| Châya
Gratiaen-award winning author, Nihal
de Silva’s short story, Chaya, was one of five stories broadcast
on Radio 4 of the BBC and on the World Service to commemorate the
December 26 tsunami
26th December 2004
‘Seeing they grow the stuff here, you’d think they’d
brew a proper cup, wouldn’t you?’
Simon looks fondly at his wife over the remains of their breakfast,
but she has turned her head in search of the stewardess. He smiles
a trifle guiltily, for he knows that Susan is not pleased with the
amenities of the little resort he had chosen for their vacation.
‘Here,
you … what’s the woman’s name, Simon? Oh yes,
Châya!’ Susan calls. ‘Come here.’
The stewardess is fondling a stray kitten that has found its way
into the dining room.
‘Yes, ma’am?’ She smiles as she hurries over.
‘This
tea is cold. Don’t you boil the water? Fetch me another cup
and tell them I want it hot.’
The smile wavers; the cup rattles in the saucer as she picks it
up.
‘Let’s hope she remembers to wash her hands,’
Susan goes on. ‘Really, these people have no conception of
cleanliness.’
‘The sea looks terrific,’ Simon says. ‘I think
I’ll take a dip.’
‘Is
the water clean, though?’ Susan asks. ‘All the muck
from that village must be washing into the sea.’
‘Just look at the colour of it! Never seen sapphires as bright.’
‘You’ll catch some revolting disease,’ Susan responds.
I think I’ll just lie on the beach.
Simon
picks up his towel.
‘That’s odd,’ he says, frowning. ‘A wave’s
just run up to the steps. The tide must be high. Let’s get
to the beach before it gets higher.’
‘I’m not going anywhere until I’ve had my tea.
Where’s that wretched girl?’
‘Boiling water, probably,’ Simon says; then turns casually
to look at the sea again.
‘My
God, what’s happening?’
Across the bay, as far as his eyes can see, the sea has stood up,
not as a wave but as a mountain of water, taller then five grown
men. No longer blue and gentle; this wall is black with menace.
Black
as death.
Simon is a man accustomed to dealing with crises. What petrifies
him now is not the height or width of the monstrous wave, nor is
it the roar that assaults his ears like a hundred oncoming trains.
It is the ferocious, incredible speed at which it hurtles towards
the land.
His knows that they can never outrun this monster.
It
strikes like a gigantic hammer.
At one moment the swell is still out at sea and there is blue sky
above it. In the space of a single heartbeat black water towers
above the roof of the dining room, shutting out the sunlight.
Simon
flings the table away and grasps Susan’s arm; then they are
drowning.
The power of the water is beyond belief. Windows shatter; roofing
sheets are flung away like confetti. Then the world is filled with
water and they are borne away, through the car park and over the
road. The water is filled with floating debris, from furniture to
cars. Simon crashes into the wall of a building and nearly loses
his hold on his wife. The wall crumbles under the weight of water
and they are carried away again, tumbling over and over.
Simon’s
strength is ebbing when his shoulder hits a tree. He clasps the
slender trunk with his free hand and drags Susan to him. He holds
her against the tree, allowing the force of the current to bind
them to it.
His
chest is aching; the impulse to suck water into his lungs is overwhelming.
The current weakens suddenly and the water subsides. Susan’s
body is limp. He turns her around and feels a surge of relief when
she coughs and splutters.
The
water flows back to sea. The gravity of the disaster hits Simon
only when a sari-clad body floats by, face down. Simon grasps the
flimsy material but the floodwater tears the body away.
‘What
… what happened, Simon?’ Susan is disoriented. ‘How
…’
‘I don’t know. Maybe an earthquake,’ Simon says.
‘Let’s get back to the hotel. See to the others …’
They
stumble through knee-deep water looking for some landmark.
‘This can’t be the place, there’s nothing here,’
Susan says. ‘Maybe further down.’
‘Here’s
the tamarind tree,’ Simon says heavily. ‘The hotel’s
… gone.’
They see it now, stone foundations and parts of a wall where the
little resort had stood. The fishing village too! The sea has swallowed
everything.
And
everybody.
‘Madam. Is madam all right?’
The voice is shaky and it takes Simon a moment to recognise the
stewardess Châya. There is an ugly bruise across her cheek.
‘Where are the other guests?’ Susan asks.
‘Don’t
know, madam. All gone with water,’ Châya says. ‘I
was caught in tamarind tree.’
‘They can’t be dead, can they, Simon?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Sir, water is all going.’
‘What?’
‘There, sir, all going to sea.’
Simon looks at the beach with rising horror. The water is indeed
retreating, exposing the seabed for hundreds of yards. He grasps
the two women by their arms.
‘Another
wave is coming,’ Simon shouts, the words scraping his throat.
‘We have to find a high place.’
‘What about our things?’ Susan protests, trying to pull
away. ‘Passports … money …’
‘All
gone,’ Simon gasps. ‘We must get away from here.’
‘My home is on a hill,’ Châya says. ‘Close
by.’
The cart track is submerged and filled with debris. Simon hurries
behind the young woman; Susan flounders along, still in shock.
He
hears the rolling thunder of water behind him and breaks into a
run. Susan cries out as she trips over another hidden obstacle in
the water.
Châya, running ahead of them, screams:
‘Sir,
water coming …’
Simon sees a rise in the land on his left and turns towards it.
Châya shrieks again:
‘No, not that way …’
Susan
takes one step and is wrenched out of Simon’s grasp. Her terrified
wail is cut off as she disappears into a hidden pit. She comes to
the surface again, gasping for breath.
