THE AFTERMATH
Nonahamy stirred the pot in a quick, vigorous movement. Taking a spoonful to her palm, she tasted it and felt the soft milky aroma fill the stuffed, smoke filled kitchen. A blissful smile lit her deep wrinkled face. Wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead, she lifted the pot of milk rice from the fire and laid it gently on the rickety wooden table.
It was not the dawn of yet another January 1st nor was it the auspicious moment to light the fire during a Sinhala Hindu new year. It was sometime in mid June. But it was indeed a special occasion for Nonahamy’s family. Her only son was coming home. It had been four long months since Amal left. The long wait for his return had stretched on and on until Nonahamy had found it hard to ask God for anything else but his return.
Amal was a soldier then, with a rank she could never quite remember. Now he was a hero, and everyone remembered.
Nonahamy carefully flattened the milk rice on a tray laid with banana leaves, her hands working skilfully as she smoothed the edges. Amal had always liked milk rice, she remembered and her mind drifted back to good old days.
***
It had been an early January morning, some twenty years back. Nonahamy had been in the kitchen, hastily preparing breakfast when six year old Amal came racing towards his mother with an ear splitting “brrrroooooom.” Nonahamy laid the tray of milk rice on the table and eyed her son with narrowed eyes. He was still in his vest and blue shorts, as she had left him ten minutes ago. It was his first day of school and he hadn’t bothered to put on his shirt yet nor his shoes or socks.
Before she could utter a word Amal had blurted out in a clear firm voice.
“Amma, I heard there’s big playground at school”, he gazed at her with wide, delighted eyes. “Saman told me.”
Nonahamy struggled to hide her annoyance. It’s the first day and all he can think of is the size of the playground. Will he study at all? She turned her back to him and sent a silent prayer to Gods above.
“Aaaaaagh” Amal suddenly cried out in pain. Nonahamy whirled around to find her son standing behind her, looking aghast with his mouth hanging open. For a moment she thought he had suddenly taken ill. Then she spotted the lump of milk rice on the floor. Obviously, it was too hot for him.
***
As Nonahamy had predicted Amal never turned out to be a hard working student. Instead he eagerly divided his time between a number of sports and other activities. Gods had turned a deaf ear to her continuous prayers, she thought. But she couldn’t dwell on her anger for long. After all she was thankful for his safety.
Except for a broken arm, some sneaky trips to the beach with his friends on school days and a combat of words with his class teacher that resulted in a detention of two weeks, Amal went through his teens without any major incident. To everyone in the neighbourhood he was a tall, lean boy with an unruly mess of dark hair and an impish grin that never failed to charm the grandmas. But Nonahamy knew better. He was strong willed, determined and rebellious when he couldn’t agree, yet she loved him unconditionally. It was few days from his twentieth birthday when the lurking storm finally hit home. It came in the form of an official looking letter. Nonahamy ripped it open with trembling fingers.
In the days that followed Nonahamy demanded, threatened, and finally begged Amal to change his mind but he firmly stood his ground. In her struggle to reason with her son, her husband never took her side, instead he kept it all to himself, somehow knowing that it was useless to argue.
In the end no one could stop Amal from being what he wanted to be; a soldier and Nonahamy had to give in. It was fate, destiny or karma as Lord Buddha had preached, and she knew it was beyond her control.
***
She was abruptly brought back to reality by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Nonahamy realized that it was her husband who had come back from his visit to town. Drying her hands in her old, worn out skirt she made her way to the small dining room adjoining the kitchen. Her husband Sediris placed a parcel on the table.
“Noné, I brought the butter cake but couldn’t find the milk toffees.” He turned to walk towards his room. “I searched everywhere for them.”
Nonahamy glanced at the table. It was now laid with plates of oil cakes, kokis, sweets, and bananas. She had placed the tray of milk rice at the centre. Nonahamy called out to her husband.
“What took you so long; you left nearly two hours ago.”
“I met loku hamuduruwo on the way back”, he replied going in to the sitting room with the newspaper tucked under his arm.
***
During those dark, gloomy days when Amal was stumbling through the thorny jungles in the north in his heavy boots and armour, Nonahamy was dressed in her only white sari, treading carefully on soft white sand with a basket of fresh flowers in her hands. She was a regular sight at the temple, a small forlorn figure who sat hunched with her hands clasped together, mumbling inaudibly to herself.
At times, loku hamuduruwo would come to talk with her, knowing her distress he would preach about karma, and about consequences of attachment to loved ones. Nonahamy would listen intently, nodding her head in agreement once in a while with occasional hmm's but she couldn’t help thinking, “what does he know about a mother’s love to her son, after all he doesn’t have children.”
Realizing that her mind had strayed, she would hurriedly try to correct herself, fearing that Gods would hear her sinful thoughts and take revenge from her son. Unknowingly, she became superstitious in everything she did and Nonahamy tried to be good at all times thinking that it would ultimately keep Amal safe.
Back then, television was Nonahamy’s both friend and foe. The sari draped lady with painted lips who appeared every night would sometimes make her happy by repeatedly recounting how the soldiers were victoriously advancing forward. But the next moment Nonahamy would clutch at her heart and a desperate strangled prayer would escape her lips as the dreaded numbers followed.
