we were free, our guns empty.
Now, though,
the guns have any number of bullets,
but we are not free.
2
Today was hectic, always on the move
along the roads (which are dreadful)
winding through palmyra palms,
the armoured vehicles jolting.
Later, all my bones ached.
At mid-day,
in a village surrounded by fields,
we shot three fat goats.
There were no young men about,
the women were all in hiding.
Half-way on our return to camp
one of us remembered
we hadn’t bought the Major’s cigarettes.
What next?
The entire convoy turned around
heading for the town again.
3
Today
Edirweera and Chandrasiri
shot and killed three Tamils.
Chandrasiri said,
“They started to run, suddenly
in the midst of a crowded street.
It worried me. I shot them.”
Soon after,
without any sort of inquiry
the two were sent back to Colombo
on transfer.
(Lucky fellows!)
…
If you shoot someone,
lead a skirmish,
or set fire to their homes,
you get an immediate transfer.
…
Yesterday too, five others
received an immediate transfer.
Since I arrived here
at least fifty of us have gone home.
When will it be my turn?
I wish I knew.
4
Today a hundred new recruits
arrived at our camp.
Young fellows
moustaches just sprouting,
lacking even the wit
to handle machine guns.
These days
having roamed about all day
I never get to sleep at night.
It’s been too long
since I saw you face to face.
Can’t even think of a holiday.
5
Last night
‘they’ shot and killed
thirteen of our battalion.
After that deadly accurate bomb exploded,
their machine guns surrounded us.
None of us expected this.
Although we never lost radio contact
with headquarters,
we couldn’t stop Yama
from entering into our camp.
The next morning
there was no one about in the streets,
no shops open.
An incomprehensible eerie silence.
What sort of people are these?
Now
our nights are full of horror.
As moonlight spreads,
shadows move
and nameless birds shriek,
suddenly;
truly it’s hell until daybreak.
…
After that,
having requested an immediate transfer,
our battalion descended on their streets.
I can’t say exactly
how many were shot and killed.
Major thinks fifty or sixty.
6
Dearest Nanda,
Its all over. At last.
Tomorrow I get my transfer,
thank god.
Today I went into town
for a last time.
It didn’t seem to be
so frightening.
The shops, the streets
were just as before.
Only the people, as before,
never look at us.
â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹
(I COULD FORGET ALL THIS)
â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹
Þ‰îŠ ð£¿‹ àJ¬ó
Üï£îóõ£è ÞöŠð¬î ªõÁˆ¶
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F¬êèÀ‹, F¬êè«÷£´ Þîòº‹
°½ƒè M¬ó‰î«ð£¶,
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Ýè£òˆFŸ°‹ ÌI‚°I¬ìJ™
âƒ«è£ å¼ ¹œOJ™ G¬ôˆ¶
ÞÁAŠ«ð£ù å¼ MN¬ò,
MN«ò Þ™ô£ñ™, MNJ¡ °N‚°œ
à¬ø‰F¼‰î °¼F¬ò,
‘®‚ñ‡†v’ «ó£†®™
î¬ô‚ èÁŠ¹èÀ‚°Š ðF™
Þóˆî„ CõŠH™ H÷‰¶ Aì‰î
ÝÁ ñQî˜è¬÷,
bJ™ è¼èˆ îõPò
å¼ «ê¬ôˆ ¶‡¬ì,
¶¬íJö‰¶,
ñE‚ô‹ Þ™ô£ñ™
îQˆ¶Š«ð£Œ‚ Aì‰î
å¼ Þì¶ ¬è¬ò,
âK‰¶ªè£‡®¼‚°‹ i†®L¼‰¶
ªî£†®™ 塬ø„
²ñ‚è º®ò£ñ™ ²ñ‰¶«ð£ù
å¼ Cƒè÷‚ 蘊HEŠ ªð‡¬í
â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹,
â™ô£õŸ¬ø»«ñ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹
Ýù£™
à¡ °ö‰¬îè¬÷ åOˆ¶¬õˆî
«îJ¬ô„ ªê®èO¡ «ñ™
ºA™èÀ‹ ÞøƒA ñ¬øˆî
Ü‰îŠ H¡ñ£¬ôJ™
c‡ì èÀ‚°Š Hø° A¬ìˆî
ªè£…ê ÜKC¬òŠ ð£¬ùJL†´„
«ê£Á ªð£ƒ°‹ â¡Á
åO‰îð® 裈F¼‰î«ð£¶
H´ƒA âPð†ì â¡ ªð‡«í,
à¬ì‰î ð£¬ù¬ò»‹
GôˆF™ CîP
àô˜‰î «ê£Ÿ¬ø»‹
 âŠð® ñø‚è?
