"Baby, hold it higher darling"
A little girl, no more than five, tethered on her toes holding up a beautiful, oval,
Oakwood mirror. She propped it up with one knee held high and pushed the mirror towards the headrest of the bed, towards this woman that she barely recognised.
"Oh baby girl...!"
No more than a whisper, the woman's exclamation lacked the intensity that the little one expected or was used to. Of late, mummy was different, she was always sick or sleepy and little Suriya did not understand that life was about to take a sudden turn. She spent her days playing at the base of her mother's bed, silently, so as not to wake her or bother her. For, despite her tender age, little Suriya understood that something was terribly wrong.
The woman on the bed turned, her eyes moved and fell on the Oak tree outside, it's
light green leaves fluttered in the wind and lulled her into a semi-sleep. She strained to catch its rhythm, to fight-off the heaviness in her eyes. She hated how she felt most days. She who had mesmerised people with her dexterity and vitality, physically and emotionally! She whom people couldn't get enough of, literally.
Green...greengreener...the leaves outside the window were the darkest leaves she'd ever seen. She recognised them. They were from her favourite tree in the world. She was sure of that much now.
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Outside the leaves on the Mango tree shimmered. Malin stretched, yawned and bound out of bed. Her nose led the way, across the courtyard into the kitchen. Facing her back to the kitchen door, Athamma, Malin's maternal grandmother was busy at the stove, bringing to boil her signature sear fish curry. On the table beside her stood a steaming plate of milk rice. Malin knew that this small feast wasn't just breakfast, it was a symbol of celebration, of a day that was auspicious. It was Malin's birthday.
Turning 21, Malin looked forward to the legacy that lay ahead. She was now an adult. No more the little girl who was bound by the bonds of childhood. No more a soul that was trapped in a bottle, crying for freedom. Twenty-one long years she had spent in the meticulous care of her grandparents. Her childhood had not been so different from others except for the absence of her parents.
Parents. That always sent a jolt up her spine. What would they have been like? How different would her life have been if they were here with her? She dared not think too much. Lately, her mind had been wandering, ideas and feelings stretching out and delving into the deepest crevices of her being, stroking and enticing what had been a minute longing into something of greater craving. A craving that she dared not share with others. But she also knew that she couldn't allow it to stay dormant forever. It was an essential part of her being and it would make her whole. It was calling.
Malin shrugged off the daydreams and moved closer to Athamma, quietly. Standing directly behind her, she wrapped her hands around her grandmother's eyes. She herself closed her eyes tight and held her breath. Seconds later both grandmother and granddaughter burst into lovable laughter, each one feeling an intense love for the other.
Malin was quite definitely the only reason for her grandparent's existence. She was the joy that filled their hearts. She was also a constant reminder of twenty-one years of agony, borne with servitude, borne in the belief that they could and would protect her, borne with the conviction that Malin would never be allowed to feel the loss and loneliness that they had endured.
Athamma, with Malin in a tight embrace, was drawn back twenty-seven years. She was in a tight embrace with a young woman who epitomized the flower power craze of the 70s. The embrace wasn't one of joy. It was one of clinging love. It was an embrace that screamed out, "dont go! But she had known in her heart that she must be strong, that she must let her daughter, Malin's mother, and leave. She had a life to live, independently with her husband. It was a choice they had made, a path they had carved in their destiny. Besides, she had justified to herself, "What does life hold for them here? They are in search of greener pastures. I will be happy for them". It was she knew, what any mother would have thought and done - endure.
Deep down, Athamma fought a raging battle of emotions. Memories of this day, twenty-one years earlier, came flooding back to her. Tears stung her eyes as she recalled the phone calls, the ensuing panic, the helplessness of being miles away and not knowing what to do or how to help.
It had been midday when the shrill call of the telephone reverberated inside the house. She had been waiting for this call. She new it would bring news of an addition to her family. True enough it did. But it also brought news of an event that set in motion, the catalytic breakup of her entire life.
"Is this Yasmin's mother?" a female voice had enquired.
