The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shehan Karunatilaka – Nov 30, 2023

 

The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida – first edition Aug 2022

The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shehan Karunatilaka, the second novel by its author, was published in Aug 2022. Its reputation was assured when it won the Booker Prize for 2022 a few months later. The novel is set in Sri Lanka in the 1980s. Maali Almeida, a photographer, though dead is still active in his after-life. His engrossing interest now is to find out how he died. Just one week (“seven moons”) is given him to complete his detective task. In the hybrid world created by the author, Maali Almeida may move freely between the realms of the real world and the limbo world after death. But if he does not discover the solution in seven moons, then even the chance of rebirth will elude him forever.

Photographer with Nikon camera

The secondary quest in which Maali Almeida engages is that of finding what happened to the stash of negatives of photographs taken with his Nikon camera when he acted as a photo-journalist working for number of news agencies. He also worked at times as a fixer who could arrange meetings between the warring parties of the civil war that raged and terrorised Sri Lanka till the end of 2009.  His pious hope had been that these photographs recording the barbarity of civil war would reveal its true ugliness and the crimes that were being committed by all the parties – not just by the Liberation Tigers of the Tamil Eelam (LTTE) headed by its notorious chief, Velupillai Prabhakaran. 

During the seven moons the reader is exposed to real-life characters, thinly disguised, often maintaining the same name as the actual commanders and politicians they represented. The reader begins to appreciate the selfish agendas of the numerous actors in the Sri Lankan civil war and why it was fated more or less, to end in the large-scale atrocities that were ultimately heaped on civilians who happened to be living in Eelam controlled areas in the North-east of the country.

Bloodbath on the beach 10th April 2009 in Sri Lanka

Strangely for a novel pretending to write historical fiction, Shehan Kaarunatilka nowhere lays bare that it was Chinese weapons that helped the Sri Lankan military’s  bloodbath. Thousands of trapped civilians died in 2009 as government forces decimated the Tamil Tiger guerrillas in a brutal military campaign, which resulted in the killing of twenty thousand civilians and a forced ethnic cleansing of Tamils while a mute UN Secretary General (Ban-ki-Moon) watched.

Sri Lankan Air Force JF-7 fighter jets

Chinese Jian-7 fighter-jets (a licensed production version of the Soviet MIG-21), anti-aircraft guns, JY-11 3D air surveillance radars and other supplied weapons played a key role in the Sri Lankan military successes against the Tamil Tigers. After a daring 2007 raid by the Tigers air wing wrecked 10 government military aircraft, Beijing was quick to supply six warplanes on long-term credit. Such weapon supplies, along with $1 billion in Chinese aid to the tottering Sri Lankan economy in 2008, helped tilt the military balance in favour of the government forces.

What is equally shameful is how the UN under the weak leadership of Ban Ki-moon enabled the Sri Lankan government’s ethic cleansing of the displaced Tamils and then refused to investigate the human rights violations. For the real history behind this you may read the paper by Matthew Russell Lee – Sri Lanka's ‘Bloodbath on the Beach’ Made the UN's Ban Ki-mute Moot.

In the end we learn who the killer of Maali Almeida was, and why he was killed, but the elusive question of where the explosive negatives have vanished and whether  they can be traced remains unanswered. The wandering spirit of Mail Almeida in the next world cannot rest.

Intro to the Seven Moons of Maali Almeida, and the Author Shehan Karunatilaka 

Shehan Karunatilaka

Joe started with his intro to the novel and the author. He chose the novel a year ago after it had been announced as the winner of the Booker prize. It was published in Aug 2022.

The author is a happily married Sri Lankan with two children who lives in Sri Lanka. He has written one novel before this called Chinaman – about a bowler whose left-arm leg spin turns sharply into a right-hand batsman. That’s the only context in which the word ‘Chinaman’ would not be considered a slur today. Apparently Wisden, the cricketing almanac praised it.

Karunatilaka, was born in Galle, Sri Lanka, in 1975, and grew up in Colombo. He was educated there at the elite St Thomas school and went on to study literature in New Zealand at Massey University.  Chinaman won the Commonwealth prize, the DSC Prize for South Asian Literature, and the Gratiaen prize.

This novel set in 1989 is about the search for the negatives of photographs documenting the crimes committed by the various parties during the murderous civil war in Sri Lanka whose origins, like many other civil wars have their root cause in the disenfranchisement of minority groups who were denied the practice of their language, their culture, and their religion.

The photographer, after whom the novel is named, is long dead. So are all the other major characters. In order to write a novel about them, not as a historical novel, but as though the action was taking place in the present, the author uses the artifice of writing about their dead spirits floating in an intermediate universe and going about their dream-like existence and carrying on conversations and driving about in vehicles, and sometimes being borne by the winds, at other times wading through Stygian waters bearing the names of lakes in Sri Lanka.

There are foreign reporters, bureaucrats, ministers, police chiefs, and miscellaneous killers belonging to various groups, including the sorry Indian Peace Keeping Force, the IPKF. Many are modelled on actual people. There are no heroes, only villains, corrupt people in power. The photos of Maali Almeida were meant to capture what had happened, hoping to cleanse the lies and reveal the truth that would set people free, and ensure such things never happened again. The image of the ‘naked napalm girl’  by a US war correspondent in Vietnam symbolising the savage war America was waging there, is held up as the epiphany that rolled back the veil of lies which successive US administrations had been using to prosecute a war, supposedly in defence of democracy.  But it was not at all in defence of democracy, but an aggressive colonial war, of the worst kind in which the extent of damage, the extent of killing of people, and the downpour of herbicides (Agent Orange) on Vietnamese land, in addition to the bombs of course, was something unparalleled in military devastation up to that time. Hence, whenever one hears Americans talking about human rights, Joe wants to vomit, because they are the most hypocritical critics of other nations, never seeing or acknowledging the damage they have done themselves in multiple wars, over the decades, across all continents, and continuing as we write.

The only photos of Maali that survived their first public exhibition were those that celebrated the beauty of Sri Lankan nature. All the ugly depictions of the dead and their torture were obliterated by the authorities. Toward the end there’s a hint that the kid sister of Maali now living in America may still have a shoe box of deadly negatives, but that’s not followed up.

The novel is almost entirely narrated in dialogue, using the quaint second person to represent the narrator, Maali Almeida. The reader is lucky to guess who is speaking to whom at any point. Since it’s dialogue-heavy there is little room for good writing, and whatever characterisation takes place is through the dialogue. For a novel that won the Booker prize there is a surprisingly large number of printer’s devils and errors of syntax, which should embarrass both the author and the publisher.

The author changes scenes sharply and abruptly, often from one page to another, much like a film director, and we are left in the dark as to the development of the plot as the scenes change. The sequence of seven moons would suggest that the plot will thicken as the climax is reached, since we are told Maali will go dark forever if he doesn’t find his murderer, and the lost negatives, in the given seven days time.

But there is no climax; he neither discovers his lost negatives nor comes any closer to how he died, except that a hint suggests maybe it was an explosion by a lame, reluctant, brainwashed truck-driver who wore the bomb vest when they went to meet a minister.

The descriptions are relentlessly about miasmal mists and putrefying bodies floating in the dank waters of Lake Beira. 

Ghouls floating over Lake Beira

On every other page this scene, and other equally repulsive variations, return. They numb the reader, who seeking relief, finds none in  the repetitive descriptions of promiscuous homosexual behaviour. The novel makes a mockery of homosexuals. According to the novel they can no more fasten their gaze upon the bulge of the male member on another person than they have to go and fondle it. Hello, Mr Karunatilaka, homosexuals are not an incontinent lot, at least no more than heterosexuals. It is a particularly wrong-headed description. Homosexuals are normal people but Karunatilaka represents them as reprehensible deviants.

What little humour there is, has a smart-alecky flavour, for example: “Women usually like the look of you, not knowing that you prefer cock to cooch.” No laughs, but some sniggering.

Joe regrets the choice of this novel; he was sorry he inflicted it on KRG’s tolerant readers who expect to be challenged, but not to be consumed by the detritus of distracted minds. Joe said this is the most indigestible novel he has read. 

You can listen to Shehan Karunatilaka answer questions about his novel.

Arundhaty

Arundhaty Voice File of Passage from Seven Moons of Maali Almeida

Arundhaty chose her reading from the First Moon, the Chapter titled Do Not Visit Cemeteries. Since she was away she sent a voice file of her reading and comments.

The Seven Moons of Mali Almeda is a novel that presents historical fiction through the lens of magic realism, said Arundhaty.

