This bunch had broken with the rest of their platoon that morning, as they fanned out in smaller groups. They had not encountered any resistance all morning, but half an hour ago, they had heard gunfire a few miles to their left. From then on, they wore their caution on their sleeves; they had their fingers on the triggers with the rifles held upright in readiness. They were not the only ones who had heard the shots. Murali and his senior comrade, Mohan, were on the diving board, and they had heard too. These two had seen the soldiers as they emerged on the farther side of the clearing; they now stood alert and waiting, Mohan in front and Murali behind and to his left. As the soldiers came nearer, a knot of fear began to tighten somewhere between Murali’s chest and abdomen. Everything had been agreed upon and they each knew what to do. Murali would aim for the last one and Mohan would go for the other two. They would start firing simultaneously when the first soldier crossed the thin rubber tree on the other side of the road, about fifty feet away. As the first volley came in, the soldiers hardly knew what had hit them and where it came from. The first one crumbled to the ground almost instantly, the second let out a cry of pain and lay writhing on the ground. By this time, the last man had taken cover behind some bushes and the trunk of the rubber tree, from where he returned fire with deadly accuracy. Just before he let out the first shot, Mohan had instinctively gone into a semi-crouch to maintain his balance and aim. On the other hand, Murali stood almost upright. The AK47 shuddered in his hand. The palm shook and swayed with the recoil. Murali lost his balance and the bullets splayed out 

harmlessly into space. As he stumbled back, the return fire came at him fast and furious. They came at hundred rounds a minute, for that was how furiously an assault rifle let go of its ammunition. One ricocheted off the frame of the platform with a metallic ‘ping’ that jarred his ears. Searing pain shot through his left forearm as another grazed his skin, leaving behind a two-inch lacerated wound. Another centimetre or two, and it would have found and shattered his bone. “Down,” cried Mohan. The warning was taken, but rather involuntarily. Murali fell back against the trunk of the palm, slid down and came to rest on his haunches. There he sat in a daze. The diving board provided a vantage point, from which it was not difficult to see the last soldier behind the thin rubber tree; most of his body covered only by bushes. Mohan was almost fully prone now; he raised himself on one elbow, lifted his rifle, fired and found his mark. A strange mixture of burning cordite and blood reached Murali’s nose as an uneasy silence descended around him. After a while, a soft groan sounded somewhere near. Very near. Slowly, his eyes focussed on the motionless body sprawled out in front of him. Mohan’s left arm hung flaccidly over the side of the platform. Murali crawled up and knelt beside Mohan, cradled his head and turned him gently on his side. Underneath was a spreading pool of dark blood that startled Murali. He turned him further onto his lap and bent down to hug him. “Anna!” he cried in quiet anguish. “Anna, don’t leave me.” At this, the dying man seemed to stir a little. 

He opened his hazy eyes, “Murali,” he whispered, “it is finished for me. You must continue. We must have a land of our own.” Everything was silent again. Slowly, Mohan’s eyelids drooped and closed; his head dropped back and his body went limp in Murali’s arms. The boy sat there, dazed and pale. After a while, his lips started quivering and his body shivered uncontrollably. His eyes looked around wildly in panic. With an effort, he took in great gulps of air, which gradually calmed him down. Slowly, he raised himself up, ripped off a piece from the bottom of his shirt and tied it crudely around his bleeding forearm with the help of his good arm and his teeth. Then he shinned his way down the palm. Murali gazed around at the dead soldiers, their well-fed bodies, helmets, uniform and shining boots—and then, sadly down at his own threadbare sandals. He could not help noticing the contrast. A piece of tape, which held up his patched-up trousers, was all he had for a belt around his scrawny middle. Nothing on his head, except a mop of untidy hair. There he stood for a while, his back stooped and eyes staring vacantly into space. Suddenly, he straightened up, as though something had abruptly cleared in his mind. By all conventions, he should have proceeded north down the path and regrouped with fellow rebels at their rendezvous point two kilometres away, but Murali had other plans. He quickly walked over to one of the soldiers, undid the knapsack on his back and swung it over his own shoulder. He tried on one, and then another, pair of enemy boots for fit, but his own sandals he carefully stowed away in the knapsack. He took a couple of long hungry gulps from the aluminium water can found on one of the soldiers, and then struck out away from 

the path into the jungle in a north-westerly direction. There was now only one thought that filled his entire being—home. Ten kilometres to the west lay the A2 highway. It ran through shifting battlefronts and then all the way to Trincomalee. He knew he should not get on to it this far south, for there was no saying whose territory you would land on. He would keep going northwest until he could hear the sound of distant traffic, and then he would head north, staying parallel to the road. He stumbled on around trees, over thorn bushes and vines. At last, he heard the whine of a distant truck. By this time, the sun was setting somewhere in the west. He foraged around and found a long stick that would help him travel at night. Now he needed a rest.

 Fifty feet to the right was a large patch of bamboo. He squeezed between the long stems and found a rather cosy space just large enough for him to sit in. He settled down on the floor, leaned his back against the trunks and looked up; high above was a bit of sky. It felt like he was in a deep well, but it also felt secure as though he was in a cradle. He explored the contents of the knapsack and came up with some biscuits, which he wolfed down eagerly. He took another drink from the canteen, which was now almost empty. He looked up at the pink sky that was rapidly turning grey even while he watched. He had turned eighteen two weeks ago. If he were at home, he would have had a party, or at least some sweets for his friends. These and other such thoughts swam lazily through his mind. He must have fallen asleep, for when he awoke, it was dark. From the opening above, a single star looked down on him. The night about him was alive with sounds—chirping crickets, whining beetles. The bamboo stems swayed 

intermittently and creaked against each other. It was difficult to say how long he had slept, or what time it was. Could have rescued a handsome watch from one of the soldiers, he thought to himself. But it was too late for that. His bottom and legs felt numb; he slowly shook them awake and gingerly stood up. He would have to keep moving. He gathered up his things, squeezed between the bamboo trunks and out into the open. He looked around, orienting himself. 

