Love
Love
From the age of five, it was common for him to disappear.
His mother would wake in the night, reach out with her hands to the place beside her bed, and suddenly realize he was gone. Alarmed, she would rush outside, only to find him sitting on the doorstep. Seeing him there, she would quietly stop and watch.
Resting his chin on his hands, his elbows on his knees, he would be gazing up at the sky. In his eyes there would be a mixture of wonder, imagination, desire, and longing.
His mother would stand there for a moment looking at those large shining eyes and then call softly:
“Son!”
Startled, his silence would break. Even as he rose, traces of those emotions still lingered in his eyes.
“What are you looking at in the sky?”
“The clouds, Amma.”
“The clouds?”
At first, this surprised her.
“Yes, Amma. The clouds keep changing shape every little while.
First it looked like a deer.
Then it looked like a horse.
Now it looks like a rabbit.”
Though she briefly wondered whether he was imagining things like grown people sometimes do, she looked up at the sky. The clouds were simply ordinary white cotton-like clouds drifting with the wind.
His mother looked at him, half-understanding and half-confused. He continued gazing at the clouds with shining eyes.
Life had taught his mother to see only realities.
Dreams, imagination, and the feelings they produced were beyond her understanding.
Still, not wanting to hurt her little son, she would say,
“All right, come inside, son,”
and go in.
A flicker of disappointment would pass through his eyes.
Didn’t she understand what I said? Couldn’t she see it?
Holding onto his mother’s shirt, he would follow her inside.
This became a habit.
His disappearing, her searching, and her finding him staring into the distance became routine.
Eventually she would no longer call him back immediately. As long as he was safe, that was enough for her.
His love for clouds gradually expanded.
It spread to crows, chickens, sparrows’ nests, leaves, shoots, and raindrops.
On rainy days he would float paper boats in the water.
As the boats bumped and staggered forward, his eyes would wander with them.
Wonder.
Imagination.
Desire.
Longing.
A deep sigh.
From inside the house his mother would shout:
“Come inside, son! The rain is pouring!”
“I’m coming, Amma!”
Only his voice would go inside.
After calling him repeatedly and growing tired, she would finally drag him indoors.
Then he would sit by the window looking outside.
When the rain stopped, he would spend hours listening to the sound of water droplets falling from leaves.
His mother would often come looking for him in surprise.
Where is this boy?
Wonder and fear would rise within her.
He isn’t like other children.
Other children created noise and trouble and exhausted their mothers.
Why wasn’t he like that?
Was he drifting farther and farther away from her?
Poor mother.
She had so much love within her, yet she did not know how to show it.
Only discipline.
That was all life had taught her.
His desk stood beside the window in his room.
Half his world existed on that desk and through that window.
Through it he could see a mango tree and his mother’s small garden.
The colorful flowers blooming there were things he loved.
Even at ordinary times he loved the mango tree.
But when it blossomed, he loved it even more.
Watching bees and sunbirds circle around it was one of his favorite sights.
There was a sparrow’s nest in that great tree.
The mother sparrow would fly around gathering insects and return to feed her chicks.
In his imagination, that mother sparrow was his own mother.
As he grew older, his capacity for love grew as well.
He loved things beyond his reach.
He loved things that filled him with wonder.
He loved people.
He loved books.
Sometimes books themselves became people to him.
When confusion and fear troubled his mind and there seemed no escape, books became his friends.
He enjoyed sports.
But he rarely stepped onto a playing field.
His mother’s sacred command—
“Study, son.”
—kept him away from it.
His longing for sports turned into affection for those who played them.
Madhan was an excellent volleyball player.
Achuthan played football.
Seelan played cricket.
They became people he admired and loved.
This too was something his mother never understood.
“You don’t need friendships with boys who spend all their time on the playground. You need to study.”
His admiration for them, his dreams of being like them, his desire and longing—these remained pains she could not understand.
Yet he endured it.
He knew.
To his mother, he was everything.
Her hopes.
Her expectations.
Her faith.
Her entire life.
And so his love for her sank deeper roots with every passing day.
