A SERENE CHRISTMAS

Christmas was a foreign holiday for me. We didn’t celebrate it back home. I had Christian friends at school but I never participated in any of their holiday festivities. My dad never allowed me to go. He hated Christmas and he disliked Christianity. Snow was also fairly new to me. This was my first year in Toronto that it was going to snow during Christmas. The past two years it rained and big snowstorms followed in January, much past the holidays. 

This year, Madhu wanted me to experience Christmas to the fullest. We’d started dating early this year and from the beginning he had promised a perfect Christmas. It was his favourite holiday, he claimed. When we moved in together in September, he bought Christmas decorations. I helped him pick out a tree-topper, a magnificent gold star that shines bright like a diamond.

As soon as November begun, Madhu took us to a tree farm. We bought a medium size fir tree,  perfect for our apartment. We decorated it that same day. We ended the day with peppermint mochas and his favourite Christmas movie. I was beginning to get the idea of Christmas but one part of me still ached, holding onto the past. It wouldn’t let me enjoy Christmas to the fullest, not the way Madhu truly wanted me to. 

November passed in a hurry. Madhu made time every night to sit with me on our couch, Christmas lights on and a cup of hot cocoa in our hands. He snuggled with me and we watched TV, talked about our day. The nights were cold but Madhu kept me warm, wrapping me up in his arms. I should’ve been content but I couldn’t forget the past, my home. The memories kept haunting me and I was awoken every night, sweating and panting from the fear that I had been killed this time for sure, murdered by bombs. One night it was guns, and another night it was men stabbing me in the chest. Every night I woke up in fear but I never woke Madhu up. I would look at him sleeping peacefully and smile, cuddling into him and willing those fears away. Without his knowing, he kept me safe.

When December came around, I readied my presents for Madhu. I hid them under the bed while he was at work and hoped he wouldn’t find them. In the second week of December, we went to his work Christmas party. I wore a long, glittery red dress and looked my best. Meanwhile, he was done up in a suit and I couldn’t believe I’d gotten so lucky. He always looked handsome but in a suit he was something else and I couldn’t keep my eyes off of him. We took pictures and danced our night away. It was perfect yet it still wasn’t enough. I was haunted and keeping everything inside, away from Madhu. I thought I was protecting him but it wasn’t fair to Madhu. It wasn’t fair that I made him feel like he wasn’t enough because I wasn’t enough. He was good for me but I kept pulling away because of that fear, those memories. It was I who was damaged, with a dark, hidden past that wouldn’t let me completely love him the way he deserved. 

It wasn’t until two days before Christmas that I decided enough was enough. He took me to the Christmas market, a must during the holidays, he said. We dressed warm in turtlenecks, winter coats, hats and gloves. He took a picture of me all bundled up, giving my nose a quick peck. That made me beam with happiness. The Christmas market was beautiful, lights strung in the air, around shrubs and tree branches. It cast a warm feeling around the area. There was hot cocoa and cider, a big fire to keep everyone warm. We stopped by the tree which stood in the middle of the market. I stared at it with my mouth wide open in awe. Madhu held my hand the entire time, snapped photos of us and me, capturing every moment. We stood close to the fire to warm up and I heard a loud crackle. It instantly transported me back to the past and I started heaving, panic washing over me. I was full of fear, my heart pounding. I felt sweaty and stuffy, as though I was being suffocated to death.

Madhu held me despite not knowing what was wrong with me. I held him tight because I thought I would lose myself completely if I didn’t. Within a few moments, I settled down and wiped the tears from my face. I turned away from Madhu, embarrassed and ashamed. I started walking with no destination in mind. Madhu followed, taking my hand in his. I knew he was waiting for me to explain but I couldn’t find the right words.

“There was a civil war where I’m from,” I started quietly. “A war I was caught up in and lost my family in,” I started to cry at the memories, the bombings, the fire and destruction. 

We stopped walking and Madhu looked me straight in my eyes.

“I’m not always stable, Madhu. I keep remembering these godawful memories and I keep fearing the worst. I know I’ve escaped from there but it’s still all around me. I’m haunted by it.”

Madhu took me in his arms and whispered in my ear that he loved me, that he would be there for me. He wanted to take me to see a therapist but I didn’t think it would help. 

“If you want to give it a try, I’m here.”

Still struggling to breathe normally, we walked slowly through the market. Things felt calm for once. I wanted to be here in this moment. I appreciated Madhu for understanding and for being there for me. Coming from a war-torn island, I never thought I would end up here, happy and at peace. I held him tight and knew that he was the one.

the burning white building

On Maaveerar Naal, Tamil Remembrance Day: a short poem about the Jaffna Public Library.

May we never forget.

It was astoundingly beautiful, the pristine building.

I fell in love with the sparkling white home 

to our truths, history, and the beauty of our people.

