I'm half asleep. I hear Father stumbling about, yelling for his breakfast. I wonder why he hasn't gone to work and then I remember it is Saturday. A great noise fills the house, voices, thumping feet, the sound of glass breaking, wood smashing and then the door to my room opens and I know they have come for me.
    I am only wearing underpants and they don't let me put anything else on. I am grateful I am wearing something. I usually don't, it's too hot. There are two of them inside the house but it feels like an army. They drag me outside, the sun cracking into my eyes like a punch and I see the police jeep and the others, there are six or more. And then one of them hits me in the stomach. He tells me to get a move on but I am moving as fast as I can, which is as fast as they carry me to the jeep. They handcuff me and then push me inside, kicking my backside so I fall forward, my face crushed against the back of a seat. I manage to right myself to a sitting position, my left leg twisted underneath me, my right knee bleeding. Through the side window I see Father standing like a piece of stone. I wonder if he is still drunk.
    —What are you doing, what are you doing, what has he done, what has he done, my mother shouts. She holds her head in her hands. The neighbours gather behind her, watching, saying nothing. Pavai is coming towards me pushing through the crowd. I look away. I don't want her to see this. One of the policemen turns to my father.
    —Your son is a criminal, he says.
    My father doesn't even blink.
    Then they shut the door on me and four of the men are inside, their guns pointing directly at me. Their smell is unbearable, or is it mine, I don't know. I need to urinate very badly and my heart is banging so hard I can feel it in my throat. My stomach doesn't hurt which surprises me and then it does hurt and I realise I'd been too frightened to notice. I want to throw up but I hold everything shut - eyes, mouth, penis, anus, every part of me that can open. In the dark of my mind I try to think what I can have done but then it is too late, we are at the police station.
    The chief inspector comes out of the white building. I know him because my father had pointed him out to me and told me never to cross his path. Now his path is leading directly to me and he pulls me out of the jeep by my hair and pushes me down on the ground, his boot against my cheek. The earth is rough. Little stones press into my other cheek. His boot slips onto my nose and I can smell blood.
    —You will tell the truth, otherwise we will kill you, he says. His voice is not hard; it is almost soothing. One of the other policemen drags me to standing. He is a small sharp angled man. He has a razor cut along his jaw. It is bleeding slightly as if the effort of handling my weight has opened it up. The handcuffs press into the skin of my wrists and I wonder if I am bleeding too but then the small policeman pushes me up the stairs and down a long corridor. It is cool inside, I am grateful for this. My face hurts, my hands hurt and I still need to urinate and I can't think straight, there is only thumping in my head. We enter a small room. Inside are an iron bed and a chair, nothing else. The policeman takes the handcuffs off me. I am glad to see I am not bleeding but my wrists are bruised.
    —Lie down on the bed. Face down, the policeman says.
    I do and he handcuffs my right hand to the iron railing at the top of the bed. At least my left hand is free. I put it to my sore face but the policeman pulls my arm away and sits on it.
    —I need the toilet, I say.
    —Shut up, he says.
    I close my eyes. The pain in my bladder is now worse than the one on my face. I think about peeing on the bed but I am sure I'll be beaten if I do. I try to sink into the pain, to let it float through me. I've done it before with candle flames. I know it is possible, not to feel pain. I've been to the Kavadi. I'd once seen a man put nails through his arm. There was no blood. His eyes were rolled up into his head and he was singing. He pulled the nails out and there was nothing but a pale mark where the nails had entered his body. I know it is possible. I do not have nails in my arm, it is only the pain of a swollen bladder. I try to take deep breaths but one nostril is blocked with drying blood. My arm is numb. The policeman is sitting on it saying nothing. He smells of bidi smoke and sweat. I am glad my face is turned into the wall. Sinking into the pain isn't working so I open my eyes and stare at the wall. The wall is white. It isn't a good paint job. They have tried to cover up some writing. Tigers Rule, the writing says. I keep staring, hoping why I am here will come to me but it doesn't and then the man gets off my arm and blood rushes to my hand and up my shoulder and then my bladder lets go.
    —You fucking bastard, what do you think this is, a toilet?
    —Sorry.
    —Fuck you you'll be sorry, he says and then someone else walks into the room. It is the chief inspector with the gentle voice and the hard boots.
    —Sir. He dirtied the bed, the policeman says. The inspector ignores him. He looks at me for a moment and then sits down on the chair, pulling it close to the bed.
    —Sit him up, he says.
    The policeman turns to me but I manage to sit by myself, my body half pulled down by the handcuff. The inspector leans towards me and touches me on my shoulder. I can still feel the weight of his hand when he takes it off. It feels like a small bird resting gently.
    —You are Ponnambalam Raghunath? He asks.
    —Yes.
    —Your mother's brother is Gunapalan Kandasamy, known criminal and member of the Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam?
    —Yes, I say. My uncle's name is never spoken in our house. I think I am going to vomit again but I don't.
    —Sit on him, the inspector says to the policeman.
    I think, Oh no, my arm, I can't, but the policeman pushes me down onto my stomach and sits on my back. I can hardly breathe. I feel hands on my ankles, gripping tightly. The urine soaked sheet is warm against the skin of my stomach. I start to recite the Ramayanam in my head, my favourite bit when Rama tells Hanuman to search for Sita, Even the lotus has its petals pale, the moon has got its spot, and where is form of any kind without the slightest fault? and then I black out.
    I wake and someone is hitting me on the soles of my feet. The top of my head is banging against the bars of the bed. My handcuffed hand is hot and wet. I hear screams and realise they are mine.
    The chief inspector says something but my ears are ringing too loud to hear.
    —Why did you steal the camera? He asks, louder this time. I want to listen to his voice, I want him to keep talking, I want him to tell me a bedtime story and I close my eyes.
