Noelnadesan's Blog

On a scorching Chennai afternoon, Dr Sivanathan arrived soaked in sweat and said, “There’s trouble with Mugunthan,” his face etched with worry.

At first, I didn’t understand. When I realised, he meant Uma Maheswaran, leader of the People’s Liberation Organisation of Tamil Eelam (PLOTE), I asked, “What happened?”

A young woman who worked at their office has come here asking for a job. She’s in tears, saying she can’t stay there any longer.

“What can we do about that?” I asked.

Poor thing. She’s unmarried. She says she helped them with the bank robbery that funded them, but now she can’t bear to stay on.

“If they don’t help those who helped them, how are they going to help the people?” I said in frustration.

At our medical centre, we already had one female clerk. We couldn’t afford to employ another, and our appointments had to be approved at the monthly board meeting, where directors from five major Tamil movements, including PLOTE, attended. If we gave a job to someone who had left their organisation, they would definitely object.

Even now, I remember her face — more than passably attractive, but tinged with sadness. My heart softened. There was still a month until the next meeting, and I might be able to delay it. In the meantime, she could find other work. I told myself this was just an emergency stopgap and hired her, paying her 300 rupees a month.

When the meeting finally took place, all five organisations sent their representatives. I kept this item until the end of the agenda. Vasudeva, PLOTE’s representative, grew impatient at the delay. Interrupting me, he said, “You should not give support to people who have left their organisation. If you do, our unity will be undermined. Others will leave as well.”

The woman was in the next room, listening.

I was furious to ask. “By that time, you’d already killed more than 250 people in India and Sri Lanka. You talk of unity? And you — you split from PLOT yourself to form the Theepori (‘Spark’) faction.” But I bit my tongue.

I looked across the table at Dr Sivanathan. He had his head down. When he was angry, he would either explode in abuse or say nothing at all. Dr Shanti Rajasingham, our chairperson, also said nothing.

I spoke. “We didn’t know she had left your organisation. We helped a Sri Lankan who asked for assistance — and it was only interim help.”

Vasudeva was utterly loyal to Uma Maheswaran, one of the few who had stood with him to the end. I was certain this was Uma’s directive. It reminded me of a story from home about a snake that, after biting a man, would sit on a tree and watch as the body burned in the funeral pyre.

When the meeting finished, the woman left crying. The image stayed with me. I felt helpless. That day, we chose unity over truth and justice — and we were cowards for it.

Vasudeva, who believed he had achieved a great victory for PLOTE, might not have realised that the organisation had not fired a single shot in Sri Lanka for Tamil people for months.

Sometime later, Vasudeva came alone to see us. He stood before us like a wounded animal backed into a corner. I learnt that Uma’s car had been in an accident in Tamil Nadu, and Vasudeva had been with him.

Sivanathan, who knew him well, came to me privately and said, “Mugunthan told him there’s no money. He needs funds for medical treatment.”

We had always assisted militants with medicine or treatment, but there was no precedent for providing cash. I had no intention of breaking the rule.

Sivanathan placed his hand on my shoulder. “His family is going through a rough patch. Two of his children are unwell. His wife is in a bad way.”

As the administrator of the medical centre, I took action — and as his advocate, Sivanathan ensured Vasudeva received 3,000 rupees.

To this day, I wonder: was it that Uma Maheswaran had no money to help a comrade injured alongside him, or simply no heart?