Redemption in Paradise

By Shane Joseph

"THERE ARE NO right or wrong choices. If your choices do
not lead to wisdom, you will get other chances. In this life - or in
another," says Gunananda, a fi fth century sage, somewhere in
Sigiriya.

This prediction follows a motley collection of tourists arriving in
present-day Sri Lanka on a four-day tour. Aggressive Australian
journalist Sarah has troubling visions of a past life. She desires
John, an idealist from Vancouver writing a thesis on fear.
American expatriates Margaret and Robert Keane are embroiled
in a love-hate relationship, haunted by the memory of their dead
son. Returning emigrant Lionel is anxiously seeking the country he
left behind. And burly Jefferson conceals the secret that brought
him east, whilst liberally indulging an appetite for prostitutes.
Escorting them is hard-drinking Asoka, struggling to survive the
hardships of life in the war-torn island. As they step on the tour
bus, each traveller unknowingly makes an appointment with
destiny.

Beginning with a roadside shooting of terrorist suspects, the tour
meanders through Kelaniya, Dambulla and the rock fortress of
Sigiriya, culminating in Kandy. Then things go terribly wrong and
unexpected events force them to a temple in the jungle and a
meeting with the mysterious Buddhist nun Gunanandani.

Mix in psychometry, a ghostly image captured on camera, arms
smugglers and a tattered band of military deserters, and the
travellers are swept into a confl ict that was never part of their
itinerary.

In the tragic climax at the crumbling temple, valuable lessons
are learned, leaving lives indelibly changed. And the prophecy of
Gunananda is fulfilled.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 11, 2006
• ISBN: 9781412227339

Shane Joseph

Shane Joseph began writing as a teenager living in Sri Lanka and is a graduate of the Humber School for Writers. He has travelled to one country for every year of his life and intends to maintain that record, more or less. Redemption in Paradise is his first novel. He has completed a second novel and is working on a collection of short stories. Shane lives in Toronto, Canada.

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Contents

Author’s Note

Dedication:

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Author’s Note

The events described in this book, both in ancient and recent history, are fictitious. Although Kasyapa was a king who ruled the fabled Kingdom of Sigiriya, I have taken the writer’s creative licence to craft a story around the circumstances that led to his demise. My portrayal of Sri Lanka therefore, is an amalgam of factual information, flights of imagination and recollections of time before I left her shores over two decades ago. I found this fluid landscape the ideal place to set a tale in which time itself is inconsequential.

Dedication:

To the people of Sri Lanka-may you attain peace-soon!

Prologue

Sarala was afraid. She was in the concubines’ chambers. Small, spare boxes carved out of the rock, dimly lit with oil lamps. The invading army was advancing. She could hear the trumpeting of elephants in the distance, the roar of Mogalana’s men smelling victory in their grasp. Metal clanged outside her door, people rushing about the chambers-anxious voices issuing commands. She heard the familiar drumbeat that signaled Kasyapa, her king and lover, was mounting his elephant, to lead his army into battle against the invaders. Soon he would face his brother Mogalana, in a decisive encounter, which only one of them could survive.

Grabbing a shawl, she went out into the corridor. The stone floor was cold to her bare feet. She felt a chill and pulled the shawl tighter over her naked breasts. The other concubines and slaves were in their chambers, afraid to come out. The eunuch was outside and heavily armed. She needed him on her side right now. His moods varied but she felt he would help her tonight. The eunuch saw her and grinned. A kind grin, revealing rotting teeth stained red with betel. Folds of body fat waddled over his tightly wrapped sarong pulled into a knot at the back. He held a spear and a sword dangled at his waist, as impotent as his manhood.

I have to visit Guru Gunananda, she said.

But I have orders that no one is to leave the chambers tonight.

You must! Please! You can escort me if you wish. She looked into his eyes plaintively.

A whiff of compassion stirred somewhere in his plump face. As a young man he may even have desired her. But just as he was developing those feelings they had singled him out for castration. Now he looked out for Sarala and the palace ladies, who were his only remaining family.

"All right, I will take you. But after the king and his troops have left. Stay in your room for now, I will come for you.’

