A Passage North Read online

  A Passage North is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Anuk Arudpragasam

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Hogarth, an imprint of the Random House Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Hogarth is a trademark of the Random House Group Limited, and the H colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Arudpragasam, Anuk, author.

  Title: A passage north : a novel / Anuk Arudpragasam.

  Description: London ; New York : Hogarth, an imprint of Random House, [2021]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2020044443 (print) | LCCN 2020044444 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593230701 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593230718 (ebook)

  Classification: LCC PR9440.9.A78 P37 2021 (print) | LCC PR9440.9.A78 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020044443

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/​2020044444

  Ebook ISBN 9780593230718

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Jo Anne Metsch, adapted for ebook

  Cover design: Anna Kochman

  Cover images: Michael Whelan/Gallery Stock (center), San Diego Museum of Art, USAEdwin Binney 3rd Collection/Bridgeman Images (border), Dmytrii Minishev/Alamy Stock Photo (background)

  ep_prh_5.7.0_c0_r1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Message

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Journey

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Burning

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Anuk Arudpragasam

  About the Author

  MESSAGE

  1

  The present, we assume, is eternally before us, one of the few things in life from which we cannot be parted. It overwhelms us in the painful first moments of entry into the world, when it is still too new to be managed or negotiated, remains by our side during childhood and adolescence, in those years before the weight of memory and expectation, and so it is sad and a little unsettling to see that we become, as we grow older, much less capable of touching, grazing, or even glimpsing it, that the closest we seem to get to the present are those brief moments we stop to consider the spaces our bodies are occupying, the intimate warmth of the sheets in which we wake, the scratched surface of the window on a train taking us somewhere else, as if the only way we can hold time still is by trying physically to prevent the objects around us from moving. The present, we realize, eludes us more and more as the years go by, showing itself for fleeting moments before losing us in the world’s incessant movement, fleeing the second we look away and leaving scarcely a trace of its passing, or this at least is how it usually seems in retrospect, when in the next brief moment of consciousness, the next occasion we are able to hold things still, we realize how much time has passed since we were last aware of ourselves, when we realize how many days, weeks, and months have slipped by without our consent. Events take place, moods ebb and flow, people and situations come and go, but looking back during these rare junctures in which we are, for whatever reason, lifted up from the circular daydream of everyday life, we are slightly surprised to find ourselves in the places we are, as though we were absent while everything was happening, as though we were somewhere else during the time that is usually referred to as our life. Waking up each morning we follow by circuitous routes the thread of habit, out of our homes, into the world, and back to our beds at night, move unseeingly through familiar paths, one day giving way to another and one week to the next, so that when in the midst of this daydream something happens and the thread is finally cut, when, in a moment of strong desire or unexpected loss, the rhythms of life are interrupted, we look around and are quietly surprised to see that the world is vaster than we thought, as if we’d been tricked or cheated out of all that time, time that in retrospect appears to have contained nothing of substance, no change and no duration, time that has come and gone but left us somehow untouched.

  Standing there before the window of his room, looking out through the dust-coated pane of glass at the empty lot next door, at the ground overrun by grasses and weeds, the empty bottles of arrack scattered near the gate, it was this strange sense of being cast outside time that held Krishan still as he tried to make sense of the call he’d just received, the call that had put an end to all his plans for the evening, the call informing him that Rani, his grandmother’s former caretaker, had died. He’d come home not long before from the office of the NGO at which he worked, had taken off his shoes and come upstairs to find, as usual, his grandmother standing outside his room, waiting impatiently to share all the thoughts she’d saved up over the course of the day. His grandmother knew he left work between five and half past five on most days, that if he came straight home, depending on whether he took a three-wheeler, bus, or walked, he could be expected at home between a quarter past five and a quarter past six. His timely arrival was an axiom in the organization of her day, and she held him to it with such severity that she would, if there was ever any deviation from the norm, be appeased only by a detailed explanation, that an urgent meeting or deadline had kept him at work longer than usual, that the roads had been blocked because of some rally or procession, when she’d become convinced, in other words, that the deviation was exceptional and that the laws she’d laid down in her room for the operation of the world outside were still in motion. He’d listened as she talked about the clothes she needed to wash, about her conjectures on what his mother was making for dinner, about her plans to shampoo her hair the next morning, and when at last there was a pause in her speech he’d begun to shuffle away, saying he was going out with friends later and wanted to rest a while in his room. She would be hurt by his unexpected desertion, he knew, but he’d been waiting all afternoon for some time alone, had been waiting for peace and quiet so he could think about the email he’d received earlier in the day, the first communication he’d received from Anjum in so long, the first attempt she’d made since the end of their relationship to find out what he was doing and what his life now was like. He’d closed the browser as soon as he finished reading the message, had suppressed his desire to pore over and scrutinize every word, knowing he’d be unable to finish his work if he let himself reflect on the email, that it was best to wait till he was home and could think about everything undisturbed. He’d talked with his grandmother a little more—it was her habit to ask more questions when she knew he wanted to leave, as a way of postponing or prolonging his departure—then watched as she turned reluctantly into her room and closed the door behind her. He’d remained in the vestibule a moment longer, had then gone to his room, closed the door, and turned the key twice in the lock, as if double-bolting the door would guarantee him the solitude he sought. He’d turned on the fan, peeled off his clothes, then changed into a fresh T-shirt and pair of shorts, and it was just as he’d lain down on his bed and stretched out his limbs, just as he’d prepared himself to consider the email and the images it brought to the surface of his mind, that the phone in
the hall began to ring, its insistent, high-pitched tone invading his room through the door. He’d sat up on the bed and waited a few seconds in the hope it would stop, but the ringing had continued without pause and slightly annoyed, deciding to deal with the call as quickly as possible, brusquely if necessary, he’d gotten up and made his way to the hall.

