There is water here,” exclaimed the leader. “We have been tricked!” “Perhaps there is a way to one side,” suggested someone. “We will see,” said the middle-aged man. “Let us split. You go to the right,” he told the two young men. “You go to the left,” he instructed Murali and his father. It did not take long for them to discover that they were on a small islet hardly two hundred feet across, separated from the faraway lights by who knew how many kilometres of water. They gathered their things together and slumped down wearily onto the sand. Usha looked up at her mother and asked, “Will another boat come to pick us up?” “Yes, Usha,” her mother reassured her. As they sat, there was grumbling all around. “I knew those fishermen were crooks,” someone said. “I hope they will discover us in the morning,” said someone else. In time, all conversation ceased. Usha stared steadily at the lapping waves and the vast ocean, and then she saw them, low in the western sky. Three stars that formed a triangle. The sight of them brought warmth to her spirit. Even though everything was strange and new around her, at least these three little lights were familiar. She had seen these same ones from her garden on many an evening. How was it that she could see them just as clearly, so far away from home? Had they moved alongside to keep her company? She was not left to think about the stars for too long, for there was fresh jeopardy at hand. The tide was rising.
Muttering and murmuring, they got to their feet and moved inwards a little, but within half an hour, the waves were at their feet again. This time, they moved further till they were huddled in the centre of a mound of sand about hundred feet across. A tiny speck in an immense, dark, restless sea. Some of them wondered if they would have to stand with their luggage held aloft over their heads. But it did not come to that. The waves paused and then very slowly receded. There was a palpable sense of relief as tense muscles relaxed all around. The gloom lifted further when grey light filtered in from the east and the sun gently kissed the dawn awake with orange and pink. As its first molten rays gleamed across to them over the shimmering waves, hope began to rise within them. Soon, mothers were rummaging through their bags for breakfast. The baby was being fed. Light-hearted chatter was doing its rounds. The mainland appeared a long distance to the west.
They could see other islands dotting the coastal waters. Some as bald as theirs, others much bigger with rows of palm trees on them. The day wore on to noontime. The sun that had been such a comfort to them that morning was becoming a menace. Its hot rays beat down on the defenceless lot. Families were bunched together under bedsheets that were held up by aching hands. Some lay with their bags leaning over their heads. The white sand reflected the harsh light into their eyes, making them squint. The last of the water was soon gone and thirst was on every lip. Despair set in once again. Had they escaped drowning, only to now die of thirst! Usha was sitting between her mother and brother, their father sat opposite them; between them, they had a piece of linen spread over their heads.
But the heat of the sun bore through this feeble cover offering them little protection. As the minutes ticked by, they slowly began to feel dull and drowsy. Not very far away from them, the baby in her mother’s arms whimpered incessantly. “Where is the boat that you said would come?” Usha demanded suddenly. “It will come,” replied her father with all the confidence he could muster. Usha looked slantingly up at her brother and saw tears on his cheeks. “What the matter?” she asked as she gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Oh, nothing,” he replied. “Tell us,” persisted Usha. “I wish I had died with Mohan in the war. Then you would not have been put to all this trouble.” Usha put her arms around his neck and gave him a tired hug. “Don’t think that way, son,” his father said gently as his own eyes misted over. “We are all together now. Isn’t that what matters?” Except for the lapping of the waves, everything was quiet; even the baby had fallen silent.
A light breeze blew in from the east, giving them some respite. The sun was well on its way down when, through the haze of their weariness, they thought they heard voices in the distance. A fishing boat was approaching them from the north and as it came closer, they could see that its tall triangular sails were made of white plastic gunny sacks stitched together. They were all on their feet now, waving and shouting as best as they could through their parched lips. “We are from Elangai. Help us.” As the boat came closer, they saw there were two fishermen in it. The craft was slowing down now, as they furled the sails in and heeled in the boat almost to a stop, perhaps twenty feet from the shoreline. The fishermen threw two plastic bottles of water that landed on the beach with a thud. While a couple of them retrieved the bottles, the rest pleaded with the fishermen to rescue them. But their pleas seemed to have fallen on deaf ears, as the fishermen trimmed their sails, skirted around their island and headed towards the mainland. The coming of fresh water was welcome. It was decided that the baby could have as much as she could drink. The rest was rationed out equitably and carefully. Each got only enough to wet their mouth and have a gulp or two. It was better than nothing.
But the change that came over the baby was remarkable. Her face brightened up; soon, she was smiling, gurgling and reaching for her mother’s ears. “Why didn’t they pick us up?” asked Murali with disappointment writ all over his face. “I don’t know,” his father replied, shaking his head. When it came to refugees, every fisherman in Rameshwaram and Mandapam knew what not to do. If caught carrying aliens, the very best they could expect would be a sound and proper grilling by the coastguards or the police. Apart from this, everyone had heard of what had happened to Ramanathan about a year ago. This kind fisherman had brought his boat to shore to let on a bunch of stranded exiles. Even as he tried to explain that he would come back for the rest, they crowded into his boat, swamping it completely. He lost his catch, valuable fishing gear and his mast lay broken. The stricken boat had to be towed in the next day. None of them would take such risks again. Most would make an anonymous call to the coastguards as soon as they could, but in a few instances, the rescue had come too late. Children and a few old people had died on the sands before help could reach them. Thankfully, the little company that sat huddled on the shore had no knowledge of these happenings. But as the sun set on fire the western horizon, some of them wondered if they would ever live to see it rise again. The quiet splendour of the tropical sunset with its chorus of colours passed them by. Indeed, beauty could have held little meaning for those in such desperate straits. For most of them, the waning sun was only a harbinger of dread and gloom.
