‘But is anything better than a sunset at Galle Face viewed from the top floor?’ asks he.
You think of Niagara Falls and Paris and Tokyo and San Francisco and all the other places you never took DD to. You don’t know the answer, but pretend that you do. You shake your head and watch them smile.
DD packs for Hong Kong after his father’s death. He turns up at the funeral with a white boy in spectacles and you wonder about things not worth wondering about. But, strangely, you feel something that feels a lot like pride. If you were put on this earth to help this beautiful boy out of the closet, then it can’t have all been a waste.
Lucky Almeida joins the Mothers’ Front and campaigns for mothers whose children have been disappeared. You visit her in dreams and tell her that it is OK and that you don’t blame her and that you are sorry for it all.
Jaki moves in with newsreader Radika Fernando and has amazing sex and never calls out for you once.
Lanka disintegrates. War continues and the people comfort themselves that the current lot weren’t as bad as the last lot, even though in many ways they are worse.
The government denies that the blast that killed twenty-three took place at a government office. The Minister, who survives with injuries, says the building belonged to an Asian Fisheries company where he was called to discuss marine exports. He thanks his doctor, his well-wishers and his astrologer.
The Mahatiya faction is discovered by the Supremo and his wrath is brutal. Two platoons of traitors are tied up in caves down by Vakarai and beaten until the tide rolled in to drown them. The LTTE go after all associates of Colonel Gopallaswarmy. Among them, a Colombo-based organisation called CNTR, whose offices at Hotel Leo are bombed, despite there being no one there.
You tell Dr Ranee that you would like to be reborn, but not just yet. You are savouring some rest between what was and what will be. You are resting in peace though you have no grave. You say you will stay till your mother passes over, and she thinks this a good idea.
You settle into a routine that you enjoy and even look forward to. Even on the sad days, when you have to process young children or those leaving lovers behind, you come to realise that every death is significant, even when every life appears not to be.
You have stopped calling out for your father, because you know he is nowhere near and never will be. And even if he did hear and even if he did come, he would not recognise you, because you were not even a supporting actor in his life, merely an extra. See you later, Dada. We never even got to say hello.
When he finally appears, he looks dishevelled and confused. But, you feel no rage towards him, only sorrow. He was a man protecting a child he never knew. Fighting for a country that doesn’t exist.
He is dressed in the suit from his funeral, his eyes green and yellow and his face is dusty and sad, Stanley Dharmendran seems stunned to see you. Then he looks you in the eye and bows his head. ‘I’m truly sorry,’ he says. ‘I did it because—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ you say.
‘Thank God Dilan is OK.’
‘That is true. Thank Whoever.’
‘Can I speak to him?’
‘That will take deals with your old friend the Crow Man. Which I personally don’t advise. I can sign you up for a Dream Walking course at Level 36. Though results can be variable.’
‘He has a new foreign friend. They are performing intercourse.’
‘Thanks for the update.’
‘What if they go to San Francisco? That place is full of AIDS.’
‘Uncle Stanley, there is nothing you can do about things Down There. The sooner you accept that, the better.
‘So then what?’
‘Meaning?’
‘What now?’
‘Now is where I forgive you.’
‘But I don’t know where I am.’
‘Then. Uncle Stanley.’ You do the signature pause. ‘You came. To the right place.’ Where Did Lionel Go?
So what about your photos? Did they shake up the world? Did they burst the Colombo bubble?
They stay on those walls for weeks after the bomb, but you can’t bring yourself to go to the Lionel Wendt. You stay clear of places where the likelihood of bumping into Sena or the Mahakali is high. Dr Ranee assures you that no demon can touch you, now that you are wearing the white robes, but you are not fully assured.
When you finally venture there alone, you are unsurprised to find the gallery empty. Your photographs have attracted more spirits, though very few humans. Perhaps because it is monsoon season and humid as hell or because people had better things to look at than black-and-white prints of dead bodies. Ghouls and pretas and poltergeists come to you to chat, but you are done talking about pictures.
On the sixth day, Kugarajah arrives and helps himself to the 1983 photos, the IPKF killings and ten photos of dead Tamil villagers. He startles the Dead Tourists who are mesmerised by that pangolin taken at sunset.
‘Mate! He’s stealing your stuff,’ the Britisher yells at the security guard. The guard, an old man in a brown uniform, ambles up to Kugarajah as he makes for the exit nearest the sign saying Law of the Jungle. Photography by MA.
‘I am the owner of these photos,’ says Kugarajah as he barges past him. The old man in the brown uniform shrugs and goes back to yawning on his stool.
You are afraid that the dead from the photos will find you and berate you for your unflattering portrayals. But most of the bodies in your shots perished a long way from this gallery. If you were them, you’d let the universe devour you, so you could finally drink of that blessed oblivion and be done with this lottery.
A few days later, Radika and Jaki come in while DD stays in the car with his bespectacled white boy. He tells them that he wants nothing to do with your photos or your death and Radika pretends to look concerned.
‘Why don’t you take a break from work? See if you want to stay in Lanka or not. If you need to talk…’
‘Stick to newsreading,’ says DD and drives off.
You try to follow, but the Crow Man’s curse repels you. The air pushes you away and the wind refuses to carry you.
Radika walks around the exhibition with Jaki, shaking her head as she looks at the framed atrocities. ‘What was this damn fool thinking?’
‘He thought photographs were the best way to end the war.’
‘Are you going to make a report about your abduction?’
‘To whom?’
‘We will report those cops.’
‘I don’t remember any cops. Just the one who helped me escape.’
‘Why don’t we go away this weekend? I don’t think coming here’s a good idea.’
‘Maali wanted the Colombo bubble to see the real Sri Lanka.’
Radika looks around the empty gallery. She sees not the clamour of ghosts, only the spaces between them.
‘Looks like Colombo isn’t one bit interested.’
Jaki takes a seat by the door and asks Radika to leave. That afternoon, a few visitors trickle in. A parade of students, a collective of artists, a tutorial of professors and a van of journalists. Many of them are shocked and awed and you feel equal parts hubris and indignation when some of them take photographs of your photos. By evening, word has spread and there is a stream of visitors. You recognise a few from the theatre scene, a few from the music scene, and others from the teledrama scene. Some more famous than others. Some not very impressed.
Jonny Gilhooley arrives with Bob Sudworth. They shake their heads and say very little. Jonny removes the two photos showing the meeting of the Major, the Colonel and Sudworth. He also helps himself to a few of the nude pictures that Clarantha had put up after DD left, despite your instructions. Byron, Hudson and Boy George. Another theft that barely disturbs the security guard’s nap.
Your acquaintances from the press come and begin sharing stories. Jeyaraj, from the Observer, says you were a fool, while Athas, from The Times, says you were a genius. This is the closest to a eulogy that you will ever get.