When The Jacaranda Blooms

The first time I slept with him it had felt almost like love. He was an attractive man; his body tall and lean, the strands of grey in his hair the only reminder that he was almost twice my age. Just before he touched my lips with his index finger with the agility of a well-practiced lover, I could feel my body physically aroused by the anticipation of his touch. There was that familiar warmth in my loins, and I knew that my body was receptive. He had been careful not to rush. It was our fourth “date” and until then it had mostly been the two of us spending the afternoon in a hotel room, talking over coffee or enjoying a meal. By then I had lulled myself into believing that I was falling in love with him. That he was not simply seeing me as an object of lust.    

        So, when he finally kissed me that day, I found myself responding to him, my hands slowly moving to the nape of his neck, my body rising a little to meet his. When he touched my body, tracing his fingers deftly to my breasts, my nipples were already hard. By then I knew that the love-making would be good. That it would not horrify my soul as much as I had anticipated. And when he stood up from the bed he looked at me and smiled. Not the smile of a conqueror as I had expected but that of a lover. That smile puzzled me as I watched him dress; carefully putting on the shirt he had been wearing so as not to crease it more, and the pants that he had placed neatly on the armchair close to the window that faced Paseo de la Reforma. By then I had dressed too, and was standing next to the window; the view of the boulevard down below in the corner of my eye. Once he was ready, he walked up to me and kissed me on the mouth; taking time to enjoy the kiss. By then, I had already begun to feel that deep sense of guilt that would accompany each time we made love since that day. I stayed in the room another hour or so; taking a shower, drying my hair and dressing in the same clothes again. Something stopped me from staying naked while he dressed even though it would have spared me the trouble of getting dressed twice. I guess, I didn’t want to allow him the luxury of seeing me naked other than while we were making-love.

        It’s been almost two years since the first afternoon that I had allowed him to touch my body. By now, I had expected our love-making to have fizzled out and for him to have lost interest in meeting me. 

       “You are the only other woman I sleep with other than my wife.” He told me once. The mention of his wife making me cringe a little. It was a breaking of rules; to talk about our personal lives, other people we were seeing. I smiled and continued to watch him dress from my vantage point at the large window. But the thought haunted me for weeks after that day. Why had he told me that information? I knew he had a wife, possibly children but I preferred not to care. It would do me no good to know about his other life. The one that he would be proud to display openly. The next time I met him, I punched him in the shoulder as I straddled him. Wincing in pain, he looked at me like a child who had been spanked for no apparent reason. 

“What was that about?” He asked me, his voice hoarse.

“That was for being a jerk.” I said cryptically as I slowly started to move my hips rhythmically. By then he was already holding me by my hips. A trace of puzzlement left on his face.

      There had been only a few exceptions to our meetings. After we met, the entire week would pass without even a word from him unless there was a reason for him to write to me. And I in turn, could forget that he existed. In in a city this big it was not difficult to become self-involved. I had my work, the occasional meet-up with friends in the evening, and the weekend visit to see my parents. The week went by like this until the next Thursday when I would check my phone messages to see if there was a change in plans. 

       But on Thursdays, by mid-morning something within me would begin to build up. It was palpable. I would get impatient with the passage of time until midday, the usual traffic jams that barely registered in my mind during the rest of the week would annoy me, and the minute hands on my watch seemed to be in an eternal battle against me. I never bothered to name this feeling I would have each Thursday morning. I was not going to allow myself that kind of sentimentality.

After I parked my car in one of the shopping malls close to the hotel, I would walk from there, conscious of the looks that I received from other pedestrians. Growing up I never considered myself a beauty; my body and my face never seemed to conform to what was considered beautiful among boys I knew back then.  But the unwanted attention of men had always been something that I had had to contend with. I learned to not care. 

      The short walk from the shopping mall to the hotel, was all mine. I guarded it fiercely even from thoughts of him. The Paseo de la Reforma, with its constantly changing facades always fascinated me. It stood out among the other main arteries of the city; the wide boulevard always felt transplanted from elsewhere. It’s ability to transform itself was comforting. There was no judgement of my own transformation. From single woman to someone’s mistress. And when I finally get to the hotel room, swipe the card and wait for the “click” as the lock opens I know that my transformation is complete. For the next three hours, I’m his. And I never know if he is completely mine.