With time Amal brought another friend cum foe to the house. It was one of those telephones with a small metal rod sticking out from a corner. Amal insisted it was cheaper and Nonahamy was relieved. She was taught to do only two things with it. When it erupted in to a loud string of beeps, she would reach for it with a beating heart, lift the receiver and croak a subdued “hello.” If Amal was speaking on the other end a sudden radiant smile would momentarily smooth the deep etched wrinkles on her face but otherwise she would say a few words in a hurry and replace the receiver and the familiar tension would engulf her once more.
***
Nonahamy leaned against the door frame and sighed with relief, reminiscing the not too distant past. Somehow the war had ended and her son was coming home and that was all that mattered. He was the one small beacon of light in her otherwise insignificant life.
A sudden commotion in the street made Nonahamy lean forward and crane her neck towards its direction. She could see a group of young boys shouting and distributing leaflets to onlookers as they walked ostentatiously behind some well known politicians in the village. Nonahamy remembered the boys well. They were the same ones who had come the day after the war ended, asking for a photograph of Amal. It appeared, along with the photographs of the other soldiers of the area in a big poster in front of the bus stand. Whenever Nonahamy passed the bus stand she would stop at it involuntarily and gaze at the photo for a long time, her rheumy eyes brimming with tears of pride.
***
From the far corner of the street, a tall figure appeared dressed in a blue short sleeved shirt and trouser, carrying a heavy travelling bag in his left hand. Nonahamy called out to her husband in delight, “He’s coming!”
Nonahamy walked stiffly towards the gate, blinded by her own tears that poured down her face. Sediris followed her and suddenly stopped in his tracks. Amal walked steadily up to his mother. Placing the bag on the ground, he bent to ask for her blessings. Nonahamy reached forward and ran her palms affectionately along either side of his face and then along his shoulders and all of a sudden she stiffened. Her hand clutched hopelessly at his empty sleeve.
Nonahamy looked up to meet her son’s searching gaze and her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Amme”, he held her close with his one good arm and the old impish grin softened his expression.
Nonahamy gazed up to the Gods above. After all he is safe.
Chathurani Ranathunge is a fourth year student at Wayamba University of Sri Lanka studying for a bachelor's degree in Agriculture. Her short stories have appeared in local English newspapers from 2006 and her story 'Shadows of Truth' won 2nd place at a competition conducted by English Writers' Cooperative of Sri Lanka in 2010.
Nonahamy stirred the pot in a quick, vigorous movement. Taking a spoonful to her palm, she tasted it and felt the soft milky aroma fill the stuffed, smoke filled kitchen. A blissful smile lit her deep wrinkled face. Wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead, she lifted the pot of milk rice from the fire and laid it gently on the rickety wooden table.
It was not the dawn of yet another January 1st nor was it the auspicious moment to light the fire during a Sinhala Hindu new year. It was sometime in mid June. But it was indeed a special occasion for Nonahamy’s family. Her only son was coming home. It had been four long months since Amal left. The long wait for his return had stretched on and on until Nonahamy had found it hard to ask God for anything else but his return.
Amal was a soldier then, with a rank she could never quite remember. Now he was a hero, and everyone remembered.
Nonahamy carefully flattened the milk rice on a tray laid with banana leaves, her hands working skilfully as she smoothed the edges. Amal had always liked milk rice, she remembered and her mind drifted back to good old days.
***
It had been an early January morning, some twenty years back. Nonahamy had been in the kitchen, hastily preparing breakfast when six year old Amal came racing towards his mother with an ear splitting “brrrroooooom.” Nonahamy laid the tray of milk rice on the table and eyed her son with narrowed eyes. He was still in his vest and blue shorts, as she had left him ten minutes ago. It was his first day of school and he hadn’t bothered to put on his shirt yet nor his shoes or socks.
Before she could utter a word Amal had blurted out in a clear firm voice.
“Amma, I heard there’s big playground at school”, he gazed at her with wide, delighted eyes. “Saman told me.”
Nonahamy struggled to hide her annoyance. It’s the first day and all he can think of is the size of the playground. Will he study at all? She turned her back to him and sent a silent prayer to Gods above.
“Aaaaaagh” Amal suddenly cried out in pain. Nonahamy whirled around to find her son standing behind her, looking aghast with his mouth hanging open. For a moment she thought he had suddenly taken ill. Then she spotted the lump of milk rice on the floor. Obviously, it was too hot for him.
***
As Nonahamy had predicted Amal never turned out to be a hard working student. Instead he eagerly divided his time between a number of sports and other activities. Gods had turned a deaf ear to her continuous prayers, she thought. But she couldn’t dwell on her anger for long. After all she was thankful for his safety.
