Followers of the Dead Man
G. Haritharan
Copyright © 2011 G. Haritharan and s4mT
First published by s4mT in 2006 ISBN 978 0 9552958 0 5
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Other books by G. Haritharan:
The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era) https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42621
For the patiences of my sister and dear mother
"In the history of Ceylon... the Eela Tamils never lost their kingdom entirely, except for two short periods of 16 and 6 years, while for much longer periods Tamil kings have ruled over all Ceylon, history is repeating itself and must indeed repeat itself, adapted to modern conditions. When dharma decays and adharma prospers providence intervenes to destroy the wicked and to protect the weak. That ear has dawned once more in Ceylon. Will the Eela Tamils in this hour of danger and disaster to their nation, show their worth and their valour? Will they do their duty, unite as brothers... and join in the Eela Tamil struggle for independence?"
1958, C. Suntheralingam (M.P. for Vavuniya, Ceylon)
All times, persons and places are relative to this tale. If you find parts familiar, you maybe more knowledgeable than some. Remember: keeping your mind receptive will help you enjoy exactitude.
If you still feel giddy, please place this volume safely and partake to another task.
Introduction
What is tea? It is a drink. It is a hot drink. Drank by millions… hold on, billions of people across this planet. What is guaranteed is that anybody who is reading this book has tasted a quantity of tea in his or her lifetime.
No matter where you are on this planet you will have access to a cup of tea. Many rally sand racers in the Sahara desert are known to carry a flask or two with them while they bid to defeat both conditions and their opponents alike. Inuits in Greenland have indeed been boiling their brews for a very long time – nothing like a hot liquid infusion for a cold environment. In fact (and without being too bold) tea is the most consumed beverage in the world.
Imagine a population of 6,673,382,116 (that’s six billion, six hundred and seventy-three million, three hundred and eighty-two thousand, one hundred and sixteen). Taking away babies and small children (of course, a few others for random variable reasons) leaves us with at least a couple of billion people. So at least two billion individuals (or in groups) purchase some sort of tea leaf for their brewing habits. Collectively, that is big business; lots of tea = lots of people making tea, lots of ingredients to construct tea (tea leaves and other) which ultimately means: lots of money. Aside, individually, it is ‘big’ business for another ground.
A glass/cup/mug/pot of tea is brewed in many different ways defined mainly by the different people who make the brew. Strong tea/light tea is a favoured distinction which is usually measured by the amount of time a tea bag is left in the water for; the longer the stronger. Milk definition is another; a lot, a little or no milk and also the type, affect its taste and colour. You probably have your favourite way of making tea that others just do not abide by when making a cup for you. Don’t be too harsh on them; they simply have an alternative taste for the leaf that takes them into their own. Whatever the situation, the concoction of tea is a big deal – it is special, different and very personal. Personal due to the feelings a good (also for that a matter a bad) cup of tea can bring.
During at least one of the cups of tea you have had in your lifetime you must have felt the tea feeling. It is the reaction you find yourself in which can only be described as a ‘funk of delicacy’. Whilst drinking you would have assumed this position: two hands on the cup very much engulfing it; the cup to your lips and eyes starring blindly into a scene that sits just behind the steam rising up off of the liquid. It is a zone of mind but is definitely a separate feeling or emotion. This ‘zone’ can quite easily be interrupted – hence why I have labelled the funk; a delicacy. But, if the zone is not broken up, it will last.
Have you ever wondered why this feeling is tied only with tea? Think about it. When was the last time a coffee or hot chocolate caused such a moment? Never. Now, be not confused by the beautiful feeling of warmth and relaxation a good (i.e. not too ‘cocoa-ed’) chocolat can bring. That is plain enjoyment (and not the same funk) which can occur with anything that you do, let alone drink.
Don’t believe me? Try it, perhaps my way. Boil the kettle and place the tea bag in the cup adding sugar to taste. When the boiling process has finished pour in the water to the level of your desire adding milk (of your preference) after you have removed the tea bag. Take a seat with your tea in a quiet area and follow the position described in the previous paragraphs. You will never experience a feeling that you can call this.
Is there a connection between this distinct and separate feeling with the widespread nature of tea? I cannot really conclude in favour; this is merely an introduction to a story and not an answer to a question that is a lot bigger. For now, just sit, relax and read on, losing yourself in the narrative. Realise that the complexity of everything is very unnecessary, when you can read something simple…
…this, as long as you are sipping at a hot cup of your preferred variation of tea.
Dear Diary - S
Oh, am I mad?
A simple answer to that. I have sacrificed a lot and I understand that the good of all is at stake here… but what the fuck? This is my personal space to vent my frustration – livid! Many a time you have seen such a display of my written worries, but then many a time I am in these silly pent up situations. I should calm but that is for another day because I have returned to sit in my lonely flat – and it is Saturday. I should be out of the country and fighting for what I believe in. Do you know what that feels like? To struggle against an oppression, forgive the fucking rhyme but it is an obsession!? There is no give up but if I am told by my boss to just sit back, hope and simply assume that it will all go according to plan then he doesn’t know my commitment?
Ever since Tim approached me on the lucky
fateful day two years ago. I say fateful because I UNDERSTAND! It was
not he who found me or I vice versa, but it was the governing of…
well it. Them.
Whatever, it’s labelled as fate, destiny, movement – again,
WHATEVER. I discovered the group and they discovered me and now I am
as much apart of this… as even big Mo’.
