Camelia Sinensis...till death do us part

In good times and bad times, in sickness and in health……… Camelia Sinensis …..till death do us part……. What adds a gesture of warmth between the host and visitors that any of the finest fizzed drinks find it hard to replace ? with the first sip that washes over the taste buds what propels a flow of conversation to celebrate good news, drench bad times, unwind in solitude or simply revive and get going ? No doubt its Tea. Have it plain, with milk, dollops of sugar in typical Sri Lankan style, go a little berserk by sprinkling a few lemon drops or chopped ginger for that extra zing, Tea will always remain an all time favourite with Sri Lankans regardless of the countless fizzed drinks that’s flooding the retail stores. The 8 hour regular working day would never be the same if tea breaks were removed. Construction workers toiling to erect the high rise buildings that increasingly are enveloping the city skyline would be helpless if tea was not available to remove that worn out feeling. Farmers toiling in the rice fields, vegetable and fruit fields will feel the miss if a cup of tea is no where in the vicinity when their day is done. One of the parameters for a single woman to qualify for a good wife is to be able to make a great cup of tea for her husband. In local standards tea is something to be taken seriously. Tea is the magic elixir that keeps the desk potatoes that peck at keyboards and scribble all day long, sane enough to get on with another day. For many Sri Lankans tea is the first thing they reach for at home, after a day of work. Across different time zones, tea is cooked, sipped in many tea houses to fill up idle hours, stretched between two cups for more froth and honoured by having holistic ceremonies. Indians spiced it and introduced it to the world as Masala Chai, Americans iced it and created iced tea, Mongolians dehydrates it and turns them into bricks to accompany their regular menu of dried meat. The Chinese retains its raw flavour and turns them into Green Tea, several variations to that as well and made health fanatics worldwide go crazy with Green Tea. While cardamom swims in with the tea brewed in Saudi Arabia, chopped ginger is a definite add on to the plain tea in Sri Lanka. At the local restaurant and budget tea cafes sign boards boldly display the words proclaiming them as the most important and a must on the menu. Rough hands spilling out a portion of the days earning, only yearn to have their heavenly tea ;the only thing that will keep them revived. When the tea arrives, its interesting to watch the same hands lovingly hold the glass and place it between their lips to wash off the weary sensation. To some, piping hot tea seals their meal, marks the end of a fine meal while for others. it’s quite normal to have 5-6 cups a day. In Chennai, along the railway stations, beach and streets the 4 pockets of the upper coat worn by the street tea vendor carry, sachets of milk, sugar and tea. He would chant continuously Chai and when he does stop to comply the wagging hands, hot water would pour into one of the stacks of cups, from the portable hot flask. Swiftly hands would reach for the 4 pockets and have a nip at each of them to make a steaming hot cup of tea. Truly, a fascinating solution for those who suddenly long for tea while on the move. When a few leaves fell off the Camelia Sinensis tree, under which Emperor Shen Nen was seated, who thought the brew that blossomed in his cup, would entice half the human race into actually setting a time for tea ?

Does medicated balms, jams, soda and banking make you dance?

I am not a huge movie buff nor into TV so much. I am unlikely to be caught in a DVD renting store. No I don’t have any hatred for movies; I am trying to preserve my sanity by not watching too many spaceships, guns and modern Kama Sutra drama with animal instincts. I am more hooked to reading (hee haw old worm) observing the rituals of daily life, traveling with dreams of becoming an accomplished writer. Maybe gain literary recognition (now that’s a little too far eh for an old worm), I hope I will live to see this happen. Until then, I am more connected to my note book and coloured gel pens. I need to have an assorted pack of 5 colours periodically to scribble my thoughts and leave it to marinate. Eventually they are baked to a nice temperature on my pc. Strange…. there’s one thing that really ignites my creative nerves and that is commercials. In print I enjoy reading the catchy tag lines, the jingles on radio and on TV (ahem did I say I and not that much into TV-maybe you can add on the commercials). Heck sometimes I think why I didn’t put my fingers into copy writing. I am really amused and feel silly watching many of the commercials on TV. Except a few many have stretched to the boundaries of absurdity and seemed to have flushed out the advertising tactic of convincing to buy. I am amazed at the rural women in spanking new clothes doing their laundry by the river with everyone being so cheerful and merry dancing round hills with outstretched fabric. Traveling frequently to the outskirts and the rural villages of this country, never have I seen such a fiasco. Realistically the women do their laundry by the river, with a little chit chat. The laundry piled up does not leave them enough room to do filmi dance but only to take a shower and trudge home. Then there is also the sequence of events in a jam, jelly and sauce commercial that takes you through a-day-in-the-life-of some frolicking young men and women first in a pool ending up in a night club. When I looked at the product labels on the supermarket shelves, there was nothing to proclaim that it made one dance and feel merry. Was I even more amused to see an attractive woman wagging some what seemed like handouts while doing a mix of Elvis, Shaking Stevens and Bollywood dancing. Feeling curious I watched only to realise that a special savings scheme in a bank was making her feel so cheerful. It seemed like the dancing spirit in commercials were contagious. It had spread to medicated balms, soda, sausages, chocolates ice cream and please please spare us all, ball point pens as well. I never found myself wanting to dance after scribbling in my notebook. Not even when I have succeeded in writing precisely what was tinkering in my head. Oh maybe I would be pleased but heaven forbid dance ? As for me, no I am never going to try any of this stuff. I mean I go in for some products, things that necessarily don’t make me dance but still fulfills my needs. These will not replace my favourite energizing musical tracks that keeps me upbeat plus the urge to shake a leg (even by myself hee haw) I can’t decipher the connection of wanting to dance when you have ended up throwing some money out of your purse after wanting to try some of them. Can someone please explain the how & 5W’s of the need to dance for every single product or service?

