Liberation-at what price?

A walk down memory lane three years ago awakens every one, living in Sri Lanka with the historical full stop to the bloody war that lavishly gulped down more than 100,000 human lives on both warring sides. Completely knotting up the socio economic and politically woven fabric of the country’s twenty million inhabitants in different directions, the war viciously stamped down its destructive organs on thousands of homes, property, flourishing fields swaying with bountiful crops and deprived thousands of youth from living their dreams. What began as raising one’s voice to gain an equal footing on a land mass of 65,610 sq km blew into a full scale ethnic war voraciously gulping down thousands of civilian lives, in the name of liberation.


A battle fiercely fought with either side stubbornly refusing to come to a consensus continued with increased military might, until a Norwegian brokered peace agreement in 2002 silenced the deafening artillery. Alas the sigh of relief breathed by the civilians did not live to see the light at the end of a dark tunnel. Months later the peace that was tabled in Oslo and Geneva flew into pieces and evolved into a fully fledged ‘eye for an eye’ marathon. A marathon where once more thousands of civilian lives were ruthlessly grabbed, this time in the name of a renewed pledge, in the fight for ‘own territory’ – territory proclaiming to uphold the rights of the Tamilians in the North and Eastern provinces of the country, culture preserved and governed by the countless academics, who by this time were tired of being what they claimed to be discriminated. Until 2008 September the battle for a separate homeland continued with hatred brimming well enough to continuously squander on each other’s villages and massacre farming families who were sleeping after a hard day’s work in border villages dotting the conflict ridden districts, destroying houses and the few possessions - all in the name of liberation.

From October 2008 until May 2009 the fighting was severe and continuous, dragging many more lives into graveyards, driving thousands out of their homes without any of their possessions and eventually filtered in to welfare camps, placing a pause to human dignity in having to spend life in a tent for months with unknown people with the least privacy. Then came the red letter day – 19th of May 2009 where all Sri Lankans who simply wanted to live a normal life will cherish dearly. The mango shaped island that captured the attention of the world, for all the wrong reasons was suddenly done and dusted with a brutal war and there was an outburst of celebration over the triumph of a menace once considered unprecedented.

While, for some of the hands that took up arms, the rotund figured, protruding macho chests decorated in bullets and guns, the boots that trudged the battle grounds planting land mines in villages, rice fields and main highways did not live to see their dream of a liberated land, for the others it was a case of jubilation proclaiming a nation free of terrorism with military might.

After the big full stop, rays of hope began to flicker, in want of pushing a scarred past behind and moving on. The plight of around 300,000 Tamils filtered to Manik Farm camp having escaped the bombing, shelling, gun firing during the final phase of the war undoubtedly ranked No.1 in the agendas of all humanitarian agencies, government, civil society networks and every other Sri Lankan whose conscience ticked hard. Never in the historical annals of the country has there been such a human orchestrated catastrophe where every responsible mantle was shouldered with the herculean task of restoring normalcy for these war beaten people, this time positioning the country on a higher seat in the donor map. Once more, in true Sri Lankan style many reached out to help the betrayed and battered Tamilians housed in the camps. Affluent school children teamed up to take educational material for the children in the camps with parents and teachers supporting their effort. Very ordinary men and women travelled 250 km to the camps taking the clothing, medication, sanitary and hygiene products for the Tamilians who were christened as refugees. This was in addition to the usual outpouring of international aid agencies doing their usual rounds of relief distribution and support service.

The craving to usher in a kind of reconciliation that would free the knots which had tightly engulfed the daily grind in life was felt very strongly among all civilians who will live to tell the tale of horror experienced over 30 long years. A tale that will recollect shivers down the spine when narrating the countless times bus bombs went off gulping down children returning from school, men and women either going to or returning from work, curfews, military checks, suspicion, doubt over each other, scrambling to get off busses and trains over parcel bomb alerts, some being the unlucky victim of a cross fire during a blast and how three wheeler drivers and every private vehicle driving by stepped in to help wheel the injured victims to the nearest hospital.

