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Chapter 1

The old Dutch Bungalow stood on a cove surpassing the wind swept beaches of Batticaloa. The empty moorlands, whispering talipot trees and the sky blue lagoonhugged the lovely beach. It was a beautiful place. The nonchalant breeze swayed thecoconut palms and made jigs in the sea mesmerizing the otherwise calm village. The fogwould close in the evening and the blue beautiful sea would rise, embracing the equinoxand fall in slow oily notion in the kelp. The moon would come out slowly with its eeireglow out of the sea and then nature would shred its natural endowments throughout theIndian Ocean.How time changes everything. Three years ago I would have been the happiest soul ever living with a loving wife and two kids to look after. What one hopes never aspires. Fateseals aspirations with the most unselfish way. All things came to an end when my wifeHelen died. The first breathless grief which engulf you within the first six months wasnow over and you unknowingly get yourself used to look like a normal human being, tosettle down live and start work again. To forget everything was one reason why I preferred the loneliest place in Sri Lanka to start life again. There was a terraced slopefrom the house to the beach. In bygone days it would have been a watchtower to observeships and caravels before they slowly fades before the mist takes over. The two children joyfully played on the beach below building sand castles and gave shrill cries like seagulls whenever waves engulfed them. For them it was a boys' paradise. They hadaccepted the long month of December as they found it, without their mother. Normally itwould have been any other December. December with a small tinge of presents, wishes,new classes and hundred of Christmas hugs. But now they are older.Sakunthala was just passed five when Helen died and small Chris was just four. We werea close knit, warm happy family. I was the only breadwinner, so it was Helen who had tolook after the house. She could have worked. My male egoism was adamant that sheshould look after the family and specially me. There were ups and downs. It was onlyduring later stages I found that Helen was suffering from a rare blood disease and then Icould not do anything. It was only after Helen's death and after a few months lapse only Iwas able to manage everything in a systematical way. You suddenly realize you are notthe master but a guardian and undoubtedly a good listener. No more there were my, your or our rooms. Everything was jam packed into the lounge. Sakunthala had her littledesk and Chris's all knick knack were also put into my study.Page 1/-

-02-She had her Noddy books, dolls and played while Chris sullenly stayed aloof watchinghis sister while I wrote. Little Chris was different. He liked to jump, shout, run and playin the bare sandy beach in front of the house where there were sea crabs to look andtreasures to find in the wind swept sea. Mostly seashells and sometimes a beautiful crabshell or an old bottle cap. Lunch was rice with dhal curry or a hot crab soup. If there was time I prepared a largeglass of horlicks for all of us. The dinner consists of remnants of lunch and bread fromKandiah bakery. Early in the morning I go to Aithmalai village to collect paper and bread. Each one has to wash his own plates. The children said prayers after dinner andwe all slept in our large bed.Every end of the month I got a fixed income. It was from a shop which was given onlease at Colombo or one could say a wedding present from my parents. I made my livingout of writing articles and children's books. Every weekend I used to contribute an articleor two to Sunday papers. Somehow or other I made it a point to publish a book everyyear. As long as I could keep writing we got alone, but sometimes I lay awake and feltuneasy, thinking what would happen if I couldn't write.There was no extra money to spend and we had a common understanding that when oneof us wanted anything special he had to wait till the next check comes. That is howSakunthala got her second drink bottle and Chris got his tricycle. It was too big for himand he kept falling off, entangling his legs in the rims and cried as he always did in hisdesperate way. He hid himself behind the wardrobe shrieking and crying to himself withtears running down his cheeks and holding his pants to keep them falling off.During most evening, after a good cup of coffee when there is nothing to keep myself occupied what I mostly do is just look at the lagoon and let the time roll by. Whenever Istarted writing the children would pop up and ask thousand odd questions where theywanted the story to be written to their own taste. The trouble erupted when I startedwriting a story about a stepmother who lived in a big palace in a vast jungle. Whatdisturbed Sakunthala was that in the story I had made a bad stepmother and what shewanted was a good, beautiful and helpful stepmother. How can I explain her, that thereare no good stepmothers except bad stepmothers who made miseries of small children."A stepmother will be helpful" she said " When there is nobody, she will cook, wash andwill tell you stories when it is dinner time.""That is true." I also would agree with her and turn back to writing. Her normal responsewas to climb into her small Montessori chair and to give her dolls a stern look. "Noweverybody listen?" She would raise her second finger. "No talking please, Appachchihas work to attend."Page 2/-

- 03 -Writing is one profession where one needs reprieve more than everything. One may haveone's own problems but everything should be kept hidden. He has his own style and thestyle should flow in a melancholy way when writing resumes. The bold and actual factsshould spring from his own heart and the words should not be a mimic of others.You cannot be a good author by imitating others. His fantasies, adventures andexperience would take him through a whimsy world... Perhaps Chris would also grow upto try the slopes of Pidurutalagala, catch fish in Batticaloa lagoon and throw stones at theharmless squirrel which graze the dwarf coconut tree. But Sakunthala's world and minewere different. It consisted only of a small lonely house in a deserted beach. The emptysea, paper dolls and singing fish. They only kept us accompanied and lively. But, it isthe heart which is lonely when you don't have anybody to confide. Not so much to helpin your domestic problems but to share the small pleasures and to confide your dailyobservations. Joy does need someone to share and so does love but what about grief or even trouble which you are unable to share with anybody.We didn't have any friends, except for some burgher families who comes to angle and for small excursions in the beach. Mostly on Sundays they use to come with the families.There were retired stationmasters and drivers who lived at station road Batticaloa.Sometimes my friend Jim Navaratme who lived at Kalmunai would drop once a week with a bottle of Old Arak and I would hurry to market to buy jumbo prawns and we allwould settle into a small tamasha at the beach. He had been an apothecary, retired andnow lives with his ageing parents and is a voracious reader. "The old days are gone." Heused to lament, "Those were the days. We had a beer for fifty cents. Lunch for one fiftyand what about string hoppers at Jaffna Hotel."He still gets his pension of Five thousand rupees. He says he is happy and I guess he isright. With his old parents, Servants to look after everything and a rumbling old mansionfor whom has he to invest?"I cannot understand how you writes?" He used to smile his mischievous smile. "Whatone needs here is a big bottle of Arak, fried prawns and jumbo crabs." and with a wink in his eye" A buxom servant girl."There was another old chap who was one of my friends too. He was a Tamil fishermannamed Thirugesu. Daily sharp at 5.00 clock he used to come to the beach with his fishingattire holstered in both shoulders. He would thread the medium sized prawns to hisfishing bait and spin the fishing lines out into the breaking waves a good hundred feet beyond the breakers. Then he would jag it and recall the line. Sometimes there would bea fish in it, a perch or pink coloured scuttle. More often the prawn was gone, only thefishing hook will be left idling to the wrath of Thiru. The perch were too meaty to eatand definitely will end up in Batticaloa fish market. The scuttle would be brought by usor by any bystander awaiting eagerly to get something for dinner.Page/3