Noelnadesan's Blog

After staying in a hotel for two days, I rented a small upstairs room in an old building on Arcot Road, Kodambakkam. In that room, my only companions were a rusty old ceiling fan with a noisy motor and a light bulb. The loneliness in that room was more oppressive than the summer heat. I felt isolated in that big city of Chennai. It took me such a long time to realise the value of family, relatives, and friends.

The thought that I had needlessly left Sri Lanka kept crashing into my mind like huge waves hitting rocks. My occasional smoking habit back in Sri Lanka had grown like a balloon. Books by Sujatha, Rajendrakumar, and Pushpa Thangathurai from a nearby lending library on Arcot Road were my only comfort.

One night, I dreamt bombs were falling on Holy Cross Hospital in Gurunagar, Jaffna, where my wife worked, and people were fleeing to save their lives. I woke up crying, which was unusual for me. Being born as the eldest in a middle-class family was, in some ways, like being born with a silver spoon.

Back then, there were no phones like the ones we have today for instant communication. I was powerless. Believing that dreams don’t come true, I lit a Wills cigarette at midnight — and memories of July 1983 flooded back.

At the time, I was working in Medawachchiya as a Government Veterinarian. I attended a meeting with the Anuradhapura district veterinarian on July 21, held at the office of Minister Thondaman for Rural Industries. Even though many development projects were underway in Anuradhapura, the Medawachchiya area was ignored because it was under the jurisdiction of opposition MP Maithripala Senanayake. While it’s often said that only Tamils are ignored in Sri Lanka, the truth is that ruling governments tend to overlook opposition constituencies regardless of ethnicity.

Despite facing resistance, I successfully established a new veterinary hospital and two milk collection centres in Medawachchiya and Padaviya. The district minister, Chandra Bandara, once took my hand and said, “You’re like a representative of the people of Medawachchiya when it comes to veterinary services.” This encouragement gave me the confidence to engage directly with politicians even at the young age of twenty-five.

After attending a meeting in Colombo, the other veterinarian from Anuradhapura, who had travelled with me, decided to stay for the weekend. They insisted I stay as well. It’s natural to want to enjoy city life after coming from rural places like Anuradhapura. But since my son’s first birthday was on July 25, I left on the evening of the 21st to go to Jaffna. I took a key from fellow vet Kaluwarachchi’s house in Anuradhapura and told him I’d rest there overnight before continuing my journey. I have always followed a precautionary rule: never travel directly to Jaffna from Colombo or Kandy because of routine racial violence.

Travelling from Colombo or Kandy to Anuradhapura or Medawachchiya was simpler because Sinhalese mainly used those routes. From there, heading to Vavuniya was more seamless — no checks or vehicle stops. It took longer, but it was more convenient.

Travelling clean-shaven with The Island English newspaper, many mistook me for a Sinhalese. I’d stay quiet, burying myself in the paper, avoiding conversation. My clean face, oil-free hair, and a bit of fluency in Sinhala were my shields.

In 1981, I remember travelling from Anuradhapura to Kandy in a van. Near Matale, the 6 PM Sinhala news said two policemen were killed. Some Sinhalese youths in the van got agitated and started shouting, “We must kill Tamils!” I was seated at the back near the driver. I raised the Sun newspaper and softly muttered “ Ekath Tamai’’.(That’s right) They replied, “Ekane maththaya” (Exactly, Sir). The emotional moment passed. I kept reading my newspaper until I reached Kandy.

After sleeping overnight in Anuradhapura, I had breakfast with Dr. Kaluwarachchi’s parents, whom I already knew, then travelled to Medawachchiya. After finishing some work at my veterinary clinic, I took my office motorcycle and headed to Jaffna. I arrived home at 8 PM and spent some time playing with my son, whose birthday we were celebrating the next day.

My wife, who had just come back from her shift at Jaffna hospital, told me she ordered the birthday cake from the bakery in town. I decided that my duty the next morning was to pick it up after dropping her at work.

That night was a real joy for me. Government officers on weekly leave could only see their wives and children once a week — what more could one ask for?

Life was carefree — no worries about the future or the present. Having a dual income, a car from my uncle to use in Jaffna, and a comfortable home. On weekends, we’d visit my parents’ house in Kokkuvil, drink toddy with friends in Anaikottai — those days felt like springtime.

On Saturday morning, my wife and I headed to the hospital on my motorcycle around 8 AM. Everything looked normal along Jaffna Main Road and Hospital Road. As we approached the hospital, my superior from Anuradhapura, Dr. Padmanathan, was standing in front of his house at the hospital junction, waving at me. I waved back and parked near the hospital. My wife had gone inside, but I had a strange feeling. Usually, there would be a long line of rental cars and minibuses on both sides of the road for about half a kilometre from Hospital Road to Kankesanthurai Road. That day, the road was empty. Broken glass was scattered on the ground.

While I was staring, someone called out my name. Looking up, I saw Dr. Jayachandran, a college mate, on the doctors’ hostel balcony.

“Come inside! Or else, go straight home,” he yelled.

I grinned, not realising how serious it was.

“You’re going to get beaten — leave now!” he warned.

I realised something terrible had happened. I turned my bike around and went straight to Dr. Padmanathan’s house.

“I did want to tell you earlier,” he said. “Last night, some Sinhalese Army mobs, angry about the killing of their people, came and smashed vehicles here. Even the van owned by Pillaiyar Vilas was wrecked. They might return, so the roads are deserted. No shops will open today.”

I forgot about the cake. I took a shortcut to my in-laws’ house in Chundikkuli to tell them what happened. Then I started worrying about how my wife would get home from work. As long as she was at the hospital, she was safe. But I wondered what might happen on her way home.

To our surprise, she returned that evening with the cake.

“How did you come?” I asked.

“I walked,” she replied.

That’s when I realised: in many ways, women are braver than men. I had gone back home, scared of the army, leaving the cake behind. But she walked over 3 km with it — was that motherly love? Or feminine courage? Or sheer ignorance of the danger?

Our son’s birthday was celebrated on Sunday with two families. On the night of the 24th, I had no idea what was happening in Colombo. I woke up on Monday morning and left for Medawachchiya on my government motorcycle as usual. There were no roadblocks. Since a UNP bigwig named Kandhasamy, a Tamil from Point Pedro, lived in that area, no major riots occurred there.

If it weren’t for my son’s birthday, I would have stayed in Colombo. Then this memoir would have been written from heaven.

Chennai…

The next day, I decided to seek help from the only address I had. It was the home of Kasi Viswanathan Master, father of Selvakumar, who studied with me at Hindu College and later became an engineer in the U.S. The house was in Amanchakarai, a suburb of Chennai. I took an auto to find it. There, I met Paranthaman, also a Hindu College classmate from Chavakachcheri.