On the other side of the fighting squads, young men and women as young as 18 from peasant farming families from all parts of the country, stepped in to deck the country’s military uniform and vowed never to part with a divided country. Their pledge was so strong and steeped in die hard patriotism so much so that some of their siblings followed in their foot steps in the battle to save the country. Over the years some of these young men and women returned to the mud huts they grew up, in a coffin leaving behind wailing girlfriends, parents and siblings. During peak periods of fighting, almost every by lane had a white flag hoisted to signify the death of a young man or woman who chose to give up farming, carpentry, fishing and stand up for a unified nation.

For the Tamilians their militant don was their only saviour- the one who would get the their own homeland where their precious Dravidian culture could be preserved. Alas but what took place at the final stages of the battle was something they never imagined… around 300,000 of them were used as shields by their own saviours, who by this time were choking and gasping in their final struggle to cling on to their dream by escaping military confrontation. The glorified Tamilian Don was not a saviour but a Judas and betrayal it was in the first degree!

Tamilians from the North and East claiming to be the 'only true Tamilians' were always renowned to be embedded in Tamilian culture entwined with rituals and customs passed on by generations. They were proud of their ancestry stemming from South India which some ridiculously refuse to accept but claim they are the one and only original Tamilians !!! Here was a community where caste and social status mattered to a great deal even to the extent of socializing where one could be looked down upon if associating a person of a lower caste. Once during a visit to the North, I was sitting on the doorstep of a village woman and helping myself to the vadai she had made only to find there were many other villagers standing near the fence and staring at me. What had I done wrong ? Ooops I had committed a sinful act of eating from a woman of a lower case - bah baloney...I helped myself to many more vadai's and to everyone's horror held the woman's hand and thanked her for giving me such delicious treats. What I can't fathom is how is it when amazingly with all due respect to their sacred book the Bhagavad Gita, claims that a caste of a person is determined by his or actions can such a distorted perception be passed down from generation to generation - and that too from the so called educated ?  What a whirlwind ...suddenly the people who were so conscious of their caste and social status were left to adjust with a scattered life having to share a tent with 13 or more people whose caste, social status was unknown. During many of my visits to the North, I pondered if this was a wake up call for them to let go of the utterly foolish perception. Maybe it was one of those moments where a brick lands on your head and makes one to reflect on one's own stupidiy??? Somehow in the name of humanity I feel very strongly on the extent of bruising and bashing they had to undergo caught up in this liberation madness !!!

The thousands of young men and women deprived of a decent education lingered in camps with shattered dreams, the older men and women who worked tirelessly tending to rice, vegetables and other crops suddenly became dependent on packed ration, the saree clad hardworking women who took pride in caring for their families were suddenly idle having to rely on free relief packs given by the aid agencies. This was a community who regarded education as the seat next to God and hard work the only way to real success, now had to deal with a life confined to a tent, living with people whose caste and social status was unknown.

How could this degree of destruction struck in every sphere of a human being’s life be brought to normalcy?

How do you explain to all the young children that some adults decided to fight for 30 long years to claim a separate homeland and that is why they were not able to go to school, play, make new friends or spend time with their families?

How will the once brainwashed militant minded young men and women who were only groomed to kill in the name of a free land, learn to live very normal lives?

How do you tell these young men and women that watching movies, listening to music, having different hair styles, dressing up and falling in love are not something bad but are very normal things when a human being hits the teenage milepost in life?

Why were the thousands of young men and women of peasant families picked to fight in the name of freedom while children of the top brass guerilla war mongers got the finest education in the West?

Where is the jerk who deprived all the young men and women of a formal education?

What do you do, when you have lost everything and have absolutely nothing to begin life?

Cannot undo…….. please proceed

I was on my usual round of debit and credit errands today when I realized I had to make it in time to sort out a written assignment I had undertaken. A sparkling new metered taxi was parked near a turning point to a busy highway. Taking a quick peek I saw a young guy sitting straightening up when I asked him if he was ready to take me :) Nodding he obliged and I hopped in to go on a ride on a metered taxi feeling relieved that being on time was after all a possibility.


But… the tale that opened up along the ride made me ponder on a sea of questions such as ‘why poor people often have to take the worst beating in life?’ ‘why social inequality continues to broaden at alarming levels despite the several thousand mushrooming activists and charity songbirds quaking their hearts out?’’ is there a way to address underlying needs and bring in real change?’

