This morning, all news channels were constantly relaying one news. Prabhakaran is dead! There was a constant show of videos, of air raids bombarding the small piece of land that was the LTTE's last hide out, of Prabhakarn in his military fatigues, him getting married, spending quality family time with wife and children, his son playing with an inflated doll figure, his speeches, the peace conference in 2002, of Mahinda Rajapakse dramatically kissing the Sri Lankan earth on his return from a foreign jaunt, of various so called experts offering their views on the scenario, jubiliant people in Sri Lanka waving flags and shouting etc. Through all this, I was thinking of only one person. Geetanjali. Where are you my friend?
It was 1983. I was in my 7th grade. The Tamil problem in Sri Lanka had just snowballed into a big crisis. I heard an English word for the first time ever - A-G-I-T-A-T-I-O-N. To me it meant, a month of holidays in all Government run and aided schools in Chennai. No school, no uniform, no catching the 8.20 AM bus to school and the 5PM bus back, no home work and the best part of it all, no Baptista Miss, my monstrous class teacher. It also meant grouping with friends in the car shed of K Block of our colony, playing cards, I Spy, Dubba, Seven Stones and other games all day. The massive influx of refugees on the shores of Tamil Nadu, the opening of refugee camps in Mandapam, the heroics of Kuttimani, Jagan, Thangadurai and the stories of their torture in the hands of the Sri Lankan Army, Amirthalingam, Prabhakaran, Padmanabha, TULF, LTTE were all just news items to read in the newspaper every day. Reading the newspaper had become a part of my life 3 years earlier. I just circled difficult words in the newspaper to learn meanings from my Oxford Dictionary. Refugee, Agitation, Ethnic Minority were all mere words. All that was to change and very soon.
Geethanjali Manickavasagam came to our school sometime in 1984. She was taller than me, little darker, longish oval face marked by a few pimples, ever smiling, curly hair forced to retreat into two pig tails, she was not a child - she was already getting the curves of a woman. She spoke differently, always respectful, speaking in a dulcet voice and oh yeah, there was the sing song Sri Lankan Tamilian accent at all times. She lived barely 10 homes away from the school on the same street. She lived on the 1st floor of her home with her parents and 3 younger siblings. Shankar, Shudha (I presume his name was Sudhakar but that's how she called him) and the toddler Bibashini. The brothers studied at Santhome School, also nearby. Her mother was constantly fussing over the children, taking care of them, always protective over Biba. She spoke like all Sri Lankan Tamils, with respect towards even the toddler. Biba, inga vaanga! Now, that was shocking for a Madrasi like me who was used to auto fellows yelling over you on the road - voottula solltu vantiya?
Geetanjali as I always called her (she didn't have a nick name Geetha, Geethu nothing) was good at everything. She was good at studies, always pulling in the top 10. She painted well - we went for drawing and painting classes at the Soviet Cultural Centre on Kasturi Ranga Road together. Before leaving for classes, I went to her home, played with Biba, had bun and jam at the bakery at the end of the street and took 27D to the Centre together. I used to return home alone. She was brilliant at sports. Very athletic, she sprinted naturally, played basketball, threw the javelin like a pro. She was sweet towards everybody. She managed to get on the right side of even Baptista Miss (I would exhaust 3-4 blog pages just writing on that tyrant). I never felt jealous about her. I was always happy to be her friend. A little proud too that I knew her.
I don't remember specific incidents about her now. I think of her and I only have pleasant feelings flood over me. Her family must have been going through a very harrowing time but always presented a picture of happiness and unity. I saw her father once or twice but never spoke to him. I moved to my 9th grade. And, suddenly, she stopped coming to school. There was no sign of her. I went to her home and they had already moved out. We got to know that the family had moved to London. She wrote one letter to Baptista Miss sometime later. She had asked about all her friends, including me. I never got to see the letter, Baptista never showed it, but kept it. I wish I had taken it from her or atleast asked. I would have known a return address. I never heard from her again. She is just a memory.
