The rickety bus juddered and lurched along bus route 200, packed to the brim with hapless commuters clinging to anything they could get their hands on. It was mayhem in that suffocating tin can, made to cram as many souls as possible into its tight confines. I was one of those commuters on this gravity-defying journey, hurtling towards my hometown in an Ashok Leyland bus made from a body frame designed for lorries.
Like a tightrope walker teetering high above the ground, I clung to the overhead rail for dear life, my body contorting with each sway of the bus. The press of bodies around me was suffocating as commuters without seats jostled and rubbed against each other in the tightest of spaces. The stench of unwashed armpits and sweat permeated the air, making breathing difficult. And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, a careless foot came down hard on my toes, crushing my shoes and leaving me seething with pain.
Seated in the seat behind me was a kind-hearted uncle, one of many you encounter on your commute, willing to lend a helping hand to those less fortunate not to be seated. Like a guardian angel, he offered to hold my bag on his lap, freeing me from the burden of carrying it amidst the teeming masses.
As the bus passed the Kelani bridge, I was suddenly jolted out of my thoughts by a beaming lad standing next to me. He was grinning.
“Hello, do you remember me?” he asked eagerly, his eyes shining with anticipation.
I searched my memory, but his face was unfamiliar. I felt my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I shook my head, admitting my forgetfulness.
“I studied with you in college,” he said, still smiling.
I struggled to place him, racking my brain to find a connection between us. The more I tried to remember, the hazier my memories became.
“You wore white pants and shirts to school,” he continued, trying to jog my memory. “I remember you like yesterday.”
I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for not being able to recall someone who remembered me so vividly. But I refused to give up on the possibility of reconnecting with an old acquaintance.
“I just returned from Dubai,” I offered, trying to steer the conversation in a new direction. ”I am going back in two weeks after Christmas.”
As he prodded me for more information, I tried to remember his name. It wasn’t until he introduced himself as Nihal that I realised just how common a name it was in our generation. Every other boy born in the 1950s was named Nihal by their parents. There were many Nihals in our school; remembering them all was impossible.
Despite my embarrassment, I felt a sense of relief as Nihal assured me that I hadn’t changed a bit. At that moment, I felt a spark of hope that perhaps some memories are meant to be revisited and cherished anew.
“Yes, I remember you”, I lied.
“You have not changed,”
I smiled.
A lot has happened since I left school, some five years earlier. I looked at him, fuzz above his lips and chin and faint growth in his jawline. I felt let down with myself for not recognising this college mate. Old school meant a lot; it is part of my identity, like religion. I tried hard to remember this smiling stranger, Nihal. The more I tried, the hazier my memory was. Finally, I took my time to respond while this guy was gunning for small talk.
As the bus rumbled down Kandy Road, it stopped at every dingy bus stop, disgorging its weary passengers. With each stop, the crowd inside grew thinner and thinner until, at last, we spied an empty seat next to us. Without hesitation, we lunged towards it, determined to claim it as our own before any other weary traveller could.
I took my shoulder bag back from the kind uncle, thanking him.
Nihal continued to talk. I was listening. His father died before he could complete HSC. His mother could not afford his higher studies. He joined the army as a sentry after turning eighteen. After six months of training, he was sent to the country’s north for duty, where clandestine warfare was underway.
Has fate been hard on Nihal to join the army, risking his life as a foot soldier while I could go overseas?
Nihal continued. His words fell upon my ears like thunderbolts. With a face ashen and voice quivering, he recounted the gruelling nature of army duties in the north, life in the bunkers and night shifts in darkness. The shock of his words hit me with force, nearly knocking me off my feet. On the day he turned nineteen, he was on sentry duty. There was an attack by the guerrillas. He stared down bullets, some narrowly missing him, but two had found their mark — right in his groin. He nearly died. He had languished in the army hospital for six long, harrowing months, enduring agonising surgeries to repair the damage wrought by the vicious gun wounds. Yet, despite the doctors’ best efforts, they had been unable to save his genitals, leaving him forever altered, his manhood stripped away in a flash of deadly violence.
A chill ran down my spine as Nihal’s words echoed in my ears. “See, there is nothing down here,” he said, pointing to the area where his groin was as my heart sank with sadness.
I returned home after eight long months in Dubai only two days ago, and the story that greeted me now was both intriguing and shocking. But nothing could have prepared me for this. The news of Nihal’s life-changing injury was too much to bear.
As I sat there, listening to Nihal recount his traumatic experience, I felt deep sadness for him. It was hard to imagine what he must have gone through in the army hospital for six long months, battling the after-effects of the bullet wounds that left him without his genitals.
The reality of the situation hit me like a ton of bricks. Here I was, complaining about the minor inconveniences while someone like Nihal had gone through a life-changing ordeal. I couldn’t help but feel guilty for my ignorance and selfishness.
As the bus rumbled on, I sat there in silence, lost in my thoughts, contemplating the fragility of life and the things we take for granted.
My silence was broken when Nihal spoke again.
“I am going to Kandy to see a ‘weda mahattaya’ (an indigenous doctor). I am short of money for the trip. Can you give me ten Rupees”
Nihal looked vulnerable when he said that. It was a look that I could not forget. Maybe it was an embarrassment, part self-pity, part helplessness.
The bus reached Kiribathgoda town by then, where I was getting off. Without hesitation, I opened my wallet, parted with a green note, and gave it to him. I held his hand tightly before I got off the bus.
I am still trying to remember who this Nihal was.
This story is a tribute to the hundreds of thousands of lads from all communities who have been maimed and killed in civilian wars in Sri Lanka, my old country.
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