The Universe Laughs - Commonwealth Short Story Competition: 2022 Entry.
Currently Playing: Silence, actually.
Last year, I wrote this in an attempt to justify my apathy with relation to the Aragalaya. I didn't intend on letting it see the light of day because it isn't anywhere close to what I write on the regular and in some sense, I felt like an imposter. It was my mother who came across a facebook post about the Commonwealth Short Story competition, and it was on her insistence, as is the case with most things I've ever done in my life, that I submitted this.
Unsurprisingly, it didn't make the cut. I don't believe it made it into the 140 longlisted stories, because there were 6642(!!) submissions this year and this story isn't significant enough to stand-out among the stellar ones that did end up progressing into the short-list. I was more than happy to hear of two Sri Lankans' stories in the final line-up, and even more ecstatic to find that the Pacific Regional Winner, Himali McInnes's story is titled 'Kilinocchi', written against the backdrop of the Civil war, about a Tamil tea-plucker going in search of her son (which, you will find as you read my submission, feels like an ode).
I debated posting this on here, because this is the first of three specific literary projects I took up this year and it has, for the lack of a better term, fallen through. Still, I believe it has brought me one step closer to becoming a better writer. The second project is my poetry collection, which will be out this September. The third is a mystery for now, but fear not, if it works, I will take you with me through every turn. If it does not, someday I shall talk about it as candidly as I do about most of the roads I didn't end up taking.
'The Universe Laughs'
The universe is corporeal. It bends backwards to appease time, because the past is often more concrete than the present can be. You know this because you were seven when Thaathi, your father, told you, ‘this country has gone to the dogs’. You looked at the sky over his shoulder, where the stars formed an eye, and heaven looked back at you as the skies sighed. You know this because your father would strap a wrist watch around your sticky wrist every morning and remind you to return it. It was his. Everything was. You learned to obey before you knew how to love.
You think of this as the sea gulls flap their heavy wings over all kinds of heads standing on the deck. You rest your elbow on the salt lined railing, let the shards of dried paint dig into your skin. Your blood has marked this land already; a smear or two is nothing in the midst of a revolution. You tell yourself this as you bite back a wince. It hurts, because skin is soft and lined with nerve endings, even in the midst of a revolution. Feelings don’t like being hidden, they find their way out of you like blood oozes onto the railing.
You don’t know where Galle Face Green begins, or ends. These days, it feels infinite. A stretch of land marred by lives you’re only just beginning to understand. The wind licks your hair as it passes you, and you think about the tent you just left. The one they constructed in what they claim is the middle of the agitation site. Protest site. Gathering place of the revolution. You think about the elderly woman, Saraswathi and the picture frame she refuses to let out of her sight. There’s a boy in it, perhaps a little younger than you are now. His grin splits his face, large and welcoming. His eyes are crescents. Like the macarons you bought at Spar last month, the ones Malli was too scared to eat because they cost you a couple thousands. You reminded him it was your treat - that you weren’t working for a long life, only a happy one. You wonder what the boy in the frame was working for.
Saraswathi told you he had been a week short of twenty three when they took him. You didn’t ask who ‘they’ were. You didn’t ask anything, really. You did what you do best: you listened. You listened to her talk about this boy and the future she had always dreamed for him, one where he would return home from the bazaar that fateful July evening and make her tea just the way she liked it. One where he would go on to sell woven mats like his father had, and marry the girl two houses over, and pray at the church every Sunday for a long, happy life. You did not tell her life does not work that way. You did not tell her anything. When her words mushed together and the slurs became tears, you excused yourself from the tent.
On your way out, you kept your eyes trained on the ground. There were many feet, and the bodies they carried, to pass. Some clad in smart shoes, some in sandals barely held together by a safety pin or two, some bare. You were careful around the bare ones. Your own Battas gripped the dirty grass before hitting the discolored tarmac. You headed to the deck because that’s where the crowd hummed a little softer, overshadowed by the roar of the Indian Ocean. It’s slightly humorous to you, how being on the deck makes you forget about what is happening a few steps away. The deck is a removed plane of existence you discovered on your first night at the protest. Discovered may not even be the term. You ran to it because everything was too loud and everyone was too much. Everyone wanted to know why you were here, what you thought about what was happening, what you wanted to achieve. And you didn’t know. You still don’t know, you haven’t known for a while now. Still, you stayed that first night, in the purple tent pegged closest to the cannons and you gazed at the cloth ceiling with your head pressed against a borrowed bag. Everything smelled of gasoline that night, but nothing was on fire. You couldn’t sleep because no one else was, and you couldn’t leave because no one else had.
