Forget me........Not

When I try to
forget you

From the grayed tangles
left between the teeth of a comb
from a waft of faint perfume
sitting light on the late autumn breeze
from the tender hum
of an old tune

You appear

And whisper in my ear
“ I am trying to forget you too”

Bath games

Boys playful at dusk , @ canal Pollonnaruwa

The week was .....

Oh my goat
The protest over the sacrifice of animals at a kovil did not , for some reason , hit right through to me. The images of  goats  and chicken being lined up in hundreds,  for sacrifice on the temple court yard ,  were forwarded to my inbox . And the saffron robes and  placards condemning the act have apparently gathered up the along lane adjoining the temple..

These images , triggered another  , from some time ago , to play in my head . An image of dark young men ,  bare bodied waist up,  standing in a column at police park , for the initial screening to join the Army .  Two weeks of basic  training and off they went directly to the  trenches in the north . At a time when the battle strategy was to send  more boys than  they could shoot down, most of them probably did not last the first 6 months unscathed.
Funny I do not seem to remember any protesters in the vicinity.  

The Miss?...
Saw the short video of  the Island’s participant answering three questions  as a promo for the “beauty” spectacle.. Obviously shaken, and uncomfortable with the language she was  using  she looked to put on a brave face while she tries  to take on the world .
Below the moving picture , the comments ran long.
Some agitated , some finding it amusing and some carving words prompting from their view  through  patriotism tinted glasses.  
I am with stirred sentiment alright ,  but not very definite whether to smile or cry. 

Since the things have settled
He was a self proclaimed refugee.  Who claimed to have paid 2.5 million to travel the ocean  in a fishing boat to some forgotten shore in south china and crossed the border over land. Who’s earlier story of a family and a grown up daughter  back at home  some how effected our emotions when he announced couple months after  that he has married the pretty lass who used to accompany him and who was introduced as a  cousin. He was our beloved Sri Lankan food man . Who could cook up most home land specialties that our homesick hearts craved . And delivered to our doorstep with Sri Lankan punctuality . 

Monday he called to say , he is going back home . “Now that the things have settled “, he said.
Through  the mixed emotions filling up my heart , I could hear
” it must have been good , but it’s over now “
a line from a forgotten song play in my head over and over.

Were  they

Really ?

Angels .

Once.

Stoned

as they were

after the dame reality

placed warm pecks

on their cheeks 

Colombo . Rain.

 

One morning at Prackarama Samudraya.

Aney Sin

I would have loved to take credit for such a muse, yet this was inspired by http://reargate.blogspot.com/2010/08/blog-post_10.html. So another translation/ adaptation.


 I 

Who

Capture your plight
through a lens

white poise it properly
tune the shadows
to tell the complete story

Say ooh
ah
Aiyyo and Aney sin in the caption

And
move on

Is nothing  but a ………

Monologue- Jaffna waiting

Let me tell you upfront
I
have never been to

Jaffna

But, I have

These days

Things are good
 I hear

Peace
is among the

sweet drinks

green lanka lime ,
sunset orange barley

Ignore the floor panel

made of empty carton

where 50 rocket shells came from

Pottu on her brow

The light house

covered with a

Dialog

Dialog ? really?

Monologue ?

Jaffna listening

still

awaiting
for the cue for her to speak.

PS: This is a first . I have never explained my poems .  This is based on stories I heard from people who have visited Jaffna . That is what most us living beyond shores do . Exchange travel stories . And relish later. The story of dialog is based on the fact that the light house on point pedro is covered by two transmitting towers put up by Dialog . I found that to be ironic.

Sunday thoughts

Sunday .

Weather ,Hot with slight drizzle.

Soundtrack, Bus horn, rain tapping on my window and “Loosing my religion “ unplugged version

Fragrance: Buttered rice and chicken curry

I am thinking of sea shells , ocean whispers , Sri Lanka green, Gotukola, blue butterflies & slow jazz.

galviharaya

If you were to analyse this along the theories of body language ...how would you see it?

Legal services, Nuwaraeliya pola. Reasonable charges , friendly and personalized service at the comfort of a lush office . And did I mention the professional staff?

Bad days

A Fire fly
detests
the ludicrous light
on her rear

(God might have been
far too long in his tavern
that day )

Awes the twinklings
of distant suns
against a somber milieu

(When he is good he is good he is good)

Some random pics

                             

Where it pricks

This was inspired after going through a lovely sinhala blog called  Cinderella's shoe ( http://warnarasi.blogspot.com/blog ) .
So in a sense this is more or less a translation or an adaptation

Where
the mimosa  thorns jab
pain fade in a moment
the bleeding cease even faster
 the skin 

grows over 

and forgets the day

But why 

does 

the soft kiss 

you
placed
on the piercing
so tenderly
after picking out the barbs
so carefully

stay on 

still
and prick me  

Jeweller@ Nuwaraeliya

Cobbler @ Nuwaraeliya

My version of the story

Either you are old enough to remember the story or too young too know who he is .

Of the Sri Lankan business magnate who get’s on his private jet from an east asian country , crashes in the Andaman sea and disappears forever.