Ok, ok. The hostility is making me sound like I have the want to disrespect this gathering. No that is not what I want. Not what is intended. I’ll repeat this til I am blue in the face – I believe in this and I believe in Tim’s structures. I do.
Shunted is what I feel and I know it is only on the temporary and I will explain myself, dearest diary, but for now it is vent a vent time with the mere slightest suggestion to my understanding. The appropriate seat for the appropriate agent. With only five spaces I was the obvious casualty seeing as how our latest entrant has grown priority. You know? It’s hard to take and I know I must but it’s still so hard. I will give my all for these people. My people. Their cause is my cause. Maybe if Tim knew that then it would have been different?
I mean my idiot replacement (who I must add is a lying
toe-rag and a thief – I mean, who steals from a library – the
fucking books are FREE!) is not a believer – believers are who can
steer a ship – because they can see. That’s as obvious as it can
get… and NO, I am not doubting the leader’s stance (‘the
leader’, I make him sound like Hitler or Mussolini… which
who is NOT what I want him to sound like). Even Tim says we should
question – as that is the essence of our very nature. All that we
think of in reality is so clouded by the stupidity of what people
think is real and what they don’t know is real. I don’t know if
that makes sense, but remember, dear diary, what exactly is sense and
how do we get a grasp of such concepts? Tim was clear in his
teachings and I will stand by his decision, but even he knows that we
all feel and it’s this feeling and drive
passion that distinguishes us as human… and that is what we are
saving. HUMANITY.
Ok. I’m coherent now. Let me explain.
A. In London, Nobody Knows Your Name
1. It Take’s Character
1.1 Past, Present? Whatever…
-a book; a novel. Investing in characters that will take time effort and eventually a feeling indescribable in words. The get out is the escape; a fortune; a breath. When is it that true emancipation ever been achieved? The feeling of real freedom is that from constraint and shackle - this need not be physical in construction. It is in the case of the novel. These are words strung together to drag emotion. Manipulate emotions. Human beings are not in the necessity of the emotive expense – natural is to stay levelled. Still want to read on? A fool to not heed a warning…
Chris Uranson never drank Coca-Cola. Ever since he was four years old he would not go near the stuff. An allergic reaction he liked to call it. The truth was at that age his older brother, Malcolm, gave him a can to drink out of at a family trip to a theme park. When Chris put it to his lips the elder sibling tilted the can sending the drink too quickly down his throat causing Chris to choke violently. From then onwards the simple image of the red can would bring forward feelings of anxiety and fear.
From this moment (one of his earliest memories), as a child, he grew with a trait for scepticism. It may have been natural but the more obvious tendencies were visible after the Coca-Cola turning point of his life. He was once called the world’s biggest sceptic by one of his primary school teachers. At the time he rejected the claim by telling her that as he believed the world was so big there must be somebody out there that was more sceptical than he was. His teacher laughed but Chris did not, having completely missed the irony, being oh so young.
-do these ‘meet the character’ beginnings to novels really work? Does the word boring ever mean anything to authors who use this plan?
He hated blind acceptance. Questioning was the corner stone of all life’s events. At age six he had an argument with his television when the presenter of a show said that the first species on this planet were dinosaurs. He shouted ‘How do you know?’ out at the enthusiastic furry browed man talking on screen. Neither this individual nor the TV responded. He asked his father, who was too busy to have a proper conversation: response; ‘The scientists, dey knorr’, in his heavy Jamaican accent. What did they know? How did they know it? It did not make sense then and in the light of today’s scientific methods being nothing more than predictions of the closest possibility under very specific conditions, it’s not total sense now either.
-stop the preaching and sketching and start the story telling
(And to the present) - Chris thought taking a break would be a good idea and so ventured downstairs parked himself on the sofa and turned the television on (it was a different one to the box he had access to at six years of age). Half an hour of non-revision related activity would be better for his long term learning plan for the day. He was currently in his second year of study at South Bank University reading psychology. The end of year exam period was in affect, so if he passed, then he would be in his final year come September in four months time. There was not much thinking in his decision to choose psychology as the subject he wanted to have a degree in. It seemed interesting and he figured that he could find out a lot about himself by using psychology to study his own psychology. In terms of a future or career, Chris did not really think that far ahead. It was simply the satisfaction of a short term goal – to get into a university and do a degree.
-he sounds like every student on this planet. Is the tackiness not blatant?
Living at home while at university was not as annoying as he’d imagined. The people he met in the first year were very much easy going and they let him stay around whenever we wanted or needed. The convenience of a two minute walk into a 9am lecture after a heavy night of alcohol abuse is always a plus.
-real students do not make it to 9am lectures, with or without alcohol abuse
Having this nice riposte with his fellow student associates was not as advantageous as could be. Typically with students, his friends were into a clubbing culture which manifested itself on at least a weekly basis. Chris was not the biggest nightclub devotee by a stretch of any twisted imagination. He hated the whole process, from the queuing up in the cold (granted, that’s only in the winter), being frisked by an extremely zealous bouncer, an inappropriate male to female ratio, the pressing up against other male clubbers (a very minimal chance that pressing up duty would be performed by a woman due to the heavy outnumbering proportion) and the overpriced drinks… Safe to say, Chris did not like to engage in the activity.