    —Hit him again, I hear, my head thumping into the bed. —Tell me about the camera.
    I think, Camera? What camera? It makes no sense. Mother gave me a Pentax when I was sixteen. I wonder where it is. I blink, I try to sit up but I cannot. I am crying but it feels like someone else. It is as if I am watching from the corner of the room, high up where the walls meet the ceiling, where it is dark and safe.
    —Look at me, the inspector says.
    I do. He crosses his legs. His black patent leather shoe twitches up and down as if he is keeping time to music. The laces are tied in neat bows.
    —If you don't confess we will beat you some more.
    —I don't know anything about a camera, I say, knowing it is the wrong thing to say but it is the truth.
    —We know you are a thief working for the LTTE. We know you steal for your uncle. Confess and we will be lenient.
    I know they will beat me no matter what I say. I don't know anything about the LTTE but I know where my uncle lives. I close my eyes and try to forget the town.
    I smell petrol and hear the sound of water pouring on the ground.
    —Put it on him, says the inspector.
    I struggle, but not much. The policeman puts a polythene bag over my head. The bag is wet and smells terribly of petrol. I think I'm going to pass out.
    —If you don't tell the truth we will set the bag on fire, says the inspector. His voice is still gentle; I can almost imagine he is telling me a good thing. I try to pretend he is. I hold my breath, but I can't. Everything hurts too much. My tears smear petrol into my eyes making them sting.
    —I don't know anything, please sir, I say but I don't know if I just think the words. They start to hit me again.
    —Stop, says the inspector.
    There, I knew he'd be kind. The policeman takes the bag off my head.
    Although my eyes are blurry I can see the skin on the inspector's face is smooth and clear. He must take his time shaving, I think. No rush job for this man. He has very pink lips. They look a bit like my mother's lips. Then another man I'd not seen before comes to me. He is not in uniform. He fiddles with the handcuff. He must have been the one hitting my feet. He is very muscular. He hardly has a neck. His hands are clumsy and he cannot put the key in the little lock properly. The small policeman shoves him away and unlocks it. I see my wrist is bleeding a lot, my whole hand is red as if I'd dipped it in the guts of an animal. The sight upsets me. I feel as if I have let someone down by bleeding so much.
    —Hang him up, says the inspector.
    The strong man pushes me down on the bed and pulls my hands behind my back and then ties my thumbs together with some kind of coarse string. He draws a rope between my hands and pulls me to the floor. I fall to my knees but the strong man yanks me back up. I cannot stand on my own. My feet have given up. I look down at them. They are badly swollen and bleeding. The strong man throws the rope over a brown wooden beam crossing the ceiling. He pulls the rope and I am slowly lifted from the ground. The pain in my hands and arms and shoulders and feet is unbearable. I say to myself, This is unbearable. And then I almost smile because it makes no sense. If I can think such a thing then I am lying.
    I hang in the air, two feet from the floor. I look down at the three men. The chief inspector is still on the chair. He swings it backwards, so he can have a better look at me, I suppose. The policeman picks at his razor cut.
    The strong man takes a wooden stump from behind the bed. It is one of those used in cricket. It is red with my blood. He aims it at my shins. I close my eyes. Words from the Ramayanam come unbidden into my head, The world-consuming fire now issued from its loins, and now the whirlwind sweeping clean the earth and all that lives on Judgment Day. And now the waters of the seas beyond the seven did issue forth from its entrails. The sky it darkened as with outer darkness, the gods in terror fled. I say them over and over again without meaning to, I want to say something else, I want to go back to Sita and the lotus. I want to go to Pavai. I remember the texture of her lips against mine. They are velvety like a Frangipani petal. It is the only kiss I'd ever given a girl. I hope I get to kiss her again but it seems unlikely now. The hitting gets harder and my right shoulder makes a terrible noise and a terrible feeling and then the lights turn on.
    Orange pours from the ceiling in a great swirling tunnel, me in the middle. It flashes blue once, twice. I feel no pain, my eyes are wide open, filling with the colour of the setting sun. I can see nothing else, no inspector, no policeman, no strong man, no stump, no blood, no room, no walls, nothing. I hear only silence, pure silence, not even my own heart beating, and then I hear a slow watery hush, the sound of the sea licking the sand in the morning like when Mother took me to stay with her cousin in Trincomalee. She said we needed to see something beautiful in these times of trouble. The sound washes over me, through me, washing me clean. I look down at my feet and they are unblemished, bathed in orange. Time stops. Everything stops. And then it is over, someone has switched the lights off.
    I am lying on my back, tied by a rope to the bed. It is pitch dark. Quiet. I hear man's yell from another room. My body hurts all over but it is all right. I feel like I have smoked ganja. I'd only done it once, just to show I could. Everything is fine. Even my bleeding feet, even my bleeding wrists, even my arm lying at a strange angle above my body. I think about the lights. I will tell Pavai when I see her again. I think about Hanuman finding Sita, Seated as a flash of lightning in the bosom of a sable cloud, he sees the sun-flower bright that smiles alone to the light of heavens jewels, Sita, the brilliant sun-like gem on Rama's breast. I think about Pavai's lips touching mine. They are softer than Sita's, and then I fall asleep.



About the author:
Sandra was born in South Africa but left as a child and now has three passports which she uses according to her mood. She has written for the theatre; her work has been published or is forthcoming in Whole Earth Magazine, Verbsap, The Dublin Quarterly, r.kv.ry Quarterly and Versal. She is cultivator of the on-line writer's group at Gaia.com, called Diving Deeper: A Writing Workshop. She leads Diving Deeper writing retreats in Europe and North America. Sandra is currently working on a short story collection and a novel set in Sri Lanka during the "Black July" of 1983.

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