The Birthmarks

An incident that happened in some time back, in Digana.

The Birthmarks

The days went by.
Days of laughter.
Telling old tales, walking in the evenings…

Before lunch, we all went for a dip in the river.
Drinking toddy after a bath…

“These days the current is at its lowest, so don’t worry, Jenny,” Jagath told my wife.

The water was very cold. The river is called Hulu Ganga, a branch of the Mahaweli, I learned. We spent about an hour or so bathing and swimming, and hurried home—hunger gnawing at me after the long drive and refreshing bath.

“Let’s try some toddy first, Jaye.” He had brought a bottle, and I remember—it was very sweet.

To reach the bathing spot, we had to walk about a kilometer and a half through thick shrubbery, passing a few thatched houses along the way. Far away on both sides, I could see the paddy fields. Beyond those, fruit trees—mango, jambu, butter fruit—lined both sides of the road.

When we passed the third house, we saw a beautiful village damsel doing something in the open yard.
When I asked Jagath who that was, he replied,
“Ah, that’s Manel, Keerthi’s wife.”

“Who is Keerthi?” I suddenly wanted to know.

“The one with the dolomite industry, you know?” Jagath answered innocently.
“Turn left after the bus stand, Jaye,” Jennifer said in an excited voice. We had just passed Digana town and were rushing along Mahiyanganaya Road toward my friend Jagath’s home in the suburb called Gomagoda. It was April 2014, two days before the New Year.

He lived in a small hamlet near the river with his wife and two children. Jagath had invited me and my wife to spend a few days with them. Since our children were away, we agreed to visit during the holidays.

Nayana, Jagath’s wife, greeted us with a big smile.

“Do you remember me?” I asked.

“Though it’s been a long time since I last saw you, Aiya, how can I forget your face—with those birthmarks?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied. I have very distinct birthmarks on my face. Actually, four: two below the lower lip, one on the chin, and one on the throat—all in a straight line.

“Like Irene’s,” Jenny used to tease me.

“Who?”

“Irene—Willi Abeynayake’s wife in the movie Nidhanaya.”

“Oh,” I nodded.

It was four days after the New Year—Friday the 18th.

I have a habit of walking in the mornings, wherever I am. Jenny was in the kitchen, cooking with Nayana, while Jagath was working on his motorcycle.

“Care for a bath?” I asked him. We were leaving that afternoon, and I badly wanted one more dip.

“No, Jaye. Some problem with the carburetor. You go ahead. On your way to the river, don’t forget to tell Piyasena Aiya to bring two bottles of toddy.”

“Sure,” I nodded and left.

I took the usual route to the river and was in the water for about half an hour when I noticed dark clouds gathering over the hills.

I quickly finished bathing and started back toward Jagath’s home.

The rain began to fall heavily—like being hit with stones. I looked around for shelter, and my eyes caught a small house along the way.

I stood under the shade of the front door when a voice called out:
“Please come inside, Mahattaya.”

It was Manel, the woman I’d seen earlier—the wife of Keerthi, who was away at work…

The cold was creeping in. I felt a chill and went inside, sitting on a wooden chair.

She made me a cup of tea. It tasted good.

“Where are the children?” I asked.

“No children, Mahattaya,” she replied innocently.

“You’re staying at Jagath Mahattaya’s place?” she asked, her dusky eyes locked on my face, searching.

“Yes.” I noticed how pretty her deep brown eyes were.

“I saw you… the other day.” She lowered her gaze.

“I used to work in his garden,” she said again.

Heavy thunder now.

“Oh?”

“Some time ago,” she added, looking at me inquiringly.

A sudden flash of lightning.
Thunder roared.
Rain poured heavily—it was unexpectedly dark.

And in that shadowed room, I felt a hand touch me.

It was December 2017.
Another trip to Digana.

This time, my younger brother Anil and his wife, Savithri, joined us.
Same place—at Jagath’s.
Evening walks.
Sunday morning mass at Digana Church.

One morning, we all went for a bath in the river.
A calm morning.
Crystal-clear water. Very shallow here, I thought.

There was no one else in the water except a man of about 60 and a small boy, around three years old.

While bathing, I asked Jagath, “Who are those two?”

“Why? That’s Manel’s husband—and his son,” Jagath said, diving into the river.

Savithri took a good look at the boy and said sharply,
“Aiya, that boy has the same distinguished birthmarks… just like you!”

Instinctively, my hand moved to touch my own.