Once Upon A Time - Short Story Collection

Identity

I was married and widowed on the same day.

1983 was a year of palpable ethnic violence against the Tamil minorities in Sri Lanka. Black-July riots culminated in bringing the war to the doors of the common men, women and children of Tamil descent.

Though many would argue that the minority suppression had been happening since time immemorial, I begin here because I was transformed into a reluctant refugee from a proud citizen. It took time, effort clubbed with idealistic hope, unlikely circumstances, and an abundance of good old luck to survive and to narrate this story.

These were still the early days of internecine killings. The newspapermen were not yet printing under duress. The Saturday Review published powerful editorials week after week, and the war had slowly seeped into our living rooms and everyday lives.

Like any other sheltered girl from a middle-income Muslim household, I knew that domesticity was the only trajectory of life. I looked forward to my marriage as soon as it was arranged. Wedding is a time of great celebration, fanfare and gala that marked the communion of two families and a couple vowing to share their lives for the lifetime but mine, much to my dismay, was a hushed affair.

After the silent festivities, I was bundled into the car with my husband for a few minutes and the marriage entourage left for the groom's village without much ado. Post-wedding events were planned for the next day, and then we would leave for the honeymoon for a few days.

I never prophesied this moment in all of my nineteen years, when I was filled with the trepidation of getting separated from my parents and friends. Not a word was exchanged between my husband and me until I felt a warm hand intertwine with mine and heard the careful words, "Don't worry. I'll take care of everything," that brought succour to my disconcerting heart.

But the proceedings transformed drastically, demonically, and much beyond my comprehension. I had nothing better to do than to acquiesce to the twists of fate that were in store for me.

Relating the events that led to my displacement and eventual migration often felt like putting a series of disjointed happenings in chronological order for narration sake. But for me, it always seems that I'm fixated only on certain moments that segue to the next with my memory serving as the only navigator in these retellings.

The marked struggle for everyday existence before my settlement in a far-of-land, and nineteen years since my birth are suppressed by the legacies of only the following occurrences, however, remarkable others equally are.

The first of these occurrences was the mob-attack on the marriage entourage. Not a moment passed since my sincere husband's reassurance when a bullet seeped through his temple splattering the blood everywhere. My scream caught in the throat when a series of bullets invaded the brand new Maruti 800 vehicle, a wedding gift from my father, killing the others. A minivan with the rest of the family that had followed the car was set ablaze from which mobsters quickly alighting carrying all manner of wedding jewellery and other gifts.

I did not realize what was happening; I was scared: as my eyes turned glassy, my skin scorched in the heat of fear. In this state, I lay below the corpse of my husband, whose eyes appeared nothing more than icy, coloured marbles —stuck in their path, doomed to stare pointlessly forward for all eternity.

I heard ominous voices near the car and prayed that they wouldn't look long for I was exhausted in bearing the dead weight.

The car door, however, was pulled open causing me to shut my eyes with force. Prickling pain shot through my skull when they dragged me out of the vehicle using my long, braided hair.

Tears trickled down my face cooling my anxiety-driven fever only to increase it to lose my consciousness. I lost sensation, darkness and severe pain in every limb of my being were the only objects that clutched me.