Six months ago, there was a break in our routine. It had all begun with our paths crossing by accident. A simple enough incursion of the one into the other’s life. It didn’t even last a full five minutes. But it changed something between us. We didn’t meet each other for the next two weeks and I was convinced that it was over between us. I continued with my everyday routine but somewhere in the back of my mind I could sense a rupture. I decided to ignore that nagging feeling. It was not like I was missing him.

But on the third Thursday morning a message from him woke me up. 

“I want to see you. Let’s meet at the usual time. Nothing’s changed.” 

I stared at my phone in the hazy blue of the morning seeping through the curtains. It was cold and I could feel a lump forming in my throat. I wasn’t sure how to respond. This could be the moment that I would finally break from our Thursday routine. Freedom for me from the guilt that I would feel each time. After a few minutes, I replied with a brief “okay”.

     When I walked into the hotel room that afternoon, for a moment I thought he looked relieved. Had he thought that I would not keep my promise? 

It was strange to have him caress my face gently, gazing into my eyes like he was finally able to see directly into my soul. It made me uncomfortable. He was showing something more than desire towards me.

“Is everything okay?” I asked desperate to change the mood in the room.

“Yes.” He said flatly, taking his hand from my face.

“That’s good.” 

“Imogen….” He said, his body turned away from me. I could not see the expression on his face but his voice sounded different. It was thick and devoid of the clear confidence that I was familiar with. Gooseflesh appeared on my arms, making the ends of my nerves sting with the sensation. And immediately, I remembered the first time I had met him in that hotel room. I had been nervous; struggling with my own conscience that day. He had smiled and pronounced my name the way only my father did. A clear “j” instead of the “h” that everyone used when saying my name. I had long ago given up correcting the pronunciation to anyone new. A running joke between my father and I; It was he who had named me after a young woman he had met as a student in London. A class mate he had been too shy to profess his love to with his English that stubbornly clung to the traces of his native Spanish. For two years, he had been in love with the young woman only to return to Mexico City to meet my mother who he had married promptly. 

I rubbed my arms instinctively to get rid of the gooseflesh, dispelling the memory from my thoughts.

“What is it?” I asked, dropping my bag to the floor next to me slowly. 

“I’m sorry.” His head was lowered and I could see the profile of his face. In the diffused grey light of the autumn afternoon, I thought he looked his age. The subtle crow’s feet spreading like a fan from the corner of his eye, the greys more prominent on his neatly combed hair.

“I don’t understand.”

He turned to me, his expression; distraught. 

“I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. My wife and son were next to me and all I could do was freeze. I know I could have at least smiled with you.” 

       I could feel my jaw tense. Yes, remembered how I had felt when he had ignored me. It had hurt my feelings. The hot tears that had trickled uncontrollably from my eyes had shamed me. And even with my best efforts, I hadn’t been able to control them. Once I was home I had rationalized everything that had happened. The look of cold avoidance in his gaze was part of the deal. But my own weakness at the sight of him with his family had taken me by surprise. The knowledge that our relationship was limited to the confines of a hotel room made me feel sick to my stomach. I was nothing more than a mistress. 

“I understand.” I said, my voice sounding like that of an automaton. 

“I didn’t know if I could meet you after that day. That’s why I cancelled our meeting.”

“Then why meet me today?” I said, feeling stung by his words.

He walked closer to me and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. It was strange to see him this way. His emotions visible on his face, his hands shaking a little as he caressed my hair. 

“Because I realized that I couldn’t be without seeing you. That despite what I had told myself over and over again each time we met….” He paused and held me by the shoulders. 

“What did you tell yourself?” I could feel anger rising within me. It was strange that I had felt offended by what he had just said. This revelation of his own inner thoughts felt like a burden.

“That…. that you were….. a distraction. A temporary distraction that would go away. That my heart and my loyalty belonged only to my wife.”

I pushed his arms away and walked to the other end of the room. The need to distance myself from him and this revelation; urgent. He stood in the middle of the room, his arms still afloat in the air. 

“So, what’s changed since I saw you at the restaurant with your family, huh?” I asked, feeling my own voice break from the weight of my emotions.

For a few seconds, he looked at me in a daze, seemingly confused by my question.

“I……. I couldn’t believe how I felt when I saw you that day.”

“You mean you wanted to fuck me then and there!” I said feeling breathless as I controlled my anger. 

“No……I didn’t want to fuck you.” He looked offended.

“Then?” I stood in my corner of the room. The physical distance between us the only thing stopping me from slapping him.

“I…… I realized that I was in love with you.” He sighed as if a burden had just been released. 