The young man started off first by saying “miss I do not know the roads nor areas” Taken aback I asked him in Sinhala “How can you get on with this job if you do not know your alphabet?” Somewhat writhing under the pressure of my blunt landing he replied “I began working for this taxi company only today”. Taking a quick glance at the youngster I asked him if he was originating from outside Colombo. He shook his head and said Mt Lavinia – located about 23 Km away from Central Colombo and renowned for its great beaches and the chain of tourist hotels dotted along the coast line. My curiosity was to figure out how in a busy suburb like Mt. Lavinia could a young man of 22 years, proclaim he didn’t know to get about in Colombo. My mind quickly raced back to when I stood at my 22nd milepost in life. Being a gypsy by nature, I knew my way inside out within Colombo and the suburbs and had the roads, routes safely stored much better than all the mathematical formulas that were force fed in school !!! Obviously something was not quite right in here

Getting more curious and not wanting to probe I casually said “Oh well now knowing the roads is not so much of an issue because there are road signs and gigantic bill boards with pointers towards different locations that help you to find your way” Some silence and I glanced to see why there was no answer to that, what I saw was a dejected look spread across a ebony coloured face. Still puzzled I prodded reiterating my earlier comment and said “Is it not?” Sounding very ashamed he simply said “I don’t know to read and write that much, I studied only up to Grade 6” in a very small voice. An instant cloud of confusion crept over my head not knowing how to continue the conversation. I then assumed the guy obviously has financial issues in his family”. After all I am a Sri Lankan having travelled to all corners of this island, heard many enchanting tales of survival.

Wanting very much to hear the other half of the story from the young man himself I once more casually remarked “ well you know, not knowing the roads or how to get about it’s not the end of the world because being Sri Lankan it is common to ask other locals for directions and how to get about from one place to another. Now I had to come down to the same level as a 6th standard educated human being and then said unlike in some other countries we do not follow maps for directions most times the easiest way is to talk to other locals and figure out how to get to a place”.

I also asked him why he should consider that as, something to be cautious when he could communicate easily with the other locals in Sinhala which is the commonly spoken dialect within Colombo and the surburbs. Not stopping at that I admired the courage of the several young men and women migrating from all corners of the country to the big city in search of big dreams, landing here, some not knowing Sinhala, not knowing how to get around and not fully understanding the canny nature of the city but still making it through after a struggle and a push.

I was curious to know the real underlying reasons of his reply. A smile broke in having heard that comment from me, but was soon halted with tears welling up in the otherwise sparkling eyes. “I feel sad when I think of my older brother, years ago he worked for a company that produced photo albums but an accident made his hand go numb and he cannot work anymore. It was my brother’s pay cheque that took care of my mother and the rest of us”. Tears in full form streaming down his cheeks, this time it was tears of regret “ I feel there is a big rut in my life because I never got to finish formal education and I am not able to do a job that will take care of my family” Between sniffles he continued “After my brother met with an accident all of us went through really tough time trying to survive. I quit going to school at 11 and used to go out looking for work. The one or two hundred Rupee notes that I bought in, kept us going”. I worry about my mother who is ill and lie in bed most times of the day because her feet ache from the sores. Interrupting the rambling I ask him if his mom has diabetes and he nods and how many other siblings he has to which he replies one sister and one brother. “So altogether your mom has four kids?” I ask him and he nods again.

“I got this job from one of the big houses I go to work for the youngster continued. There was a miss who was very kind, went to the extent of buying me clothes, shoes to wear to work, when I told her that I didn’t have any to wear when she offered me this job. I never had long pants nor good looking shirts like this to wear. I never owned a pair of proper shoes after I quit school. I confessed to her that I didn’t know to read and write that well but she simply nodded and took me on, maybe she felt sorry for me?”.

I asked the guy how he managed to get his driving license to which he said he had planned to get a job as a driver thus he had applied for one and got it. “For a short time I drove a three wheeler for a big sir but after that he sold the three wheeler and I didn’t have work. Trying to understand the neighbourhood and the vicinity of where he lived, my next question was, where in Mt. Lavinia he lived and he responded “My house is close to the Mt. Lavinia High Courts”. That gave me a somewhat rough sketch of the area he claimed to live. I faintly recall seeing some urban squatter dwellings in the back alleys of the High Courts.

