Omunkashyu

OMUNKASHYU

  Dilshan Boange

  Copyright © 2013 by Dilshan Boange

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

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  PREFACE

  On the 27th of March 2011, I boarded the 7pm bus from Nandyal to Chennai with the kind help of Rachana Prasad Reddy. The courteous and convivial conversationalist that was within her, made her endearingly companionable. The sense of friendship that arose between us as we talked about things that defined us individually as well as culturally made it a meeting which got me thinking it was meant to have some serendipity involved in it.

  After we arrived in Chennai with the break of dawn, we took leave of each other and parted ways. She left for her place, to get ready for another Monday at work; and I hopped a bus to Pondicherry. I was hoping to sink into some restful sloth there, and put myself to awaken my creative senses. Hoping dearly to conceive a story that would become my next work of publishable fiction. Thinking of how Yann Martel found his Life of Pi soloing in India, I too harboured secret prayers that I may find my journey to be one where a concept for a story would get kindled in me.

  Soon afterwards as I was lazing in Pondicherry’s ‘French quarter’, meditating on my thoughts, the idea for a story began getting sketched in my head. It was just a vague broad concept initially and no more. And of course the grain of it sprang from pondering on the experience of the nightlong bus journey from Nandyal to Chennai. What became central to my introspection was how much we define ourselves through conversation. ‘Conversation’ is possibly one of the most obvious of our behavioural phenomena needed to define our humanness.

  On the 29th of March while in room 206 of the L’Ocean Guest House in Pondicherry, a word unheard sprang up in my head. It was spontaneous. And it seems that all I have noted of ‘that moment’ in my journal entries made that day was that the movie Constantine was on, on the TV in the room, the moment this word was conceived in my head. And the fascination I had with this word, its ‘acoustic form’, consequently got worked into my story concept in the subsequent days, and I made cursory, sketchy notes as the ideas developed in my thoughts.

  The idea of storytelling and conversation as two oral phenomena that is central to who we are, as creatures who develop what is called a ‘culture’, took on a big role of this story, which developed significantly as I began drawing up its storyline after getting back to Sri Lanka. This was not going to be a conventional novel. That much I was able to see at the very outset. I hope what the reader finds in Omunkashyu is a narrative which proves to be a worthy read.

  This is a work of fiction. There are no biographic motives involved. The themes of conversation and contemplation represented by the characters and the master narrator are not exact reproductions of my own conversations with Rachana. And a great deal of what is made the topics of what the two characters deal with, was developed subsequent to the bus journey from Nandyal. In fairness to all concerned, it must be noted that it is my imagination that drove much of the scenario presented in this story. It is a manifestation of my imagination devising a creative expression kindled from a personal experience.

  The writing of Omunkashyu proved to be a greatly inward gazing experience where the power of recollection played a central role. A good memory and the ability to recall the past vividly, is always a means by which a writer’s craft gains its spirit and substance. The writing of this book had me reaching into my repositories of memories of various stories. Stories I had heard, that had the intangible form of the spoken word, but due to their fascinating nature got imprinted on my fabric of memory.

  The story of Somnath and Kamala Devi was a story once told me by a family friend, Mr. Tilak Ellegedara. The myth of the ‘gini mantharaya’ was a story that was told by a friend of mine, Waduge Jeewan Chandimal. Sifting out such stories and selecting them for their contextual suitability for the narrative and schema of storytelling in this story, thus had me taking on a bold liberty which I believe a writer is entitled to when crafting fiction,–improvisation.

  The historical or factual bases of those stories I heard, and developed to be woven into this work of fiction, were not of any concern to me. Thus each such story cupped out from pools of memories was sculpted to a form of more solidity that would become more compelling, and of course fit into the architecture of this novel. And I hope the reader too will find me vindicated in my role as a fiction writer for the approach I devised for this novel.

  Sincere thanks are due to a number of people whose contributions have been significant in this creative endeavour. Many thanks to Deshaka Perera and his wife Rishmila for the invaluable help offered in the manuscript preparation. I am thankful to Piyal Kariyawasam for thoughtfully lending me his copies of Knut Hamsun’s Hunger and Modern Criticism and Theory: A Reader, which were books referred for this work.

  Thank you to Nandana Sitinamaluwe whose contribution of critical feedback was very helpful. Thanks to Rishi Walker in Auroville India, for friendlily extending me his willing assistance to visit the ‘Mathrimandir’, and encounter the ‘totality of silence’ on the 2nd of April 2011. Grateful thanks are due to the publishers of this book Pablo D’Stair and his wife Sarah in Las Vegas USA, and their team at KUBOA. Their mettle as writers who support unconventional literary fiction is what has allowed this story to ‘enter the world’ as a book.

  And of course, my sincerely profound thanks to Rachana Prasad Reddy. Had it not been for her, and that chanced encounter in Nandyal, it is unlikely, that the word ‘Omunkashyu’ would have ever had a chance to gain any meaning.