The short twilight was wearing away fast, the colours gave way to shades of grey and soon even this was swallowed up in a shroud of darkness that rose from the east. Soon, the tide was on the rise again and the ocean began to close in on them once more like the iris of an eye. They wearily made for higher ground. There was nothing to do but wait. Someone was weeping softly; the murmur of conversations rose and fell and then, only the whisper of the sea remained. Two hours into the darkness, they heard a rumble in the distance that grew louder and louder. It was definitely a big vessel. They wondered if it would pass them by. All at once, a few kilometres to the east, a white finger of light stabbed through the darkness; it swept the sea as if looking for something and then settled on another island like their own, but only further eastwards. It hung there for some time before slowly swinging out in their direction. It wandered over the water for a few minutes before it came on them. All of them were already on their feet, and now they were jumping up and down, waving sheets and towels. At first, the light barely caught their outlines, but as it came closer, the frantic figures could not be mistaken. The rumble that had now become a roar suddenly ceased, but the lights were still on them. A loudspeaker crackled to life and they heard a strange Tamil voice telling them that this was the Indian coastguard; it told them to remain calm and that boats would soon be sent to rescue them. Soon afterwards, the light was gone and they felt it was as dark as ever. After a few minutes, their eyes grew sensitive and they saw it, parked about a kilometre to the south, a huge craft, its decks alive with flickering lights. Usha and her family hugged each other, while others variously knelt on the sand or stood immobile.
Even though their parched tongues grated on their palates, many of them had tears in their eyes. In time, two twenty-foot boats were on their way. As they came closer, they saw smart officers with white uniforms, one in each boat along with a couple of sailors. Their crafts beached and they jumped ashore and secured the boats. Sachets of water were passed around and before they did anything else, each of them drank their fill; never had it tasted so good. The boats carried them to the coastguard vessel, which towered over them. A short steel ladder took them onto its deck. There, they were asked to sit on the floor, while their luggage was searched with flashlights. The vessel vibrated under them as its huge engines rumbled to life and they headed for the mainland.
They spent the rest of the night on the wharf and the next morning, a white government van carried them to the Mandapam refugee camp. The camp was a ten-acre affair; old school buildings stood at one end of it. This was where they were held now. Behind these buildings lay an open space. Two steel posts with hooks on them indicated that it might have been a volleyball court at one time. Further back stood rows of bamboo and thatched booths. Each row had three sets of four stalls each, and they could see at least five rows one behind another. Breakfast of rice gruel and lentils was dished out in one of the classrooms. At about ten in the morning, officials came in jeeps and set up tables out in the open. The newcomers were made to stand in a queue and enrolled in big registers with as many particulars as they could furnish. After this, they were told to go and find a stall for themselves. They wandered among the rows. The front rows were better maintained but were all occupied. They wandered to the back rows and the further they went, stronger was the stench from the makeshift toilets at the furthermost corner of the compound. They walked down the last but one row and found an empty booth that looked reasonably intact. All these temporary shelters were of similar design. Stout bamboo poles driven into the ground formed the framework, cross beams made of the thin trunks of casuarinas held up the thatched roof. The flimsy walls—if at all they could be called that—were made of woven coconut leaves providing partitions between the booths, but they stopped well below the roof so that a moderate leap could provide one with a peep into the next enclosure. The back, front and outer sides of the quadruple complex were made of sterner stuff.
Thin, worn-out tarpaulin sheets were stretched across the bamboo poles and held there by ropes that went through grommets along their margins. A dark blue plastic sheet across the entrance endeavoured to provide some sort of a door for each enclosure. A single naked bulb dangled precariously above the partition between two booths. Ventilation there was plenty; draughts that came and went through the many gaps had a free run of the place. The sun glinted in through the many holes in the thatch above and made patterns on the floor. The floor itself was made of a large sheet of plastic-backed jute cloth, held down at its corners by the weight of four rough-hewn granite blocks. It might not have been ‘The Taj’, but for Usha and her family, it provided a welcome respite from the elements they had battled with only a short while ago. They looked around and laid down their stuff. Usha’s mother brought out a sheet and spread it in a corner. “Come, Usha,” she said, “lie down for a while.” Usha obeyed without a fuss and within a few minutes was fast asleep. By the time Usha woke, the evening was far gone. She had rolled around a little and the sheet had crumpled up under her. Her head lay partly on the sand that showed through a large rent in the plastic underneath. She lay half-awake a few moments and thought to herself, I must have gone to sleep in the garden. Why did I do that anyway? Slowly, she looked around and took in things as they were. She had woken into a bad dream. Here she was in a strange land, and the faint bad odour that came to her nose was something she would get used to in a few days. Her father and brother were nowhere to be seen. Her rising fear was quelled when she saw her mother sleeping nearby.
The next week or two went by. The adults went around with woebegone faces, sharing the experiences of some who had come earlier and morosely discussing their own plight. But the children soon had happy faces, a game to play, a smile for a new-found friend, and very often, some little miracle brightened every day. A spider’s web in the morning sun, the flitting flight of a palm swift, a pretty pebble or a snail’s shell; any of these was enough to make them stare in wonder. Usha did not have any family known to them, but she made a bosom friend with whom she played Kokan. Her prowess at the game soon made her quite popular with her compatriots. A little more than two weeks had gone; they would soon have to travel to more permanent settlements. One day, they were told to pack their things and go with an official. They boarded a bus for Madurai. After four hours, they reached this big city. They had seen nothing like this.
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