It was Lalin, a colleague and old school friend who had asked you if you’d like to accompany him to the protest. He did that often; invited you places, for fun. You had the day off and Ammi was at the hospital. Malli was at school. You didn’t have anything else to do. Your father was sitting in front of the TV with a tight lip. You didn’t tell him where you were going until he asked. And when he did, you told him you’d be back in an hour.
You didn’t take anything with you - You had asked, in a half hearted manner, if you’d need to bring a poster. Lalin had laughed and asked you to ‘just come men’. So you joined him, and his posse of Colombo 7 friends, dressed in a disarray of shorts and tanks, posters and bandanas in hand. You observed, even as you walked with them. You looked at the streets you’d pass every morning on your way to work, now devoid of traffic and filled with faces and voices you couldn’t escape. You let the crowd lead you, aching feet and sweaty upper lip, to the mockery of an agitation site set aside by the thugs in power. You recalled the way your father scoffed at the board the first time you drove past it and into the car park of Shangri-La. How he called it a ‘neat joke’, how Ammi asked him to fix his tie as you walked into the lobby for a party.
Now, people swarmed the scenic stretch of land. Their voices angry, faces twisted in a pain you didn’t quite understand. It piqued your curiosity, the way most things did as of late. Like the black flag you’d seen tied to a light post on your way home last Friday, like the news these days. Your father noticed you lurking behind the curtain with your eyes trained on the TV at 7 o’clock. He didn’t ask you to join him on the couch. Didn’t pretend to not see you. Instead you watched each other, and the news, until Ammi got home after another day at the hospital. Ammi didn’t watch the news, and didn't entertain anyone who watched it either. You’d switch the TV off, move to the pantry and have a dinner of takeout after Malli floated downstairs. Then, after dinner you would bid your family a goodnight and lay awake in the dark, thinking about the news and the blinking stars, and what tomorrow would hold.
The sea hisses against the shore like a serpent out for blood. You look into the abyss of dark water and white wispy waves. You think of the phone call with your father - how quickly it became a phone call with Ammi, then Malli. How Thaathi was curt and Ammi was not. How Malli was excited, and how it made your stomach churn. You told them you’d return the next morning - you didn’t tell them it was because you needed a change of clothes. Ammi told you to be careful. You wanted to laugh, instead you asked her to do the same. Thaathi sneered at liberals. You told him you’d like him to say that to your face. You didn’t need his understanding, but you couldn’t stand his blame.
To your right, a young man has his arms around a young woman. Lovers, in some sense, you realize. They whisper to each other like they’re the only ones around. Your ears strain despite you; you are curious to a fault. The man asks the woman what she thinks tomorrow will look like. The woman, meek in gaze, is coarse-voiced as she says ‘Whatever happens, I hope we can get umma some medicine’. You whip your head towards the sky after you watch the man tighten his grip on her shoulder.
The sky is open, bright and unforgiving. It stretches like an open palm. You wonder if the heavens are asleep. If the chants on the other side of the road are loud enough for God to hear. If God is watching you spend your third night of reckoning. Your fingers travel to the cross you wear around your neck. You resist the urge to bite down on it like you used to as a child. Ammi’s words return to you in the tune of a hymn: ‘God is watching, God knows.’ You think about Saraswathi’s son and wonder if God can see where he is - is he six feet under ground or in a lake or in a torture chamber from the war days, you can’t help but wonder.
“Aiyya,” someone is calling you. You turn towards one of the boys you’d shared a tent with. You don’t recall his name, and you don’t have to. The word ‘Malli’ is universal and far easier to say than the names of people you’re trying to understand. He’s holding two paper cups of Nescafé. You take one and offer the boy a smile. He doesn’t leave. You let him stand by you as you turn to the sea. Your tongue burns as you take a sip. You swallow an expletive and the boy beside you laughs.
“Hot neh?” he says as he brings his own cup to his mouth. You shrug, take another sip and stare at the sea like it has the answers you’ve been looking for.
“You’re staying tonight?” The boy presses. You wonder if his curiosity can put yours to shame.
“Yeah. You?”
“Of course.”
The answer is immediate and honest. You let the words echo in your ears as you take another sip. The coffee is no longer too hot. But your tongue is already scalded.
