By the end of this story, some of you may cry, some of you may laugh, some of you may feel blank and some of you may lie back and think – fall into a deep contemplation about me, about you and will understand life or feel nothing else, but lost.
*****
Another day is bleeding into night fall. Dark purple hues of the setting sun, stream in through the clouded glass panes, lighting up the room in a strange, forlorn glow. The evening breeze gently lifts the yellow curtains and the wind-chime in the balcony, plays its own melancholy, autumn song. I can hear the wind rustling through the mango tree outside, solemnly shaking its last dead leaves to the parched ground. I sit on my old green armchair, stretching my eyes far into the void of the past, the present and the future.
Anula brings me tea. She places the ceramic teacup on the stool beside me. Once I had loved collecting pretty ceramic cups and saucers, especially ones that had embossed floral designs, but once is not now.
‘Anula, did you have tea?’
‘Yes, Loku Nona. Do you want anything else?’
I smile. What did I want? I never wanted anything.
‘No, thank you. You can leave now.’
Anula goes away and I return to my tea. I take a sip, purse my lips and lie back. I take a glance at the enormous bookshelves standing around like giants, staring back at me. As a passionate lover of knowledge, I had always had an affinity for collecting books of all kinds. I used to have each one of them labelled and organized in neat rows along the wooden shelves – classics, philosophy, literature, science fiction, poetry, comics, detectives, fantasies…, but now, they seem to be in a complete mess. When new books kept coming in every week, the old ones were thrusted behind them or were put into huge trunks. Now all sorts of volumes are piled up carelessly, some even pouring out from the tops of shelves. The dust motes have taken residence along the faded leather bindings of old classics and spiders have invaded the dark corners. Anula says that there might be mice here as well, because several days she had found the pages of old books been bitten off. I had always wanted to sit in a space with knowledge all around me. I close my eyes for a moment in my world of ken and breathe in the aroma of the inky treasures printed in old yellow pages, now concealed behind their tattered book covers. I used to wipe out the dust off the shelves and arrange the books in neat rows every day, almost like a ritual, but now I feel myself so feeble to get my outdated hands to work and Anula has many other chores to do than bothering about old books.
The darkness pervades in and devours up the few places where a dim fluorescence of daylight still lingers about. Suddenly, it becomes so dark and instantly I feel a sense of dreadful and cold loneliness choking down my throat.
‘Anulaaa…Anulaaaa…’
Anula comes running into the room. ‘Yes, Loku Nona…what is it?’
‘Oh! Anula please draw the curtains and switch on the lights. It’s dark here and there’s a bad chill outside.’
Anula draws the curtains and switches on the few glow lamps in the room and instantly the room lights up in a nostalgic glow.
‘Loku Nona, this room is overflowing with books. You should think about giving away some to a school library or somebody who loves to read but can’t afford to buy books.’
I sighed. She has suggested this idea to me about a hundred times, each time receiving no response from me. Anula always knew it was useless talking to me about giving away books. She picks up the empty teacup from the stool and walks away.
I look at the books that I have been reading over the past few years, each renewing memories of the past. The bottom shelves are packed with Oxford and Cambridge dictionaries, and the notebooks filled with new words that I used to study once upon a time. My PHD dissertation and the undergraduate thesis might be somewhere among those heavy volumes of Shakespeare and Wilde on the top shelf. Ah! How I desperately want to organize them properly, again!
Suddenly, one of the books collapses to the ground from the right corner shelf. It gives me a shudder and I give a short scream. Oh! There is a little mouse running through the shelves. Ewww! So Anula was right. There are mice here then. Never mind, at least it isn’t a ghost. I stand from my chair and walk towards the shelf. I pick up the fallen book and the title makes me smile, bringing back nostalgic memories. Viragaya – by Martin Wickramasinghe, the literary polymath of Sinhala literature. Oh! Aravinda…you never knew how much you influenced my life. How could you know? You are long dead and gone. Even Kulasooriya, your only friend. Even Sammy, who read your autobiography…and even the preeminent writer who created you. How could anyone of you have known that I was obsessed into your character? I clutch the worn-out uncanny treasure and ensconce back into my arm chair. I flip through the yellow pages. I am glad that none of the pages have torn out, all this time, especially when I took this almost everywhere I went and even under my pillow at night. The smiley faces, the depressed faces that I drew through the pages of your life story, had hardly lost their marks. Some of the footnotes I had made, had already faded into evanescence though. I sigh. Oh Aravinda, the only difference between us, marks you a man and I, a woman.
