[caption id="attachment_125507" align="alignright" width="231"]
M.R. Narayan Swamy [/caption]
By M.R. Narayan Swamy
The unmistakable sounds of army boots chasing someone outside could be heard clearly, although the doors and windows were tightly shut in my room at the guest house in the northern Sri Lankan town of Vavuniya. I also heard an Indian soldier cry out in Hindi “pakdo usko, pakdo usko” (catch him, catch him). Very soon, the noises ended.
On one of my many temporary postings in Sri Lanka to report for AFP, I was on my way from Jaffna to Colombo, when I found myself crippled once I reached Vavuniya. The part-Sinhalese, part-Tamil town lies 224 km north of Colombo and was the perfect de facto border then beyond which, in the North, lay the Tamil country. The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) had called a flash strike and all transport – trains and buses – had come to a halt for 24 hours. I had to spend a night in Vavuniya.
A Tamil bookshop owner in the main market found a room for me in the Vavuniya guest house in the heart of the town. It wasn’t a great establishment but I had no choice. The place smelt of beer and more beer. While leaving me, the bookshop owner warned me that the IPKF (Indian Peace Keeping Force) conducted raids to pick out LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) members and supporters under an unofficial curfew that began sharp at 7 p.m. and lasted for 12 hours, and that I should be in my room in this period under all circumstances.
After an early dinner, I retired to my room. Wearing a t-shirt and “lungi” for comfort, I began reading a magazine. That is when I heard the soldiers chasing someone outside.
Once the commotion stopped, I thought the adventure for that night was over. I was wrong.
Moments later, I heard rapid knocking on my door. A man outside barked out in Tamil: “Open the door, sir! IPKF is here. You must come out. Open fast, sir!”
I threw the magazine down. There was no time to put on a pant. But I did quickly grab a shirt and – in a split-second decision that proved immensely useful later on – inserted my Government of India Press ID into my shirt pocket.
All this consumed only a few seconds. By then, there was another frantic round of knocking.
When I opened the door, I found three men: a guest house employee (who had spoken) and two armed Indian soldiers.
“Checking, sir,” the civilian told me. “Please come out.” One of the soldiers gestured with his weapon which way I was to walk, towards the compound.
There, I saw some 35-45 men and women squatting on the ground. The entire area – inside the guest house and outside – was really dark, barring a dimly lit fluorescent bulb which betrayed the concern on everyone’s face. Not used to anything like this, I took a few seconds to come to grips with what was going on. By then, an Indian soldier standing some 10 feet away said loudly in Hindi to a colleague: “Look at the ‘lambu’ (tall guy). He is taking his own sweet time to sit down.”
The soldiers did not realise that I knew what was being spoken. I too squatted on the cemented floor.
After everyone staying and working in the guest house had been rounded up, a young Indian officer told all the women to get up and return to their rooms. Once they left, all the men – the young and the not so young – were asked to stand in a single file. I was the last in the queue of around three dozen males.
Only then, many of us understood what was going on.
An Indian army jeep was stationed just outside the compound, with its headlights on. Seated with the driver was a young man with his face masked. His task was to pick out LTTE suspects. In groups of three, people from the queue were asked to face the headlights. Each time, the spotter – I later learnt he was from an anti-LTTE Tamil militant group – shook his head, indicating no LTTE suspect among the three, they could return to the guest house.
I was among the last three to stand a dozen feet from the headlights, looking at the jeep. In no time, the spotter indicated that we had nothing to do with the LTTE. A young officer standing nearby told us in English: “Go!”
The other two men began to walk away. I did not move. The officer, now joined by two soldiers, again said: “Go, go!”
That’s when I decided to speak in Hindi – with the perfect Delhi accent. I had already read the officer’s nameplate: Surinder Singh.
“Surinder Singhji, are you from Haryana by any chance?” I asked in Hindi. From the way he had said “go”, I was 95% sure he must be from Haryana.
I will never in my life forget the stunned look on the faces of the officer and the soldiers. Indeed, the officer was so taken aback that he took a few seconds to respond in Hindi: “Aap kaun?” (Who are you?)
I am a journalist from Delhi, I replied. By then, two more soldiers had joined our small crowd.
As the officer looked baffled, wondering perhaps if I was speaking the truth, I asked: “Can I show you my identity card?”
It is only when he said “yes” that I put my hand into my shirt pocket and handed him the media accreditation card issued by the Press Information Bureau, New Delhi. The Hindi/English card had my photo, identified me as an Indian national and it carried the three lion Indian official emblem.
The card had an electrifying effect on the officer and the soldiers. The officer asked me most politely: “Why didn’t you tell us earlier that you are a journalist and that too from India?”
I replied that I had heard a lot about the rounding up operations the IPKF did for LTTE suspects. Once I was ordered out of the room, I decided to find out for myself what really goes on.
With a resigned look, the officer told me to return to my room.
Half an hour later came more knocks on my door. The visitors this time included a guest house employee, the officer I had met, and a senior officer in civilian clothes. He demanded to know why I was staying in the guest house.
When I explained the reason, he seemed satisfied but made it clear that I should check out the next day. When I sought to know his identity, the officer was curt: “You need not know anything about me.”
The next morning, I became the subject matter of discussion at the guest house. More than one person told me that I could have been in danger. “If the masked guy had even by mistake indicated that you are from LTTE, the Indians would have first hit you with rifle butts and then only allowed you to speak. What would you have gained if that had happened?”
Wisdom, they say, always comes in hindsight. That did strike me as I boarded a crowded minibus to Pettah in Colombo from Vavuniya.