-or maybe it’s the author who is not fanciful to the endeavour. Classic author – character transference that, in good written technique, is not usually sticking out
His university friends were obviously the opposite and, at first, when getting to know these people he would grin and bear. ‘Concentrate on the music’; the phrase usually let him do this, though if the DJ was on a mission to disappoint, the task would be harder. Nights were spent biting his bottom lip and trying to avoid random limbs from coming into contact with his person. This was a build up that had to vent (and) as he got to know his learned fellows (and) they turned less random (and) more into friends, he found it easier to tell them of his peeve. Indeed, this resulted in a reduction of his clubbing schedule - at a price.
When one does not fit into the norm of a group then questions are inevitably asked. When associated with not wanting to ‘party’, Chris started to be labelled as boring or dull – that sort of thing. This did get to him (though he kept brave face) and he spent many moments contemplating aspects of his personality that would provide contradiction to the tags. It was hard to find them; he is well organised, punctual, thoughtful and overall, just a little too sensible. These times of deliberation (which usually occurred on a bus that travelled either way on the Old Kent Road, towards and from Elephant and Castle) ended with Chris dismissing the notions as derogatory and unnecessary. He had other qualities.
Being a little quiet but crucially not nervous, Chris was seen as quite a mysterious man to his female opposites and naturally this was attractive. Over his later teenage years and up to the present he was never going too long without some sort of female company. Normally, this situation is not something to complain of but Chris was a man who liked to keep to himself, hence he was quiet. The lack of talking kept issues that he had closer to him and this included feelings, which was something that did not really go down too well with the longer term partners, most of whom he did not really care for but there was the one.
-there’s always the one
They met at his sixth form college but only started to date at the beginning of Chris’ second academic year at university. Even in his eyes (and also the many people who knew them both) she was perfect for him; he did not like to talk about his feelings, she did not force him to. He liked his space and to do other things away from the relationship, so did she. It was fair enough to say they would spend the right amount of time with each other. In fact, the relationship was good and there was probably nothing major that he could think of that she faulted on either.
It lasted about five months. It was five months of bliss and heaven for Chris where he found himself questioning why he had got so lucky. There were times where the thought of his fortuitousness physically interrupted any pastime he was occupied in. At first this was a minor event and involved a rye smile exhibited towards a nice feeling of love (or at the very least thereabouts). Then it increased its presence, a little like the earlier description of his categorisation; he started to involve himself in mental debates on why he was positively lucky and then onto whether he deserved it. By the end of the fifth month the discussion in Chris’ mind became too much to handle. The drive to appease his over worked processes was such a force he had to cave in and after a two hour phone call he had finished with her. It was almost as if somebody had taken him over and acted on his behalf (an interesting idea though not exactly one to be received) but he knew he had to take responsibility for his own actions. (Over the phone was not the best idea either).
1.2 Prophecy (3)
The doorbell rang and as it did so, the plastic outer case flew off the bell and landed next to Chris on the sofa. He rose up off the seat and walked towards the front doors. The Uranson family home had a porch with a glass panelled front door and a door to the hall threshold (the centre door) which was completely made of wood. There was no way of seeing who was at the front door until you have opened the middle one. If it had been any other way, Chris would not have answered the visit. Once he was at the front door, however, he had to open it being in full view. The option of peaking through the kitchen window had been bypassed too crudely.
“Good morning, son” The old African man said. He was old because he looked old and he was African because he was Black and had a heavy African continent accent. “I am David and I would like to talk to you, son, about Jehovah your lord and God.” Chris hesitated; he knew there would be a point to intervene and tell the gentleman that he was not interested, straight away was an option but how rude would that have been? Still, he thought he may not get another chance… “Do you believe in God?” Too late.
“Yeah… My family is religious.” Chris did not want to go into his religious (or lack of) beliefs and also decided at the last moment not to completely lie out right, he just decided to blur the whole truth a fraction.
-the second character introduced into this story is a random man who turns up at a doorstep? That is ludicrous! Surely there are many important people in ‘Chris’’ life that should have preceded a nobody?
“That is good to have a strong religious background, my son.” David responded smiling peacefully. His batik traditional dress was extremely well ironed, white in the centre and purple at the sides. “Tell me, do you know who Jehovah is?”
Chris was unsure but suspected that the word itself is a pseudonym for God. He did not wish to venture this just in case he was wrong; however, the opportunity he had only to wait a moment for had arrived.
“Sorry, I think that I have to go.” Was all that Chris could manage, again, no priority for false excuse.
“Oh so soon?” David started, tilting his head in an expected disappointment. “Well I hope not to keep you, my son. I know you young ones have plenty to deal with. Can I give you this magazine to read?”
Chris waited as David reached into the bag hanging off his left hand side and out popped a small and thin publication. While doing so, his bag swung knocking a stick he had previously positioned up against the side wall next to the doorway to the house. Chris bent down quicker and lifted the walking stick. A slick black finish with a grooved top perfectly comfortable for a hand grip. Chris noticed that it had a nice weight to it as he passed the rod to David who accepted it graciously. ‘Thank you, son’ were his words. On reception, the bag now fell from off of his shoulder to the ground with the slack handle staying loosely in his possession (due to a wedge created by his wrist and the walking stick he had just been given). Without looking down at the ‘events’ he kept his head straight and looked Chris directly. In the eyes. That is, once the younger man’s head’s direction came back up level, having hung from the distraction of the sudden movement.
“Importance,” David started, his face losing the earlier gentle warmth. “What do you know about importance? If you are special then would you know it before it is too late? Is it really the job of people like me to iterate and eventually re-iterate what vocation really is? Ambition perhaps? If it is not what your heart tells you then you may not get involved in what can only be described as your providence. Do what sense informs you; logic coupled with chance is the basis to what you are needed for.”
