At the end of my year of leave, we returned to Melbourne. I had to complete a few additional years of service so as to secure an adequate retirement benefit. I assured Pat that, in due course, we would move back to Singapore.
During this second spell at Monash, Marcus kept me informed about Ranjan. Politically, Ranjan moved from strength to strength. Within a few years, he became the President’s right-hand man. He was now tipped ‘the successor’ and, in his own way, wielded power and influence. But – all in all – he had remained a subordinate. The reigns were still in his superior’s hands. Occasionally, Australian television showed him in the company of other members of the Sri Lankan cabinet, assembled around their leader and ready to run his errands.
Then came the Tamil rebellion. The large minority, with its headquarters in Jaffna – on the Northern tip of the island – stood up for its rights. The Tamils were ill-equipped, poorly led but resolute. Their demands could be summarised in one word: independence.
A farsighted leader might have agreed and proceeded with partition. The incumbent was not a man of compromise. Following some vain attempts to avert massacres, he sent his army to quell the rebellion. One of the Government Ministers had to be put in charge. He was not supposed to lead the operations; that task was left to army men. They, however, were to report to him. Politically, the Minster was to be a buffer between the sordid ground operations and their originator. In essence, the President felt the need to keep aloof; but, to ensure that his strategy of methodical destruction would be observed, he needed a reliable man.
His choice fell on Ranjan. I am confident that Ranjan did not volunteer. He had no wish to soil his hands in an act of genocide. But he had no choice. The fear of prosecution for his personal act of vengeance was still hanging over his head; and he knew that his party had a comprehensive dossier respecting the episode.
Ranjan looked impressive in his neatly tailored Khaki uniform, described by the television broadcaster as the symbolic attire of a Minster at War. All in all, he appeared the epitome of John Bull cast in dark brown.
Ranjan was effective. The less told about the episode the better. Still, despite the meticulous planning complemented by the army’s ruthlessness and savagery, the outcome was indecisive. The victims were innocent civilians and their families, including old men, women and children. Entire villages were laid bare. But the Tamil Tigers – the fighting terror force – withdrew to the Indian mainland. The Sinhalese could not pursue them there. When Ranjan’s army left the North, the acts of terror were resumed. The Tamil Tigers had crept back to their war-torn homeland. Sinhalese cabinet members and their families became a prime target.
Ranjan, though, escaped the Tamil Tigers’ wrath. In a speech, broadcast when his army let go of the land it had rampaged, he lamented the sufferings his troops had inflicted. Shedding tears, he exclaimed: “Your sufferings are my sufferings.” Were the Tamil freedom fighters moved or did they realise that Ranjan had been nothing but a tool? Did they know that Ranjan had no choice but to take orders?
About two months after the end of the bloody campaign, Marcus delivered an unexpected message from our mutual friend. Ranjan had remarried and his second wife was expecting a child.
“He didn’t send me an invitation; not even a note,” I couldn’t help complaining.
“It was a very small and informal occasion,” soothed Marcus. “Just family and a few close local friends. Actually, even I didn’t qualify!”
“A shotgun marriage, then?”
“No such thing in our country,” protested Marcus.
“Oh, well,” I retorted. “And is it going to be a boy or a girl?”
“A girl.”
“He must be disappointed,” I observed.
“They’ll have to try again,” affirmed Marcus, himself a father of three sons and four daughters.
“How old is his wife?”
“About thirty, I think: young!”
My conversation with Marcus reminded me that both Ranjan and I were into our fifties. Professionally each of us was at his peak. On the personal side we were also settled. There was, at the same time, a marked difference between our respective home fronts. After numerous tribulations, Ranjan found a suitable spouse. He had displayed the courage and the determination to get out of unhappy liaisons. True, he started a family late in life; but, in the very least, he was on his way home. In contrast, I lacked the gumption to start again, I remained in the frying pan.
To avoid suffocation, I heeded my wife’s demands and moved back to Singapore. My main hope was that the move would salvage what was left of my home life. I was aware that the prognosis was negative. Life had taught me that time was a great healer of wounds: it helped the scar tissue to grow. But it was not a tool for solving existing problems. In that realm the scalpel was more effective.