The nights were heavy like a long nightmare.
The nights were heavy like a long nightmare.
It was like a hallucination of strange figures walking from dark corners. Yes, it was a hallucination. Otherwise, we would not still be alive after all these years.
The tightly closed doors and windows created a kind of tightness and stuffiness in the house. Faces were also stuffy.
Even though the house was empty, people made it seem like there was no one there. Dad was reclining in the easy chair in the front living room. Tolstoy’s ‘War and Peace’, which he had been reading, was lying on the floor. It was his habit to close the book with a bookmark. But today… unlike usual, the pages of the picture book were lying on the floor.
Grandmother lay paralyzed on the bed in the middle living room, sighing frequently. Mother was leaning against the kitchen door. She was frequently wiping her eyes with her sleeves. As if she was crying. My brother was in the room, from the room lamp, his shadow fell on the wall. He was just sitting there doing nothing.
It was not known whether the expression on their faces was because of the darkness or sadness… Everyone’s faces were dark.
Saying nothing… unable to say anything… afraid that no matter what they said, they would cry… their mouths were tightly closed. Only their minds were burning like a closed furnace, boiling.
For the past five years, the nights had been frightening, with a sense of dread as to when dawn would break. The slightest movement or sound from the roof or the sheet metal shook their minds like a terrible… terrible noise. Those five sweet years, when spring spoke, when minds and faces were filled with joy and smiles, when trees stood still without a gentle breeze, and grasses were scorched by the sun, were like a dream. Anpu was our best companion in this dark autumn that came after the war.
And tonight was heavier than any other night. The reason was Anbu’s death. In front of Anbu’s body, which was still hot and burning. We… lay paralyzed by the heartache and old memories that it brought.
Whose Anbu? We used to remain silent no matter who asked us who Anbu was. Anbu was one of us, one of the people… Anbu was a close friend of the fighters passing by the street. Anbu was as beautiful as his name.
The seasons were changing. Our life… Autumn, when sorrow and fear spread and chills spread on the spine, and spring, when colorful insects fluttered and the free wind and happiness shone brightly, alternated with life. “Why did you come!” The autumn nights made us drive away. Deaths faded in the nights. The sounds surrounded us. The darkness of the remaining night in the early morning would bake on the faces, and the feet would hesitate to step out into the street.
The autumn days would make us yearn, “When will you come?” Even when the horrors that would remain at night lay on the streets, the day gave us hope. The hope that the nights would be illuminated was laid in the day itself.
In such autumn days and nights, love was a symbol of hope. Gradually, he began to recognize his loved ones. He knew exactly who his enemies were and who his friends were. He learned special sounds to identify them with us. The fighters who came and went became familiar to him. Even when a new fighter arrived that day, it was a great surprise for us. It made us recognize him. If he could speak, he might have said what love was, the dry, bushy faces, the faint scent of gunpowder emanating from them, the powerful wave of thoughts of Anpu spreading throughout the universe.
One autumn… times were bad. Some of our youths were our enemies. They would suddenly appear at night and drag the man out of the house. The sound of the early morning would inform the village that he was taken away from the house as a story. That day, the mother would not let her go to school. Even during the day, when sadness was on everyone’s faces, the corners of the house would hold fear.
That sadness, silence and fear must have made Anpu understand something. Because after that, whenever those masked youths entered the village on silent nights, Anpu would start crying softly. Gradually it would become loud. He would run to the street, sense a certain direction, stand in that direction, and cry and cry until he was exhausted. Even when he was silent, tears would flow from his eyes. As such nights increased, we began to hate nights.
On a beautiful day, the cruel nights passed with gunshots and sweet expressions of gratitude.
When they came to keep the peace, Anbu became our great help. The smell of peanut oil, which came from afar and hit our faces and gave us disgust and fear, became familiar to our noses, but as time passed, we could not smell it. Sensing that smell, we were working hard to hide what needed to be hidden and send those who needed to be sent safely, and Anbu realized that this was becoming difficult for us, so he helped us.
Even though we heard Anbu’s warning voice and acted quickly, they would come only after ten minutes.
Our young women began to fall victim to their madness hidden behind their peaceful faces. That’s when…. night or day…. they would rise from somewhere. When a woman’s “Oh!… Mother….” screams and we stiffen and stand up. Anbu’s body would also stiffen. Later, Anpu was also one of the reasons why such incidents did not happen in our village. During the day, young women would run towards the temples, joining the crowd of people and hiding themselves, hearing his voice, as if he were saying, “They are coming.” At night, they would rush in droves and hide in a dark corner of the garden.
If Krishna, who is said to have protected Draupadi’s honor, had really existed, he might have been like our Anbu. Like him, Anbu also became beloved by these three women.
Anbu became beloved by the warriors. At night, when mother heard a crack or a gunshot somewhere in the distance, she would silently get up and go into the kitchen to light the stove. That would be her signal, and Anbu would go to the fence with her ears pricked up. She would stand there looking here and there. No matter what noise she heard in the forest, we would be startled. At these times, the sound of the forest accompanied by Anbu’s soft, gentle voice would bring us joy. She would come with them as a bodyguard to the doorstep and then stand in the forest without speaking again.
Sometimes, the fear and excitement that Anbu made in our hearts would also cause fear and excitement. Father would go outside and look in the direction where Anbu was looking. Only then will it be decided which direction the fighters will go in. At those times, Anbu will act as a compass.
Whenever the people who wore the cloak of peace suspect our house and conduct a sudden search and are disappointed, their anger will dawn with a gunshot in Anbu’s back. Anbu will never scream. At those times, he will also be a martyr.