She returned to the chamber and her mind went back to a less complicated time. There had been Gamini-betrothed to her since childhood. It was written that they would be man and wife one day, or so the village chief had said. She remembered Gamini’s playful face. Running hand in hand with him in the fields by the giant water tank. But that was all she remembered of him. And that was so long ago-he must be a big and strong man now, just as she blossomed into a beautiful woman. Her face clouded remembering the dreaded attack on her village, just outside Anuradhapura. Kasyapa and his men had killed many and taken the women and able-bodied young men, like the eunuch outside, prisoner. Gamini was reported to have either died or escaped into the jungle during the attack. Dazed and lost, the prisoners were herded back to Kasyapa’s fortress at Sigiriya. She was made a servant in his royal gardens. Although they were prisoners, the king was benevolent to his palace household and there was always plenty to eat and drink. One day Kasyapa noticed her budding youth and beauty while walking in the gardens with his entourage. He had her summoned to him. Her vision of love, something she had never experienced but only dreamed about as a young girl, had changed into one of servitude and pain that night when Kasyapa ravished her. Despite the pain and humiliation that she masked, she realized the pleasure that she was able to give him, pleasure that made her powerful. Her pain turned into determination, to get the most out of this uncertain life now that her old one had been destroyed. If it was designed that Kasyapa be her new lord and master, then she would serve him well and profit from it too. As that first night led to many others in rapid succession, she began to enjoy the acts of sex that he subjected her to, not so much for the pleasure it subsequently gave her own body but for the power it gave her over him-to withhold momentarily and then to release, withhold and release, as she led him on a dance of desire.

Three months later, Kasyapa had her image painted on the Rock along with his other favourites. Soon, he would even confide in her as they lay in bed and he had satiated his desire. Outwardly, Kasyapa was the king, all-powerful, ruthless and brave. In bed, spent of his seed and often drunk, he was another person. He was haunted by his father’s ghost. The father he had walled up and murdered in order to usurp the Sinhala throne. Now, having fled and headquartered in Sigiriya, he was also in mortal fear of his brother and the Indian support Mogalana was mustering.

Then word came that Gamini was alive and now a general in Mogalana’s army. She heard of a conspiracy in the Sigiriya court. A plot to overthrow Kasyapa it was rumored and to support Mogalana, who was becoming more powerful each day. The new life she had built for herself was again in jeopardy. She was undecided, even guilty. She had straddled both worlds and benefited from it so far. She was a survivor. Now she had to choose-Gamini or Kasyapa? Both had their limitations. Gamini-a memory almost, of a young man who stood for all the noble virtues in life, yet someone she did not know or love; someone who would however, provide security if Sigiriya was overthrown. Kasyapa-the fear-ridden megalomaniac, who had revealed vulnerability, raw passion and given her the finer things in life, and the only man she had ever really known. A hard choice to make-hence her need to speak to Guru Gunananda.

Come, the eunuch was summoning her. They went outside the lower palace compound, under the shadow of the Rock. Dusk had fallen and torches flared in the various buildings, reserved for soldiers, animals and labourers. The water ponds, normally populated with evening strollers, were deserted. Everyone was restricted to quarters and the troops had already departed. Sarala pulled the shawl over her head to remain as anonymous as possible. They ascended the steps leading to the ‘mouth of the lion’. The eunuch advised the guards there that the Guru had summoned them. The eunuch knew his way around, guards notwithstanding, and she was counting on him. They quickly climbed the remaining steps to the palace and adjoining temple. Walking past the mirror wall she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the torchlight. Pausing briefly, she let the shawl fall and looked at herself. Full breasts, proudly asserting her femininity; femininity that made Kasyapa wild with desire; braided hair raised in a coil over her head and decorated with a chain that rolled down in the opposite direction to rest on her forehead; waist, slim and spared the disfigurement that childbirth usually brings. Maybe she was barren-punishment for her betrayal of Gamini, his values and the life she had left behind. She drew the shawl around her again and hurried on. When they reached the summit, the eunuch led the way to the temple.

"I will wait for you outside-you have time till the call to prayer. Then we must return.’

She stepped into the temple. Incense burned and oil lamps flickered. Through the aromatic haze she saw the guru, saffron robes bowed in prayer in front of the statue of the benevolent Buddha. She approached him. He too was a transplanted person in Sigiriya. He had been a traveling monk, collecting alms and teaching the way of the Buddha. Kasyapa was intrigued by this monk’s ability to see into the future. Guru Gunananda foretold events that came to pass-like the drought of two seasons ago. Timely action to divert tank water onto the plain and extend the ponds had averted a famine. Soon, Kasyapa installed Gunananda within the royal circle. He became a trusted royal advisor. She found wisdom when listening to the guru. He was non-judgmental-he just held a mirror up to her, just like the mirror wall did-only he held it to her soul.

"You are troubled, my child,’ he said without looking up.

"What will happen, guru? War is imminent.’

And you have to choose sides-again?

Will Kasyapa lose, this time? I heard that Mogalana has a large army.

What are you afraid of-your life?

Aren’t you afraid?

No. What is written will be. Kasyapa chose his path, now he needs to tread it. He came for counsel before he set out with his army. I gave him the same message.

But he pulled us along his path too.

"No one pulled you. You had the choice to go with

him."

But I had no choice when they burned down my village. I would have been killed with the others if I had not gone along as a slave.

Death is also a choice. You chose to live and change your principles.

There is nothing wrong in choosing to live, she said stubbornly.

