Severely warned
“Silence!”
The mudliar shouted. The judge sat in his seat and looked at the case files piled up for the day.
“Hendrik Appuhamilage Nandawathi Subasinghe.”
The mudliar shouted again. A middle-aged but good-looking woman wearing cloth and jacket stood on the deck.
“My lord, this woman was found loitering in the streets at 12.30 a.m. She also has previous convictions,” a tall police sergeant told the judge.
“Another prostitute,” the judge muttered to himself. Then he looked at the woman carefully. He thought that she resembled his own mother who died a few years ago. His mind raced back to his childhood.
“Who is this fellow?”
“Oh, this is that prostitute’s son.”
The judge remembered how he as a child reacted by placing the pail of cement mixture on the floor and ran home.
When he reached home, mother was waiting for him.
“Today, there’s hardly anything to cook. There’s a little rice in your plate. Eat it with some onions a raw chillies.”
He didn’t make a fuss as he knew that mother had no money to buy anything.
When the dusk was falling he saw a man coming towards his house. He immediately identified him as the mason under whom he worked.
“I’ve bought some sweets. Take this money and run to the boutique and buy anything you want,” he said.
When he was about to leave the mason asked him where his mother was.
“She’s in the kitchen.”
The mason walked into the kitchen and the child ran to the boutique. When he returned home after some time, he found mother crying.
“Did he go, mother?”
“Yes,” she said with a sigh.
“I can’t work there, mother. People tell me bad things about you.” “What bad things?”
“One man said I am the son of a prostitute.”
He saw mother wiping away tears from her eyes.
“From the day your father left us, I had no money to bring you up. That’s why I allowed you to do a small job although you’re too young to be employed.” Mother said so breathing deeply.
It’s the same old story she used to come up with every now and then. Although mother had no feelings for my father, I knew that he would come back one day. I did not want to do a menial job under a mason. I wanted to attend school, pass examinations and be gainfully employed.
When I got up in the morning on the following day, I had a pleasant surprise. My father was sitting by me and stroking my head. Ignoring my father’s presence mother asked me whether I was going for work.
“From today don’t worry about my son. I’m taking him away to Matara. He can stay with a friend of mine and attend a good school.” Father was talking without looking at my mother. It was not surprising because father hardly lived at home. And mother had no respect for him.
Father turned to me and said, “Collect whatever things you want to take and put them into this suitcase. We have to leave now.”
I hardly had anything to take away except an old metal soap box with a few coins in it and a dark green handkerchief mother had given me. When I worshipped mother to bid goodbye, she gave me a one rupee note which is still with me.
Before leaving, father casually looked around and saw a sarong on the clothes line.
“Whose sarong is that?”
“My uncle came here and spent a few days here. He must have left it,” mother said meekly.
“Uncle? I know everything about your uncles coming here. That’s why I am taking away my son.”
Father walked ahead carrying the small suitcase. I followed him. At the kadulla I looked at my mother. She was crying leaning against a wall.
The judge also remembered how he attended a leading school in Matara and later gaining admission to the Ceylon Law College. After some time he was called to the Bench.
The judge looked at the woman standing in the dock. Then he said something to the mudliar.
The mudliar shouted, “You’re severely warned and discharged.”
Flash Fiction
This story beautifully captures the plight of women – how they are judged even if the actions they do are not what they chose to do – and are very often brought about by the deeds of others. An underlying sadness is subtly present in this story – shown in small details like the son keeping the last rupee given by the mother.
Please send in your Flash Fiction contributions to Madhubhashini Disanayaka-Ratnayake, C/o The Sunday Times, No 8, Hunupitiya Cross Road, Colombo 2