 Either you believe the story as it was boiled down to , as an unfortunate incident .
Or  all the conspiracy theories published in news papers , found it's way through gossip and hovered in the air  reside in a corner of your mind. Permanently occupying some of your grey cells . triggering connections of many things , most things,  that happen around you.

Life is such. You believe what you want . And never believe what you don’t want to.

In this small dingy kiosk , barber shop , he is offering me the premium package .
A hair cut , a proper shave and a head massage with Bay rum, for 30 rupees. An offer hard to refuse . 
And  sitting in the worn out barber chair at Rathnam barbers’  , I pop the question at him .
He is Rathnam , the propriter , sole barber, and a man with a secret.
The mention of the very name startle him , and causes a small knick behind my ear .

“ Very rarely does a gentleman change his barber or the tailor , they say “
I deliver the first delivery a little outside the off stump.

“I guess so sir, “  an uncommitted stroke is offered.

I notice the old Unic radio on the table .And also the half open  razor edge at grasping close range .

“Some say he now hides away somewhere in Nuwaraeliya “

“Not so sure sir, He could be alive or may be he is dead”.

The  cobbler at the end of the pavement is supposed to be the eyes and the ears of the town .  even the Police is supposed  consult him for information. The mention of the name pitches short to  attract his attention , but the placing of the 500 rupee notes among the old shoes and threatening of a different nature, does.

“He used to live here for a long time , but not sure what happened “
“He lived with a servant boy with one eye , and every evening sang  que sera sera “

“Now he is dead?”

“ Yes , the tigers found him and killed him again “

Killed him again. Ironic isn’t it .

Just in front of the Saraswathi hotel , where the aroma  of fresh vades , the sounds of tamil tunes  try to subdue the shock of bright yellow , green , pink table clothes , a man is playing a keyboard.

The Tune is Que Sera Sera.

And I’ll be dammend , the man has only one eye.

Either you believe this
or not.

Actually the Barber charged me  30 rupees and trimmed my hair. The Cobbler was a simple man who spoke only inTamil. The musician is blind and plays some unrecognizable tune.

 As for the Great Sri Lankan entrepreneur , well for what I know , his plane crashed and the body was never found.

But don’t you like my version? 

My father and his son

From the
faded photograph
in monochrome
my father
a striking young man
with his first born
in his hands
beams hesitantly
Unsure of the future
of his black and white world

Best shirt on
from his three shirt wardrobe
a bicycle leaned against
the jam tree
in the distant background
He smiles
Unaware of the things to come
unaware
that he would
toil for years
in the scorching heat of a arid land
come home
and die

Next to that photo is another
his son cradling in his hands
the granddaughter whom he never knew
with an uncommitted smile

Contemplations

At the the foot of the stairway.
Stairway to majesty. I sit.
The chill of the cold floor running up my feet , up my spine .
I contemplate , not of the the kings ,
nor the adikarams nor the nilames . Not even the Dukganna ralas who walked this very ground.
But of our kind ,
the simple folk who toiled and laboured
and went home in the evening.

Trinco through a 50mm

The Saruwath Man and his Stock

A Pollonnaruwa Dawn

 0

546hrs , Waiting for the cue 

@ bank of Prakrama Samudraya

I am here.

 Waiting . 

For the sun rise . To take the perfect capture . 

They are waking up . thousands of bird calls fill the space , as if they are waiting for the cue to  fly to the stage I am trying to gather the lilt of this moment.

0551hrs, The Show 

 Still at the bank of Prakrama Samudraya

                             

                                   

    

Then it suddenly happens.

Out of the grey, the golden streaks spread across the gloomy backdrop.

Rips in the  somber drape covering the heavens . 

I  think of the girl yesterday at Gal viharaya , covering  the rip in her worn out frock with her bag.

Before you know,  it  is day. 

I thought sunrise is an affair that takes much longer.

0620hrs , The mirrored lake 

Walking along  the banks

            
I am walking along the edge of the tank .  The fishermen are pulling their net home.|Never ending net , a hue of slight pink in the glistening sun, punctuated by occasional fish.

They offer to take me in their boat, I refuse.

His silhouette form is prominent in the glistening water . The water looks an far spread mirror, reflecting the trees  and the ever present pitch black Seru .

0637hrs, The urge to jump in 

Walking along the canal now

The water is gushing in the many canals that take the flloding water from Prakkarama Samuddraya. The rain gods have been generous this season. Water looks refreshingly cold , the two banks are lush green. 

I should have brought a towel and a change of clothes .

0648hrs, If you ignore it it will go away

Near a GNT (Gaanu nana Thana – Where women bath)

The blue kinghfisher is unfazed by my presence ,  but the  folk bathing nereby are a bit uneasy by the man with a camera in his hand. 

If you ignore it , it will go away

0650hrs, The Perfect Picture

near the 2^nd makeshift bridge

The deep green, the clear water  and the make shift bridge, The colour scheme gets disturbed  by the white uniforms crossing .

Yet it fits in somehow.

0710hrs ,What do little ones know 

past the 2^nd makeshift bridge

The uniforms are blueish white. I assume because of the washing blue  used to whiten them. 

A small basket of flowers in their hands , presume it is for the  “mal pooja” in the morning .

The Akka  blushes away , but the nangi is full of smiles . 

What do small ones know.