"Auntie, this is Yasmin's friend Mani, I don’t know how to tell you this...". Athamma's heart had skipped a couple of beats. Something was wrong, had something happened to the baby?
"Is it the baby? What's wrong? Aney, Duwa tell me the baby is fine!".
Hesitation.
"Yes auntie, baby is fine. It's a baby girl. Doctors say she is stable and doing well...but..". The phone line crackled.
Athamma knew that something was terribly wrong. She couldn't bring herself to speak. Instead she clutched the phones handset and slowly heaved herself into the chair near by.
"Actually, its UpulSomething terrible has happened...I dont know how to say this".
Athamma heard Mani's voice catch...
"He..he was stabbed outside the tube station ...by some gangsters who were trying to rob him. He had been walking from the tube station to the hospital last night trying to get there on time to be with Yasmin. Her water bag broke and she called me since Upul was doing the night shift. They didnt find him till early this morning and by then it was too late, he had lost too much blood".
Athamma had heard enough. Unconsciously she set the phone back in its place. She sat in complete silence for almost a quarter of an hour. She saw her husband walk into the verandah - home for his midday meal. Her shoulders shook and she broke down in a wail.
But that wasn't the end of it.
For two days, Mani would call faithfully and keep Athamma informed of Yasmin's situation. She was stable, though numb with shock. Today, she was released as fit to leave hospital, though they had been warned to keep an eye on her, due to the psychological trauma. She and the baby would be going home with Mani. Upul's body was to be sent back to Sri Lanka to be laid to rest in the presence of his parents and sister. All the money they had saved in London for six years was to be used for the air shipment of the body. Athamma desperately wanted to go and be with her only daughter, to keep her safe, keep her warm and to be there to wipe the tears when they came. Understanding his wife's emotional need, her husband scraped together his life savings and prepared the documents that would send Athamma to yet another level of grief.
Alone and admittedly scared, Athamma groped half way across the world. Her only consolation was that she would soon be with the most precious thing in her life and her newborn granddaughter.
But fate dealt another blow. At London's Gatwick airport, a hysterical Mani stood at the arrivals lounge. During the 15 hours that Athamma had been airborne, Yasmin had taken her life, unable to bear the grief of her loss and in the knowledge that she was not able to support her child. That day Athamma died several deaths.
Yasmin never came home. Instead she was buried in her chosen land - the greener one she had so fervently sought. Athamma returned home, a bundle tucked into her bosom.
Shaking herself from those chilling recollections, Athamma let go of Malin and returned quickly to the hearth. She didnt want her granddaughter to see anything was a miss. In reality Malin didnt know the truth about her family. All she did know was that her parents had died in a car crash, shortly after her birth. There onwards, Athamma had been her mother, confidante and friend. She would miss her.
She would miss her?! The truth of that and the fact that Malin had actually constructed the scenario of not being with Athamma, shook her. In a strange way it also pleased her. Malin knew that today would be a day of liberation for her, a day that would allow her to be legally eligible to venture out on a journey of self-discovery.
Pushing back tears, Athamma knew the same.
Three months later, Malin feverishly tore open an envelope. Inside it was a British passport - her access to a greener land, with greater opportunities and different experiences. She would venture out of the nest, in search of the same paradise her parents sought. She would make their dream her reality. Absently, she sat under her Athamma's Mango tree and marveled at the velvety green of those beautiful leaves.
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Malin stirred in bed. Dusk had fallen outside. She watched a large Oak leaf dislodge itself from a branch, pirouette and fall gently to the ground. How apt she thought. Falling from grace gently. Just like me. Well not quite. She knew that she was falling rather hard, pirouetting head first on to a concrete pavement.
Life in London wasn't what she had bargained for. Having lived a sheltered life, Malin had initially found it really hard to adjust. She had, over time. But her life had become an emotional nightmare. After getting to London she found out the truth about her parents. Dad was murdered! Mom killed herself! Why hadn't Athamma told her? Why lie to me? She knew well enough why. Athamma had wanted to protect her; she had wanted her to stay in Sri Lanka, with her. Malin now wished she had.