Châya throws herself on the ground and reaches for her; Simon
grasps her other arm. Susan’s lips are drawn back in pain.
‘Oh
God, my leg …’
‘Hurry … this way.’
The flood catches them when they are halfway up the steps but, fortunately,
some of its force has been dissipated by then. Susan, dragging a
bloodstained leg behind her, is half carried through the swirling
water to safety.
They
collapse on the tamped clay floor of a hut. Simon lifts the edge
of his wife’s skirt and utters a gasp of dismay. The jagged
tear on her calf is several inches long and bleeding profusely.
Susan
is looking at him in entreaty; she needs medical attention.
Soon.
Simon finds Châya before him holding a threadbare towel and
a jug of water. He mutters a prayer as he rinses the wound and binds
the leg with strips torn from the material. The red stain seeps
through.
‘We
must get her to a hospital,’ he says. ‘Where can we
go?’
‘Galle hospital,’ Châya answers. ‘My husband
can find a trishaw, but only after water go down.’
Simon
turns to find an unshaven man standing at the door. A small child
with a red ribbon in her hair stares solemnly at them.
The hospital has as many dead people in it as live ones. The squeaking
metal gurney carries Susan through a hallway lined with row upon
row of bodies, mostly women and children. The sand-daubed corpses
are piled one upon the other and more are coming in by the minute.
Babies have been laid out in a corner and appear to be asleep.
The
Out Patients’ Department is swamped.
Streams of bleeding, injured people are carried in, as a handful
of medical attendants struggle to cope. Anxious people run from
room to room in frantic haste to locate missing relatives.
Simon
had imagined that Susan would stay overnight in the hospital while
he checked into a nearby hotel. He had not dreamed of a disaster
on this scale, with the city of Galle razed to the ground, the hospital
roof-high with corpses and no hotels standing.
He
had told Châya to get back home after dropping them off.
They hobble out of the hospital and Simon looks about anxiously,
for they have no money and nowhere to go.
The
small figure of Châya is waiting for them, standing quietly
under a tree. Susan, who has been quiet since her fall, surprises
Simon by taking Châya’s hand.
‘Take
us back to your house, please. I can’t stand another minute
in this place.’
‘We have no beds, but madam can come …’
‘I don’t care. Just take me away from here … please.’
*
21st April 2005
Two plastic chairs are placed for them in the tiny veranda. Châya
stands by the door with the little girl clinging to the hem of her
tent-like cotton dress.‘Is madam’s leg all right now?’
she asks.
The
woman has changed. The happy person Simon remembers has vanished.
Her untidy hair and soiled clothes match her expression.
‘Yes,’ Susan says, ‘it healed nicely. How are
you?’
‘The owner, Mr. Raja was killed that day. No one to build
hotel … no job now.’
‘What does your husband do?’
‘He
sell fish to hotels. No hotels now … no work.’
‘I see,’ Susan says, shifting uneasily in her chair.
‘I suppose you will need to acquire some new skills. Try for
a new job.’
‘Yes, madam.’
‘A lot of aid has come from abroad,’ Susan goes on.
‘You’re getting some assistance, aren’t you?’
‘Only
those who lost houses get help,’ Châya replies. ‘Nothing
for us. Maybe better if our house was also washed away … with
us.’
Châya goes into the house, leaving the child by the door.
Susan had made friends with the little girl. They had sat together
on a mat and made sketches with coloured crayons. The child carries
her drawing book once more and looks expectantly at Susan.
Susan
is tempted to chat, to admire the sketches the child seems anxious
to show her. But that will take time, and Susan is tired; and they
have a long flight ahead of them. She turns her face to the garden.
They had returned to Sri Lanka only two days ago, two hectic days
spent thanking, and dining with, embassy staff and friends who had
helped to get them home after the disaster. This is their last visit
before heading to the airport for their flight back home.
Châya
returns with two cups of tea.
‘No thank you, Châya, I just had some,’ Susan
says. ‘We must leave now. We’re going directly to the
airport and it’s a long way.’
Châya’s eyes drop.
‘That
bakery van you hired in January … to take us to Colombo,’
Simon asks, recalling the painful journey with a shudder. ‘How
much did the man charge?’
‘Three thousand … I paid.’
‘Three thousand rupees? How on earth did you find the money?’
Châya shakes her head but her hand touches her ear.
Simon
is shocked:
‘You sold your earrings? Why didn’t you write to us?
I left the address.’
Châya is silent.
‘Pay her the money, Simon,’ Susan’s voice is harsh,
‘something extra as well. We really must be going.’
The
car comes to the main road and passes the tamarind tree. The rubble
is gone but the desolate scene is a grim reminder of the disaster.
The village is also a wasteland.
Susan had expected to see furious rebuilding activity along the
coast; had imagined that normal life was being restored.
As
it would have been back home, if the calamity had occurred there.
Here there is … nothing.
‘Stop the car,’ Susan says suddenly. Her voice is choked.
‘What is it, honey?’ Simon asks.
She turns to face him. Simon sees that her cheeks are wet. He thinks
stupidly:
But
Susan never cries.
‘Did you hear how I spoke to her? Did you listen to what I
said?’ Susan asks.
‘I gave her money …’
‘I
didn’t speak like that … the last time,’ Susan
goes on, as if speaking to herself. ‘I had forgotten …
it’s so easy to forget.’
‘We can write to her, find out how she is doing …’
‘No. Turn around. I’m going back.’
‘Honey, we’ll miss our flight.’
‘I’m going back.’ |
