Archive for the ‘Scribbles’ Category

I was His Saviour that Night

Friday, August 31st, 2018

I was His Savior that Night

I was born and raised in that small place called Thirunelvely. It is neither a town nor a village. It is somewhere in between. Lying  2 Km away from the city, always buzzing with university and Poly-Technical college students, the place had both the buzz of the town and at the same time the quietness of a small village.

Once I was so used to it. The early morning bell from the Parameswara Temple; Crows, cuckoos, seven sisters and sparrows; the buzz of the bees around the mango tree and other flower plants; the fragrance of Gardenias; the breeze through the coconut leaves making an indescribable whoosh sound; the hundreds of baby pink roses boasting their pride while the thorns and leaves disappearing in the beauty of them; the bell ring of the milkman; the honk of the school vans rushing the kids to get ready; the cycle rims making cranky sound on the roads kissing the potholes; the familiar faces all around: Asaiyamma, Mani acca, Thathappaa, Banu acca, Pillai acca, Baby, Seelan, Maaran, Bavani aunty, Karainagar aunty, the twin babies Niro and Nira , and my dearest Selvi, a sister from another mother and the other five friends- a group of partners in crime, all the kind faces with a smile; My tightly knit family, or so I thought, with Grandma, Aunts, Uncles, and Cousins made the life wonderful and memorable.

It was kind of instilled. I never stopped a moment to think of the beauty of it. Don’t they say that the worth of the shade is only known when you are in the sun?

It all ended one day. After several years of fleeing now and then to safer places to safeguard us from the Srilankan and Indian militaries’ atrocity, we were displaced again in 1995.  A mass exodus. Advancing military, the noise of the shells and rocket launchers, the sound of the vehicles rushing with casualties, restless animals, and the cold, dark gloomy day, all together increased the uneasiness and the urgency to leave your home to an unknown place, unknown future. People were moving towards the east. Roads were packed; one step at a time people moved in the pouring rain. I was pregnant with an expected delivery date of two weeks. Just two years ago I had married; set up a home for me and my husband; new furniture, new clothes, new marriage, the new husband and the honeymoon period was not over yet. But I had to leave. Leaving all the nicest things that made my life and home back only with two suitcases: one for me one for my unborn baby. Lucky enough I did not walk. Thanks to a friend of ours, I traveled by van.  But my other family members were not lucky enough. My grandma walked two days in the pouring rain and the day and night to the destination. I still could not organize my memory, how we all found each other in the new displaced place without any communication technology available.

At that time it seemed eternal. But the exile lasted eight years. Eight years of missing your Gardenias, Eight years of missing your roses, Eight years of missing your sparrows and seven sisters, Eight years of missing your [1]Amman temple, Eight years of missing your home. It was long and dark and depressive. Malaria, typhoid, mosquitos, cobras and scorpions, poverty, lack of friends and families, shells, rocket launchers, aerial attacks, and death shadowed the nooks and corners of life.

After a long-lasting eight years, with militants winning the long stretch of land came the peace. From the first day of peace for another two years, I was hoping to go home, even though the home is only a shattered building and memories, with all the family members being immigrated to abroad for survival. Two years of clearing the minefields, reconstructing the roads, a long wait.


One day in 2003 I came home expecting everything to be the same. But it felt strange. Mani acca, and Thathappaa though not a family by blood but a family by heart died in exile, Asaiyamma aged, Niro and Nira grew into young boys; My dearest friend lost her husband; Unfamiliar neighbors. The roads seemed small. There was more buzz. Strangers on the road.

The military vehicle on the roads and the green uniform, which I had not seen for eight years scared me to death. It felt different. The place has lost its tranquility of the village. I could not identify the sounds anymore. I was a stranger there. I felt like a visitor. I could not feel the belonging there.  Never understanding how I felt, my family who visited from abroad complained that I did not host them. I needed a host there. Someone who could be there for me. Guiding me to adapt to that new world.

Eight years in exile, I did not have any contact with the outside world.  Once a year phone calls from my brother because it was a lot of work to connect with people at this side of the world and it was expensive, once in a while letter from my sister because the letter takes few months to reach you. All the communication with the outside world was blocked, the changing world outside never reached me.  I never knew how the technology developed. I never knew changing fashion trends. I never knew that society changed with time. New rich people developed new classes. A place like Jaffna where education spoke volumes where people were scaled by education, now the money spoke. I was penniless. I did not have any jewelry which was the status quo in society. I could not mingle with the crowd because I was different. Committed to living a simple life doing community services, we never accumulated wealth.  The feeling and pride that I lived for a cause were replaced with weariness. I felt out of place.

