Connect with us

Features

The Setting Sun

Published

on

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.



Continue Reading
Advertisement
Click to comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Features

El Niño under way and threatens weather extremes, scientists say

Published

on

By

El Niño – the natural Pacific weather pattern that pushes up global temperatures – has officially begun, US scientists say.

The US National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has declared that El Niño conditions are now under way in the tropical Pacific, with sea surface temperatures having risen sharply in recent months.

Many forecasts suggest this could end up as a so-called “super” El Niño, and even be among the strongest ever recorded.

Coming on top of decades of human-caused warming, it could bring another record-hot year – most likely in 2027 – with disruption to weather, food supplies and economies running well into that year.

This announcement by NOAA is not a surprise as forecasters have expected this warming phase, after the cooler “sister” pattern, La Niña, ended earlier this year.

Sea surface temperatures in the central and tropical Pacific have now passed the 0.5C-above-average threshold that US scientists use to define an El Niño event.

El Niño conditions developed over the past month, as shown by above-average sea surface temperatures (SSTs) across the central to eastern equatorial Pacific Ocean,” the agency said.

NOAA has also seen the winds above the equatorial Pacific begin to shift – a sign that the atmosphere is now responding to the warmer ocean, not just the ocean warming on its own.

A graphic of two global maps with one showing in blue, cooler conditions in a key section of the Pacific in December last year, with a second one showing conditions in May this year, with red indicating a far greater amount of heat coming to the surface of sea.

What has surprised the researchers is how confident the computer models already are about its strength.

El Niño‘s intensity is measured by how far sea surface temperatures rise above average in a key zone of the Pacific.

A strong event is defined as more than 1.5C above average; a very strong one above 2C.

According to NOAA’s June outlook, “there is a 63% chance of a very strong El Niño during November-January, that would rank among the largest El Niño events in the historical record going back to 1950,” the agency said.

The three strongest events since then have been in 1982/83, 1997/98 and 2015/16.

Some of the latest US and European (ECMWF) models go further, showing temperatures in the tropical Pacific potentially climbing more than 3C above average by the end of the year.

But the US agency urged some caution on what their strength prediction implies.

“Even very strong El Niño events do not lead to the expected impact everywhere, but stronger events can more significantly tilt the odds in favour of expected outcomes.”

The bigger concern is that all this is happening on an already much hotter planet.

“We do need to worry about the impacts,” said Prof Adam Scaife, head of monthly to decadal prediction at the UK Met Office.

“The current El Niño is… riding on top of a substantial amount of global warming.

“This means that the actual temperatures in affected regions could well be unprecedented, as the warming from El Niño is being topped up by climate change.”

A very strong El Niño typically lifts global air temperatures by around 0.2C, releasing heat stored in the ocean into the atmosphere. That extra blast now lands on a world that is already setting records.

The year 2024 – the warmest on record – was boosted by an El Niño that was not even especially strong.

And despite the cooling drag of a La Niña event, 2025 still came in as the third warmest year on record, hotter even than the super El Niño year of 2016.

Line graph showing monthly global temperatures since 1975 compared with pre-industrial levels of the late 19th Century. Temperatures show a long-term rising trend - the result of climate change. But temperatures tend to spike in El Niño periods, shown in red, and fall in La Niña periods, shown in blue.

“At the end of this year and into 2027, we’re likely to see very high temperatures globally,” Prof Scaife said.

“In 2027, we’re likely to see excess heat on top of the global warming we’ve already got, and that could easily lead to another year above 1.5 degrees [of warming above late-19th-Century levels].”

EPA-EFE/REX/Shutterstock A farmer holds a small pale ear of corn, grown on his farm in Zambia, that was affected by drought, driven in part by a previous El Niño event.
A farmer in Zambia shows a small ear of corn grown in a field impacted by drought during a previous El Niño event.[BBC]

No two El Niños are alike, but the disruption is felt most sharply in the tropics.

Flooding is common in northern Peru and southern Ecuador, and can reach parts of East Africa, Central Asia and the southern United States.

