The village receded into the past with our passage. Davy Road. The early Kandyan wars of 1803. Unwelcome colonial excursions were part of the exercise of those times, albeit into inhospitable territory. Major Davy after whom this road was named was one of the few survivors of that disastrous expedition to Kandy. After the massacre at Watapologa he had made his way along this road, ‘half-dead of his wounds’. He survived and together with Captains Rumley and Humphreys was made prisoner in Kandy.

The two captains died soon after they were imprisoned. Major Davy himself did not live long after the imprisonment. Suffering from ill-health he was brought to Kandy from Dumbara in 1810. He expired in Malabar Street soon afterwards.

We all make alternate journeys for our survival.

Endless Night

The first night away from home was spent in the office room of my brother, Fidelis.

The desks were covered with hooded typewriters and files. We settled in, into the uncertainty of concealment, hiding our voices and bodies away from the glare of discovery. Of revelation. Here, we would spend the night. Perhaps several nights. There were two beds. Fidelis would sleep on one of them. His sleep would be sound and dreamless for he would never be one of the hunted ones. On the other bed my husband Guru and I would try to sleep. But it would never be sleep. Our bodies were cold. Nervous. Excitation and fear shuddered through our gelid veins. I lay floating in a nimbus of aqueous light. Luminous threads of water snarled my limbs into a web. Thoughts stabbed my mind.

The river flows through the valley. I would sit and gaze at the fires from the torches searing the dark water. Darker because of the piled shadows from overhanging trees. Clumps of bamboo. Coconut palm. The chulu light with fire-ends of dry coconut fronds would search out the fish even in darkness. The moon with its fragmented face, a torn attana flower, trumpet-throated. Dismembered petals tossed on the river currents. The darkness was violent.

The children slept on newspapers spread on the cement floor. I paced up and down, up and down. So the centuries are traversed. So the ship heaves through the ocean.

It began to rain. The windowpanes were blurred, blotting out the tiresome trail of images. Beyond the street, beyond the row of shops and houses and the railway line, was the cemetery. Shapes of death haunted me, gaunt shadows hovering about those marble monuments. My parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, a young eight-year-old brother were all buried here. ‘I have heard the sod fall, tumbling into that dark hole. Seen the coffins being lowered. The wreaths pile up on the mounds of earth. My tears tasted like salt on my lips. I wiped my damp cheeks.’

The children, as I turned to look at them, moved restlessly in their half sleep. The fear of that day, that endless afternoon, still disturbed them.