Karunatilaka's story is macabre and strange and opens with the main protagonist Maali Almeida, who was a photojournalist, covering the Sri Lankan civil war and conflict throughout the 1980s. He notoriously worked for no one and everyone, hoping that his photos would one day tell the story of his country and bring about peace.

He doesn't know who murdered him and he sets out on a journey over the next seven moons to find his lost photos and their negatives, and discover  his own killer. The central character, Maali Almeida, is a dead photographer who sets out to solve the mystery of his own death and is given one week, seven moons, during which he can travel between the afterlife and the real world.

Arundhaty lighted on this passage because it's the first official instance of an enquiry about the dead journalist.

It describes in gruesome detail the nether world of floating ghosts representing the dead characters in the novel and the protagonist. It is replete with satirical humour, said Arundhaty, such as when the ghost of Maali is asked, do you want to be a ghost or a girl? When asked, what's the difference, the answer he got was: a ghost blows the wind, a ghoul directs the wind.

Pamela

Pamela’s passage was also from the First Moon.

Pamela said: “This whole thing reminded me of a photographer, called  Kevin Carter, who had taken the picture of the child being carried away by a vulture. When he was interviewed later on and asked why he didn't do anything to go and help the child,  instead of just standing there and taking a picture, he said the help was too far off. And he had his plane to catch and he had to rush. And that is why he didn't do anything about saving the child.

Readers of Carter’s article reacted, that since Carter caused people to think and inspired a mission to save such children, why didn't he work for that cause after that? Carter had nothing to say because he wasn't thinking about the cause or mission or anything. He was just taking a photograph. Ultimately, after attending so many press conferences and interviews, he realised the gravity of his inaction, and killed himself.

It was on the cover page of the National Geographic at the time.

Carter’s story is about how the woman feels after losing a child and how Carter feels at the end. That's why Pamela chose this passage, because we know that something like this has actually happened. It's a reality.

A reader commented, that usually she thinks that photographers and other people who observe the deeds happening and then save it and publish it for the world to see – they fulfil their mission in that way. Their art is to be there and to put themselves in places, often of danger and of privation, with destruction all around them.

Joe said they could live very comfortable lives photographing supermodels and so on, making a lot of money. But doesn't that make them very insensitive?

Pamela asked how can you do something and not feel about it?

Joe replied, no, we don't know that they don't feel about it, but they are following their profession. Their profession is to record for posterity what happened somewhere. But Pamela said you can't just say it’s just professional work and just snap it off there.

But what they do, they know what they want to do. Pamela does not think it is to be there and tell the truth to the world.

Priya recited the adage: one picture is worth a thousand words.

Joe asked: what can a photographer do to prevent the massive hatred and killing that takes place all over the world? What can photographers do about that? As represented in this novel, Joe said, Maali’s mission is to tell the truth and to demonstrate the blame for crime. To show people who is answerable. And in the case of the Sri Lankan civil war there are all the different parties to the dispute, who have their own set of propagandistic lies with which they cover up  their dirty acts, using virtuous words and professed good intentions.

By showing the naked truth against the rhetoric of what they claim to be doing, Maali has served a purpose.

Perhaps he served a purpose, but what about his own life, asked Pamela?

Joe replied, they risk their lives. They go in knowing that, they are in danger and may be killed. All photojournalists who cover war know that. How many journalists have been killed in Palestine recently during Israel‘s war on Hamas, asked Joe rhetorically?

Saras added that all the journalists and the photojournalists who go into the war zone or do this kind of work, all know the risk, but their aim is actually to show the world what is happening in graphic detail. They rae giving witness but they are not highly paid.

Saras replied to Thomo, how few of them will sell that one photograph that will make them really famous? Some of them get that prize photograph. A very few, compared to the number that are out there covering wars for us who sit in our armchairs.

Saras maintained they could very well work on the home front and take photographs of supermodels or beautiful photographs of nature and stuff like that, as Joe said. But instead they choose a more dangerous type of photography. It's a recording for posterity, isn't it?

Saras said in this book, Maali's one hope is that his photographs would stop the conflict. But he loses even there? Because the photographs are completely destroyed.

And the few, the one shoebox of negatives that he has sent his sister in America who's really not at all interested. She doesn't even know, she hasn't opened the box to see what is in it. So we don't know whether it will be followed up over there.

Maali has his whole purpose in life, that is why he ultimately decides to go into the light. At least that's my reading, said Saras. Because once you enter the light, you forget, he knows there's no point.

That journalism is not going to stop the war which is what he hoped. They give graphic testimony for future generations, the actual things that took place. And this can be, in rare cases, videos, said Joe.

For example, there's one very famous video in which there is an actual targeted killing through a drone, which was being actually manipulated from somewhere in Florida. The victims were in Afghanistan and it was the killing of a family. Joe thought this is such a remarkable thing that there is plain evidence in a video that cannot be controverted. That this is what actually took place against all the protestations that there is no collateral damage. That the Americans have high precision targeting and they only kill ‘terrorists’, and take care not to hurt civilians.

And then you see that actual people in broad daylight, who obviously are not armed, obviously are not terrorists, they're just getting into a car or they are walking across the road and they are being vaporised by Hellfire missiles … So this actually lends a great deal of weight to what the world must make out of these events orchestrated by the reckless overweening military might of America.

You can read all about assassinations and targeted killings (even of Americans, not indicted in any court, by the US Air Force ) with the authority of US presidents like Mr Obama at

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2016/nov/15/targeted-killing-secrecy-drone-memos-excerpt

General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper, an unmanned aerial vehicle (UAV) or drone which the US Air Force employs in targeted killings

After all, if we are to learn something for posterity from what has happened, we have to first make a correct evaluation of what happened. And these are the people, these photographers are the people who help you do that.

That guy driving that drone, some poor fellow who played video games and probably was only 18 years old, he might have been playing a video game from Florida, but it was a lethal video game where people, innocent people got killed.

Saras mentioned there's a disturbing movie called Eye in the Sky, which is exactly about this, how this kind of soulless killing, happens because as Joe said, the person who was using the video or rather who is piloting the drone – for him it is just like a video game.

Technology has its uses and misuses. Deepfakes can create, photographs of situations that never existed and make it so real and people believe it, said Priya.

Because technology can be used and misused, right?

Joe said there is nothing miraculous about AI deepfake photography. People think, oh, now I can make anything happen and deceive people right, left and centre. Well, the same thing was being done 60 and 70 and 80 years ago by Nazi Germany, okay? The world didn't know. Why did they not get away with it? In spite of all their propaganda, why did they not get away with it?

Because there were enough people who documented really what was happening on the ground, contrary to the propaganda being spread by Goebbels, chief propagandist of the Nazi party. The truth survived the assault of propaganda .

Priya insisted you can create a deepfake and it will make others believe it. Priya said the thing about this modern fake photos is they can be spread immediately on the Internet, whereas it took took time, earlier. Not really much time, because it was the age of radio when everyone was glued to the radio.

Saras said ultimately the goodness of people will always see through fakery. It  is up to us to distinguish the truth from what is fake news, by a healthy dose of skepticism

KumKum said that about what is happening in Israel with Palestinians, we had a view all along in India, but now it has changed because the Indian government has made friends with Israel and started buying its military hardware and spying software (Pegasus). But we ordinary Indians should preserve our judgment, and should not give up our moral view, because we should know what is happening, regardless of Israel’s propaganda and America’s active backing of the destruction of Gaza by sending tens of thousands of 500- and 1000-lb bombs to Israel by cargo planes. It's not our Indian government's slanted view, or the Israeli propaganda, we should believe.

Saras thought the question that was really being asked in this segment was whether a photographer who sees evil deeds being done should merely photograph them or intervene. Because Saras remembers when Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated, that photographs were deleted of the bomb scene after some time. There was a photograph which came out in the Frontline immediately after he was killed, which just showed his body lying face down and his shoe. It upset Saras very much at that time, she felt that The Hindu newspaper should not have put that photo out. Saras remembers having a long argument with her husband, Rajendran, about this very thing.

Rajendran said that is the job of the photojournalist to show what is really happening. And if you make it all pretty then nobody knows what the reality is, what is the truth, what is out there happening on the ground.

Priya said the problem with that photo was that a little bit of Rajiv Gandhi’s bottom was also seen. Yes, this upset Saras. That's why they it was very insensitive of them to put that photograph in the first place. But Rajendran's argued just the other way. He said, what do you think happens when a bomb goes off? You should not show this because he was the prime minister, but if it was an ordinary person you can show it? What is the logic in that?

That was the argument, but perhaps we are going off-topic.

Geetha wanted to add that the camera is now in the hands of all the people with smartphones, and it's not just a journalist and a photographer that's taking photographs of incidents where they can actually help. People are standing around taking photographs instead of going out and helping the accident victim. Thus, we have become very insensitive as a people.