You don’t speak Tamil ? – how and where do I begin with my explanation ?

Written quizzically in Blue ink against ‘nationality’ on my Birth Certificate is Lanka Dhemala (Ceylon Tamil). To be more appropriate in the current context it would be Sri Lankan Tamil. Apart from trying to string a few phrases together and perhaps understand bits and pieces falling off a conversation, I have to hang my head in shame and admit that I am unable to speak it with ease just like I can ramble on in English and Sinhala. Thanks to the language classes I have signed up some months back, I am elated at the thought of actually claiming ownership to an expanded Tamil vocabulary and dream of the golden era where I would be able to add Tamil to my record of language fluency (If I live to celebrate this happy moment…) Until then I am pleased at the though of getting the hang of something …and learning to speak it like a true Tamilian.

I was born in Colombo, a typical commercial city brimming with the usual hum drum of a capital city. Life was always a race, living that life was to keep running, one that always made me feel a rat in the end. Having grown up mostly in Sinhala neighbourhoods and socialised mostly with the Sinhalese, my Sinhala turned out to be impeccable so much so that my accent does not carry a trace of a Tamilian’s Sinhala accent. I blended well into the mainstream society with my flawless Sinhala. At work my colleagues were mostly Sinhala and a few Moslems. The occasional Tamilian I bumped into at work was very likely to be housed in the Finance Division of many of the companies I worked.

The questioning arose simultaneously with the rising tensions during the ethnic conflict that has now been laid to rest, ugly and harsh memories but realistically impossible to be wiped off. Hands of military sleeves would stretch out at checkpoints (set up within every 50 metres) asking for my National Identity Card. My family name was one vastly different from the typical Tamilian family names and could be easily passed off as a Sinhala family name. My looks were not the least closest to a typical Tamilian. Hoplessly addicted to pop music, I sport a boyish hairdo and often decked in pants, t-shirt and sandals that were way off to even be linked with a typical Tamilian identity. With a wide grin looking at me, the same hands that stretched (asking me to prove my identity) would wave that everything was OK. Often amused at the misconception of being taken for anything other than a Tamilian, I utter Thank you and move on.

When I stepped out of the corporate world and began work in an aid agency, that when I began to realize the value of the Tamil language. The working environment was multi cultural and suddenly I was interacting with a lot of Tamilians, interestingly many of them originating from the North. A part of the country that remained closed up for many years. I paid the supreme price of confessing my ethnicity when inquired from some of my colleagues. “How come you don’t speak Tamil, if you are a Tamil?” bounced another question with eyebrows raised to the sky. I had to then begin reciting a part of my historical beginnings.

Back in the 50’-60’s during the reign of the country’s then Prime minister, Sinhala was made the first language and those who did not possess Sinhala medium education had to either fill the void by getting themselves qualified or quit serving the state sector workplaces. One thing was certain….the country was trudging on a nationalistic path. If the Tamilian city mice were to continue living in the city, it was best to adopt and fit in.

My father educated in the Tamil medium had to halt his career with the Ceylon Military Police for the simple reason that he had no Sinhala medium educational qualification. I wasn’t around then of course, but when I did eventually come into this world and start formal schooling there didn’t seem to be much of a choice left but to enrol in the Sinhala medium. At 6 years I couldn’t care less but simply enjoyed the company of 39 other six year olds moving each year into a higher grade. Only when our childishness disappeared we realised that we were of different ethnicities. By that time it was too late for any kind of hatred or discrimination to blossom. We got along quite well, teaming up together in the usual classroom mischief and fun. The fact I was a Tamil and didn’t know Tamil never crossed my mind. The other 5 Tamil kids in my class were like me, didn’t know Tamil and had enrolled in the Sinhala medium for similar reasons. We blended well with each other and the rest.

The questioning didn’t stop with that. “Does your mother speak Tamil?” I recall telling many eager eyed faces “Of course she does”. A few more why’s and why nots followed. I decided to avoid a repeat questionnaire of this sorts, the best was to avoid the topic of ethnicity in a conversation for the simple reason that I was too lazy to go over the long tale of why I can’t speak Tamil. In the process I felt silly too having to go over this long rigmarole of explanation. Beaten I was to hear people clucking and wagging their heads, reciting how unfortunate I was not being able to speak my own maternal dialect. To me It was more fun to observe the curious looks by some who tried hard to decipher if I was a Sinhala, Moslem or what?. I could read the looks and the thoughts that crossed their minds in an instant.

Until I get the hang of it all, the language classes will remain my saviour. Till such time I will be a typical city mouse happy to have grown up with other city mice enjoying the typical frenzy and the rush of life, traffic jams, blaring of horns and the cacophony of loudspeakers, people and music. Being able to connect with every Sinhala, Tamil, Moslem, Malay, Burgher, Labourer, Bus Conductor, Vendor, Businessman, Office worker, Retailer was better than being considered unfortunate. To enjoy Sinhala Baila music, hum along the tunes of Tamil melodies, see the sparkle in the eyes of Moslem acquaintances who nod in glee when I greet them with Assallam Alleikkum was much more important to me than be singled out as a Tamilian. To me those who are not able to connect with all sorts and all types of Sri Lankans are those who are truly unfortunate.

I would rather flush out the ethnicity factor, and enjoy Pongal, Eid, Christmas and Wesak together with the rest. Tell me why should I now be singled out as an unfortunate Tamilian ?

