Saving Mr. Mendis
A short story set in colonial Sri Lanka (Ceylon), about a man in a rush to meet his fate.
© 2025 Duleepa Wijayawardhana
All rights reserved. This is an original piece of fiction.
Featured in Episode 13 of the Tales under the cat tree.
2:30am, 12 July 1938. Somewhere near Ratnapura, Ceylon
My grandfather and I crouched — deafened, speechless and frozen. Mr. Mendis’ manservant was kneeling in tears some distance away near Mr. Mendis’ motionless leg which was the only part of him sticking out from where the charred, smoking car bonnet had landed with indignant fury.
Two hours earlier
“Boy! Go wake your grandfather!”
I rubbed my eyes and cleared my fuzzy vision.
“Boy! No time to wait! Stop standing there!”
Mr. Mendis’ servant stood in the doorway shouting at me, his face flecked with sweat. Behind him, at the bottom of the steps leading to the small porch, was the crumpled form of Mr. Mendis himself. I figured this wasn’t the time to argue about the man letting in more mosquitoes.
Within minutes my grandfather was standing over the prone Mr. Mendis after having pulled him in from the damp jungle night.
“Solomon, take me to the hospital.” Mr. Mendis gestured to my grandfather.
“But Mr. Mendis-mahathaya, this isn’t the time of the night to be driving.”
My grandfather’s white moustache bobbed up, down and side-to-side in ways I knew meant he was quite anxious. I had preemptively fetched everyone some sweet coconut water.
“Solomon, I ate something bad. My stomach hurts. I won’t want to wait for the morning. I must see the doctor now!”
“Ayyo Mr. Mendis-mahathaya. I don’t think you will die.” My grandfather again shook his head. “Drink some of the thambilli the boy has brought you. I’ll get you some honey. You stay the night. I’ll take you in just a few hours. First light.”
“Solomon. I loaned you the money to get that car. You take me now! You hear me?!”
My grandfather knew when he was beaten. He set his shoulders and turned Mr. Mendis’ rage on me and his man.
“Help get Mr. Mendis into the back of the car! Go! Now!”
I stood in front of the car trying to keep from being blinded by the headlights. My hands on the crankshaft waiting for my grandfather’s imperious signal to put my back into the crank and start the engine. I gave the servant a smug wink when only two attempts later the Wolseley 14/60 purred. With Mr. Mendis and his man in the back, I jumped in front next to my grandfather.
The roads in this part of old Ceylon could barely be called such. On a moonless monsoon night, this so-called road was barely fit for an ox-cart. Ignoring Mr Mendis’ groans, we attended to our tasks in silence. My grandfather struggled to keep the steering wheel straight and I leaned out the window looking to catch a surprised elephant or a dumb buffalo on the path. From the village road, we turned onto the main road that crossed the railway.
As the front wheels cleared the iron rails, the engine spluttered a magnificent putt-putt and stalled.
My grandfather turned to me. “Son, get out and crank the engine.”
I pulled the crank and gave it my all. And again. And again. And again.
“Again!”
Sweat was pouring down my arms when the constant jungle sounds, my grandfather’s shouts, and the metal on metal of the crank, yielded to a rumbling and creaking that I could feel in the rails under me.
“The night mail train!”
My panicked grandfather jumped out waving his hands at the servant. “You get Mr. Mendis to safety. Now!” And then to me: “Help me push the car or we are done for!”
The thunder grew louder. The whistling steam train approached. And then the iron monster turned the corner. I remember my grandfather grabbing me. I remember him dragging me. I remember him hugging me to the ground. I remember him shielding me as my eardrums burst. We crouched together praying to every deity as we watched a silent rainfall of metal, rubber and soot.