His words took me by surprise and I sat on the floor, my legs giving in. Instinctively, I covered my face with my hands. Tears began to fall in between my fingers and down my face. Why had he done this? 

He sat on the floor next to me and embraced me. I could feel his arms around my body, and the steady rhythm of his breathing as he held me.

“I’m sorry.” He said again.

“Fuck you!” I said from behind my hands, a mix of anger and sadness rising like a wave in my mind.

“I deserve that.”

“You will never leave your wife or your family.”

“I …. I don’t know.” 

“Fuck you!” I said again. My heart pounding like a rabid animal in a cage. I wanted to beat him, to feel my fists hitting the flesh of his body. 

“I’ve fallen in love with you. I know I’m not supposed to even say that but….” he began.

That was when I punched him right in the face. The force of it making him fall flat on the carpet of the hotel room. 

“What are we going to do?” he said after a few minutes, as he slowly raised his torso from the floor. A bright red mark appearing on his left cheek.

It’s spring and the Jacaranda trees are in full bloom. As I walk to the hotel I step on delicate purple petals littering the sidewalk. Their beauty fleeting, just enough to make you hopeful. Only to then fall to the ground with the next rain, to be trampled and ground to nothingness. 

“This is my favorite season.” He tells me, looking out the window at the purple blooms down below. Turning towards me he smiles. I could see that he is happy to see me. 

“For you.” I say and hand him a flower that I had picked up on the way.

He chuckles and kisses me on the mouth. As I walk closer to him, I smell his aftershave; subtle and intoxicating at the same time. He embraces me tenderly; I feel the pressure of his arms around me. I feel safe. But I also feel trapped.

Since the day I punched him, our routine had changed. We now meet twice a week. Thursdays at midday and on Tuesdays in the evening. 

“I feel at peace with you.” He says to me. I nod my head silently. 

     When we make love afterwards I feel his body respond to me differently than before. His pleasure more intense, the release more enjoyable. Once we are done he spends more time with me before he starts to dress. Languid, he takes time to embrace my naked body. And I in turn have begun to let him see me naked as I sit in the arm chair while he dresses. He smiles as he watches me take him in with my eyes. 

“Turned on enough?” He asks.

“Hmmmmmm….” I say softly.

       When he is ready to leave, he kisses me on the forehead. He picks up the flower from the table next to the armchair and puts it inside his jacket pocket. 

I smile because my heart fills with tenderness for him. As I watch him close the door, I contend with that now familiar feeling; of feeling safe and of feeling trapped. 

Maybe there’s a way out from this routine for me. From the conflict of my emotions. The tug of familiarity, the comfort of his physical presence and the promise of a future. Equally strong; the burden of my conscience, the fear of judgement and the knowledge that I live in a borrowed dream. 

       As I pick up my clothes from the floor near the arm chair, I cannot help the sadness that fills my heart. The absence of him, the coldness of the silence in the room and the now slow movements of the minute hand on my watch making me feel hopeless.

       I take a deep breath. Maybe next Tuesday I will tell him it’s all over. There’s no more us. That I cannot continue to live in a borrowed dream.

     When I come out of the shower, I shiver from the sudden blast of cold air in the room. I grab a dry towel from the rack in the bathroom and pick up my phone. There’s a message from him. It’s a photo. The wide boulevard framing him, the burst of purple in the top half of the picture. A smile on his face. For a moment, I wonder about the significance of the image. That’s when I see the purple blur peeking from behind his jacket pocket. I thought he had forgotten the flower. It makes me smile. This gesture of his. Its tenderness catches me unawares. 

I type a message to him. “I always feel hopeful when the Jacaranda blooms.”

He replies immediately. “I love you.”

       And that feeling, like a nagging itch bothers me again. Safe and trapped. I shake my head to dissipate the uneasiness that I feel. The canopy of Jacaranda covers my view of the street below as I look down from the window. I slowly dress myself and arrange my hair before I open the door of the room. It’s bitter-sweet and I know I’m living on the precipice of something dangerous. As the lock shuts behind me with a click and I stand in the carpeted hallway; the line of closed doors makes me feel suddenly alone.  Then the realization that I will meet him again next Tuesday comes naturally to my mind. Same as usual.

The Seedlings

They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds. - Mexican proverb.