  The caller had introduced herself, somewhat hesitantly, as Rani’s eldest daughter, an introduction whose meaning it had taken him a few seconds to register, not only because he’d been distracted by the email but also because it had been some time since the thought of his grandmother’s caretaker Rani had crossed his mind. The last time he’d seen her had been seven or eight months before, when she had left to go on what was supposed to have been just a four- or five-day trip to her village in the north. She had gone to make arrangements for the five-year death anniversary of her youngest son, who’d been killed by shelling on the penultimate day of the war, then to attend the small remembrance that would be held the day after by survivors at the site of the final battle, which was only a few hours by bus from where she lived. She’d called a week later to say she would need a little more time, that there were some urgent matters she needed to attend to before returning—they’d spent more money than planned on the anniversary, apparently, and she needed to go to her son-in-law’s village to discuss finances with her daughter and son-in-law in person, which wouldn’t take more than a day or two. It was two weeks before they heard back from her again, when she called to say she’d gotten sick, it had been raining and she’d caught some kind of flu, she’d told them, would need just a few more days to recover before making the long journey back. It had been hard to imagine Rani seriously affected by flu, for despite the fact that she was in her late fifties, her large frame and substantial build gave the impression of someone exceptionally robust, not the kind of person it was easy to imagine laid low by a common virus. Krishan could still remember how on New Year’s Day the year before, when they’d been boiling milk rice in the garden early in the morning, one of the three bricks that propped up the fully laden steel pot had given way, causing the pot to tip, how Rani had without any hesitation bent down and held the burning pot steady with her bare hands, waiting, without any sign of urgency, for him to reposition the brick so she could set the pot back down. If she hadn’t yet returned it couldn’t have been that she was too weak or too sick for the ride back home, he and his mother had felt, the delay had its source, more likely, in the strain of the anniversary and the remembrance on her already fragile mental state. Not wanting to put unnecessary pressure on her they’d told her not to worry, to take her time, to come back only when she was feeling better. Appamma’s condition had improved dramatically since she’d come to stay with them and she no longer needed to be watched every hour of the day and night, the two of them would be able to manage without help for a few more days. Another three weeks passed without any news, and after calling several times and getting no response, Krishan and his mother had been forced to conclude that they were wrong, that Rani simply didn’t want to come back. It was surprising that she hadn’t bothered to call and tell them, since she was usually meticulous about matters of that kind, but most likely she’d just gotten so sick of spending all her time alone with Appamma that it didn’t even occur to her that she should let them know. Confined to a small room in a house on the other side of the country, forced to tolerate the endless drone of Appamma’s voice every day and night, unable to go outside the house for significant periods of time, since she didn’t know anyone and couldn’t speak Sinhalese, it made sense, they’d agreed between themselves, if Rani had decided after almost two years in Colombo that it was time finally to leave.