-a switch to absurdity so soon in the story. That does not wash
Chris did not know whether to laugh out loud or listen with politeness. He managed a facial expression that incorporated more of the latter but a little of the former; the slightest smile he found hard to control. Be gone! - An issue flew through Chris’ mind telling him that this crazy man knew where he lived. It’s one thing interacting with an estranged individual on a street somewhere (and South-East London streets are definitely full of estranged individuals) but to have the contact on his very own doorstep was quite an anxious situation. Still, Chris hoped not to promote such anxiety in lieu of being offensive and luckily David did not pick up on this. He simply got ready to leave; re-dressing his bag and placing his walking stick firmly to the ground with hand on the grip.
“You may not respect my words but understand for your future: when you see my presence next, follow me.” David capped his final comment with a returned peaceful smile. To turn and walk away as he did; not only with bag on shoulder and walking stick in one hand but magazine also in other. As Chris quickly closed the door behind David, he noticed an orange pattern in the middle of his back. The design itself kept with the batik printing, but the colour was quite a contrast to the purple and white of the rest of the cloth. Happiness; the man had left but uneasiness; David’s last words. He did not want to reconnect again since he might have to read the literature along with receiving it.
Look At My Passion
Kiss
“Look. Look at that girl over there. She cannot speak, she cannot hear. Would you still have the love that you are talking if I was like that?” A rhetorical question if ever stated. She smiled though and it was enough for the Tamil porter/waiter/all other to drag the end of a Silk Cut deeply into his lung and throw it away like it was poison that did him harm… and reply.
“No matter. I would kiss you and show you.” There was not much subtlety to his game but he continued “You are used to seeing these Sinhalese boys walk around and pretend they have what you are wanting. When I kiss you then you will find out and feel the power.” Emphasise on the ‘pow’
The two looked ahead of them at the proceedings: a teenager dragging two bin bags to the skip in the alley behind the hotel. To the end of the slim way, a girl was signing with another gentlemen who seemed frustrated with her.
-and+ off
“Actually, you are only wanted to kiss me.” She cut her eyes and sucked softly at the inside of both sets of lips. “Anyway, you are married… if all is wanting you go down to the massage. They taking you.”
He stewed at her disjointed but obvious reference.
“Then why am I here? Tell me? If I am wanting the sexing then I just walk down the road. No. I am here to show what you are to me. You are Sinhalese, no? You not understanding the passion of the Tamil. We are looking like we want to sit and do our… nothing, man. But you are wrong. We are fighter and when we are seeing what we are want then you cannot say that I am just wanting the sexing.”
.2 Propagation And Innuendo-Nation
There was some teeth baring but the maid was on her way to being convinced. What she had been told about Tamils was still an issue. They were thought to be callus, stubborn and above all very stupid.
There were stories and what could she expect; anything different from the images on television of her fellow race being murdered - cold blooded? How could she expect having been told how and what to think; she may just be a maid but the system still needed her approval.
Of the Tamil porter to whose smooth talking vice not only explained the current pursuit of the… ‘sexing’ but also the intricate nature of the want and desire of the Tamilan. To see only what is the belief of that in front of you. In this case it was a misuse but there lies the highlighted.
“That deaf girl. She is Tamil.” Teeth were kissed “not looking but her passion. She is hard and wanting extra, no? No Sinhalese girl can angry like her.”
Indeed, the girl was very irate but in a controlled manor. The man she was with could only try to console her. A confrontation that suggested no malice though the two onlookers would only intervene at a date passed such description.
-well… +++
“I don’t care that she is Tamil.” The maid brought up, this time speaking in her native tongue. “You are always fighting when there can be peace.”
The porter realised the situation though only picking up the broken language version. His wife was at home sitting around no doubt getting even fatter than she was after the birth of his first child – a girl. In this instance the Tamil passion shall not be spent on convincing the brainwashed that there will never be peace between the righteous and the ill. It will be spent best on shorter term goals.
“You don’t talk about peace,” in English, “you talk to me about love.” She let off a tut “That is what Tamil will see to. What girl? All these porters and you cannot choose me? The Tamil? But I am something different, no?”
Arms folded now she looked at him with un-interest. On the back of her mind: it must have been five minutes by now – the time allotted for their break. The porter misinterpreted the stance believing he was getting through.
“Different, if I want, then I like the Raj.” The maid commented smiling cheekily and contorting her hips – to the left. The more she pushed herself away the harder the porter found it to resist her.
“He is not Tamil? He is not same. You must feel what is within us, not that Indian fucker. The Tamil man is the most passion you must feel. Nobody in the whole of Asia will have the dedicated of the Tamil man.” He cursed in Tamil, smoothed the moustache on his top lip with the thumb and index finger on his right hand then continued. “Break is over now, when are you finish?”
She told him and barred more teeth. Crooked and yellowing. Slightly blotched skin, greasy hair but very slim. This was the important thing. Well, the second – the fact that she should keep quiet. Now that was the important thing. The porter had no reputation for the wrong though he might well should have. Another curse sailed this time silent. If he spoke better Sinhalese he could have seduced this girl by now. But then why could she not speak Tamil? It’s not a mandatory language, my friend. If the simple man could work the language of another he could best receive the communications of love, hate, humour, fear, anxiety… through interpretation, the added bonus of a mask exists.
