A Day to Remember: Of Coins and a Clear Conscience
Sharanya Sivasathiyanathan
©
Copyright 2022 by Sharanya
Sivasathiyanathan
|
Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash |
From
the moment my words were developed to become fully-fledged,
autonomous thoughts, I realized that my older sister and I could
never
share
the same ideas. Playing the “devil’s advocate” grew
to become a common occurrence in our household, and it was ingrained
in my very thinking that anything I could use to identify with my
personality, within my control, would be different from those of my
sister. So, it came as a surprise in later discussion when we
discovered that June 14th, 2019 was the day when we both had the
epiphany leading to our passions. It all came down to one stop on our
boundless trip through Sri Lanka, the country which raised both of my
parents before the war.
Gleams
of early morning sunlight shone through the window panels enclosing
the small, mustard-coloured taxi; like a beam aimed straight for
squinting eyes. We weaved through bustling roads onto a smooth
pathway, headed for the nearby temple. Since the plan was to leave
for another city later in the evening, my mother wanted to show us
around the place of worship she regularly visited as a child, before
we moved on. Just as we would any other day my sister and I were
seated within a two-meter proximity of one another, bickering and
sharp comments filled the air. To an outsider, it seemed like terse
conflict—judging by the fierce glares directed at each other,
enough to pierce through the air. In reality, we were merely arguing
over whose panjavi looked more lavish.
Whose jewelry matched their outfit better.
This
wasn’t something worth remembering—it happened far too
often to recall each individual dispute—and if it weren’t
for the events that would follow, I would have grouped it with all
the other miscellaneous chats I’ve had with my sibling.
Upon
arriving at the temple mid-morning, we all stepped out onto the road
in our sandals. Waiting for my father to pay the driver before
heading into the grounds, I turned to admire the details on the
outside of the temple. It was a flurry of bright pink, green, blue,
and orange, coated onto the sculptures on the walls. I found more
sculptures of Hindu-Tamil gods and goddesses molded into the outside
frame than I could count! The walls all angled inwards, as if forming
a triangular pyramid at the summit. My eyes traced each carving in
awe. We inched towards the building without hurry, in order to truly
process the beauty— I was in the midst of imprinting its
intricacies behind my eyelids.
Already
preoccupied with the sight—stretching my neck upwards to catch
every attribute—I almost forgot to remove my sandals before
stepping into the sand. Once I did, however, it hit me like the sting
of a fist to the nose. The scalding sand was scorching
beneath
my toes! I
winced, hopping from foot to foot as I pranced towards the building,
in an attempt to leave my feet on the ground for as little as humanly
possible.
If
the exterior of the temple was astonishing, the interior was beyond
phenomenal.
There were life-sized sculptures of the gods and goddesses in every
cavity of the building, adorning shining jewels and draped with
bright saris and dhotis. There were people knelt by every deity with
hands clasped together, singing prayers with eyes squeezed shut. In
the sea of bodies dressed similarly to ourselves, I gripped my
mother’s palm tightly. I wasn't entirely
sure
we would have
been able to reunite if anyone had gotten separated. We spent a solid
hour or two, passing between icons, whispering hushed pleas for safe
travels and future prosperity among words of gratitude. Once everyone
was satisfied, my mother stopped us over by a small well, where she
used to wait and feed the ducklings while her
father
left donations.
Giggling, I watched as she traced her fingers along the patterns
engraved on the surface, nostalgia and reminiscence clear on her
features. Soon after, we exited from the back of the building.
Again,
I was hit with the heat of the grainy sand beneath me. I felt like an
ant, with the sun pointed through a magnifying glass right at me. The
pads of my feet were on fire! Even the stray dogs and cats had fled
inside the building for refuge from the intensity. My gaze flitted
over to other families crossing the sand—how
were they so unfazed?—before
I caught glimpse of a large group of people. How on earth
were
they managing to
stay seated
in
this sand? I cringed, imagining myself sitting on a heated stove.
