Ummath Read online

  Ummath

  A Novel of Community and Conflict

  Sharmila Seyyid

  Translated by Gita Subramanian

  Table of Contents

  Translator’s Note

  ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  TWO

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  THREE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  P.S. Insights Interviews & More...

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Translator’s Note

  When Kala Chuvadu publisher Kannan Sundaram asked me to see if I could translate Ummath, I was flattered. But I also had serious doubts. I had been told about the book by my friend and renowned writer Ambai. I knew it was written by a Sri Lankan Tamil Muslim woman and that Sri Lankan Tamil sounded quite different from the Tamil spoken in India. I have had a few Sri Lankan Tamil friends but while conversing with me they always adjusted their Tamil to make it easier for an Indian Tamil like me to understand them. Other than that, my experience of Sri Lankan Tamil has only been through Kamal Hassan’s portrayal of the title role in the film Thenali. How was I going to translate an entire novel written in that dialect? I had never read anything written by Sri Lankan writers in Tamil. But as soon as I started reading Ummath I found to my relief that only the conversations were in Sri Lankan or in Sri Lankan Muslim Tamil. The narration was in standard Tamil with a few interesting turns of phrase that gave it a local colour. I found even the Sri Lankan Tamil dialogues were easy to understand if I read them out aloud to myself. I agreed to translate the book.

  Through the years of the most intense phases of the Sri Lankan Civil War I had lived outside India, so my understanding of the play of political and communal forces behind the war was superficial at best. Translating this book was therefore a learning experience for me. As I came across stories of unbelievable atrocities in the course of translating the book, I would quickly do my own cursory research only to find them to be sickeningly true. All I had realized till then was that it was a fiercely fought war that lasted a long while and that atrocities were committed by both sides. With Sharmila Seyyid’s harrowing descriptions, the war came alive for me. For several weeks I was so totally immersed in that war that evenings with friends and conversations about day-to-day matters were difficult for me to get into. I had to make a conscious effort to shake off that distressing world and bring myself back to the real world of my life in Bangalore.

  Although set in Sri Lanka and during a particularly turbulent time, the book shows that the problems that women face are universal, whether in war or in peace. Of course war aggravates women’s condition everywhere. Sharmila’s voice is a fiercely feminist one and brings out the sufferings of women of the different communities of Sri Lanka. Through her two main protagonists, Thawakkul and Yoga, she brings out the problems of Tamil Muslim and Tamil Hindu women on the island. Through Thawakkul, the social worker who works tirelessly to ameliorate the condition of women badly scarred by the war, we learn about women of various strata of society and the stories of their misery.

  I really consider myself fortunate that I was given the opportunity to translate this work. But even more than that, the experience of getting to know this author through our long conversations on email and through her works, especially her beautiful, moving poems has been a rewarding one. Sharmila gave me all the help I needed, most unstintingly; she compiled a long list of all the proper names (and there are many) in this novel, so that I did not have to look up to see how Sri Lankans spell them in English. For example, when I started translating, I spelt the name of the district that one of the protagonists, Yoga, comes from as Mattakalappu – transliterating the Tamil word. Only after Sharmila sent me the list did I realize that in English it is called Batticaloa! Thank you, Sharmila, for all the help. As you say in your poem Siragu Mulaitha Penn, I do hope one day you will be able to go back to your people and they will indeed honour you and shower you with praise.

  I would like to thank HarperCollins for publishing this work. I would also like to thank Kannan Sundaram, the publisher of Kala Chuvadu, for his help and for entrusting me with this truly gratifying assignment. And as always, I would like to thank Ambai for her consistent encouragement and faith in my work. Thank you, Ambai.

  ONE

  (I worship) only Him

  Who created me, and He

  Will certainly guide me

  Al Qur’an Surat Az-Zukhruf (The Ornaments of Gold)

  43 Verse 27

  1

  ‘All your troubles are over, Akka! You have come to us!’

  Kala was overwhelmed with pity for her elder sister who stood with the aid of a crutch on her one leg. Kala firmly believed that it was fate that determined everyone’s actions and that everything in the world moved in accordance with predestined patterns. It was fate’s inexorable march that had changed the course of her Akka Yoga’s life. Her heart refused to find any fault with Yoga and refused to consider even for moment that some wrongdoing on Yoga’s part could have caused her present pitiable state.

  She kissed her sister on the cheek. Yoga smiled, her parched lips parting very slowly. Her face was dry and lacked animation. Her tired eyes, bereft of any radiance and brimming with tears, seemed to be struggling with the fear of uncertain times to come. Their noses red, the two sisters gazed at each other, struggling to reconcile each other’s present visage with the impression each had of the other imprinted on their minds a very long time ago when both had been very young…

  The camphor that was lit in the aarthi plate flickered with an unsteady flame. Kala circled the plate around, vertically, thrice in front of Yoga’s face. A strange trepidation filled her as thoughts of the likely consequences of her Akka’s arrival flitted through her mind.