Throughout most days of my life, I have been standing in the midst of a four-way crossroad under a lamp post, where four roads – one red, one white, one yellow and one black, diverged and stretched to ambiguous destinations. Somehow or other, I have travelled through halfway of them all, came back to where the lamp post was and pondered which way to go forever.
Ah! I remember…….
*****
September 19…..
I closed my eyes and lay still on my bed. I heard some pleasant music playing near my right ear. I breathed in the music and the perplexity running through my head. Soon her fingers began to massage several places in my body. My forehead, my eyes, my face, the nape of my neck, my
hands, my fingers, my knees, my toes… I was halfway through sleep when she signaled me to open my eyes.
‘How do you feel now?’
‘I …I feel nothing.’
‘Do you feel happy or sad?’
‘Neither.’
I sat down on my bed and drank some water from a glass she proffered me. She sat beside me with her smiling heart eyes.
‘I’m sure, music therapy and some relaxation would heal you, take all of your unwanted problems away from your mind and make you feel happy.’ She said kindly.
I looked down at the glass in my hands and my reflection mocked at me. I kept the glass away hurriedly. I wanted her to be gone. I hated mother for bringing her in, for not understanding me. Tears welled up in my eyes obscuring my vision of the past, the present and the future, but I didn’t cry. I pursed my lips and said nothing.
*****
When people often asked me ‘what’s your problem?’, I never replied them. I could not gather my courage to say that I don’t feel like living. I don’t feel anything. Even though I felt something, that something would soon fade away and I won’t feel like I’m living. Sometimes, I felt like I was floating through a world of ataraxia and the other times I felt like drowning in a sea of undulating black waves of depression. The times I wished to take my own life, were countless. I never thought about the past. I didn’t gather memories, for every present moment seeps into the past and each painful memory throbbing in my heart. Sometimes, I didn’t bother to remember things. Sometimes, I couldn’t recall certain things. They seemed like they never happened to me before. I remember looking at my old photo albums and staring at a certain innocent child, whose mother said was me. It seemed so ironical that I cracked jokes looking at my own past days. I didn’t think about the future either. It was a never ending black void with no glistening stars. I didn’t have my fate written on stars, as for others. When, all my friends of my age was so busy sketching out their future plan, I stood under that lonely lamp post wondering which way to go. I didn’t feel the present either. In fact, I didn’t feel like I was living. Sometimes I didn’t even feel I really existed. Sometimes I would shut the bathroom door, open the shower and cry for hours, and finally come back as if nothing happened. Sometimes I would bury my face hard against my pillow and shed tears of desperation and helplessness, until I feel myself choking. And the worse thing was that….. I didn’t knew why I cried.
You won’t ever feel what I always felt unless it happens to you, once in a lifetime.
*****
‘Meditate with me. It will help you to tame your wandering mind.’ I remember my mother saying to me one Sunday evening. She lighted some floral scent candles, played some pleasant instrumental music and made me sit with her on the cold floor. We meditated that evening together and it felt good, except for a few unwanted images flashing in my mind now and then. But, it did
not lift the weight off my head. I could not understand whether it was depression, existentialism, karma or what life actually is.
*****
You’ll be surprised now when I say that I had a lover. Yes, I did. I thought I loved him and I knew for certain that he loved me too. I tried my very best to figure out what love really feels like, and I did, even for a fleeting moment. I remember us kissing with our eyes closed, once upon a Christmas day. Soon, I forgot how a kiss would feel, because I felt nothing afterwards.
