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.
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
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.
“ 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 “
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.