At the same time, the risk of drought and wildfire rises across much of Australia, Indonesia and northern South America – hitting agriculture and global food stocks.

El Niño also tends to suppress Atlantic hurricanes, and forecasters already expect a quieter-than-average season.

“While that sounds like a good thing, for Central America that leads to a lot less rainfall and potentially drought conditions,” said Liz Stephens, professor of climate risk and resilience at the University of Reading.

Even the UK feels it, if faintly: El Niño can tilt the odds towards a mild start and cold end to winter, though the links are loose.

For many, the forecast is far from abstract.

“An El Niño declaration is not just another weather forecast – for millions of people it is a deadly siren to be feared,” said Mohamed Adow, director of campaign group Power Shift Africa.

“It means failed rains, dying crops, rising food prices, and families pushed to the edge yet again. In East Africa especially, this will land on communities already battered by droughts and floods in recent years.”

Japan’s Meteorological Agency (JMA) takes a similar view to NOAA, judging that El Niño conditions are present. It adds it is all but certain to last into the autumn.

Not every agency is ready to call it, though. Australia’s Bureau of Meteorology (BoM) uses a stricter criterion, requiring sea surface temperatures to exceed 0.8C above average.

This week it said the tropical Pacific was “approaching El Niño conditions”, with central Pacific temperatures already crossing its thresholds, but it stopped short of formally declaring the event had begun.

It expects El Niño to develop later this year, and says it could be strong.

El Niño occurs every two to seven years and usually lasts about a year.

There is still no conclusive proof that climate change is making these events stronger or more frequent – but a warming world can supercharge their effects.

[BBC]

Continue Reading

Features

The Sniper Approach: Precision Medicines to Fight Cancer

Published

on

For a considerable length of time in the past, the global war on cancer relied on a strategy similar to carpet-bombing or shooting from the hip in a wider circle. Traditional chemotherapy, while lifesaving for millions, has always been a blunt and aimless instrument. It floods the body with medications that attack any cell that divides rapidly, and because cancer cells divide ever so speedily, they too are destroyed. However, those chemotherapy drugs also attack the healthy multiplying cells all over the body, including those in the hair follicles, stomach, intestinal lining, and bone marrow. It was a kind of an all-encompassing blunderbuss approach. The end result is the all-too-familiar gauntlet of severe nausea, loss of appetite, hair loss, bone marrow depression, as well as profound exhaustion.

But a quiet and profound revolution has been unfolding in the corridors of oncology. Western medicine is rapidly shifting away from this one-size-fits-all assault. Instead, we are entering the era of precision oncology: a paradigm shift where treatments are tailor-made to target the specific genetic and molecular aberrations lurking inside a tumour. In a telling analogy, modern cancer therapy is deploying snipers instead of grenades or carpet bombs. Nowhere is this revolution more visible or more successful than in the fight against blood cancers and lymphomas.

Decoding the Enemy: What are Antigens and Tumour Markers?

To understand how this new generation of medicine works, we have to look at the microscopic histological landscape of a cancer cell. Every cell in the body is covered in unique surface proteins, which act like microscopic identification badges. The immune system scans these badges to differentiate between one’s own healthy tissue and foreign invaders like bacteria or viruses. When any such protein triggers an immune response, it is called an antigen.

When a normal cell transforms or mutates into a cancerous one, its identification badges change. It begins to overexpress certain proteins, display mutated or altered versions of them, or throw out chemical distress signals. Scientists refer to these telltale chemical signatures as tumour markers.

In the past, two patients with the same type of lymphoma would receive exactly the same chemotherapy regimen because their tumour cells looked identical under a standard microscope. Today, molecular testing can reveal that Patient X’s tumour cells are covered in a specific antigen, while Patient Y’s tumour even lacks it entirely. Though the cancer has the same name, the underlying biology is completely different. By identifying these distinct tumour markers, doctors can now select a drug designed specifically to latch onto that exact marker, leaving the neighbouring healthy cells virtually untouched. It is akin even to modern drone technology.