M.R. Narayan Swamy [/caption]
By M.R. Narayan Swamy
The unmistakable sounds of army boots chasing someone outside could be heard clearly, although the doors and windows were tightly shut in my room at the guest house in the northern Sri Lankan town of Vavuniya. I also heard an Indian soldier cry out in Hindi “pakdo usko, pakdo usko” (catch him, catch him). Very soon, the noises ended.
On one of my many temporary postings in Sri Lanka to report for AFP, I was on my way from Jaffna to Colombo, when I found myself crippled once I reached Vavuniya. The part-Sinhalese, part-Tamil town lies 224 km north of Colombo and was the perfect de facto border then beyond which, in the North, lay the Tamil country. The Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna (JVP) had called a flash strike and all transport – trains and buses – had come to a halt for 24 hours. I had to spend a night in Vavuniya.
A Tamil bookshop owner in the main market found a room for me in the Vavuniya guest house in the heart of the town. It wasn’t a great establishment but I had no choice. The place smelt of beer and more beer. While leaving me, the bookshop owner warned me that the IPKF (Indian Peace Keeping Force) conducted raids to pick out LTTE (Liberation Tigers of Tamil Eelam) members and supporters under an unofficial curfew that began sharp at 7 p.m. and lasted for 12 hours, and that I should be in my room in this period under all circumstances.
After an early dinner, I retired to my room. Wearing a t-shirt and “lungi” for comfort, I began reading a magazine. That is when I heard the soldiers chasing someone outside.
Once the commotion stopped, I thought the adventure for that night was over. I was wrong.
Moments later, I heard rapid knocking on my door. A man outside barked out in Tamil: “Open the door, sir! IPKF is here. You must come out. Open fast, sir!”
I threw the magazine down. There was no time to put on a pant. But I did quickly grab a shirt and – in a split-second decision that proved immensely useful later on – inserted my Government of India Press ID into my shirt pocket.
All this consumed only a few seconds. By then, there was another frantic round of knocking.
When I opened the door, I found three men: a guest house employee (who had spoken) and two armed Indian soldiers.
“Checking, sir,” the civilian told me. “Please come out.” One of the soldiers gestured with his weapon which way I was to walk, towards the compound.
There, I saw some 35-45 men and women squatting on the ground. The entire area – inside the guest house and outside – was really dark, barring a dimly lit fluorescent bulb which betrayed the concern on everyone’s face. Not used to anything like this, I took a few seconds to come to grips with what was going on. By then, an Indian soldier standing some 10 feet away said loudly in Hindi to a colleague: “Look at the ‘lambu’ (tall guy). He is taking his own sweet time to sit down.”
The soldiers did not realise that I knew what was being spoken. I too squatted on the cemented floor.
After everyone staying and working in the guest house had been rounded up, a young Indian officer told all the women to get up and return to their rooms. Once they left, all the men – the young and the not so young – were asked to stand in a single file. I was the last in the queue of around three dozen males.
Only then, many of us understood what was going on.
An Indian army jeep was stationed just outside the compound, with its headlights on. Seated with the driver was a young man with his face masked. His task was to pick out LTTE suspects. In groups of three, people from the queue were asked to face the headlights. Each time, the spotter – I later learnt he was from an anti-LTTE Tamil militant group – shook his head, indicating no LTTE suspect among the three, they could return to the guest house.
I was among the last three to stand a dozen feet from the headlights, looking at the jeep. In no time, the spotter indicated that we had nothing to do with the LTTE. A young officer standing nearby told us in English: “Go!”
The other two men began to walk away. I did not move. The officer, now joined by two soldiers, again said: “Go, go!”
That’s when I decided to speak in Hindi – with the perfect Delhi accent. I had already read the officer’s nameplate: Surinder Singh.
“Surinder Singhji, are you from Haryana by any chance?” I asked in Hindi. From the way he had said “go”, I was 95% sure he must be from Haryana.
I will never in my life forget the stunned look on the faces of the officer and the soldiers. Indeed, the officer was so taken aback that he took a few seconds to respond in Hindi: “Aap kaun?” (Who are you?)
I am a journalist from Delhi, I replied. By then, two more soldiers had joined our small crowd.
As the officer looked baffled, wondering perhaps if I was speaking the truth, I asked: “Can I show you my identity card?”
It is only when he said “yes” that I put my hand into my shirt pocket and handed him the media accreditation card issued by the Press Information Bureau, New Delhi. The Hindi/English card had my photo, identified me as an Indian national and it carried the three lion Indian official emblem.
The card had an electrifying effect on the officer and the soldiers. The officer asked me most politely: “Why didn’t you tell us earlier that you are a journalist and that too from India?”
I replied that I had heard a lot about the rounding up operations the IPKF did for LTTE suspects. Once I was ordered out of the room, I decided to find out for myself what really goes on.
With a resigned look, the officer told me to return to my room.
Half an hour later came more knocks on my door. The visitors this time included a guest house employee, the officer I had met, and a senior officer in civilian clothes. He demanded to know why I was staying in the guest house.
When I explained the reason, he seemed satisfied but made it clear that I should check out the next day. When I sought to know his identity, the officer was curt: “You need not know anything about me.”
The next morning, I became the subject matter of discussion at the guest house. More than one person told me that I could have been in danger. “If the masked guy had even by mistake indicated that you are from LTTE, the Indians would have first hit you with rifle butts and then only allowed you to speak. What would you have gained if that had happened?”
Wisdom, they say, always comes in hindsight. That did strike me as I boarded a crowded minibus to Pettah in Colombo from Vavuniya.