Extreme passion? A heaven turns hell and you bid farewell
That very day when Shanti named her baby, five hundred miles away from Tanjore, on the island of Srilanka, Shyama was reading Sengaialiyan's* Muttathu Ottaipanai when she heard the hue and cry from outside. She could sense the reason, for it could be nothing but another military attack on the village which was considered to be a hiding spot of the terrorists according to the army and yes the village was indeed one and Shyama herself was the wife of a Liberation soldier. The bullets from a machine gun were traveling through the bodies of her neighbours lifting them and pushing them back into the walls of their home. The soldiers missed out Shyama who was hiding inside a narrow passage between the two homes. Shyama was so used to losing her dear ones that the loss ceased to penetrate deep into her conscience. Her aghast eyes emptied the final few drops of salted water she had in store. Seven years ago she had lost her mother and father in a similar attack. And Mathivanan.
How could she ever forget him. He was the only soul she had for herself. She had not yet recovered from his loss. They were a happy couple until three months ago when Mathivanan confessed that he belonged to the liberation army and that he was to play a suicide bomber in their next plan of attack. She would have been with him by now if not for his priceless gift to her, a mass formed of a passionate combination of both their genes, a mass that would have started breathing by the time he sacrificed his life, a mass that was now fully grown with hands and legs cuddling inside her womb, a mass herself and Mathivanan had dreamt of creating a doctor from. So much so Mathivanan was still lingering in her thoughts. No one second would pass without thinking of him.
The whole village was shattered to pieces. Undoubtedly everyone was dead. Now that the village was nothing but a huge pile corpses of her neighbours, relatives and enemies, Shyama had no choice but to abandon her land and reach the shores on the other side. She did not want her baby to suffer a similar fate. She heard someone moaning in pain by the time she reached the end of the village. It was Malli, a 16 year old cousin of hers. She was dying. The lower half of her body was drenched with blood. When the innocent people surrendered their lives to the bullets of the machine gun, the prettiest of the girl lot encountered the worst of fates. Gang rapes were a common phenomenon while such attacks took place. Only death could free Malli from her suffering. Without a second thought Shyama crushed Malli's throat and left her to rest in peace.
She joined a group of people ready to flee to India from the nearby villages that were equally affected. After 2 hours of fearsome journey over the Indian Ocean their boat reached the shores of Rameshwaram. Shyama had her labour pains that very instant. She had awaited this moment for long. It was a baby girl. They were taken to the refugee camp nearby and their names were registered in the ledger. It was time to obtain a birth certificate for the baby. The officer in charge asked for the baby's name.
"Mathi", Shyama could not think of a better name. "Malar", she also thought of how much Mathivanan has wished to name the baby Malar.
Name : Mathi Malar Place of birth: Rameshwaram Date of birth: 07.11.1987
Authorized signature. Seal.
Malar's birth certificate was made. Shyama's baby was now an Indian citizen born on Indian soil and would never have to go back to that cursed place.
Mathi Malar, almost an Indian by birth and almost a Srilankan by heredity.