more important things to do now. I’m glad I learned to mend fishing nets from Thaththa. After school, in the afternoons, I often helped other fishermen – especially old Nomis Mama —mend their nets. I earned a few rupees, for which Amma was grateful. When the catch was hauled in, they would give me a handful of sprats or small salayas. This didn’t happen always, but when it did, Amma, Nangi, and I were very happy because we certainly couldn’t afford to buy fish. Our rice and curry tasted so much better with fish, however small the creature was.

I was upset over Amma’s attitude to Wimal. Was she by any chance envious of him and his family; they were obviously so much better off than us; but that could not be it? Buddhism to Amma was a living religion and she so firmly tried to cultivate the four virtues of metta, karuna, muditha and uppekka.

Equally, it was difficult to believe that Wimal would take to thieving; it was not in his nature. He was honest and we all trusted him. He never even cheated at games. The day Ravi stole my conch shell, Wimal had a real go at him.

“Ballige putha

,” Wimal threw the derogatory insult at him. “That is definitely Suren’s shell. He showed it to me the day he found it. You give it back to him or you are out of our gang. We don’t want thieves with us.”I wondered whether Podihamy, the village gossip, had concocted a vicious story about Wimal, which when whispered to Amma had prejudiced her against my friend. Podihamy of course resented anyone who did better than her sons.

Amma worked in a small-scale factory, about half a mile from where we lived, making coir rope. It wasn’t a great job and she didn’t earn that much money, but we were able to eke out a living on her earnings.

Our hut was almost on the edge of the beach. Except for a few coconut palms and a clump of mangroves, there was nothing between our backyard and the sand – a narrow strip which separated our hut from the sea. The first thing Nangi and I used to do before getting dressed for school was to search around for fallen nuts under the coconut palms that grew along the shoreline.

She was very good at spotting them. When she picked one up, she would spit on it, believing that this would lead her to another nut. It didn’t always work that way of course, but she was full of superstition, often her own extensions or even inventions. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we would gather three or four nuts. At other times we would return empty handed.

But the sambal that Amma made with one coconut lasted for a few days and it was always very tasty. Rice and coconut sambal were more or less our staple diet, with the occasional vegetable or dhal curry, depending on the money situation. We couldn’t grow vegetables in our sandy yard. So, when I came home with a handful of fish, it was a treat.

Nangi was three years younger than I and slightly built. Just a year ago she could run almost as fast as I could; was full of energy and very agile. Amma used to tease her saying that she was like a monkey, and soon would be able to scale up coconut trees and pick fresh nuts for us. Now she lay quietly on her mat looking limp and lifeless.

I remember the day Nangi returned after her stay in hospital,., Amma had said that she had lost weight and was weak. Piyal, our neighbour, agreed to take his handcart (in which he took coconuts to the market) to the railway station that afternoon to bring Nangi home. I knew this would please her enormously as none of us boys had had the nerve to ask Piyal for a ride in his cart as he was not the friendliest of persons.

Nevertheless, he had been kind enough to offer the use of his cart, and for no charge. Nangi would now have something to boast about to the rest of the gang. She was very much a part of it, even though she was the youngest and the only girl among us boys.

Amma left very early that morning. She had to take a train to Colombo, and then two buses to Maharagama where the Cancer Hospital was. It was a long journey and I’d done it only once. Amma said that it was too expensive to take me along every time she went to see Nangi. One person’s fare was bad enough.

I went with Piyal to the station. We were early, so we sat under an araliya tree and waited for the train. Piyal found a piece of ekel with which he started picking his teeth. We were at the Bentota station with many tourist hotels in the vicinity. I watched the white men and women in their shorts, brightly coloured tops and shirts, and sandals, walking around. Most of them seemed to be heading towards the beach or the beach hotels.

“These people come from rich countries,” I said. “They have loads of money.” I was trying to engage Piyal in conversation, but he ignored me and continued to attend to his teeth. He was a man of few words.

“We are lucky that our country is beautiful, and they want to come here for holidays and spend their money,” I continued, repeating what the school mistress had told us the previous day.