But back then she felt cheated. She had refused to talk or acknowledge both of them or their existence. Now she knew she had made the biggest mistake of her life. Unable to hold a job in the rare occasion that she got one, Malin was not only emotionally traumatised she was financially too.
One evening while waitressing in an upscale country club (which paid a pittance, despite the glamourous location) Malin noticed a dapper, middle-aged guy dressed in a Cashmere suit, staring at her. Malin was flattered. He was definitely wealthy, the Rolex on his right hand screamed out at her. His slick gelled hair, open necked collar and obviously expensive suit, excited her. She decided to pay him a little extra attention.
That attention bought her a year of financial stability. A great apartment in West End, everything a girl would want, perfume, make-up, romantic getaways, evenings out at the opera. Malin was definitely enjoying the high-life. This is the greener land after all, she told herself. Each night she would count her lucky stars.
Something stirred under her bed. With difficulty Malin peered over and saw the golden curls of something else he had gifted her. Suriya.
Little Suriya. Poor Suriya. She didnt know her dad. He had left as soon as Malin became pregnant, after all he had reasoned, he had a family and besides what would his high society contemporaries say?
Malin had endured the nine months, begging for work to keep herself and her unborn child alive. She was tempted to call Athamma, but how could she look at her face again. Not after all that she had said two years ago.
Then he had called her again. This time he would take her out, pay her for her services. In desperation she accepted the proposal. Soon his friends would call and the same thing would happen. The money became good. She got rave reviews for her exotic ways. Sometimes she was just an escort but most times far more. They couldn't get enough of her.
Six months ago, she had felt it: the nausea, the weakness, and acute weight loss. But she didnt dare say anything, after all, how would she feed Suriya? Then one day she collapsed while she with one of them. He left her in the hotel room unconscious. Hours later she awoke at St. Michaels Hospital. The nurse on duty pressed her shoulder gently.
"Relax, she said, the doctor will see you tomorrow morning".
When morning came, the doctor asked her for a list of all the people she had been intimate with. Oh, dear God! What does that mean? A long list and many calls later by the hospital, the doctor gave her the solemn news.
HIV positive. AIDS. The virus had already kicked up the dirt.
"Oh my Suriya!" Malin wailed. That evening they punctured her small porcelain like arm and drew her angelic blood. Malin prayed fervently that night, to spare her little girl.
Malin now reached up with her skeletal arms and wiped off the tears that flowed down her hollow cheeks. Tomorrow Athamma would be here, she had found the strength to call her. She hadn't had the strength to tell her the truth though. She had just said that she was very sick and that she had something very valuable to give her.
She leant down and stroked Suriyas curls.
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Athamma felt like she had rewound time. This time she landed at Heathrow. A friend of Malin's was there to meet her. Malin had said that would be the case.
She stepped out of the car and followed Carolyn, through grotty East End. Inside a squalid room a beautiful angel sat on the floor, her hands clasped together and a tear streaming down her face.
Suriya extended her hand towards Athamma, seemingly asking for forgiveness for her mother's sake. Athamma felt a glimmer of recognition.
No! This cannot be! She thought. Are my ageing eyes playing tricks? Isn't this my little Jasmine?
Carolyn, urged her to go into the tiny bed-sitter Malin occupied. There by the window, looking out to at the lush green garden, and the foreboding Oak tree, was Malin.
Athamma stretched her hand out and touched Malin's face. Her fingers, expecting warmth instead recoiled at the sensation of cold. A shiver of anger and desperation shot through Athamma.
"Why? Why always my babies? Oh dear God!" Athamma fell to her knees and in doing so she spied scattered on the floor, a sweep of white pills.
"Nooooo!!!".
Suriya came over and gently whispered, "Dont cry, Mummys watching how green Suriyas magic Oak tree is."
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Back in Sri Lanka, Athamma returned clutching to her bosom, a golden haired angel who seemed equally mesmerised with the green leaves of her mother's favourite Mango tree.
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Author Bio:
Roshini Galappatti is an occasional writer from Sri Lanka. She scribbles poetry and short stories in her spare time (which is sparse) but hopes one day to author a series of childrens fiction.