(Inspired by the children I met in Jaffna. Follows after the poem Until it Snows)
I love the quiet. I love the pure, white finish of funeral shrouds. My world is troubled and noisy. My world is dusty, dirty and very dull since the guns began to fire. It leaves me longing for the silence of death.
Until the guns are silent.
I long for the peace that death brings. The thought of it helps me think about peaceful things. Like the way we used to laugh and play. My world is not peaceful.
Until the guns are silent.
I loath the memories the guns bring to mind. I cannot see the joy of Christmas in the things falling from the sky. I cannot hear the songs for my crying drowns it out. I cannot see the beauty in the piling up of dead. My world needs joy and laughter. It lacks so much.
Until the guns are silent.
I see the contrast blood brings. We are bathed in it, bombarded from all sides with flashing, brilliant, sparkling lights. Black, white, brown, gray and blood red limit us. My world is overwhelming.
Until the guns are silent.
I love the "slow" that death brings. My life is harried, rushed and moving too fast through check points and queues outside the grocery store, behind the barbed wire and the bars.
Until the guns are silent.
I take nothing for granted. I have no hope of losing myself in having too many choices. I only want another day of life in peace. I only want not to be afraid. I only want to be able to smile. I want to know my father and mother. But I can't
Until the guns are silent.
17th Dec '07 (10.56am)
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
The reality of living in a “Separate State”
Many Sri Lankans spent a peaceful Sunday at home. A typical lazy Sri Lankan Sunday spent lounging after a sumptuous lunch and browsing through the newspapers in a vain attempt to delay the oncoming week. I was one such Sri Lankan.
Going out was too much of a hassle with all the security concerns. The detailed recounting of the recent twin bomb blasts checked all enthusiasm of having a rocking Sunday.
You can imagine my surprise on calling a friend and having her quietly ask me how come there was no action taken to stop the mass arrests. What arrests? I had browsed through all the usual Sunday newspapers and even stayed home the previous night and caught the news bulletin, but there was no word of any arrests. And surely if something worth knowing about was going on I’d have got a news alert on my mobile phone?
I hurriedly covered my shame at being caught out of the “news” and told her that what was happening was shameful and that I’d speak to someone about it and get back to her.
I’m recording this down now many hours later, hoping she will read this somewhere (if I manage to publish it at all) and not hold it against me that I never called her back.
The truth is that many other Sri Lankans didn’t have such a peaceful weekend. On the contrary, they had an eventful weekend spent trying to obtain a meeting with the police officers of the various stations in Colombo to prove that their relatives were wrongfully being taken in under suspicion of terrorism.
Unfortunately all the crying and pleading fell on deaf years as the police made arrangements to transfer almost 100 of the 132 people taken in under suspicion to Boosa.
Fearing the worst, the parents of those captured flocked to the police station in a vain attempt to prevent the dreaded transfer to Boosa.
But the police managed to affect the transfer by taking the captives through the rear entrance and transporting them in two buses under escort of four armoured vehicles.
According to police sources, they were acting on the instruction of their seniors, when they rounded up Tamil speaking Sri Lankans all over the island and took them to Boosa.
Distraught parents arranged for buses to take them to Temple Trees to plead with HE the President on behalf of their loved ones, only to be told that they should not trouble themselves as HE was busy and would not be able to meet with them.
I can understand the security concerns given the last week’s tragic incidents. But surely when parents turn up at police stations with all manner of proof to show that they are indeed legitimate residents of the area through birth certificates, school certificates and all manner of documentation, they can be allowed to meet with the relevant authorities?
Afterall past experience tells me that captured terrorists have ready their cyanide capsules and will not hesitate to use it if captured. Or maybe sending people to pose as family members and forging proof of legitimacy to plead their release is a new and cunning terrorist plot.
It is Monday already and I’ve only managed to see one paragraph on the action that is planned by a concerned authority against what is called “indiscriminate arrests”. Very neat and vague. I haven’t spoken to any of my contacts in the civil society but it is apparent that other than them, no one else knows what happened and what has been done (or not) to remedy this shameful situation. The rest of us continue in ignorance after the popular adage that ignorance is bliss.