“Hmm!” grunted Piyal and spat on the ground. I couldn’t figure out whether this was a sign of agreement or disagreement. “Our country earns a lot of money from the tourist industry,” I persisted.

“Hmm!” he grunted, and after a long pause added “Not all tourists are good. Some are quite evil.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, but he ignored me.

I knew the conversation had terminated, but it didn’t really matter because I heard the train coming in.

As Amma got off the train half supporting, half carrying Nangi, I stared at her in horror. Nangi had shrunk. Her eyes were sunk in their sockets. Her cheeks hollow. Worst of all she had no hair on her head.

Piyal ran forward and carried Nangi. Amma turned towards the carriage and a woman in the train handed her two plastic carrier bags through the window. I relieved Amma of the bags and we walked out of the station to where the cart was parked. I saw Nangi’s eyes light up as Piyal lifted her on to it.

Amma walked alongside Piyal. I offered to help Piyal push the cart, but he said that he could manage. So, I walked alongside Nangi holding on to the side of the cart.

“Why did they cut your hair off?” I asked.

“My hair was not cut off, silly, it just fell off!” Nangi laughed. “It will grow back again when I get better.”

Although she looked dreadful, she seemed to be in good spirits, which was more than could be said of me. From the moment I saw her – changed almost beyond recognition — a cloud of sadness settled on me and its weight seemed to be pressing me down inexorably, suffocatingly.

From a sitting position, Nangi slowly slid on to her side, facing me. As she drew her knees towards her chest and rested her head on one of the plastic bags containing her clothes, I noticed how thin and stick-like her legs now were.

“So, what’s been happening since I went away?” She asked looking at me through sunken eyes.

I didn’t feel like talking; but I knew I had to, to keep her entertained. I racked my brain for a good story.

“Did Amma tell you about an iguana falling into our well?”. I asked.

“No, she didn’t!” She raised herself a little, supported by her elbow. “How did it get out?”

Glad of her excitement, I tried to muster as much enthusiasm as I could to make the story interesting.

“Early one morning when I went to the well to draw water, I heard a peculiar noise. At first, I didn’t know where it came from. Then, I peered down the well, and I could hear something thrashing about in the water; but I couldn’t see clearly because it was dark inside. I ran back home and told Amma that there was something struggling in the well.”

“But Amma usually goes to the well before us,” she interrupted.

“No,” I said, wanting to get on with the story “I woke up early that morning. Amma got worried in case a child had fallen in and she ran for help to Piyadasa Mama’s house. He came running, bringing with him a heavy rope, and started shouting down the well.

“What happened then?”

“He kept shouting so loudly that the whole village seemed to have heard him. `Hoi! Hoi, can you hear me? Can you hear me? I’m lowering a rope. Grab hold of it. I’ll pull you up.”‘

Nangi chuckled with amusement. Encouraged, I continued.

“One by one people started gathering round our well. Within half an hour, I think everyone in the village had turned up.” “So, when did they discover it was an iguana?”

“When the sun came up and light fell down the well shaft, Nomis Mama recognized that the creature inside was an iguana.” I stopped for a breather.

“So how did it get out?” Nangi demanded.

“People came up with all sorts of ideas but none of them worked …”

“Like what?”

I ignored the question and carried on. “In the end, old Gomez suggested that we lower a fishing net into the well. So, we did, and the iguana clung to it and climbed half-way up. After that it would not budge.”

“What happened then?”

“We pulled the net up. The creature must have been very tired swimming round and round inside the well, because once it was hauled out and pushed off the net, it didn’t move for hours. It just stayed motionless as if it was dead. When I came back from school it was still there. It was late afternoon when it finally crawled away.”

Nangi had suddenly gone quiet.

“You’d better sleep if you are tired,” I advised.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “This ride is very bumpy.” But she did close her eyes and I walked beside her silently.

We walked for about fifteen minutes when Nangi suddenly sat up.

“I am feeling sick. Tell Piyal Mama to stop the cart. I want to vomit.”

We pushed the cart to the side of the road. Piyal lifted Nangi off the cart, and carried her into the shade of a margosa tree by the roadside. Amma held Nangi while she retched. We rested for a while. Amma sat close to the tree trunk leaning against it. Nangi sat by her and rested her head on Amma’s lap. She looked tired and ill. I wished I could do something to make her feel better. But there was nothing I could do.