  Krishan had told Rani’s daughter that his mother wasn’t at home, that it would be a couple of hours before she would return, had asked whether there was any message he could pass on, and after pausing for a moment she’d told him, without any particular emotion in her voice, that Rani, her mother, had died. He hadn’t responded at first, the words he’d heard strangely devoid of meaning in his head, then after a few seconds had managed to ask how, what had happened, when. It had happened the previous night, she told him, after dinner, her mother had gone to get water from the well and had fallen in, nobody knew exactly how. They’d begun looking for her about twenty minutes after she’d disappeared, had searched all over for three quarters of an hour till her eldest child, Rani’s granddaughter, had gone right up to the well, leaned over the wall to look inside, and begun to scream. She’d fallen headfirst and broken her neck, either by striking the wall on the way down or the floor of the well, which contained no more than a foot or two of water. Krishan asked how she’d fallen, whether it had been an accident, not knowing whether this was a foolish or insensitive question, and Rani’s daughter replied that of course it was an accident, it was dark and there was no light, her mother must have tripped on the elevated concrete platform that surrounded the well, or perhaps she’d fainted while drawing water and fallen, she’d been complaining about headache and dizziness earlier in the day. She said all this in a somewhat mechanical tone, as if nothing about what had happened was shocking or surprising to her, and had then fallen silent, as if there was nothing more to say on the matter. Krishan wanted to know more, and wanting perhaps to ward off more questions Rani’s daughter added that the funeral, if he and his mother could make it, would be on Sunday afternoon. Krishan said he would let his mother know and that they would certainly come if they could, a statement that immediately felt absurd, not only because he was unsure whether the suggestion that they attend was something Rani’s daughter actually desired or merely a formality, but also because he realized as he gave his answer that he still didn’t quite believe what he had been told. He felt an urge to ask more questions, to ask who else had been present the night before, whether there’d been any other signs earlier in the day, had Rani said or done anything odd or unusual, had she been having headaches or dizziness regularly, had she finished dinner, what had they been eating, to ask for any detail really, however trivial, for there is always a need at such times to seek out more information, not because the information itself is important but because without it the event cannot be believed, as though you needed to hear all the circumstantial details that connected the unlikely death to the so-called real world before you could accept that its occurrence was not in opposition to the laws of nature. It was the fact, above all, that sudden or violent deaths could occur not merely in a war zone or during race riots but during the slow, unremarkable course of everyday life that made them so disturbing and so difficult to accept, as though the possibility of death was contained in even the most routine of actions, in even the ordinary, unnoticed moments of life. Suddenly the small details that are glossed over in your usual accounting of life took on an almost cosmic significance, as though your fate could be determined by whether or not you remembered to draw water before it became dark, by whether you hurried to catch the bus or decided to take your time, by whether or not you said yes or no to any of the countless trivial decisions that come only in retrospect, once the event has occurred and nothing can be changed, to take on greater significance. Krishan couldn’t think of anything to ask without seeming insensitive or overly inquisitive, and wanting to extend the conversation however he could he’d asked how far their village was from Kilinochchi town, what the best way was to get there. His mother would know, Rani’s daughter said, once they got to town they would have to take two buses, after which they would have to walk or take a three-wheeler to the village. There was another pause, and unable to think of anything else to ask, seeing that Rani’s daughter was unwilling to say or add anything more, Krishan was forced to say goodbye.

  He’d remained standing there in the hall for some time, long after he heard the click on the other end of the line, and it was only when the phone began to make a continuous and disconcertingly shrill beep that he put it back down on the hook and drifted back to his room. He locked the
door, walked slowly back to his bed, and sat down where he’d been sitting earlier. He picked up his cellphone, thinking to tell his mother the news, then remembered she was teaching and wouldn’t be able to answer till classes were over at seven-thirty. Putting the phone aside he looked around the room restlessly, at the miscellanea of things on the dressing table opposite, at his work clothes inside-out on the floor in front of him, the books and clothes and DVDs strewn on his brother’s unused bed. He picked up his trousers and turned them the right way around, folded them and placed them neatly on the bed. He did the same for his shirt, then looking around the room once more, got up and went to the window. Leaning upon the sill with both hands, forehead pressed lightly against the grille, he gazed out at the balcony of the house on the other side of the empty lot, at the clothes strung out on the line and the small TV satellite on the darkened terra-cotta roof. He tried to think about the phone call and what he had learned, of Rani’s death and how it had occurred, but the news still felt unreal to him, like something he couldn’t yet appreciate or understand. He felt not so much sadness as a kind of embarrassment for the way the news had caught him, in the midst of his self-involved thoughts about Anjum’s email and his impatience in dealing with his grandmother, as if by jarring him out of his ordinary consciousness the call had compelled him to think, paradoxically, not about Rani but himself, to look at himself from the outside and to see from a distance the life in which he’d been immersed. He thought of the way he’d responded to the arrival of the email that afternoon, the way he’d leaned up close to his laptop and stared at the screen without moving, the quiet surprise he’d felt as he read the message and the quiet anticipation that had followed, an anticipation he’d done his best to stifle, knowing it couldn’t be justified by the content of the message itself. The email had been fairly short, consisting of three or four carefully rendered sentences, deliberate and yet quietly lyrical, sentences that were intended to divulge no more and no less than Anjum wanted. They told very little of her life and asked very little of his too, this of course being Anjum’s way, her way not just of writing but of being also, though perhaps, he thought to himself, she’d written so little only because she hadn’t wanted to impose on him without permission, because she’d wanted to offer him the possibility of communication without obliging a substantial response. She’d been in Bombay for a couple of weeks, she’d written, where she’d taken a short break from the work she was doing in Jharkhand, the first time she’d returned to that city after the two of them had gone there four years before. She’d gone for a walk along the coast and had been reminded of the walk they’d taken there on the last day of their trip, had wondered how he was doing, whether his time since returning to Sri Lanka had given him everything he sought. She thought of him from time to time and hoped he was doing well, that he’d managed to find in his new home, with the passage of time, a solution to all his yearning, concluding the body of the email by attaching to that very specific word, yearning, the almost paradoxical idea of a solution, then signing off with only her first initial.