I was able to get the details only off Asian Tribune and an Australian online news portal that already around 1500 people have been arrested. Apparently the police and other authorities are not commenting on the situation, but it is understood that almost 400 people are being sent to the Boosa Detention Centre with a further 38 being held in the Kalutura prisons under emergency law. Many others are also held in various police stations, but families are unable to obtain any details of their loved ones.
I wonder that the news publications I read, carried all manner of stories, but failed to have even one line in some obscure corner of their publication which let the general public know what was happening around them.
I have often posed the question of “varying news” and “no news” to many media persons and I am faced with their unarguable response that the matter is too politically sensitive to talk about and they don’t want to court danger.
But I wonder then, what then is news reporting? Isn’t it just simply and truthfully reporting facts as they are? I can imagine that news stories may be the journalists’ interpretation of events. But surely we Sri Lankans have the right to read some good old truths? We do enjoy Carl Muller’s portrayal of society with all its dark and incestuous plots? Somewhat unpleasant to be discussed in public but true nevertheless? Sure we have the right to know what happens in our backyards?
I wonder at the comfortable ignorance the majority of us enjoy being in. We don’t want to be perceived as “not in the in” so we have cable TV, maybe an internet connection or maybe even a subscription to receive news alerts so that we have access to news from all over the world. But we don’t seem too perturbed by the fact that maybe something is happening right under our noses. We don’t mind that we may be the last ones to know. Some of us even don’t mind never knowing at all.
After my news alerts facility became a paid one, I thought I’d not think too much about the cost (in addition to all the other levies etc on my phone bill) and keep it as it would be useful to be in the loop. But as a paying customer I feel slightly let down that I was not informed and instead was made to look like a fool when my friend asked me if I had not heard about the arrests. I’m seriously considering unsubscribing and I’m miffed that I didn’t save the details of how one should go about doing so.
I can’t help wondering if indeed Sri Lanka is two different countries, or maybe even two different planets, let alone two different states. I wonder where all those who clamour to preserve their motherland as a unitary state and preserve it’s sovereignty know that there very efforts may be creating a divide that all the well-intentioned rhetoric in the world will never be able to put together.
3rd Dec 07
8.05am
Going out was too much of a hassle with all the security concerns. The detailed recounting of the recent twin bomb blasts checked all enthusiasm of having a rocking Sunday.
You can imagine my surprise on calling a friend and having her quietly ask me how come there was no action taken to stop the mass arrests. What arrests? I had browsed through all the usual Sunday newspapers and even stayed home the previous night and caught the news bulletin, but there was no word of any arrests. And surely if something worth knowing about was going on I’d have got a news alert on my mobile phone?
I hurriedly covered my shame at being caught out of the “news” and told her that what was happening was shameful and that I’d speak to someone about it and get back to her.
I’m recording this down now many hours later, hoping she will read this somewhere (if I manage to publish it at all) and not hold it against me that I never called her back.
The truth is that many other Sri Lankans didn’t have such a peaceful weekend. On the contrary, they had an eventful weekend spent trying to obtain a meeting with the police officers of the various stations in Colombo to prove that their relatives were wrongfully being taken in under suspicion of terrorism.
Unfortunately all the crying and pleading fell on deaf years as the police made arrangements to transfer almost 100 of the 132 people taken in under suspicion to Boosa.
Fearing the worst, the parents of those captured flocked to the police station in a vain attempt to prevent the dreaded transfer to Boosa.
But the police managed to affect the transfer by taking the captives through the rear entrance and transporting them in two buses under escort of four armoured vehicles.
According to police sources, they were acting on the instruction of their seniors, when they rounded up Tamil speaking Sri Lankans all over the island and took them to Boosa.
Distraught parents arranged for buses to take them to Temple Trees to plead with HE the President on behalf of their loved ones, only to be told that they should not trouble themselves as HE was busy and would not be able to meet with them.
