Wave: A Memoir of Life After the Tsunami by Sonali Deraniyagala. Read online, or download in secure EPUB format. On the morning of December 26, , on the southern coast of Sri Lanka, Sonali Deraniyagala lost her parents, her husband, and her two. On the morning of December 26, , on the southern coast of Sri Lanka, Sonali Deraniyagala lost her parents, her husband, and her two young sons in the tsunami she miraculously survived. In this brave and searingly frank memoir, she describes those first horrifying moments and.
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Wave [electronic resource (eBook)]: a memoir / Sonali Deraniyagala. On December 26, Boxing Day, Sonali Deraniyagala, her English husband, her Published: (); The third wave [electronic resource (EPUB eBook)]: a volunteer story. Wave [electronic resource (eBook)]: a memoir / Sonali Deraniyagala. A brave, intimate, beautifully crafted memoir by a survivor of the tsunami that struck the Sri . Download terney.info Hi, I Found Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala [Epub] [Mobi] [PDF] on the internet and .
Editorial Reviews site. Throughout this fierce and furious book, I kept wondering how someone who lost so much could write about it with such power, economy and grace. We see, hear, and smell two rowdy little boys, their brotherly scuffling, their muddy shoes and grass stains. By confronting and recreating moments that make us laugh and weep, we accept their absence and root for the author not to quit.
Difficult to describe, tricky to recommend, this is a bold and wondrous book. In a wounded voice that manages to convey the snide, sarcastic, funny, and fatalistic personality that survives beneath the pain, Deraniyagala slowly pieces together the elements that represent the life — the lives — she lost. The tall iron gates still had spikes on top to keep burglars out. The rail on the balcony was white and safe.
The mango tree I was parked under was the same mango tree that gave me an allergic reaction when it flowered, that sickly tree, dark blotches on its leaves. I noticed some small black stones on the driveway, and I remembered.
Vik would juggle with these stones when he waited out here for the New Lanka Caterers van to come by selling kimbula paan — sugarcoated bread rolls shaped as crocodiles. It was a humid, sticky afternoon, and Mary-Anne rolled down the car windows.
From its perch on a nearby telephone post, a bulbul trilled. And I recalled the pair of red-vented bulbuls that nested in the lamp that hung in the car porch, just over the front wall.
In the hollow of the glass lampshade, there would be a nest built with dried twigs and leaves and even a green drinking straw. The boys were spellbound by the arrival of fidgety chicks, still part covered in pale red shell.
They watched the first flutter from that lamp many times, shooing off the mob of crows that rallied on the wall waiting for an unready chick to drop to the ground.
Now I could see the two of them, placing a chair under the lamp to stand on and get a better look. Shoving each other off that chair. My turn now. I wanna see the baby bird. Get off. A phone rang indoors. It made me shiver. It was the same phone, the same ring.
From my father's study on the other side of this wall, the phone kept ringing, no one picked it up. Now I could hear my father push back his chair to go tell my mother that it is her sister calling, again. I could hear him open the door of his study. A bunch of keys always dangled on that door. They tapped against the door's glass panel when it was opened or shut.
I could hear them jingle. In the past months, I'd been unable to focus on the death of my parents. I'd held back thoughts of them, so utterly bewildered was I by the loss of my boys and Steve. Now, as I lingered outside this house, my parents emerged, a little. Then I saw through the branches of the mango tree that the windows of the bedroom upstairs were closed.
That was my bedroom when I was a child. Then Vik and Malli slept there when we visited. Getting them to bed in that room took forever. They'd call to my mother to plead for yet another fizzy drink, and she'd gladly oblige. They'd squabble, trying to stretch a too-small mosquito net over two adjacent beds, and argue about how dark the room should be.
Vik wanted some light, Malli did not. Sonali Deraniyagala was born and raised in Colombo, Sri Lanka. She now lives in New York and North London.
Ann Billingsley hide caption. He'd say, "Don't be scared, Vik. It's good when it's all really black. You can see your dreams better.
I looked away from that upstairs bedroom. I stared at the empty space on the wall where the nameplate used to be. They must be still in that room, surely.
It's impossible they are not. I didn't go inside. Mary-Anne squeezed my hand as she started up the car to drive off. And I remembered how, on our last morning here, the day we left for Yala, I'd woken before the boys and packed their Christmas presents in two red bags.
Vik had written his name on those bags with a black marker pen, one of those permanent ones. I went back to the house at night because I could not bear to step inside in daylight. The tall metal gates shut, not partly open as they used to be. All the rooms in darkness, windows closed. The house was hushed, shuddering in disbelief.
