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.