No. It is also a choice with its own consequences. And you have enjoyed the position he has placed you in.

It’s the best I’ve had in my entire life. And now I have to choose again. What do you advise?

Seek the path of love.

But what is love? All I know is how to please my master and the power over him it has given me.

Go within. Listen to your inner voice. Be true to it. And do not worry about the consequences of following its message.

But you chose to follow him too. Did your inner voice tell you that?

Yes. My voice told me that Kasyapa needed guidance. Many of his followers, such as you, needed guidance. That is why I stayed-to help. But now this chapter is coming to an end. Kasyapa has chosen to fight an impossible war. Perhaps, this is his way of exorcising his fear-by facing it. This is what he came on the earth plane to experience in this incarnation.

Gunananda turned towards her. "He will not return from this campaign.’

She shivered. She had come for prophecy, for a glimpse into the future-and the guru had given her that. There was no more he could tell her or do for her. The mirror had spoken. She rose, bowed respectfully and went outside.

As she was leaving, she heard his gentle voice remind her. "There are no right or wrong choices. Each choice leads to a consequence. Live in the moment and the future will be fashioned by it. If the choices you make do not lead to the wisdom you are seeking, then you will get other chances. In this life-or in another.’

Come,’ she said firmly to the eunuch who was pacing about agitatedly outside the temple. We must get to Mogalana’s troops. There is a man there-Gamini. He will look

after us. Hurry!"

***

The mule carried her through the jungle, the eunuch holding the reins and walking ahead. They travelled slowly, making frequent stops as soldiers were moving about the undergrowth, and one did not know which side they were on. Twigs cracked nearby and a figure emerged from the trees. It was the guru. He was walking towards them and away from Sigiriya. He may have been taking a stroll in the temple-his step was leisurely and measured.

"Shh! Guru Gunananda-it’s me, Sarala.’

"Ah, my child. You decided to leave then?’

"Yes. Will you travel with us? It’s not safe out here.’

Thank you. But I have to walk my own path now. And you have to go over to the one you have chosen.’ Then he looked at her closely. You are still wearing the clothes of Kasyapa’s house. You need to change. The conversion to the other side, if it is to be, must be complete.’

She had thought about this when they set out from Sigiriya but could not part with the clothing that became her.

She looked like a princess. She was a painting on the palace wall because of this.

I can’t. I won’t. Gamini will accept me for who I am, she said emphatically.

If that is what your inner voice tells you-then follow that path. Farewell, then! The guru continued on his way. Soon he was swallowed up in the jungle.

As they crested a hill, Sarala looked back. She could see the Rock on fire. Mogalana’s troops must have broken through Kasyapa’s army and were burning the rock fortress. Flames spat out of the mouth of the lion and the giant stone structure looked like a living dragon in the night.

Stop!

She turned around in the saddle to see men emerging silently out of the jungle. Their uniforms indicated they were Mogalana’s troops. The eunuch reached for his sword but was hit simultaneously by several arrows. With a gurgling scream, that sounded more like a pig’s squeal, he fell heavily onto the ground, dying instantly. The shawl fell off her head and slid down her shoulders revealing the headgear and necklace of Kasyapa’s palace. Her proud breasts thrust through-the only defense against these bloodthirsty men.

She shouted proudly. Take me to Gamini, Mogalana’s general. I am his betrothed. You will not harm me!

Look at her. She is one of Kasyapa’s women.

Take her!

Rape her!

No-you are mistaken! Take me to Gamini, I say!

Kill her!

Her pleas went ignored. She held her head high and preserved her dignity while the lead soldier, a big, fat ugly man, hauled her off the mule onto the ground and fell upon her. She ignored the pain and humiliation as they ravaged her body, one after the other, sometimes two from either side. She kept her thoughts on Gamini. Would she have grown to love him? Even Kasyapa crossed her mind, the pain of the moment evoking memories of her first night with him. Her regret was that this had all gone wrong. She would never know what love is. But the guru said there were no wrong choices. And there would always be another chance. She blacked out and was spared further ignominy as they savaged her body until death released her spirit.

Chapter One

As the aircraft descended, Lionel Kodituwakku looked down on the sea of coconut trees surrounding the Katunayake airport. There were isolated buildings here and there, but it was still a rural landscape-the Sri Lanka he left twenty years ago. By contrast, departing Toronto on Friday-apart from the CN Tower and Lake Ontario providing relief-it was a sprawling suburbia, with its winding rows of cloned houses and patches of parkland that had bid him goodbye. After a brief transfer in London, he was on the Sri Lankan Airlines flight-arriving home at last!

Home. That was a funny thing to call Sri Lanka after being away for a whole generation. Yet, this was home, the land of his birth, his culture and his habits. The plane landed and a few passengers applauded-returning emigres like him.