I picked up some pebbles and started aiming them at the crows perched on the tree. I was sad and angry. Angry because after six weeks of treatment Nangi looked much worse than before she went to hospital. One was supposed to get better after treatment, not worse!

It was late afternoon when we resumed our journey. Although our village was only a few miles from Bentota, we seemed to be walking forever.

“Sunila, you’ll feel much better once we get home,” Amma kept reassuring Nangi.

Nangi crouched inside the cart with her head resting on one of the plastic bags. She didn’t respond.

“Shall I tell you something?” I said. “I am going to give you my big conch shell!”

She sat upright and gazed right into my eyes.

“Don’t tell lies! You’ll never part with it. Even if you do, you’ll grab it back once I get well!”

“No!” I protested. “You can have it for good.” But I did think that ‘lending’ the shell to her for the duration of her illness was a better idea; a much better plan. Maybe we could work something out at a later date.

It was nearly sunset when we arrived home and got Nangi settled on her mat. She was exhausted and looked it. Every bit of her seemed tired, even her eyes which were usually so bright with interest.

“Has the sun set as yet?” Nangi asked.

“No. But it soon will.” I looked out of the window at the sea and the horizon.

The sky was red but the sun was redder and was about to touch the sea. Streaks of gold shimmered on the water.

“Will you do something for me?” Nangi enquired suddenly.

“What?”

“Run to the beach and make a wish for me.”

There was a belief among the village children that if one made a wish at the exact moment the sun disappeared into the horizon, the wish would come true.

“I can make the wish from here,” I said.

“No, no. You must go to the beach. It’s even better if you can run and sit on the old boat and make the wish sitting on it.” Nangi as usual attached new additions to the old superstition. I was rather doubtful about this superstition. The last time Thaththa sailed was at sunset, and I had watched his boat sail away. As the sun sank into the sea, I had wished that Thaththa and Somapala Mama would return with a large haul of thora and paraw fish. But they never came back at all! Perhaps I didn’t make the wish at the correct moment.

“All right,” I said, not wanting to disappoint Nangi. “What is your wish?”

I was certain that her wish would be to get well quickly.

“Make a wish for me to find a huge conch shell, even bigger than yours when I get well. Then you can have yours back. You’d better hurry or the sun will set before you get to the boat,” she urged.

I ran as if my life depended on getting to the boat before sunset. The old abandoned boat had sat there between two mangrove clumps, half buried in the sand, ever since I could remember. I sat on it and glued my eyes on the fast disappearing red ball. As it went down, I wished with all my heart that Nangi would get well.

Things changed after Nangi came back from hospital. I stopped going to school because she couldn’t be left alone. Amma had to go to work or we would have had no money at all. Food-wise we were not badly off for fish. The fisher folk would take turns to drop by with a few fish for the “little patient”. But Nangi wouldn’t eat it. In fact, she hardly ate anything. If she managed to swallow some food, she would bring it all up. The only thing she could retain was a bit of bread and milk. Even that, if she took too much, it would all come out.

Some days she would feel better. Then we would walk to the beach and sit on the rocks and watch the waves. We had all loved playing in the sea.We used to jump into the rising waves and be carried up and up, till they could rise no more and when they broke, we would come swooping down to the sand.

“I bet I could jump into the highest wave,” or “I am sure that I could swim further out to sea than you,” she bragged; her enthusiasm suddenly ignited.

“Oh yes? In your dreams!” I would retort.

“Not right now silly! When I get well.”

“Not in a hundred years!” I meant it too. I was a strong swimmer and even Wimal couldn’t beat me.

Most of the time however, Nangi would lie down on her mat and sleep or listen to stories that I made up as I went along. Sometimes when I brought her, her medicine, she would start a row. She hated taking her tablets because she said they made her sick. Once she even spat them at me, I would normally have given her a slap, and we would have ended up in a real fight. So, when I did not react, she looked surprised and started to cry. She said she was sorry and swallowed her tablets.

Her ‘good days’ became fewer and far between. It was obvious she was getting weaker by the day. Sometimes Amma stayed at home with Nangi, but of course on those days she had to forego her day’s wages.