  Meanwhile Pathma slowly carried in the bags that had been unloaded from the autorickshaw, barely noticing the loving welcome and the aarthi performed. Her hardened face betrayed no signs of emotion. Her prematurely aged body had lost its grace; the slightly bent back, emaciated body and wrinkled skin bore testimony to a life of hard work and poverty.

  Kala’s dusky, sharp-featured face exuded an unaccustomed luminescence. Her Akka’s arrival had brought her such inexpressible joy that she was in a state of frenzy like a chick let out of its coop. There was only a gap of four years between Yoga and Kala. All through the years of their separation, whenever Kala thought of her Akka, she would grieve for her absence and pray. She had never imagined such an unlikely event taking place; that she would actually get to see the sister who had been lost to her as a young girl.

  She helped Yoga as she struggled with her crutch to climb the steep step that led into the house. ‘Careful, Akka. You go in. I’ll be right back,’ and she dashed off.

  She ran past the well and went to the fence beyond it. Craning her neck to look over this barrier, she shouted, ‘Hey, Senbagam! Yoga Akka is here!’

  Despite her reservations about having her arrival announced to all and sundry, the dulcet sound of the name ‘Senbagam’ brought sweetness to Yoga’s heart.

  She sat on the cot and looked around the room. The breeze seemed to be gently probing every nook and corner of the room. Her gaze went past the room through the window. The front yard had a patch of ankle-deep fine sand in which rows of little plants had been planted and tended to very carefully. The saplings in the courtyar
d, each within a protective circle of fibrous coconut husks with their smooth side on the outside, and the few flowering plants in mud pots scattered tastefully along the fencing, served to enhance the beauty of nature in an artless and simple manner. Even more beautiful was the area around the well, with its banana trees, some of them so laden with fruit that they leaned precariously. Strong, makeshift trestles had been placed beneath these trees to prop them up.

  To Yoga, it felt like a whole other world. The stone house and the fencing around it were all new to her. All that she could remember was a clay-floored hut with a thatched roof. She noticed a chest-high fence of aesthetically woven palm-fronds encircling the house and the land around it. Green palm fronds had been unfurled with great care to ensure there were no rips and spread out to dry in the sun before being woven together. They looked like huge fans exquisitely arranged.

  She was, however, not surprised that there was a stone house in what had once been an open space. With the maturity gained over the years she had learnt to understand and gracefully accept the inevitable changes wrought by the passage of time. There were no straight paths anywhere in the world; all through one’s life, one has to walk through twisted, tortuous trails.

  She could neither accept nor deny the fact that she had returned to her birth place. Having imagined so many different outcomes and travelled through so many different places, she had arrived at the very spot that she had started from. Childhood memories tormented her. She recalled how she, Vathsala Akka, Kala and the three younger brothers would huddle together on the same thin mat and fall asleep.

  Wavy, dry hair bereft of any oil, dirty clothes, round face, hollow cheeks with no flesh in them, straight nose, round eyes that seemed to lack interest in anything but still smiled, a small forehead.

  Yoga weeds the fields with Amma; she gathers the sheaves of rice. Despite draining her congee to the dregs, scooping out the residue in the bowl with her fingers and sucking on them, and finally licking the bowl clean, she is still not sated. Amma raps her head with her knuckles; Yoga emerges from the bowl with a little congee sticking to the tip of her nose. Vathsala jeers at her, ‘Hey you! Look at your nose.’ Kala and the brothers laugh mockingly. Unwilling to relinquish any of her congee, Yoga rescues the drop on her nose with her finger and laps it up like it was ambrosia. When the torrential monsoons made food a scarcity, the luxury of such delicious congee was a rarity to be relished. Congee, essentially the salted broth of a fistful of soaked rice, was accompanied by a green chilli and a slice of onion, both raw. These added to tide of flavour upon one’s palate and the lip-smacking meal was ingested with great gusto and many appreciative sounds. Memories spread across her mind like water on glass.

  She had returned home exhausted, and up there on the wall was a picture of her late father with a flower garland strung over it. Despite herself, her lips trembled.

  ‘Appa, your daughter who couldn’t even come for your funeral, is here … Look at my plight, Appa. I’m a cripple, standing here with a crutch. Do you see me, Appa?’

  The last moments that she had spent with her Appa came back to her mind. With his face unshaven since a few months, his rough untrimmed beard covered his face. With an involuntary tic, his tired eyes, his sunken cheeks and his emaciated stick-like body, he had come to see her at the training camp. As soon as he saw his daughter with her thick luxuriant hair cropped and wearing a shirt and trousers, he beat his forehead with his palm. As it was a place that belonged to the rebel movement, he was unable to give full vent to his feelings; he sobbed quietly as if his hardened heart was about to burst with its suppressed feelings.

  ‘What have you done, child? It was for your protection that your mother left you in the house in town. How could you disappoint us all like this? Your Amma is wailing back at home, refusing food or water!’