Arun

He still remembers crouching behind the sofa, his hands shaking as he listened to the voices of the strange men that had come to their house. He was in a pair of shorts and a cotton t-shirt, a faded image of Superman that he liked to place his hand on as he fell asleep. Arun had wanted to wear one of his brother’s instead but his mother insisted. He also remembers his mother pleading, her sobs intersecting coherent words. There was only coldness in the voices of the men who spoke. Finally, he decided to peek, conjuring up courage to see what was happening. That was when he saw his brother for the last time. Krishna had stood tall and defiant as he was asked to go with the men to the police station. The men who were standing under the dim light of the porch looked ominous, their faces barely human in the shadows. But, there was one figure among them that would haunt Arun for the rest of his life. At first he was unsure of what he was seeing. The figure did not seem to have a face and instead all he could see was a featureless brown mass. It made the hairs on his arm stand on end. The boogeyman; the faceless, featureless monster of his nightmares. And before his young mind could understand anymore he heard the creature talk, a simple yes. Between the screams and shouts of his parents, his brother was dragged away, his skinny brown body flexing as he struggled to free himself from the clutches of the men. All Arun could do was to lie on the floor and curl himself up into a ball, his six-year-old mind trying to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

It was only years later that he found out that the boogeyman he saw that night was real and not a figment of his childhood imagination. Unlike the creature of his nightmares, this bogeyman was tortured and coerced into giving up names and nodding yes to identify his comrades. Arun also found out that these young men were made to wear a gunny sack on their faces to help them be anonymous, with just two holes for their eyes to see the unsuspecting victim. This was the bogeyman that walked silently through the Wednesday market on the main street of the village or through the muddy tracks of the town fair grounds, his mere presence cutting a pathway through the crowds, a miracle of sorts. Looking back, he remembers that it was indeed a strange time. A time of horror and bloodshed that had become part of everyday life; bodies burning on a funeral pyre of burning tires, the smell of burning flesh and rubber floating through the air as children walked to school, neatly placed decapitated heads around a pond of lotus blooms. An adult now, he still remembers the fear that was constant and running through his veins, the uncanny feeling of nights where the lights were extinguished on the whim of a group of men.

Not even fiction nor imagination could make up the strange disconnectedness of those times.

Krishna

His body now lay under layers of soil, leaves, branches and debris. He was now one among seventeen. Not a sign left of the blood, the pain or the fear that gripped those young men as they waited for death. Not a sign was left of the rush of adrenalin and mad frenzy of the men who stood, their hands shaking as they prepared to shoot the men in front of them, some not much younger than themselves. Not a sign. All that was left was the memory of the earth that bore the bodies of the seventeen young men, their flesh and bones becoming a part of the soil that wrapped them, their essence mingling with that of the soil around them.

They were the remnants of that strange time, stranger than the strangest of fiction. They were the proof that would not go away.

And they bided their time.

Arun

He smiles now as he sees the wall of his bedroom. Time stands still as he looks at the layers of photographs covering the wall next to his bed. Even after all these years his parents had not removed them from the wall, leaving them to yellow and age unmolested. A part of him wishes they had erased all traces of his lonely adolescence, but another small part of his heart was grateful they had not. Arun sat on the bed and faced the wall, looking carefully at the collage of randomly placed photos. He was looking for something. It was a photo of a young girl. Gently, he started to lift and move the photos, discovering layers underneath; a chronicle of his obsession.

In those days, he had been searching. Searching for the brother he had lost. Fueled by the deep shadows under his mother’s eyes and her unrelenting hope that Krishna would return, Arun had started taking photos of crowds. His own fragile hope that Krishna’s face would magically appear in a photo, changed but recognizable, and his parents finally exhaling that breath they had been holding for years thereby freeing him to breath on his own. But before his mind was consumed by his search, there had been a photo. It was of a young girl, not more than twelve years old, her hair lighting up in the afternoon sun, her eyes crinkling as she smiled for him. The girl next door who had been his friend through the years his parents searched frantically for their firstborn, an unlikely refuge from his own sadness and loss. When he had felt like a ghost, his parents looking right through him their own grief overwhelming their senses, it was Indira who had helped him feel like he was not a mere figment of his own imagination.

He still remembers taking the photo. The camera had been a gift from his uncle for his birthday, an expensive gift for a boy his age. His parents were stunned into silence as he was presented the camera, his uncle refusing to listen to their arguments about the expensive hobby. It was he who had provided Arun with the money when he needed to buy film or when he wanted to get the photos processed. It had been his uncle’s way of helping the teenager who was visibly suffering from the effects of his brother’s disappearance. The camera in turn had given Arun a means of contributing to the search. But more importantly it had given him a space to be himself, removed from his parents overwhelming sadness.