I was testing him right along to all that he said, just to confirm that the long sob story he landed had no holes. Pointing to a Route No. 154 bus I asked him do you know where that bus is heading? He kept quiet and said no. I asked him if he has ever seen that bus running on Galle Road (the main highway from Colombo to Galle). He shook his head and said “I used to go look for work in big houses that were closer to where I lived. I never go by bus because all the money I earned from working I used to bring it home. Casually I glanced at his callous filled hands that were gripping the steering wheel to spot if the pair of hands resembled the kind of hard work that he spoke about. It did and there was no doubt about that!!! I glanced at the young man to figure out if this character resembles the type who could possibly be doing kuli vada (day’s paid casual labour) and observed that he was the kind of guy

I noticed an entry level Chinese model of a cell phone lying on the dashboard and asked him if the phone was his and he replied that a friend of his gave him the phone when he told him that he got chosen for this job.

Clearly the lack of confidence, fear, caution that sets in the mind of a school leaver, stepping into the world of work was seen in this young man, the only difference being, much of the doubts were his inability to clearly identify numbers, letters and string them to make meaningful sentences. “The many numbers in this meter are confusing” he said, to which I said, what is the confusion – on the top there is the running number of kilometers that you are driving, the right side there is the cost, accounted according to the mileage driven and the left side has the running number if the vehicle has to wait. At the end of each trip the customer pays the cost indicated in the meter.

“He replied by saying you know when I was a kid it took me a long time to remember whatever the teacher taught in class. I remember she would say it so many times and it is only after I remember, but that too for a short time. I know that I am not good at remembering whatever that’s taught”. I gauged this long before he spat out this statement by having to direct him left / right a couple of times and eventually gesture the direction with my hand.

He rattled on expressing more fear and caution “I thought this would be an easy job but now I realize that it isn’t easy as it seems”. The miss who got me this job is very kind and offered me a big pay cheque as much as LK.Rs. 18,000 (approx US$ 160) but the fact is that a lot of things make me lose confidence in continuing this job from not knowing the routes, roads, my inability to read and write properly and most of all I fear that the big important madam’s and sir’s will argue with me for the cost and I wouldn’t be able to explain properly. I am worried that I will be branded as someone who charged extra and got away.

This is one young man who is afraid of the big city and the world I think to myself. So I give the guy a little pep talk and tell him everyone’s first day of work is a nightmare and you are having yours, but every time you decide you cannot do this, think of how your family looks up to you as their savior on earth to care for them. Even if you quit this one you will still have a first day in another place and you will need to learn the work on the job and that is how it works in every place of work regardless of what ever work you do. He listens eagerly and nods. I tell him about the unshakable South African blade runner Oscar Pistorius and how he made it to world standards. (He’d never heard of Oscar and I was upset-I look upto Oscar as ‘the guy’) I also tell him about our very own biscuit king-Hinni Appuhamy, Timber merchant-Nawaloka Mudalali and Ayurvedic Doctor Hettigoda Vedha Mahattaya who are big names in the country today. I tell him the founders were also simple folk like you and me who never had the so called formal education but the only difference is they kept learning and always thought they can.

By this time my trip was over and it was time to settle his dues. The cost came to Rs. 393 (US$ 3.50) and I placed five 100 rupee notes in his palm. I could see that it took him a while to realize there was Rs. 107 (US cents 5 short to make up a Dollar) extra in there and spread the notes to figure it out, but by that time I assured him that it was perfectly OK for him to keep the change and that I wasn’t going to complain to his employer.

Amidst wishes of good luck and thank you’s for a safe ride! Turning back, I saw him carefully separating the cost and the extras in different pages of his log book.

Is it possible for a human being to go back in time
and undo what is not right in his life
without making him regret till he leaves this world?

liked by a bunny

meet my latest fascination, the white bundle of white flurry blub who stands on hind legs and keeps his two paws on the iron bar and sniffs..as I come closer to the cage. I just have to stop, squat and put two of my fingers and pat him...the white bundle then squats and closes his red marble like eyes halfway as if to appreciate me stroking him. ..this continues for a couple of days until it actually hits me that I am recognized every time I happen to pass by his cage. I am taken up by this new fan who actually stops to greet me...pity I don't carry anything for him to nibble..maybe the next time and I always forget ..but the greeting is always spontaneous as I pass the cage..and then I have to do the same old ritual, squat and pat him ..and watch his mate come near to see whats going on..
Just recently I couldn't help but snap a few pics of the adorable bundle and pay my electronic appreciation for being just adorable ..and they got very shy as the shutter clicked, both turned their white butts to the lens !!!