The Breakthrough in Blood Cancers and Lymphomas

While precision medicine is making waves across all of oncology, its most dramatic victories have been won in haematological malignancies; the cancers of the blood, bone marrow, and lymph nodes. Blood cancers are uniquely suited for targeted therapies. Unlike a solid tumour in the lung or colon, which can be a chaotic, structurally complex mass of many different cell types, blood cancers often stem from a single, rogue line of immune cells circulating through the body. This makes it easier for scientists to isolate the specific “glitch” or antigen common to the entire cancerous population and then attack it specifically.

The Story of Rituximab: The First Smart Bomb

Consider the case of a Non-Hodgkin Lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system. A vast majority of these lymphomas arise from cancerous B-cells (a type of lymphocytic white blood cell). Scientists discovered that these malignant cells almost universally carry a specific surface antigen called Cluster of Differentiation or Cluster of Designation, universally known by the abbreviation CD20.

This discovery led to the creation of the medication Rituximab, one of the earliest and most successful monoclonal antibodies. Monoclonal antibodies are laboratory-produced molecules engineered to mimic the body’s natural immune system. They act like guided missiles, designed to seek out and bind to specific proteins or foreign invaders to block disease processes, stop inflammation, or flag infected cells for natural destruction. Engineered in a lab, Rituximab behaves like a heat-seeking missile or a drone, designed to seek out and bind exclusively to the CD20 antigen.

Once it locks onto the cancer cell, it does two things: It delivers a direct blow to the cell’s internal machinery and simultaneously acts as a neon sign, screaming to the patient’s own immune system: “Come and destroy this specific cell.” The introduction of targeted therapies like Rituximab radically transformed the prognosis for lymphoma patients, turning what was once a highly fatal diagnosis into a highly manageable, often curable condition.

Turning the Patient’s Body into the Medicine: CAR-T Cell Therapy

If monoclonal antibodies are smart bombs, the latest frontier in tailored treatment is akin to training an elite, personalised army. CAR-T Cell Therapy (Chimeric Antigen Receptor T-cell therapy) is a highly specialised form of immunotherapy that genetically modifies a patient’s own white blood cells (T-cells) to seek out and destroy cancer cells. The use of the term Chimeric ” indicates a tissue with two or more genetically distinct populations of cells. This is the essence of CAR-T cell therapy, a living drug tailored not just to a type of cancer, but to the individual patient.

The process sounds like science fiction, but it is saving lives today. A patient’s white blood cells (T-cells, the foot soldiers of the immune system) are harvested from their blood. These cells are then genetically re-engineered in a specialised laboratory by using a harmless virus to insert a new gene into these T-cells. This gene instructs the cells to grow a specialised receptor on their surface called a Chimeric Antigen Receptor (CAR). This receptor is custom-built to recognise the exact antigen on the patient’s cancer cells (such as CD19 in acute leukaemia). Then these newly armed “super-cells” are grown by the millions in a laboratory and infused back into the patient.

Once back inside the body, these living weapons hunt down the cancer cells with astonishingly targeted precision. As they are the patient’s own cells, they can persist in the body for years, acting as a vigilant, microscopic security guard against any relapse.

The Benefits: Better Results, Kinder Side-Effects

The most immediate benefit of tailored therapy for the average patient is the reduction in collateral damage. Because these drugs are engineered to ignore cells that do not bear the target antigen, the devastating side effects of traditional chemotherapy are heavily mitigated. Patients generally do not lose their hair, and the severe, debilitating nausea that once defined the cancer experience is significantly lessened.

Furthermore, these treatments work where chemotherapy fails. Cancer cells are notoriously cunning; they often evolve mechanisms to pump chemotherapy drugs out of their system or repair the DNA damage caused by standard drugs. Targeted therapies bypass these defence mechanisms by attacking the cell’s unique structural vulnerabilities or cutting off the specific growth signals the tumour needs to survive.

Challenges on the New Frontier

Despite the immense promise, the transition to fully tailored cancer care is not without its hurdles. At these initial times, these therapies are not panaceas for all ills.