Now that's a different case. These are people who are ordinary civilians, not professional photojournalists. This the Selfie generation, self-centred and selfish.

Geeta was next to read.

Pamela said she was very happy her passage led to so much discussion. She then took leave to attend another function.

Geetha

Maali is a witness to the brutality of the insurrections in Sri Lanka. Working for newspapers and magazines, his ambition is to take photographs that will bring down governments, photos that could stop wars.

Those photos are stored underneath a bed in his family home and are now stuck in the underworld. He was only seven moons, one week, to get in contact with his friend Jaki and her cousin, persuade them to retrieve the stash of photos and share them throughout Colombo.

This scene that Geetha read is about the cops going to that house in the guise of helping to find out more about the disappearance of Maali – but actually they are bent on recovering those photographs an dmaking them vanish before they can be exhibited.

Jaki questions them as they enter, wanting to see the warrant. 

After the reading Joe said it was an era when black-and-white films were the norm and photographers usually developed by hand their own photographs. And then fixed them. There are two processes: the first one is developing with chemicals like sodium sulphite, and the other is fixing with sodium or ammonium thiosulfate. The two different chemicals are used, then the roll of film is washed, you hang them up to dry. Those are the negatives, then you can make positives out of them by shining a light through them on photo-sensitive paper.

He’s talking about the cyanide capsules which were so infamous during the Tamil rebel movement, said Priya. It's a mixture of simplicity and innocence. He was doing a combination of both in this context and the wooden ankh containing DD's blood – DD is his partner, minister Stanley Dharmendran's son.

Maali gets back his memory little by little over the seven moons about how he dies. He doesn't remember and he wants to know two things, one is how he died, and the second is where are those negatives he wants to give to his friends –  the photographs which he hopes will stop the conflict

But when his head was snapped he knows he's dead, but he doesn't know how, and he doesn't know why. KumKum asked if he found who killed him. It was Stanley Dharmendran who killed him because Maali was having an affair with his son DD. It’s not a political thing, said Saras, it's just that the father Stanley didn’t want his son to be the homosexual lover of Maali.  It was not on account of any politics. Priya said to hold off that discussion, because her reading passage later is all about that.

Saras said she did like the book. Priya too liked the book Frequently even when Karunatilaka is describing something very serious he does it in a hilarious manner – it's so funny, it's really funny, said Pamela. Saras said Joe did not like the humour part. Pamela said she kept a list of the phrases he's used to describe certain things, and certain people.

Shoba

Shoba read a passage from the second moon which was connected to what Geetha read.

She chose it because it reminded her of the movie Bourne Identity, where Jason Bourne is trying to recollect his past life. He has no clue about who he is or what he did.

This man, Maali, knows some things, but not about his death. This is the first time he's seeing his face in the mirror and recognising what he looks like.

Shoba found the reading very difficult. Being around ghosts for so long was tiring. Pamela too found it very difficult that way. And there are just too many names, characters just popping in and popping out, it was just too much.

And the ghosts. KumKum said she found it a difficult book to read. This was the most difficult book she read (and she has read Ulysses), and KumKum didn’t  think she got anything out of it. She came to this reading partly to get the story from the other readers.

Joe

Joe noted that this passage is a recollection and meditation in which Maali Almeida tells why we are born and how we die and how the spirits come to gather us up.

Was Arthur C. Clarke a Sri Lankan, Priya asked?

Arthur Clarke, the science fiction author with the rock of Sigiriya in the background

Joe said Clarke lived most of his life in Sri Lanka, so Maali pleads for Clarke to be considered Sri Lankan (“may we Lankans at least help ourselves to one sci-fi visionary?”). Maali points out that Austrians think of Hitler as German, although actually he was born in Austria, not in Germany. But they rightly think of Mozart as their own – they want to disown the bad,  and keep only the good stuff for themselves in Austria.

Pamela commented on the last sentence: “the tears fall thick as globs of ink, diving from angry clouds onto the heads of the meek.” This reminded Pamela of the third Beatitude:

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

– Matthew 5:5

The last sentence sounds like a satire on this beatitude. Look what's happening to the meek here. The tears thick as globs of ink are falling on them. Very sad.

Devika

Devika Voice File of Passage from Seven Moons of Maali Almeida

Devika greeted the online readers, with her voice recording. She was to be away in Australia on a vacation trip with Achu, but dearly wished to participate, and hence sent her voice recording. She was sorry to be missing the session, being very excited when this book was chosen for a session. 

This book has always been on her bucket list, but when she started reading it, she hated it. She thought it was gross, gruesome, and wondered how she would get through this one. She was disappointed too as she felt let down. 

Then as she ploughed through the book, (credit to her being a dedicated KRG reader) she started loving it. The humour, and the history intrigued her. She chose this passage from the Fourth Moon as there seems to be some similarity to our own India – we were also invaded by various countries. Here’s a sentence that resonates:

“‘The Portuguese assumed the missionary position. The Dutch took us from behind. By the time the Brits came along, we were already on our knees, with our hands behind our backs and our mouths open.”

It’s a mixture of scatology and history, rendered in Karunatilaka’s obscene fashion, intended to be humorous. All the colonial nations receive their deserved vituperation at the hands of Karunatilaka – it’s not Maali speaking in this passage, it's the author. But in the end the ‘stinking truth’ reveals that the Sri Lankans themselves are to blame for their ill-fate.

Readers agreed the passage Devika read was revealing and interesting. It has little to do with the story. It’s about Sri Lankan history, how the different nations successively colonised the island and extracted its riches. As Devika said, it’s very similar to Indian colonial history.

The Chinese though were never actually colonised. But now consider how the Chinese are taking advantage of the Sri Lankans (with the connivance of their corrupt leaders, Mahinda Rajapaksa and his clan of four brothers). The Chinese have acquired a hundred acres around Hambantota port in the south on long lease as compensation for non-repayment of loans given by China. 

China is taking over the role of the colonial nations, but more cleverly by imposing economic shackles.

The Japanese assault did not come up to India via the NE in the Second World War. Hence we never suffered the Japanese assault as Burma, Malaya, and Singapore did, said KumKum.

Somebody hilariously mistook ‘assault’ for ‘salt’ and mentioned monosodium glutamate (MSG). That’s a salt Chinese restaurants often add for flavour to Chinese dishes. It’s not good for people and many restaurants now advertise they don’t use MSG.

Saras

Saras acknowledged she might be in the minority about this book, but wished to put her thoughts out there. She  really liked the book. As Devika said, the first few pages were a bit confusing, but then once Saras got the hang of what was happening with ghosts and ghouls, she deciphered the writing. Joe mentioned that narrating stories in the second person sometimes can be a little disconcerting, but after reading for a while she understood the practice and went back to re-read the first, 50 or 60 pages again.

After that Saras loved the book. Saras likes this kind of magical realism, for some reason. In the portion she was reading there is a pivotal point and a change in Maali Almeida.

Up until this point  Saras always felt Maali was in the service of whoever gave him the money, and he’d agree to  spy. He was actually spying, don’t you think? He would sell his photographs to whoever paid him the most.

But the one incident in this passage changed him. It affected him in many ways. His whole approach and his outlook changed after this, in the portion that Saras chose to read.

Panchayudha – the 5 weapons with which Prince Panchayudha left home for Taxila for education. On completing his studies, his teacher presented him with four weapons – bow and arrows, a sword, a sharp pointed wheel, a club, plus wisdom

This was when he steals those capsules from this guy's table. He mentioned that a little earlier. And when he reaches there and he sees this devastation that is being wreaked upon the people – at that point he changes from being a fixer to somebody who's trying to bring about change, in some way..

He gives those poison pellets to these three people who are dying anyway. And that incident keeps troubling him. It keeps coming up initially, and you don't realise what he's talking about. But once this event, once you read past this, you know, that this is where he changes radically.

That's quite significant, said Joe. Yes, it's a very significant, said Saras, for she felt this was a turning point. And this probably answers Pamela’s question about how he puts them out of their misery.

He can't put these the things that he has seen out of his mind. Before this he was  selling his pictures to anybody, to the highest bidder.

Like he says, no one is a poor fixer. So he's a fixer. He's the one who facilitates meetings between people. He's the one whom the JVP party asked to take photographs. He takes photographs for the army. He takes photographs for BBC. He takes photographs for the Associated Press. He doesn't really think too much about it.

But this one incident makes him changes him completely. It was a very significant part of Maali Almeida's transformation, from fixer and photojournalist to activist. His outlook and the way he looks at things changes. He stopped being self-centred and he realises that his island is really being torn apart.