When he finally found the photo, it showed signs of being forgotten; the edges were bent and the color washed out. Yet, there she was, her smile somehow shining through the years. Arun smiled as he walked out to the living room of his parent’s house. Everything looked just as he had remembered as a teenager, the only difference being the flat-screen TV that he had bought for them when the old one had given out.

“Hey, I found it!” he said cheerfully as he held up the photo. His parents smiled and the young woman sitting on the couch with them turned around. She was blushing as she walked towards him, taking the photo in her hand.

“Oh geeze!” She said as she stared at her much younger self, the awkward grin and crinkly eyes of the young girl smiling in the photo.

“What do you mean? I took great photos even back then……your photo was one of my first.” He said taking it from her hand. She rolled her eyes comically and stuck her tongue out.

Arun wanted to kiss her then but, he resisted remembering that his parents were in the living room with them. Although he no longer lived in the same house and owned a small thriving business of his own there was still conventions he had to follow.

“She looks even prettier now.” Said his mother, smiling at the young woman standing next to him.

“Thank you, Auntie!” Indira said grinning, a slightly more adult version of her smile on the photo.

For the first time in his adult life Arun could feel things falling into place. Meeting Indira had been the catalyst; their chance encounter at a mutual friend’s birthday and their almost instant recognition of each other had rekindled his teenage affection for her. And to his surprise she had been the first to confess her feelings to him. And over the course of the year that they had known each other he could glimpse into the years in between her family moving away and their reunion, to the woman that she had become, shedding away features of the young girl he had known to becoming the woman he would fall in love with.

“Do you still think of Krishna?” She had asked him, only a month after they had met. Her boldness had taken him by surprise and he hesitated to find an answer.

“Yes……. I still do.” He had finally answered.

She had touched his arm gently, her face conveying that she had already known the answer.

“He will always be a part of your life.”

Arun nodded his head in agreement. Even though he had decided to stop his obsession of finding his brother, there was still times he would find himself scanning a crowd, his heart leapfrogging as he waited for a moment of recognition. He would then check himself, berating his own naivety. His own child-like hope of seeing Krishna again never giving him a chance to completely find his peace.

“You just need to accept that truth. It might help you move on.” Indira had said.

“I have moved on……” He protested.

She simply nodded in disagreement. At that moment, he had felt found-out as if she had invaded a deep private part of him without his permission.

Krishna

The hillside where the young men lay, the grave’s existence long forgotten had become a site for the expansion of the village temple. It had always been part of the land of the temple but for as long as anyone could remember it had been left to its own devices, the trees and the undergrowth running their roots ever deeper as the decades passed. Long forgotten, the land had been able to keep its secrets secure. But It was one of the men weeding the undergrowth that had hit a human skull, cracking it with the strength of the blow of the shovel. He had been trying to root out a large Castor tree that had grown unheeded, its roots running deep into the rich ochre soil. It was hard work in the mid-day sun, sweat pouring from the sides of his temples, he had been getting frustrated but once he realized what he had accidentally struck his expression changed to that of fear. There had always been rumors, spoken in the safety of one’s home, among family. Like many who lived through those strange years of the country’s history the man too had learned to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to what he saw and heard around him. Everyone was complicit, even though many were not ever aware of their complicity. Caught between the government and the insurgents, ordinary people like Mahinda had no other option but to remain silent and hope that their sin of complicity would never be found out. That the horrors that he had witnessed and ignored would not visit him or his children in the future.

Quickly he squatted next to the skull, and started to move away the soil, much more gently this time. Once he was completely sure that he was looking at human remains he looked around him, as if he had been found out with his own secret. He placed his hand on his forehead and wondered what he should do. Around him the other men were busy, their arms and legs moving in coordinated movements as they cut through the thick undergrowth beneath the Rubber and Teak trees. They seemed to be unaware of his discovery. After a few minutes Mahinda decided to call out to the man working closest to him.

“What is it?” The man asked, his dark black hair matted with sweat.

“Come and look.” Mahinda said, almost hissing his words as he attempted to not alert the other men.

Jagath walked towards him, his curiosity now aroused by the expression and urgency shown by Mahinda. There had always been talk about the fact that the temple grounds held a hidden treasure left there by one of the noblemen of the village as he fled the advances of the bedraggled British army making their way to Kandy. Those had also been times of complicity and violence, each aristocrat vying for a foothold in a country that was about to become a British colony.