“Why do you stay here, malli?” You find yourself asking, with the words of an older man you met at the makeshift library, the tent with shelves upon shelves of books you did not know Sri Lankans read.
“For change,” he says, and you cock your head towards him. He’s fresh out of school, the telltale buzz cut just beginning to sprout curls, clean-shaven. Only a boy, you realize with a jolt. Only a boy in a revolution. You almost miss what he says next,
“for my future.”
You think about your own future then, about the office job you’d always dreamed of, the quaint apartment closest to home, the wife you’re yet to meet, the children you don’t know if you want.
“We’re damned if we don’t do something now.” Says the boy, and you add, “and damned if we do. Nobody seems to have a proper plan anyway.”
He laughs, a boyish curt thing of the past before he says, “spoken like a true prep school boy. St. Thomas, Aiyya?”
You resist the urge to correct him, but you do anyway. “Wesley.”
“Nice. You probably travel by car then.”
“No, I take the bus.” You omit the ‘sometimes’ that sits at the top of your tongue.
“Sha.”
The waves crash over the silence that follows.
You know there’s no reason for you to be angry; the boy is right. What would you know about an uncertain future? You, and your silver spoon friends in your Colombo 7 neighborhood and Friday nights at the Bistro. Your paycheck covers your semi-lavish life and spares you a couple thousands for frequent nights out. Your parents pay your bills. In the boy’s teasing is a truth you’ve been running away from; you don’t have a reason to be here.
“But you know Aiyya,” you reel back to the deck and nod as the boy continues,
“I’m glad you’re here. It means you care. About our future.”
“The country’s?”
“No, the people’s. I saw you talking to that Aachi earlier. You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t care.”
You want to tell him he’s got it all wrong - you weren’t talking, you were listening. You also don’t know if you care, and if you do, you don’t know why.
“We may not have a plan, but we have power, when we’re together.” He sounds like a principal. Or a prefect Aiyya giving a welcome speech. Or Thaathi.
You avoid his twinkling eyes and balance the cup on the railing. You watch it topple over a second later. It plunges into the ocean below. You want to jump in after it.
Instead you ask the boy,
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?”
“You and your plans.” He’s laughing so you assume he isn’t berating you. He continues, “Some uncle will give a speech. The nuns from St. Mary’s wellawatte are providing lunch tomorrow. They’re nice like that.”
“And you, what will you do?” You ask, wondering if the nuns are really nice, or if they’re trying to be. You can’t help the cynicism, it comes from Thaathi’s side.
“I will read a few books, talk to more people like you, and maybe cover more footage.” You raise your eyebrow at that, and he adds almost sheepishly, “I want to work in the media.”
It makes sense, you tell him. You don’t tell him Thaathi’s claim that the media are paid goons of the parliament. You spare the boy your cynicism and ask him what books he’s been reading.
You don’t mean to tune him out as he tells you about his latest read but you do.
You find yourself thinking about tomorrow, and also about yesterday. About the lunch parcel you shared with an uncle who used to work at the railway station. He told you his name, his daughter’s name and the names of the men who changed his life irreversibly. You tried not to flinch as he cussed out political parties and parliamentary policies like Thaathi used to. Mostly because you know if this uncle and your father were ever to have a debate, they would not be on the same side. You washed your hand over the plasticine you’d scraped clean of food, with the cup of water he had handed you, and you thanked him as he offered you a second parcel. You recall the way he shoved it in your hands and said, “you need to eat, our country relies on you children.”
You handed the parcel to a little girl by the portable toilets. You wanted the universe to swallow you whole when she thanked you, wanted to tell her the kindness was never yours, only borrowed.
“Aiyya?”
You rub your nape with an apologetic hand and an apologetic smile as you come back around, to the sound of the sea and the strained smile on the boy’s face. You wonder why you can barely concentrate. Why your skin seems to be tearing away from your bones, ever ready to up and leave if it could.
“You should get some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll show you the book.”
You nod and watch the boy leave but the boy looks over his shoulder and beckons you to follow.
You waddle after him like a duckling out of the water, cold and unsteady. The voices you’d tuned out return to you in waves, chants you didn’t have to learn repeating themselves in your head and in your chest. You tuck a hand into your pocket and finger the bandana Lalin had handed you. You don’t pull it out until you’re in the purple tent, now hosting five others. It isn’t spacious, but the crowd doesn’t suffocate you. You thumb the threads of the bandana as you converse with the man sleeping closest to your space. He’s a familiar face. You recall him pouring you a cup of tea the first night, when both of you lay awake listening to the city beat itself up over everything out of its control.