*****
‘I want to get ordained.’ I said to my mother one Vesak full moon poya day as we went to the temple to observe sil and witnessed some young female nuns.
She said nothing. I remember her crying at a corner in the kitchen that night.
So, the thought was never spoken again, although it was always held so close to my heart.
*****
‘I don’t want to marry. I don’t want to have children. I don’t like the life of a housewife.’ I shouted at my mother one day.
‘What on earth do you want then?’ She shouted back at me, crashing a glass plate on the floor, her eyes smouldering with tears and despair.
‘I…I don’t know. I don’t want anything.’ I sobbed, feeling so miserable about myself.
‘Then, why did you give hopes to that innocent boy? You ruined his life as well. Let him go then. Please, let him lead a life he wishes for.’
He never came to see me again. I cried for several days, desperately trying to control my feelings, though I didn’t actually know why I cried. I later got to know that mother has apologized him for my stupidity and begged him to let go of me and pursue his dreams. There were nights when I wanted him to hug me close and console me, but soon, he was erased from my memory and so was my mother, my father, my friends, everybody else and myself.
*****
The only moment I felt like living was when I read a book. I craved for knowledge. When I didn’t have any books to read, I would even turn over the pages of a dictionary. I hated exams, all the time. It seems like I passed all my school and university examinations quite unconsciously. I didn’t put the best of my effort to study, because I didn’t want to. I didn’t have a clear-cut future plan. I didn’t knew at least why I studied. It was during this time when I came across Viragaya and shared a deep sense of reverence towards Aravinda Jayasena. I was high over spirits to find at least one person in this world resembling seventy-five percent of myself, even though he was a fictitious character. I started urging everybody to read Viragaya and then I would ask ‘Do you understand Aravinda’s character?’, when they instantly replies ‘No, he is a strange character’ and some even said ‘I think he is actually mad. He didn’t gain anything at the end.’ My hopes would sink to the bottom end of despair. If they won’t understand Aravinda, they won’t probably understand me.
*****
Everybody went along the red road. They had a dream career, a future, a married life, a family life and the desire for the “normative” standards of living. Some took the white road, like me. Unmarried, single, free, educated, rich, independent (as I used to think before), but forever drowned in a sea of darkness, helplessness and isolation. Some very fortunate ones, with much determination, went along the yellow path. Swathed in a yellow robe to seek the truth of life, detached from every worldly thing. Some who could not necessarily find a way out, took the black path – by taking one’s own life.
*****
Anula comes running in.
‘Loku Nona….. Kamala Nona just called me. They will be coming to see you tomorrow.’
An incomprehensible sense of joy shuffles my memory. It has been three months since I last saw my sister and her family. At least now I have something to look forward to.
*****
It is almost nine thirty now. I have been awake since five and made Anula clean the entire house, although there wasn’t much to clean about. She is busy preparing all sorts of sweets and milk rice for the guests.
I am sitting in the veranda for almost two hours now. A stray dog is loitering towards the kitchen and I hear Anula shooing it out. The begonias in the pots have all withered off. They need more water in this scorching season. There is hardly a leaf in the mango tree outside. It has always been half dead and half alive since the day I planted it six decades back. Never showed any signs of fertility, even though Anula used to manure it, trimmed its branches and cared for it. It is useless now – no better than a living skeleton.
A white car is approaching through the gates and now along the gravel path towards our maha gedara. Through the half open side-shutter, two sweet faces peep out. Their hands waving, laughter mingling with their cries of delight.
‘Sudu Aththammaaaaa…..’
The car comes to a halt and the two little children come sprawling along the gravel path towards me and hug me tight. Following them comes a good-looking young woman and a young man holding the hand of a senile old woman who leans on a stick – just like me.
We share a moment of kindred love, with a heated embrace, tears rolling down our withered cheeks.
‘Kamala Nangi…you look so happy and healthy as ever.’
‘Why shouldn’t I be…with these two little flower buds keeping me happy all the time.’ My sister replies laughing, but could not avoid the sarcasm she intended.