Cancer cells are highly unstable and prone to frequent mutations. A drug may successfully eliminate 99% of tumour cells bearing a specific antigen, but the remaining 1% might mutate, stop producing that antigen, and begin to multiply. This is known as “antigen escape,” leading to drug resistance. To counter this, researchers are now developing therapies that target multiple different markers simultaneously, trapping the cancer in a molecular crossfire.

Tailored treatments are marvels of modern biotechnology, but they are incredibly complex and expensive to manufacture. Designing a unique cellular therapy for a single individual requires highly sophisticated infrastructure, specialised laboratories, and pristine quality control. Lowering the cost of production so these life-saving treatments are accessible to patients worldwide remains one of the greatest challenges of 21st-century medicine.

A targeted drug is only useful if you know exactly what you are targeting. This requires patients to undergo advanced genetic sequencing and biomarker testing at the time of diagnosis. Integrating these sophisticated diagnostic tools into routine medical care globally is essential if we are to realise the full potential of precision oncology.

The Road Ahead: A Future Without “Cancer” perhaps!!!

It is not wishful thinking. We are rapidly approaching a future where the word “cancer” will no longer be treated as a single, terrifying megalith. Instead, a patient’s diagnosis will be defined by its specific molecular profile: a unique combination of antigens, genetic mutations, and tumour markers. The swing towards tailored treatments in Western medicine represents more than just a technological advancement. It perhaps represents a philosophical shift. We are no longer treating the disease in isolation; we are treating the specific, unique manifestation of that disease within an individual person.

While there is still a long winding road ahead to conquer drug resistance and ensure equitable access to these therapies, the future trajectory is quite clear. The era of carpet-bombing is drawing to a close. The age of precision medicine has arrived, bringing with it unprecedented hope, gentler recoveries, and a brighter dawn, especially for cancer patients around the world. Hail Personalised Medicine; Vivat Medicina Ad Personam.

by Dr B. J. C. Perera
MBBS(Cey), DCH(Cey), DCH(Eng), MD(Paediatrics),
MRCP(UK), FRCP(Edin), FRCP(Lond), FRCPCH(UK), FSLCPaed, FCCP, Hony. FRCPCH(UK), Hony. FCGP(SL)
Specialist Consultant Paediatrician and Honorary Senior Fellow,
Postgraduate Institute of Medicine, University of Colombo, Sri Lanka.
An independent freelance correspondent.

Continue Reading

Features

Lest We Forget – V

Published

on

The Pilot

Francis Gary Powers was born in Jenkins, Kentucky on August 17, 1929, the only son in a family of six children. His father, Oliver Powers, was a coal miner struggling through the Depression years. At the age of 14, Francis took a joy ride in a light aircraft at a country fair in exchange for $2.50. Immediately bitten by the ‘flying bug’, he decided that he wanted to be a pilot someday, although his father wanted him to be a doctor. By then World War II was on, and Francis planned to join the US Navy after completing high school graduation. But when the time came, the war had ended and Francis missed that opportunity.

However, at his father’s suggestion he enrolled at the Milligan College in Tennessee. In his senior year there he applied to become a US Air Force cadet, and was selected, with the stipulation that only after graduating from Milligan would he be allowed to sign his papers for entry as a cadet. As the Korean war had begun, Powers’ father preferred him to return home after graduation and wait for his draft notice for war service. Powers complied, but after two months he applied again to the US Air Force, was selected and enlisted.

His initial training was in skills other than flying, mainly photography. Eventually, in November 1951 he joined the flight school and commenced training on a North American T-6 Texan. Six months later, he began learning to fly jet aircraft, with Powers desperately wanting to participate in combat over Korea. But he was stricken with appendicitis and missed out on the action.

Subsequently, in October 1953 he was sent to New Mexico to train on aerial nuclear bombardment missions at the Watertown airbase, believed to be the birthplace of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and later dubbed ‘Area 51’. Meanwhile, Powers was planning to enter ‘civvy street’ as an airline pilot after completing his period of military service. However, he discovered that by the time of his release from the USAF he would be overage for selection by the airlines, so now with a wife to support, Powers decided to renew his tour of duty with the USAF.