The shape of her form moved by his; choice frotteur, and faded through entrance to the inside. The porter imagined wooing the young hotel maid in the tongue of her, their shared employers and of the commercial capital at large. He would never have gained prohibited access to the job if he actually spoke Sinhalese fluent. He would have just got the job; no need for the granted favour.
Tobacco slid with effort up the tip of his tongue to the crux of two top front teeth. A little ‘O’ shaped lips et voile – the spit.
2. Homeland(s)
2.1 Developing
Having parents from Jamaica and living in Britain is fairly complicated when trying to trace a root or identity. Having a mother who is from South Asia as well starts to get quite problematic.
-Does this story have a destination or is it to merely flirt with a plot?
Chris’ parents met in Jamaica about twenty-five years previous. Mr Colin Uranson, Chris’ father, worked as a hotel manager in Montego Bay – a job he adored and took great pride in performing. A reason? The fact that he was born into a humble ‘lower’ class family that struggled to get him into the necessary courses. Not simply due to financial issue but also the favouritism of other individuals who could resolve the class-ist, biased attitude of the people in charge of the industry (leaving other industries aside for the sake of focus and simplicity). Being the only child in the family brought him the extra pleasure in showing his family that he had succeeded in hard circumstances and that all their work and effort with him had paid off
Mrs Lakshmi Uranson, or plain Lakshmi Kandiahnayagham as she was known then, worked as a cleaner in the same hotel.
-please no!
She was born in Jamaica to Tamil parents (originally from ‘Sri Lanka’¹, rather than India) in the country after recommendation of a reported trade boom. The descendents of forced slaves communicated promises of employment for foreign (cheap) workers (the ease of the unmarked immigrant). Anybody can fit a shoe and it is unnecessary to their nativity to his/her land. Invisible paper, invisible ink, invisible all smiles all around.
¹(Since ‘Sri Lanka’ is the label name for an island that comprises of two separate countries, one of which is underrepresented due to the unjust dominance of the other, the name ‘Sri Lanka’ will be placed in inverted commas for the duration of the book)
Mrs Uranson had plenty of siblings (seven) all of whom had to share the wage earned by their father. Being the eldest, Lakshmi soon found in her early teenage life that she too had to work to support her father’s income. This early wizened head met Colin while working her third job (all of which were in hotels) at the age of seventeen.
-tacky love stories mean nothing for originality, something that this tale lacks
Colin’s parents were so so, though accepting with their son’s choice of partner. The same could not be said of Lakshmi’s. The latter set seemed hell bent on the idea that their eldest daughter (and for that matter child) would marry a fellow Tamil. To know what is known is fruit borne. The problem was: there weren’t many Tamils in Jamaica. The [inverted comma]trade boom[inverted comma] brought over scores of Indians and a few others (Bangladeshis), but it certainly seemed for the twenty or so years that the Kandiahnayagham were living in (and for later part, just off ) Montego Bay, they were the only Tamil family on the island. It was a matter of time before her father gave in to Colin’s proposal and it helped extremely that he had been offered a job in London. The young mature Lakshmi promised her father to help secure visas to forward her siblings to ‘The Land of Opportunities’ in return for his blessing. It made sense, so he gave it and, with honour, over the years that went by Lakshmi kept to her promise.
Indeed, Aunties have come and gone from the Uranson family residence from a very early age in Chris’ life. They did not stick around for very long, however, oh no. Lakshmi managed to float three of her sisters travelling the seas and sky to get to, as once described, ‘Elloween Dee-o-ween’. Another two immigrated to the United States of America and while doing so persuaded two of the three just new to England to venture once more to join them. Lakshmi’s remaining sister in Britain stayed on for around half a year before moving on to Germany with a man she met on the first day that she landed at Heathrow airport. Chris never imagined he would have the ability to do what he had observed his aunties achieving; always wondering about the many different cultures that these women persisted with in order to find happiness (again, or at least thereabouts).
-this character is quite the dull boy
In terms of culture, what Lakshmi ultimately wanted to do was to teach her children about her original roots as a Tamil from ‘Sri Lanka’ and not Jamaica. It was not that she had anything against Jamaica or Jamaicans; it was due to her affinity with her mother and father’s stories about their lives in their home country. Chris’ grandparents would tell his mother, her sisters and one brother about what they used to get up to which included the jovial; family life and general environment, along with the malignant; the country was in the midst of an ethnic civil war where many atrocities were committed to her very own race of people. When she came to Britain she found her resources for learning increased and so she used these new found assets to educate herself and later on, her second child Chris.
At home, Lakshmi would tell him about her Tamil roots, people and the conflict existing in ‘Sri Lanka’. It was a unique combination of lecture and storytelling that she would always somehow fit into a busy daily schedule. At school term time, her care assistant work time would be changed to an early day shift, getting home in time to spend a few hours with Malcolm and Chris while she cooked and tidied. During the holiday weeks, her shift would be a later one in order to spend longer hours throughout the day.
Malcolm was very disinterested in what his mother had to say and tended to escape to play with friends on the street at holiday times (his room at other times). Chris on the other hand liked to see his mother enthusiastic as she was when speaking about ‘Sri Lanka’ and its oppressive government. When with his mother, he was the pure Tamil son she saw with her own eyes; she called him ‘Ura’ (pronounced ‘ooh-raa’) a shortened form of his surname, which she obligated his first name, as if he was traditionally Tamil named. Technically, he would still have been called Chris but Ura felt nice to the lady.