Sandi Poam !

p.s. : Apart from this, when I sit behind the screen of my computer and hit the send button of an email I have replied to, there have been times recipients, (often an unknown face in my head) has asked me if I am of Latino heritage !!!!!!!!!

hot hot hot ...........Yaal Paanam

Being isolated from the rest of the country, Jaffna has remained a mysterious place in many a Lankan’s mind, until the conflict eventually came to an end. Suddenly Jaffna is creeping into everyone’s travel agenda and tour itinery. From the spiritual seeker with Nagadeepa in mind to the young urbanite who’s done with the rest of the island and those who would like to live and recall the good old days during the 50’s to 60’s many have a desire to claim ‘Jaffna visited’ during conversations. With luxury bus tickets priced at Rs.2,000 and the relaxation of travel for civilians sans the permits, visiting Jaffna has become a possibility.

A daily skimming of the newspapers tells us that the wheels of commerce in Colombo are gradually connecting the peninsula to their network. The once secluded district is increasingly getting a dose of the commercial pulse. This means openings would pave way for Jaffna’s hardworking, intelligent youngsters who dream of making it to the top.

Why does even the thought of a mere visit to Jaffna makes every Lankan pulse beat faster ? Is Jaffna really hot as it sounds ? Before I set foot I asked a few who used to make it to see their families and friends during the conflict “what has Jaffna got to offer for a first timer ? ” My colleague born and grown up in the North of this country only mumbled back “there isn’t much to see except lots of broken houses and buildings”. The rest of the answers I got from the rest were more or less on the same lines but being the restless Sagittarius, I refused to take in any of those answers. To the well trained eyes, ears and minds grown up, lived and breathed Jaffna, putting up with 35 degree weather, queues, rations, curfews the Palmyrah trees, Sarees, Pottu marked foreheads was nothing unique. I guess they somewhat stumbled in explaining the difference to someone who had never set foot.

A stark contrast in landscape, culture and community rituals, Jaffna was certainly a 7 course menu that must be savoured in every Lankan’s life. I was fortunate enough to get an arial view eventually marking my first visit but yet unfortunate to miss the changing landscape by road travel. From thousands of feet above, I recognized the little plots of vegetables, bananas that looked like shades of green patches of fabric in the home yards and the Palmyrah trees that seemed to occupy much of the landscape. That was certainly an appetising entre dish and I was all out to savour the main course when I landed in Palaly.

Not everything was appetising as I imagined, the frequent pockets of uninhabited houses and buildings lay like skeletons gave me a shudder. I wondered how many lived in there, are any of them alive to tell the story of what life was before the war. My enthusiasm quickly nose dived but I had to tell myself that this is the reality of an ugly war, a war that crippled this beautiful land and shredded human dignity and bonding into smitherings. Consoling myself I moved on to try my luck with the main course.

From the window seat, I look at the average Jaffnaite. There are so many of them, each with a different kind of flavour and twist. Interestingly a woman’s front view always shows me hair parted in the middle and the rear view a single plait leading to the waist ; two plaits would mean it’s a school girl. A fine moustache sits on the upper lip of every man I see, A few teenagers are decked with hip hop attire and hair styles, perhaps the clutter of reality shows on television that has dragged these youngsters from their otherwise plain style ?

Brightly hued sarees with well oiled heads and foreheads marked with either a red or black pottu seemed to adorn chocolate coloured svelte female bodies moving with the 6 yards of fabric that seemed to flow so well into their lives. Crisp sarongs envelope well toiled male bodies that seem to be planning their work for the next day.

Solemn looking faces with dangling plaits bicycle furiously to school. When I did see them in the afternoon, the faces were still solemn. In a culture where education occupies the seat next to God, school was serious business.

A row of newly woven baskets folded in circular form at the back of the bicycle seemed to make its way to the market. In another it was bananas, and in another it was some rugs. Tangible assets at the back of a bicycle seat varied, but they were all heading to the market to be exchanged into Rupees and Cents, I assumed.

The average Jaffnaite was a mixture of shy, mellow, formal but quick to return smiles. The only time this smile broke into a quiet chuckle was when I did attempt in speaking the few Tamil phrases. Despite all the practicing, perhaps I still sounded alien. The signs, billboards and posters were mostly in Tamil with a few in English. Life here seemed to go at a slower pace a far cry from the mad rush that I have grown up with.

Back at home, it was a feast for me to stand outside the gates of a hindu temple and watch the bright coloured neatly clad sareed women with flowers on their hair passing by, some walking in to ask divine blessings, the others coming out having completed the spiritual formalities. Often they would be accompanied by their spouses and children also neatly clad in traditional attire. In Jaffna I did the same thing, stood and watched, only that this time it was spellbinding and sheer magic.

I asked myself what is it about Jaffna that really pulled my emotional chords so hard ? how I ended up with a nagging conscience of wanting to make another visit, longer stay, spend more time etc., and the reasons came out something like……………

1. Simplicities in daily life
2. Intellectual charm
3. Palmyrah trees that seemed to stand in salutation sometimes welcoming, sometimes looking like the territorial guardians
4. Everything from school books, furniture, bananas moving on the back seat of a bicycle
5. Most women being intricately feminine
6. Black or Red pottu that always sits aligned to the middle parting
7. Crisp white sarongs stepping in and out of a temple
8. The fragrance of camphor that fills the air when passing a temple
9. Gigantic flowered garlands
10. The islands that seem like pearls strung off the necklace

and I will not forget to ask all the gods and goddesses in the hindu pantheon to bless the Jaffna cooks for the Pittu and Potato curry they turn out which is absolutely divine.

I can go on and on, but the truth is despite the blazing heat and the miserable patches Jaffna is truly the hope in Pandora’s box that managed to lay hidden for 30 long years. Now that its out explore it to your hearts content. No regrets believe me !

midnight turmoil

The strike of 11:59 pm on 31^st December marks the finale of the sun’s expedition around planet earth. When the clock chimes after the 60^th second proclaiming 12 midnight, it is the dawn of a new day and another new rotation for the sun. This is when all hell break loose on planet earth. The people in the pacific islands neighbouring New Zealand are the first to start the race of another year with those in Canada and US West Coast being the last to join. Almost seven billion human beings are awake, waiting as they always do on the 31^st of December every single year to welcome another year.

