Creative Writing

Short Story: Aloy JayaUntil death do us part...weera

They say he is not like me.... then why does he look like me?’

I visit Leela every evening. Her mother opens the door very softly and lets me in, I know she has been waiting for me. Her eyes filled with fear, restless and uncertain a silent plea, ‘You are the only hope, the link, the bridge that connects us to our child...’

They know there is this wall, this barrier they cannot penetrate, they can’t reach out, can’t talk anything ‘meaningful, a thick layer of ice that’ll take long to thaw...guilt; hurt, remorse, helpless and desperate they wait for me.

They depend solely on me for bringing Leela back to them back to normalcy. What a task? Like spinning straw in to gold, yet I try hard for the sake of Leela, my dear friend from childhood, for her parents too who loved Leela and were beset with anxiety.

Leela has been in a trance for over two weeks in a sort of coma where liquids have been administered through tubes and needles, she’s sailing back reluctantly still dazed.

The mother doesn’t speak, only whispers and gestures as if frightened to dispel the frightful silence that pervades the large house. The stillness is eerie, nobody speaks loud in this house anymore.

Leela’s mother takes me to the pantry, busies herself with a tray setting it with dainty dishes of food, a glass of milk then hands it over to me pleadingly, ‘try to feed this to her she hasn’t taken anything today.’

Whispered tones

I turn the door handle cautiously. It is not bolted. Tip toe into Leela’s room. My mother accompanies me on these visits most of the time but sits outside talking in whispered tones to Leela’s mother.

The curtains are drawn and in the dim light I see Leela at her window or lying or seated on the bed gazing vacantly. Not seeing anything, an abject woman, unable to trace or track her way. Her head moving quietly from one side to the other; stops and gapes seeing or recognizing nothing, biting her thumb and peering into thin air wringing her arms desperately.

Her pain-tormented eyes rest on me, look away. The face that is haunted and shrunk with pain turns to me again, her mouth drops open. There is a glint of recognition in her eyes, she motions me to her, then gestures me to stay back then staring hard at me breaks into sobs. I go to her, touch her on the shoulder the sobs increase, she weeps.

Then exhausted leans on my shoulder. I can’t find words to say, I just hold her tight and am in tears myself. I must pull her back. I must. It will take a very long time but I have to. I coax her to take a sip of the milk, crying, she looks into my eyes, relents and takes a small sip as if not liking to see me in tears.

Leela and I were ‘only child’ to both our parents, the two of us had many things in common, differences as well. We were both the same age. We live in the same locality. Were classmates from Montessori to Adv. Level. We left school together. Neither of us went for Higher Studies. Notably, we were very good friends, thick. Inseparable. Lots of coincidences we began working around the same time.

We grew up together....

The differences were striking. Leela was petite, long haired, dusky, doe eyed. It was plain real plain only very fair, the “girl next-door’ type. Leela looked very attractive even in plain clothes. Whereas I look plain and drab in the best clothes. It’s not that I envy her I couldn’t if I tried. I admired her. She was nice to be with. She never thought me plain, each of us on our own plane growing up, depending on and relating to each other since childhood. I was always flattered with her company. Whenever, wherever we were people saw Leela before even noticing me. I could never be centre stage, I didn’t miss it at all.

Being Leela’s friend was reward enough for simple looking me. Now there were these differences too. She used to travel to school by car, chauffer driven when her father or mother was not driving. I travelled on the bar of my father’s bicycle, on his way to school. He was an English teacher in the Central school in town. Leela’s father was a leading lawyer, went to courts in the morning in black coat and tie, polished shoes which went ‘tock tock tocking’ on their polished floors. My father pedalled his bike to school in shirt and trousers, sandals or pumps.

They lived in a two storeyed house with a box hedged garden with trimmed cypress and roses, a gardener mowing the lawn and watering away all the time.

Ours was a three bed roomed house with a small half walled garden in front and behind which my mother solely tended.

Two little girls

We attained age around the same time. First Leela was kept in a closed room, where I visited her and a week later when Leela came out I was confined to my room, my mother said something about it being contagious and would spread to seven homes. We wore the same auspicious colour. White.... after our ‘grown up’ both. We grew out of ‘baby talk’ got on to Enid Blyton’s, ‘teenage secrets’ bras and pads, to ‘adult stories’ jobs gossip and romantic tales.

We shared our snacks at school. Leela liked my mother’s cooking and ate with relish the bread with seeni sambola, kiribath and lunumiris. I took preferring them to the thin sliced cheese and egg sandwithces she brought with the crusts neatly cut or toast with marmalade.

We hopped into each others homes for tea, birthday parties, lunches, for lessons, later to discuss clothes, plan shopping sprees and whatnot.

Mrs. Zilva came to Leela’s to stitch clothes going into the minutest detail.