  Dilshan Boange

  02nd of March 2013

  Sri Lanka

  ***

  It is true... Kingdoms have fallen because the beauty of a woman became the universe of a man…

  Nandyal. There is something of an eternalness in the way it flows out when spoken; yet as earthly as a word may feel to the lips. As if its solidness is inherent in its succinctness, yet meant to span meanings beyond the earthliness. Nandyal; there is something of a tranquil femininity in the way its sound flows when spoken softly. This word derived from Nandi, the name of the sacred bull, the mount of Shiva. Nandyal; a town in Andhra Pradesh, India; known for being marked by its surrounding belt of nine Shiva temples –the nava nandi. And here our story begins at the central bus station; where it is very unlikely to hear English in the chatter of the Telegu speakers. In India, the sheer volume of faces that throng through the streets of any major town can make one feel faceless. That is if you are the kind given to wonder what your face would mean amongst seeming infinitudes. And yet it is such places, when you pass through, as a wanderer driven by ‘searches’, that make you develop the need to know what faces may tell you. You learn to read faces.

  Seeing how the next bus to Chennai would be over an hour’s wait if he wants to travel in the assuredness of a ‘reserved seat’, Jaliya decided he would try his luck and see if any seats might be available on the bus that had arrived and readying to take in its passengers from the Nandyal bus station. Hanging around for another hour at this bus station, by himself, wasn’t much of a pleasant prospect, he decided. There were three young men engrossed in a conversation, and by the look of them they didn’t appear as the likely sort who would be able to assist him. After all starting conversations with people randomly may not be the most advisable thing to do when you are a lone backpacker in a foreign land. The next in sight were some very provincial look
ing women who certainly did not seem to be English conversant. Turning around to walk back, he then caught sight of her. There she was, his heaven sent assistance of the evening.

  “Excuse me, miss.”

  She looked through the rectangular lenses of her specks and smiled at the young man who spoke to her in a well mannered tone of courteousness.

  “This is the bus to Chennai isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is.”

  Her way of reply told Jaliya he had asked the right person. Yes, she was the helpful kind who restores your faith in the possibilities of the kindness of strangers, which of course is something someone like Jaliya had to rely on.

  “I couldn’t make a seat reservation. Do you think I could go on this bus? The man at the counter said if there are unreserved seats I could.”

  “Yes, if all the seats haven’t been reserved you can. You will have to ask the conductor.”

  Her response indicated she found it somewhat curious how this matter was something needing inquiry. But it didn’t suggest she was annoyed.

  “Thank you.” With a nod of appreciativeness he smiled at her and stood there with the unasked question standing at the tip of his tongue

  “Er…miss, I’m from Sri Lanka.” It was almost like soliciting her to understand the position he was in; and yes, the young lady’s face showed the clear sign of being pleasantly surprised. Her half reserved smile now found a more fullness.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you but I don’t speak Telegu, do you think you could help me, by asking the bus conductor if there are any untaken seats?”

  “Yes of course.” Her smile was sincere, happy to have the chance of being helpful to a traveller from another country.

  “Thank you so much.”

  “No problem.”

  Jaliya’s face then had a certain look of being relieved and smiled gratefully taking a step back respectfully to allow the lady her space. Seeing the passengers closest to the bus beginning to board, the young lady picked up her single piece of luggage and told Jaliya to come with her. Climbing the first two steps, she spoke to the khaki uniformed conductor and then turned and smiled to Jaliya standing behind her at the bus door.

  “He says they have. You can go.”

  “Thank you.” The words exhaled as his face beamed at her.

  “You are lucky.” She said putting her suitcase under a seat which wasn’t on the side of the window and getting settled into it.

  “Usually, on Sunday nights, it is impossible to get a seat without a reservation.”

  “Thanks so much miss.” Jaliya set his backpack down at his feet plopping into the seat from across hers.

  “I guess the gods are being kind to me.” He smiled thankfully at her.

  “You are welcome.” The light laughter that mixed with her words was the kind that spoke of a convivial nature. The kind who enjoy the company of a good conversationalist, and would not be suspicious of strangers on principle. She too had read his face.

  “I’m Jaliya.”

  “I’m Rachana.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Rachana.”

  “Same here, it’s a pleasure.”

  They shared a smile that felt as though it meant to fill in the lack of a handshake, as their heads settled on the headrests.

  This bus is bound to Chennai, coursing an all night journey, expected to reach its destination at around daybreak. On average the bus ride will take around ten hours, providing of course that no breakdowns or any such unforeseen obstacles were to arise. By daybreak they are meant to arrive at their destination and end their nightlong journey. Yes, that is how this bus ride goes. This bus ride that Rachana is only too familiar with having done it routinely as any average Indian girl from Nandyal would when she travels home for the weekend and then leaves back to her seat of work in one of the big cities in India. But this was admittedly the first time that Rachana had had a Sri Lankan boarding the bus with her after having sought her help, and seeking in a most congenial manner, her companionship, on a journey which was ‘foreign’ to him. Yes, Rachana will vouch for this claim; it is the first time in fact that she had even met a Sri Lankan.