A new year that will direct and produce many more tales of hope, joy, agony, crisis and disaster, a year that will cut short the lives of some but bring forth more into the planet, one that will snatch children who will not grow up to hold a bat or dance in the rain, but will preserve those who have crossed the 100^th milepost in life.

The birth of another year makes some to wonder if this one too will set out to spur a quiet volcano bringing out her fullest steam or make the earth to choke up some of its inhabitants by rumbling violently as it did in the year gone by ?

Planet earth has turned to be extremely revolutionary putting Che Guevera and counterparts to shame. Some days she is coughing, actually wheezing badly and that’s when the scientists call it a hurricane or tornado. There are times when her nose drips continuously; that’s when somewhere we see helpless human beings wading through waters that have hit their roof levels. When her tonsils turn sore, somewhere some people trudge a couple of kilometres looking for water while their livestock struggle to stay alive. Her head that acts as the cooling point to her entire system is gradually giving away with all the icebergs melting. The protective sun hat she wears has been punctured and the damage increases daily, even as talks are being held around tables in Copenhagen and Rio De Janerio

In the name of industrialisation and technology the earth has been harassed, massacred, and is being tortured and raped every hour somewhere across the timezone. With each passing year she has dished out her dose of getting even with all the discrimination through catastrophic events that has grabbed thousands of human lives and left many more homeless. Her lessons have not taught the human creature a lesson but only turned him into being more evil and grotesque.

We see this so well through the marking of more boundaries on earth. East Timore, Serbia, Erriteria became the new boundaries and the results that marked the end of wars fought over many years. More are being fought over and there will be new reasons to fight for, leading to more wars. The earth is bruised and smitten with blood. New saplings refuse to sprout from the earth where the organs of ammunition have left their trace. Millions of her children whose lives were snipped off with bullets, air strikes, bombs, missiles withered away to dust. Millions more survive but deprived of being able to walk, sing or see their children grow.

Why do we continue to rape planet earth and celebrate the sun’s new journey on January 1st?

Life on planet earth itself is no easy game. Some are fortunate to begin from 1,2,3 and end up with trigonometry and physics, others from a simple alphabet that will construct the words, sentence of a daily conversation to the pinnacle of linguistics and art. To some being able to read and write is as good as waiting for manar to fall from above. Some strike it big, create a name that many can connect to human beings from Argentina to Australia while the rest will continue to dig another’s ditch for a pittance and shrivel away when his time is up to part from this earth. Despite all these, its amazing to observe the turbulence caused by all human creatures when the clock chimes at 12 proclaiming to the world a dawn of another year.

In Sri Lanka the doors of every temple, mosque and church will be open wide to welcome the people who will swarm in, lighting incense, candles, burning camphor, kneeling, sitting, prostrating on the floor, begging virtually with outstretched hands to the skies, sometimes weeping, pleading all the gods and goddesses, the saints and martyrs for a better job, strength to carry on, intelligence to pursue education, recovery from an illness and many more reasons that will cushion the hardships of their lives.

Everyone will be attired in spanking new clothes and shoes. Shimmering bright colours with hope spread on their faces. The tills in every holy place will be clinking most times with many hands diving in to put in their gift to the divine. The air is filled with incense, camphor, newly dripping wax, jasmine strands from long hair and the fragrance of turmeric mixed water that has swiped the floor clean.

Older men and women stand solemn eagerly absorbing the chants and prayers of the clergy while the children try hard to stay focused. Young men and women remain in deep thought either their mind flying to thousands of miles away wishing for a faster climb to reach the pinnacle of success.

The sprinkling of blessed water breaks the solemnity letting loud recitals of chants and prayer fill the halls of the temple. At the entrance of Hindu temples coconuts are raised to the skies and thrown back to the earth with full force, wetting the floor with its juice and bits of shell flying all over. In the Buddhist abode, saffron robed monks sit in a single line chanting over several strands of white thread that will hug the wrists of many devotees who have turned up. In the sacred souvenior store in churches, people scramble to buy medals and prayer beads and jostle to get them blessed by the clergy.

In the city and suburbs, beggars on the streets flock to the gates of religious shrines knowing that not releasing a coin to their outstretched hands on the 1^st of January, would only create guilt pangs in the minds of devotees walking out.

While all these go on, wild urbanites who have been occupying the city’s night clubs and hotels return home, high after a night of singing and dancing. Scantily clad young women cling to their tuxedoed young men and walk towards the rows of Mercedes, Volvos and Prados. Older men and women dressed in their finest garb head on haughtily contemplating on the evening spent. The residents of Cinnamon Garden, the new urbanite residing in the outskirts of the city, non resident Sri Lankans achieved better things in life in the West now back at home to let their hair loose-these are the figures that shape Colombo’s high society existing in a world of their own.

In the several sleepy hamlets dotting the island, the revelry is carried out with a different flavour. Young men set up the fireworks while their female counterparts prepare the delicacies for the day. The village taverns have a high customer turn over and many of them either end up in a brawl or sleep when their alcohol high bodies refuse to carry them any longer. Every house witnesses the boiling and spill over of milk in a clay pot lit on 3 bricks with firewood stuffed beneath.

As all these rituals wind up and the excitement of another year settles down, life returns back to its normal monotonous grind sans the rituals until the call of another January 1^st. Until then the cycle of life continues, wretched for some, wonderful for the rest.

www +++ clutter

The cyber gurus proclaimed that the web will make our lives and work more easier by saving time, hmmmmmmmph…. that’s true for the most part… because if you think about it, our blackberries along with google, twitter, facebook, blogging and flickr remain our must have luggage to stay in touch …

If any of the following symptoms in the ritual, stretches the corners of your mouth towards your ears…you have been infected too !

