Manthagini

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I was born and raised in a small place called Thirunelvely. It was neither a town nor a village — somewhere in between. Located just 2 kilometers away from the city, it always buzzed with university and polytechnic college students. The place had both the buzz of the town and, at the same time, the quietness of a small village.

I was so used to it. The early morning bell from the Parameswara Temple; crows, cuckoos, seven sisters, and sparrows; the buzz of bees around the mango tree and other flower plants; the fragrance of gardenias; the breeze through the coconut leaves making an indescribable whoosh sound; the hundreds of baby pink roses boasting their pride, while the thorns and leaves disappeared in their beauty; the bell ring of the milkman; the honk of the school vans rushing the kids to get ready; the cycle rims making a cranky sound on the roads as they kissed the potholes; the familiar faces all around: five friends — a group of partners in crime, neighbors, all the kind faces with smiles; my tightly-knit family with Grandma, aunts, uncles, and cousins — they all made life wonderful and memorable.

It was instilled in us. I never stopped for a moment to think about the beauty of it. Don’t they say that the worth of the shade is only known when you are in the sun?

It all ended one day.

After several years of fleeing to safer places, trying to safeguard us from the atrocities of the Sri Lankan and Indian militaries, we were displaced again in 1995. A mass exodus. Advancing military, the noise of shells and rocket launchers, the sound of vehicles rushing with casualties, restless animals, and the cold, dark, gloomy day all together increased the uneasiness and the urgency to leave your home for an unknown place and unknown future. People were moving toward the east. Roads were packed, and one step at a time, people moved in the pouring rain. I was pregnant, with an expected delivery date in just two weeks. Two years ago, I had married, set up a home for me and my husband — new furniture, new clothes, new marriage, a new husband — the honeymoon period had not even ended yet. But I had to leave. I left all the nicest things that made my life and home behind, taking only two suitcases — one for me and one for my unborn baby. Luckily enough, I didn’t have to walk. Thanks to a friend, I traveled by van. But my other family members weren’t so fortunate. My grandma walked for two days in the pouring rain to reach our destination. I still can’t organize the memory of how we all found each other in the newly displaced place without any means of communication.

At that time, it seemed like it would last forever. But the exile lasted eight years. Eight years of missing my gardenias, eight years of missing my roses, eight years of missing my sparrows and seven sisters, eight years of missing my Amman temple, eight years of missing my home. It was long, dark, and depressive. Malaria, typhoid, mosquitos, cobras and scorpions, poverty, loneliness, lack of friends and family, shells, rocket launchers, aerial attacks, and death overshadowed every corner of life.

After eight long years, with the militants winning control of the land, peace came. From the very first day of peace, I held on to the hope of returning home, even though that home was now a shattered building full of memories. Most of my family had already immigrated abroad for survival. Two years of clearing minefields and reconstructing roads was a long wait.

In 2003, after a decade, I returned home, expecting everything to be the same. But it felt strange. Mani Acca and Thathappaa, though not family by blood, but by heart, had died in exile. Asaiyamma had aged, Niro and Nira had grown into young boys, and my dearest friend had lost her husband. There were unfamiliar neighbors. The roads seemed smaller. There was more buzz. Strangers on the road. The military vehicles and the green uniforms, which I hadn’t seen for eight years, scared me to death. It felt different. The place had lost its tranquility. I couldn’t identify the sounds anymore. I was a stranger there. I felt like a visitor, and I needed a host — someone who could guide me in adapting to this new world.

After eight years of exile, I had no contact with the outside world. Once a year, a phone call from my brother, because connecting was a lot of work and expensive. Occasionally, a letter from my sister, because the mail took months. Communication with the outside world was blocked, and the world had moved on without me. I didn’t know how technology had developed. I didn’t know about changing fashion trends. Society had changed too. New rich people had developed new classes. In Jaffna, where education spoke volumes and people were valued by their knowledge, now it was money that spoke. I was penniless, without any jewelry, which was a status symbol. I couldn’t fit in because I was different. Committed to living a simple life for a cause, we never accumulated wealth. But the pride I had in living for a cause was replaced with weariness. I felt out of place.