***
If it was love lost to an open sea
If it all were split where would that leave me?
Basking on independent colony
When on to this whole living I am free
Rather than to death for my heart to flee
Us and them to make two and never three
We fight as one, within Our true decree
He was not ever successful in remembering everything she told him. In fact, it would mostly sail out of one ear no sooner did it enter the other. Chris knew of the conflict of Tamils and the government of ‘Sri Lanka’ but could not go into more detail than it being a country where an ethnic population sought independence through a separate nation (of course there is the separation of state issue that Chris was not versed in). He knew that many Tamils were killed prior to the early eighties, through no other reason than them not being Sinhalese. And that a Tamil rebellion waged a war for freedom and independence soon after this point. Names and places were difficult; Chris had the island split North with some areas in the East being Tamil fronts and the rest Sinhalese. His mother always mentioned the Freedom Tigers for Eelam’s leader, Niyaghan (pronounced NY-Yah-HhuuN), but aside from he there was almost nobody else he could pin point. (Eelam being the shortened form for the name of a separate Tamil nation/state – Tamil Eelam. For those un-kept to this issue)
In the first of the three and half years that he spent at his sixth form college, Lakshmi spoke a separation of the main Tamil solidarity. This, in the East, led by a man called Zuels (pronounced with S, rather Z). She was angry at the treacherous nature that the former colonel of Niyaghan showed to the leader that had shown faith in his ability, giving him responsibilities and even Zuels’ own troops. In seeming resolution of the divisive situation, the contrast; she became happy, that the FTE had drove him away to flee island soon after his public admission of defection. (This still left plenty of followers, however, including splinter organisations like Zuels’ Group).
The in-between (from anger to happiness) was a spell drilled firmly into the mind of a busy teenager. A lot spilled casually away to nothingness but in the back of his developing brain, the colonel’s name stuck.
***
Obviously, teaching the child the Tamil language was an impossible task that Lakshmi eventual gave in to quitting. Her best effort came with repetitive shouting one summer week when the two of them played a test match of cricket in the back garden. It could have been the Windies against ‘Sri Lanka’ but the rather young Chris picked England to represent and Lakshmi, indeed, ‘Sri Lanka’. In particular one Mr Muttiah Muralitharan. As she would ‘bowl’ (a rather lame underarm light throw as opposed to the elbow injury induced over-arm throw of the aforementioned Murali) she would yell ‘Uddee, adaar, uddee!’ Which roughly translated to ‘Hit it, man, hit it!’ ‘Man’ being used in the sense of an expression rather than ‘Mani-sun’ or ‘Aarle’ which are used when referring to an individual as a man. Chris learnt these words well and kept them with him to impress both mum and aunties.
-a language lesson will not help boredom. Putting this book down and doing something else might
2.2 Identity Parade
His elder brother had a darker skin colour than he and also had Afro hair whilst Chris’ was curly and straighter. He was too Asian to be Black and a little too Black to be Asian. Malcolm was only a year and a half older than Chris but it was a crucial time period since the age of the younger generation living in the area were in Malcolm’s academic branch or in a couple of years below Chris’.
Trying to hang around with his older and only sibling was something that Chris tried. One trigger event that stopped him from further endeavour was an incident whilst he and his brother were playing football in the area outside the front of their house (enclosed by a gate). A couple of Malcolm’s friends strolled over to ask the boy to head down the street and join in the same game but for numbers. Malcolm was about nine years old at the time and was interested in the proposition so inquired into the acceptance for the by-product that was his younger brother. Chris looked up at his elder with his adoring seven year old eyes then transferred them over to his friends. The taller of the two took one fleeting look and with all the ignorance, insensitivity and thoughtlessness a child of this age could muster, stated ‘He can’t be your brother, he’s a Paki.’ Chris spent the rest of the afternoon playing indoors, something that he did a lot that summer.
-cute sob stories do not make a whole novel
Even primary school was fairly difficult to negotiate and once more due to his inability to find peace with his identity.
-is this not turning melodramatic? It’s been a while and the story does not seem to be leading anywhere
As a child, this is always a complicated issue anyway but Chris’ situation seemed harder due to the class he grew up with being full of Black, White or mixed Black and White children. There were no mixes of ethnicities. To Chris their seemed to be clear boundaries with every one of the other thirty-two children in the class; they were Black, White or a mixture of the two. He was different to this and the subject of Chris’ different shade of skin and different type of hair (to the Black/White mixed) cropped up every so often. Chris had answers; it changed almost all of the time; ‘I’m Black… I don’t know what you’re talking about but I am’ was one typical response; ‘I’m White, I got a good sun tan’ was another. His skin was a tone (and being a young child he had a softness in complexion) that seemed to pull off a plausibility to both statements, coupled with none of the children who questioned him having an understanding for a child of mixed ethnicity anyway.
Secondary school brought about a dawn of reality and even easier route to personal truths. The array of children from different communities increased and so with it Chris’ awareness for his own cultural background. As the years in his second educational institution progressed he became quite unafraid to explain to people the truth behind his ethnicity. He still wanted to receive his mother’s teachings and really started to enjoy the depth to his skin and character. He may have found the Tamil words somewhat difficult to understand but he did not the passion; it was obvious in his mother and it translated easily to her son.
As easily understood as Chris’ feelings for his father’s background - he did not share the same enthusiasm for Colin Uranson’s heritage than with that of his mother. But this was not due to his resentment for it, simply circumstance.