Snapshot of Mannar

On the Sri Lankan map, my index finger and my trailing eyes used to habitually navigate towards an island protruding from Mannar, that looked like a sliced fruit. Somehow islands fascinated me, there was that unusual charm in there. It was a fascination for an islands within a bigger island (I was living on one J). Maybe I got bitten by this island bug after I visited Delft (Jaffna). I didn’t get to visit Talaimannar – the strip of land connecting to our bigger neighbor, but being able to set foot in the main city and a stroll around the villages itself was a something to be thrilled about. Besides I had never been to Mannar and the moment I landed I was scanning for things that made Mannar unique in its own way.

Having been to many of the areas in the Northern Province, there weren’t things up for huge comparison except a couple of malt colour donkeys (I envied their fringe :-) plenty of fish markets and statues of the Blessed Virgin Mary standing at every street junction replacing Lord Shiva or the revered Elephant God. It was the strong influence of the sacred catholic pilgrimage site of Madhu and many of the community being Christian with fisheries being the main occupation. The rest of it was typical – brick red dust, Palmyrah trees, trees worn out by the scorching heat standing straight with all its strength on arid soil which in some places had turned into a checkered print.

Lorries whizzed by grim faced cyclists leaving a trail of red dust behind. Boards with signs “Mannaram maalu” back in Colombo flashed in my head, The lorries were rushing to and from to take Mannar’s prized Karawala (dried fish) back to Colombo.

I remembered Sam my dear friend with whom I used to travel a lot constantly yakking about the cashew and rambutan in his beloved home town Nanattar in Mannar. I sent him a text simply saying ‘hi buddy I am in your previous Nanattar’, that was enough to fire up Sam who called me instantly and was excited and regretful at the same time that he couldn’t be the tour guide showing off all the places that he talked about.  He seemed like he was going to appear through the cellphone signals and land any moment J I had to calm him down by saying let’s make it again when he plans to head home during a long stretch of holidays.

Only less than a day spent in Mannar getting a snapshot view of a place steeped with historical links but left me with a strong will to go back to see the stretch of smaller islands in Talaimannar and see the last bit of Sri Lanka fading off to the sea. Yeah islands will always remain fascinating …For now I keep my fingers crossed in hope that I will be able to do just that..someday…..somehow

behind the curtain to see the real Batticaloa

I am heading to Batticaloa fondly referred to as the land of the singing fish. During the couple of visits I made I never heard any fish sing J but have always been fascinated by its unique charm. Anxious to see how it was faring 3 months after the devastating floods my thoughts flipped the pages of my memory bank to 2007, when I first set foot and thought everything in Batticaloa was cool from the neatly stacked palmyrah fencing to the pungent aroma of the lagoon. The beep in my cell phone brought me back to the present. A text from the weather guys informed that the sun was directly above Sri Lanka ; that was enough to prepare me for the kind of weather that I was to take in during my stay. Actually it wasn’t a surprise, I could see it in the crinkled foreheads and worn out faces that passed by. My brown tinted glasses helped my eyes to stay open and sample the people and changing landscape outside cutting off the sunlit glare equal to a millions of high energy fluorescent lights glaring at one’s face. The humidity levels were beyond manageable levels and could be seen in the many faces that seemed to clearly spell out the discomfort.

Forget the heat, humidity and glare, I am here to savour a part of the East all over again. Driving through a brightly coloured archway with 2 mermaids and fish tells me that I am in Batticaloa. Nothing much has changed except some constructions taking place in some areas.  Bicycles are peddled furiously by serious looking school kids. Saree clad women pass by carrying bags that seem like groceries. Billboards from many mobile phone companies, banks and other corporate big wigs seem to scream ‘come buy us’. The town is a typical local place of hustle and bustle.  Apart from the add on’s that have come by after the rush to invest when the gates were open, Batticaloa has managed to retain it’s essence well in tact – I’m glad and now looking forward to my visit to the village the next day.

I visit a couple of villages in Kiran division the next day and this is my real work, where I put in my best to capture the vibes of people in a village and understand their lives and see how a little gesture of generosity can bring in some change in their lives or maybe make their life better.