01. even though you rarely call your buddies, when you meet up you simply know what’s been going on in their lives thanks to facebook

02. you rattle on and on about a place you’ve visited and your buddies bug you for pics, no more photo albums (eeeeeeeeek what’s that ?) you give your flickr album link

03. the discussion is on about a college that has great study programmes, “what’ssa name d’ya know?’ to a response that would be ‘forget the site, just punch in the name and google’

04. the lecturer was droning on and on about so much of technical jargon that you only managed to note them down randomly instead of what they actually mean. Why bother there’s always wikipaedia ?

05. you bump into one of your old buddies whom you haven’t met for a long time, when asked for your contact number you cant say it in one go without toodling your phone

06. you don’t know a relative’s number by heart, if great aunt bertha or uncle fred asks for it, you mumble ‘hang on aunt/uncle till I look in my contact book.

07. you stay in touch with all the happenings through RSS feeders on twitter or on any feeder site.

08. you think letters, stamps and postage are weird.

09. you have more passwords and usernames to remember than anything else

10. you cant be bothered with postcards during your travel, your buddies, cousins, relatives and colleagues can see everything on virtual tourist

11. if your blackberry doesn’t beep for messages when you look at the first thing during the day, the customer service of the phone company would be the first person you would call

12. you sometimes don’t bother to talk about this and that but instead find yourself posting links on your buddies’ facebook pages ?

13. your buddy has a funny kid and he blabs about him when you meet, “wait let me post you the youtube link which has a really funny clip of Jason”

14. you don’t need wait till you meet your buddies to show something funny that you spotted, just send the nuts a mms

anymore to come ?

with gratefulness to all my 10 fingers

I don’t believe this, only after passing the 37^th mile post in my life, was I able to full fill my lifelong dream to see the North of this country. “Damn lucky” were the words that sprang out of my close friends, who just like me were die hard city mice.

To us the buzz in Colombo was what fuelled our engines. The only time we shelved it out of our rigorous average 10 hour working lives were, when we felt we were going to snap if we didn’t smell, breathe and experience difference. That’s when paddy fields, the tea hills and the deep South beaches started to hallucinate us, amidst deadlines, meetings, reports and the non stopping flow of emails, texts and calls.

The district map of Sri Lanka would suddenly be our fond accomplice and amidst many hours of armchair travel, I would always drag my finger towards the very North and lose my self dreaming of the glorious day I will be able to set foot to a place ridden with a culture, that’s a stark contrast to the rest of the country.

Having listened to many who were fortunate to have made it between the 50’s and 70’s, my ears were filled with tales of a very reserved, hardworking, intelligent community leading simples lives, to whom education occupied the seat next to God. It was common to hear the brief description of Jaffna going as “if little pebbles are flung at the door of any house in Jaffna, chances are that there would be Engineers, Doctors, Lawyers, Accountants among the people who would have to wade through plots of Brinjals, Drumsticks, Chillies and Banana saplings”. Jaffna sounded unique and was always music to my ears. I never stopped questioning my mom who was lucky enough to have made it by Yaal Devi along with my dad and his classmate from Jaffna who was their guide. I always thought that whoever who had been to Jaffna was extremely fortunate to have experienced the Northern splendour.

On the 30^th of November 2009, when I stepped down in Palaly, I had to slap myself because it was more or less like a dream come true. The first thing that caught my roving eyes, were the Palmyrah trees that seemed to dominantly envelope the landscape. From that point, I developed wheels on both my feet and wanted to experience the unique charm as much as possible. Thankfully the work I do paved the opportunity for me to grasp the uniqueness of a place that was shut down from the rest of the country for over 30 years.

As I travelled to many of the remote villages, I felt I was ripping open a treasure box that was waiting to be explored. The lagoon, coast, fort and everything looked so chic in its own way.

Everywhere I went beautiful big eyes, ebony skinned, svelte women and children returned shy smiles and the men grinned through beetle stained teeth. When I looked them in the eye and tried to connect, I sensed that many of the eyes I looked into had a deep dark tale closeted in their inner vault. Those eyes said it all. I was not going to dig up the deep wounds and make them re-live the pain. I figured a simple smile was adequate to iron out my alien look, which I knew obviously was read in their minds as ‘not from Jaffna’

The sense of respect towards people in a higher job position ranked high on their agenda. Dark chocolate coloured hands would often be held in unison, chairs provided to sit, standing when people of such positions enter were rituals that everybody adhered to. An average daily temperature of 35 degrees posed no barriers to the Jaffna folk who cycled to work, plough the fields and get on with life, despite extreme humidity. It seemed like they were born to work and that too with extreme commitment.

Shades of Amber, Turmeric, Saffron and Bright Pink seemed like the preferred choice for most women’s 6ft long traditional saree or salwar kameez. Some were decked with flowers on their head. Looking at them coming out of a temple was a real feast to my eyes. Impeccably feminine they were often accompanied by their spouses decked in trendy white sarongs with colourful trimmings.

My lessons in Tamil somewhat paid off, when I realised I understood fragments of sentences that were rattled off in lightening speed. Some parts of the signboards, road signs were retrieved in my head after learning a few letters in the tamil alphabet. That was an achievement I thought, being able to read something. My attempts to talk the few phrases were most appreciated and I felt pleased that I could connect with these folk ; all these amidst smiles which I interpreted as that’s-nice-of-you-to-give-it-a-try.