“What is it?” he asked again, this time his voice almost a whisper as he looked at the earth that had been cleared by the other man.

“It’s a skull.” Mahinda said, his eyes bulging as he said the words.

“What?” Jagath said in disbelief, his daydreams of hidden treasure dissipating into the humid air.

“Look…….” Mahinda said and pointed at the white bone emerging from the ochre earth, one empty eye socket staring into nothing.

That was when Jagath looked with alarm at the man next to him. He too was reminded of the stories that the empty land had been used as a sight for a mass grave during the insurgency. It had been 1987 and he had been a seventeen-year-old and like many young boys his age he was aware of the sentiments of rebellion and violence that was surging through the country. He knew that his parents had been fearful for his life, that he would become yet another statistic, one among many who had disappeared during that time. He had survived, mainly due to the machinations of his mother who had sent him to stay with a distant relative in Colombo, hoping that the life in the city would ensure that he would stay away from the company of the young men who had organized themselves in the village. He had left the village early one morning, catching the train from Kandy to Colombo, leaving behind his family and his friends, wearing what he thought was his cowardice as close to the ground as possible. When he returned to the village almost five years later, he had been thankful to his mother who he realized had saved his life. Some of the young boys he had grown up with had not survived that strange time, their bodies either burnt in pyres or buried without a trace.

“We have to tell the head priest of the temple and we shouldn’t do anything more. This is no longer our business.” He said to Mahinda.

“Whatever you say……let’s go then.”

The two men started walked briskly on the narrow cleared path through the undergrowth back to where the temple premises began. They quickly removed their worn rubber slippers and started walking barefoot over the thick white sand that covered most of the grounds. The sun had heated up the shiny crystals and it was almost unbearable to walk. The two men skipped over the heated sand, their soles burning at every touch and when they finally arrived at the building that housed the rooms where the monks lived, they sighed in relief as they stepped on the cool ochre earth. A young monk was sweeping the veranda. He looked up at the sound of the men panting.

“Yes?” He asked calmly.

“We need to speak to the head monk please……. it’s something important.”

“Is someone injured?” the monk asked, the broom motionless in his hands.

“No……. but this is important……please.” Mahinda said, speaking between great gulps of breath.

When the chief monk of the temple finally came out to meet the men, they were calmer, the initial rush of adrenalin had died down and they were now left with anxiety. The gravity of what they had discovered sinking in, both men stood silent, each contemplating the implications.

“Reverend, you must come……. I……we found a human skull.” Mahinda spoke as soon as he saw the monk appear at the doorway.

The monk, an elderly man who stood taller than both Jagath and Mahinda, took a deep breath. There was an expression of acceptance, as if the news that the two men just gave him was somehow a confirmation of his own deep seated worries. He simply nodded his head and started walking towards the edge of the temple grounds. Jagath and Mahinda followed behind him, their footsteps stumbling as they tried to keep pace with the stride of the taller man.

Arun

He had been at his favorite kottu shop when he saw the news broadcast, the images of the unearthed mass grave flashing on the TV screen mounted on the limited space of the wall facing him. It was a small shop; an oddity that provided both food and a random selection of groceries. He would drop in after work for a cheap cup of sweet cardamom tea and a couple of spicy vadai’s before heading to the annex he rented, the spiciness of the food complementing with the hot sweetness of the tea. It was a perfect way to end his work day. As he watched the images on the screen, something inside him stirred, an instinct. The first thought in his mind was Krishna. He stood up and walked closer to the TV. The loud chatter of the customers and the constant clanging of the metal blades hitting the metal hotplate as it chopped and mixed the pieces of roti, vegetables and meat that became the kottu to be served, assaulted his ears as he tried to listen to what was being said on the news. He felt frustrated as he failed to discern anything being said on the TV. Arun, walked out onto the pavement and called his parents. It was his mother who picked up and instinctively he knew that his mother that had already seen the news. She had been crying.

“Did you see…….”

“Yes.” She said immediately.

“I’m out and I couldn’t hear anything that was being said on the TV……this place too noisy.”

“The grave is in Kandy……. for now, they have only uncovered five skeletons but they think there’s more….” She continued, her voice becoming shaky as she spoke.

“Amma……” Arun said, his heartbreaking as he knew that his mother was enduring the loss of her eldest once more.

“I’m okay. If you can come home…….”

“Yes, I’m on my way.” Arun said.