I don't have many pictures from my schooling days. But, I have one. Of Geetanjali, Bhargavi, Sudha and me with Baptista Miss. I wish I can search on Google by uploading a picture and it will automatically age the person and find her for me. I have tried for years to find out about her. When I got on to the Internet first sometime in 1995-6, I searched for her name on Yahoo. It became a ritual. Every year, I would type her name and all details I knew about her with various spellings. She came from Batticaloa or Mattakalappu as she called it. In 2002, I got back in touch with Raju and Byrav (my classmates from an earlier time) after 20 years using Google. That renewed my faith. 7 years since, I have continued my search. I have not found her yet. When I travelled from the US to India via London, on my flight ex-London, there was a Sri Lankan Tamil seated next to me. I asked her about Geethanjali. As if every Sri Lankan Tamil in London or UK would know each other. When I went to Colombo twice in 2005, I thought of her - this is her homeland. but she was not there. Every time somebody spoke about Sri Lanka or Jaffna, I would think of her silently. When the TV channels showed fleeing refugees, I used to feel glad she was not there. Krishanthi, my fellow student from the violin class is also a Sri Lankan Tamil and not from Batticaloa. Never mind, I asker her about Geethanjali. But, where is she?
Where are you my friend? Are you okay? Are you married? Do you have kids? Have you ever seen your homeland again? Do you speak English with a British accent now? Do you still have your uniquely Yazhpana Tamil accent? How is Biba now? She must be a grown up woman now! How is your mom? How is your father? That valiant man who uprooted his family twice to give them a better life, is he now gracefully retired and enjoying peace in a far away land? Shankar and Shudha must be strapping, young handsome men, flooring and wooing girls in their own way. What are they upto these days?
Somewhere in the Internet world, if you read this, will you come back and say hello to your friend? You, really are the only Sri Lankan Tamil I care about, very personally. And, for your sake, I hope, peace comes back to your ravaged land. Whether you go back or not, I hope that the people you left behind in Sri Lanka will finally be able to breathe an air of hope and dream of a better future. I pray they will be able to piece back their shattered lives and just get on with their daily rituals - kids skipping on their way to school, men and women getting on with their work, old people sitting in the verandas and talking about the war like it was just a nightmare they woke up with and will forget soon. I really wish you and your home land well, my friend. Wherever you are.
It was 1983. I was in my 7th grade. The Tamil problem in Sri Lanka had just snowballed into a big crisis. I heard an English word for the first time ever - A-G-I-T-A-T-I-O-N. To me it meant, a month of holidays in all Government run and aided schools in Chennai. No school, no uniform, no catching the 8.20 AM bus to school and the 5PM bus back, no home work and the best part of it all, no Baptista Miss, my monstrous class teacher. It also meant grouping with friends in the car shed of K Block of our colony, playing cards, I Spy, Dubba, Seven Stones and other games all day. The massive influx of refugees on the shores of Tamil Nadu, the opening of refugee camps in Mandapam, the heroics of Kuttimani, Jagan, Thangadurai and the stories of their torture in the hands of the Sri Lankan Army, Amirthalingam, Prabhakaran, Padmanabha, TULF, LTTE were all just news items to read in the newspaper every day. Reading the newspaper had become a part of my life 3 years earlier. I just circled difficult words in the newspaper to learn meanings from my Oxford Dictionary. Refugee, Agitation, Ethnic Minority were all mere words. All that was to change and very soon.
Geethanjali Manickavasagam came to our school sometime in 1984. She was taller than me, little darker, longish oval face marked by a few pimples, ever smiling, curly hair forced to retreat into two pig tails, she was not a child - she was already getting the curves of a woman. She spoke differently, always respectful, speaking in a dulcet voice and oh yeah, there was the sing song Sri Lankan Tamilian accent at all times. She lived barely 10 homes away from the school on the same street. She lived on the 1st floor of her home with her parents and 3 younger siblings. Shankar, Shudha (I presume his name was Sudhakar but that's how she called him) and the toddler Bibashini. The brothers studied at Santhome School, also nearby. Her mother was constantly fussing over the children, taking care of them, always protective over Biba. She spoke like all Sri Lankan Tamils, with respect towards even the toddler. Biba, inga vaanga! Now, that was shocking for a Madrasi like me who was used to auto fellows yelling over you on the road - voottula solltu vantiya?