There was this strange, scary stillness I could not identify. People just nodded their heads.  There is hesitance in their smiles. Even if you scream for help nobody would come out of their houses. Nobody wanted to witness any horrible thing that could happen in the darkness of the night. Robbery, sexual assault, murder, arrests anything and everything, you name it.

Coming from a place where you can ride a motorbike at midnight, walk the moonwalk on the street, I could not sense the underlying horror this place held. I could not see that it was not the place I was bred up anymore. I could not sense that people have changed. I could not sense that fear and survival instinct had developed selfishness in people. When my family decided to move my grandma,  who lived at my house all those years, to my uncle’s house without even stopping a moment to think “she is coming with two young kids without her husband, would she live here alone”, I was lost.

I never could understand why my close-knit family would think differently. Maybe they thought they are helping me by lessening the burden. It took me only three weeks, to bring me down to earth from the dreamland I was living in. The enthusiasm that I was coming home, the enthusiasm that I was going to meet my family and friends, the enthusiasm that after eight years of determination not to go to any temple other than my Amman[2] temple, I was going to go to my Amman temple, was gone. Only one night and it is all gone.

I met Valanaadan at the Evelyn Ratnam library. Only two weeks after coming home I made friends with Latha the librarian. Both of us connected very quickly. She became a good friend of mine. And also she ran the net cafe where I made calls abroad. I was coming down the stairs and Valaanadan, a writer, the artist was there.

We chatted. When he found that I am living alone with my kids, he said to not live alone and to have someone with me. And also he told me to keep some curry powder under my pillow. Why I never stopped to think of what he said, I don’t know.  Every day for the next week, lying on the bed I would think tomorrow morning I should keep some curry powder under my pillow, which I never did. Partly because I never understood why he told so, and partly because my daytime was consumed with repairing the house, cutting the overgrown trees, cleaning the front and back yard, replacing the dead plants with new plants, figuring out the school for kids, taking a driving license to ride the motorbike, shopping, stocking the shelves and the family drama of newly found relatives both mine and husband’s side which I have not experienced so far.

I was consumed by the daily chores to organize my life, I did not stop to study the environment, the news, the politics of the people, and the government. For four years I was functioning in the role of security focal point updating the security issues so the field staff can make decisions if they can travel or not. But I missed using the skill in my personal life once I quit the job to come home.


December 13.

It might have been around 2 am. I was fast asleep. My senses which were so used to being alert to the sounds of the night woke up. Did I hear a sound on the roof? Or is it a dream? There! another sound !. It was not a dream then. It is a  scratching sound on the asbestos sheet. It could be wind. It could be someone on the roof.

I was not scared. Why would I? I came from a land where the elephants roam your front yard at night. I came from a land where my housekeeper showed some marks on the sand and said it was python’s. I came from a land where I learned to kill scorpions. I came from a land where cobras live on your fence and under your hen. I came from a land where the military infiltrates at night for recce and ambush. I came from a land where I had to go through a cemetery every day and night witnessing fresh burials. I came from a land witnessing shredded bodies by aerial attacks.

I was not scared. I just lay there listening to the sound and thinking, ok,  if it is a thief for the two bunches of bananas lying on the roof, that is fine. A thief with hunger? Let him have it. After all, it is Banana. I lay there listening to the sounds of the night.

Because I was not scared I did not realize falling asleep. The next time I woke up, the light outside the bedroom shone on a dark figure going out of my room carrying my handbag. Darkness from the room prevented the man from seeing me. I just pulled my sheet up to my nose and peered through. There were another two men in the hall walking here and there. I decided to keep quiet. Let them take whatever they want and leave. Thank god. My kids were fast asleep too.

Another 5 minutes. I was lying there witnessing the man putting everything from the handbag on the dining table and picking things, My mobile, my money. My heartbeat gradually increased. The ‘if’ questions crowded my mind. What if they get other ideas after they have looted the house? What if they try to kill me, what if they try to sexually assault me? The possibility of that happening increased my heart rate.