“Tea?” he asks as the conversation dims. You watch him pull the sky blue flask from his rucksack and nod. You need the caffeine, but you need the company more. You don’t ask him where the tea is from, don’t ask him about the bruise lining the side of his face where the light doesn’t hit. You wrap the bandana around the cup and wonder if Malli is asleep. Your phone reads half past ten. You know he isn’t but you don’t call him. You sip your tea and cringe. You’re reminded of the man’s diabetes and the conversation you had about the depleting reserves of insulin. You make a mental note to ask Ammi about it tomorrow. Ammi likes talking about the hospital with you but you never seem to have the time.
No, you were never able to set time aside for her.
The past coils itself around your neck like a noose as you sip your unsweetened tea and think of the sugar tin the help, Maya akka, refills every Sunday. You wonder if Maya akka is at the protest, if she’s in one of the tents right this moment, talking to her tent-mates about the things she couldn’t tell your family. Something clutches at your heart but you don’t dwell on it.
“Did you find out, malli?” the man asks as you hand him your empty cup. He wears a smile meant for little children; you recall he used to teach. You want to tell him you haven’t but the words tumble out of you like sugar out of a toppled tin,
“I think I have.”
“Is it enough? This reason of yours.”
You don’t know if it is. You know you’re here to find out. And you feel yourself drawing closer to the conclusion. You also know it isn’t a pretty one and you don’t know how to tell the ugly truth without sounding like Thaathi. Or worse, like Thaathi’s son.
“I don’t know, Aiyya.” You tell him, because it’s true but it isn’t the truth.
“That’s okay. You don’t always have to have a reason, you know?”
But you do, you want to tell him. You’ve never had to look for one, and now that you do, it feels futile to do anything else. You wonder if the wind that envelopes you is the universe pulling you closer.
Your conversation dies then. The man curls into an odd lump under a floral bedsheet and you turn towards the tent’s opening. Outside, the city is awake and angry. It is the only thing you know for certain; people are angry, and their anger is warranted. The red bandana you twist over your knuckles is indisputably similar to the red scarves you’ve seen the politicos adorn. You have half a heart to shred the cloth, or worse, to walk back home with it wrapped around your wrist for Thaathi to see. You want to bring him here where the anger is fresh and throbbing on the soil he claims is cursed. You want him to sit with you in the main tent and listen to Saraswathi lament over a son she lost to a war she never fought. You want to take him to the deck and ask him if time or God or the universe is to blame for your lack of understanding of your people’s pain. Or if it’s him, and his abundant apathy and iron fists that shaped you to be obedient but not kind, determined with no goals.
You walk out of the tent because you know you can do nothing of that sort. Nor can you sleep with men who have reasons to be here when you do not. You find yourself staring up at the canons, where the flag is at half mast. You watch a group of people sit under it, with an open map of Lanka and posters sprawled by their feet, discussing plans you don’t know if you’re allowed to be a part of. One of them looks up and meets your eye. He beckons you over like an old friend. You want to walk away but your feet carry you over the tarmac and onto the grass, towards the cannons and the kids with a plan.
“Aiyya,” the boy calls out as you scramble your way on to the cement landing, “want isso vade?”
Your ears burn as someone in the group rushes to hand you a paper plate with a singular shrimp snack, staple to Galle face and your Sunday evening walks down the stretch before this mess.
You take it and sit at the edge, listening to discussions about protests happening around the country. You look up in time to catch the stars form an eye. It winks at you like it knows you. Perhaps it does. You wonder if the universe is experiencing deja vu, if God is awake and listening. If Sarawathi’s son is sitting at the edge of a cloud, beaming at his mother and the people who listen to his story.
You look at your surroundings and wonder if Lalin is at home. He had left you and never returned. So had his Colombo 7 friends. You wonder if they’re asleep in their cold rooms, unaware of the sea breeze and sacrifices people continue to make.
"Aiyya?”
You hum in response as you turn towards the speaker.
“Are you free tomorrow?”
Seven pairs of eyes look back at you, each lined with a desperation you’d only just begun to understand. The faces are young, and so are their hearts. The ocean roars against your ear as your future rearranges itself.
“What’s the plan?” you ask and the universe laughs.
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