And he is himself a mix of ethnicities. His father is Tamil. His mother is Burgher (i.e. Eurasian ethnic group in Sri Lanka descended from Portuguese, Dutch, British and other Europeans who settled in Ceylon).

So he has something of everything in him from all parts of Sri Lanka. And therefore probably he’s the true Sri Lankan, Anglo-Sinhalese. He's got English blood, Sinhala blood, Tamil blood. He was an amalgamation of everything that is part of Sri Lanka. 

As the great cricketer from Sri Lanka, Kumar Sangakkara, stated at the conclusion of his Colin Cowdrey lecture at MCC on the Lord’s cricket ground: 

With me are all my people. I am Tamil, Sinhalese, Muslim and Burgher. I am a Buddhist, a Hindu, a follower of Islam and Christianity. I am today, and always will be, proudly Sri Lankan.

One is tempted to quote at greater length from Sangakkara’s lecture (which is as much about the social and cultural history of the island, as it is about cricket in the island):

“Sri Lanka is land rich in natural beauty and resources augmented by a wonderfully resilient and vibrant and hospitable people whose attitude to life has been shaped by volatile politics both internal and from without.

In our history you will find periods of glorious peace and prosperity and times of great strife, war and violence. Sri Lankans have been hardened by experience and have shown themselves to be a resilient and proud society celebrating at all times our zest for life and living.

Sri Lankans are a close knit community. The strength of the family unit reflects the spirit of our communities. We are an inquisitive and fun-loving people, smiling defiantly in the face of hardship and raucously celebrating times of prosperity.

Living not for tomorrow, but for today and savouring every breath of our daily existence. We are fiercely proud of our heritage and culture; the ordinary Sri Lankan standing tall and secure in that knowledge.

Over four hundred years of colonisation by the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British has failed to crush or temper our indomitable spirit. And yet in this context the influence upon our recent history and society by the introduced sport of cricket is surprising and noteworthy.”

Kumar Sangakkara, a symbol of national unity

Sangakkara’s work in reuniting the country after the ravages of civil war are a fine example of how sports personalities can use their charisma in giving back the grace of healing and unity to a nation torn apart by war.

Thomo

Thomo pleaded that he had no time to read the novel after he got back from his voyage of discovery to Japan and Malaysia. And then a family bereavement kept him preoccupied with a funeral. 

Joe, however suggested two passages and Thomo chose an interesting one from the Sixth Moon. Thomo did a little background reading on the characters referred in that passage and found there are actually a lot of true-to-life characters in this book.

One is Major Raja Udugampola, who Saras just read about and who features in Thomo’s passage also. He was apparently based on Senior Officer Premadasa Udugampola, who was complicit in extrajudicial violence.

The other is Minister Cyril, who is probably the real Cyril Mathew, who was Minister of Industry and Scientific Affairs in 1977. He was a key minister responsible for instigating the anti-Tamil pogroms of July 1983.

He was expelled by Jaya Jayavardhan in 1984, and died of a heart attack in 1989. The book is set apparently in 1990. So this guy would have also been a ghost by the time of writing.

Thomo’s passage was from the last few paragraphs of the Sixth Moon.

The character Jaki is a girl. The threesome were DD, Maali and Jaki. Thomo thought because Maali was homosexual, the other great love of his life must also be a man, but no, it was a woman. Priya said the great love of Maali’s life was DD, but Jaki was the other great love of his life. 

Actually, Maali was very fond of her. He does try assiduously to sleep with her. They were very close.

KumKum

KumKum read something from the Seventh Moon. Jaki is the main character in the passage. 

After reading her passage she said “I don't know why I chose this passage.” This book was very tough, and she even tortured her grandchildren (two of her grandsons are avid readers, Gael by daughter Rachel, and Liam by son Reuben). She told them, she didn’t know why Opa (Joe) chose this novel. He goes for literature, literature, literature. But there's no literature in this book.

Everybody's talking, ghosts are interfering. And one finds it hard to get the story. KumKum had a lot of trouble. Even here, in the simple little passage she chose, who is speaking? Almeida is the ghost, hugging Jaki and telling what to say.

Then there is also Stanley Dharmendran in the scene. It's just very confusing.

KumKum didn't like this book at all and thought she might be intellectually challenged. She had read the toughest book in English literature by James Joyce, Ulysses, taking eight months to read it. But in the end KumKum understood the story there and the characters.

But this Karunatilaka makes no sense. KumKum cried, and remembered the book was overdue at the Arlington public library near Rachel’s house from where she borrowed the book when visiting in the summer of 2023. It was overdue, and she told Rachel to please pay the late fee, but they did not charge.

Anyway, that's the story of her reading. KumKum just couldn't wrap her mind around it. She admires Saras who deciphered the whole book admirably – whereas she was stumped; the book did not make any sense to her. Were there any others who felt like her, she wondered? Some even found humour in it … KumKum didn’t see anything except floating ghosts.

Priya

Priya said that while she agreed with a lot of things that Joe said in his intro to the novel, yet she’s more aligned with Saras in her appreciation of the novel, because she enjoyed reading the book. Some of the reviews say it's like an epic, and could have been one if it was expanded more. It could be an epic because it talks not only about history, but has a good story with narration, though it maybe dialogue-heavy.

It ought to make a very nice film also. Geetha agreed. It’s written more like a script.

If so KumKum volunteered the Spanish actress, Penelope Cruz, to play Jaki. She currently figures in ads for Emirates airline, shown during cricket matches.

So the question is: why did the novel get the Booker Prize? Priya said the novel has got a lot of things going for it. The story isn't all that complex, but the telling, the narration and the ghosts – the way Karunatilaka has used these props is quite cool.

Ghosts may be part of Sri Lanka’s mythology, or their Buddhist mythology.

Saras said this is another thing she likes about books, which make her do background reading to understand. She read a lot about Sri Lankan history, which she did not know. Or perhaps knew in a very superficial way, but it made her read a lot.

They have two theories in Buddhism. One is they say that the Spirit lives in the afterlife for some time and moves into, and then it is either reborn or it achieves nirvana. So there is a time lag.

This time lag is what Karunatilaka is focusing on over here, during the seven moons. It's very similar to our Indian mythology. The Hindu idea about rebirth. Reincarnation, a major tenet of Hinduism, is when the soul, which is seen as eternal and part of a spiritual realm, returns to the physical realm in a new body.  It is referred to otherwise as Saṃsāra.

And that's exactly what Mahakali and all that are about.

Priya  liked the partly whimsical movement of the ghosts, the spirits who jump and skip and go from here to there, sometimes borne on the wind, at other times by flying mythical machines.

Priya read the last part, the story about who murdered Maali Almeida. It was Stanley Dharmendran, whose son DD was Maali's boyfriend. Stanley, of course, couldn't stomach that (‘I didn’t send him to Cambridge to come home and get AIDS from a queer’).

Priya agreed with what Joe said about the crass portrayal of homosexuality. It could have been a little more sympathetically portrayed. There's no poetry in their relationship – everything is reduced to sexual gratification alone.

But consider: this whole book is about brutality of every kind. It numbs you. People are bribing, people are killing. All kinds of wrong and evil things are happening. The novel is about the utter state of decadence and destruction that the country has fallen into.

Priya read from the seventh moon, just before Maali is killed. We've been wondering right from the beginning what happened, who killed him, and what follows.

So here this is what happens. Dharmendran finds this note left in DD’s badminton racket.

And at the end of the conversation in this passage, two people emerge from the shadows and they push Maali over there. They take him and the driver of the truck, who sits next to him, driver malli (in SL if you want to hail a younger looking person it is more polite to call him as ‘malli’)

And they kill him, of course, and then throw him in Lake Beira. So the conversation between Stanley is just before he's killed. KumKum said in her passage also Stanley appears with Jaki.

Did Stanley die also? No. So the other ghostly voice is that of Almeida. Almeida is told that he can whisper to people. But he has to learn how to do that. Because once you drink from the river, you've forgotten.

You forget and you're ready for rebirth – that is what it says. So in the end, Maali loses in every sense, he's killed.

And then his famous photographs also don't cause the kind of change that he hoped they would. The one extra set that he sends his stepsister, those are also missing. Or rather, she hasn't even looked at it and doesn’t know its import.

It is a very dystopian world because all the relationships here are broken. And Maali’s relationship with his father, with his mother, both of them are difficult. There's no love anywhere.

And then he seeks the light. He was trying to find his killers. And once he's found them, then he wants to save Jaki. He would have been killed for his spying activities, not because of his love affair with DD.

But that's the love of a father for his son, standing for his son, not to be dead of AIDs, formerly considered a disease of homosexuals.

