Noelnadesan's Blog

I placed my pen on the table and glanced around at those seated nearby. They were representatives of various organisations that had once fought for the liberation of Eelam. Next to me sat Dr. Sivanathan, Dr. Jayakularajah, and Dr. Shanthi Rajasundaram.

A sick feeling stirred in my stomach.

I had been attending a meeting at the Tamil Medical Centre in my role as the organisation’s secretary, carefully taking notes. But something made me stop.

Outside, the Chennai heat roared like a street brawler. The air that drifted in was just as hot as the fight in his words. From the main road in Choolaimedu, the noise and fumes of traffic wafted up to our ears and nostrils on the first floor of building number 144.

In July 1985, the Eelam movements agreed to organise a three-day hunger strike on Marina Beach. Vasudeva, representing the Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eelam (PLOTE), suggested I be made coordinator. The LTTE’s Yogi nodded in agreement—and that was enough. I was appointed.

Earlier, Padmanabha, leader of the EPRLF, had also suggested holding such a hunger strike. That was during a brief, fleeting moment of unity among the Tamil groups. I had dismissed it then, assuming it was just another symbolic gesture—a political show of solidarity.

I never thought I’d be thrust into the spotlight. After all, Dr. Jayakulrajah, a senior LTTE supporter, was already there—older, more experienced, president of our organisation, and a former detainee at Welikada and Batticaloa prisons.

Yet, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, they passed him over and unanimously chose me. And the other organisations agreed to it.

Even though they seemed united, these groups were always accusing and blaming each other behind closed doors. So, when they all endorsed me without objection, I didn’t feel pride—I felt dread. Was I being crowned like a sacrificial goat?

I couldn’t voice my doubts. I had always spoken out for unity and supported awareness campaigns—especially those commemorating the martyrs of Welikada. So, I had to accept.

When it came to medical matters, I never hesitated. But this was different. Though labelled a “hunger strike,” it was a political act—an attempt to draw attention to the Eelam cause among the Tamil Nadu public. That realisation made me hesitate. Still, I had no choice.

We planned the event carefully. Invitations were to be sent to Indian political leaders and key figures in the Tamil movement. Responsibilities were divided. My task was simple: to welcome guests and engage in conversation with them.

No group officially took responsibility for the hunger strike. They wanted to present it as a people’s protest—apolitical, inclusive, and open to all.

The LTTE previously disrupted a hunger strike in Jaffna and transported the participants to India. This time, the other groups aimed to show that such theatrics were not their style. “Keerai kanji is not our food,” they quipped.

We set up a canopy and banners on a grassy strip between Marina Beach and the road. I invited several prominent leaders, including then-Opposition Leader Mr Amirthalingam and Indian Communist Party lawyer Mr Vanamamalai.

I recall Amirthalingam and his wife well—they arrived ten minutes early. The rest arrived later. The fast carried on under the burning sun. At any point, there were at least a hundred people under the tent—activists, supporters, political figures from Tamil Nadu. They came, sat, spoke, and then left.

I, who had never fasted in my life, found myself among the hunger strikers. Most only lasted a few hours—mainly symbolic. Still, the Tamil Nadu newspapers covered the event with photographs, just as we had hoped.

I’m not sure if the Sri Lankan media reported it. However, leaders like Rajiv Gandhi and Romesh Bhandari had previously urged us to present a united front. Therefore, this three-day voluntary protest carried some symbolic significance.

Even now, decades later, two moments from those days stay vivid in my memory.

On the first day, a man wearing a turmeric-coloured half-sleeve shirt and sporting a well-groomed moustache approached me and shook my hand. He had a wheatish complexion. I replied with a handshake and looked towards Vasudeva.

“That’s Uma Maheswaran,” he said.

Until then, I had only seen Uma in photographs back in Sri Lanka.

Meeting him brought no joy.

I had already heard about the internal killings within PLOTE. Worse still, a relative of my wife was one of Uma’s bodyguards. His parents had been desperately trying to get him out of the movement and into Canada.

So, even before meeting him, I had developed a quiet aversion to Uma.

He looked handsome and radiated confidence. He carried the presence of a leader. Like Amirthalingam, he had a charisma that no Tamil politician has matched since. But both failed to use that charisma wisely.

Thousands placed their faith in Uma. At one point, over 15,000 youths followed him—more than 6,000 of them were combat-trained. I knew several of his commanders and second-tier leaders. Even Tamil Nadu’s Chief Minister, M.G. Ramachandran, had trusted him. But in the end, Uma squandered that trust. He turned the finest seed paddy into slop for pigs.

Not long ago, I caught up with a former senior member of his organisation. What he told me didn’t surprise me.

“In central committee meetings,” he said, “no one dared take notes—too afraid they’d be leaked. But Uma always wrote. He’d jot down remarks while others spoke. One day, someone whispered, ‘Let’s see what happens to that paper today.’

I watched. At first, it was neatly folded. Then it was crumpled. Finally, as he left, he tossed it onto the sidewalk.

Can’t you picture it?

No need to imagine. I recently saw a Facebook post about Sampanthan browsing a newspaper in prison, casually chatting with other inmates. The names may change, but the shadows of our trusted Tamil leaders remain the same.

After all, aren’t people’s shadows always identical?

For the first two days, no senior LTTE leaders visited the hunger strike. Their absence was noticeable. They agreed to participate—but only symbolically.

In Tamil Nadu, I always had a circle around me—not militants, but colleagues from the medical centre.

On the third evening, I was busy when a few friends from Batticaloa came over to me.

“Anna, Kasi Anna is here.”

“Great. Bring him to the tent. I’ll come meet him,” I said. Then I added, “While you’re with him, ask—why did the LTTE shoot an EPRLF comrade in Vavuniya, even while we’re showing unity here? Weren’t they fighting for the same cause?”

An EPRLF comrade named Reagan, trained by the PLO, had been shot by the LTTE in Vavuniya for no apparent reason.

As evening fell, crowds gathered at Marina Beach to watch the waves. Many looked at us with curiosity. Perhaps they wondered, “Why are these Eelam people doing what our leaders won’t?”

It was the last day. I was worn out. There was still work to do—thank the guests, pack up the protest, and take down the canopy. I completely forgot about our revolutionary poet, Kasi Anandan.

Later, I asked the Batticaloa friends, “What happened? Didn’t Kasi Anna come?”

“Anna,” they said, laughing, “when you told us to ask about the EPRLF comrade, we did. He said he’d ask his younger brother (Prabaharan) and let us know. Then he left in an auto and went back to Adyar.”

Kasi Anandan never visited the tent.

In 2002, at a Chennai literary conference organised by the Tamil writer S. Ponnudurai, I found myself seated next to Kasi Anandan once again. I wanted to ask, “Did you ever find out from your brother why that EPRLF comrade was shot?”

But two things stopped me.

Firstly, my wife was sitting beside me. Secondly, I worried that standing up in the middle of the session to ask such a question might offend Ponnudurai, who had also published my Vannathikulam Novel ,

So, I sat there in silence for three hours, never even turning to look at him.

Now, I wonder—if I asked that question today, would the answer be: “He passed away on May 18, 2009. Or perhaps he’s living somewhere abroad.”