Along the way, what unfolds before me sets my RAM churning out thoughts in rapid speeds. I am driven between paddy fields that seemed to have surrendered to a tragic death and is waiting to be resurrected from the destruction of the floods. The occasional tractor that rambled seemed like the only consolation to the villager who was trudging the many kilometers bringing in the most wanted kerosene oil, coconuts and other groceries home.  The ones who were not lucky to get a tractor ride had big bags of rice sitting on their heads while hard working hands held on to another bag.  Unlike in the urban areas, I did not spot any waddling obese human beings. These legs were so adapt to long walks and holding up heavy loads. Periodically a bicycle passed with neatly chopped firewood piled sometimes as high above the rider’s head. Charcoal coloured buffalo heads were popping out of water flown from an irrigational tank and that had formed a pond.  Some men and women were holding on to the hooks that had held the fish they had caught from a river and were doing the usual long walk. In the scorching weather, I notice some feet are bare and I imagine that it must as bad as walking over the fire cinders in Kataragama where of course the devotees do it for a vow or as a sacrifice. I couldn’t spot a hospital, bus stop, market, fuel station, garage, school, three wheelers etc., the usual row of outlets that my eyes were so trained to see in my daily commute to work back at home (not many stray dogs either).

I look into every single face and try to read the many moods and expressions that talk of a life that is a constant battle for survival.  I tell myself that I am seeing the visual of the phrase ‘it’s a dog’s life’ but frankly some dogs have better lives !

Nine year old salesmen

“Gal Siyambala rupiyal dahayayi ganna” (literally buy a bag of Gal Siyambala) It’s a shrill call and I turn to spot a plastic weather beaten basin carrying several bags of ‘Gal Siyambala’ tucked in circular motion, and there’s another like that as well. Two pairs of twinkling eyes meet mine. I take a closer look at the two salesmen in front of me, clutching on to the basins. Inspite of their Rs.10 quote going in repetitive chants, I ask “keeyada?” (how much?) pat comes the answer “mallak dahayayi” (a bag is 10). Those eyes did the damage, they tugged so hard at my heart. I had to please both. The twenty Rupee note I give them is to be split between both of them I tell them. Two bags of Gal Siyambala are quickly shoved in to my hands. I can’t help but pat their heads. I walk ahead to see the historical Yudaganawa temple. From a distance it looks like an upturned chocolate egg nestled between gigantic Teak, Koang, Woodapple, Tamarind trees. The splendor of the placid environment was obvious to pronounce the era when life ran at snail’s pace. Nibbling on the Gal Siyambala I enjoy walking getting a glimpse on either side, watching groups of chattering monkeys swinging frantically from one branch to another, some sitting around as if in serious discussion. On my way out, I watch the 2 salesmen on an aggressive marketing drive, enticing potential customers with their packs. Both their mothers were running their own mini sales outlets that had woodapple, herbal tea and water melons. I watched how they shuttled in between their mothers’ outlets handing over the sales revenue when their pockets couldn’t hold the coins and notes any more. I can’t help but walk towards them once more only to find them running towards me once more…letting out a shrill call “ganna bag ekak vissai” (take a bag for 20 )This time oops there is a rise in price and I ask them teasingly “dahayay evata mokada vunay?” (what happened to the packs for 10?). Two rows of squirrel sized teeth pop out through wide grinned faces. “Aeva ivarai” (Those are gone). Grinning I get one more bag which was quite a lot and tell them to share the Twenty Rupees between them. The fragrance of boiling Beli mal is too tempting to resist I decide to wash off the pungent acidic flavor which the gal siyambala berry had left on my palate with a nice cup of Beli mal. Under the shade of a humongous Teak tree, sipping piping hot Beli Mal accompanied by juggery, I continue to observe the salesmen who are running after 2 big busses carrying a group of pilgrims who had stopped for refreshments. Curious, I walk to the outlet run by one of the salesman’s mothers, to observe her marketing drive. A pleasant ebony skinned woman greets me. She tells me that the both the 9 year old salesmen are on school vacation right now. I listen to her ranting and go back for another cup of Beli mal, The woman at the outlet, is quick to sense my liking and asks if I need a second serving, for which she does not charge. I am flattered at her generosity. As I walk around watching the entire area filled with mini outlets, I suddenly spot a cycling woman waving at me, It’s the mother of one of the salesman, Her day is done and she is heading home. One of the salesman seemed to enjoy running behind the bicycle while his business buddy stays back to help his mother at the Beli mal tea outlet. Maybe he has more entrepreneurial lessons to take from his mother ?