He realises that these photographs make no sense beyond a point. We think of SL as a beautiful, serene island of peaceful people. They are that as he says. But ‘we the people of SL have taken this pearl, this emerald island and turned it into a shit-filled oyster.’

Priya’s complaint was that for all its history, it doesn't mention Ravana and the Ramayana or any of the Hindu culture that is there. And Priya with her innate Hindutva suspicion of anti-Hindu feelings lurking everywhere, thinks part of the reason Seven Moons got the Booker was because it omitted Hindu culture.

Saras said Priya is off-base on that. It could not have been a consideration at all. But Priya insisted the West is anti-Hindu.

Thomo said the South was mostly Buddhist before Adi Shankaracharya, and he came in the 8th century, 14 centuries after Buddhism. Sri Lanka remained Buddhist.

Buddhism came much, much after Ramayana, said Priya. We should consult some references. First of all Gautama Buddha is a historical character and his teachings are not so much literature as a spiritual person preaching a way of life that will eliminate suffering, or at least mitigate it. Compassion for all life is a central theme. The Ramayana is closer to literature both in composition and style; the slokas are written like an epic poem. The heroes are considered gods by pious Hindus far and wide. But it not the Ramayana that bears comparison to the Buddhist texts, but the Upanishads, for they document the transition from mere ritual to the central religious concepts of Hinduism. Anyway, this is a discussion for another time and place, not this blog.

The Sinhalas are originally from Orissa they say, said Thomo. They moved to Sri Lanka at a time when Orissa was probably Buddhist. Ashoka's daughter, Sanghamitra, came from there and that's when Buddhism arrived in Sri Lanka.

The Hindu impact on Sri Lanka, came later through the Tamils who migrated to the northeast of the island, and later were taken in numbers to work on the highland tea plantations by the British.

Did some Bengali Maharaja rule Sri Lanka for a little while? This question was raised by KumKum. The Kerala Maharaja also ruled Sri Lanka for some time, said Thomo. There was a time when SL used to get their kings from Kerala.

What Priya is saying, this is all much later. She's talking about a much earlier time.

Thomo said, Sri Lanka before the people migrated from Orissa or Bengal, that area, anyway, is confirmed. The people there were the Veddas. That is what you would call Aborigines in other places, but they are known as the Veddas. And so, the Tamils went across to Jaffna and populated the NE. The northern areas, Elephant Pass and beyond was Tamil completely. The rest of it was Sinhala. And then, of course, the Tamils went across to the tea gardens, after the British came to Sri Lanka in 1815. Before the British came, there were Tamils only in the northern area, that is, beyond Elephant Pass, said Thomo.

Nevertheless Priya, always ready to advance the cause of Hinduism, said that the Hindu history of Sri Lanka has been very extensive, but it has been “very conveniently forgotten” in this novel. The discussion above seems to show there was no ancient Hindu history of Sri Lanka, at all.

Her argument is Ravana, and the whole kingdom of Ravana was there, Sita was transported there. But that is a story from the Indian perspective. Is that a historical perspective or a literary perspective? Valmiki is celebrated as a poet who authored the epic Ramayana, consisting of 24,000 slokas.

So Priya again asked where is Sri Lankan Ravana who is part of the Hindu story?

Thereafter a debate on Ravana, asura, Shiva-bhakt, whether Ravana was a Hindu, etc., followed which is immaterial to Karunatilaka’s novel, so the blog will only give indicators and pass over it. The following material is speculative:

1. The Ravana Lanka of the epic poem Ramayana is not the island called Sri Lanka today. 

2. The Ramayana epic poem is projected from the Indian perspective and foisted on the island of Sri Lanka. There is also a another tale of the vanquished, the story of Ravana and his people:

Asura Tale of the Vanquished

3. The real Ravana Lanka, if you are to go by the measurements given in the epic poem, lies 1200km south of India in the middle of the Indian Ocean (consult the reference above, quoting from the Ramayana).

The Lankan version of Ravana is quite different from the Ramayana story by the poet Valmiki.

Saras gave an introduction as follows. The Sri Lankan reading of the poem is a completely different story. Ravana was a very good king. Consider what ‘asura’ means. Asura is only a person in whom the negative qualities stand out more. There's no demon or anything like that. A person whose negative qualities come to the fore is an asura. So Ravana is an asura only because he gave in to lust. 

But he was a very fair king. He was a very accomplished. Even the ten heads of Ravana is metaphorical; he didn't physically have ten heads. It meant that he was very intelligent. He was accomplished in music, he was accomplished in the Vedas, and so on. Hence, the ten heads that people talk about is just a way to make people understand that he was very intelligent. He was a good king, but at some point he gave in to lust, at least according to the Ramayana story, and stole Sri Rama's wife. That is why he changes and his attributes change and he becomes an asura.

Vibhishana, the younger brother, turned his back on Ravana, and defected to Sri Rama's side, owing to his dharma.

KumKum said even Ravana respected Sita, he didn't touch Sita.  Saras replied that in fact Ravana could not – his head would blow up if he touched Sita. Unless Sita willingly submitted, he could not touch her. If he touches her, his head would explode. That is the curse that he had.

Priya’s complaint is that there is no mention of that history in this book. But is the Ramayana ‘history’ as normally conceived, or ‘literature’?

Saras countered that Karunatilaka is not talking about ancient history – he is writing an imaginative literary account in the magic realism genre about events that took place in 1983 onwards.

And he just mentions the colonial history of the island, which is in the same colonial epoch of exploitation that all the countries of Asia have suffered (Africa included, and not excluding S America). In the context of the 1980s civil war, that is in the recent past.

Priya suggested the novel also deals with birth and rebirth and afterlife. That is the philosophy, said Saras. That is a different thing – which is present in the Buddhist philosophy also.

Priya continued: Karunatilaka has very conveniently left that out, about Mahakali and all that, which is Hindu in concept. Saras countered that doesn't feature in the novel at all, and all that stuff is there in the Buddhist philosophy also.

Priya said she means Karunatilaka could have brought in the priority of the Hindu thinking in these matters, he could have, but did not.

Saras took issue saying that you can't look at everything as against anti-Hindu, and that was why Karunatilaka got the Booker Prize, etc. etc. 

Priya was adamant that is a factor in his winning. Not that an impartial reader can discern any anti-Hinduism, but yes, neither does he pay obeisance to Hindutva as Priya would like to admire in any novel set in a S Asia. That’s what she likes to believe.

Saras tried to enlighten Priya:  there is a problem if you look at everything from a particular lens, then you will see everything only through that. Priya should forego such a narrow sectarian approach, especially in regard to literature.

Saras said she would still like to believe that the Booker is decided on some kind of literary merit, largely.

Joe then handed Priya a quiz question –  Who is the Yug Purush?

Priya was stumped so KumKum replied, you know it is Mr. Modi-ji.  It is the title the VP of India, Mr Dhankar, conferred on the PM a few days back.

Priya gathering her wits responded: I don't know, but I think at this point I would say Maali Almeida.

See you all on the 16th of December, dear friends, for our Humorous Poetry session in costume.

Looking forward.

Yes, yes, yes.

Saras told Kumkum, this is why she wanted to attend the meeting, though it was in the wee hours of the morning for her in San Jose, CA. She knew this book would work.

Priya thanked Joe for choosing this very difficult book for the readers. Geetha highlighted the point that every book gives us an opportunity to discuss, and enlarge our view of world history and politics and all that.

Joe reminded everyone to please be active in discussing and deciding and selecting the novels for next year’s reading. Several have chosen already; the book for Jan 2024 is already decided and has been announced by Devika. Thomo has chosen. Kumkum has chosen, but Joe is trying to get her to change her mind. But it's not been declared yet. Geetha has discussed and is thinking of Salman Rushdie – but we should diverge, since we have already read his famous novel that won the Booker, and generally do not choose the same author again.

The Readings

Arundhaty

First Moon

The mara tree stretches its limbs across shaggy grass and toppled rock. On every branch is a creature hanging by its claws. Rats, snakes and polecats hide among tombstones. There are many shadows to disappear into, though no one present appears to cast one. Sena climbs to a vacant branch and you follow. ‘Why are we sitting here?’ you ask. 

‘Mara trees catch winds. Like radios catch frequencies. So do bo trees, banyan trees and probably any other big tree that blows wind.’ 

‘I thought the wind blows the trees.’ 

‘Your grandfather thought the world was flat. Do you want to be a ghost or a ghoul?’ 

‘What’s the difference?’ 

‘A ghost blows with the wind. A ghoul directs the wind.’ ‘What are we doing here?’ 

‘If you quiet your mind, you may hear your name spoken. If you hear your name, you can go there. Do it while your corpse is fresh, so to speak. After ninety moons, no one will care about your Colombo 7 arse.’ 