It is untiring fascination for me to marvel at the scalloped edges, stone carvings and the colourful figurines in the Hindu pantheon. Some standing erect, some seated in a lotus pose, other raising their hands to heaven and me craning habitually to see if my favourite Krishna was visible. Sadly rarely I saw the adorable flutist in Jaffna.

In Nallur I found myself carrying on the same ritual, absorbing the majestic look, while snapping up a couple of pictures.

The Fort, Library, Duraippa stadium, were other landmarks that seemed to occupy a prominent position in the city’s landscape. In the streets it was interesting to see the rear end of bicycles strapped with a variety of things ranging from several Palmyrah baskets in circular form, bananas, coconuts, some sacks of vegetables which I read as village produce finding their way to the town for selling.

It seemed there were lots more to see and experience, the 5 days I spent were only the highlights. Would I go through all the time consuming procedures to get there again to get a microscopic view ? I asked myself. Unhesitatingly my mind replied ‘Ohm Ohm’ in true Yaal Paanam style !!!!

and the cobalt flutist still continues to make me gush with awe !

in proportion to the scale Janmashtami is celebrated in the divine flutist's homeland, Colombo's ISKCON centre had only a parade that took a ebony skinned kid decked up as the divine flutist taken in a made up chariot. There was also makeshift Radha sitting cosily beside him, the passing chariot made me smile, reminding me of the hundreds of paintings I had seen on the inner ceiling of ISKCON Bangalore and Mumbai....Nobody and Nothing can come closer to the charm that the real flutist possess. Unlike in the streets of Mumbai there was no customary games of being the first

reaching for the pot of milk hung on a higher plane. The ambience was not as fun as it was in Krishna country but the fact that Janmashtami was still celebrated was nice in a way. I yearn for the day I can get to stand on the bank of river Yamuna and absorb the whole episode.

Until then I can only conclude by saying if there is a synonym for charm it is Krishna period.

Govinda Jaya Jaya

Stumped by blue boy's charm !

I stumbled upon a blue faced flutist, who graced many romantic memorabilia in a book store, and naturally driven with curiosity to know who this cobalt complexioned Adonis really was….

During many visits to craft stores, I often saw images of the slim, lanky, youth with a frisky demeanor, surrounded by many dancing damsels, swaying to the melody flowing, from this adorable looking flutist.

Oozing with magnetism, the peacock feather peeping behind his ears and the flowing sunflower coloured gown only enhanced the charm of this enchanting being. In some images a white cow stood nearby, fondly swaying towards her master….in others it was a lissome lass who leaned closer to him.

Probing further, I found that, eating butter was his childhood obsession, so much so, stealing it, was a passion, fun and frolic with the village damsels was his favourite past time.. His childhood upbringing in the dairy farming villagers, tending to the cattle, the charm he carried in his youth, the impish pranks in his adolescence and gallantry in manhood…all these blended him to be the much loved idol of the hindu pantheon,

identified by so many names….but all of them radiating so much appeal ...so much fondness and attraction….

I do not know how to greet the very magical essence that makes me flip every time I see it …be it on the walls of a temple, greeting card, agarbatti pack, wall hanging and the other numerous things…

Do I chant ……………….. Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna

Krishna Krishna Hare Hare, ……

Beyond the deep breathing and stretching ………..

I looked forward to visiting the quaint little place filled with different shades of green. A large elephant god sat at the entrance with the fragrance of incense burning sending out feel good vibes for all who came by. The ambience was perfect to spread out a mat, listen to the chanting, breathe deeply and stretch.

I had to admit it. I was hooked to yoga. With each ‘breathe in and breathe out’ accompanying a single movement of an asana, a great degree of tranquility was creeping into me, giving me a better grip over life’s little hum drums. Something was clipping my restlessness. My addiction also came with a prize I had to pay with unending cramps, muscle twists and stiffness. I was determined to learn the technique of this ancient art where today, it’s originality has been distorted with the likes of pilates and aerobics.

I loved the silent buzz of the Himalayan chants seeping through my ear drums while I gathered myself to pose like a tree, a plough, tortoise, flipped over countless times in trying to achieve the frog pose. The winding off session was the best and the most amusing with everybody lying on the floor, supposed to be totally relaxed in the pretext of being a corpse. During the process of relaxing each and every part of the body starting from the toes and moving onto the head, some dozed off to a mild slumber which brought out smiles in the faces of the rest.

I was restless, this wasn’t adequate, I had to know more. Over the days and months that followed, I read extensively about its history, origins, famous yogis, the art of training the mind to be a more productive being. What I gathered was an interesting collection, how the great maestro B.K.Iyengar started and went on to open the finest training school. Somehow everything that connected to yoga became my passion (including the strange shaped wooden beaded jewellery).

Did I stop at merely reading ? no, that wasn’t enough, the urge was severe….I had to see things for myself. A couple of visits to land of the origin really nailed me flat. The first thing that caught my attention was the serenity of every single human face that crossed eyes with me. Many questions crossed my mind, “is this pretence?’ “are they real?” It wasn’t only the looks, this sombre manner was evident even in the manner they spoke, responded. No they were not like zombies. They were perfectly normal human beings but with a better grip of things should I say ?

My spells of temptations were getting bad, I had to now spend a day or two and check this out. I convinced the unhurried souls to let me stay a night. I relished the dhal that washed over the plate of rice, fresh spring water. Chanting before bedtime, wake up at the crack of dawn, cold shower, yoga to start off the day. Hey this was good. Felt lighter, easier and more relaxed.

My mind was churning…what would it be to hang on here for good ? Unanswered question…and many of them too…..I am still looking for the ideal solution one that really fits in with my desires. The search continues, until then I keep stretching to the chants o

Take 2

Unahapooruwa a remote village in Hambantota was my next stop for a live interview with a woman who had truly wanted to learn the art of sewing all her life but had no means to learn the craft. I cross questioned my project colleagues about the woman, her background, village, livelihoods of communities, and all the snippets that would nicely cushion and pad the story I was supposed to spin based on pure truth of course.

