Okay, we had clearly asked the wrong question. Perhaps it was a tad stupid of us after what we had just seen. But none the less the question was out there. We had asked the chap if he was a Tamil and that was that.

We had just been to the Kandy Kathirgamar temple. We had expected to see a stately statue of Karthikeya. We saw a calendar style reproduction. Yes. You don’t get to see the actual deity. We asked the priest why the idol was hidden. He told us that that was tradition and shuffled off. My sister and I looked at each other, baffled. We had travelled all this way to be here to worship where my grandfather once had. Then I noticed a board placed strategically next to the poster that said “This Hindu deity is the servant of the Buddha.” The physical proof, if one can call it that, behind the sanctum, is a gigantic statue of the Buddha dwarfing the main temple.

As we left, carpets were being laid out, the temple being decorated with garlands. I had stopped to ask this man clad in a veshti what the occasion was. The man looked at is quizzically. Finally he blurted out it was the festival of the Scared Tooth — every temple celebrates it. Why on earth would we find it odd for a Hindu temple to celebrate a Buddhist state organised festival?

In the light of that: we had asked. “Are you Tamil? Do you live around here?” The boy
literally, visibly jumped out of his skin. As the words tumbled out, those within hearing distance, stiffened, turned around to look at him. “No, no” He says hurriedly, but with practiced ease. He had asked us earlier only because my sister and I had conversed
in Tamil.

For a few electric seconds, all was quiet. The chap next to him was weighing out
biscuits. His eyes on the scale. His attention on us. The boy moved on, getting the things we wanted. Told us he was Sinhalese, born and brought up in the south, he emphasised. His father had moved to Kandy he said, loudly, not for us, but for the invisible, unseemingly interested ears that had perked up by our question as we sat down to eat. He came up alongside pretending to clean the tables. He quickly scanned the area and launched into Tamil.

Kumar was a Tamizh refugee from Vavunia. His parents had moved here when he was a child. Just after the 1983 riots. Their home had been burnt. They had escaped with just the clothes on their back. His mother had managed to bring along some jewellery.
Part of the jewellery was used to bribe their way out. The rest, to create a new life. New names, new identities. A new Sinhala Buddhist life. Tamil was reserved for visits to relatives in India. He does not go to the Kandy Karthigamar temple. If he does, he prays to the Buddha there, and hopes that Kathirgama is listening.

Do they not speak Tamil at home? No, he says: “Rarely. When I feel like singing perhaps and that too softly.” They cannot risk their neighbours finding out. It would jeopardise all his parents had worked for.

Back at the bakery I asked Kumar what would happen to them if they were ever say, discovered. “Oh! I will lose my job. The police can stop and question us any time. They can enter our homes and conduct searches even in the middle of the night. Moreover our neighbours will not let us live there.”

So why does he continue to live here we ask. Why not leave Sri Lanka like his relatives did? “What other choice do I have? This is my land. This is all I know. Till we can bear it we will.”

In silence we finish our meal and leave. Kumar comes out behind us and hands me a plastic bag with a smile. He has  packed some more goodies for us . “This is with affection. You have come from my motherland. Please accept this. I cannot send you empty handed.”

We mumbled a thank you he did not wait to hear. He turned and left.