We discussed our tutes I stand behind this shelter The stewards patter silently. I sit by my window and watch
Tutes. Thalaguli. Tea.
over thalaguli and tea,
comparing
consoling.
The cycle shop was still there
grimy reminder
of a ghostly dream
but life rushed past in trishaws
down Hampden Lane
just outside padlocked gate.
We were smug
on the front verandah
curled in comfy chairs
playing our verbal sonata
spiced with ornaments and trills
punctured occasionally
by the raucous farts
of a purging dog.
(February 1988)Cremation
human shapes around me,
and watch the rain pound with fury
on my car’s deep grey hood.
The drops burst
splashing skywards
into a million brilliant diamonds …
head dress of a bridal train
making pretty patterns in my frame.
Just beyond
another group of human shapes
huddled, sheltered against the storm.
And deep beyond
thick, soft, dirt-brown smoke
clings, fighting for release
licked by frantic flames
on wet sputtering logs.
I’ve been through it all.
I know it all.
The sadness, relief, guilt and remorse.
Deep(?)est Sympathies
I’ve got to fly
To read tonight’s News.
(April 1995)Bastille Day
Le piano sings sweetly.
And o la la they’re all there !
white skins patronising the browns
and brown skins pandering to the whites.
Diplomacy at chic-est best !
Blabbering polite niceties
we devour smoked salmon
with camembert-coated teeth
and burp unashamedly (oui excusez-moi)
flushing it down with champagne
… and the party goes on ……
The strains of Namo Namo Matha
waft in to the ballroom
but we Sri Lankans are still busy
eating and drinking
(No wining and dining – c’est plus elegant)
but drop our forks for the Marseillaise
PS : There’s a war up North
but who cares for an Anthem anyway ?
(14 July 1995) Autumn in Paris
the leaves
beige – russet – brown
decadent, drifting downwards
stung by angry raindrops
to wallow in mud and shit.
The wind howls … hungrily,
rabidly, chasing whores
down deserted alleys,
as stars lick the Eiffel Tower
piercing, phallic,
a glowering torch in the night sky
gloating over darkened rooms
where hired bodies writhe
under wollen covers.
The Wap moon jeers… knowingly…
(Paris. October 1989)Birthday Party
Crepe paper stuck on the wall
stares garishly at me
screaming “HAPPY BIRTHDAY”
in technicolour
Balloons hang like overripe fruit
waiting to be burst
by the raucous kids
who skate on polished floors
The sexes are neatly divided
- women in the hall
discuss teledramas and soap queens
- men in the verandah
mix paddy harvests with politics
Others sit like zombies
plates flooded with food
watching wedding videos
gasping, in turn, pretentiously,
at bridal elegance
and choking over yesterday’s cutlets,
while the deafening noise of kids
soars into the night sky.
I flee into the garden
and sip iced coffee
under the old mango tree
slapping mosquitoes,
trying vainly to make small talk
with the imbeciles around me.
The cars soon begin to leave
with the cake-smeared brats
their sweat-washed mothers
and rather tipsy fathers.
The balloons now hang like limp rags
sad, pathetic.
The floor’s a gastronomic mess
but, the gaude crepe
still screams
defiantly
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY.............................................”
(February 1989)Burying Granny
No tears.
No pain.
Just sorrow
and a childhood memory.
The brown clay pot
with your soft gray ash
tied at the mouth
was still numbered.
The sun beat down
the priest prayed
and we bricked you
in the family vault.
“Praise be to God”, he said
“Amen”, we replied.
(September 1986)Memoirs of a Parisian Spring
The rain beats down
monotonously
in dull, drab, drops
dribbling from grey clouds
stretched across the skies.
Weak, insipid, a sun feebly peers
tremulously fighting snowflakes
bathing the city in sick pallid light.
I walk along the boulevards
past quaint, cosy cafés
clutching at an unyielding, unfamiliar
landscape,
side stepping the dog shit
‘mousse au chocolat’ on the sidewalks.
Human traffic surges thunderously
through the Metro,
vommiting out into the streets
cold, impersonal, indifferent beings
wrapped up in their ‘écharpes’ and coats
lost in their own little worlds,
as I, dark skinned stranger in an alien crowd
search for identity.
(‘écharpe’ – scarf, muffler)
(Paris. April 1986)déjeuner à l’indien
kishna looks down upon us
benighly
from his comfy perch up on the wall.
ganesh greet visitors
from his flower-bedecked altar
and we,
we regale in our kadu-fac days
of undergrad dreams
cucumber sandwiches
and mayonnaise
woodsmoke-flavoured plain tea,
stringhoppers and yesterday’s gravy
when we wanted to be
one with the herd !
the indian stewards
wait on us
with indian patience
campus chatter
chettinaad fish
polwatte canteen
prawn masala
gamini hatha
gobi manchurian
the wicker basket overflows
with leprosy-struck, blistered
yet heavenly naans
her sari pota
falls off her shoulder
and sits cradled in her outstretched arms
scene from a grecian tale.
the indian stewards smile
their white indian smiles.
the hostess hasn’t changed in 30 years
the woman by her side
flaunts her new Indian kurtha
“trés à la mode”, she claims, hysterically
incessant chatter, she keeps us entertained
i stifle a burp lest she hears
and pick my teeth aimlessly
unashamedly we pose for photographs
with ganesh
his stony silence surveying
our rainbow garb
the indian stewards
return to their srilankan homes
change into their srilankan clothes
and finger their srilankan rice and curry
while I go back home and crawl into bed.