I COULD FORGET ALL THIS [1983]
(â™ô£õŸ¬ø»‹ ñø‰¶Mìô£‹)
I could forget all this
forget the flight
headlong through Galle Road
clutching an instant’s spark of hope,
refusing to abandon this wretched
vulnerable life
even though the very earth shuddered
– and so too, my heart –
forget the sight
of a thigh-bone protruding
from an upturned, burnt-out car
a single eye fixed in its staring
somewhere between earth and sky
empty of its eye
a socket, caked in blood
on Dickman’s Road, six men dead
heads split open
black hair turned red
a fragment of a sari
that escaped burning
bereft of its partner
a lone left hand
the wristwatch wrenched off
a Sinhala woman, pregnant,
bearing, unbearably,
a cradle from a burning house
I could forget all this
forget it all, forget everything.
But you, my girl,
snatched up and flung away
one late afternoon
as you waited in secret
while the handful of rice
– found after so many days –
cooked in its pot,
your children hidden beneath the tea bushes
low-lying clouds shielding them above –
how shall I forget the broken shards
and the scattered rice
lying parched upon the earth?
ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?
(WHAT HAVE WE LOST?)
ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?
ï‹ ÞQò ï‡ð«ù.
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F¼ñ¬ôJ™ ªî£†®L†´
࡬ù ßöñèœ
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裟øFóŠ ðFõîŸè£
è£ôñèœ cªó´ˆ¶‚
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cœM²‹«ð,
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̈F¼‚°‹ ðQˆ¶O«ò,
cƒèœ ÜPi˜è÷£
â‹ ªï…²¬ø»‹ «ê£èˆ¬î?
â‹ ªê‰cK¡ êKˆFóƒèœ
F¬ê ⃰‹ «êF ªê£™ô
裟P™ èô‰¶M†ì
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ò£˜î£¡ ÜPòM™¬ô?
âƒèœ Þ÷‰ «î£ö£!
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cœ ªî£¬ôM™
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õ£›‚¬è Ü¡Á b˜ˆ¶¬õ‚è
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ñóí‹ Þ¡Á
º®ˆ¶¬õˆî
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à¬ù ÜõÀ‹ Þö‰î£œ,
ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?
à¡ àJ¬ó, à¬ùŠ«ð£ô
Þ¡‹ ðô àJ¬ó.
Ýù£™,
ï‹H‚¬èè¬÷
ï£ƒèœ Þö‚A«ô£‹.
ïñ¶ èì¬ñ¬ò
ï£ƒèœ Þö‚A«ô£‹
ïñ¶ ¬ì»‹
弫𣶋  Þö‚«è£‹!
ܶ «ð£¶‹ àù‚°.
裟ø£A G™
èìô£A ܬô i²
«ð£K´‹ ï‹ «î£ö˜èO¡
«õ†ªì£L‚°Š ¹øƒè£†®ˆ
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Üõô‚ °ó™èO¡«ñ™
àù¶‹, à¬ùŠ «ð£¡ø
ãó£÷‹ ñ‚è÷¶‹
G¬ù¾‚°„ ê£êùˆ¬î
Þ‰ GôˆF™  ªð£PŠ«ð£‹!
