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Part I: The Conspiracy

I remember wondering why we only had one room in our house, whilst all the other children had a plethora of hiding places. Why did they have so many more toys? Getting used to that stinging feeling of yearning whenever there was a display of glittering pens. Even egocentric, childish me knew then what my Appa denies so often.

I grew up poor. It’s something that I tell people, something my Appa tries to hide. No one ever wants to hear their child saying such words. No one ever wants to inflict unnecessary struggle on children who have just opened their eyes to the bright lights of a new age.

But, my parents did.

(And they say you don’t choose to be poor.)

I suppose, with hindsight, the whole experience helped me understand the art of sacrifice and struggle. It is something we Hindus have mastered. The secrets of penance and masochism. But I think in my parent’s case, their utilitarian approach to life helped save lives tormented by war.

Because the truth is, we were all terrorists. Sithappa had joined the Tigers sometime after my parents had fled. The situation being as terrible as it was even caused my Amma’s best friend, soft and gentle Sothi, to run through thick jungles with a heavy rifle strapped to a camouflaged back. In turn, Amma had wanted to die; die with the child soldiers and student kidnappers.

Our history, the very small one we had after the Portuguese-Dutch-British memory wipers, was tainted with blood. Of Mamas and Mamis being shot in hospitals, of watching civilians’ brains leaking out of bullet holes, of properties becoming mine fields. We were always wiping our hands.

And I remember the war stories, the secret meetings we would have under the sheets on sleepless nights:

‘Amma, engai Appa?’
(Amma where’s Appa?)

‘Appa, kasu Appammavum Appappaku poda poithare’
(He’s gone to give money to Appamma and Appappa)

And it was all a conspiracy, a secret my sister and I kept to our hearts because we knew the reason for our poorness. We knew it as well as the thevarums we had to sing, the deaths we had to hear. We knew war so well.

Part II: The Arrival

When Appamma, Appappa and Athai had first arrived in Melbourne our house was no longer one bedroomed. Appa had decided that a growing girl needed a room of her own, so we had moved to a grander abode of three rooms and a concrete square of land. The later installment being something Uma (my chubby cheeked sister) and I were particularly fond of. We would ride bicycle horses, whilst Amma would battle giant spiders with wooden sticks.

When they had arrived, there was so much chatter; my eyes became tired saucepans. Appappa, black as night, was so quiet that I had voiced my concerns to Amma, me having a soft spot for misfits. I remember them all laughing. And for the first time, I felt like I was a part of a family.

No longer were we denied access to the secret club of families. All those years of longing for glittery pens and pretty books were worth it. Our conspiring had come to a fruitful end. They were here. In Real Life. Like in the movies, where Anastasia would hug her Grandmama and be re-united.

'My Anastasia'

Though Appamma never said that to either of us. Appamma's Eengerlish wasn't very good.

Part III: Interlude

I lay there squashed between Appa and Uma, in our usual family sandwich, ruminating. Thimble bladders beckoned my call. So, quiet as a mouse, I tried to scramble over our various brown limbs in a desperate scurry.

Big Houses Were Scary.

Because the night wasn’t black like Appappa, it was navy blue. And everything turned dark and hologram like. More sinister, creeping in the night. And as always Sithappa would be watching.

His dead eyes, ones I would usually avoid, held my gaze. Malai hanging around his neck.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

But we were re-united. A family. And that’s what he was trying to say.

Our secret was now bigger: a family of terrorists.

Part IV: The Repercussions

Here are a few facts I learned when we became re-united...

1. Appamma would make the ‘best ularkelanghu columbu in the world.’
2. Amma broke our tea party chairs by sitting on them.
Athai made friends with Mathi Acca and Rathi Acca.
3. Appamma once cleaned the floor when I had vomited on the earthy tiles and in doing so had used the water whilst Amma was taking a shower, thereby causing the hot water to rush out and burn her back.
4. Uma walked to kindergarten with Appappa and his big umbrella.
5. Athai and Amma had pretended to be the tooth fairy, when my first tooth had fallen out but unfortunately for them I knew Athai’s handwriting.
6. Uma was cute and I had rabbit teeth.
7. Family outings always entailed Uma and I crouching on maddis and ducking between knees when a police car drove by.
8. Athai was an atha kari.

Part V: The Consequences

Now that I’m older I realise that all these isolated incidents did mean something more to my family. For the sake of order and precision I will evaluate each point above one-by-one to help solve the mystery.

1. I would repeat this phrase loudly and proudly in front of Amma.
2. She had actually smashed them across the rock river in a fit of rage.
3. They were examples of what Athai would become in the future.
4. Amma screamed at Appamma for taking care of me which injured her.
5. Appappa liked walking.
6. I was a perceptive child.
7. Amma liked to tease me.
8. We were still being frugal.
9. This is what Athai became.

Part VI: The Drift

Because Athai became an atha kari, our family was no longer re-united after four years of living together. She had been seduced by the West and luxuries of life. Appa disapproved.

It was only until years later did I learn Appa suffered his second bouts of insomnia and depression postwar. The type that entailed sleeping tablets and other medications, something I think he passed on to the two of us. Because, once Appamma and Appappa left, Uma and I lost our Tamil. We lost trust in families. The two of us became cynical. Pessimistic about the world and love. Emotional deprivation does that to children who grew up partially poor and watched their vanishing sacrifice.

Of course, now, years after the consequences, we have all been re-united. (Forgiveness is also a Hindu thing people practice when they become quite old and realise they need to make amends if only to look good to the Gods). But it’s not the same anymore. It’s a shadow; ghostly.

Now we walk the streets, with a secret in our hearts: we were each terrorists.

Part VII: The Fear

These things, though I deny it like Appa, do impact the two of us.
Because, I am a child of the Colonisers. Just as Sri-Lanka is steeped in the essence of Great Britain.
If Athai was an atha kari, my sister and I have no chance in any incarnation of being anything else.
My tongue, treacherous traitor, gives me away.
And my manner, no longer Tamil, has given into those who bullied me on playgrounds.
There are some things we can never change.
So here is my secret
Are you ready?
I am a tea stained trust-less terrorist
How d’you do?

About C.T. Kengeswary

Being a part of the Eelam Tamil diaspora she is perpetually confused about everything all the time. C.T. Kengeswary loves to draw and paint in her spare time and believes in living life intersectional-ly! As a queer and disabled women of colour, intersectionality helps her navigate the world and understand other peoples narratives. Like many diaspora, her goal in life is an attempt to recenter her own narrative with respect to our ancestors and to move towards decolonising our future.