A
chorus of clanking metal reached my ears as my gaze fixed on the
group. They were seated haphazardly on the ground, shaking grimy,
unwashed eating tins, presumably carrying coins and bills. The sounds
meshed with the croaking of hoarse voices and dried throats, calling
onto passerbys for spare change. Rarely did anyone turn their
direction, choosing instead to speed by without second thought. I
noted suddenly, that all of the people seated or wandering slowly
had… some sort of injury. A blind man was patting the sand
before him to pick up on footsteps, a woman was pleading with her
hands though uttering no words of her own, and another used his only
arm to stretch his tin forward and towards the knees of others.
Other
children, much younger than myself, displayed their horror at the
disabilities blatantly. Some would begin to direct questions at them,
only to be muffled by a strong mother’s palm to their mouths.
Although I would never admit to it, the sight made me uncomfortable
as
well. I turned to
my mother, who was fixed on one man in particular. Both his legs were
amputated, and he sat on a flattened cardboard box with the tin
before him. He was squinting to peer in our direction. Unlike the
other parents, my mother was beaming in his direction.
“Oh
ho, is
that Vimali?”
I
turn over my shoulder in confusion, only to find my mother nodding
along. How did she know this man?
“You
grew so big! You have your own children now!”
She
walked towards the man eagerly, seated back on her haunches and
jumping straight into conversation with him. Apparently, he
recognized her from when she was still in her early twenties—when
he had last seen her around the temple. Granted, her features had not
changed much since then, at least according to the photo albums lying
around at home. But still, this seemed way too far-fetched to be a
reality!
Then,
another thought hit me. If this man had last seen my mother from
before she was married, which was the last time she had been in Sri
Lanka (over fifteen years ago)... then how long had he been following
this lifestyle? Perched in the sand by the temple and asking others
to spare some change, the coins used to feed himself? This man had
also clearly received no medical attention for the wounds, not even a
pair of crutches to facilitate his mobility.
As
I watched the scene before me, I felt acutely aware of the bead of
warm sweat beginning to trickle down my forehead. I noticed, in
discomfort, as the moisture gathered beneath my armpits and in my
lower back, beneath the heavy cloth of the traditional dress. My
palms twitched with the desire to wipe it off from the lenses of my
glasses, and the tip of my brows. Catching onto my predicament, and
presumably—the mirrored version from my sister, my father
reaches into the back pocket of his pants. He hands us both some
Rupee
coins
from his wallet, gesturing to the ice cream stand nearby, lined with
young children handed large cones of the sweet delicacy.
Now
that I look back on the day’s events, my father must
have
had a knowing look
on his face.
Before
my sister and I could manage our stealthy escape towards the ice
cream stand, my mother ushered us both over to speak with the man.
Reluctantly, glancing over to one another in silent protest, we
dragged ourselves to where they were huddled, amongst the others. My
mother sent us a piercing glare once she noticed our ever-standing
position. Almost immediately to follow, we knelt before the man to
meet his eye-level (and in doing so, burning our legs!). He smiled,
dropping the tin and clasping each of our hands in his. I felt his
leathery skin wrap around my fingers, taking in his long, graying
beard and the circles under his eyes from a closer distance. I was
able to steal quick glances at his legs, wincing internally at the
dried blood and bruised skin. He must have overexerted himself fairly
recently.
“You
girls are so lucky to have her as your mother,” he managed,
cocking his head to his side. My mother grinned with pride.
Without
a reply, my sister only nodded. Despite the heat of the sun pouring
on us in waves, and the temptation of cold ice cream, my sister then
stretched out her fist, dropping the coins into his tin.
I
watch, unsure of how to act myself. Should I save the money for ice
cream, and share it with my sister? Is that what she was expecting?
Thoughts
raced in my head with each second. But, looking over to the grateful
smile on the man’s face, I understood that there was only one
thing left for me to do.
I
turned to the other woman seated closest to us. One of her arms was
wrapped in makeshift bandages, but I could tell an infection was
growing beneath it. Without a word, I tipped the contents of my
tightened fist into her tin. Using her other hand to press nimble
fingers against my temple, she sighed in gratitude. The woman brushed
a few stray hairs from my forehead, whispering,
“Bless
your soul. Thank you, dear.”
