Read Hope in Chains :: The waters

Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “the fighting will soon be over and before you know it, we will be back here again.” After a while, they gathered up their things and set out again. This time, no one looked back. Mr Muthiah had on his khaki uniform. He had made arrangements with another driver, a friend who drove on the route to Mynnar. This friend would make place for them on his bus. He would even let Mr Muthiah drive. After all, who would suspect that a driver on duty was taking his whole family away into exile? Everything had gone according to plan. It was 4 pm now and they were on the bus from Dibara and headed for Mynnar. Back in Dibara, the house they had left behind lay silent. Budhi the cow grazed peacefully, but Ravia the dog seemed to sense that something was amiss. He sat on the front steps all through the hot afternoon, waiting for someone to return. Finally, as the shadows lengthened around him, he threw his head back and howled mournfully. This he did from time to time, well into the night. If he were a cat, it probably would not have mattered, he might have settled in comfortably, happy to have the house all to himself. But not Ravia. The dog in him would never allow him to do that. But even Ravia gave up his vigil by the next evening. Before darkness came, he was off looking for a new master and, if he was lucky, perhaps even a new home. He had also become a refugee, a vagabond, looking for a place where he could safely curl up and lay his body down. Mynnar was a coastal town that catered to the needs of its farmers inland and its fishermen along the coast.

A few shops lay scattered around a dilapidated old concrete bus stop. It was the last stop and everyone got down. They checked on each other and the luggage before they asked a passer-by the way to St Anthony’s church. “You go on that big street,” he said, pointing his hand in its direction. “Almost at its end, you will see another side road that runs by the shore. The church is half a kilometre down that way on the right side.” “Thanks,” said Mr Muthiah. They walked the road, weighed down by the luggage; all the while inviting knowing sympathetic glances from doorways and windows along the way. The houses became fewer and soon, the road met the beach. Usha put down the cloth bag that she was lugging and just stood there staring anxiously into the endless expanse of blueblack water. The sun had gone down a little while ago, yet a last tinge of grey faintly lit the western horizon. Behind her, another light was beginning to make its presence felt. The moon, with half its face veiled, hung above the tiled roofs like a shy bride. But Usha was too full of anxious feelings to notice. Would they really have to cross all that water? she wondered. The others had turned down the narrow gravel and sand road that ran beside the shore, and now her mother was calling out for her. “Usha, come along. What’s the matter? Are you tired? Is the bag too heavy?” Usha let out a long breath, heaved the bag to her shoulders and turned towards her mother who was waiting impatiently. Sand got in-between the soles of her feet and the plastic slippers she wore, making it uncomfortable to walk. She had to shake it off every so often.

Finally, they arrived at the small church and went through a narrow V-shaped gap in the wall. The large church door was locked. “Sir! Hello sir!” Mr Muthiah called out. After a moment or two, a tall white-robed figure emerged from a low-roofed building behind the church. He walked up to them. Mr Muthiah promptly gave him the letter his priest had given. “Ah,” he said, looking them over with kind but worried eyes. “I thought as much,” he said, half to himself. “Come,” he said as he went towards a side door. He opened a padlock, flung open one half of the door and invited them in. Once inside, he waved his hands towards the back of the church. “You can stay here at the church tonight. Tomorrow, I will try and arrange passage for you. I hope you have got money.

The fishermen are very reluctant nowadays. The navy has stepped up its patrolling.” “Please help us, Father,” Mr Muthiah begged. “As you can see, we are not rich.” “Yes, I know. All of them who come to me are poor. Otherwise, why would they take the risk? They would have travelled to the south and flown out from Colombo long ago.” There was an awkward silence while the padre opened a window. “They usually charge 5,000 rupees per head. I will try and talk them into accepting the whole lot of you for about twelve or fifteen thousand,” he continued. “But I cannot promise anything,” he quickly added. With that, he was gone and they were left to themselves. They looked at each other and for some time no one moved; then they began arranging things for the night.

