3rd, August 1997

Dear Daughter

The gift of a smile

My darling daughter,

Yesterday I went to visit an old friend of mine. She is sick and often in pain. She related to me how helpful her neighbours had been. Now that they have left she feels sad. A remark she made referring to her neighbour made me think so much that I thought I must share it with you. She said "What I miss most of all is Shalini,s gift of a smile to me each day."

Her quaint expression made me wonder - 'the gift of a smile'. I thought suddenly how right she was, in a sense when we smile with another, we gift to that person a momentary happiness expressing the idea that we care and are concerned.

A smile is not just an automatic greeting, it seeks a response, an exchange. Even for a little while people recognise their humaneness and establish a rapport. In a world that is becoming increasingly lonely where everyone is rushing around - trying to achieve material ends, a smile can be a way of saying -'You are not alone'- I sometimes think daughter,with all the technological development that is there, people are getting more and more isolated - after all, one doesn't need human company when a TV creates realistic drama and Internet takes the place of discussions.

A smile makes one realise the essential need we have for friendship and affection - a smile exchanged when one meets - a smile given to a subordinate at a place of work - a smile reaching out towards a harrassed husband or a sullen child can make all the difference to their lives or a smile says - that life is yet wonderful - people are there who understand and care.

I am sure you will agree with me for sitting here thinking of my friend's words, I remember the wonderful gift of your smile that relieved so often my tiredness and worry.

Ammi

Short Story

Tinkling Bells

Rathu never failed to bring father home in the glow of the sun-set. And, when darkness fell, we would gather, as a family, near the open door of our hut and eat our night meal together watching fire flies dart here and there...... But now I can only see a sky mellow and soft with an orange gold glow painted by the setting sun in which Rathu came home. The tinkling of bells blends with the chirping of crickets in the thicket and the croaking of frogs in the fields.

By Punyakante Wijenaike

I love to listen to the tinkling of bells around Rathu's neck. They make a lovely soothing sound, a lullaby which sends me to sleep even when the bright light of the moon disturbs.

The counsellor of the refugee camp keeps on nagging me to talk. But what can I say when I can't remember? I cannot remember what happened, what changed my life and brought me here. When I try to remember, the tinkling of bells round Rathu's neck fills my head, breaking up thoughts, blocking feeling and memory. But I can tell her simple things like my name which is Dhammike. My age which is nine. My father is a farmer who works in a field two miles away from our small cottage. But each evening, after hard work, he returns home to us in the cart pulled by Rathu, our bull. The two strings of bells hung round his reddish brown neck could be heard a mile off the cart track. Rathu never failed to bring father home in the glow of the sun-set. And, when darkness fell, we would gather, as a family, near the open door of our hut and eat our night meal together watching fire flies dart here and there accompanied by the croaking of frogs nearby. We meant father, mother, baby brother and myself.

It had been like a miracle to get a baby brother after nine years. Mother called him, "My late harvest," and father named him Avinash which means 'one who cannot be destroyed.'

And I believe he is not destroyed but waiting for me.

Sumanawathie Akka is talking and talking with the camp counsellor. She was our neighbour in the village. Why have we left our village? According to her there is a reason. We ran for refuge to the camp. She is the one, she says, who saved me and brought me here. Why did she do that? I do not belong to her. I belong to my family and Rathu's bells tinkling somewhere close by, are calling me home.

When Sumanawathie Akka talks and talks I fill my head with Rathu's bells. Or I keep repeating the lullaby with which I used to rock Avinash to sleep on my out-stretched legs.

"Moon uncle, moon uncle-
Do not play hide and seek
With me
Instead give me the
Milk and honey you promised......"

Sometimes despite all my attempts Sumanawathie Akka's words manage to penetrate through my ears into my head. She says she saw father coming home in the cart drawn by Rathu. She had heard the bells tinkle. But she also saw that father's head was lolling forward onto his chest and the red trickle down his body from mouth was not betel juice but red blood. He had been killed with a terrorist's bullet.

She had shouted this out to my mother who had been cooking the night meal.

Rathu, unknowingly, had brought him home out of habit. Next she saw mother come out of our cottage screaming carrying baby brother. They were both shot down. By now the village was swarming with terrorists come out of the jungle like marauding tigers. She had carried me and run into the jungle to hide. Her own home was on fire as was the rest of the village homes.

In the jungle she had cleared an area the size of a full length sleeping mat, a rectangular area and poured kerosene and ash around to keep off ants, insects and snakes. Then she had got me to lie down beside her. But neither of us had slept. She says, after a while the jungle too was set on fire and we had to run from there....

But I cannot remember anything. I only hear Rathu's bells tinkling and tinkling, assuring me that life is still as it was.

Then Sumanawathie Akka says the whole sky was ablaze with fire. Night had turned into day. How can that be? I can only see a sky mellow and soft with an orange gold glow painted by the setting sun in which Rathu came home. The tinkling of bells blends with the chirping of crickets in the thicket and the croaking of frogs in the fields.

After father came home baby brother and I would wait for the big silver face of the moon to peep out from behind a cloud. When it came out, his eyes would grow large with daily wonder. I would assure him, every day, that Handa Hamy Mama - Moon Uncle will soon bring him pots of milk and honey.

But Sumanawathie Akka says it was the light of the full moon that betrayed us. Instead of milk and honey, it had led the terrorists into the adjoining hamlets.

The refugee camp is full of people. Why are they all herded here? Why don't we all return to our homes?

I keep searching, searching but I cannot see the faces of father, mother and baby brother. Nor can I see any familiar face apart from Sumanawathie Akka's face. I wander barefoot on wet grass but I don't see Rathu. Yet his bells keep calling me, calling me.

The counsellor asks me the name of my village. I answer promptly:

"Indigolla."

I always came first in general knowledge out of all the boys in my class. Indigolla nestles on the border of Vavuniya and Mullaitivu.

At last I dared to ask a question of my counsellor.

Although I am grateful for the food and shelter the camp offers I don't like to feel dependent on other people. I want to belong to somewhere. I want my mother and baby brother and I want to hear Rathu tinkling his way home with father relaxing in the cart after a hard day's work.

"When can I go home?"

But she asks me again: "Try to remember what happened that night."

"I can't remember," I tell her solemnly. "All I hear is the tinkling of Rathu's bells. And I want to be there when he returns home.'

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