Selected Sri Lankan Short Stories Collection

1923 –1980; Vol. 1

SLAVES
By Martin Wickramasinghe 

Martin Wickramasinghe (1890-1976) is considered as one of the pioneers of Sinhala writing in Sri Lanka. He pioneered the art of short story and the novel. He has written 14 novels. He is also widely accepted as one of the earliest literary critics of the country. Wickramasinghe introduced realism into fiction and also introduced the short story as a medium of artistic expression. His first short story collection was published in 1924 and since that initial venture he has published 108 short stories. The short story in this volume is from his collection Vahallu (Slaves).

Handaya licked Upalis’ feet. Upalis opened his sleepy eyes Land looked with annoyance at the snout with its sagging jowls, as the cart-bull licked his feet again and looked at him with the moist eyes of an old man.

“Come, come closer,” he called out, his irritation giving way to feelings of compassion for the aging animal.

Handaya raised one foreleg onto the verandah where Upalis lay in his bed. With laboured effort the other leg followed. Exhausted as if he had climbed a steep hill, the aging animal dragged his hind legs and rear quarters onto the verandah.

Upalis stroked the face of the animal, who responded by licking his hands. Upalis’ long black hair was drawn tight against his head and knotted at the back. It had the gloss and neatness  of recent combing and oiling.

“That will do.”

Handaya licked the back of Upalis’ hand once more, and then looked at the front door as Upalis’ wife opened it and stepped out into the verandah.

“Go away, go back to the garden.” She put her hands on Handaya’s head and pushed him. Like an obedient child, Handaya turned back and stepped down into the garden. He stood still a while, looking up at the immobile Upalis, and ambled away. With a backward jerk of his head he swished his tail across his back, whence a cloud of tiny flies rose like wind-swept dust.

“Handaya is always disturbing your sleep,” complained Upalis’ wife.

The Deception

By Ananda Liyanage

AD 491`

AD 491
Sinhagiri¹
Lanka²

He sat at the throne made from solid rock facing east on top of the rock that was his citadel. In front of him was the pond hewn from solid rock. The water level in the pond was low since water had to be carried all the way from the ground below to fill it in the dry season. He preferred to use the pond at the top of the rock even in the dry season although there was a palace and ponds on the ground below for the express use during the dry season. There had been no rain now for the last two months. It had cost several years of hard labour for this artificial pond to be constructed. The workers who had perished in the construction of this citadel were many. These thoughts passed fleetingly through his mind as he stared in to the distance.

He kept on seeing the same vision that had haunted him for the entity of his reign which had now lasted for eighteen years. It was the image of the shrunken and broken body of his father whom he had imprisoned. He recalled that it was the night he had ordered his father’s death that he was called to the cell. The messenger had said that his father wished to speak to him about a matter that he had been asking him about. It was with a sense of achievement that he had hurried to his fathers’ cell that night. He remembered his question with trepidation now.

His father dressed only in a loincloth chained to the wall of his cell had raised his tired head from his chest as he approached. With sunken and bloodshot eyes that also conveyed a look of sympathy he had whispered,

“You ask me for my fortune which you thought I was hiding from you to give to your half brother and rightful heir to the throne”

The Legacy

By Ananda Liyanage

PROLOGUE

BC 140
Anuradhapura
Lanka

The city has gone to sleep several hours ago. The houses spreading from the centre of the city to the suburbs in all directions were in darkness. The street lights, the only city in BC 140 in the Kingdom which had this facility were extinguished. To an aerial observer only the sentry lights from the guard posts at the palace gates and the four city gates to the north, south, east and west of the city gave any indication that it was a living city. For all intent and purpose the capital city of Lanka¹, Anuradhapura was asleep. The only other light in the sleeping city came from the royal palace. The palace which was spread on a large track of land towards the north end of the city was a single story structure with guard towers placed strategically at the four corners of the rectangular compound surrounded by a high rampart. The royal palace was built with a courtyard at the centre and wings to the east, west and north. The south side of the palace formed the entrance to the courtyard.

It was from the east wing of the palace that a light shone. The east wing formed the living quarters and connected facilities of the King which included the conference and audience chambers. The west wing housed the quarters of the Queen, and other members of the royal family. The north wing was the utility section of the palace which included among other things the cooking facilities, the living quarters for the palace guards and servants. The out buildings of the palace were the royal stable with living quarters for the handlers, the large storehouse that housed the many requirements of the palace and the armoury, all of which was housed within the palace compound. The lights which were normally extinguished at around midnight shone today well past that hour. The illumination could be observed by a close inspection to be coming from the Kings sleeping chamber.