As he hailed a tuk tuk from the busy street, he sighed deeply. The traffic was heavy on the Galle Road, and as the vehicle wiggled its way through cars and honking busses carving out the fastest route to his destination, Arun could not dispel the thought that his brother’s body was in that grave. Maybe this time around his family could find a means to move on, to find an existence that did not revolve around loss. For once he admitted the sense of relief he felt at the thought but, it was soon followed by the guilt that came inevitably in its wake. How could his thoughts be so selfish?

Krishna

As the chief monk of the temple started walking past the workers to the clearing where the skull was found, there was a deafening silence as everyone stopped their work and wondered what had happened.

“It’s here Reverend……” Mahinda walked ahead, and pointed at the root of the Castor tree that he had been digging out.

Immediately the monk bent down, his ochre robes touching the soil as he looked closely at what had emerged from the ground. By now the rest of the laborers were standing in a circle around the monk, with Mahinda and Jagath in the front row. There was an air of anticipation as they watched and waited for the monk to make a declaration.  And when he finally cleared his throat, there was a hush as everyone expected him to talk. Instead the monk simply stood up and looked around.

“Listen, there’s nothing more to see here……it’s not some macabre show. There’s human remains here and no matter who it is we have to show respect to the dead.” He said touching his forehead as he spoke.

“Do you think it’s from the times of the kings………maybe buried treasure.” One of the men quipped.

At that the monk looked angry as he scanned the faces of the men to see who had spoken. He took a deep breath.

“No…. it’s not from the times of the ancient kings and I doubt there’s any treasure here. Those are all legends told by our old folk, there’s hardly any proof to their stories. But, ……. what you see here is the remains of the times we live in, the horrors that we have all witnessed in this country. It’s a from a time when there was hardly any rule of law and violence and fear was the norm. So, don’t you dare disturb anything here………it’s out of our hands now.”

“But…….” Jagath said.

“I’m going to inform the police……. it’s their job now……. it’s their macabre job to figure out what exactly happened here.” At that the monk started walking back to the temple. The men moved out of his path respectfully, but as soon as he walked passed they started talking among themselves, their mingled whispers sounding like insects buzzing in the distance. While the other men talked among themselves, Jagath kneeled beside the skull. He touched its surface almost tenderly, imagining it belonging to a human being, a being made of flesh and blood. He thought about the young boys that he had known in his youth, those he left behind as he sat on that train one chilly morning thus, changing his fate. His vision started to blur as he felt a heavy burden fall upon him. And he could not stop the tears of loss; they were tears for an entire generation of youth whose frustrations and dreams had become the weapon for a few who craved power, and they were also tears for his own youth forever tinged by his sense of guilt at being alive to see the future.

Christmas Fireworks

From the window of the top floor apartment the city lights in the distance seemed to shimmer and stretched forever. On the highway that twisted by the looming apartment building, a never ending stream of cars. And at random moments the sky above the city bloomed with fireworks. People were celebrating in the city. It was only a week before Christmas, and inside the ample living-room of the apartment the consecutive rounds of tequila were starting to take its effect on the guests. The laugher and talk were at a fever pitch. By now people had already formed their cliques; their mini-tribes for the purpose of the evening. At times it seemed as if they were competing for space in the room, each speaking or laughing louder than the other. The cold breeze that came in through the open window did very little lighten the combined smells of perfume, food and alcohol.

Arundati smiled back at her husband as he waved at her from a small group of people at the far end of the room. She had made herself comfortable in the love seat next to the large tree covered in shiny baubles and fairy lights. No one it seemed wanted to be close to the Christmas tree. For her it felt like a bright refuge, the light  providing her with a way to hide in plain sight. She had already done her round of introductions and had nodded and smiled at the fact that she did not speak much Spanish. And now she was happy to watch her husband laughing and smiling; his grin wider and his jokes funnier in his own language. He was comfortable and she had learned to find her own comfort in seeing him in his own element.

There was always someone in parties like this who would want to speak with her in English, a hint of an American accent peeping through as they asked about her country. “So you speak Hindi?” They would ask smiling, finally finding something they could related to in the foreign woman they were making conversation with. She always felt a tinge of sadness as she eventually disappointed them with her lack of knowledge of that language with her brief practiced explanation that people did not speak Hindi in Sri Lanka. But of course, she had seen countless Bollywood movies and she could tell you plenty about her appreciation of the formulaic beauty of that cinema.

She loved her husband; there was no doubt theirs was a happy marriage. The fact that neither of them had ever felt a strong allegiance to their countries and cultures had helped them find a common ground in their marriage. Their common rootlessness had helped them find their grounding in their bond with each other.