There was a strange, scary stillness I couldn’t identify. People just nodded their heads. There was hesitation in their smiles. Even if you screamed for help, no one would come out of their houses. No one wanted to witness anything horrible that might happen in the darkness of the night — robbery, sexual assault, murder, arrest — anything and everything. I came from a place where I could ride a motorbike at midnight, where my housekeeper showed me marks in the sand left by pythons. I had learned to kill scorpions. I had lived with cobras on the fence and under the hen house. I had lived through military infiltrations at night, recon and ambush. I had gone through a cemetery every day and night, witnessing fresh burials. I had seen bodies torn apart by aerial attacks. But this stillness was different. It was more subtle and more frightening.

It took only three weeks to bring me down to earth from the dreamland I had been living in. The enthusiasm I had for returning home — for visiting my Amman temple, which I had vowed to avoid for so long — was gone. One night, it all disappeared.

I met Valanaadan on the steps of the Evelyn Ratnam Library. Just two weeks after coming home, I had made friends with Latha, the librarian. We connected quickly, and she became a good friend. She also ran the net café where I made calls abroad. I was coming down the stairs when I saw Valanaadan, a writer and artist. We chatted, and when he found out I was living alone with my kids, he advised me to have someone live with me. He also warned me to keep curry powder under my pillow. I didn’t stop to think about it. Every day for the next week, I thought to myself, “Tomorrow, I’ll keep curry powder under my pillow.” But I never did. Partly because I didn’t understand why he suggested it, and partly because I was consumed with daily chores — repairing the house, cutting overgrown trees, cleaning the yard, replacing dead plants, figuring out school for the kids, learning to ride a motorbike, shopping, and dealing with the family drama from newly found relatives.

I didn’t stop to analyze the environment, the news, the politics. I missed using the skills I had learned. For four years, I worked as a security focal point, updating staff about security risks, but once I quit my job and returned home, I failed to apply that knowledge in my personal life.

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December 13.
It might have been around 2 a.m. I was fast asleep, but my senses, which were so used to being alert to the sounds of the night, woke me up. Did I hear a sound on the roof, or was it a dream? There! Another sound! It wasn’t a dream, then. It was a scratching sound on the asbestos sheet. It could be the wind, or it could be someone on the roof.

I was not scared. Why would I be? I came from a land where elephants roamed your front yard at night. I came from a land where my housekeeper showed me marks in the sand and said they were from pythons. I came from a land where I learned to kill scorpions. I came from a land where cobras lived on your fence and under your hen house. I came from a land where the military infiltrated at night for reconnaissance and ambush. I came from a land where I had to pass through a cemetery every day and night, witnessing fresh burials. I came from a land where bodies were shredded by aerial attacks.

I was not scared. I just lay there, listening to the sound and thinking, If it’s a thief after the two bunches of bananas lying on the roof, that’s fine. A thief with hunger? Let him have it. After all, it’s just a banana. I lay there, listening to the sounds of the night.

As I was not scared, I did not realize I had fallen asleep. The next time I woke up, the light outside the bedroom shone on a dark figure leaving my room, carrying my handbag. Darkness in the room prevented the man from seeing me. I just pulled the sheet up to my nose and peered through. There were two more men in the hall, walking here and there. I decided to keep quiet, thinking, Let them take whatever they want and leave. My kids were fast asleep. I thanked God the sound hadn’t woken them up.

Another five minutes passed like five eras. I was lying there, watching the man empty everything from the handbag onto the dining table and pick through my belongings—my mobile, my money. My heartbeat gradually increased. The ‘what if’ questions crowded my mind. What if they get other ideas after looting the house? What if they try to kill me? What if they try to sexually assault me? The possibility of that happening made my heart race.

Could I scream? Could I call anyone? I wanted to go to the window and call the next-door neighbor. Rasam Aunty’s son Kannan lived in the room opposite mine. His window was just 10 to 12 feet away from mine, separated by a fence in the middle. But fear paralyzed me. I couldn’t get up. Lying down, I screamed, “Kallan!” Instead of Kannan, all three “kallar” (thieves) came running into my room. The one who seemed to be the leader sat on my bed and held a knife to my throat.