A blast of humid air hit him on the open stairway as they disembarked and then he saw the soldiers. They were everywhere-at the foot of the steps, surrounding the fuel and baggage trucks, at the entrance to the terminal and inside the building as well. This was certainly new to him, despite all the Sri Lankan news diligently digested in Toronto.

Lionel followed the line marked ‘Sri Lanka Passports’. Twenty years in Canada had not persuaded him to accept Canadian citizenship, and he had remained a ‘landed immigrant’. Whenever the children raised the question in later years, he had ignored it. Giving up being Sri Lankan was too difficult for him. It was his identity. Yes, it may be a flawed society now, but which society was without its problems? And even though it was a difficult passport to travel with these days and required visas for almost every country one passed through, he was sticking with it. The pompous looking official, spot-checking arrivals, asked him to go into the customs bay for a routine check, while the ‘Foreign Passports’ line flowed through unimpeded.

There was a noticeable absence of airport visitors peering through the glass in the arrivals hall, awaiting friends or relatives from abroad. In fact, the glass was opaque now and the outside world completely cut off. When Lionel lived in Sri Lanka, he used to visit the airport, whenever people in his circle of friends and relatives returned from overseas. He had often stuck his nose to that glass, fighting for every bit of space he could get among the throng of ‘peek and greet’ people. On the other side of the glass, the side he was on today, the new arrivals would put on a show for the benefit of the ‘peek and greeters’. In oh, so unsubtle ways they would flaunt how much they had prospered abroad-materially. Many struck poses and strutted about the customs bays in their ‘imported clothes’, occasionally taking a moment to wave graciously at their less fortunate brethren pressed up against the glass on the other side. In those days, everyone entering Sri Lanka had to go through customs checks, due to stricter import controls. And the ‘less fortunate ones’ hung on to the returnees every move with exclamations like, Aney, look-Manel akka has put on some weight, hasn’t she? Looks really good! or, Myee, Bunty mama’s hair is all gray now no, child? and waited impatiently to receive the ‘imported’ gifts that were sure to accompany the new arrivals.

What have you to declare? the customs officer rudely interrupted his reminiscing.

Oh, just some small gifts and souvenirs from Canada, officer. I am returning after twenty years, you see.

Open your bag, let’s see.

The customs officer went through Lionel’s bag, carelessly pulling out clothing and other personal effects. He noticed the two bars of chocolates Lionel had carefully placed on top of his clothes. The customs officer moved on without pausing, leaving the chocolates untouched. Perhaps, the stakes are higher now that imports are freely available.

Any liquor?

Er, no. I don’t drink. Not anymore.

The customs officer looked annoyed, as if this foolish tourist had just missed a great opportunity for personal gain, despite his abstinence.

"But you are allowed up to two bottles, no? Next time don’t forget to bring something. What else have you got? Foreign currency?’

"Yes, travelers’ cheques. I’ve put it down on the declaration form.’

"No cash?’

"No.’

The man lost interest suddenly and chalked the bag, leaving Lionel to pile all his clothes into the suitcase again. "Here, give this form to the officer at the door when you leave,’ he said, his look of annoyance turning to dismissal, as he moved onto the next person in line.

When Lionel stepped through the opaque doors into the arrivals hall, there were still no peek and greet’ people to be seen. Except for a few tour operators holding up signs for arriving visitors, the ubiquitous soldiers walking about and staff at the travel service counters lining the hall, the arrivals area was rather empty. When he finally found the peek and greeters,’ they were outside the terminal building, gathered some distance away from it, behind a heavily guarded fence. Obviously, returning emigres had forever lost their opportunity to put on a show now-thanks to the stepped up security! And there would be no one to greet him today, either. His circle of friends and relatives in Sri Lanka had dispersed to many parts of the world during the intervening years.

Taxis had easier access to the airport, at least those with the right connections to the security people. Negotiating the fare was difficult-the rupee had diminished by over a hundred times it seemed! Eight hundred rupees, one-way to Colombo! That was almost a month’s salary when he first started working as an accountant in this country! He shook his head and tried to look on the bright side. It was only about fifteen Canadian dollars, less than half the taxi fare from his home in Toronto to Pearson airport on the way out. But people did not earn Canadian dollars in this country-how did they manage?

People were still walking about the streets as he remembered. Rickety public transport buses belched black smoke and bullock carts rolled over potholed roads-the old world he had left behind. Whole shanks of beef, dripping blood hung in open-air cadjan market stalls by the road, while flies buzzed around. The new world also stuck out in places and became more evident as he neared the city. Billboards advertising Internet services, cell phones and other products of the current generation. The roads were wider too-three lane traffic, that was new! Faster cars went by and stronger horns blared more aggressively. He was surprised to see so many Mercedes Benzes, Jaguars and BMWs. This was