Even the lone palmyra palm standing in the yard at dusk became something he loved.
He did not know at what age he began to love God.
As a child he had prayed:
“God, help me study well.”
But later something deeper arose within him.
Not merely devotion.
Love.
God seemed to him like rain or wind—something beautiful and natural to be experienced.
He found it amusing that people approached God with conditions attached to their prayers.
Can love come with conditions?
Could anyone place conditions on the wind?
Could anyone bargain with the sea?
Was God not like that too?
He liked certain smiling faces he saw on the streets.
He would eagerly hope they might turn and look at him.
If they did, he would smile.
Sweat-streaked faces.
Eyes filled with dreams and determination.
Heavy boots.
Weapons hanging from their shoulders.
Something about them filled him with wonder and affection.
One morning before dawn, distant noises echoed through the air.
Aircraft could be heard overhead.
When his mother woke, he was not beside her.
She came outside.
There he was, looking at the sky.
Without a word she turned and went into the kitchen.
The sky had filled him with shock and anger.
The black clouds of smoke rising below hid the white rabbits and horses he used to see among the clouds.
Waves of smoke rose upward.
The sounds grew nearer.
The sparrows in his mango tree fluttered about in panic.
The chicks cried desperately.
The world around him had lost its peace.
A bicycle bell rang at the gate.
Achuthan had arrived.
“Machan, my father says we’re all going to Vavuniya. We’re leaving this morning. I came to tell you before I go.”
With troubled eyes he patted his friend’s shoulder.
“Take care.”
He stood watching his dear friend leave.
Vehicles and bicycles hurried along the road.
The remarkable people he admired also passed by.
But there were no smiles on their faces.
None of them even looked at him.
As evening approached, news spread like the wind.
“The army is coming. People are leaving the village.”
His mother became frantic.
“Son, what shall we do? Where shall we go?”
He himself did not know where to go.
Nor did he want to leave.
“Let’s wait until morning, Amma. We’ll see.”
After a sleepless night, just as dawn approached, he finally began to drift off.
Then—
BOOM!
A shell exploded.
He woke with a start.
“Amma!”
“Son!”
His mother ran to him.
Expecting more shells, they lay flat on the ground.
Eventually he came outside.
Then he cried out:
“Aiyyo, Amma!”
His mother rushed out.
The mango tree had fallen.
The sparrows’ nest had fallen with it.
The mother sparrow flew around screaming.
“My mango tree…”
His eyes filled with tears.
Words failed him.
“It’s only a tree, son. Be thankful it didn’t fall on the house. We don’t have time to stand here. We must leave quickly.”
Back in his room, his eyes fell upon his desk.
His books.
His closest friends.
Could he take them all with him?
He stood helplessly, tears in his eyes.
His mother packed some clothes and a few books.
When they locked the house and stepped onto the street, it was deserted.
The temple stood silent.
No flowers.
No lamps.
No worshippers.
His friend there—the god he loved—was alone.
The emotions within him surged like waves.
The love inspired by white clouds.
By raindrops and tender leaves.
By the mango tree and the sparrow chicks.
By his dear friend.
By smiling faces.
By the streets.
By the village itself.
Now, in separation, all those feelings rose more powerfully than ever.
Like a spring bursting forth, they pushed him toward something.
And suddenly he understood.
A new and greater thing had been added to the list of things he loved.
Freedom.
Yes.
He had begun to love freedom.
That night was long and heavy.
They sheltered in a house crowded with displaced people.
He never closed his eyes.
When his mother finally fell asleep near dawn, he disappeared once more.
At daybreak she woke and searched for him.
She went outside.
He was nowhere.
She asked everyone around her.
No one had seen him.
His mother sat on the doorstep.
With troubled eyes she covered her mouth and fell silent.
She was a strict woman.
Dreams.
Imagination.
The feelings they awakened.
Those things lay beyond her.
Life had taught her to see only reality.
Yet now—
She understood everything.
Deepakumaresh
Velicham Pavala Magazine, 2001
Compiled by Tamilarasan Abdul Kader.
Translation by Hari
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