We had got into debt since Nangi’s illness. Amma had not only borrowed money from Piyadasa Mama but had been buying milk powder and other groceries on credit and run up a large bill she could not settle. When Amma sent me to buy half a loaf of bread and a quarter pound of sugar, I got shouted at by the mudalali. He said he was not prepared to give us even a crust of bread or a grain of sugar until my mother settled her debt.

He must have felt sorry afterwards, because as I was leaving, he called me back and gave me what I asked for. He also growled that it would be the last time we got anything more on credit. I knew he meant it.

It was to settle our debts and also because she needed money to hire a trishaw to take Nangi back to hospital, that Amma sold her one and only item of jewellery — the gold chain that Thaththa had given her the day they married. She was a practical person And she didn’t seem to mind parting with it. But the money she got for it was not as much as we had hoped for. She settled only part of her debts because she wanted to make sure she would have enough money for the trip to hospital. Amma said that Nangi was too weak to travel by train and bus. They would have to hire a trishaw.

Apart from the kitchen and the front veranda, there was only one room in our hut. All three of us slept in it. Amma left a small lit bottle lamp on the window ledge, in case Nangi got sick during the night. One night I woke from sleep and found the room in darkness. Amma was not on her mat. I saw the light coming from the veranda and thought she had gone outside to the toilet and was on her way back. As she didn’t return, I went to look for her. She was sitting on the front bench, with the lamp beside her, staring out into the darkness. Sufficient light fell on to her face for me to see that she was crying.

Crying from inside, I mean. She never cried like other women, with tears streaming down her face. I often wondered whether her tears had all dried up or something. Anyway, I knew when she cried. Her face took on a strange expression and the veins in her neck and forehead bulged.

“Amma,” I said softly, “is Nangi going to die?”

She opened her mouth to speak, but, changed her mind and just shrugged her shoulders.

“Once she is back in hospital she will get better, won’t she?” I pleaded.

“Maybe,” she said. “But she is so weak!” There were tears in her voice though her eyes were dry.

We were silent for a few minutes. The silhouettes of the coconut palms stood black against the faintly lit sky. Dawn was about to light up the east. My ears filled with the sound of the waves breaking on the shore. I wondered whether one could make a wish at sunrise too.

Amma broke the silence. “The thing is,” she said, “I should have given her more nourishing food. They did tell me at the hospital that Sustagen was a very effective food supplement. But it was so costly, I just couldn’t afford to buy it.” She looked strained and tired. She was still crying inside.

I was shocked to think that Nangi would probably die because we could not afford to give the proper food she needed. I was angry; angry that we were poor. Angry that Nangi was dying. Enraged that we were so helpless.

The morning Amma left with Nangi, I went to see Wimal. I would do anything to earn some money to see us through this crisis. Thieving did not seem so bad after all.

Wimal was outside in their front yard when I arrived. I explained to him our desperate situation and the need to earn some money fast. He listened to me but did not say anything. We walked in silence to the beach.

“Please, Wimal tell me how you make your money? I’m willing to do anything. Please, for my nangi’s sake, she is dying!” I pleaded.

I knew that if I got caught thieving, I would get beaten up real rough, or possibly even sent to Maggona — the home for juvenile delinquents. But that was a risk I was willing to take.

Wimal was reluctant to talk.

“I swear I’ll not tell anyone. It’ll be a secret between us,” I continued to plead.

Wimal didn’t look at me and remained silent for some time. “Did you say that you are willing to do anything?” he asked eventually, still not looking at me.

“Yes,” I replied enthusiastically.

After a long pause, Wimal said: “There is this guy who finds me work.” Wimal was definitely uneasy. “You see, I work in the tourist hotels.” He was still avoiding my eyes. “I’ll introduce you today, if you like,” he said. “I’ll meet you by the old boat round two.”

And, as an afterthought he added, “Make sure you wear a shirt your school shirt would do — and a clean pair of shorts. Mr. Jinasena is very particular.”

I was a little puzzled by this requirement but was too excited o ponder long over it.