‘I liked it better when you were calling me “sir”.’ 

You snort and look around at meditating spirits. Everyone on the tree mutters while rocking back and forth. It is tough to know who is in meditation and who is catatonic. 

‘Silence your mind and listen,’ he says.

‘I haven’t meditated since the ’70s,’ you reply. ‘Meditation is only for those who have breath.’ 

‘What am I listening for?’ 

‘Your name. Have you forgotten that also? Hear your name spoken, share in its shame.’ 

‘Where did you learn poetry?’ 

‘Because I went to Sri Bodhi College, I can’t know poetry?’ ‘How many chips does that shoulder carry?’ 

‘Listen!’ 

The sun is beginning its descent and the light has begun to play its tricks. The funeral processions scatter, while more hearses roll towards more graves. You remain still and listen for a song in your head. There is none. Not even Elvis or Freddie. 

Every time you look around, the tree has changed texture. The bark is a different shade of coffee, the leaves are flecked with gold, the foliage veers between rainforest and moss. It could be the light, your imagination, or neither. 

The hot air fills with the groans of traffic, the yawns of dogs and the slither of spirits. You empty yourself of thoughts and let the faces come to you, faces you recognise and cannot name. Among them is a large white man, a man with a crown, a dark lady with ruby lips and a boy with a moustache. 

The faces turn to playing cards. A Diamond Ace, a Club King, a Queen of Spades and a Jack of Hearts flutter before you and that’s when you start to hear. At first a whisper, then a word, then many, then millions. The whispers weave into one another, some create harmony, some static. 

Then like ants with mics crawling over a carcass. Then like pebbles in plastic boxes shaken by horrid children. Then like Portuguese, Dutch and Tamil spoken at the same time. The airwaves are jammed with spirits cursing. Each voice hissing into the ether, screaming at the universe, bellowing into unused frequencies. 

And then you hear the name. It is said once, then repeated, then shouted. 

‘His name is Malinda Almeida. He works for the British Consulate.’ 

‘We don’t know any Lorenzo Almeida.’ 

‘You think this is a joke? Malinda Almeida. I have a letter from Minister Stanley Dharmendran. Will you kindly check?’

Pamela

First Moon

‘I know you were there,’ she says. ‘I remember every face. The Minister was there, watching from his car. You were there, taking my picture, like it was some fucking wedding.’ 

‘I wasn’t part of the mob, I swear. I just had the camera.’ 

‘If you were part of the mob, I would feed you to the Mahakali.’ 

‘I was in the wrong place holding a camera.’ 

‘Is that your slogan?’ 

Her eyes are red and brown. Her voice is black. 

‘I’m sorry for what happened. I wish we could’ve stopped it.’ 

‘Thank you. That means less than nothing.’ 

She heard that victims of the 1987 Pettah bomb blast have tracked down the bombers responsible and are holding them in a cave nearby. They are waiting for all 113 victims to arrive, so they can dispense justice. She is here to help them decide on a suitable punishment.

‘If suicide bombers knew they end up in the same waiting room with all their victims,’ says the ghoul in her slithery voice, ‘they may think twice.’ 

The ghoul tells you she was a lawyer who had chambers in Maradana, until on 21 July 1983 she walked past the bus stand to buy cigarettes and encountered a Sinhalese mob with torches. ‘I always knew smoking would kill me,’ she deadpans. 

She wears a sari and a pottu which may have been more to blame, you think but do not say. 

She tells you that she wandered for a thousand moons before she found peace. That many of the victims of the 1983 riots are still roaming the In Between. 

‘Some walked into The Light. Some became demons. The Light makes you forget. We should never forget.’ 

In the flickering moonlight her skin looks made from snake. Her arms weave like cobras, her hair writhes like a nest of serpents and the burns on her skin glow like embers. Once again you lift your broken camera and take the photo without asking. 

‘In ’83, we didn’t think to get organised. We were too stunned. These days, people are angrier. Especially when they die. Did I say you could photograph?’ ‘There’s mud in the aperture. The lens is cracked.’

‘So, why carry it with you?’ 

‘The photos I don’t take are the best ones,’ you say. 

She says that all 113 victims of the ’87 Pettah bus stand bomb have refused to have ears checked or be coaxed towards The Light. They want to see the suicide bombers punished and demand to speak to whoever is in charge. 

According to the Dead Lawyer, the Helpers in white are volunteers. Souls who have visited The Light and opted to come back here. They claim to represent whoever is in charge, though they can’t agree on who that could be. 

‘What’s in it for them?’ 

‘Who knows? Even do-gooders have their agendas.’ 

The ghoul says she was saved by a Naga yaka or snake demon and given back her skin. ‘And my dignity. And my self-respect,’ she says. ‘Lord Naga helped me discard the pain and remember what was me. I am not my skin.’ 

You decide against mentioning that her skin resembles that of a garden snake and she hisses back at you as if reading your thoughts. 

‘As if I was a great beauty before.’ 

‘If The Light helps you forget, is that bad?’

‘I see they have got to you already.’ 

‘Malinda... Almeida...

’ You hear your name blow in from Pettah’s streets and you scramble towards it. You look back. The Dead Lawyer in the pink salwar does not notice your departure. You climb to the top of the tree and listen, and you hear it again. 

Below, at the bus stop, the ghoul in pink looks up and sees you fleeing. She hisses at you and bares her teeth. 

‘Come back here, camera man.’ 

You do not want to stay. So, you silence your mind and listen for the winds. You hear your name  spoken. And, once more, you share in its shame.

Geetha

Second Moon

‘Can I see this warrant?’ says Jaki. ‘Please don’t touch my things.’ 

They ignore her and plough through the shared bathroom to the pentagon that you used to sleep in. In contrast to the others, this is barren and stark. There is a queen-sized bed, a desk with a lamp, a cupboard filled with cameras, and three framed prints on the wall. One of the Somalian famine by James Nachtwey, one from the last days of Beijing by Henri Cartier-Bresson, and one of the police massacre in Batticaloa by yours truly. 

Ranchagoda gasps and Elsa nods. It shows a dozen policemen kneeling as if it is Friday at the mosque. This was cropped at the FujiKodak shop in Thimbirigasyaya, so you cannot see the edges of the window that you zoomed through. You did not crop the AK-47 muzzle on the top right corner, though from your hilltop vantage you did not have the angle to snap the person holding it. 

Outside the almirah are framed X-rays. One of your chest when you had pneumonia, and one of your wisdom teeth hidden in your jaw like icebergs. You photographed the X-rays, turned up the opacity and framed them for an art project which, of course, you never completed. 

Inside the almirah is one teddy bear and collections of safari jackets, Hawaiian shirts and chains. Under the teddy bear is an address book that no one is looking for. You hope things stay that way. 

You liked to wear things around your neck that weren’t ties. Wear a tie for the interview, your Dada used to say. You want me to put a noose around my neck every single day just like you do, you asked, but only in your head. 

The chains are hung from the door, some are string and some are twine. These were your spares. A peace sign, a cross, a yin and yang, and an Om. Not present are the golden Panchayudha, the cyanide capsules stolen from dead Tigers or the wooden ankh containing DD’s blood, from when you made that silly oath in Yala, back when every day felt like a holiday. Both were around your neck when your neck was finally snapped. Your neck was snapped? By whom? Who said that? 

You look around to check if Sena or one of his disciples is whispering in your ear. But there is only the wind and your empty room.

The dominant smell here is from chemicals and cleaning products. Were you sitting here like a college hippie, cooking up LSD and hash and anarchy? Hardly. You were mixing developer, stop bath and fixer, taking canisters to the pantry, which you’d converted into a dark room without telling Uncle Stanley. If they bothered to look there, they would find reels of negatives from the past six years in carefully classified Tupperware boxes. But, at present, they are too busy crouching under your queen-sized bed.

Shoba

Second Moon

And then you enter a room and it is just you and a mirror and you see nothing in the reflection and then you see your eyes on different faces, your face on different heads and your head on different bodies. Every feature changes as your focus falls on it. Your nose elongates then contracts. Your face grows bestial then beautiful. Your hair lengthens and vanishes. Your eyes go from green to blue to brown. 

But your ears, they do not change. 

Finally, you recognise the thing in the mirror. It wears a red bandanna, a safari jacket, one sandal and things around its neck – intertwining chains, the wooden ankh with DD’s blood, the Panchayudha, and the locket hiding the capsules. You look closely at the tangled threads and realise how closely they resemble a noose. Your camera hangs like a millstone; you pull at it and look down its cracked lens. 