Geetanjali as I always called her (she didn't have a nick name Geetha, Geethu nothing) was good at everything. She was good at studies, always pulling in the top 10. She painted well - we went for drawing and painting classes at the Soviet Cultural Centre on Kasturi Ranga Road together. Before leaving for classes, I went to her home, played with Biba, had bun and jam at the bakery at the end of the street and took 27D to the Centre together. I used to return home alone. She was brilliant at sports. Very athletic, she sprinted naturally, played basketball, threw the javelin like a pro. She was sweet towards everybody. She managed to get on the right side of even Baptista Miss (I would exhaust 3-4 blog pages just writing on that tyrant). I never felt jealous about her. I was always happy to be her friend. A little proud too that I knew her.
I don't remember specific incidents about her now. I think of her and I only have pleasant feelings flood over me. Her family must have been going through a very harrowing time but always presented a picture of happiness and unity. I saw her father once or twice but never spoke to him. I moved to my 9th grade. And, suddenly, she stopped coming to school. There was no sign of her. I went to her home and they had already moved out. We got to know that the family had moved to London. She wrote one letter to Baptista Miss sometime later. She had asked about all her friends, including me. I never got to see the letter, Baptista never showed it, but kept it. I wish I had taken it from her or atleast asked. I would have known a return address. I never heard from her again. She is just a memory.
I don't have many pictures from my schooling days. But, I have one. Of Geetanjali, Bhargavi, Sudha and me with Baptista Miss. I wish I can search on Google by uploading a picture and it will automatically age the person and find her for me. I have tried for years to find out about her. When I got on to the Internet first sometime in 1995-6, I searched for her name on Yahoo. It became a ritual. Every year, I would type her name and all details I knew about her with various spellings. She came from Batticaloa or Mattakalappu as she called it. In 2002, I got back in touch with Raju and Byrav (my classmates from an earlier time) after 20 years using Google. That renewed my faith. 7 years since, I have continued my search. I have not found her yet. When I travelled from the US to India via London, on my flight ex-London, there was a Sri Lankan Tamil seated next to me. I asked her about Geethanjali. As if every Sri Lankan Tamil in London or UK would know each other. When I went to Colombo twice in 2005, I thought of her - this is her homeland. but she was not there. Every time somebody spoke about Sri Lanka or Jaffna, I would think of her silently. When the TV channels showed fleeing refugees, I used to feel glad she was not there. Krishanthi, my fellow student from the violin class is also a Sri Lankan Tamil and not from Batticaloa. Never mind, I asker her about Geethanjali. But, where is she?
Where are you my friend? Are you okay? Are you married? Do you have kids? Have you ever seen your homeland again? Do you speak English with a British accent now? Do you still have your uniquely Yazhpana Tamil accent? How is Biba now? She must be a grown up woman now! How is your mom? How is your father? That valiant man who uprooted his family twice to give them a better life, is he now gracefully retired and enjoying peace in a far away land? Shankar and Shudha must be strapping, young handsome men, flooring and wooing girls in their own way. What are they upto these days?
Somewhere in the Internet world, if you read this, will you come back and say hello to your friend? You, really are the only Sri Lankan Tamil I care about, very personally. And, for your sake, I hope, peace comes back to your ravaged land. Whether you go back or not, I hope that the people you left behind in Sri Lanka will finally be able to breathe an air of hope and dream of a better future. I pray they will be able to piece back their shattered lives and just get on with their daily rituals - kids skipping on their way to school, men and women getting on with their work, old people sitting in the verandas and talking about the war like it was just a nightmare they woke up with and will forget soon. I really wish you and your home land well, my friend. Wherever you are.
Portrays a vivid picture... Sharmini came into my life and disappeared the same way Gitanjali did...
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