In late 1955 Francis was approached by the CIA to fly a specialised type of intelligence-gathering airplane. Manufactured by Lockheed and developed in Area 51, the aircraft was dubbed the ‘Utilities 2’ (‘U-2’ for short). However, he would work ostensibly as a civilian pilot for the CIA. While regular pilots in the USAF were earning $400 per month, this job came with a monthly salary of somewhere between $1,500 and $2,000, with the pilot based overseas basing. For Powers it was an attractive proposition, not least because it was an opportunity to do something patriotic in a new type of aircraft.

As for operations in the U-2, because flights were conducted close to outer space, pilots could see the curvature of the earth, and had to wear a proper space suit, like astronauts. As sunlight was reflected from below, at those altitudes when pilots looked up all they saw was darkness. Once a pilot was cocooned inside his partial-pressure space suit, like an astronaut’s, his full-pressurized helmet was ‘hermetically sealed’ to the extent that he couldn’t even scratch his nose! And if the suit failed or was damaged, the pilot’s blood would literally boil.

The Aircraft

After WWII, with the advent of the ‘Cold War’, the USSR put up their ‘Iron Curtain’. US President Dwight Eisenhower realised it was imperative for the US to look over the other side of that invisible wall to see what was happening there. By then the Soviets had also acquired nuclear capability. While the USAF had aircraft such as the Boeing B-52 Stratofortress with sufficient range and capability for intelligence-gathering, unfortunately the bombers could operate only at lower altitudes, within easy reach of Soviet missiles and fighter jet aircraft. What the USAF needed was an aircraft which could fly above 70,000 ft for at least ten hours at a time.

After evaluating many options, Lockheed applied the resources of its legendary top-secret ‘Skunk Works’ development programme to design and produce a single-engine aircraft with a 105 ft wingspan (measured from wing tip to wing tip) capable of meeting the USAF’s latest requirements. Working under the direction of Lockheed’s equally renowned designer, Kelly Johnson, the team built a prototype in only eight months by combining the fuselage of a Lockheed F-104 Starfighter (a type labelled by pilots as the ‘widow maker’) with newly-designed ultra-long wings. As much weight as possible was saved by providing the barest minimum of equipment, without any armaments, except for the high-resolution camera. Even the canopy enclosing the pressurised cockpit wasn’t fitted with an electric motor to open and shut it, as that would have added to the airplane’s weight. With the ‘empty’ aircraft weighing much less than it otherwise would have, a spin-off benefit was greater fuel efficiency by carrying the maximum amount of fuel, in integral tanks in the wings and nose, for the long surveillance flights for which the U-2 was primarily designed.

The U-2’s landing gear (undercarriage) comprised two main wheels mounted in tandem at the nose and tail along the longitudinal axis, not unlike wheels on a bicycle. For stability during taxiing and takeoff, two smaller wheels were attached to outriggers at each wingtip. These wheels were designed to fall away as the aircraft lifted off, then retrieved for reuse by a ground crew. However, the absence of the outrigger, or ‘pogo’, wheels made the U-2 difficult to land and roll along the runway at the end of a mission.

The spy-plane’s long wings were so efficient that they produced lift even with the General Electric turbofan engine on idle power close to the ground (with the aircraft flying in what is called ‘ground effect’), while the landing gear, flaps and spoilers helped to create drag to slow the aircraft down. During the landing process another U-2 pilot in a chase car (called the ‘mobile’) followed the aircraft when it was directly above the runway, giving the pilot of the landing U-2 guidance in flying parallel close to the ground, before he induced an aerodynamic stall to touchdown by raising the nose. Performance-wise the aircraft could take off within less than 1,000 ft of runway and climb quickly to the planned very high altitude.