  That was the day when she realized that her father could cry. But as soon as the word ‘Amma’ had been uttered, her whole being filled with rage. ‘Amma! Don’t talk to me about her … It’s because of her that I’m in this state today. Appa, tell her that I will go to the battle-front and hopefully die soon. Even if I die, I don’t ever want to go back home. A mother is someone who protects her child come what may. Isn’t that how it should be? And as for you, in what way are you a good man…Is what you did to me fair?’

  He felt as if heavy rain-bearing clouds were battering at his heart. He had always thought of her as a little girl. He was puzzled to see that she had learnt to talk like this. Every word of hers pricked him like a needle. Does she not realize that it was the family’s circumstances, reeling under insurmountable problems – when we could not manage anything – that Pathma took the decision and I went along with her? I never even imagined that it would lead to such disastrous consequences!

  As Yoga had voluntarily joined the freedom fighters, the unit had permitted Subramaniyam, her father, to visit her. Youngsters who had been conscripted were translocated swiftly and often. They would be trained in places that were far away from their home towns.

  Yoga came back to the present with a start and quickly wiped the tears from her eyes when Amma suddenly pushed open the door and entered. Though Amma had made an effort to wash off the grime and fatigue of the journey from her face, her face, still wet, looked sad and care-worn.

  ‘What are you doing here, child? This is Vathsala’s bedroom. Come away at once!’Pathma commanded bitterly, and hurried out.

  Yoga had realized in Vavuniya that Amma’s anger had in no way abated. She had written several letters home, earlier, during her stint in the Pampaimadu camp. When four letters went unanswered, she told herself that her folks must have moved to a new home because of the war. Why, there was also the strong possibility that they had all been killed!

  The answers to the question of what the next step in her life’s journey should be seemed to be totally obscured. The past had ebbed away swiftly and the present was baring its fangs in an ugly smile. Just when she had begun to think that the dark phase of her life was finally over and hope flickered for a better tomorrow, all possible doors leading to that utopia had slammed shut. No astrologer, political pundit or diviner could have foreseen such political upheavals that had changed the course of her life forever.

  When her series of letters home had elicited no reply, she became the object of everybody’s pity at the Pampaimadu Rehabilitation Centre. Therefore, when she asked the authorities at the Centre if she could stay on there, they agreed immediately.

  And then her fifth letter was answered.

  Akka, we had all imagined that you had died in the war. When we got your letter, we were overjoyed. We are very eager to come and see you, but we need money to travel to Vavuniya. If you could tell us exactly when they will release you, we’ll come to pick you up.Please don’t feel sad that we haven’t come to see you. Amma does not have money. But she will somehow make arrangements to come and get you. Have courage…

  Kala’s letter sowed new hope in her heart. She understood from the letter that the family was still as cursed by the scourge of poverty as it had been fifteen to twenty years ago. The thought wrung her heart. Although she had asked about her brothers and about Vathsala, her older sister, disappointingly, Kala had not mentioned them in her reply. Nevertheless, the thought of her mother coming to get her bolstered and boosted her morale immensely.

  The letter or two that she had written after that went answered. At long last, when she had written providing the date of her release from the camp, Kala had written to assure her that her mother would be there.

  Pathma arrived exactly on the date of her release from the Pampaimadu camp along with the parents and siblings of the other inmates. The families of the others who had been released embraced their loved ones and wept. They seemed to take pride in the evidence of the physical mutilation of their wards, perceiving them as symbols of the bravery and courage of these battle-scarred warriors in their attempt to protect their land.

  Warriors. Brave warriors who had fo
ught for the Eelam; who had been prepared to give their all, including their lives, for a free society. Warriors who had renounced their youth and all their natural desires in the process.

  In the three-decade-long war, some had died the glorious death of the brave; some had died as suicide bombers who, having been taught not to worry about the consequences which led to the death of hundreds of ordinary people, had extinguished themselves with a bomb tied to their middle in order to kill one Sinhalese officer travelling in a bus or in some public place; some had turned to the other side as informers in the last stages of the war; some had been spirited away by the Sri Lankan Army and not heard of again; some had surrendered – to be tortured and let off; only the remaining few were given this opportunity for a new life.

  Yoga thought her mother would also display some emotion to see her child, now crippled and battle-scarred. She thought wrong. Perhaps, she told herself, her letters had prepared Pathma for the worst. But every one of Pathma’s actions – signing the papers and getting her out – seemed mechanical and dispassionate.

  Amma had lost the youth and beauty that she had possessed eighteen years ago and was completely transformed. In her youth she had been capable of lifting huge sacks of paddy. She had tirelessly planted the seedlings and weeded the fields. She would pound to flour huge amounts of rice at one go. She would thatch the roof herself. She shared the work in the fields and the garden with Subramaniyam. This was not the same Amma. She had shrunk; her face had darkened, tightened and hardened. She wanted to hug her mother and cry, but something stopped her.

  If her mother could hold on to her anger after all those years, she too could not let go of her sense of injustice to herself and forget her mother’s role in her present predicament.

  During the long trip from Vavuniya to Batticaloa, Pathma did not utter a single word, although she helped load and unload Yoga’s luggage. Yoga decided not to break her mother’s sullen silence and turned her attention elsewhere.