My mother, poor soul wanted me to look grand too and sat at her machine trying to turn out similar dresses for me but they were not a patch on Mrs. Zilva’s handiwork. This didn’t matter to me at all because for one thing whatever I wore I couldn’t hold a candle to Leela.

Though I was plain Leela never noticed. She was an endearing sensitive friend, more a sister. We were very comfy with each other. Like in films in real life too. The good looking hero or heroine always has a confidant who is not blessed with any looks as such but is whole-heartedly a devoted friend of the gorgeous one, each needing the other. A foil I didn’t mind being. Ours was such a relationship.

We both got jobs in the same Air Line office Leela’s was guest relations, I was a secretary. Off to work we went bussing it most times.

It all happened there... Leela met tall dark handsome Lal, educated in a leading school in the city and working as an executive in a glass fronted room for himself in our office, with a secretary and all. He was just the guy for lovely Leela. Would she be loyal? Ask me about her loyalties.... Leela always stuck to me though I was lesser than her lookswise socially and financially. There were lots of girls throughout in school who came from similar social backgrounds as Leela but Leela opted for me with no fuss nor strain. I knew how attachments were with her. She would cling to loyalties not lose grip. positive, I had no doubts.

Easy going

But the hitch was... Leela’s parents, couldn’t even think of it. Threw a ‘ruddy fit.’ Their grouse was that Lal’s parents were different to them not ‘English speaking’. Not of the same ‘class’, they were dead against the whole thing. Lal spoke English fluently but didn’t pronounce certain words the way Leela’s parents did. He had a problem with the ‘o’ sounds... boat for bought.... Hortel for hotel.... hostel. boy the ‘o’ was not sounded enough or got mixed up as they say. So hall was hole with him. This however fascinated Leela, soon she was talking like Lal, said she liked it. We in office didn’t bother to notice such things as Lal was so easy going and friendly with all of us. He modestly admitted that he came from a rural background, ‘I am a game ‘kolla’, he said in his sprightly, jovial manner.

Leela’s parents cringed, grumbled about ‘godayas’ and the social rift. Said he was different to them; dismissed the mere idea as ‘bullshit’. It was a cold war at first between the child and her parents.

‘How can we face our relations and friends,’ that was their biggest problem. Not heard of in our circles, that Gordon’s wife Clara should only get to know, she’ll laugh her sides out’. ‘let her,’ pouted Leela. (Gordon’s wife Clara is Leela’s father’s elder sister who had an engineer son, with an eye for Leela.

They ignored it at the start but when Leela started to come home late from work every evening and sulked in her room hanging on to her mobile phone, till late at night, thing went off hand.

The warm relationship between child and parent changed drastically. Turned Hostile. A gloom passed over, everyone was moody, on edge all the time. Leela turned into a cat snapping at her parents. The quarrels and arguments that insued were unbelievable. Leela was now some one else. What changes ‘love’ can cause in a person.... having never being in love myself. I found it difficult to fathom.

‘Tailor made,’ match

Leela showed me what an overpowering emotion love was. Leela fought and fought at home, they hurt themselves with words, they swore at each other. A battle of wills, turbulent, they were hurt and retreated to corners to nurse their hurts. I was in a dilemma not knowing which side to defend. Leela was my friend, I saw nothing wrong with Lal, I couldn’t let her down, but her parents too had a point, their dreams of a ‘tailor made,’ match for Leela, in fact Leela’s mother approached me with the intention of getting me to reason out things with Leela, knowing that I was close to her.

All the world loves a lover. This was the set up in office we were all thrilled with the Lal - Leela affair. It made everyone jolly. Everyone talked about it, even the older crowd quipped in supportively reminiscing their own romances of yesteryear and escapades leading to roaring laughter. Everyone was excited with it, admired it, supported it and contrary to Leela’s parents opinion felt they were well matched, and were waiting to see the fairy tale ending. When people love like this, rifts barriers even chasms could be overcome. They didn’t take the side of Leel’s mother when one morning she had marched into Lal’s office, and spoken severely to Lal, asking him to keep away from her daughter, ‘by good means,’ she had added and walked away. Lal had said nothing, had only smiled apologetically, his secretary spread it around office. Leela was furious with her mother, but everyone in office consoled her saying, all mothers are that. That evening Leela had kicked a big row at home threatening to leave home if they didn’t stop treating her like a child.

Lal’s people were rural, owned paddy land in the village. Lal’s father didn’t wear trousers, worked in his fields, his hair he wore in a tiny knot at the nape of his neck, a very soft spoken man, who smiled readily to make up for his little talk. Lal’s mother a simple dear woman who helped in the chores on the fields, couldn’t stop talking, brimmed about her son as maye putha, who was educated in a College in the big city’ or maye putha who was now employed in the big city’. no wonder! Lal was an only son with two sisters.

