In a Time of Burning Read online

  we were free, our guns empty.

  Now, though,

  the guns have any number of bullets,

  but we are not free.

  2

  Today was hectic, always on the move

  along the roads (which are dreadful)

  winding through palmyra palms,

  the armoured vehicles jolting.

  Later, all my bones ached.

  At mid-day,

  in a village surrounded by fields,

  we shot three fat goats.

  There were no young men about,

  the women were all in hiding.

  Half-way on our return to camp

  one of us remembered

  we hadn’t bought the Major’s cigarettes.

  What next?

  The entire convoy turned around

  heading for the town again.

  3

  Today

  Edirweera and Chandrasiri

  shot and killed three Tamils.

  Chandrasiri said,

  “They started to run, suddenly

  in the midst of a crowded street.

  It worried me. I shot them.”

  Soon after,

  without any sort of inquiry

  the two were sent back to Colombo

  on transfer.

  (Lucky fellows!)

  …

  If you shoot someone,

  lead a skirmish,

  or set fire to their homes,

  you get an immediate transfer.

  …

  Yesterday too, five others

  received an immediate transfer.

  Since I arrived here

  at least fifty of us have gone home.

  When will it be my turn?

  I wish I knew.

  4

  Today a hundred new recruits

  arrived at our camp.

  Young fellows

  moustaches just sprouting,

  lacking even the wit

  to handle machine guns.

  These days

  having roamed about all day

  I never get to sleep at night.

  It’s been too long

  since I saw you face to face.

  Can’t even think of a holiday.

  5

  Last night

  ‘they’ shot and killed

  thirteen of our battalion.

  After that deadly accurate bomb exploded,

  their machine guns surrounded us.

  None of us expected this.

  Although we never lost radio contact

  with headquarters,

  we couldn’t stop Yama

  from entering into our camp.

  The next morning

  there was no one about in the streets,

  no shops open.

  An incomprehensible eerie silence.

  What sort of people are these?

  Now

  our nights are full of horror.

  As moonlight spreads,

  shadows move

  and nameless birds shriek,

  suddenly;

  truly it’s hell until daybreak.

  …

  After that,

  having requested an immediate transfer,

  our battalion descended on their streets.

  I can’t say exactly

  how many were shot and killed.

  Major thinks fifty or sixty.

  6

  Dearest Nanda,

  Its all over. At last.

  Tomorrow I get my transfer,

  thank god.

  Today I went into town

  for a last time.

  It didn’t seem to be

  so frightening.

  The shops, the streets

  were just as before.

  Only the people, as before,

  never look at us.

  â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹

  (I COULD FORGET ALL THIS)

  â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹

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  å¼ Cƒè÷‚ 蘊HEŠ ªð‡¬í

  â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹,

  â™ô£õŸ¬ø»«ñ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹

  Ýù£™

  à¡ °ö‰¬îè¬÷ åOˆ¶¬õˆî

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  GôˆF™ CîP

  àô˜‰î «ê£Ÿ¬ø»‹

   âŠð® ñø‚è?

  I COULD FORGET ALL THIS [1983]

  (â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹)

  I could forget all this

  forget the flight

  headlong through Galle Road

  clutching an instant’s spark of hope,

  refusing to abandon this wretched

  vulnerable life

  even though the very earth shuddered

  – and so too, my heart –

  forget the sight

  of a thigh-bone protruding

  from an upturned, burnt-out car

  a single eye fixed in its staring

  somewhere between earth and sky

  empty of its eye

  a socket, caked in blood

  on Dickman’s Road, six men dead

  heads split open

  black hair turned red

  a fragment of a sari

  that escaped burning

  bereft of its partner

  a lone left hand

  the wristwatch wrenched off

  a Sinhala woman, pregnant,

  bearing, unbearably,

  a cradle from a burning house

  I could forget all this

  forget it all, forget everything.

  But you, my girl,

  snatched up and flung away

  one late afternoon

  as you waited in secret

  while the handful of rice

  – found after so many days –

  cooked in its pot,

  your children hidden beneath the tea bushes

  low-lying clouds shielding them above –

  how shall I forget the broken shards

  and the scattered rice

  lying parched upon the earth?

  ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?

  (WHAT HAVE WE LOST?)

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  Þ¡‹ ðô àJ¬ó.

  Ýù£™,

  ï‹H‚¬èè¬÷

  ï£ƒèœ Þö‚A«ô£‹.

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  ܶ «ð£¶‹ àù‚°.

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  (ï‡ð¡ «èbvõó¡ G¬ù¾‚°)

  WHAT HAVE WE LOST? [1984]

  (ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?)

  In memory of Ketheeswaran

  What have we lost,

  my dear friend?

  Did a daughter of Eelam

  give you birth

  and cradle you in Trincomalee

  only for you to be shot dead and burnt in the street,

  your remains tossed into a hole in Chemmani

  for dogs to feast on?

  Did the goddess draw water

  and make kolams upon the spreading sands

  only for Death

  to plant his footsteps there?

  Oh, paddy sheaves,

  chequered fields,

  merciless Sun,

  dewdrops blossoming

  on blades of grass,

  do you understand

  our heart-freezing sorrow?

  How else will you proclaim everywhere

  our histories written in blood?

  Who doesn’t know

  the story that was carried

  by the flecks of ash

  borne by the wind?

  Our young friend,

  you lost your life because of the frenzy

  of dishonourable dogs

  who only know how to shoot

  again and again

  at our helpless people.

  Far away, among pine forests,

  in the cold freezing night,

  the woman who once loved you

  will weep.

  Today Death put an end

  to a quarrel

  Life could not solve.

  No witnesses to this tragic tale,

  no end to tragedies.

  So she lost you.

  And what have we lost?

  Your life, and like yours,

  so many lives.

  Yet,

  we have not lost our beliefs,

  we have not forsaken our duty;

  we will never forsake our land.

  That will be enough for you.

  Stand for us within the wind.

  Be the sea and its waves.

  When the army turns tail and runs,

  chased by the raised voices of our comrades,

  upon their laments we will inscribe

  a memorial for you, and thousands like you

  in this land.

  å¼ Cƒè÷ˆ «î£N‚° â¿Fò¶

  (A LETTER TO A SINHALA FRIEND)

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  ðø¬õèœ ðø‚A¡øù.

  A LETTER TO A SINHALA FRIEND [1984]

  (å¼ Cƒè÷ˆ «î£N‚° â¿Fò¶)

  It will not take many days

  for you

  and your friends

  to recover from the shock

  of meeting me, an ordinary man,

  from an unseen and distant land

  where, you had heard,

  we sow lead-shots from guns