Different poison for different folks. That I know.
But this evening , a warm bath, a glass of Merlot , a cocktail of Muse, Jack Johnson, Juno sound track, handful of assorted jazz tunes and the long lasting languor, I would call ..heavenly.
What the heck will throw in some Jothipala songs too.
Master Po once said , behold and embrace the reality of a bowl of noodles. Between sips of jasmine tea , while you inhale to make your mouth taste sweet , focus on the philosophy.
The first mouthful tastes so drab and the fetid soup is hard to get used to. The texture is a bit mire for one to cherish . Then after a while something happens. You get used to it. May be it grows on you. It does not taste that.
The people who heard this wisdom, decoded this in diverse ways. Some said he was talking about Chinese damsels. Some thought it was about the aberrant customs of the far east.
But what Master Po says only master Po knows . But every once in a while something happens and one reminisces about the philosophy of the noodles.
BTW today is the second day of the lunar new year and the cherry blossoms have their first spring shoots out.
But our burley Scottish guide on bicycle and the second-hand books seller in the town , were something else .
That was Lamma Isle.
Memories come back, of rain water , trickling down the canals of roof tiles. On to ground, making puddles in soft gravel. Brown floods gushing down the road , washing down all dusty sins , ankle deep, gathering to make bigger puddles , to the joy of a seven year old's heart . Holding the promise of amusement, for days. Paper boat races , jumping in the puddles, till the sun finally dries up the muddy waters of joy .
I reminisce the peculiar smell of the earth ,when the heavens stop crying and the first rays of sun spills from the clouds . The image of the last drops of rains, clinging on to the edge of the roof tile, long enough to glitter to the first rays and then letting go to many small puddles aligned with each grove. Inside the house, plastic buckets kept in the hall to catch the rain drops seeping through the cracked tiles.
I sometimes wander whether I haven't moved on from that point of my life. Like an after taste it clings to my mind. I feel like there is Peter pan, in every one of us, refusing to grow up.
Even today when I walk those lanes (once a year or so) , it is literally a stroll down the memory lane. But no more puddles , as the dusty road has since been tarred.
PS: This sculpture is not from Sri Lanka but closer to my new home …
I learnt today there is a fine line between racism and that feeling you get when you hear the words " I Barak Hussein ….". Very fine line I tell you
I learnt today that "sun dance kid" lived well in to his mid life…I kid, You not
I learnt today while dazzling good looks or irresistible wit , can, on their own right win most arguments , some , so unjustly, are blessed with both.
And it was all in a day's lessons.
Days have passed since the surge of write-ups in the blogosphere, the eulogies in the weekend papers and many a discussions you would have had with like minds or unlike minds (if you are liberal). May be you would have read the much circulated editorial, the dead man's view, as well.
I have mulled over much, on putting my thoughts to words , but for some reason I was not impelled enough to do so .. Don't get me wrong I too have had my share of arm-chair scrutiny of the plight and I too have the perfect plan to take Sri Lanka towards Utopia (like most ). I too have had my share of short pangs of patriotism, which does give one quite a rush. (Then I remember , Patriotism, that was Hitler's excuse too.).
Then I read RD's post which ended "Surely it must mean something".
The gears within started moving. I felt like an simple experiment. I started querying friends, family and myself , what does it really mean?
One simple question was thrown. What is the first image you get , when somebody says "Sri Lanka."
Despite my sample not being perfect.( I had nobody who said "Sunday fare , Trincomalee town" , within my inner circle. ), the list was extensive and diverse
Following are some examples
String hoppers
Pol Sambol,
Sipping an Elephant house Cream Soda, Barefoot Garden Cafe
Hikkaduwa beach by moon light
Mount Lavinia beach on a Sunday evening
The friendly neighborhood immigration officer at BIA
Cheese Kottu , Pillawoos
Main Bus Stand, Galle town
The old Ronio'd map of Sri Lanka map which was sold for Rs 2 in 80's
Late morning cup of plain tea on a sunny morning at the Verandah, Battaramulla
Smell of Kade Paan
Sri Lanka . The way each of us can grasp.
Sri Lanka. The way each of us like to remember.
Sri Lanka. The each of us have experienced.
Sri Lanka . The way each of us feel.
None making better sense than the other . None absurd than the other. …what is it for you?
PS: For some reason, for me , it is my mother's face …Now I kind of know , what it means to me. Surely.
I've bought the leather jacket.
Cause it's about the disposition for the most part.
Then an old canvass bag or even a weathered leather one would do to hold the gear. With an outside pouch for the shiny flask of rum. Moroccan .
I was torn between long hair and a shaved head, and settled on the latter. But my original choice of a five o clock shadow stays. As said earlier, attitude counts.
May be twice week I might have to lift few pounds of iron to toughen my hands. "Steady hands" , the masters say.
Now only the minor details like camera , needs to be organized.
Rest is straightforward. Through the view finder you gaze. Hold your gasp and release the shutter.
And end it with a gulp of rum.
Like boats anchored on an old seaport (or should I have said a typhoon shelter) , they are lined up . Symmetrically perfect as it could be . Good news parked. My In box .
I jump from one to the other captaining each, moment I am in it. Like Jack Sparrow , Captain Jack Sparrow.
He writes to tell me that my two proses have been accepted to be featured in this year's edition. Hard cover. Well bound . Expensive paper , matt finish. I hope they get the punctuations right. The mandatory donation does not strike you until the last paragraph.
"You are good , but not that good". Yet he didn't press the point, such a gentleman.
But then again that should not be an issue , because Mr J H Klausse, writes me to inform about the inheritance that my long lost uncle left me in a South African bank. And now that he is dead after his Iron bird crashed on to the jungles of Tazmania .
God bless his soul. But too bad mercury is aligning with the moon this year (after 82 years) , I am told.
Memories come back , of looking at her hand carefully cup the as she brushed the crumbs of the table , then clasping it in the palm till she discards them in to the bin.
I rinse my mind out of fantasies.
"are you sure you want to move the marked to trash?" This is the last chance to change my mind.
I confirm.