(ï‡ð¡ «èbvõó¡ G¬ù¾‚°)
WHAT HAVE WE LOST? [1984]
(ï£ƒèœ â¬î Þö‰«î£‹?)
In memory of Ketheeswaran
What have we lost,
my dear friend?
Did a daughter of Eelam
give you birth
and cradle you in Trincomalee
only for you to be shot dead and burnt in the street,
your remains tossed into a hole in Chemmani
for dogs to feast on?
Did the goddess draw water
and make kolams upon the spreading sands
only for Death
to plant his footsteps there?
Oh, paddy sheaves,
chequered fields,
merciless Sun,
dewdrops blossoming
on blades of grass,
do you understand
our heart-freezing sorrow?
How else will you proclaim everywhere
our histories written in blood?
Who doesn’t know
the story that was carried
by the flecks of ash
borne by the wind?
Our young friend,
you lost your life because of the frenzy
of dishonourable dogs
who only know how to shoot
again and again
at our helpless people.
Far away, among pine forests,
in the cold freezing night,
the woman who once loved you
will weep.
Today Death put an end
to a quarrel
Life could not solve.
No witnesses to this tragic tale,
no end to tragedies.
So she lost you.
And what have we lost?
Your life, and like yours,
so many lives.
Yet,
we have not lost our beliefs,
we have not forsaken our duty;
we will never forsake our land.
That will be enough for you.
Stand for us within the wind.
Be the sea and its waves.
When the army turns tail and runs,
chased by the raised voices of our comrades,
upon their laments we will inscribe
a memorial for you, and thousands like you
in this land.
å¼ Cƒè÷ˆ «î£N‚° â¿Fò¶
(A LETTER TO A SINHALA FRIEND)
¶Šð£‚A ó¬õè¬÷«ò M¬î‚°‹
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cƒèÀ‹
àƒèœ ï‡ð˜ °¿¾‹
M´ðì
c‡ìï£÷£è£¶.
ñ‡ èôƒè æ˜ Gøº‹,
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cK™ Gö™ MK‚°‹ «ñèƒè÷£™
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c÷ ïì‰î«ð£¶.
ï´ Þó¾;
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裟P™ ܃AŸÁ,
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ÜšMó¾,
âù¶ ñù¬î ªïA›ˆFŸÁ
 ¶ò¼Ÿ«ø¡.
Þ¡Á‹,
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â¬ù„ Å›‰î¶.
Ý®J«ô Ƀ°‹õ¬ó
æò£î ªð¼ƒè£ŸÁ;
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àF˜A¡ø ªð£¡ªù£„CŠ
Ì‚è¬÷»‹,
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𣘈¶ óC‚èŠ
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cƒèœ M¼‹Hò «ð£¶‹
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àƒèœ è‡èÀ‚° º®òM™¬ô.
àƒèœ ªñ™Lò «ïꈬî ñø‚è
âù‚°‹ º®òM™¬ô.
ÞòŸ¬èJ¡ 迈¬î ªïK‚è£ñ�
��
Ì‚è¬÷ ñôóM†´Š
¹Ÿè¬÷Š Ì‚èM†´Š
«ð£ŒM†«ì£‹.
cƒèœ ªîŸè£è
ù£ õì‚è£è
ñ¬ôˆ ªî£ìK¡ ñ£ªðKò
ñóƒèÀ‚° «ñô£è‚
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cƒèœ G¬ùŠd˜èœ.
àƒèÀ¬ìò ñ‚èÀ‚°„
ªê£™½ƒèœ:
Þƒ°‹ Ì‚èœ ñô˜A¡øù.
¹Ÿèœ õ£›A¡øù.
ðø¬õèœ ðø‚A¡øù.
A LETTER TO A SINHALA FRIEND [1984]
(å¼ Cƒè÷ˆ «î£N‚° â¿Fò¶)
It will not take many days
for you
and your friends
to recover from the shock
of meeting me, an ordinary man,
from an unseen and distant land
where, you had heard,
we sow lead-shots from guns