14 THE RIGHT TO CRY

Sooriyamoothy takes leave. Looking back through my notes from my tours of the several tsunami-affected regions, this encounter stands out:

Walking along the seashore at the point in one district where the tsunami had the greatest impact, my escort and I see all the signs of heavy casualties among the army personnel and civilians who had lived there. Crossing the loose, hot sand we hasten toward some shade at the last remaining hamlet, only half blown away, spared slightly by its position on a slight elevation.

We find a middle-aged gentleman in white shirt and gray cotton trousers. Beside him stands a younger man, maybe 28; a shiny motorbike waits a few feet away. The two men are together, but each seems to be alone. Nearby a bare-chested fisherman strings a few tattered clothes across a fence to dry. All gaze out to sea, eyes on the horizon.

We bow to each other in the customary gesture, mostly a twist of the head to say, Yes we are all here for the same reason. In a soft, low tone, the older man speaks, in English: “I am Sooriyamoorthy. I came here to this place, where my daughter…the place...the Tsunami swept her away...exactly three months ago.” His eyes are sad, intense, bleary, tearless.

What will words do for us, I wonder. He offers, “My wife is a Singhalese. At this moment she in her village in the south, she has gone to perform customary funeral rituals, the special rites on the day.” It is our custom, three months after, to perform an almsgiving to the Buddhists monks

He struggles against suddenly threatening tears. “My son is with my wife today.” Turning to the younger man beside him, “he was to become my son-in-law; he has come here to be with me. Three months ago my son and I found my daughter entangled in the reeds here, dead. They took her body to the hospital with the others. She was a lecturer at the University. She came for a holiday with some friends, and she came here that day with her brother, to this beautiful place to see the sea and to stroll.“

“They were together when the tsunami struck. My son escaped the storm and found his way home.” My eyes inquire. What happens to us at times of such helpless anger, at things beyond our control? He tells me of his son’s rage.

Inconsolable after returning to help find his sister’s body, the son went home, shattered the religious (Hindu) images, and tore the pictures of deities off the wall of their shrine room, cursing God. “I do not know if it was the will of the gods but I can understand how my son felt, his only sister. I know it was no punishment, but I know that God took her away when she was just a young girl beginning to start her own life and family.”

He and I hold a quiet, timeless conversation about sadness, about loss and difficulty, about accepting. We speak of hurt and anger. He wonders about God’s acts, punishments he did not deserve.

He muses aloud, Was it providence that brought us to today’s meeting? Our presence, he reflected, was what allowed him to release his tears today. Before he could not. (My escort, who has heard so many stories since “26/12,” watches unmoved.)

We talk about religion, Do we need it? We talk about customs and rites. How does the spirit leave the body after death? We talk about suicide. I offer him some examples of those who wanted to end their lives by suicide, to rejoin the lost loved one or as an act of revenge against what one did not know. “The idea crossed my mind,” he said, “but it would be very wrong.”

I ask what brought him to this particular place today. He talks of the human spirit, of how it lingers and finally goes away. This is where life had left her body, a sacred place though they could touch her no more. He teaches in soft, unhurried tones the wisdom of the ages. At times I am not sure who is speaking, who is teaching.

He inquires further about my name, saying he has heard it before, a family of doctors, teachers perhaps? Yes. “You know,” he says, “your presence here has made it all right for me to cry.” “I knew nothing about you, really, you were just people walking along the beach.”

One or two more teardrops he allows himself; allows us some moisture behind the sunglasses as well.

Why all right to cry, I wonder? Does anyone need permission to cry, to open the gates of sorrow? Maybe yes, for those who think and feel in private, who keep themselves unexposed, safe alone. Or maybe yes for those pray aloud, drowned by the chants that echo in the halls of their temples.

“You know,” he said in anger, “someone came and offered me money. What do I need money for?” We spoke about how people grieve and express their condolences in different ways.

I try to exchange a few words with his once-to-be son-in-law, about his work, but the young man is blanked out, staring far off into the sea.

It is time to move, time to go our different ways. As we turn to leave I pull Sooriyamoothy towards me. We exchange addresses and phone numbers not knowing why, but the bond was made. No forgetting; maybe we’ll meet again. He writes his name, such a neat script. We clasp our hands as if in prayer and we move away.

All is calm except the quiet waves. I walk further inland to see how the displaced are starting to live again. Workers are busy digging new wells and setting up small brick houses with coconut thatch roofs.

We watch as sturdy men with stringy muscles, cement mixed, trowels in hand, build anew. Cottages rise up near the shore. Carts bump along a broken road that hugs the sea. Families hang out their clothes, flanked by many roofless walls and pieces of boats. Broken tiles are scattered among massive rocks unearthed from the seabed and rolled in by the water’s force. A fisherman says, “this is home.”

I look back towards the hamlet, but no one is in sight in that airy temple by the sea. Remember the dead, preserve the memories – but it is time to move on