Tikira screams..., “Sooty Maame, Ãchchi wants you to come home quickly. Hurry up!”
Sooty Banda stored the mamotee away in the small watch-hut and washed the mud off his hands at the wakkada before rushing home. The footpath was precarious at best for the unwary because of the network of protruding roots of the tall evergreen trees; a glimpse of one particular tree brought back nostalgic childhood memories to Banda’s mind:
Sudu Menike traced the weathered letters of the phrase ‘Sooty-Sudu’ that she and Banda had engraved on the bark of the tree long ago as kids.
‘I’m going to show this to our son some day.’
‘Show it to my daughter!’ insisted Banda.
The sun’s rays that beamed down through the foliage were greenish yellow.
“Change your dress, Sootyyo. Get into this sarama.”
“Sss…aramak?” he looked around perplexed.
“Let’s talk about it later. Here! Take this.”
Banda put on the sarama and hung the mud splattered loin cloth on a branch of the mango tree. Simon Singo’s cart pulled up in front of the house. The old lady got off the sturdy vehicle unassisted.
Simon patted the head of the patient animal and untethered it. Sooty Banda too patted the bull. The bull licked his sarong in acknowledgement.
“Simon Aiye, Handaya seems to like my sarama,” Banda said in a poor attempt at being cheerful.
Simon ignored Sooty Banda’s remark and walked towards the three-legged stool. There he got hold of the betel tray.
“It’s awfully stuffy,” he said after a while.
“Simon Aiye, wevarayak?”
“Later … Later. Is this a good time to climb trees?” he asked tersely.
Banda sat down on the pila. He looked like someone who was expecting a great gift. Then the screaming began. Banda anxiously paced up and down the length of the veranda with his sarong tucked up and knotted. The screams gradually faded away. Just then a crow settled down on the branch just above the loin cloth.
“Caw! Caw!”
Its call was loud and rusty. Simon spat out the chew of betel leaves that was in his mouth and stood confused looking at the crow. Banda moved backwards and sat down heavily on the pila. He sat stroking his ankles that were as coarse as the coir rope ring that he put around his ankles when he climbed tall trees with both hands.
Memories…
The mal-pela[1]was in the corner of the sandy front yard. Sudu Menike plucked a few jasmines from a bush planted beside the small shrine, and arranged them on a kenda leaf.
“Sooty Aiya, give me a hand with these. No, no, use both hands.”
Together they placed the floral offering before the image within the shrine. Then she knelt down to recite the sacred stanzas.
“Let’s pray for our unborn son,” she beseeched Sooty.
Menike took Banda’s right hand and placed it on her distended stomach with its fair skin disfigured by a number of stretch marks.
Banda smiled and said, “Duwek.”
“No, puthek.”
Dreams, swift and delightful, ascended the rarefied air above their heads and sang like birds.
Asilin who followed the old lady out of the room got hold of Simon’s hand and put a coin in it. The carter looked at the fifty-cent mark engraved on the shining face of the coin before he put it on the three-legged stool.
“Who would charge money for something like this?”
Banda focused his eyes on the loin cloth.
After the passage of a few minutes the door opened. Banda got up and let the tucked up part of his sarong drop. The day akka gave birth to her first child, it was Megi Hami who came charging out of the room and hugged Banda’s brother-in-law fiercely and whispered, “It was a sarong,” to convey that a son was born.
Banda felt terribly weak. He sat on the pila heavily with his head in his hands. He heard the creaking of the door to the room and the sound of footsteps approaching him. Next, a warm careworn hand rested on Banda’s shoulder. It was the old lady. Banda raised his head and focused his eyes on the loin cloth.
“Bando, go in and talk to Menike,” she said.
Banda fell on to his knees and touched the feet of the lady with his cold hands in veneration. She felt the warmth of few drops falling on her toes. “It might not really have been a Kambaya. But let it be anything. It was my blood, after all!” he told himself.
Just then Banda’s mother, Asilin, walked out of the room carrying a bag of soiled clothes, and wiping her hand with the raised edge of her kambaya.
“Winnabu Hamine, a cup of kahata?” she asked.
“No, not now. Send someone to Ralahami and attend to the rest of it. I’ll drop in later to check on the mother.”
The old lady stood looking at Banda for a few seconds before strolling up to the waiting cart. Halfway down the driveway the old lady turned back and said, “Asilin, why don’t you inform Veda-raala, too?”
Both mother and son stood looking at the retreating cart.
“Sooty Puthe, don’t change your dress. Raalahami will be here soon.”
“Why...?”
She wiped her tears away with the edge of her kambaya before asking her son, “Do … Do you remember where Appachchi was buried? Under the sathapilla tree?
“Yes,” said Banda.
A fresh deluge of tears began to pour out of eyes onto the grass.
“Dig a very small grave there…., tell Tikira”