A few years later, Ranjan’s sad end was vividly drawn back to my attention. One day I received an email in which the sender, who signed himself as Chula Jeyaratne, asked me for lunch. Initially, I was unable to identify him. I then recalled that I had met Ranjan’s younger brother, whose name was Chula, during my first visit to Colombo.
The man in his late middle age, who had arrived at the agreed venue before me, bore no resemblance to that unformed boy I had met years earlier. His black hair was laced with silver and his face was wrinkled.
During the first course, we stuck to small talk. He told me that he had a son and two daughters, all pursuing their studies in England. His son, I was amused to learn, read for Law in Ranjan’s old college at Oxford. Chula himself was a graduate of King’s College of London University. After years as a computer expert in Colombo, he had moved to Singapore. He had no intention of returning to Sri Lanka. It had become a violent and unstable country. Singapore, in contrast, was a place of peace even if rather hectic. Chula had secured a post as the Head of the IT team in a leading industrial enterprise.
“Ranjan’s assassination took place years ago,” he observed after the waiter had placed our main courses in front of us, “its tenth anniversary was three days ago,
“How far is the episode still remembered in Sri Lanka?” I asked.
According to Chula, Ranjan’s assassination remained fresh in the memory of members of his own the clan. Other people were too engrossed in their own lives to recall a political murder that had taken place in a previous era. All in all, Ranjan Jayaratne’s name was largely forgotten.
“ Who had taken over?” I wanted to know. “As far as I recall, the then President was himself killed by a suicide bomber some ten days after he had arranged to eliminate your brother. A Tamil Tiger attack, I gather!”
“Yes, it had been a Tamil Tiger plot,” nodded Chula. “But what makes you think that Ranjan’s killer was hired by the President?”
“Wasn’t he the chap behind the killing? Everybody assumed he had initiated the assassination contract!”
“It was conventional truth,” conceded Chula, “but actually it wasn’t the President’s long hand. He was horrified when the news was out and asserted that he had had nothing to do with the killing. And, you know, he told the truth. That fellow was a corrupt and ruthless politician. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew only too well that any attempt on Ranjan’s life would be attributed to him. Also, I think he wanted to win by a fair vote; not by a filthy plot!”
“So who was behind it?” I asked, bewildered. “The Tamil Tigers?”
Chula’s advised me that that supposition was also unfounded. He then told me what had really happened. Ranjan’s decision to quit the party was partly motivated by his realisation that a somewhat younger rival intended to jump over his back; and the fellow was warming his way into the incumbent’s favour. Ranjan had sensed that, before long, he would cease to be the heir elect.
“And did that fellow get there?” I wanted to know.
“No, he didn’t. When the President was assassinated another politician stole a march over him.”
“And what has happened to him since?”
“He lives as a recluse in Kandy; and he is bitter. He feels he had spent a lot of money to organise the killing, only to bring someone else into power.”
“What happened to the assassin?”
“Some three months after the shooting, two men burst into his house and liquidated him and his entire family! This too was organised by that fellow”
“I see. But can you tell me who was – or is – that organising fellow? Is he somebody I would have heard of?”
“Actually, I think you met him. He, too, was at Oxford. And for a while he went out with a girl who knew Ranjan. Her name was Lillo.”
“Don’t tell me that chap’s name is Joseph X!”
“That’s him,” answered Chula dryly.
Once again, my mind was in turmoil. Joseph had good reason to hate Ranjan. The very girl he had hoped to marry, took her life when she had comprehended Ranjan was not going to come back to her. In a subtle, singularly indirect manner, my own indiscretion of making that clear to Lillo, had – years later – been one of the links in the chain ending with Ranjan’s assassination. So Fortuna, too, paid attention to cause and effect. She, too, had a sense of justice even if, to an occasional onlooker, it appeared twisted.
“But didn’t Ranjan appreciate the dangers facing him?” I wanted to know.
“He did, rather. And you know, I had my contacts in the underworld. For two million dollars I could have arranged to have both the President and Joseph eliminated!”
“Did you tell this to Ranjan?”
“Of course I did; I wanted him to raise the money; but he wouldn’t hear of it! He was furious.”
“What did he say?” I prompted.
“He said he didn’t have two million dollars and then yelled: ‘How can the two of us be the sons of the same father? And you know Father would never dirty his hands in such a ploy. If I win, it must be by a fair vote, and not by tricks.’ I was dumbfounded.”
So Ranjan had sealed the warrant for his own death. Two million dollars were – especially at that time – a great deal of money. But Ranjan’s bank statement gave his financial excuse the lie. To him, the sum was peanuts! The real reason for his angry reaction was plain. All in all, he too had a conscience. It might have been rather flexible – not as well defined as the common man’s – but, at the very least, it was not altogether left out of Ranjan’s make up. He was neither a saint nor a scoundrel through and through. Like most humans, he was somewhere in between.
Had his life, his career and his aspirations been just a flash in the pan? He had left a widow and a daughter. After a pause, I asked what had become of them.
“Ranjan’s widow won a seat in Parliament,” Chula told me. “Elected out of sympathy, I think.”
“I thought she had at one time been made a cabinet member?”
“Quite so,” affirmed Chula. “They put her in charge of a not too important ministry.”
“And what became of Ranjan’s daughter? Did she go to one of the women’s colleges in Oxford.”
“She was offered a place in Lady Margaret Hall but declined,” Chula let his displeasure show; then added reluctantly: “She is a beautiful woman; and so she became a photographic model. She is doing rather well out of it. You might have seen her on the cover of international magazines.”
“It’s not a bad career,” I pointed out.
“Her choice would have broken Ranjan’s heart. He wanted his daughter to be a scholar!”
“Did he leave them enough money for a comfortable life?” I asked with hesitation.
“He did: just the right amount. There are some ugly rumours in Colombo about a vast fortune kept with some posh Swiss bank. But I don’t believe a word of it; and the widow’s modest lifestyle gives the lie to this malicious gossip!”
Before we parted, I promised to arrange another lunch. However, before I did so Chula’s employers sent him to a branch in another country.