Breakfast is served and everyone seems delighted to find such a spread on the table. Perhaps, they might be having every meal, every day, just like this – all happy and together. I feel sharp palpitations in my heart now and then, stifling me each time.
‘Loku Nanda…. You must come and live with us. This maha gedara is too big for you to handle by yourself and you can’t live here alone forever.’
‘Noo….putha. Anula is here to help me noh.’
‘What if Anula goes away? What if she decides to marry? Then you will be deserted here.’
‘No…she won’t go away. Even if she marries, she will settle down here with her husband.’
They remain silent and so does my sister.
‘Ahneeeee….Sudu Aththammaaa…please come and stay with us. So we can listen to both your and Achchi’s stories.’ Said little Raakhil who was only five years old. I smile at his innocent face.
In a short while, little Dulsara, who is thirteen, comes towards me and whispers in my ear.
‘Sudu Aththammaaa…can you please take me to your library? Achchi used to rave about your library. Pleaseee… I love books.’
‘Oh of course. I’m glad you love to read. Come with me dear.’
*****
Dulsara stares at my mini-library with her mouth open wide and eyes dilated. Perhaps, she has never seen such a massive collection of books in a house before.
‘Oh!! Myyy….Sudu Aththammaa….have you read them ALL?’
I smile. ‘Yesss darling. I started collecting these even before the age of your brother.’
‘Oh! I love to read too. Thaththi brings me a new book every month. Now I want to make a Biiig library like this one day.’
She walks from one bookshelf to another marveling at the solitary giants of knowledge, bringing down ones with the beautiful covers and beautiful titles. I stare at her, who resembles my own self years back.
I spring back when my sister comes and suddenly holds my hand.
‘I hope she won’t become like you.’ She says slowly. I sigh.
‘Nobody is like me Kamala. Don’t worry. I just wanted to show her the books because she wanted to see them.’
We sit down on the little cushioned sofa at the corner, watching Dulsara flipping the pages of her childhood imagination.
‘You regret now?’
‘No…nangi.’
“Oh! I forgot. Of course you won’t. You don’t feel anything. You don’t care about anything.’ She speaks rather crossly but with a sarcastic laugh.
A silence pervades between us.
‘By the way, I read Viragaya recently.’ She says after a while. My eyes lit up.
‘Oh! Really…what made you read it again after so long?’
‘I just wanted to understand who Aravinda actually is.’
‘So…you understood?’ I ask her.
‘No… All I can say is he is just like you. An idiot. Running behind knowledge like a mad dog without knowing why and ruining his entire life.’
I smile. She takes my hand and looks into my eyes. There is an utter sense of pity towards me in those aging eyes, I can say.
‘Akka listen. I loved reading too. I wanted to gather knowledge too. But….I had a purpose in life. I studied because I wanted to pass the exams. I wanted to pass the exams because I wanted to get to the university. I got to university and worked hard because I wanted to be educated, be a graduate and get a good government job. I wanted to do a job to become stable, so that I can be independent and do my own work. When I reached twenty-eight, I wanted to buy a land, make a house, marry someone who cares for me and make a family of my own, because I didn’t want to be all alone. Because there won’t be anyone to open the door for me when I am old like you. I didn’t want to become a fool like Aravinda, without any hope, without any purpose of living, without knowing what he is doing. I didn’t want to die like him and spend my final days in the care of a house maid….’ She goes on talking more and more and I suddenly doesn’t hear what she says. I feel blank. I feel numb. I feel nothing, but lost.
I regain my consciousness when Dulsara brings me a handmade bookmark of mine that she had found in one of the books.
‘Sudu aththammaaa…did you make this? Shall I take this please? It’s so beautiful.’
I take a look at the bookmark she holds in her little hand.
I remember I made it using pressed orchid flowers, once upon a time and the poetry quote still lies in it unsmudged, except for the word I have highlighted and rewritten.
“Four roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less travelled by,
And that had made all the difference.”
-Frost-
*****