All of us in office once went to Lal’s village for his grandfather’s funeral. The Headman, who had lived up to a ripe old age, there we met his people. Leela was excited and thrilled to visit her in-laws to be.

Everyone from Colombo was enraptured by the charm of the countryside. Leela loved Lal more when she saw. The unspoilt homely surroundings that he came from. The cosy cool house with broad varendahs.

The village folks so eager to please the posh ones, standing in wait while we ate, Lal’s sister especially, ‘have some more akka, or aiya’ or ‘you are eating plain rice, why? and helping us to second services. Lal like a prince in his domain loved and respected by everyone, mixing freely with all his people kept introducing us to his parents, sisters, relations and neighbours who reciprocated and welcomed us obligingly. Shy feeling embarrassed all the same by our urban mannerisms. Their intimacy touched everyone of us. They are so simple, no pretensions like our people,’ Leela kept saying on our way back.

Lal came to office in crisp clothes smelling manly as ever on his mobike at the start we made a jolly threesome as they tagged me along on their trysts. Eventually I realized there was a crowd and kept away. Now Leela began to get about with Lal on his mobike and got dropped at home. She would dash into office the next day glowing, breathlessly excited to narrate what went on when I was not with them. We would both giggled like we did at school. Leela red with stifling laughter found it difficult to stop.

One morning Leela dragged me to the office entrance to await Lal and in he swooshed on his byke helmet goggles and all, Leela all eyes: said,’ remember our A/L literature sessions, ‘happy horse to bear the weight of Antony’ Leela quoted,...’ I now know how Cleopatra felt,’ Leela said pinching me mischievously....’ I envy his mobike...worser thoughts heavens mend, she added, ‘anyway I must take care, be patient, Lal’s mother will want to see the sheets Lal says.’

‘What madness,’ was Leela’s parents response to the whole affair. ‘How could our only child, our very eyes who we nurtured like a rose be so haphazard to our feelings. They were upset, sorry and angry and disgruntled, all the same time, class difference was their issue, and ‘connections’. Leela’s parents prided themselves with the feeling of being anglicized for generations.

Their friends, relations, associates were all connected to this English speaking class. It was a way of life for them, not something acquired recently for prestige. In their home even their servants ended up speaking English. It had just been so over the years dating back to the times when the British held sway. ‘My great grandfather worked along-side ‘white’ planters four generations ago.

A spinster

He was known as the first black planter’, I’ve heard Leela’s mother declare firmly. This was not a put on accomplishment. They were thus, and were conscious of it. Minded it in everything they did and when Leela fell for this “Village boy” it was hell on earth, their lips tightened and noses went up with “Oh no,!” contempt. And... there was this aunt of Leela’s mother living with them... she was a spinster, a result of not being able to find someone good enough when she was young. So, remained on the back.

She made a big hue and cry about lineage, pedigree. She had kept on pecking at Leela about Lal. Once at tea in company she had sniggered, “some people speak English in a rather ‘queer’ way,” and had looked slyly at Leela, Leela had glared and flared pounced, screaming, ‘you mean snob, am I to blame for you being unable to find a man? She had pounded the table with her fist rattling everything toppled her chair and dashed out. The ancient aunt flabbergasted dropped her cup of tea soiling the damask table cloth.

Leela was like rock she was not to be moved, shaken she had made up her mind. Decided. It was ‘Lal or noone else” she told me. The parents tried all sorts of tactics to distract Leela. The father even began taking her to work by car just to avoid her getting on the pillion of Lal’s bike.

“Why can’t they understand? I would rather die than give him up” she confided.

She had gone silent with her parents. Later, had tried to explain and when they didn’t listen, had argued and fought with a vengeance ending up with everyone crying.

After a while, the parents had relented. “After all it is her life. We shouldn’t stand in the way. Let her go ahead.” The father had half-heartedly consented. They had no alternative.

Leela was jubilant. Lal started visiting Leela at home in the evenings. The parents eventually took to his homely ways and friendly disposition. They overlooked the so-called insignificant ‘Not Pot” touches in his speech. Lost their prejudices, even spoke highly of him. Leela glowed, radiant came to work on Lal’s mobike.

Male relatives

The wedding was a big do - to be... I was the bridesmaid. Leela’s mother was up to her nose in getting the trousseau ready, monogrammed linen, softest lingerie, designers, seamstresses, menus.

The Bridal, Chantily lace, scalloped satin. Tulle, gold set in brilliants, silver, an amethyst set a family heirloom, gold mesh hand bag... ‘Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue’, hair styles, make up, the hotel, the cake, the lamp, decor hymn sheets, ‘A threefold cord is not quickly broke,’ ‘Oh perfect love,’ ‘Lal and Leela thank you for your presence and prayers... auspicious times. It was hectic a den of activity mutually settled Church wedding, banns to be published, followed by the Poruwa at the hotel.

