They started speaking to me again . The elusive poet, the radical thinker and the ardent traveler, the voices in my head.
I was thinking to myself ,at last I am standing here.
In this place where my dreams unveiled during many confusing half slept nights , while I lay my head on my palms . Feeling the cold beads of sweat of my nape on my palms. Feeling the warmth of my hands on my neck.
There I was , at the very place whose haunting image made me write many poems to clear my mind . After 450 + words later, it still remains etched deep.
The afternoon before , the old gypsy woman at the Trincomallie town , read my face . “You are bound to find a happy place” , that was just before I hid my palms in my pockets and declined her offer for a full reading .
Yellow , orange red , green , pink , purple saruwath gleam in the noon sun.
“This might be that happy place”. The thinker opined
What the man with a grey haired ponytail told me at the bar that night, between the clinking of the glasses and the last gulp , plays in a loop somewhere between my ears .
“ No other island like this mate”.
The sand burns my heels . The foamy edged blue waves heal them .
I close my eyes and muse about the narrow parallel lanes, all ending at an azure blue backdrop. How the lime walls run the full length of each lane , hiding years of stories , years of memories .
The poet recites one of his half poems
“First comes the poem
of white sand
of rushing waves
and their hushed secrets
hidden in a deep shell
all what you saw in an autumn dream
and grew slowly in to a longing
Then comes the itch
to travel to places
where you have
already been”
The thinker catches the last line and repeats it to him self “where you have already been..” .
I walked deeper in to the water . All those fish , butterfly fish , clown fish, those colours . And that blue.
“You remember what was written on the wall at barefoot ? , every red was once a pink “ . The traveller query.
“ What do you think a blue was before? “
“This blue was once a grey”, the thinker says picking up a seashell and pressing it against his ear . Trying to hear the sound of the ocean.
The evening before, I was standing on a shore dotted with sea shells of every shape and every shade of white and grey, a little beyond Nilawali.
While the sun yawned and spilled it’s glory in amber, purple , pink hues against the backdrop of brandeis blue sky (the same colour scheme as the saruwath), the seagulls plunged to water to catch the fry. Absolutely breathtaking.
Nearby, a fisherman was getting his equipment ready to ride the waves to the deep , to cast his net. His net of hope.
“ Years ago , nobody would stand here after six , the tiger boats used to patrol the shore and fire at anything that moved“ he says nonchalantly. And smiles.
I can not help but ponder, whether he once prayed for the day to stand on this beach and watch the sunset with his children . “May be the day when the war is over “ he would have said to him self.
Today war is a memory , peace is the unfamiliar present.
Yet he has not the capability nor the time to spare to watch the sunset from his backyard .
But I was there having spent thousands of rupees for the time and the place to enjoy the show.
I ponder what has actually changed in the lives of these people .
While they are trying to make sense of this peace , are they being beaten to benefits of peace , by us .
Are they still trying to find something to fill the void created by the fleeting fear .
“ Fear is a slow dying habit mate “
“ And peace is a delicacy. It is an acquired taste and should be consumed in small portions “
the thinker thinks out loud.
PS: This was written from the various scribbles I have done in Trinco. I have never visited Trinco before . But now I am in love with the place. Hand full of photos , a bag full of sea shells lying in a shelf and a head full of memories later , here I am , until the next time I feel the white sand an the Indian ocean on my feet.
