By Ranee Mohamed

It is hard to find a school in Grandpass where the paint has not faded and the chairs have not broken.

With thousands of children clad in blue shorts and off white shirts and uniforms trudging along the uneven, imaginary pavements, it is even more difficult to find two children whose hearts have been broken.

But there they were, standing in the compound of a boys’ school, where the playground was a mud hole and the staircase had more sand than the ground outside.

Their blue shorts were slipping from the hips and their slippers were held together with safety pins. Two brothers, who lived separated yet had one happening to boast about ­— that their parents were overseas.

“I went to Kaduwela one day in October because an uncle in the neighbourhood who sometimes lent me money sent a message to me that his three wheeler had stopped. He asked me to rush over there with a bottle of petrol. School was just over and I collected some petrol from his friend and took a bus to the location. When I came back home, I found my aunt (father’s brother’s wife) yelling at me and simultaneously throwing my books and bag out of the house,” said the emaciated Ravi*(11) sadly.

“My greatest sadness is that I had to leave my brother Tiny*(8) back there with my aunt. I saw him in the background. He was crying uncontrollably. There was nothing I could do but collect my bag, books and clothes strewn all over the road and walk away,” said Ravi.
Tiny had to stay back anyway because he took care of their three and-a-half year old brother who also remained in the care of their aunt. Washing his clothes, running behind him and feeding him were among the multitude of chores of this eight year old.

Only tea for breakfast

And as a sobbing Ravi walked in search of a garage owner whom his father knew, his thoughts were with his mother who was overseas. Hunger was ripping at his stomach and he  remembered that he had only had some tea for breakfast.

It was in the garage that he  lived thereafter. “I used to cry the whole night, first I thought of my mother and then I thought of my brothers,” said Ravi who, teachers at the school said, found it difficult to do any work in school.

Ravi’s eyes hurt, but his heart and his very being hurt more than he could ever say. Yet the 11-year-0old suffered — he endured the pain of separation, he endured the dark despair surrounded by broken down cars, vans and three wheelers which seemed to resemble his tender life.

“After school I helped in the painting and washing of three wheelers and in carrying three wheeler auto parts to and fro,” said Ravi, the tired school boy, shifting his light self from one leg to the other.

Ravi’s story came to light when teachers at the school where Ravi and his brother were studying found that they were being billed by the canteen for food they never ate. Three teachers were billed approximately Rs.267 each. His class teacher  had been billed an amount close to Rs.300.

Ada and Parippu-pan

“I never ate from the canteen for the whole month,” one teacher had exclaimed in shock as she was given the ‘bill.’ But the book said in no uncertain terms that the teacher had eaten a great deal of lavariya, ada and  parippu-paan (a short-eat for underprivileged children consisting of a piece of bread lined with parippu (dhal) curry and slammed shut with another piece of bread.

Then the canteen keeper had remembered that it had been that ‘helpful’ little boy Ravi who  had come to the canteen on behalf of the teachers. A simple inquiry thereafter revealed that Ravi had taken the food for himself and for his brother because they were hungry. Ravi’s only plea is not to let his father know.  “My father used to hit me till he saw blood,” said the little boy as tears welled up his eyes.

Today, Ravi goes to the garage after school, helps out there and then sleeps there in the night. “They love me over there and I am very happy. They just do not want me to go,” he said. In fact one of the ‘uncles’ in the garage Ravi believed, cared for him so much that he holds the little boy in the nights when he sleeps. “He is scared that I will go away,” is Ravi’s assessment of that sleeping position.

In the nights I dream

“I try to go to school everyday because I am able to see my brother. My mother has always told me to look after my brothers,” he said sadly.
“In the nights I dream that my mother has come to us. I wake up in the mornings wondering whether this will be the day when our mother will come to us. I look at every passing vehicle as I sit in the garage,” said Ravi with tears in his eyes.

But Ravi’s wait will be a long one. For the truth is that his mother and father had gone overseas. Due to some resentment with his wife the father had returned and handed the children over to his brother and his wife and then disappeared. And now there is no news of their mother either. “Please get our mother back for us,” they cry. “We will wait for her even if we have to wait without food. We promise not to eat from the canteen again,” they plead, with thier palms together and tears falling down ther cheeks.

The unspoken plea here is  for food, shoes and clothes for these two young boys. The greater plea is to find a place that is secure and safe ­— a place where the two brothers can live as children and not be denied of their childhood.

Who will paint their  dark and dreary lives with colours of happiness? Who will lift the broken little hearts and wounded souls of two boys who seem to be living in heartache at the edge of danger.

raneemoham@hotmail.com
*Names changed to protect the identify of individuals.