Could I scream? Could I call anyone? I wanted to go to the window and call the next-door neighbor. Rasam aunty’s son Kannan is living in the room which was just opposite to mine. His window is just 10 to 12 feet away from my window separated by a fence in the middle. But fear paralyzed me. I could not get up. Lying down I screamed  ‘kallan’[3].  Instead of Kannan, all three ‘kallar[4]’ (thieves) came running into my room. The one who seemed like a team lead sat on my bed and kept his knife to my throat.

“shhh. No noise.”

The other two crowded the space, trying to come closer to me. They both reeked of alcohol. But the leader looked decent and smelled clean. He was that close to me, I could smell him. With the knife still on my throat, he asked me where I kept my pieces of jewelry and money. I kept saying whatever I had in my handbag was what I got.  He tried to put his hand on me to grab the gold necklace I was wearing. A simple necklace, a farewell gift from my colleagues at MSF. I stopped him saying “take your hand away, I will get it for you”. He took his hand away. I just pulled the necklace with force and it came in two pieces hurting my neck. He looked at the bracelet I was wearing. I just pulled it off and it broke into pieces. I thought by speeding up the process he would just move away from me. He just sat there looking at me and chasing his two colleagues away who tried to take advantage of me. They were trying to talk to me using some words I never have heard in my life before. Of course, it was in the Tamil language, but where would I have heard those ugly sexual slurs.

The lead chased them away telling them to look into the other rooms. I could clearly see that he was trying to get rid of them. To protect me? Or to abuse me himself? His attitude seemed like he pitied me. Even before I could process my thinking, he pushed me on the bed and he was on top of me. I froze to the core with fear. The whole body paralyzed except my teary eyes. He did not try to do anything. He just lay there. Him not doing anything unfroze me. I began to plan an escape route. My children, sleeping in the next bed should not be awakened. If they wake up and scream thieves might do anything to silence them. What could I do without waking them up? I could not believe myself when I told myself if you could not do anything to escape, just reduce the damage by not fighting him and ‘thinking of London’.

I got the courage to ask ‘don’t you have any sisters’. He looked at me as if was deciding what to do. Then kissed me on my cheek and got off me. Stunned I just lay there. The knife was gone from my throat as if he had a connection with me and a mutual understanding that he would not hurt me and I would not hurt him. He turned into an interviewer asking, where did I move from, why am I alone, why don’t I have any money and pieces of jewelry.

He turned into a compassionate listener while I narrated my story. He suddenly developed some respect for me. His language turned from singular to plural respecting me. He suddenly went out of the room and told the colleagues to hurry. One of the other two robbers tried to enter the room with malicious thoughts coming closer to me.

I called out to the lead,” anna! Brother! Come and see him”. My Lord Krishna, My Saviour came to the door and scolded the other guy to getaway.

Is this what called Stockholm Syndrome? Thinking your captivator as your protector?

While he was chasing him away, I suddenly got shortness of breath. My asthma suddenly hit me. I get asthma attacks by stress. If I did not get it now with the utmost stress when would I get it? I started to heave and cough. My Saviour came to the door.

“ What is wrong?”

“ I am having my asthma attack.”

He turned without a word and disappeared. I heard noises from the kitchen. Pots and pans banging. The knob of the gas cooker turning. He appeared with a cup of warm water in his hand. Not stepping into the room, he stretched his hand asked me to come and get the cup. I was so scared that he might have mixed something in it, I refused shaking my head. He shrugged, kept the cup on the dining table, went, and collected his colleagues, came to my door raised his hand in a salute.

“ I am leaving through the front door. Come and Lock the door once we leave. With that, he left. Just like that.

A robber who broke into my house through the roof was concerned about my safety and telling me to lock the door!

I just sat there amazed, shocked contemplating what had happened.

My grandma next day had a big Pongal[5] for her Vairavar[6] saying Vairavar saved me and my kids.

I thought yes Vairavar saved me by sending a kind-hearted robber.

A robber who had the temptation to misuse me, changed his mind in a minute, with a peck on my cheek as he has some affection for me. Why did not he go ahead and sexually abuse me? With the knife on my neck and the kids on the other bed, he knew I would not make a single sound. Hence, he left me unhurt.

Was it because he had some humanity left in him? Was he merely good-natured poverty bound thief?

Or has he changed into a good-hearted human being because of me?

Was I his Saviour that night? or he, mine?

[1] Goddess Temple

[2] Goddess Temple

[3] thief

[4] thieves

[5] Cooking milk rice and offering to the God

[6] Vairavar is a deity believed to protect you