‘The Ashtaka’, Magulbera, Jayamangala Gatha, cake and wine. The bride’s bouquet was special, Leela wanted fresh fronds of paddy from Lal’s fields interspersed with May Queen roses and Lal had brought a big sheaf of paddy and the two of them took it to the florist who had said ‘how romantic’ and received it with both arms ceremoniously, it sure is going to be a beautiful bouquet’, she had beamed. We sat up writing the ivory coloured gold printed cards in gold ink which were duly dispatched.

The homecoming was to Lal’s home. Grand preparations were being made for it and Leela was telling me that Lal’s father was very keen on putting up a ‘Polthorana’, at the entrance to their land a sign of rural grandeur festivity and prosperity, a massive structure for which about twenty-five trunks of arecanut trees would be cut down, along with numerous whole bunches of coconuts, branches of ‘gok kola’ to decorate it.

“Just one week for the wedding and so much to be don,” grumbled Leela’s mother.

Leela and I had to go for an early morning fit-on to the seamstress and just arrived in office when hell broke loose, a severe explosion, the building rattled, everyone was jolted, shaken, some of the office crowd rushed inside in a state of utter confusion. ‘A bomb... abomabomb abombabomb kept on reverberating in the air in the junction,junctionjunctionjunctionjunction was all that could be heard. AboMbAbombintheJjunctioninthe Jjunction. The TV was on the voice sprang out bland and clear, everyone stood stunned, Leela’s eyes wondered around, caught ours with an admonition not to speak, everyone listened intent, tense, rigid.... Then followed sirens... sirens, aiyooooooooooo appoiiiiiiiiiiiiiii wailing stampeding outside the office pandemonium... bloodiedmangledbodiespeople screamingbloodyied mangledbodies bodies mangled, screaming, yelling the police blowing whistles.... Leela rushed to the window, pulling me with her, ‘Lal Lal’, she muttered, ‘hasn’t come in yet,’.... she said. We waited and waited.

Bomb blast...

The sirens blew. The frenzied people ran berserk on the road there was a black cloud of smoke rising to the sky... Bomb blast... twenty people have succumbed to their injuries forty-five injured... ambulances, laments, screaming, rushed to hospitals, casualties, children on their way to school. Injured. Three cars blown up, two motor cyclists...riders thrown off. Bykes smashed riders thrown into the air... Utter chaos.. anguished wailing and shouting. All this was happenings at the junction about five hundred yards from our office. We could see the misery through our window, mute shocked,... We waited waited waited waitedwaitedwaited...

Our next visit to Lal’s village was miserable, everyone in the bus was dumb. I sat next to Leela. She clasped my wrist. Her nervousness was frightening, eyes swollen red. Seemed to look out of a well of horror. She went into spasms of shuddering and shivering, dozed off, wakes up with a start, wrings her hands desperately, shakes her head.... screams and wails. Go into fits of fainting.

Everything is mixed up in my mind. A jumble. Like a kaleidoscope merges and mingles, gets blurred a big muddle, I can’t sort out one from the other. Kaleidoscopic white flags lining both sides of the road with a photograph on them. Strands of white tissue fluttering in the breeze, like a bridal veil, a brides bouquet a shroud... the trousseau...a broad banner across the road.

What can I say, what can anyone say to console her. We tried our best to coax Leela not to travel in the office bus. She insisted she would go in it and not in their car. I knew the journey would be difficult for her in her frame of mind. But Leela wanted to go along with us.

On the window side corner of Leela’s seat was a big regifoam container. Leela would stare at it take it on to her lap and slowly open it. Unfold the white tissue paper which covered the contents the scent of roses waft around, daintily she takes out a bouquet of cream roses with ferns and gold paddy... Leela looks at it, a smile spread on her lips.... then it registers, the smile turns into a frightful stare. She drops her face on the bouquet and sobs...hysterically..

Lots of people everywhere in the garden. A sea of white flags, banners, fresh white sand.

Cool breezes in a distant corner of the garden the ‘Chithakaya, like a beautiful white monument, its cloth and tissue, flutter, ripples in the breeze, the structure of which has been constructed with trunks of arecanut trees, ‘Pol thorana’! Chithakaya,’? everyone stunned dazed dumb speechless.

A bridal car with funeral wreaths on it, a coffin within.... casket in the middle of the hall, a full blown man well clad, made to, laid to rest on folds of white satin, a bouquet of roses in his limp clasped hands at his chest, the flowers ferns and paddy fluttering in the wind of the rotating fan withering away spreading the scent of fading roses.