‘We too are victims. Aren’t we also the deprived? Look at all these people living around here. Look at their lifestyles. All hi-fi people. They flaunt their wealth. Some of them will not allow us to pluck a single araliya flower to take to the temple on Poya day …’

‘Or even a kurumbu or thambili off their coconut trees when we are sick.’

Hands gestured not merely in the direction of the burning Tamil house, our neighbour’s house, but also in the direction of the Sinhala houses with their curtained shuttered windows, locked doors and bright, newly painted walls.

At that moment a police jeep drew up. Two policemen got off. They were armed.

‘What is this crowd doing here?’ they asked peremptorily.

‘Go back to your homes peaceably,’ they urged.

The crowd was too angry, too excited and worked up to pay heed. The policemen were ignored. There was an angry buzz. The policemen could not persuade them to disperse. The crowd knew that the policemen had no authority to open fire on them.

An army jeep now roared along the road. The officers and their men jumped out, swung their leather belts and rifles at the crowd and they all went shrieking back into the village. The women’s voices were shrill, their protests vehement.

I moved quietly away from the periphery of the men, back to my home. I realized that we could not remain here. The words of the leader of the mob reverberated in my mind: ‘We will return tonight.’ I could not remain with that fear haunting me and keeping me tense and wakeful, listening to the footsteps that would move towards my destruction.

The dishes of food were still on the dining table, the food half-eaten. It had been our last meal together before Guru and the children fled. The rice had grown cold on the platter.

Guru and the girls finally came down from the hill where they had been hiding, in the houses of Sinhala friends. They had been compassionate people. Mrs Kotalawella, who was in her eighties, and spent most of her time meditating, doing bhavana, had consoled the girls: ‘These people who are doing these acts, who cause you so much pain and sorrow, are not even conscious of their terrible deeds …’

We decided to spend a few nights in my brother’s office. When the camps were ready, we would seek refuge there …

We prepared to leave our home. None of us had the heart to clear the table. We made a few bundles of clothes and sheets. We had to travel light on this unknown journey. The path of endurance had begun. We had to tread it as best we could.

Alternate Journeys