Pilots called the U-2 the ‘Dragon Lady’. It was relatively slow with a cruise speed of Mach 0.7, i.e. 70% the prevalent speed of sound. (Today’s big commercial jets fly at speeds between Mach 0.80 and 0.85.) For the more technically minded, the difference between the low-speed stall and high-speed stall was only eight knots. (‘Stall’ in this instance refers to an aerodynamic stall, whereby the lift-generating airflow over the wings deteriorates causing the airplane to descend. It is distinct from an engine stopping, or ‘stalling’.) Consequently, U-2 pilots had to be very gentle with the controls.

Another characteristic of the U-2 is that it flew very close to what is known as ‘Coffin Corner’ at high altitude. To explain that term and phenomenon, an aircraft remains airborne as the force of lift, produced by airflow over its wings, is equal to the airplane’s weight, while the thrust generated by its engines is equal to aerodynamic drag, or resistance. Lift is also proportional to the density of the air through which the aircraft flies. As an aircraft reaches higher altitudes, air density reduces, and consequently the ‘lifting power’ deteriorates too. If nothing is done to stabilize the aircraft it will begin descending or literally fall out of the sky from lack of lift. Therefore, to maintain the value of the lift component and keep the airplane aloft at those ultra-high altitudes, the aircraft must fly faster with the engine(s) at full throttle.

Additionally, as the aircraft approaches the speed of sound, the air flowing over the top of the wing, which is usually curved to generate lift, tends to move faster than the speed of sound and creates a shock wave. However, the speed of sound reduces with Absolute Temperature, therefore the aircraft reaches the sound barrier earlier at a lower speed at high altitude. Again, the aircraft could fall out of the sky by going too fast. Those are the problems that must be reckoned with when flying at high altitudes, hence the expression ‘Coffin Corner’.

The Mission

On May 1, 1960 Francis Gary Powers was assigned to a mission code-named ‘Operation Grand Slam’, to fly from Peshawar, Pakistan to Bodø in Norway, taking photos along the way. As the USSR was busy celebrating May Day in its usual grandiose manner, CIA planners thought it would be a good opportunity to launch the covert photo reconnaissance flight on that day. Ater lining up for takeoff, Powers had to await authorisation from Washington. The ‘Go Signal’ would be received on High Frequency (HF) Radio relayed via Turkey by Morse code.

Departing Peshawar at 0626 hours, Powers climbed quickly through 66,000 ft, then clicked his microphone twice to indicate that he was well and operations were normal. That was the last anyone monitoring the flight heard from him. Reaching 70,000 ft, the U-2 entered USSR airspace from over Lake Van in Northeastern Turkey. But the Soviets were monitoring his flight almost from departure point and waiting for him.

As it happened, there had been a similar U-2 flight the day before. But as none of the Russian fighter jets or missiles could reach 70,000 ft, complacency had set in among the Americans. This morning however, when Powers was passing Lake Van, an explosion occurred behind his U2. Three missiles had been launched by the USSR, one of which struck one of their own fighter aircraft in error, with another going astray. But the missile that detonated in close proximity to Powers’ U-2 was more successful. As the spy-plane was relatively ‘flimsy’ for the purpose of saving weight, the explosion’s shock wave was strong enough to tip the aircraft over in a nose-down attitude. The resulting g-forces pushed Gary Powers up in his seat toward the cockpit canopy and out of reach of the self-destructive switch designed to destroy the on-board camera and film. Still in control of the airplane, Powers descended to 30,000 ft but found that he was now too low to eject. Then a second missile struck the aircraft, throwing him out of the cockpit. His parachute deployed automatically and he landed on a Soviet community farm where he was soon apprehended and handed over to the authorities (KGB). Powers did not, however, use the lethal poison-laced pin, hidden in a coin he carried, to kill himself.

Meanwhile, the CIA realised that one of its U-2 spy-planes had gone missing, so they put out a standard cover story from their files saying that it was an unarmed NASA weather observation aircraft that had been shot down. They claimed that the airplane had suffered an oxygen system problem, with the resulting hypoxia possibly disorientating the pilot. The CIA added that almost certainly the pilot would not have survived, and that was the version announced to the world by President Eisenhower.