Wimal and I met Mr. Jinasena on the beach about a hundred yards from Sea Sands Hotel. He greeted us cordially and lowered his voice as he spoke to Wimal. He handed him an envelope with something written on it. I couldn’t see what it was.

“Blue Waters Hotel. He will be on the beach. Yellow swim-suit, yellow hat.”

Wimal took off without a word, but, did glance at me for a moment. I saw fear in his eyes, maybe a mite of shame too.

“Now Suren,” Mr. Jinadasa said turning to me “That is your name, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Sir,” I said respectfully.

“The first time is always difficult, but you will be okay. There is good money in it if you do as you are told. And, of course, you mustn’t talk about this to anyone. All right?”

I nodded. We walked in silence till we reached the sandbank by Sea Sands Hotel. There were tourists sun-bathing on the beach; and splashing about in the sea. Mr. Jinasena walked ahead, and I followed. He stopped beside a large man, in a deck chair, wearing a pair of red shorts and a brightly coloured shirt. His hair was, the colour of straw and his skin was red with sunburn.

Mr. Jinasena spoke to him in a foreign language. The tourist looked at me and smiled, got up from his chair, and walked towards one of the cabanas. Mr. Jinasena and I followed him. When we reached the cabana, the man went in and shut the door’ behind him, but returned shortly with some money, which he handed over to Mr. Jinasena.

“You will work for this gentleman today. Do as you are told, and he will give you a good tip.” Mr. Jinasena nodded at the man, smiled at me, and walked away.

The man beckoned me, and I went in. He shut the door behind me. The cabana was beautiful. I had never seen anything like this before. There was a large bed with a blue and white cover spread

on it. I was enthralled by the massive mirror on the wall; its thick wooden frame encrusted with sea shells. There must have been thousands of shells on that frame. A polished table by the window had a large bowl of flowers on it.

Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round and saw the man standing, stark naked. Before I could get over the shock, he started tugging my shorts down.

I don’t know how long I stayed in that room, but to me it seemed a lifetime. When I finally stepped out, my whole body was shivering in spasms and shaking, and I could hardly make out where I was going. I managed to get to the beach before I got violently sick. My head reeled and I started to cry. It was when I tried to wipe my tears that I noticed I was clutching a bundle of currency notes.

Suddenly I wanted to run – to get away from that place as fast its I could. So, I ran all the way home – my lungs burning and heart pounding.

When I got back, Amma had returned and was in the kitchen. There were no signs of Nangi, so I knew she would have been re-admitted to hospital. As I went into the kitchen, Amma turned on me.

“Where were you, Suren?” she demanded angrily. “I have been looking for you all over the village for hours.”

I hung my head and did not answer.

“Suren, what’s happened?” She now seemed more concerned than angry. “Look at me, son,” she said. But I couldn’t.

I simply walked up to the kitchen table, my head still down, and laid the bundle of crumpled notes on it.

I heard her gasp. She picked up the notes. “Where did you get. these from? Two thousand rupees!” There was fear in her voice. It was more than she earned in an entire month of tedious coir rope making.

“I went to a tourist hotel,” I blurted, soft and low, still not looking at her. I knew she would know what that meant.

There was dead silence. She stood quite still. I slowly looked up at her. She had a stunned look on her face. I knew she was trying to take in the full implication of what I had said. I waited for her to get angry, to start shouting at me. I desperately wanted her to. In fact, I wanted her to beat me. Hit me with that broom till she broke every bone in my body. But she stood there as if turned to stone.

I wanted her to say something or do something. I couldn’t bear the silence.

“We can buy Nangi the Sustagen and pay off our debts, can’t we?” I pleaded.

She looked down at the floor but said nothing. I waited for her to speak; when she didn’t, I slowly walked past her, down the kitchen steps and into the back yard. I felt incredibly tired; a fatigue I had never experienced before. Perhaps it was the kind of fatigue felt by old people.

The sun was beginning to sink into the ocean. As I walked slowly towards the beach, something made me look back. I saw Amma on the kitchen steps, her arms entwining her legs, her face buried in her knees, her body jerking in convulsive movements. I carried on walking, staring intently at the setting sun; but I had gone well beyond the point of wanting to make a wish.