Soon, the padre was back. He put his head around the door and held out something. “Here is a matchbox and some candles. Lock the door from the inside,” he said before he disappeared again. They did not see him until the next morning. That night, Usha lay awake for a long time and listened to the disquieting sound of the sea. Each wave broke with a roaring sigh that faded quickly and echoed in the distance along the shore. Then, like the pause between breaths, a brief moment of stillness before the next one came crashing in. Eventually, this timeless rhythm of the ocean lulled her asleep. The next morning, Usha heard it dimly in her mind before she was fully awake and thought she was dreaming. This notion was dispelled quickly as she opened her eyes and saw the rafters and then the walls of the church. The others were already up and about. Mr Muthiah and Murali were nowhere to be seen. Her mother was sorting out some luggage. By afternoon, their plans were more concrete. They would set out a little after midnight and walk along the shore for two and a half kilometres. There, in the dead of night, they would board the boat that would take them across to India. The nearest point on the Indian side was Dhanushkodi, which was only a little more than thirty kilometres across the Strait. In the afternoon, Murali and his father went out to the town to get some last-minute things. Two loaves of bread, an extra plastic bottle for water, some peanut candy and a few other things. After this was done, there was nothing to do except wait. The padre came around and advised them gently.

Take an early meal. Don’t eat anything after this. Get some sleep if you can. I will wake you when it’s time.” True to his word, he came around at eleven and found them all awake. He walked them to the beach and stood watching as they walked away across the sand. His eyes misted over and he tightened his lower lip between his teeth, something he did when his emotions moved him, as they did now. Would he ever see them again? He wondered. He bowed his head and breathed a silent prayer for them. When the figures had almost disappeared, he turned back to his little church. Meanwhile, the family walked on. A ghostly company moving across the shore. The sand crunched softly under their feet. The palm leaves swayed a little in the breeze that blew in from the sea. There was not enough moonlight to throw any shadows, too many clouds lay overhead. They could just about make out each other’s form, the white surf and then vast darkness beyond. After almost forty-five minutes, they heard two low whistles and then one more. Mr Muthiah returned with two short ones and then two more. That was the signal. Soon, dark shapes and scurrying figures came into dim view. Two thirty-foot boats lay along the shore. The one nearer to them was drawn up; its prow tethered to the beach with a stout rope that ran to a stake in the sand. The front end of its keel was loosely embedded in the sand beneath the surf and stayed steady. The boat’s stern bobbed gently in the waves and hanging over its side was a 90HP Yamaha outboard. A tall sinewy fisherman, stripped to his waist, stood in the surf beside the bow with one hand on the gunwale; with the other, he helped passengers over the side of the boat. His mate was at the outboard tiller, urging the passengers to sit steady and still.

Meanwhile, Usha and her family had been directed to join a group of fellow travellers gathered further along the shore and destined for the other boat. There was another family, with an infant and a three-year-old. There was an older couple with a grown-up daughter, and two young men. There was one other man, middle-aged, educated and of some social standing, who quickly assumed a leader’s role. The last passenger was on board the first boat and it was ready to leave. The fisherman untied the rope from the stake and tossed it into the boat. Another friend had come alongside to help him. They bent forwards, steadied their hand on the bow of the boat and pushed with all their might. Slowly, the keel disengaged from the sand and the craft slid into the sea. They kept up the pressure, their feet clawing the sand then pumping powerfully under water. They were almost waist-deep now; while his friend stopped short, the fisherman reached for the gunwale, lifted himself out of the water and vaulted over the side. Once inside, he sprung up and took hold of a long oar; facing sternwards, he lowered it over the port side of the bow and dug into the water. A few powerful strokes swung the bow sidewards and further out into the deep. At that moment, the outboard motor sprang to life, its loud roar breaking the stillness of the night. The boat jerked forwards, ran parallel to the shore for a few metres and then turned ninety degrees to face the open sea. They could now see its stern moving away gradually, leaving in its wake a swath of white frothing water. The fishermen in the other boat were calling out to them now. “Come on, come on, it’s time,” barked the fishermen. The second vessel was now ready to board. First went the middle-aged man, who then helped the family with the infant. The two young men followed.