This was alien to the King who followed the principle of waking up early to the call of the birds and who was therefore seldom seen awake at such a late hour. Contrary to routine the King was wide awake. He was not sitting at his table where he attended to the many chores of ruling a Kingdom. Neither was he pacing up and down which he was reputed to do when actively thinking or planning a military campaign. He was lying in bed in an upright position. He was a person of slightly above average height and dark in complexion. His features were rugged and belied his age. His body bore scars of wounds that were acquired during the many military campaigns he had conducted. The most amazing feature in his entire countenance was his eyes. They were a most penetrating dark pair of eyes which had an inner depth. They were alive and conveyed a sense of urgency to those looking at them. In fact they had the ability to seduce any person who came in to close contact with King Gamani².

Sam’s Story

By Elmo Jayawardena

FIRST CHAPTER:
River House

I came to work at the river house not so long ago. It was a few years before the world turned 2000. Two thousand to me is a nice sounding number, that is why I remember, like twenty-five. I know the exact month too when all this started. It was the mango month. That is how everybody in our village called it – mango month.

We always had our own names for the months. That way it was easy to remember how the years came and went. Mango month, raining month, dry month, mangosteen month, first month, last month and so on it went. Mango month was when there were more green mangoes than green leaves on the branches of the mango trees.

That’s when I first came to the river house.

‘Can you cook?’ the Master in the river house asked me.

‘Can you iron clothes?’

‘Can you do the marketing; buy vegetables, buy bread, buy beef?’

One after the other the questions came, like thunderclaps.

I could never figure out why people asked me so many questions. Maybe they thought I knew all the answers to life. Even when I stood at a bus stop, someone would ask me some stupid question.

‘What time will the next bus come?’

 People always asked me things like that. How would I know when the next bus is coming?

‘When did the last bus go?’

That is a real stupid question. I wouldn’t be here if I had been at the bus stop when the last bus went, would I?

Some even ask me, ‘Are you waiting for a bus?’

‘No, I’m waiting for a boat,’ I would mutter softly under my breath.

Kilali Crossing – a tale of despair and desire

By Prof. C. Suriyakumaran

FIRST CHAPTER:
UNCLE ARUN BOARDS THE TRAIN

It was dawn enough when Uncle Arun got down from his three wheeler at the country’s premier railway station at Colombo. The morning mist was still lingering partly and the weather was nippy. Uncle Arun, being old, was wearing a light pullover that contrasted boldly with the open chested and single shirted young bucks who were rushing into what was called the Fort Railway Station, almost jostling while doing so, to board the train that was by now waiting for them at No. 1 Platform, to go to Vavuniya. It was the usual slightly coldish weather of a January morning over most of Sri Lanka, and soon the mists were to clear away with a clear blue sky for the rest of the day.

But Uncle Arun had no thought or time for these, firstly with his age, secondly like for most other things, having lived through so many Januaries in his life and, above all, since he was most keen not to miss the train. He had reserved a seat alright, given the class he was travelling in, but he knew it was perilously close to departure time and of course bookings had nothing to do with this.

Uncle Arun managed to plough through the crowd somehow, lucky to find the correct bogey sooner than he thought and was soon seated comfortably by a window seat, as he always preferred, facing the direction of the engine.

As expected, passengers had already filled in, occupying their reservations. Uncle Arun quickly had a look around his own compartment set in the customary four rows with three seats in each, for he loved, being from the older generation, getting to know everybody around him and, in the usual Sri Lankan way, inquiring where they were from, where they were going to, why, for how long, when were they returning, and all of it. When he found the time was right, he would indulge in old stories which his listeners, who were much younger, fortunately loved to hear.

The train had not started yet but was obviously about to do so and Uncle Arun noticed, amidst the by now full complement, that two seats right in front of him were still vacant. Strange he thought, when almost with the blow of the whistle there rushed in a handsome young fella. Contrary to style he popped in first, took a firm grip of a beautiful girl’s hand obviously his new wife or friend and saw her firmly in. They smiled, deeply satisfied it seemed more in each other than even having jumped into the train in time. They certainly made a beautiful couple, she a nature’s product and he carrying the spit and polish of a young man from abroad, who seemed to have had a rich father. He was clearly Tamil, said Uncle Arun to himself. The girl was Tamil of course, but above all carrying a beauty which exceeded all artifacts, long haired although tied up in a knot – the `konde’, one of so many styles common to both Sinhalese and Tamils, betraying the similarities of their peoples, despite the murderous War that was going on between the two up in the North.

First Chapters of Sri Lankan Books Online

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