beyond the bindi and the vaetti

“Can you make it to Jaffna?” the 6 words sounded sweeter than Beethoven’s symphony in my ears. The possibility to make it by road sounded even more musical. Together with 4 other colleagues I jumped into cruise the A9 highway, eager to take in, feel, sniff at what lay beyond Vavuniya, the furthest I had stepped into the boundaries of this country. What I saw was somewhat close to my scattered images of military log cabins, palmyrah trees and acres of bare land with the roofless houses, schools and other buildings gracing the landscape. Looking at the skeletoned houses, gave me the creeps, my thoughts often wandering far beyond trying to imagine what life must have been before the roof, windows and doors disappeared. My colleague Uday originating from Kilinochchi had interesting revelations from his disturbed past and was in a constant chatter explaining what we saw outside. When we reach Vavuniya, he was quick to get off and go hunting for an iron mortar and pestle for his mom whom we will be seeing on route. While having lunch in a fancy restaurant (in Vavuniya standards), Uday appeared with the prized mortar and pestle, a food cover and a pack of chocolate cream biscuits. The drive after lunch was long but fascinating to my eyes that longed to always see the changing landscape. When we finally step down a woman (young for a mother) greets us flashing a 100 watt smile. The man standing beside her looks at us but he seemed lost and too distant to connect instantly. The son’s arrival along with what was wanted, was a reason for jubilation by both the woman and man. In sheer excitement at the thought of setting foot in Kilinochchi, I step down on some mud that seemed to have been formed from the recent rains. The woman is quick to lead me to the well in their backyard. She draws water and tilts the bucket to wash off the slithery toffee coloured mud until it dissolves and slips away. I cannot converse as comfortable as I want to with her, but I am eager to try my luck with my newly learnt Tamil phrases. ‘meththapp periya upaharam’ (thank you very much) I pronounce very proudly at the actual thought of being able to tell it to a native speaker. I try to create a sense of comfort between us and tell her “the first time I landed in Kilinochchi I stepped into mud” There’s a lot of giggling at my silly comment. The saying ‘languages bind people emotionally’ proves its worth at this moment when I spot the twinkling in her pretty black eyes. Still flashing her perfectly manicured sparkling teeth she gestures me for a cup of tea. I have to continue the flow with her. Carefully grafting the words I tell her ‘that it’s too much trouble’ and what I see is a well oiled head jerking twice swiftly from left to right, still retaining the same smile, but with a more concerned look she says, ‘no trouble at all’. Am I one delighted soul, my levels of Tamil comprehension has improved drastically. I can actually understand what was said. In a little concrete floor area not exceeding 2 sq ft with a world food programme stamped cover for a roof, watching her make tea on the little floor area, stirs my emotional chords vigorously making me to wonder how life could be so wretched for some. Soon I am sipping piping hot tea sitting on a clean floor, which looks as if it’s been licked. My eyes begin its expedition. On the other side there is what seems like a patch of land with overgrown trees. I try to visualise it during good times. Perhaps there were plots of brinjals, chillies, drumsticks that supplemented the family. The man, I notice observes us closely. It seems to me that periodically he comes down to the present but quickly reverts to the past and loses himself in transition. The woman complements me on my efforts to converse in Tamil and I feel pleased at the thought of it. “Where are you from?” she asks me and I tell her “Colombo”. She gives me a nod that symbolises “I thought so”. She takes a look at all of us and asks quizzically “Sinhala?” We acknowledge her guess. I tell her “No”. She looks at me, I lock my eyes in hers and tell her “human beings- that’s what we all are”. Contemplating for a while, she nods as if to acknowledge my off the beaten response. I take a last look at her beautiful smile and watch her wave till we drive out of sight. I couldn’t think of having dinner that night, this woman, the kitchen and the man continued to flash before my eyes. Her smile, her simplicity and hospitality just everything about her made me to be lost in deep thought. Each time she did appear in my conscience thereafter, I found my eyes evolving to be a running stream of tears dripping down my face. Unlike the mud on my sandals that were washed off I began to think what it would take to remove the ‘sludge’ off her life?

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