Neighbours at the mercy of tense history
Novel explores divisions in a Sri Lankan community
There’s a reason most organized religions encourage their followers to love their neighbours or heed some similar variation of The Golden Rule. Neighbours, it turns out, are not easy to love. And that’s at the best of times and under the best circumstances, neither of which apply to the families whose fates intersect on the quiet residential road referred to in the title of Ru Freeman’s new novel On Sal Mal Lane.
Set in the Sri Lankan capital of Colombo, between 1979 and 1983, during a gathering storm of riots, political unrest and eventual civil war, On Sal Mal Lane is about “small people” destined for a showdown with momentous events.
For much of the story, though, the large cast of characters, most of them children, stay out of history’s way, preferring instead to get in each other’s way. Still, Freeman provides all the necessary ingredients — petty grievances, prejudices, and attractions — for her characters’ inevitable progress from youthful innocence to harsh grown-up reality.
It’s a slow build to big trouble, trouble that begins with the arrival of the Herath family on Sal Mal Lane. As depicted by Freeman, the Heraths — mother, father, two daughters, two sons — seem to represent everything that’s most impressive about culturally rich Sri Lankan society. Part of the Sinhalese majority, they’re nevertheless tolerant of the Tamil minority, specifically their Tamil neighbours. Buddhists, they also embrace the wide array of religions that have taken root on the island nation, formerly known as Ceylon.
The Herath children, in particular, stand out. They’re well-educated, well-mannered, charming, and talented. All reasons, of course, for them to be admired and resented, not to mention endlessly gossiped about by their new neighbours.
“New people had moved in,” as one longtime Sal Mal Lane resident puts it, “and with them had come the prospect of an improved hierarchy.”
Improved, at least, for some, like Raju Joseph; and diminished for others like Sonna Bolling.
Part neighbourhood mascot, part misfit, Raju sees the arrival of the Heraths as an opportunity to improve his status. He makes himself indispensable, running errands for his new neighbours and generally ingratiating himself. He also becomes self-appointed bodyguard for the Heraths’s youngest daughter, Devi. Whether Devi, precocious and already overprotected, needs a bodyguard and whether Raju is the right person for the job end up being the questions that drive the plot of the novel.
Meanwhile, Sonna, a typically confused adolescent, observes the Heraths from an increasingly ambivalent distance. While he’s clearly drawn to them, especially Rashmi, their eldest daughter, it’s equally clear there’s a dark side to his attraction.
But Raju’s and Sonna’s conflicting personalities and motives are not the only rifts between them. Just under the surface and gradually encroaching on Freeman’s story is the fact that some of her characters are Tamil (Raju), some are Sinhalese (Sonna), and all are at the mercy of historical and political forces pushing them toward a future ravaged by intolerance and violence.
In addition to writing novels, Freeman, who divides her time between her native Sri Lanka and the U.S., is a journalist and activist.
Indeed, the range of her concerns is evident in the mix of themes — politics, religion, class — Freeman takes on and, also, in the way she tells the story. There is a know-itall quality to her omniscient narration. She’s not averse, for instance, to interrupting the story to provide readers with a concise history lesson, beginning with the colonization of her country by “a steady march of unwelcome visitors.”
Nor does Freeman shy away from editorializing about how things got so bad in Sri Lanka, offering this biting commentary on the crazy intractability at the core of most racial and ethnic discord:
“To the untrained eye, the physical distinction between the Sinhalese and the Tamil races was so subtle that only the natives could distinguish one from the other, pointing to the drape of a sari, the cheekbones on a face, the scent of hair oil to clarify. But distinctions there were, and the natural order of things would eventually come to pass: resentments would grow …”
There are logistical problems with On Sal Mal Lane. Freeman juggles the lives of at least nine families in the novel. That’s some 30 characters, and even some of the more important ones — like Rashmi or Sonna’s sisters — end up shortchanged or dropped altogether. A number of storylines are also left at loose ends.
But, in the end, none of this detracts from the self-assurance of Freeman’s storytelling. She dares to let her narrative unfold slowly, very slowly, balancing a fondness for foreshadowing — we’re never allowed to forget the coming sectarian conflict and its tragic consequences — with remarkable patience. By the time Freeman’s characters are finally tested, some found wanting, some proving to be caring neighbours after all, the reader is thoroughly invested in the fate of all the residents on Sal Mal Lane.