Except for a broken arm, some sneaky trips to the beach with his friends on school days and a combat of words with his class teacher that resulted in a detention of two weeks, Amal went through his teens without any major incident. To everyone in the neighbourhood he was a tall, lean boy with an unruly mess of dark hair and an impish grin that never failed to charm the grandmas. But Nonahamy knew better. He was strong willed, determined and rebellious when he couldn’t agree, yet she loved him unconditionally. It was few days from his twentieth birthday when the lurking storm finally hit home. It came in the form of an official looking letter. Nonahamy ripped it open with trembling fingers.
In the days that followed Nonahamy demanded, threatened, and finally begged Amal to change his mind but he firmly stood his ground. In her struggle to reason with her son, her husband never took her side, instead he kept it all to himself, somehow knowing that it was useless to argue.
In the end no one could stop Amal from being what he wanted to be; a soldier and Nonahamy had to give in. It was fate, destiny or karma as Lord Buddha had preached, and she knew it was beyond her control.
***
She was abruptly brought back to reality by the sound of someone clearing his throat. Nonahamy realized that it was her husband who had come back from his visit to town. Drying her hands in her old, worn out skirt she made her way to the small dining room adjoining the kitchen. Her husband Sediris placed a parcel on the table.
“Noné, I brought the butter cake but couldn’t find the milk toffees.” He turned to walk towards his room. “I searched everywhere for them.”
Nonahamy glanced at the table. It was now laid with plates of oil cakes, kokis, sweets, and bananas. She had placed the tray of milk rice at the centre. Nonahamy called out to her husband.
“What took you so long; you left nearly two hours ago.”
“I met loku hamuduruwo on the way back”, he replied going in to the sitting room with the newspaper tucked under his arm.
***
During those dark, gloomy days when Amal was stumbling through the thorny jungles in the north in his heavy boots and armour, Nonahamy was dressed in her only white sari, treading carefully on soft white sand with a basket of fresh flowers in her hands. She was a regular sight at the temple, a small forlorn figure who sat hunched with her hands clasped together, mumbling inaudibly to herself.
At times, loku hamuduruwo would come to talk with her, knowing her distress he would preach about karma, and about consequences of attachment to loved ones. Nonahamy would listen intently, nodding her head in agreement once in a while with occasional hmm's but she couldn’t help thinking, “what does he know about a mother’s love to her son, after all he doesn’t have children.”
Realizing that her mind had strayed, she would hurriedly try to correct herself, fearing that Gods would hear her sinful thoughts and take revenge from her son. Unknowingly, she became superstitious in everything she did and Nonahamy tried to be good at all times thinking that it would ultimately keep Amal safe.
Back then, television was Nonahamy’s both friend and foe. The sari draped lady with painted lips who appeared every night would sometimes make her happy by repeatedly recounting how the soldiers were victoriously advancing forward. But the next moment Nonahamy would clutch at her heart and a desperate strangled prayer would escape her lips as the dreaded numbers followed.
With time Amal brought another friend cum foe to the house. It was one of those telephones with a small metal rod sticking out from a corner. Amal insisted it was cheaper and Nonahamy was relieved. She was taught to do only two things with it. When it erupted in to a loud string of beeps, she would reach for it with a beating heart, lift the receiver and croak a subdued “hello.” If Amal was speaking on the other end a sudden radiant smile would momentarily smooth the deep etched wrinkles on her face but otherwise she would say a few words in a hurry and replace the receiver and the familiar tension would engulf her once more.
***
Nonahamy leaned against the door frame and sighed with relief, reminiscing the not too distant past. Somehow the war had ended and her son was coming home and that was all that mattered. He was the one small beacon of light in her otherwise insignificant life.
A sudden commotion in the street made Nonahamy lean forward and crane her neck towards its direction. She could see a group of young boys shouting and distributing leaflets to onlookers as they walked ostentatiously behind some well known politicians in the village. Nonahamy remembered the boys well. They were the same ones who had come the day after the war ended, asking for a photograph of Amal. It appeared, along with the photographs of the other soldiers of the area in a big poster in front of the bus stand. Whenever Nonahamy passed the bus stand she would stop at it involuntarily and gaze at the photo for a long time, her rheumy eyes brimming with tears of pride.
***
From the far corner of the street, a tall figure appeared dressed in a blue short sleeved shirt and trouser, carrying a heavy travelling bag in his left hand. Nonahamy called out to her husband in delight, “He’s coming!”
Nonahamy walked stiffly towards the gate, blinded by her own tears that poured down her face. Sediris followed her and suddenly stopped in his tracks. Amal walked steadily up to his mother. Placing the bag on the ground, he bent to ask for her blessings. Nonahamy reached forward and ran her palms affectionately along either side of his face and then along his shoulders and all of a sudden she stiffened. Her hand clutched hopelessly at his empty sleeve.
Nonahamy looked up to meet her son’s searching gaze and her eyes filled with unshed tears.
“Amme”, he held her close with his one good arm and the old impish grin softened his expression.
Nonahamy gazed up to the Gods above. After all he is safe.
Chathurani Ranathunge is a fourth year student at Wayamba University of Sri Lanka studying for a bachelor's degree in Agriculture. Her short stories have appeared in local English newspapers from 2006 and her story 'Shadows of Truth' won 2nd place at a competition conducted by English Writers' Cooperative of Sri Lanka in 2010.
