Free The Seasons of Trouble by Rohini Mohan

Sarva’s head. It was the first time a firearm had been aimed at him since he had been taken.
    Silva said he could kill Sarva right now and throw the body into the sea. ‘You will be finished,’ he said.
    To Sarva, it seemed like salvation.

    AT AROUND SUNSET —perhaps on the same day the gun was pointed at him, perhaps the next—a constable led Sarva back to the lonely basement. By this time, his left foot was almost useless, and Sarva needed to put his arm around the constable and drag himself forwards. It was slow going, and they stopped often to catch their breath. They had just reached the ground floor corridor when they ran into a white man with a bag stuffed with files.
    The cop accompanying Sarva froze. His free hand twirled with the English question before he asked it. ‘Hello? Permission?’
    The white man nodded calmly. His shirtsleeves were rolled up in typical Sri Lankan style, perfect to keep sticky sweat out of the crooks of arms. His beige chinos were wrinkled. He wouldn’t have inspired a second look if not for the circumstances in which he had been spotted. His so very white and untimely presence in the police station and his possession of who-knew-what files would make any cop break into a flop sweat.
    ‘Office closed, sir,’ the policeman stammered. He seemed undecided about whether to intimidate this intrusive foreigner or to be cautiously nice to him. Finally, he stretched his lips in a fake smile and said, ‘Sir, you wait, okay?’ and ran towards the office.
    When he was out of sight, the white man walked closer to Sarva and, unexpectedly, addressed him in rapid Tamil.
    ‘Don’t worry. I’m with the ICRC?’ Sarva had heard of the International Committee of the Red Cross. The man continued, ‘I was told by a prisoner I met here earlier that you were brought fourdays ago. He saw the sacred thread on your hand and recognised you as a Tamil.’
    Sarva’s frayed sacred thread had been on his right wrist since the previous year. His aunt had tied one for him at home, praying for his employment and divine protection. It had been bright red then. It was a dirty yellow now.
    ‘I speak Tamil, you can talk to me,’ said the white man, in case Sarva hadn’t cottoned on.
    This had to be either a trap or a dream. Sarva wasn’t sure how to respond. Had it really been only four days since this madness began?
    The man touched his arm. He said he didn’t need to ask if they were torturing him. ‘I can see it. But did they arrest you?’
    Sarva said he didn’t know.
    ‘Okay, how did you get here?’
    He briefly described being whisked off the street.
    ‘So people at home don’t know where you are? Give me your home number, quick.’
    Sarva reeled off his aunt’s Colombo landline number. ‘Please call my mother,’ he added. It was the first time since his arrest that he had thought of her.
    The cop hadn’t returned, but the white man hurried away, muttering something about contacting the family.
    That night in the locked basement of the TID, Sarva was occupied with thoughts of his mother. He couldn’t be sure how Amma would react to the news of his arrest. She would be worried, of course. But surely she would blame him, too. ‘What did you do?’ she might ask, as she used to when his grandfather or his aunts mockingly threatened to stop taking care of him. Everybody else had raised him, cajoled him, spoilt him, but Amma had the monopoly on scolding.

5.
July 2008
    THE AMERICAN TOOK one sip of the plain tea and set it aside. Pity, it was good tea. John had noticed too, and had already begun his spiel about how people abroad are probably used to a different Ceylon tea, a lighter one that came from the tiniest, youngest leaves sprouting at the tip of the shrubs. Their family always used tea dust, he was saying. He got five kilos free from the factory every month, you see. It had the strongest flavour.
    The American smiled apologetically. He was sitting at the very edge of the sofa in Indra’s