A solitary light burned on the balcony, another in the car porch. I glanced quickly at the lamp in the porch, some scraps of a nest, no birds. The large wooden front door rumbled back on its rollers. I kept my sandals on as I walked in, not kicking them off by the tall, bronze-framed mirror on the wall below the stairs, as I used to. As I walked through those front doors, the huge silence of the house ripped through me.
I had tried to come inside here on many nights before but hadn't made it past the gates. Damn you, I kicked those metal gates, all those gin and tonics I'd knocked back powering my legs. Damn this house. Damn everything. The house I entered was transformed, empty and vast, bereft. Just a few pieces of furniture remained, repositioned, displaced. The floors now bare, no rugs to absorb my footsteps. The walls gleamed with new paint that concealed even the impressions left by the mirrors, the paintings, and old blue and white porcelain plates that had been taken down.
I didn't want this barrenness. I yearned for the house as it was, as we left it.
I wanted to sit on every couch, on every chair they sat on, and maybe some warmth would seep into me. I wanted wardrobes full of their clothes, a mixed-up mound of the boys' underwear in ours, a neat stack of my father's white handkerchiefs in his. I wished I could pick up a book Vik had been reading from the table by our bed, and turn to the page he'd folded to mark where he had stopped. I wanted the green roll-on stick of mosquito repellant on that table, drying out because we had left the cap off.
But none of this could be.
Broken and bewildered, my brother had the house cleared and packed away, painted and polished, all in the first month or two after the wave. For him, that was the practical thing to do, to impose order on the unfathomable, perhaps.
I had been collapsed on a bed in my aunt's house at the time and could not contemplate returning to my parents' house. I quaked at the very thought of it. Now, in this stillness, sterile with the odor of varnish and paint, I hunted traces of us. A pencil stub with the end chewed off perhaps, a scrunched up grocery bill, a hair floating across the floor, a squiggle made with a pen on a wall, a scrape of a fork on a table.
But there was nothing. No dent, no chipped paint on the wooden banister along the stairs where a ball had been lobbed too hard. The drops of crimson nail polish on the white table in my parents' bedroom had vanished.
The chocolate smears on the sofa bleached out. Surely this cannot be. There must be some atom of our life hidden here, lingering in this quiet somewhere. And then I saw it. The mat.
Just a small square black rubber mat with little round bristles, unremarkable. But I was transfixed. This was the mat Vik wiped his muddy feet on when he bounded in from the garden. The very same mat. It was inside the house now, tossed to the side by the stairs, not on the step leading out to the garden as it should be.
No one had bothered to dispose of it, no one had bothered to clean it up. The gaps between the bristles were flecked with scraps of disintegrating dried grass, grains of sand, a morsel of dead beetle that the ants had tired of. Was that an imprint of Vikram's foot?
Did that speck of dirt come off his heel? This mat and suddenly the house was not so lifeless, pulsing faintly, ever so slightly charged with their presence. I could almost hear them, turning the page of a book and shifting softly on a rattan armchair, crunching a roasted cashew nut and dropping another on the floor, slipping an ice cube into a glass and placing the tongs back on the table.
I walked into the hollow that had been my father's office. There was no large desk heaving with piles of legal briefs, those blue and beige folders frayed at the edges, sometimes tied up with a piece of thin ribbon.
The wooden shelves that stretched from the floor to the ceiling on two walls were bare, the top ones no longer warped by the weight of too many books. No antique maps of Sri Lanka hung above the desk. One of these maps, from the sixteenth century, showed the island as a rectilinear pentagon, not unlike a small child's lopsided drawing of a house, and in the middle, along with a few mountains and rivers, the cartographer had etched a colorful elephant with ornate anklets on all its feet, perhaps to compensate for the lack of geographical detail.
As I stood in the dark of that room, fragments of our last days here kept flaring up, unbidden. But I didn't see that. I think this book relies entirely on the event a famous natural disaster and doesn't offer readers anything more than a diary entry type record of what happened. You can't judge her attitude during the tragedy as "callous" "even before she knew her family was dead" My God, the woman was in shock.
There is no way to determine how someone will react to such a situation, we are all different! I have lost a child, my only child, and your criticism of her lack of personal growth, etc. There aren't always happy endings The truth is, for a lot of us, it just doesn't make sense, there is no silver lining, there are no morals to the story. When you lose a child, you are just broken.