“Shh. No noise.”

The other two crowded the space, trying to get closer to me. They both reeked of alcohol. But the leader looked decent and smelled clean. He was so close to me that I could smell him. With the knife still at my throat, he asked where I kept my jewelry and money. I kept saying that whatever I had in my handbag was all I had. He tried to grab the gold necklace I was wearing—a simple necklace, a farewell gift from my colleagues at MSF. I stopped him by saying, “Take your hand away, I will get it for you.” He took his hand away. I pulled the necklace with force, and it came apart, hurting my neck. He looked at the bracelet I was wearing. I pulled it off, and it broke into pieces. I thought by speeding up the process, he would just move away from me. But he just sat there, watching me, and chased his two colleagues away, who were trying to take advantage of me. They were speaking words I had never heard in my life before. Of course, it was in Tamil, but I had never heard such ugly sexual slurs.

The leader chased them away, telling them to check the other rooms. I could see that he was trying to get rid of them. Was it to protect me? Or to abuse me himself? His attitude seemed to be one of pity. Swiftly, he pushed me onto the bed and positioned himself on top of me, leaving me no time to process my thoughts. I froze with fear. Fear paralyzed my entire body, except for my teary eyes. He did nothing. He just lay there. His inaction freed me. I began to plan my escape route. I must be careful not to wake my sleeping children in the next bed. If they woke up and screamed, these robbers might do anything to silence them. What could I do without waking them? I could not believe it when I told myself, If you can do nothing to escape, just reduce the damage by not fighting him and ‘thinking of London’.

I found the courage to ask, “Don’t you have any sisters?”

He looked at me as if deciding what to do, then kissed me on the cheek and got off me. Stunned, I just lay there. The knife was gone from my throat, as if he and I had a mutual understanding that he wouldn’t hurt me, and I wouldn’t hurt him. He turned into an interviewer, asking where I had moved from, why I was alone, and why I didn’t have any money or jewelry.

He suddenly became a compassionate listener as I narrated my story. He seemed to develop some respect for me. His language changed from singular to plural, showing me respect. He suddenly went out of the room and told his colleagues to hurry. One of the other two robbers tried to enter the room and come closer to me.

I called out to the leader, “Anna! Brother! Come and see him.”

My Lord Krishna, my savior, came to the door and scolded the other guy to get away from me.

Is this what is called Stockholm Syndrome? Thinking of your captor as your protector?

While he was chasing him away, I suddenly felt shortness of breath. My asthma attack hit me. I get asthma attacks induced by stress. If I didn’t get it now, when would I? I started to wheeze and cough. My savior came to the door.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m having an asthma attack.”

He turned without a word and disappeared. I heard noises from the kitchen—pots and pans banging, the gas cooker being turned on. He reappeared with a cup of warm water in his hand. Not stepping into the room, he stretched out his hand, offering me the cup. I was so scared he might have mixed something in it that I refused, shaking my head. He shrugged, set the cup on the dining table, then left and gathered his colleagues. He came to my door, raised his hand in a salute.

“I’m leaving through the front door. Lock the door once we leave.” With that, he left. Just like that.

A robber who broke into my house through the roof was concerned about my safety and told me to lock the door! The irony hit me hard. I started laughing and crying.

After the laughter and the tears stopped, I just sat there, amazed and shocked, contemplating what had happened.

My grandma had a big Pongal the next day for her Vairavar, saying Vairavar saved me and my kids.

I thought, yes, Vairavar saved me by sending a kind-hearted robber.

A robber who had the temptation to misuse me changed his mind in a minute, giving me a peck on my cheek as though he had some affection or sympathy for me. Why didn’t he go ahead and sexually abuse me? With the knife at my neck and my kids in the next bed, he knew I wouldn’t make a sound. Yet, he left me unharmed.

Was it because he still had some humanity left in him? Was he merely a good-natured, poverty-stricken thief? Or did he change into a good-hearted human being because of me?

Was I his savior that night, or was he mine?