Between Still Water and Running Water
Between Still Water and Running Water
The light lingered that afternoon. A pale wash of grey hovered on the western rim of the sky, as though the day had not quite decided to go. Leo, the waterman, stood on top of the tank and looked around him, taking in the familiar shapes of the world below. He wore a white striped sarong, folded neatly to his knees, and a white vest that had grown soft with years of sun and soap.
He lowered himself onto the rounded edge of the tank and leaned forward, peering into its dark, watery mouth. The tank was old and dependable. Leo knew it the way one knows a long-standing companion — by its silences, its faint echoes, and the way the water stirred when disturbed. It spoke to him, if one listened carefully.
Below, the council houses lay quiet in the grip of the afternoon heat. Doors were shut, windows drawn halfway, and even the dogs had abandoned their barking. It was one of those hours when the world seemed to pause, when even the air rested.
No one stirred — except a boy.
The boy stood a little distance away, bare-chested and untroubled by the sun. He was often drawn to the tank. To him it was never merely a place where water was stored. It was a place of mystery. Shadows hid there, reflections trembled and disappeared, and sometimes, if one watched long enough, it felt as though the tank might reveal something more. He watched Leo quietly, waiting — though he did not know what he was waiting for.
Leo came from Chilaw, a seaside town far away. He rarely spoke of it, but he wore a small cross around his neck, and there was something of the sea about him — the patience, the calm acceptance of things as they were. He worked for the council, tending the tank, mixing the right amount of chlorene into the water making sure the water never fell below its mark, that the Kirindi Oya flowed cleanly into it, the water pumps operated at optimum, and that the water travelled faithfully onwards to Tissamaharama and the surrounding houses.
It was not a job that earned praise. But Leo understood its importance. Water, after all, was noticed only when it was gone.
As a permanent council employee, Leo lived in the same quarters as boy’s family. The houses stood close together, sharing walls, sounds, and silences. Next to the boy’s home lived Perera-uncle, and beyond his house, almost tucked away, was Kalupahana’s.
Kalupahana lived alone in the smallest house. It was always quiet there. Inside were little more than a bed, a chair, and the faint smell of old books and coconut oil. Perera-uncle’s house was livelier. He lived there with his wife, a gentle woman who smiled easily, and their small son, younger than the boy, who cried loudly at night and laughed just as freely during the day.
Together, the houses formed a small world of their own. There were no fences. Children wandered in and out without knocking. Kettles boiled at the same hours each morning. News — small, domestic, and important — travelled quickly along the verandas. In the evenings, when the heat finally loosened its hold, the adults sat outside and spoke of water levels, salaries, school results, and the steady passing of days.
It was the school holidays. The boy’s mother and his two siblings were visiting, and so were Perera’s wife and child. Time stretched easily then. There was no hurry anywhere. Near the boy’s house stood an outdoor shower, fed by the tank and open to everyone. Laughter echoed there, water splashed against cement, and the cool relief of evening baths drifted through the air.
Once, the boy was bathing there, naked and unselfconscious, when Perera-uncle walked in unexpectedly. He stopped, murmured a quick apology, and turned away at once. It was a small moment, soon forgotten, but it stayed with the boy — as such moments often do — quietly filed away in memory.
Beyond the houses, the Kirindi Oya moved through the land, brown and wide, alive with fish and stories. In the afternoons, village boys swam there, their voices carrying across the water. There was a saying that the river announced its rising with a sound — a low, hollow warning. If you did not hurry to the bank in time, the water could rise suddenly, gushing and strong, sweeping away a careless swimmer.
Some of the braver boys climbed onto the bridge and leapt twenty feet into the water below. The river burst open when they landed. Large pink-coloured fish scattered in flashes of colour before the surface settled again. The boy sometimes joined them, staying close to the edge, feeling the tug of the current against his legs, admiring the courage of the river boys while keeping a little of his own fear intact.
Monkeys with black faces and long brown tails leapt through the trees nearby, pausing to watch the boys, chattering among themselves. The river flowed on, unpredictable and indifferent. When rain fell far upstream, the water could rise without warning. What seemed like safe sand or a steady rock could vanish in moments, and the river, gentle one hour, could become deadly the next.
There was harmony in the council quarters, but the river reminded everyone that order was only ever temporary.
Leo understood this too.
Perhaps that was why he made a small mistake. Or perhaps it was simply human weakness. Once, the boy’s father — who worked as the council administrator — noticed something unusual in the overtime register. Leo had altered his clock-out time, carefully corrected with white tepex, but not carefully enough.
When confronted, Leo did not argue. He stood quietly, head lowered, the cross on his chest catching the light. He admitted his mistake, withdrew the claim, and returned to his work without complaint. It was a small failing, and it passed without lasting consequence, but it stayed with the boy who watched it happen.
For the boy it was a lesson — about water, about people, and about how even the most reliable men could falter. The tank remained full. The river continued to flow. Leo climbed the tank each day as before.
And the boy, caught between still water and running water, between safety and danger, stored it all away — these ordinary days, these quiet truths — never knowing that they would one day return to him as something rare and precious.
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