-is this the sign that there will be a similar length of rubbish about this boy and his father as to that with his mother and he? It is possible to stop reading. Just a thought…
Colin Uranson was quite the workaholic. The man’s long working hours were not entirely to do with his passion for hotel management. England was a more expensive place than Jamaica and he needed to commit to his position in order not to lose it. He did not have a shift flexibility (like Lakshmi) since the scheduled times he worked at were long day to evenings or maybe even call outs at night. He would get back from work quite tired with a little energy for the collective of his children.
For a while, the family was very traditional in this way; father earning, mother being the housewife. Having always wanted to pursue her interest in nursing, she only started her care assistant career after she felt the children were old enough to get to and from school by themselves. Colin’s hard working nature did not relent even when the financial burden was reduced but then his work ethic was always geared to showing his commitment and dedication to his employers. Something that he had shown purely and from the start of his immigration, even when faced with harsh, emotional decisions.
The premature death (it mostly ever is premature) of Colin’s parents accounted much for the distance to Chris between the two sides of the family. A car crash almost a year after Colin had began his life in England put paid to their lives along with the senior Uranson’s only aunty. The latest generation of the family (which consisted only of two at the time) did not find out until six weeks after, by which time Colin had missed the funerals, though if he had of got word earlier he would not have been able to travel due to visa issues and work commitments that at the time would not have let him attempt, even on compassionate ground.
Initially, Chris’ father put the spare non-work energy he had in bonding with his first child when he was born a few months later. This father to eldest son relationship grew from there on in and Chris had to settle for a shared second place (or even a third since his mother was easily pleased with her share of husband’s love). A stronger bond with his father was something he missed out on but what he gained with his mother’s love filled the void left.
-can a whole book be a void? There seems to be evidence
Hence Chris’ ‘Jamaican Jamaican’ roots were not as accentuated as what he received from Lakshmi’s ‘‘Sri Lankan’ Jamaican’ one’s. Of course, the death of Colin’s parents only a year after he had arrived in Britain meant that both Chris and Malcolm never got to meet the grandparents on their father’s side. Holidays for the family were always in Jamaica but consisted very solely of visits to Lakshmi’s parents and the two remaining siblings; her only brother and youngest sister. For Malcolm and Chris, these holidays were always a less intense version of their mother. Their grandparents were very interested in telling them stories about their lives in ‘Sri Lanka’ – just like Lakshmi did of the roots she had been told (and was still learning of). These tales were without pressure, however, and were told with a jest that the two boys’ mother could never manage. Malcolm was always more interested when his grandparents told the stories just because there wasn’t the haranguing factor involved. Chris on the other hand did not mind either, he was always interested, seeing that ‘Sri Lanka’ was always a nice subject anyway and especially in the Jamaican/Tamil accent that it was presented in (parent and grandparents). It was a simple relaxed family atmosphere where stress and pressure were left in England, as it should be on holidays.
2.3 And So On…
It was getting dark and the lowered guise that is tiredness had crept in – a long day of revision and little else. A welcome break in the afternoon brought only the annoyance of a crazed Jehovah’s Witness that disrupted the rest of the afternoon’s review. Chris had to admit the evening session was good; developmental psychology was not as interesting as other parts of its parent subject but the lecturer had structured his notes well, making it easier to take and invest.
-the background analysis that keeps interrupting this story is off putting. Frankly, the pace is too sporadic
The decision was this: relax a little, maybe television or simply straight to bed; benefit to the latter: an early rise. Not the most fun of variety though the necessity that is option. Another choice he knew he needed to make was a venue change – the last week had been a slog. An adjustment of site was a priority; something other than his room and any other place in the house or garden (front and back). Chris had scheduled himself to go over to his friend Dwayne’s dormitory and revise with him for a few days over the weekend starting Saturday afternoon. But since it was Thursday and owing to the amount of revision he had put himself through over the last couple of weeks he needed an earlier semi-escape. The study-man’s mini-break. University was an option, having not been there for a while since term end. Maybe the campus library or even a room that was not being used.
A decision in favour! (Lazily, without going over any of the other options). A rejuvenated feeling spread across him; at revision times even the smallest event can cause over exaggerated happiness. So a metaphorical push then to sleepy demons… Chris thought a movie before bed would be a good treat before another hard day of study tomorrow. He quick stepped the bedroom’s beige carpet to his fairly large DVD collection on the shelf; realising – ugh! This was another big decision.
Three Whom Govern
Who Sees Beauty
“…No apologies. We cannot speak of apologisers and scope that would be used to describe this type of behaviour. Can you see that? The outline of the mountain perimeter. The beauty is the way in which it hides behind the cloud and re-appears in your view.”
Who De-Scripts
“You are so dramatic. This has been written in every book holy or non, benevolent or not. We must not be distracted by its beauty for we have no knowledge as to the way she would behave in our extroverted stages. Will she defeat you or become you? You will never be known until you heed all warnings and stop with your souled heart.”
Who Speaks in Poem
Souled heart of never
Your sensibility is clever
But we will never be able to remain with calm
Or guarantee no harm
We must act like we have not thought
For if our presence is taut
We cannot flex to save their demise
And thus never see what has prophesised
And So On…
The three waited.
“We all know that I may not see beyond my landscape.” Said the one who reads beauty. “Why do you continue to believe in my ability?” The sense did believe in itself, the poetic one interrupted.
