Noelnadesan's Blog

In Aminjikarai, Kashi Viswanathan Master was living with his wife in an upstairs flat. Both he and his wife were well-known to me, as they were the parents of my former classmate, Selvakumar, who now lives in the USA.

At their home, a childhood friend named Paranthaman was introduced to me under the alias “Gnanam.” Master also introduced him as a key figure in the Eelam People’s Revolutionary Front (EPRLF), a militant movement in the separate Eelam struggle. I was surprised to learn that some of the people I had studied with were now prominent political figures. That introduction was also a bit of a shock.

Until then, I thought the movement was unrelated to me — something distant. I believe many middle-class people shared this view. The 1983 riots had brought these militant groups closer to the Tamil community in Jaffna, but I had worked in Sinhalese areas, and that perspective hadn’t yet affected me. It was only after arriving in India that I started to understand the truth — that a person’s environment significantly influences their thinking, culture, and values.

Paranthaman had always been different, even during our school days. Though we studied in various sections at Jaffna Hindu College, we were in the same grade and maintained a long-standing friendship. Back then, one of our shared pastimes in the hostel was watching Tamil movies. Many students admired leading film stars, and I was a fan of Sivaji Ganesan. Others admired M.G. Ramachandran or Jaishankar. But only Paranthaman stood out because he was a fan of the child actress Manjula, who starred in Santhi Nilayam, a film that combined elements from two famous English stories, A Sound of Music and Jane Eyre. He claimed to have watched that film nine times. That made him a unique film enthusiast among us. Even now, whenever I see Paranthaman, Manjula’s image flashes through my mind. Years later, I heard his father had passed away after I had joined university. Since life had taken us on different paths, we hadn’t met for many years. So, when I saw him at Master’s house, I was stunned.

Before I could even recover from that surprise, Paranthaman said, “Your friend Gunchi is also here.”

Immediately, I thought of Gunasekaram from the hostel at Hindu College. I had met him once while working in Medawachchiya. At the Jaffna bus station, I turned around to see a bearded man wrapped in a towel with a shaven head scratching his hand. He looked like a beggar. He asked, “How are you?” and disappeared like a bird.

I figured his life must have gone underground.

I casually asked, “Who else from our old friends is here?”

Kugan and Hari Chandra — they’re with the Tigers now,” he said.

Really? I can’t picture Harichandra in the movement.

While we were talking, Master brought out a one-litre bottle of black and white whisky and said, “Two young men are here,” placing it before us.

That bottle revealed not just liquor but also other stories.

It was revealed that Paranthaman had been arrested and jailed by the army. For someone like me, who had never even been to a police station, this was astonishing.

During my school days, I used to see rallies and red-Poddu ceremonies welcoming released political prisoners like Vanni Anandan, Maavai Senathirajah, and Kasi Anandan. The term “Semmal” (hero of the cell) was often heard. Even those jailed for petty theft claimed that title in Jaffna in later years. Educated youth were once respected in Jaffna. That respect faded over time because of some of these self-styled “Semmals.”

“So, our Paranthaman is also a Semmal now?”

“You’re being sarcastic. If I had stayed a few more days, I would’ve been killed in Welikada,” he said.

I became distraught.

I was in jail with Kuttimani and Jagan. I was released just days before the July 1983 riots. Otherwise, I would’ve died too.

Many say Prabhakaran was responsible for the arrest of Kuttimani and Thangathurai. Is there any truth in that?

“Stop with these baseless rumours,” said Master.

Kuttimani and Thangathurai believed that too. I heard Kuttimani himself say, ‘I’ll show that fool who I am once I’m out,’” Paranthaman said.

Master again intervened, “Let’s not talk about unverifiable things.”

Back in 1981, during the Tamil month of April, Kuttimani and Thangathurai reportedly waited on the coast, expecting Prabhakaran to arrange their boat to India. While waiting, they were arrested — so the gossip went in Jaffna that Prabhakaran betrayed them.