There were the three Palmyra palms he remembered crossing; that would be south. He adjusted his backpack and rifle, all the while listening. Soon, he heard engines, quite a distance to the left of him. Satisfied with his bearings, he set out in the direction that he thought was north. He would have to keep the sounds of traffic on the left. He travelled cautiously and noiselessly. In places where there was a lot of grass, he would poke around with the long stick in front of him as he went. Often, a rustle in the grass would make him stop. He kept on for hours and stopped when he felt he could not go on any longer. He was thirsty, but the aluminium canteen was now empty; more than this, he was tired to the bone. He stepped aside into some tall grass and stomped around until he had made himself a bed of sorts. He lay down wearily and was soon overtaken by sleep. He awoke to the sound of birds—a flock of mynas squealed at one another as they flew by, some playful babblers foraged among the dry leaves and hopped around a tall cactus. He stood on his knees and peered over the top of the grass. It was just light enough for him to see a grove of mango trees some distance away. Murali reckoned he had travelled sufficiently north to be out of the government-held territory. Now he would go west, hit the road and try to hitch a ride. 

He turned to his left and made his way through dense vegetation; tall hardwoods ruled the roost here, with vines and creepers making up the floor. After half an hour, the forest thinned out into grasslands. He crossed a dry ditch and up onto a ridge. He looked for some signs of a stagnant pool of water. As far as his eyes could see, there was none. Thirst was now his dominant craving, although a tinge of anxiety was creeping up inside him. He kept trudging along, listening carefully as he went. He passed a paddy field, but the grain was almost ripe and there was no water in it. He went through a forest of teak, and then down into a gully at the bottom of which lay a dry streambed. By this time, his thirst was unbearable. He frantically followed it for a distance and then retraced his steps, beyond the point where he had first met it.

 He must have gone about a hundred feet when he saw, between a sand bar and a great big rock, a tiny pool of dirty green water. Normally, he would not have washed his clothes in it. But now, he did not think twice before he bent down and slowly dipped his canteen sidewards into the water, keeping the nozzle just below the surface, to get the cleanest top layer. When the can was about half full, he took it up, looked at it apprehensively and then quickly put it to his lips. It tasted muddy and smelt like rotten cabbage, and by the time he stopped drinking, he had a fair amount of grit and algae in his mouth. Yet, it was water and he felt a relief that was difficult to describe. He spat out the dirt in his mouth and went back down the stream. He decided to follow it, for it would probably bring him to the road. In this he was not wrong, for presently he heard the welcome roar of a motorcycle. It did not seem far away. The streambed took a sharp right and joined a small river. He turned to see it disappear under a brick arch bridge. Over this bridge ran A2— the road to Trincomalee. 

Snaking along one edge of the river was a tiny stream of clear water. Murali washed out his canteen, filled it up, rinsed his mouth and drank to his heart’s content. He walked up to the bridge, lowered his head and got under it; there he sat and waited. The sun was up by now and beat down on the asphalt, but where he was, it was still cool. He stayed there comfortably, till the shadows began to lengthen again. Then he decided it was time to move. There was something coming down the road, but it was coming from the north. Murali sat still and as it came nearer, he swallowed hard and felt his heart beat faster. The truck, or whatever it was, rumbled overhead and then passed on, its sound slowly fading away into the stillness of the afternoon. Another 15 minutes passed before he heard the distant moan of an engine. This time, going in the right direction.

 He got himself ready. He took off his boots and put his own sandals back on his feet. He shoved the knapsack, canteen and the boots into a hollow between two boulders and covered it over with sand and brushwood. He got out from under the bridge and calmly walked up the bank of the river onto the road. He turned and walked north, as though he had been on the road for a while. He glanced back and saw that it was a bus. He passed a milestone that said Trincomalee 52 kilometres. So Wagera would be only 37 kilometres from where he was. If all went well, he would be there by the time it was dark. Three kilometres, on a small road heading west from Wagera, was Dibara and all that he held dear. He turned around and waved his rifle. By now, the vehicle was near enough to see more details. The old pug-nosed bus was packed to its seams with passengers; in the front, next to the driver, sat two rebel soldiers. The bus slowed down with a screech of brakes and rattled to a stop. The rebel fighters jumped down from the bus and approached him. Murali held out his arm to reveal a tiny tattoo with his number. They took it down and asked him, “What is the business?” “Have a message for Colonel Anton from segment 16.” “OK,” they said suspiciously, after looking at each other for a moment. They waved him to the back door of the bus. He got on and squeezed himself up the crowded stairway to the top step. There he stood, hemmed in by a perspiring mass of humanity. A few looked at him with admiration, but most ignored him. Murali relaxed when he saw there was nobody he could recognise, but not entirely, because every once in a while, one of the rebel soldiers would look back to see where he was. No doubt they were going to keep a close watch on him. The bus slowly shook and swayed its way to Wagera with an endless number of stops in-between. It stopped longer at Wagera, where he and most of the passengers got down to stretch themselves or have a snack. This would be the time to make his getaway, but there was no way he could pull it off. All the time they were on the ground, one of the armed men was always watching him like a hawk. When finally the bus horn blared to beckon its own back, he thought he would cry.