However, it wasn’t until May 7 when Soviet Prime Minister Nikita Khruschev announced that an American U-2 had been shot down and its pilot captured. Finally, Eisenhower was forced to admit on May 11 that he had lied, and that he had authorised the spy flights over the USSR.

With the Cold War showing signs of thawing slightly (although the Cuban missile crisis was still two years in the future), a high-level summit meeting had already been planned for May 16 between the US, USSR, Great Britain, and France in Paris. The other Communist nations were not pleased with Khrushchev for agreeing to participate. But the U-2 ‘incident’ on May Day now provided him with a convenient excuse not to attend that highly anticipated meeting. Eventually though, he only met French President Charles de Gaulle and British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan individually, then withdrew from the summit in a huff.

Later, on August 31, 1960 – Francis Gary Powers’ 31st birthday – a ‘show trial’ began at the Hall of Columns (Dom Soyuzov) in Moscow. The pilot’s family was present too. But the verdict was preconceived. Although Powers was expected to be executed, as a spy, he was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment, with a 100 rubles per month of pocket money and permitted to send one letter home each month. But after serving 21 months, on February 10, 1962 Powers was exchanged for a Soviet intelligence officer named Rudolf Abel (born Vilyam Fisher), who had been convicted on espionage charges and incarcerated on a 30-year sentence at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary in Georgia, USA.

The much-publicised, almost stage-managed exchange took place at the Glienicke Bridge linking West Berlin to East Germany, and later formed the subject of the Steven Spielberg movie ‘Bridge of Spies’ starring Tom Hanks. Significantly, by the time of the prisoner exchange, CIA chief Allen W. Dulles (brother of John Foster Dulles, the former US Secretary of State under President Eisenhower) had been forced to resign over the Bay of Pigs debacle in Cuba and other perceived strategic failures.

Although, after extensive series debriefings the CIA remained ostensibly pleased with Powers’ actions while in captivity in the USSR, President John F. Kennedy cancelled a formal reception to celebrate his return to the USA. Even Powers’ private writings, in the form of a diary he kept during captivity in the USSR, were suppressed by the CIA. However, they were released many years later in the book titled ‘Letters from a Soviet Prison’.

On March 6, 1962, Powers, who had been awarded the CIA Intelligence Star on his return from captivity, fronted an Armed Services Senate Committee who wanted to ensure that he hadn’t divulged state secrets to the Soviet Union. At the end of the sessions the Senate Committee members were so pleased with his conduct whilst in Soviet captivity, they gave him a standing ovation.

Although the media at that time was making things uncomfortable for Powers, he received the back pay that had accrued while he was out of the country, and he resumed flying but as a civilian U-2 test pilot for Lockheed. Over-flights of the USSR were suspended, but surveillance missions continued over countries such as Vietnam, Cuba and Indonesia. Today the U-2 still flies, mainly on weather and communications missions.

Much later, Francis Gary Powers joined Los Angeles TV station KNBC as a helicopter pilot on traffic-reporting duties. But on August 1, 1977, the Bell JetRanger Powers was flying whilst filming brush fires in Santa Barbara County, ran out of fuel and crashed over the San Fernando Valley, killing him and cameraman George Spears.

Frances Gary Powers was only 47 years old at the time of his death. Dick Spangler, President of the Radio and Television News Association of Southern California, lobbied to have Powers buried at Arlington National Cemetery. The request was duly granted by President Jimmy Carter on the basis of Powers having been awarded the CIA Intelligence Star (equivalent to a military Silver Star) for his service as a CIA spy-plane pilot.

Posthumous Awards received by Capt. Francis Gary Powers (in 2000 & 2012):

· Silver Star: Awarded by the US Air Force in 2012 for valor and exceptional loyalty while being held captive.

· Distinguished Flying Cross:

Awarded for actions during his flights.

· Prisoner of War Medal:

Awarded in 2000 for his time imprisoned in the Soviet Union.

· CIA Director’s Award:

Given for extreme fidelity and courage.

· National Defense Service Medal:

Awarded by the Department of Defense.

God Bless America and no one else!

BY GUWAN SEEYA

Continue Reading

Trending