Arundati had always prided herself in her chameleon abilities; blending in when she needed to, hiding in plain sight. But what she sometimes did not admit even to herself was that there were moments of loneliness; moments that reminded her that maybe she didn’t always do a good job of blending. That indeed, people did see her despite her best efforts.

“Are you okay?” Her husband walked towards her and asked. She could see the familiar look of concern in his eyes, almost apologetic for speaking in Spanish.

“Yes.” She smiled widely.

“Do you need anything? I’m sorry you are not getting to participate too much.”

“I’m enjoying myself. Don’t worry about me.”

“Are you sure?” He asked again as he glanced back at the group that he was with before.

“I’m fine.” She kissed him on the cheek. As he walked back to the animated talk in the group she started looking around the room. Was there anyone else like her? There were always outsiders in a party irrespective of language; someone who didn’t completely belong.

Sitting close to the window was one of the newcomers to the group. Arundati had already been introduced to him. Rohan; his name had stood out like a marker.

She had noticed the look of relief in his face when he realized she spoke as little Spanish as he did. A not-so-secret fraternity of language-aliens. And when she said her name his face lighted up.

“No, I’m not Indian. Sri Lankan…..close enough right?” She had laughed. The flash of disappointment on his face was not lost on her.

“Yes.” He had smiled exaggeratedly.

She had watched him moving across the room walking from group to group, his laugh louder than it needed to be, his friendliness spreading thicker than it was needed.  He was trying to make friends. At one point she heard someone openly making fun of his accent, emphasizing the roll of the “r”s. She waited to hear some protest from him but there was only his loud laughter.

There was always loss in blending in.

Rohan was now holding a bottle of beer in his hand and the expression on his face resembled defeat. Had he finally decided he could not find a space among the groups of people at the party; the circles they were standing in too close that he could not get a foothold? She felt an urge to walk up to him and strike a conversation but she hesitated. Should she risk being exposed? Her place next to the tree suddenly feeling comfortable.

Arundati instead looked beyond him to the city skyline; the monstrous spread that was Mexico City. A city that she now called home, a far reach from where she had grown up in. She was grateful for the days she felt she belonged, but she also knew the sense of smallness she felt; the city around her overwhelming and enveloping.  A giant succubus that feasts on the spirit of millions of migrants for its own lifeblood.

Once again there were fireworks lighting up the sky. Now they seemed small and lonely; acts of rebellion of individuals declaring their presence on the canvas of the hazy night sky. And as she moved her gaze away she instead caught the eyes of the man sitting next to the window. But this time she felt a jolt of electricity in her body. It was recognition. She was exposed; her loneliness, her vulnerability and her alien-ness. And in his gaze she saw who she was. She was the outsider.

He smiled weakly at her. She instinctively touched the soft protrusion of her belly. Will the life within her be treated with kindness- this complicated mix of races- Sri Lankan, Dominican and Mexican? Or will she lose herself in her otherness? Forever an alien, never finding that foothold.

By now the other guests had started to notice the fireworks, gathering closer to the window. She could no longer see Rohan who was engulfed in the newly formed group. But it also meant that she could no longer see beyond the window. Her husband was walking towards her again. He was smiling.

“Wanna go see the fireworks?” he said.

“Sure” She stood up carefully, feeling vulnerable. She was about to be exposed again.

Arundati touched her belly. Would this new soul within her do better at finding her place than her mother? In the least would she know when she was exposed as an imposter, a chameleon? Or would she be one of the brave lighting up the sky with fire even if it was for a brief moment in time?

As she got closer to the group she saw Rohan. He was smiling again, his confidence regained. And in that moment he was blending in; once again part of a group. He caught her eyes  and she realized that he could no longer see her. She too had once again camouflaged herself, a shape-shifting survivor.

By the time she could see outside the window to the skyline the fireworks had stopped. The crowd had already moved on, their interest satiated. And she looked out into the shimmering darkness and felt loss. She understood that rebellions and individuals could not last forever. That was a happy dream that would never come true.

Her husband was calling her name. Dinner was ready and the food was being served.

At that moment Arundati made a wish for her child. She hoped that her child would not be born a dreamer. But as she was turning around to walk back, she saw blooms of fire lighting up the sky again. And she sighed deeply knowing that this time her wish would not be granted. Maybe there could still be room for dreamers. Maybe the world would still leave space for the aliens, the outsiders, and the chameleons.