  “Rachana, do you mind if I ask, what your name means? In my own language, Sinhala, it means ‘essays’.” His words were the convivial sort that makes a distinct impression of being the opening to a conversation, and an eager one at that.

  “Very much a similar idea, in a way.” Rachana doesn’t sound all as much surprised as Jaliya expected her to be. “It means scribe in Telegu.”

  “Wow, so I guess then it means writer?”

  “Ha, ha… yes, but I am not one.” Jaliya for the first time sees a spirited laugh from his travel companion sitting across from him, on the other side. Laughter. Laughter, delicate and true; a very feminine expression which he always finds a pleasure to behold. The kind of laughter that makes a man find himself made to feel its mirth seep into him, simply by the mere propinquity shared to the endearing laugher. A lone backpacker in a country that makes him feel the daunting force of facelessness finds very little mirthful moments like sharing laughter true.

  “Oh, but I am sure you would be a great one if you tried.” It isn’t a polite jest to build on the friendliness that is incipient between them. No, in fact Jaliya feels it to be a plausible aspiration. She is an educated young woman, was what he had thought the very moment he saw her.

  “Do you mind if I ask what exactly are you going to Chennai for?” Rachana thinks it is very well mannered of him to have asked it in the tone and expression that he did, almost an apology in its delivery lest it becomes too bold a liberty. It elicits a small laugh from her. As though she feels she is duty bound to make this young man feel more at ease and not allow him to keep himself tied to some unspoken inner trepidations that he may think he must carry in him as almost an obligation. Yes, her laughter speaks much to him. He knows that he may find a sense of restfulness listening to the words weaving images between them. She tells him how she travels from Nandyal every Sunday night to arrive with the rays of dawn in Chennai to begin her week. She is a software tester. The bustling city of Chennai is her city of work. And Nandyal her hometown, where the people, she claims, are so homely that a person who may step inside a shop, if had a proper conversation with the shopkeeper, would be remembered instantly by them even ten years after. His eyebrows arch in a gesture of partial disbelief. She maintains her good natured composure visibly stifling the impulse to giggle in amusement. She affirms it to be true. Yes, even after ten years, a person who may have stopped by once would be remembered…

  “Nandyal is a very nice place to call home I suppose?” She reads his smile as a sincere one that probably means to convey certain things within him. He is a traveller after all, she thinks.

  “Oh yes.” He sees how her own smile is a complacent one that says of how perhaps she now feels the growing distance between herself and where she calls home.

  “It always feels good to be there.” There is something of a nostalgic thread in the way it was said, he feels, as he watches the look on her face which seems to say she is drawing inwards for a mere moment; to some inner sanctum where she may hold in a farewell embrace an elusive love. She looks at him as if out of apology and says with a smile.

  “So what is taking you to Chennai?”

  “Going to Pondicherry from there actually.” He beams at her hoping to put their conversation on a path away from whatever that may cause her any tinges of sadness she may not speak of. “I’m meeting a friend who is working there.”

  “How nice.” When she says these words it carries across that little distance between them, a sincerity bespeaking her well wishes for him. He smiles thankfully. And he sees that her face and that smile accompanying her words somehow had hints of weariness. She is happy for him in the way she would be happy for a dear friend who is about to fly to the arms of a true love. Yet, the unreleased sigh in her had touched her lips to flow over her smile. And Jali
ya had sensed it. Is it the weariness of the journey? The one she makes every Sunday night? Perhaps, he thinks; after all it is a lone journey she must make every time.

  The bus comes to a provincial station and a stream of passengers noisily clambers inside. The sari clad women of a noticeable provincial exterior seem the rugged kind to Jaliya. He observes how some of them occupied seats in pairs when the seating is meant for one. And such a pair has incurred Rachana’s reproach for wanting to take the empty seat next to her.

  “Rachana, is there some problem?”

  “No, it’s ok. These women want to sit together in the next seat, and I said that mine is a reserved seat.”

  “They want yours??” Jaliya’s voice has a tone of concern and censure.

  “No; it’s that if they both sit it becomes uncomfortable, since one of them will be shifting a bit onto my seat space as well. And I am trying to make them see that I am in a reserved seat and that I don’t want to be travelling uncomfortably.”

  And while this exchange of English happens the Telegu women look on in somewhat puzzlement. Rachana speaks to them in their local tongue and only one woman slides past Rachana to the seat next to her. Jaliya is impressed by the way this young lady handled the situation that sought to compromise her right of comfortable travel. Her firmness had checked the women from asserting a more communally lauded way. Surely her sophistication is the strength one such as she would have in such circumstances, he thinks. And in their talk flowing across the aisle they tell each other of things from their respective cultures. Rachana expresses how she resents the Indian ways of presuming any place is anyone’s space when it comes to situations such as the one that had occurred. Jaliya tells her that is would be unheard of in Sri Lanka to be so presumptuous, and how the space of another passenger would not be sought to encroach upon through the guise of communal ‘cooperativeness’. She says she wishes people in India could think more considerately as in the ways Jaliya says is prevalent in his country. They tell each other of their family constitutions. Numbers of siblings, parental occupations, their lines of education and also their own ‘civil status’.