I stepped into a compact house and was greeted by a wide grinned round woman who made us sit and enjoy fresh tea with biscuits. A spanking new sewing machine sat somewhere in the living room, with fabric falling over, spools of thread placed on some unfinished garments and some snipped up thread bits and fabric.

I began my usual tonic of ‘comfort talk’ before I proceeded to getting the facts from her for my story. The flow of conversation flowed without boundaries until I spotted the mark to cease casual talk and divert her attention to my mission.

My colleague was gearing up with the video and I was briefing her how she should begin her tale. She nodded to signify understanding and sat in preparation to churn the wheels of the sewing machine just for us. Video lights came on, I clicked the voice recorder and stood back with a notebook and pen to jot down any interesting things that may shoot in between her recital.

“Meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeow” a loud cat’s screech was heard and a noise of some live thing jumping from behind the seamstress. The interview turned towards a different dimension, with a shoot for a funny video in full force. Our seamstress was standing on the chair with a measuring stick. I lost control and burst into a fit of giggles. I am chuckling as I write this for Asia Digest, recalling the hilarious episode. My colleague was serious for a while and seeing me in hysterics burst out laughing too. We created a racket and a big one too apart from the cat who decided to chase a rat and waited for the moment where the interview and filming was about to begin.

‘Take 2’ didn’t happen for a long time. I had to really come back to my usual sombre ‘work’ mood and I can tell you it wasn’t easy, because I was scotting on the floor and laughing my head off. Our seamstress had got off the chair and she too joined us in our fits which didn’t seem to go away for a long time

The rat kissed goodbye to dear life and a jubilant cat pounded to it’s mistress showing it’s might, holding a limp rat through snarling jaws. Our seamstress patted its head as if to congratulate him and continued giggling.

We took a break not getting enough of the sudden amusing episode. I managed to bring myself down and walked over to the seamstress with voice recorder as the video lights came on. ‘Take 2’ did happen this time, for real.

Rest in peace

Funeral rituals can be as complex as weddings. I am talking of the different kinds of mourners and the ambience at a place and event where everything ‘joyful’ must be banished from the air. I am amazed at all those people who weep as if their supply of oxygen has been cut off due to the departing of the deceased. What leads them to wail and beat on their chest so hard and proclaim that this death has caused a great void in their lives and that it will effect their emotional well being ? In all due respect to a loss of human life, I perfectly understand and can relate to if close family members express their profound sorrow. But I am talking about the ones that sound phoney even when sobbing. It doesn’t stop with merely sobbing, those who are present, will also get an opportunity to hear about the exemplary life lead, how the deceased always put the interest of others before one’s own. Such statements voiced out does not really matter even if deceased has been a selfish miser, conner, swindler or just another loser I have spotted numerous times, where people who genuinely knew the person would tend to wear snickering smiles and eyeball each other as if they were throttled to spit out the appropriate character attestation of the deceased. The rest who probably have known the deceased not quite well, will have no option but to listen to the sorrowful chanting of these sometimes hired mourners. I also tend to think about all the back hand operations that run behind the curtains of some funeral undertakers. All those people who typically hang outside state hospitals waiting to receive news of indoor patients hanging on life’s last strings or has already kissed life goodbye. The total death count for the day would be conveyed by hospital attendants (who are more likely to be rewarded, for providing instant information) This information will instantly be conveyed to the funeral undertaker who will arrange for his representative to go to the respective wards and explore the possibility of securing an order for a coffin. Some turn low to the extent of getting the flower wreaths that stand near the freshly dug grave back so that could be a double sale. My brain rattles in every direction making me ponder on the strangeness of human lives. Funerals always make me look at the big picture. My first one was my dad’s. I was 4 and couldn’t understand why my father lay in a stupid wooden box and so many people standing around. The only memory I have of my first funeral is being quiet until 4 men came along and closed the box confirming that it was the end.

