A Brother’s Journey:
A Tale of Loss and Hope in a Troubled Land
For weeks, I have been living in a state of anxiety, not knowing the fate of my brother. He has suffered a mishap, a fracture in his leg, and he lies in some distant place called Kekirawa under the care of a local healer. I have never seen Kekirawa nor heard of it before. It is a name that conjures nothing except a vague sense of remoteness and isolation. My brother is a man of science, an electrical engineer, and it was in the course of his work that he met with his calamity. I long to see him, to reassure myself that he is alive and well, but I do not know how to reach him or when I can.
I managed to leave my family and arrange a train ticket from Colombo to Kekirawa, the obscure town where my brother lies wounded. I have a restless habit of travelling to unfamiliar places by train or bus. I have no idea what kind of neighbourhood I will end up in or what kind of dwelling I will have to enter.
The road is a hard strip of dust, lined with drab cadjan huts. I walk a few paces from the gate to the door, where a man greets me with a smile as he hears my name. He is a tiny old man, his neck sagging in his collar, and his speech is a blur. But I catch his words that my brother is in his house, under his care, getting some healing. He is the bonesetter. I feel a surge of hatred for the little man and his rotten house. The walls are smeared with dirt, and the air is thick with dust and flies. I lose my composure and my self-control. You must always control yourself, they say, but for what prize?
My brother rests on a brown mat on the bare earth. He gives me a faint smile. I cannot fathom how he landed in this dismal spot to heal his broken leg, how he survived this hellish pit for weeks. The heat and dust oppress me. People lounge on timber stumps. It is a place of discomfort.
My brother seems to have been waiting for ages as if he had almost given up hope. He does not speak; he looks only a little thinner. When he sees me, he is overcome with sorrow, and I feel the tears in my eyes. I sit beside him, holding his hand on his mat. I cannot help noticing his smell of earth and decay, his sarong dirty.
His leg is bound with leaves, and he is immobile. I asked him, and he told me how he had broken his leg. He says no hospital was operating, and his mates brought him to this native healer, who claimed to have some knowledge of bones and herbs. He says that he has been in pain ever since and that he does not know if his leg will ever heal properly.
I gasped for air and squeezed his hand. I wish to stroke him like a child, remembering his lonely days without me. He rests his head on the rocky pillow and says, “I don’t know when I can get out of here, brother. I have lost my faith.” I gaze at his long hair, untrimmed for weeks. I notice his dirty nails and clothes. I am filled with despair again and again.
I wish to take him away, to a hospital, to a place of care. But the country is on fire, and all roads are closed. All my desires are futile. How can I abandon my brother in this state?
I want to share his agony. So I choose to spend a night beside him. I am weary and in need of a bath. There are no showers or wells. Water is a rare thing in this damned place. They led me to a pond. I undressed to my undies and dipped in the murky water. These people in Kekirawa lack the essentials.
I notice a young boy, crippled. He has only one leg, the other one cut off from his hip. I ask him how. He told me a snake bit him; it was too late to save his leg. They had to chop off the infected limb to save his life.
I return to the hut where my brother lies. A lamp flickers with kerosene. The food is barely palatable. Some vegetables and rice. I lie beside him. Mosquitoes and flies swarm. They settle on me and my brother. There are no nets or fans to keep them off. I hardly sleep. My brother sleeps on, and I wonder how he bears these hardships.
I speak to the villagers. They have no water for basic needs. No pure water to drink. No health care. Electricity! you must be joking. People are exposed.
The following day, I linger at the railway station, unable to depart. The waiting room was bare, with no chairs. I thought of my brother’s solitary days in this wasteland, endless nights of watching the sunset, and lack of anyone to confide in. And as the train carried me back to Colombo, I loathed everything I saw in this dry land where my brother was trapped.
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