Why speak of ability, we know you have love?
Why speak of humility, we know you have love?
Why speak of rigidity, we know you have love?
“The poetry that exudes your being is pin-point in its dissection. If you were capable of emotion I would have sworn cold that you were fishing.
Here is your fish:
You are a value that we cannot place pocket upon; you have single abilities that we cannot achieve; visions that we cannot ever visualise; you offer our clique the needs we desire – if we could such desire.”
“Well, a mountain and its contiguous is all I note at this very moment.” Beauty refuted.
“It would almost sound as if you had emotion – but you can not make a noise nor have feelings.” Description described. “It is of time that the world we exist in moves to another point of departure. If this movement is not governed by us then the fabric of it will diminish and thus the responsibility we have undertaken would be spoiled as to our honour.
Look, the landscape you have described is only the tip of the beauty that you will see as the many minutes pass this, currently and only currently, forsaken land/water mass will become what you see - Beauty.”
“Though your account is appreciated it is not entirely warranted. I have no feelings so there is no need to use your power of description to appease those who can not be unappeased. The limits I have are an expression of the beauty I cannot see. Blessed is not I when beauty does not exist.” Beauty remarked, unaware of a need. The Descriptive sense knew it had to compensate.
“Truth is what you have tabled. Let us know what we need to progress with – a plan. This I may table to the two of you. The path of one so significant is a higher mapped soul event. The connection of all beings is how we have worked for the time period of our and others like us. The plan is merely the push of the one human to the destination we chose because it is what has to happen. If it does not then we have failed and so will the world we live in.”
Destination are destined
To believe in a collective power
Beauty is blessed in
Not quite for the present hour
A plan is to be preached
We shall listen to all
When the human has reached
Then shall glisten to all
Beauty is once more
Destiny; a destination
Truth heals our core
Un-failed is sensation
3. Lucky Find?
3.1 Detour
The thought of the empty university room… To peace, quiet but mainly - difference! Empty but for one hard working, grade zero hair wearing (gone the soft hair of youth). Maybe even; (and at a tempting stretch) an empty room but he and one extremely beautiful woman. The flow of this notion in Chris’ mind slipped easily. Even while distracted he slung his dark green (an army type green) bag on to his table rashly and a blue pen flew off on to the floor. The floor could not stay in this form, the pen needed to be picked up at some point in time. Straight away was the overwhelming inclination since, firstly, the movement and process is anti-the initial disappointment which creates an appeasement; secondly, Chris liked the idea of using one pen for as long as he could until it ran out (who does not?), though he never managed it (whoever does?), it was the turn of the pen on the carpet for the latest effort.
-ah, the crux of a mindless tale
The biro entered rucksack, Chris went out through the bedroom door, tip-toed down the stairs and swung around the wooden stake holding the bottom end of the staircase. This exaggerated manoeuvre hurried his arrival to the shoe-rack in the area underneath the stairway. With his indigo jeans on some white trainers would go nicely, so he picked up his only pair, sat on the first step and slipped them on, without undoing the laces. A quick check in the hallway mirror (chin lowered, eyebrow raised… smile!) and he was ready to away. Walking towards the front he shouted out to his mother saying ‘goodbye’ and opened the middle door.
The salient focus is a blessed moment (or series of) that would rather be absent to reality. Detoured thought causes an automatic motion to events; just like Chris was experiencing. His mind was on the whereabouts of his keys, wallet and MP3 personal stereo, the process of which slowed his reality based actions down. On realising that he had all the above items, reality remerged in the form of audio; a voice. He heard his mother say… what did not sound like goodbye back to him. He wondered whether to ignore it and walk out; it would ruin the pleasing closed door = closed mind formula. Just in case (sensible!), he went back in and to the kitchen.
-there seems to be a lot of nonsense here, in both description and technique. Is popularity come to this? The reading of such that should never be attempted, blasé in character, holistic (paragraph. Chapter) and individual (sentence. Words)
“Can you buy that milk from the Sainsbury’s?” She said chopping an onion. Though she was not going to eat the onion nor any food containing the vegetable at that moment, she liked to prepare for full cooking as early as possible.
“Nah, I’m not going to Sainsbury’s, ma,” Chris responded while taking some pretzels out of a jar, “I’m going to university so I’m going the other way – to Elephant and Castle.” He hoped that the that milk (condensed, in a can and not the normal variety) was not urgently needed because he knew he would have to get it and there would be no leniency.
“Oh no,” She exclaimed, letting Chris know that he’d be venturing an extended trip before saying so. “I need the milk for the cake I have to make for the temple tomorrow. Can you get it I have to go work and have to make it early in the morning?”
The important temple group. Hinduism as part of the British Lakshmi’s identity. Were there any temples in Jamaica? Chris kicked his heels and slowly replaced the lid on the jar. Condensed milk is available anywhere but his mother really wanted the one from Sainsbury’s and would not accept anything else (trial and error ago). The ingredient irreplaceable. Branded thus by thus being branded.
A less awkward journey (according to Chris’ knowledge) was the Sainsbury’s in New Cross which was in the opposite direction to where he was on course. His mind raced through scenarios that reduced the travel time, so much so that he re-entered the salient focus mode his attention was at just a few moments ago; he even failed to realise saying goodbye and was bound for the door. Heavy problem solving processes was something that his (well, humanity’s considerably) brain clocked into overtime when faced with situations that forced flexibility, but then rigidity was a trait he was constantly labelled with.
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