Finally, it was Usha’s turn. She waded out gingerly, holding on to the side of the boat that seemed to tower over her. When she could go no further, strong arms lifted her up and waiting hands reached out and pulled her into the boat. She stood for a moment and then stumbled towards the stern and sat next to her mother on a cross board one-third of the way from the rear end. All this time, she had her cloth bag clasped to her side. When the last passenger was in, the same routine was repeated. The engine was started and their vessel wheeled out to sea. The shore was falling away behind them. The little land that they could see dissolved into the murky darkness, and then there was only the rumble of the motor and the dull beat of waves against the hull of their boat. Perhaps it was the steady drone of the motor that put her to sleep, but its absence definitely woke her up. It was about two hours since they had started out. There was a general stirring and the boat people were gathering their things together. Carried by its momentum, the boat was sliding gently towards a thin strip of surf some distance away. “Are you sure this is the place?” asked the middle-aged man. “This is where we usually let them off,” said the tall fisherman. “Why are there no shore lights?” retorted the middle-aged man. “Because of the navy patrols, nobody stays on the shore. Can you see those lights? They are only one kilometre away. Half an hour’s walk should get you there. Other places where there are more people are not safe.” This seemed to satisfy everybody. For sure, in the distance, there were rows of lights out to the west.

The outboard started up and purred gently for a few seconds and was cut again, giving them enough impetus to gently crunch the forward keel into the sand. The sea was rougher than when they had started. The tall one was out of the boat in a flash. Thigh deep in water, he waded ashore with rope in tow; finding nothing to which it could be hitched, he gave it two strong tugs and left it trailing in the sand. He meant to ask the young men to hold on to it but never did. The middle-aged man went first, and then the family with the small child. Usha’s father went and came back for more luggage and now stood in the water, helping her mother off the boat. Having gotten her safely ashore, he came for Usha. After considerable coaxing, Usha put one leg over the gunwale, fixed her toes in the crevice between the planks on the side of the boat and gingerly reached down towards her father with one hand. Of course, the other hand held her precious cloth bag with her coconut shell-face doll and her colour pencils. The next instant, before their hands could meet, a big swell lifted the boat and carried it back into the water. Usha screamed, felt her foot loosen its grip and then went tumbling into the water. She made an effort to stand but there was nothing but water under her feet. She spluttered and lashed out with her arms as she went under. She drew a breath that brought stinging brine into her nose and throat. She coughed instinctively, but the next breath brought more of it. She felt her chest burn as it had never done before. The tall fisherman had gotten hold of the collar of her dress and was now pulling her ashore, then her father gripped her by her arm.

She came out, spitting water out of her mouth, her eyelids blinking in panic and her cloth bag wet and streaming, still clutched in her left hand. Her father carried her crying and coughing onto the shore. Her mother quickly threw a towel around her. Usha sat motionless for a while in the dry sand, nestled against her mother. She shivered a little, retched and then puked onto the sand. While her brother hovered over them, her father gently rubbed her back. And told her, “You will be fine, you will be alright.” Whether it was her father’s reassurance or the vomiting, she did not know but surprisingly, she felt much better thereafter. By now, the fishermen were hurrying their last passenger onto the shore. That achieved, they quickly put out to sea. Without the additional drag and with their motor at full throttle, they moved away swiftly. The passengers watched wistfully after the boat until it was almost out of sight. Soon, even the familiar noise of its engine was lost to them. In spite of the ceaseless sound of the waves, they felt a great silence descend on them. One of them showed no interest in the departing boat; instead, the middle-aged man had turned the other way and was now looking suspiciously at the faraway lights. It was he who got them on their feet. “Come on,” he urged them, “we must reach those lights by daybreak.” They clambered to their feet, reached for their burdens and followed their leader slowly. The sand seemed to ascend a little before long and then started dipping down again. They had not gone five minutes before a cry of alarm arose from those in front.