I
was unable to contain my grin after that. The agony of overheating
seemed to have washed away. I felt much calmer, with a better sense
of presence. A faint smile adorned my father's features as we
returned by his side, as if to tell us how pleased he was with our
decision. Instead of vocalizing this, my father retrieved some more
coins and bills and placed them in both our open arms, before walking
over to join my mother’s conversation.
We
were as busy as bees after then. Moving from one person to another,
our feet were now grown into the sand as we listened to their stories
and blessings. I recall one man, who sat me down beside him. He kept
his stare out towards the detailing along the walls of the temple,
but judging by his words, I was able to pick up on how grounded the
man was. He began,
“I
used to be part of the Sri Lankan Armed Forces. You know what that
is, right?” I nodded in agreement. He smiled, darting his eyes
quickly to catch my nonverbal response before returning his stare
forwards.
“I
was strong, but after some time, I got this,” he claimed,
pointing towards the missing leg below his right knee, and the three
digits on his left hand that were no longer found. I pursed my lips,
unsure of what to say. So, I opted not to press further on the
subject, no matter how curious I was to know how he had received the
injuries. He didn’t elaborate either. Just the same, the man
continued. He shifted his focus to me, angling his body better to
face my direction. A warm palm drew to clasp onto my clothed
shoulder.
“I
insist you keep focus on your studies. Do your best, and live a long
and healthy life.” I notice a hint of wistfulness in his tone
at that final comment. But, I made no remark on it either.
Despite
not engaging in deep conversation with this man, his words still
resonate with me today. I am determined to gain a life of success for
myself back here in Canada, though not only
to
support myself.
On
the ride back to my aunt’s home from the temple that afternoon,
I nudged on my mother’s shoulder and met her eyes through the
rear-view mirror. A closed fist keeping my cheek upright, I
questioned:
“Why
did the man not get money for living expenses from the government
after his war injuries?” I asked. My mother only exhaled, the
sound of hundreds
of
thousands
of peoples’
frustrations wafting through the air.
“That’s
just the way things are
in
Sri Lanka,
Sharanya.”
This
was unsettling. An uproar of mixed feelings caught in my throat, from
where they were pooling in my stomach, as I took in the grooves of
the coin I traced deep in my pocket. At her words, I felt a pang of
heart-lurching guilt hit me. I kept thinking about it. My eyes
followed the surroundings of the taxi as I tried to wrap my head
around the possibilities Sri Lanka could undertake for societal
development, just at the small expense of certain members of society
becoming less of a priority.
That
temple was not only a stop on my first trip to Sri Lanka, but also
the first event to lock in my journey. A door to the past of my
mother, and my own future. My journey, to discovering policy
adaptation and foreign aid as a personal passion. One that will stay
with me for my entire life. One I am now sure will be the focus of my
career. It was my first trip to Sri Lanka, as a visit to my parent’s
home country, but on that trip, I was also able to understand why
they fled. The visit to the temple was a day to remember. No matter
how desperately I wanted that ice cream, and imagined it would taste
while quelling the heat, I truly believe that dedicating the coins to
my fellow people instead, tasted better on my conscience. It was a
day to remember—one that shaped my morals—all due to hot
sand and a few Rupees.
Sharanya
Sivasathiyanathan, 15, is a high-school student in Grade 10 at John
McCrae Secondary School in Ottawa, Ontario. With a passion for
international issues, social justice, and her Sri Lankan-Canadian
identity, she has written this travel memoir in hopes of sharing more
about the realities of accessing proper medical care services in such
third-world nations. In order to achieve her future goals, Sharanya
is currently involved in advocacy both within and outside of her
school community: she is the Co-President of a local students' union
(the RSU), serves as the youngest JMSS Student Senator to represent
her school on the board Senate, and volunteers with an international
NGO targeting poverty (Results Canada). She has yet to have her more
personal works published and hopes that this story will be able to
get the coverage it deserves.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
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