Zero Seven Seven

When I stepped into the world of work, my address book gave room to write only a contact’s personal address and telephone number. Many of my contacts were my class mates, cousins, relatives and others whom I met at a private class. After I settled well in the working world, I had to get myself an bigger address book with more pages. By this time I had made a few contacts at work, colleagues mostly. As the years went by it was the ‘ in ’ to store all your contacts in an electronic organizer. I remember walking into Robert Agencies down Reclamation Street to browse through the many different models of electronic organizers. I browsed around and quietly glanced at the price tag ranging from Rs.8,000, Rs, 12,000, and ending up with Rs. 20,000. The shock was too much, but I managed to absorb it and retain the elegance that I carried with myself when I walked in. I politely lied to the salesman saying I will make another visit. I haven’t been to Robert Agencies since then. Time went by, IT skills were being the most desired skills in a workplace, I didn’t specifically go for special training to learn the ropes. I kept moving, trying my luck in the world of work in many different workplaces, At a start up company, I was a good looking Compaq desktop on my desk. I didn’t mind the fact that it occupied half my desk, I was determined to learn the hidden trick in making the pc work for me. I succeeded. Meanwhile outside there was something else that was taking everybody by storm. The telephone had shrunk and it was possible to carry it wherever you went. Many of the corporate tie swaying executives began to carry the shrunk telephone and with it landed a more blown up ego, changes in behaviour. The first one that arrived in Sri Lanka, the weight and dimensions of a brick came in at a price of Rs.100,000 by the only mobile service provider Celltel. The women in the higher echelons of society had to have one during their visits to the supermarket, salon, spa while their husbands did business, reserved golf timings. Clearly the mobile phone was only meant to be with a certain segment. With me, I guess the price held me back and did not want to repeat the episode at Robert Agencies. Gradually more players came on the field, By this time I had moved up to the central rungs of the ladder. Many of my colleagues were getting a phone for themselves. My mind was wavering on the notion that do I really need this ? I postponed further on the lines that who will I talk to ? I can use the phone at work or the regular call box on the street or simply pop into a communication centre. By this time, different models of phones began to flood the market. Along the same time Typhoon SMS & KIT pre-paid cards hit the communication circles in Sri Lanka. Fascinating I thought (now when I recall I am embarrassed) Yes…the urge arrived and increased in volumes. I had to have one as well. Sheepishly I pushed a leave application towards my Manager who gave me a where-are-you-off-to ? look but approved it without any hassle. I walked over to the fancy arcade down Duplication Road and spent some time browsing at the neat little gadgets. I settled for a Ericsson AT 100 phone doled out 7 thousand and 1 five hundred Rupee notes. Filled out some paper work and listened to the salesman giving me initial briefing on charging the battery. I watched him deftly slip in the chip into the phone and hand me the entire package. I walked out of the store, head high feeling elated at the thought of actually owning a mobile phone. Yes the Ericsson did provide me a good service. I was able to chat on the way to work, back from work, and also switch to SMS when it was advisable to not move your lips on some things. By this time the image of a mobile phone spelling luxury was slowly fading off. More featured phones hit the shelves with camera phones really stealing the show, then came video, music, radio, virtually driving everybody nuts. With each feature arriving as customary it was the ‘in’ thing to have that phone. Realistically it was not achievable with everybody because the zero’s at the end of the price increased with each new feature. As for me, when my Ericsson died, I settled for a Nokia 2300 with a radio as an added feature and accompanied me virtually everywhere until it peacefully departed and I settled for another member of the same family, who is still with me, giving me a little more extra features like radio, video, voice recorder and even lets me check my mail on the go and reply. I get quite a lot done from the 6070 and can be contented you think ? Not really (no I am not complaining) but with all the innovation that’s creeping into these phones, and being bombarded with a ideas on this and that at unusual moments, my eyes are set on memory capacity, music player in addition to what I already have. My hunt continues for the ideal phone, the truth is if I fancy a particular model, the zeros at the end of the price give me the creeps. Then I have to repeat the Robert Agencies Episode at the store. A part of me is telling me that during a time of recession dishing out so much on a phone is a waste and another part of me is trying to enlighten me on buy back offers. I leave home for work, the fisherman is heading towards our home with my mom waving me to stop, he nods, he cannot answer because he is talking on his phone. When I get into the office transport virtually everybody is hooked to their phone in some way, either glued to the radio, texting, talking. At work different ring tones make me realize that my colleagues are receiving calls. Out on the road, the trishaw driver is picking up hires, salesman are busy negotiating over the phone, a teenager in a bus stop is grinning and texting while some are staring at a mms and giggling. I noticed the subtle change even in the villages where the mudalalis seem to negotiate with wholesellers and even some farmers checking for market prices for their harvests in other villages. I am happy that a simple gadget has made life a little easier for everybody. Now who said that its American Express we shouldn’t leave home without ? p.s. My address book is history because all of them are sitting comfortably in my 6070

Beyond the deep breathing and stretching ………..

I looked forward to visiting the quaint little place filled with different shades of green. A large elephant god sat at the entrance with the fragrance of incense burning sending out feel good vibes for all who came by. The ambience was perfect to spread out a mat, listen to the chanting, breathe deeply and stretch. I had to admit it. I was hooked to yoga. With each ‘breathe in and breathe out’ accompanying a single movement of an asana, a great degree of tranquility was creeping into me, giving me a better grip over life’s little hum drums. Something was clipping my restlessness. My addiction also came with a prize I had to pay with unending cramps, muscle twists and stiffness. I was determined to learn the technique of this ancient art where today, it’s originality has been distorted with the likes of pilates and aerobics. I loved the silent buzz of the Himalayan chants seeping through my ear drums while I gathered myself to pose like a tree, a plough, tortoise, flipped over countless times in trying to achieve the frog pose. The winding off session was the best and the most amusing with everybody lying on the floor, supposed to be totally relaxed in the pretext of being a corpse. During the process of relaxing each and every part of the body starting from the toes and moving onto the head, some dozed off to a mild slumber which brought out smiles in the faces of the rest. I was restless, this wasn’t adequate, I had to know more. Over the days and months that followed, I read extensively about its history, origins, famous yogis, the art of training the mind to be a more productive being. What I gathered was an interesting collection, how the great maestro B.K.Iyengar started and went on to open the finest training school. Somehow everything that connected to yoga became my passion (including the strange shaped wooden beaded jewellery). Did I stop at merely reading ? no, that wasn’t enough, the urge was severe….I had to see things for myself. A couple of visits to land of the origin really nailed me flat. The first thing that caught my attention was the serenity of every single human face that crossed eyes with me. Many questions crossed my mind, “is this pretence?’ “are they real?” It wasn’t only the looks, this sombre manner was evident even in the manner they spoke, responded. No they were not like zombies. They were perfectly normal human beings but with a better grip of things should I say ? My spells of temptations were getting bad, I had to now spend a day or two and check this out. I convinced the unhurried souls to let me stay a night. I relished the dhal that washed over the plate of rice, fresh spring water. Chanting before bedtime, wake up at the crack of dawn, cold shower, yoga to start off the day. Hey this was good. Felt lighter, easier and more relaxed. My mind was churning…what would it be to hang on here for good ? Unanswered question…and many of them too…..I am still looking for the ideal solution one that really fits in with my desires. The search continues, until then I keep stretching to the chants of Morning Ragas