Anbu will be seen very excited during the early morning rounds. He will run around all the fences. He will run into the house. He will come back inside and investigate the rooms. He will run through the garden behind the house to warn someone and then run back. The moment his voice falls and he becomes quiet, that is when they will come. Until then, he will keep shouting to encourage our concealment.
When they all disembarked again in the morning, and when he came home after going around all the vehicles and sniffing them, our faces that were already smiling were filled with laughter.
The laps and shoulders of those fighters became his residence.
After these years of sweetness and peace, the army entered the village in the second autumn, when the rain poured down, and the people left village after village, night after night. That night was very long and terrible. Who knows if the tears that flowed down our cheeks mixed with the rainwater? We lost our addresses in the darkness brought by the heavy sadness and night.
While the journey of the people who had sought shelter under the temple halls of trees and sought shelter continued to Thenmaradchi, the heavy rain became the roof for many, and for many, the journey ended in Vanni. Our hearts were set on going to Vanni. Anbu would stand there, looking longingly at the faces of those who were going to Vanni. Anbu was the one who suffered the most when he stayed in Thenmaradchi, unable to take his sick father. We had to say goodbye to all his close friends.
When an acquaintance gave us a place to stay in the hut that had been a cowshed for some time, we breathed a sigh of relief. Because there was a roof over that hut that was open on all four sides. When the rain, cold, and gusty wind tormented father even more, Anbu would sit on his feet, which were stiff in the cold. He would warm his feet. The sadness of leaving home and his relationship was also etched on his face.
When we had a long mental struggle, whether to go to Vanni or to Yarlpanam, Anbu was determined to go to Vanni. He would pull us towards the crowd of people going to Vanni. When we decided to go home, realizing that we could not take or leave our father, Anbu cried. This time we decided against Anbu’s instincts.
When we went home again. Anbu’s home was at the doorstep. There was a look of alarm in his eyes, a longing for something lost, a longing for someone. The nights became cruel and long again, food and sleep decreased, and Anbu’s activity began to decrease. A little while ago, everything had subsided, and he breathed his last with his longing eyes open.
When someone asks, “Who is this Anbu?”, we usually remain silent. Because none of us like to call Anbu a dog. Even the village that watched the fight between Anbu and Kandasamy, who said, “Hold that dog, brother,” never forgot that Anbu was called a dog.
The first day Anbu came to our house still comes to mind when I think about it. Mom and Dad scolded their three-year-old brother, who was crying and begging them to catch a stray dog that had strayed across the street.
“Go, run, he’s crying out in awe. The house dog has just given birth to his first puppy in a month.” She begged for a puppy and chased him away. “This is a big mess,” my father, who was lying on the road on a tired Saturday, carried the bicycle away.
Excitement and fear competed within me. “Will your brother let me play with him? Will he touch me? What does he know? Will he bathe me? Will he cook me food? What name should I give him when I remember that I must do everything myself? I still remember thinking that the dog gave me the strength to say that it was mine.
“I don’t like Anbu Selvan, who has moved three houses away. We all go to school together. He would say ‘Eliwal’ and grab my hair and pull it. I would get angry as if I wanted to kill him. But even though I was old, he was a rascal. There was nothing I could do to him. The only way to take revenge on him was to name the puppy ‘Anbu’. Many thoughts ran through my little mind. But when I thought he was just a dog, I started thinking about naming Anbu Selvan ‘Anbu’ to take revenge and that contradiction started to arise, Anbu had become one of us. The same love was instilled in Anbu Selvan and he became my beloved companion. Anyone who hears my childhood nickname ‘Anbu’ still laughs today.
Before my father opened the bag, I shouted, “Brother! Brother! “Doggie,” I ran away screaming. I shouted, “Father, please hold me, Anbu.” Father looked at me with disgust, and even today, I still feel wet inside.
“What, father! Your daughter named the dog before it arrived. “That too, Anbu,” I said, and my brother and I went inside, raising the puppy in the corner and squatting in front. Anbu, who had been staring at the ground with his round eyes, became one of us that day.
“Come on, brother, don’t leave the house, build a hut and leave it outside,” my father told my father, and my brother and I cried. We cried…. We fought and fought, and I recited to him the poem “Anbu, do you have food?” that my father had taught me that morning. Tears flowed automatically due to the burden of memories.
Anbu! Oh my love! Your friends will come! They will look for you, asking where you are! Until then, why do you go without waiting? – You were a ray of hope in the darkest nights, now…
There was movement in brother’s room. Brother got up and came out. He sat next to Anbu. He called out softly, “Father.”
Startled, Father said, “What, brother?” “I want to sow Anpu.”
‘Oh,’ ‘Where can I dig a hole?”
“I want to bury brother later,” said mother.
“Mother!” Brother called out insistently.
“Don’t say bury, say sow. Just like humans, he worked and died for the struggle. How many of our young women’s honors would have been saved by love. How many fighters would have been saved by him. How many fighters who were injured and lost their lives hiding in the trenches would he have shown us for us. How many of them are now making achievements as leaders and commanders because they were saved that day. I will sow him at the front, this is the respect I will give to the sacrifice of Anpu. If the uncles of the fighters he saved come and ask tomorrow, I will show them a grave, it will not be just a grave, there will be history inside it” When he spoke with the explanation and passion of a thirteen-year-old.
We fell silent in agreement. How many works Anpu like our Anpu´s would have been received for this struggle. I wondered if the squirrels really helped in building Raman the bridge by pouring soil. But will Anpu find a place in history like those stories? Will it last? The thought crossed my mind. The story told by my brother brought tears to everyone’s eyes. Along with it, longing… anguish… expectation… the sun god who carries a ray of light to drive away the darkness from the corners.
– Erimalai December 2002
– Editor: Tamilarasan Abdulkadhar
(Translation by Tamilpriya)
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