Meanwhile, the buffaloes are squabbling about the rising sun, the blood not washing and the body parts not sinking. You see a head that once belonged to you placed in a siri-siri bag and hurled into the lake. You see limbs you once owned packed into boxes. You wonder why your head remains on your shoulders unlike the Dead Atheist’s.
‘I was Sena Pathirana. I was the chief JVP organiser for Gampaha. My body was dumped in this filthy lake many moons ago. We have met.’
You slide over to where other body parts are being wrapped. Limbs and heads in plastic bags as if parcelled for the freezer.
‘I don’t…’
‘You tried to kiss me at a rally in Wennappuwa. Don’t expect sir to remember sir.’
You watch the body parts float on the edge of the Beira and you hear the garbage men swear and you wait, with fading hope, for memories to return. Abbreviations
You once made a cheatsheet for Andrew McGowan, a young American journo confused by Lanka’s abbreviations. You recycled it many times for many visitors over many years.
Dear Andy
To an outsider, the Sri Lankan tragedy will appear confusing and irreparable. It needn’t be either. Here are the main players.
LTTE – The Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam
* Want a separate Tamil state.
* Prepared to slaughter Tamil civilians and moderates to achieve this.
JVP – The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna
* Want to overthrow the capitalist state.
* Are willing to murder the working class while they liberate them.
UNP – The United National Party
* Known as the Uncle Nephew Party.
* In power since the late ’70s and embroiled in the above two wars.
STF – The Special Task Force
* On behalf of the Govt, will abduct and torture anyone suspected of being or abetting the LTTE or the JVP.
The nation divides into races, the races divide into factions and the factions turn on each other. Whoever is in the opposition will preach multiculturalism and then enforce Sinhala Buddhist dominance in exchange for power.
You are not the only outsider here, Andy. There are many others as confused as you are.
IPKF – The Indian Peace Keeping Force
* Sent by our neighbour to preserve peace.
* Are willing to burn villages to fulfil their mission.
UN – United Nations
* Have offices in Colombo.
* Are arseholes to work with.
RAW – Research and Analysis Wing
* Indian secret service, here to broker dodgy deals.
* Are best avoided.
CIA – Central Intelligence Agency
* Sits on the shores of the Diego Garcia islands, holding very powerful binoculars.
* Is this true, Andy? Say it ain’t so.
It’s not that complicated, my friend. Don’t try and look for the good guys ’cause there ain’t none. Everyone is proud and greedy and no one can resolve things without money changing hands or fists being raised.
Things have escalated beyond what anyone imagined and they keep getting worse and worse. Stay safe, Andy. These wars aren’t worth dying over. None of them are.
Malin Chat with Dead Revolutionary (1989)
You realised you liked boys very early on. When your Dada told you that all poofs should be tied up and raped with knives, you looked down at your slippers and never looked him in the face again.
There may come a time when homosexuals can kiss on the street, get mortgages together and die in each other’s arms. Not in your lifetime. In your lifetime, you meet a stranger in a dark place and never see them again. Or you have secret affairs that end with no time for heartache. Or you do something radical, like have a girlfriend, live with her, and sleep in the spare room with the landlord’s son.
‘You came to a JVP rally. You asked me to pose with a banner. Then, you tried to smooch me. A week later, the first batch of my comrades were disappeared. A month later, they disappeared me.’
The details come to you in itches and aches. In the Sri Lanka of the ’80s, ‘disappeared’ was a passive verb, something the government or JVP anarchists or Tiger separatists or Indian Peace Keepers could do to you depending on which province you were in and who you looked like.
‘Let’s follow these rats.’ Sena leads you to the roof of the white van. The black garbage bags that form his hood and his cape are taped, unlike the ones swaddling his actual corpse, parts of which are swimming in the Beira, parts of which sit in this van. You cannot say for sure what made the marks on his ankles, but you can guess. You look down and see you are wearing one shoe, a chappal imported from Madras and sold in Jaffna.
The black Delica van starts to move. In the back seat are Kottu and Balal, who have hosed off and changed into banians. At the back of the van are boxes of meat that have begun to smell. Steaks, chops and offcuts that once belonged to you, and two others. Some seem to have come out of the freezer.
The driver is a young soldier who hunches over the wheel and mutters to himself.
‘Someone is talking to me and it’s not those two and it’s not me. Who is it?’
He wears the uniform of a corporal but has the befuddled expression of an agitating student. He has a prosthetic leg that he keeps on the passenger seats, while his hand hovers over the steering wheel clutch. Sena whispers into the boy’s ear and turns towards you, smiling. ‘I can teach you how to whisper to the living if you help me,’ he says putting his hood on and leaning back.
‘Thought you were telling me how I died,’ you say, still not sure if you want to know. The boy driving looks around nervously as if he hears something that you do not. He grabs at the clutch and the van jerks twice.
‘Sir was picked up from the Arts Centre Club or wherever rich ponnayas go. Sir was put in the van, beaten with a pipe. Chained in a room filled with dead people’s shit.’
He holds up his hand and you see bloody scabs where fingernails once were. ‘Maybe you woke to a man in a mask asking you questions. “Are you JVP?” or “Are you Tiger?” Maybe, “Are you foreign NGO?” or “Are you Indian spy?” They’d ask why you were taking photos and who you were selling them to.’
The driver calls out to his passengers.
‘These extra bodies, from where, ah?’
‘Drivermalli! Shut your gob and drive.’ Balal looks down at the stains on his hands.
‘Mr Balal, I don’t like this disgusting work.’
‘Thank you for feedback. I will put in my report. Now drive.’
Meanwhile, Kottu taps Balal on the shoulder and lowers his voice. He combs his handlebar moustache with his finger while he speaks. ‘Balal malli, I’m going to complain to boss.’
‘Which boss?’
‘Big boss.’
‘The big, big boss?’
‘I’ll tell even him. I’m not scared. Very unprofessional how we are asked to work.’
Sena is now floating before you and shouting at your face. You hold your broken camera to your eye and line him against the moving trees.