At Master’s house, sipping his whisky, continuing such discussions didn’t feel very civilised. So, we let it drop.

After having dosa served by Master’s wife, I stayed the night at their place.

The following day, in response to Paranthaman’s (Gnanam’s) invitation, I visited the EPRLF information office on the top floor of a building in Choolaimedu. They welcomed me warmly and even offered me dinner.

There were five newspapers in Tamil and English, along with some books. I stayed for two hours. When I left, I noticed my sandals, which I had left at the entrance, were missing. Not wanting to take someone else’s, I walked barefoot for half a kilometre along Arcot Road, bought new rubber sandals, and returned to my room.

Despite the theft, I was drawn in by the sense of camaraderie at that place. My mate Gunchi had said, “You can come anytime.” I kept going back, reading all the time. Books and lively chats kept me there.

I even slept a few nights at EPIC, lying on the floor with dirty pillows. Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’d lose the pillow altogether. Posters of Karl Marx, Lenin, and Stalin on the walls appeared to taunt me: “When will you become a communist?”

For me, EPIC was the first place I explored Marxist ideas. Before I came to Australia, even though Mao and Stalin are generally seen as mass killers, I still held a young admiration for Lenin and Marx.

One hot noon in May (May–June 1984), while I was at EPIC, I heard a loud noise from the road. I came down and saw several EPRLF members beating a man, a man around thirty years old. He screamed, “Amme! Amme!”

Some people yelled, “Sinhala spy!”

I wasn’t sure what to do. It was the first time I saw lots of people beating up a man. Eventually, someone stopped the beating and questioned him. It turned out he was a Malayali.

His cries of “Amme” had led them to believe he was Sinhalese.

Those involved might have forgotten this, but I never will — especially the sight of that man slowly walking away, turning back with pain in his eyes. The men who beat him later expressed regret and apologised.

What if he had been a Sinhalese? That thought haunted me.

One evening, after watching a movie, I went back to EPIC with a bad headache. I asked around for Panadol as a remedy for the headache.

Everyone said they didn’t have any.

Then, a tall, well-built man walked in with a smile. He looked about my age but commanded attention because of his strong build and confidence.

Unlike the usual lean and underfed EPRLF cadre, this man couldn’t have been one of them — my gut told me so.

“I’ll give you medicine,” he said with a grin, and rubbed something on my forehead that made it feel like it was burning.

I thought he was a trained healer, so I went back to my room and slept.

The next day at EPIC, Gunchi pulled me into the kitchen and said, “Don’t come here for a few days.”

Without asking why, I left.

That same man from the previous day met me outside, still smiling. “How’s the headache?”

“Thanks to your miracle, I slept well,” I replied.

“What I applied on your forehead was Signal toothpaste,” he laughed, introducing himself as Visagan, a former student of Jaffna University. He was with his mate Maheswararajah, also from the university.

Still, my mind kept returning to Gunchi’s warning — “Why did they tell me not to come?” Visagan hinted there was going to be an operation in Sri Lanka.

Kasi Viswanathan Master had already suggested I work in the office of Offer with SJV Chandrakasan, the son of Leader Selvanayakam

The next day, I went to the office in Egmore.

“Why didn’t you come all these days?” Master asked.

“I went to that place with Gnanam’s people,” I replied.

They’re okay, but only Naba is a decent bloke. The rest waste their time yabbering about unnecessary communism. Look at the Tigers — do they talk about Marxism or communism? They know exactly where to hit a Sinhalese to make an impact,” he said.

His words made sense, but I couldn’t fully align myself with the Tigers either. While I couldn’t deny the need for armed struggle, I still believed in taking part in humanitarian efforts.

“There are students here from Peradeniya and Colombo universities who couldn’t finish their degrees because of the 1983 riots. I’m working to find placements for them in Tamil Nadu universities. Tomorrow, I have a meeting with the education minister, Aranganayagam. Would you like to join me?” asked the Master.

I agreed to go with him the next day.