(February 2011)On the deaths of six Sailors – 27 August 1985
Blasted bridges
exploding roads
and a shriveled truck strewn with quivering flesh.
Warm, fresh, bloody flesh
is all that’s left.
“Landmine kills six sailors and woman in Trinco”
muttered the newspaper
detached, uncensored
the next morning,
for after all, a daily affair,
it made yet another news item
Unsung heros in an ethnic feud
you’ve sailed the seas of discontent,
the discontent of our time,
sweet gall
on the bitter wings of Paradise,
as power vacillates
crawling
deadlocked
fox trotting to an ancient tune
of tremulous dischord.
Terror lurks behind the cadjan fence,
still, in the death-stricken air
as the hunt goes on
hide and seek with guns and grenades.
Widows wail, mothers mourn
the womb’s been given the lie
the abortive lie of death;
for never shall that swollen belly
rejoice in the birth of the half orphan
nor the old womb
kindle a burnt flame.
Death
dying
you die
that we may sleep tight at night
and everyone talks of a ceasefire.
(28 August 1985)Midnight in the Parlour
The lamp plays hide and seek
with the shadows,
ominous, on the wall.
Not a fly.
Not a mosquito.
Just the monotonous drone
of a ceiling fan
All is quiet
save out muffled chatter,
the toot of a lone horn
the bark of a distant dog
and the smell of morning’s formalin
still viscous in my bowels.
The boys smoke.
The girls play cards.
And I, numb
gaze at death.
Did I ever bridge that chasm ?
I wonder – it’s now too late.
Inviolable. Mute.
Only you can tell.
(April 1987)the koha shrieks...
ominously
piercing my ears
vying valiantly with the crackers
that burst under a harsh april sun
my blood races
thunderously,
the mixed blood
of an ethnic hybrid
wedged between two cultures
erabudu blooms hang sad and limp
dry, like yellow rags
mournfully tossed in the breeze
quite unlike the crisp rustling robes
of the bhikkhu
whose feet I washed at ‘bana’ last night
i touch but cannot feel.
i still feel strange
indifferent to the raucous knell of drums
sickly, oily sweetmeats,
new clothes –starchy – ill fitting
and sheaves of betel for mock obeisance
at duly prescribed times.
i’m smug instead
listening the chopin
munching cheese toasties
as people gaze at me
in disbelief,
scrupulously, sneeringly
while I faithfully jog,
alien creature along the deserted highway
during ‘nonagathe’.
will there ever come a time
when the koha sings sweetly,
drums reverberate joyously
erabudu scents the air
and I feel one with either culture ?
(April 1989)tight rope
we're tightrope walking
between life and death,
survival and the cost of living
that's the tragedy of our lives
they've known it for years....
- the tamils up north
- the border village sinhalese
it's been coming and going
for us in the capital,
but now it's here to stay
with bloody vengeance.
charred flesh on the streets
blood seeping into macadam
and the whole bloody circus
of people fleeing amid screaming sirens
we’re pathetically split
blues – green - red - saffron
each outsmarting the other
and the party continues...............
that's the tragedy of us - sinhalese
(August 2006)The New Year dawns.....
My father died at 53 yrs.
I was in my very early twenties.
He died on an April 12th morning.
Shop were closing for the New Year.
The Nonagathe was setting in.
The cremation was at (Borella) Kanatte on 13 April at 6.30 pm
My aunts (his sisters) from Ambalangoda were to attend the funeral.
They all came, despite public transport petering out
and rushed back to their homes the same night.
The following morning as Sri Lanka rejoiced
celebrating the Sinhala and Tamil New Year,
dressed in auspicious red,
crackers bursting in the hot April morning’s sun,
and the koha shrieking.........,
dressed in white,
I was were at the crematorium
collecting his ashes in a small earthern ware pot
- the burnt bits of bone
mixed with charred wood and mangled wire from the wreaths.
A week later we took his ashes to Ambalangoda.
At a rocky outcrop, where as a child he dived into the sea he loved so much,
(said my oldest aunt),
at that same spot, we threw his ashes into the water
together with handfuls of jasmines.
They twirled and eddied and vanished into the ocean.
Ten Aprils later.........................
Ten Sinhala & Tamil New Years later
on April 14th 1997
Rahul, my elder child is born.
He came as the first light streaked the sky,
and the New Year dawned.
He arrived to the bursting of crackers,
and the pealing of temple bells.
Friends and relatives came with sweetmeats.
We rejoiced. We celebrated.
Egodage - our family name.
We cremated with my father a decade ago.
It lives in me, and a decade later,
was bequeathed on Rahul.
We are all visitors in Samsara.
We just log in and log out under various names and in various guises.
The aathmer (soul / spirit / consciousness) lives on.
(April 1987 and April 1997)