You see a dog and an old man and a woman cradling a baby. They all sleep peacefully and the image punches you in the gut. For a third time, your eyes prickle with tears. When you look up, you are holding the ola leaf book but this time it has writing on it. The writing is pretty and precise, yet oddly bureaucratic. 

Deaths – 39 

Ears – Blocked 

Sins – Many

At the bottom of the leaf, it bears a stamp. Five white circles, each overlapping. The moons you have left.

Joe 

Third Moon

You want to ask the universe what everyone else wants to ask the universe. Why are we born, why do we die, why anything has to be. And all the universe has to say in reply is: I don’t know, arsehole, stop asking. The Afterlife is as confusing as the Before Death, the In Between is as arbitrary as the Down There. So we make up stories because we’re afraid of the dark. 

The wind brings your name and you follow it through air and concrete and steel. You move on breezes through a Slave Island alley and you hear the whispers in every doorway. ‘Almeida... Malinda...’ Then the wind blows through busy Dehiwela streets and you hear more voices. ‘JVP-er... activist... Almeida... Maali... missing...’ 

From Slave Island to Dehiwela in one breath, faster than a helicopter ride. At least death frees you from Galle Road traffic, Parliament Road drivers, and checkpoints on every street. You ride past the faces of oblivious people ambling through Colombo’s shabby streets, the mortal brothers and sisters of the dearly departed and quickly forgotten. You are a leaf in a gale, blown by a force you can neither control nor resist. 

Sri Lankan visionary Arthur C. Clarke said thirty ghosts stand behind everyone alive, the ratio by which the dead outnumber the living. You look around you and fear the great man’s estimate might have been conservative. 

Every person you see has a spirit crouching behind them. Some have guardians hovering above and swatting away the ghouls, the pretas, the rahu and the demons. Some have distinguished members of these latter groups standing before them, hissing idle thoughts in their faces. A few have devils squatting on their shoulders and filling their ears with bile. 

Sir Arthur has spent three decades of his life on these haunted shores and is clearly a Sri Lankan. Austria convinced the world that Hitler was German and Mozart was theirs. Surely, after centuries of armed plunder, courtesy of the sea pirates from London, Amsterdam and Lisbon, may we Lankans at least help ourselves to one sci-fi visionary? 

The rain spits out lightning and the thunder breaks wind. You’ve lost count how many times it has rained since your untimely demise. Either the monsoons have come early or the universe is shedding tears for you and your silly little life. Today, the tears fall thick as globs of ink, diving from angry clouds onto the heads of the meek.

Devika

Fourth Moon

And, suddenly, the cold transforms into something familiar. Not something, perhaps more of an absence of thing, an emptiness that stretches to the horizon, a void that has known you forever. When your dear Dada departed, you ran through different scenarios every night while trying to sleep. Maybe he sensed you were queer, maybe he wished you were him, maybe you reminded him of her, maybe he hoped you’d be worth more. You relived every sullen word, every petulant glance, every slight, every put-down until your chest was hollow. 

‘You feel it, do you not? That is the energy.’ 

That hollowness and that loathing were not entirely unpleasant. Despair always begins as a snack that you nibble on when bored and then becomes a meal that you have thrice a day. ‘Who do you blame for this mess? Was it the colonials who screwed us for centuries? centuries? Or the superpowers that are screwing us now?’ 

There is a terrible scream from down below and the roof spits out black shadows which the Dead Priest sucks up through what looks like a large straw. 

‘Who screwed us?’

‘The Portuguese assumed the missionary position. The Dutch took us from behind. By the time the Brits came along, we were already on our knees, with our hands behind our backs and our mouths open.’ 

‘I’m glad we were colonised by the British,’ you say. ‘Better than being slaughtered by the French,’ says the Priest. 

‘Or enslaved by the Belgians.’ 

‘Or gassed by the Germans.’ 

‘Or raped by Spaniards.’ 

‘Sometimes, when I think of the mess this country is in, I think it might be better to let the Chinese or the Japanese buy us over, let the Yanks and the Soviets own our thoughts or let the Indians take care of our Tamil problem, like we let the Dutch take care of our Portuguese problem.’ 

You are now sitting in the shadows and breathing in the void. 

The Dead Priest sits across from you and whispers into the dark. ‘This island has always been connected. We traded spices, gems and slaves with Rome and Persia long before history books were invented. Our people too have always been tradable. Look at today. The rich send their kids to London, the poor send their wives to Saudi. European paedophiles sun on our beaches, Canadian refugees fund our terror, Israeli tanks kill our young and Japanese salt poisons our food.’ 

It is then that you realise that there is somewhere you have to be and it is not here. And that, if you stay here any longer, you will forget why you arrived. 

‘The British sell us guns and the Americans train our torturers. What chance do any of us have?’ 

The Priest has grown muscular and crawls towards you as she speaks. Her voice doubles, trebles, and then multiplies. You recognise this walk and this growl. You pull away from the shadow and it blocks your exit. 

‘The Brits left us with an unpolished pearl and we have spent forty years filling this oyster with shit.’ 

It now has its face against yours and you are no longer sure if it is a he or a she. You feel the cold and the empty roaring through you. His eyes are made from a thousand other eyes and her voice is a thousand other voices. That hum at the edge of our hearing is not a she, or a him, or an it, or a they. It is cacophony. 

‘Here’s the stinking truth, take a good whiff. We have fucked it up all by ourselves.’

Saras

Fifth Moon

It was your last assignment in Jaffna. And everyone assured you it would be safe and it proved to be anything but. After it was over, they sent you home in a bus. The thirteen-hour ride gave you plenty of time to think, but all you did was replay one scene on infinite loop. 

It was an hour after the last shell had dropped and the air was still smoky and smelly. You stumbled through dust and you saw the wailing. You could not hear it, because your ears were abuzz with the low hum at the end of the world, the frequency that spirits swirled at, the white noise of a thousand screams. But, all around you, you saw the wailing. People had stopped running and were rooted to the spot and staring at the heavens and roaring. There was a woman holding a dead child, there was an old man peppered with shrapnel, and a stray dog shuddering beneath a broken palmyra. The celestial finger released the mute button and the screams were unleashed on your ears. There were no medics or aid workers or soldiers or freedom fighters or insurgents or separatists to help. There were only poor villagers and one poor fixer. When the woman holding the dead child saw you, she stopped screaming and stared deep in between your eyes and pointed to the things around your neck. The ankh with DD’s blood vial, the chain with the Panchayudha, and the twine with Tiger cyanide capsules. You told yourself you took them from Major Udugampola’s weapons stash, in case you ended up captured, and it didn’t matter by whom. The government could set you up as a traitor; the LTTE, as a spy. You would swallow these before they could ask you things that you had no answers to. The capsules were meant to be out of sight, hidden behind the other things around your neck, but they were one of many things the shelling had dislodged. Her voice came out in gasps and she pointed at the pills around your neck and you looked at her dead boy slung like a gunny sack and you handed her two and you watched her stuff them between her lips and you walked away and you went to the shuddering man with wood sticking out of him and you forced two in his mouth and then you squatted by the dog that was braying and stroked its quivering body and placed two under its tongue and closed its jaws.

Thomo

Sixth Moon

Sena hand-picks the crew for today’s mission and takes them to the mara tree outside the Palace for a final briefing. ‘This is where I died. And when they killed me, all I remembered was the pain. And then I sat in this very tree. For how many moons, I do not know. It was the pain I felt of being bullied by school, by society, by the law, by my country. The pain of knowing there is always something stronger than you. And it is always against you.’ 

The spirit crew murmurs and wind blows across the branches. ‘In wars, they send pawns to kill pawns. In this war, the pawns get to take out the bishops, the rooks and the king. Major Raja meets Minister Cyril today. Next meeting is in a few hours. The Mask will be present. It is perfect. No collateral victims. Just cops.’ 

‘For once!’ you exclaim and the ghouls turn their heads. 

‘If anyone has issues with our plan, they can fuck off. Because of bleeding hearts like Maali Almeida, this war will go on forever.’ 

‘Nothing goes on forever. It’s the one thing the Buddha got right,’ you say to the Dead Child Soldier who is not listening. 

‘We don’t need cowards and champagne socialists. We have Dead Tigers who can whisper in ears. We have JVP Martyrs who can speak in dreams. We have Dead Engineers who can channel electricity. Drivermalli has received the jacket. He will use it tomorrow.’ 

You think of dead lakes overflowing with corpses, of police stations where the rich lock up the poor, of palaces where those who follow orders torture those who refuse to. You think of distraught lovers, abandoned friends and absent parents. Of lapsed treaties and photographs that are seen and forgotten, regardless of the walls they hang on. How the world will go on without you and will forget you were even here. You think of the mother, the old man and the dog, of the things you did, or failed to do, for the ones you loved. You think about evil causes and about worthy ones. That the chances of violence ending violence are one in nothing, one in nada, one in squat. 

