July

This is a true story based on the telling of another true story.

“Your father saved my life” the man had said.

When my father refused to explain to me what he meant, my mother provided me with an answer that, although very brief, instantly set my already-inquiring mind positively ablaze with curiosity.

“Eighty-three”

It was a good three days before my father finally came about. Calling me to sit next to him at the table, he found a ratty piece of scrap paper and began to draw, the streets of old Colombo bursting forth from the tip of his pen.

July was a warm month and no one expected – much less, wanted – the fire to get any hotter. But it had and now the days burned with flames of heat, anger and bitter sadness. My father watched all this from his verandah, silently observing the murder of khaki-clad crows who circled the top of his lane. One could almost call them scavengers, the way they hunted for their prey and made do with them in a matter of minutes. My father shuddered and turned to walk inside when he heard the puttering of a motorcycle engine. He froze.

Approaching on the motorcycle he knew were his neighbours. They were honest and good people, pure in mind and unblemished in soul - exactly the kind of innocent humans that the scavengers hunted and devoured. The crows could sense their presence and the puttering of the engine quietly died down as the vehicle was ordered to stop. The man and his sister who sat on it were petrified, the young girl’s hands shivering as she attempted to mask the telltale red dot she bore on her forehead with the soft material of her sari.

My father slowly turned around. One word and he change the entire picture being painted in front of him. One word and he could make it uglier than it already was. One word and he could be dead. It seemed best to say nothing.

My father was never one to remain silent.

“Sir, let them through – they’re friends of mine” my father called, in a language the crows understood. Recognizing the familiar words, the bicycle was allowed to proceed – albeit with a few suspicious, murderous glances from the crows - and my father motioned for it to enter their front garden. Hurriedly, he led the man and his sister into a room deep within the house and there they stayed.

Four days and three nights the flames raged outside, setting on fire not only metal structures and concrete edifices but also the very emotions of the people who were licked by its flames. The fire drove them to kill, torture and plunder. It made devils out of the best people and those who couldn’t stand the blaze fell victim to the heat were destroyed.

They survived, the man and his sister, and returned to their home when the flames finally receded. The city was almost a stranger now, transformed so much by the chaos that they almost had trouble finding their way back. Tears streaming down her face, the young girl thanked my father in a language that was alien to him yet they understood each other by something beyond vocabulary – trust.

My father has come to the end of his story. Nervous scratches and scribbles mar the face of the map he had drawn to illustrate it. His eyes were clouded over, a maelstrom of emotions that I couldn’t decipher. Now, he was silent.

I thought about every word he had said, those two lives he had touched and changed. How it had broken him to talk about what happened, even though he had in fact saved someone’s life. He was a hero, and he didn’t even know it.