samodH porawagamagE

My Soldier,

This morning, a nadey from Colombo on their way to do a pooja in the holy city stopped by. They worried about their safety because Purey borders the north. In the old map Mudalali hangs behind the counter, I showed them the small area above Mankulam still occupied by the LTTE cadres. It relieved them more than my classic belimal drink with jaggery. A young man said he couldn’t find that information on a thing called inter-net. He explained anyone can go there from a computer to find all about the world. Then, it was their turn to be open-mouthed crocodiles, as they learned how fast word-of-mouth about danger passes through our chain of villages, only delayed by the time taken to tell another. Who needs these tools of the city-folk who always keep looking for a piped washbasin called a “sink” to wash their hands, and break at least one water pitcher per group doing so. What a blessing their clumsiness is for Kamal and Sumana with their third now on the way!

Your love

My Heart,

Do you remember Daya Miss teaching time is relative to earth’s endless pilgrimage around the sun? When everyone wanted to stone me to death, she knew I wouldn’t force myself on the principal to take his wife’s place. Loku ayya stopped beating me only after she visited and told him of my character, wagging her finger like a sword in front of his face. A true second mother, she showed me how to close the door to outside noise before I could find a rope. Let’s visit her in Purey when we get your next month-long break. Her words returned to me today because Rasika spotted my first white strand of hair. While she ran to get her scissors, I changed mind to keep it. Even Naatu hobbles away on three legs every day to replenish her heart. It reminds me I now revolve around you and time is relative to absence. I age a day per every hour of your absence, and get most of them back when you lovetalk me to stay in bed despite the beckoning sun.

Your heart

My Life,

Remember how your heart roamed our home when you were manning the jungles of the East—Nidhuk’s flowery laughter, my cooking smells, your mother’s incense smoke? Now that the enemy is gone, don’t replace him with a precious part of yourself. It’s like Cricket: No matter how many balls are left, you don’t keep batting when you pass the score of the other team. No need to keep bowling after all their ballhitters get out. I’m telling you because Senaka has beaten up Samitha for failing to make their little one stop crying at night. She’s in the hospital. I brought the little angel here till she returns. Our Nidhuk can’t look away from her. Senaka hasn’t returned to the village yet. Police is looking for him, but Samitha won’t speak ill of him. How could war turn boys into soldiers, Hasi, when they don’t even know to be men outside the battlefield? We’re blessed because you left the best part of yourself with me. Now when you come home every month, you can get it all back with interest.

Your life

Dear Warrior,

Ranmali gave me a booklet of wise sayings to read. It’s full of advice from famous men to their followers. In one, the painter who drew Monalisa, Picasso, says “everything you can imagine is real.” The door to my imagination stays bolted shut and its key hidden under seven deep wells because I don’t want ill-thoughts anywhere near my mind, in case they come real. That’s why I write to share the daily news of our family and our village instead of my feelings. Besides, imagination for soldiers’ waiting women is a strange gift, an invitation to fly on one wing as if years and years of toiled hands and legs haven’t already made us unballanced. So it didn’t surprise me that none of the advice came from soldiers, farmers, fishermen, or other practical men.

Your homefront warrior and reporter

Mine,

Your mother wanted me to have her mirror-table, and today we moved it to the bedroom. The last time I stood before one was the day we belonged to each other for life. Your absence has aged me more than the years, but I’m still your kakuli in a flowery dress. By the way, villagers have started clearing their throats and spitting when they pass our house. Somebody has spread the rumor that a half-built, windowless house is malefic to be seen in the morning. Don’t mind any of that, a window is just the fancy name for an outward-looking mirror. Yet I used our new mirror-table to completely block any unwanted stares into the bedroom.

Your shadow

·       Mirror-table = dressing table