Pages upon pages of irreplaceable, traditional texts,

burned without a second thought.

Cries were heard inside from the love by the minority population for the history and culture.

While they sat outside,

drinking,

watching us go up in flames.

What they did to the library destroyed more than they will realize, 

started the bloodshed, wars, and terror that can never be taken back. 

30 years of a war that can never be relived, 

text that can never be retrieved again. 

It wasn’t enough to make a minority group out of us. 

No, 

they needed to wipe the entirety of us completely, 

eradicate the entire community, 

starting from our words.  

They burned out our learning and culture

the year of 1981. 

The beginning of genocide,

a bloody war,

that will never be forgotten.

image from – https://blogsmw.com/2012/06/01/a-burning-31-years-later/

my heart for you

He narrowed his eyes, focusing on the girl in front of him despite the sunlight. She had skin the colour of sand, wavy dark hair that went past her waist. He felt like he was in an illusion. Was his mind playing tricks with him? He was certain he was seeing things, things that weren’t really there. Sun rays filtered past the trees, encouraging a headache. Was he dreaming? How had he escaped? He noticed the absence of AK-47s thudding and the silence was disrupting. Where were the boom of the bombs? He had gotten used to the noise, the terror, the screams of panic and the absence of it all frightened him. He was expecting a loud noise any second now. The anticipation was alarming. He looked up at the lights, trying to make sense of where he was. He couldn’t remember how he had gotten here. He remembered a blast and fire. If he had survived it all, where was the aftermath? He was certain he’d died and was now in a sort of afterlife. His eyes opened in a flutter. He gleaned his surroundings, slowly coming to the present. He saw the girl looking at him with concern. 

“Who are you?” he asked in his native tongue, Tamil. “Where am I?” he added, weakly.

The girl curiously stared at him, wide-eyed. She observed his wounds, glancing at his forehead to his arms, to the scar on his left shin. 

“Who are you?” he tried again, this time in Sinhala, the country’s dominant language. 

She narrowed her eyes and asked him, in Tamil, “Who are you?” A part of her assumed he was Sinhalese yet she stood straight and tall, undaunted by this strange, bleeding boy in front of her. Should she be scared of him? She didn’t know but she didn’t care. He was leaning against a tree, wounded by one of the two parties. He clutched at his shoulder now, screaming in pain.

She felt this pain within her and in that moment she put her fears away, knowing she would care for him despite the risks. As he screamed, something deep inside of her gnawed at her, asking to be healed. She hadn’t felt someone else’s pain like this before, a certain sense of love and care pulling from the roots inside of her. She felt him belonging in her heart, enclosing around her own hurt in a warm way. She helped him up, wrapped his arm in a tourniquet using a strip of cloth she had torn from the end of her night gown. Limping, he let her guide him to a nearby emergency clinic which was mainly a makeshift tent left behind by the Red Cross, now run by local doctors. 

“My name is Niromi,” she managed to say as he was taken into care. 

He watched her as she stood there, looking at him from a distance. He let the doctor treat his arm and check for other wounds but the entire time, he was looking at Niromi who wouldn’t move from her spot, wouldn’t shift her eyes away from him. She watched him as he winced in pain, clenched his teeth as the doctor moved his arm. As the doctor left, giving him instructions to keep his arm still, Niromi approached him.

“What’s your name?” she asked him in Tamil.

He tried to position himself upright but failed to do so. She held his arm to prevent him from moving, knowing that he was hurting. 

He looked at her and watched as she took her hand away. “Arun.”

“My entire family is dead,” she whispered. 

He closed his eyes shut tight, remembering his own. “Mine too.” The tears were there but he willed them away, trying to be strong.

She took his hand in hers. “I’ll take care of you,” she said, a firm statement. She didn’t hesitate, warmly smiled and gently held his hand.

He started to refuse, unable to understand why she wanted to take care of him. He hadn’t asked for it. He stopped himself short when he saw her eyes, glistening with tears and compassion. 

“Where did you lose them?” he asked, referring to her family. He hoped this question wouldn’t make her cry, bring back memories of the tragedy, but he had to know. He shifted over in the makeshift bed to give space for her to sit next to him.

She looked at him, putting up a strong front. “October,” she whispered. “The bombing took all of them. My mother, my father, my two younger sisters.” She teared up and wiped at her eyes, ashamed of her grief and emotions.

He took her hand and gently held it, watching her as she quickly wiped away her sorrow. He told her that he had lost his family months ago, somewhere further away from here. He had escaped from the bombing, ran far away from his home. His family’s deaths was his fault and he hadn’t gotten past the guilt. He didn’t know if he ever could. They took each other’s hand and embraced each other with their individual pain. Mutually, they made a pact to never let go, to love beyond the blood, and tears. His head on her shoulder, he told her they would leave the teardrop island for a better life, begin anew somewhere without war.