You drift down to the Palace roof, avoiding the Mahakali’s lair. Sena watches you go and carries on speechifying. You hear voices that you recognise from the floor below. You have not been on this floor before. Not during Major Raja’s guided tours, nor on your visits after death. The walls look a little cleaner and the floor does not smell as dank. In the corridor is Detective Cassim, ASP Ranchagoda and the Mask, his glasses tinted brown and his mask a surgical blue. Detective Cassim has his palms on his forehead, rocks back and forth as if praying. But that is not what he is doing at all – in fact, the opposite. He is cursing. 

‘I tell you this is not legal!’ snaps Cassim. ‘I cannot witness this. It is against my religion to harm innocents.’ 

‘Go to the mosque if you want to pray. This is definitely not the place for that. The Mask stares into the open window and takes off his glasses to clean them. His eyes are clear and sharp, as if he had a good night’s sleep before his cricket match and family lunch. 

Cassim storms down the corridor and almost walks through you. 

‘Let him go,’ says ASP Ranchagoda. ‘Let him write his report, then calm down, then tear it up. That’s his usual scene.’ 

‘He won’t write any reports about this,’ says the Mask, putting his glasses back on. 

You peer into the room. There is a bed, a single lightbulb, some PVC pipes and ropes hanging from the ceiling. And, curled up like a squirrel on the floor, with a gunny sack barely fitting over her bushy curls, is not a Tiger separatist, a JVP Marxist, a Tamil moderate or a British gunrunner. It is your best friend, Jaki, the other great love of your life. (678 words)

KumKum

Seventh Moon

When he gets there, he gasps. Jaki is awake and trying to get the gunny sack off her head, which is difficult with hands tied behind back. She jerks her body, rolls forward and grunts.

Cassim unlocks the door and tiptoes into the room. Jaki hears the sound and cowers to the wall. 

‘Who is that? Where is this?’ 

‘Please, do not take off your hood. If you see us, they will not let you leave.’ 

‘Who’s they?’ 

‘Do you have the negatives?’ 

‘What?’ ‘Maali Almeida’s negatives. The things in that box that started this whole bloody mess.’ 

‘I don’t,’ says Jaki, playing blind man’s bluff. ‘Believe me, I don’t. I sold them to Elsa Mathangi. She will have them. Please can I call my uncle?’ 

‘Don’t take off your blindfold.’ 

‘I am Stanley Dhar—’ 

‘I know who you are.’ 

‘Can I have some water?’ 

Cassim exits the room and locks the door. You float to Jaki, wrap your arms around her and feed her what you can in frantic whispers and gasps. 

‘You’ve been arrested, Jaki. Stay calm, be brave and you will be saved. Uncle Stanley is coming for you. Tell Detective Cassim this...’

The Detective returns with a teacup and a plastic bottle of water. He warns her before he takes off the sack. 

‘Drink your water. Do not look at my face. I want to help you. But I do not trust you.’ 

She looks down with squinted eyes as he removes her hood and unties her hands. She keeps her eyes closed and does not attempt to take in the space or glimpse her captor. She holds the cup with numb hands and tries not to spill. 

He watches her drink. 

‘If you give me the negatives, I will release you now.’ 

Jaki finishes sipping and looks at the ground. She is groggy and garbled and mistakes your whispers for her own thoughts. Later she will have no recollection of what was said or to whom. 

‘I know you are the one who searched our apartment. I know you are not to blame for this.’ 

You whisper and she speaks. Your words, from her ears to her mouth. She does not question what she says. 

Cassim is silent. ‘Uncle Stanley will reward you. 

Uncle Stanley can get you transferred tonight. Release me and you can be released. I promise you.’

Cassim leans back and folds his arms. ‘How do you know about my transfer?’ 

‘I know you are a good detective. I know you are better than this. And I know you will do the right thing.’ You run out of breath, even though you have none. You feel as if you have sprinted up eight floors and jumped off the top. 

‘Minister Dharmendran can deliver this?’ 

‘He can and he will. Please, Detective. If we stay, both of us are lost. Both of us. Help me. And we will help you.’ 

Fatigued and frazzled, you retire to the corner and watch. If these are your two whispers, then what will you do with your third? 

Cassim lets her finish two more cups and then pulls her to her feet. Her legs buckle and she holds onto his shoulder as he drags her down the corridor. He places her on the seat in the office and pulls his report from the typewriter. He crumples it into his pocket and sticks a fresh sheet in the ribbon. He starts typing with fury. 

Detective Cassim extracts the sheet and then signs in ink. He gets up and hands her a box of surgical masks and the uniform.

‘Wear the mask, the cap and this uniform. I will stamp your release forms. Don’t let the guards see your face. Be quick!’ 

He goes to the office to stamp the letter and puts it in an envelope. When he returns, Jaki is dressed and ready, with her clothes stuffed in her bag. The black trousers fit well, though the white shirt hangs baggy off her stooping shoulders. (668 words)

Priya

Seventh Moon

Come to the Leo Bar at 11 p.m. tonight. 

I will have news. 

Love, Maal. 

You had left it on DD’s badminton racket and, while it was possible that DD had read it and given it to his Appa, the odds are six to seven to one that Appa found it first. 

‘Would you like something to drink, Malinda?’ ‘I’m actually meeting DD at 11 p.m.’

‘He was in bed when I left. I don’t think he’ll be coming.’ ‘He didn’t get my note?’ 

‘You left it on the wrong racket.’ 

‘But I spoke with him.’ 

‘Did you? Jesus, Maali. We don’t talk for weeks. And now you want to party.’ Stanley elongated his vowels, so his accent resembled the British public school poshness that DD kept trying to shed in public. Father and son shared the same walk, the same skin and the same toffee voice. 

‘So what did you want to tell my son?’ 

‘None of your business, Uncle Stanley.’ 

‘Fair enough. This won’t take long,’ said Stanley. ‘I just came to ask you one thing.’ 

You noticed that the bar downstairs had gone quiet and that no one was likely to trespass on this terrace, unless they were looking for an illicit smooch. 

‘I’m waiting for the punchline, Uncle.’ 

‘In the note you say you have news. I am not interested in your news. I just want to know one thing. What is your price?’ 

‘Price?’ 

‘How much will it take for you to be gone from Dilan’s life?’

‘Maybe a million dollars,’ you say with a smirk. ‘Or the amount they paid you to join the Cabinet. Whichever’s larger.’ 

Stanley doesn’t appear offended. 

‘There must be a realistic figure.’ 

‘If DD wants to kick me out of his life, he can tell me himself. I’m hardly around, anyway.’ 

‘Where have you been?’ 

‘I’ve been up north reporting on the IPKF.’ ‘For whom?’ 

‘None of your business, Uncle Stanley.’ 

‘Dilan thinks it’s the army, but apparently you haven’t worked there for years.’ 

‘They called me to cover Wijeweera’s capture.’ ‘They say you were sacked for being HIV-positive.’ ‘That’s untrue.’ 

‘Have you checked?’ 

‘I’m positive. That I don’t have AIDS.’ 

An old punchline, delivered with Stanley’s cadence. ‘Dilan is a good boy. A brilliant boy. But he is distracted. I think it is best for him to focus. Don’t you?’ 

‘So, he should join your firm and hide money for rich thieves?’

Uncle Stanley lights a cigarette and passes you the pack. Of course he would smoke Benson and Hedges, a brand that tasted of imperialism, despite being made in the same factory as Gold Leaf and Bristol. You take one and light it and watch the tip flare like a filament and then fade to soot. He watches you struggle with the matches but does not offer his lighter. DD boasted that his Appa had given up a two-pack habit after their mother croaked and how you could too if you listened to him. 

‘I thought you gave up.’ 

‘Dilan didn’t smoke till he met you. He used to blame me for his mother’s cancer. We’ve had rough times but we’re OK now. He is what I have. You must understand this.’ 

You puffed and wondered how you could extricate yourself from this chat. A bathroom break, perhaps. 

‘You were doing an unnatural act with that waiter, no? Have you tried that with my son?’ 

Stanley is leaning forward and smoking his Benson through a cupped hand. 

‘Why is it unnatural?’ 

‘This is my son, you pig. I didn’t send him to Cambridge to come home and get AIDS from a queer.’

The bodyguards in the corner are also smoking. They take a step forward when Stanley raises his voice and then step back when his hand goes up. 

‘You raised a pampered fool who knows nothing of this land or its people. I opened his eyes.’