I can understand the security concerns given the last week’s tragic incidents. But surely when parents turn up at police stations with all manner of proof to show that they are indeed legitimate residents of the area through birth certificates, school certificates and all manner of documentation, they can be allowed to meet with the relevant authorities?
Afterall past experience tells me that captured terrorists have ready their cyanide capsules and will not hesitate to use it if captured. Or maybe sending people to pose as family members and forging proof of legitimacy to plead their release is a new and cunning terrorist plot.
It is Monday already and I’ve only managed to see one paragraph on the action that is planned by a concerned authority against what is called “indiscriminate arrests”. Very neat and vague. I haven’t spoken to any of my contacts in the civil society but it is apparent that other than them, no one else knows what happened and what has been done (or not) to remedy this shameful situation. The rest of us continue in ignorance after the popular adage that ignorance is bliss.
I was able to get the details only off Asian Tribune and an Australian online news portal that already around 1500 people have been arrested. Apparently the police and other authorities are not commenting on the situation, but it is understood that almost 400 people are being sent to the Boosa Detention Centre with a further 38 being held in the Kalutura prisons under emergency law. Many others are also held in various police stations, but families are unable to obtain any details of their loved ones.
I wonder that the news publications I read, carried all manner of stories, but failed to have even one line in some obscure corner of their publication which let the general public know what was happening around them.
I have often posed the question of “varying news” and “no news” to many media persons and I am faced with their unarguable response that the matter is too politically sensitive to talk about and they don’t want to court danger.
But I wonder then, what then is news reporting? Isn’t it just simply and truthfully reporting facts as they are? I can imagine that news stories may be the journalists’ interpretation of events. But surely we Sri Lankans have the right to read some good old truths? We do enjoy Carl Muller’s portrayal of society with all its dark and incestuous plots? Somewhat unpleasant to be discussed in public but true nevertheless? Sure we have the right to know what happens in our backyards?
I wonder at the comfortable ignorance the majority of us enjoy being in. We don’t want to be perceived as “not in the in” so we have cable TV, maybe an internet connection or maybe even a subscription to receive news alerts so that we have access to news from all over the world. But we don’t seem too perturbed by the fact that maybe something is happening right under our noses. We don’t mind that we may be the last ones to know. Some of us even don’t mind never knowing at all.
After my news alerts facility became a paid one, I thought I’d not think too much about the cost (in addition to all the other levies etc on my phone bill) and keep it as it would be useful to be in the loop. But as a paying customer I feel slightly let down that I was not informed and instead was made to look like a fool when my friend asked me if I had not heard about the arrests. I’m seriously considering unsubscribing and I’m miffed that I didn’t save the details of how one should go about doing so.
I can’t help wondering if indeed Sri Lanka is two different countries, or maybe even two different planets, let alone two different states. I wonder where all those who clamour to preserve their motherland as a unitary state and preserve it’s sovereignty know that there very efforts may be creating a divide that all the well-intentioned rhetoric in the world will never be able to put together.
3rd Dec 07
8.05am
Friday, November 30, 2007
Musings
I like to think I can write
And
I can.
I can write on
And on
Until my pain ebbs
like the tide of my sea
My heart storms
Clouding my head and
Raining down
Tears
From me
The words flow – likewise
Hot and hateful
Passionately painful.
Till exhausted with emotion
I clock down four minutes passed.
I lay down my pen
I have written.
Yes.
I can write.
4th April. ’05
00.01 am
And
I can.
I can write on
And on
Until my pain ebbs
like the tide of my sea
My heart storms
Clouding my head and
Raining down
Tears
From me
The words flow – likewise
Hot and hateful
Passionately painful.
Till exhausted with emotion
I clock down four minutes passed.
I lay down my pen
I have written.
Yes.
I can write.
4th April. ’05
00.01 am
Songs of the Heart
Measuring life out by Sundays.
Fundays spent with you.
Without, I drift.
As the stars go out in the sky of my heart.
You touched my heart.
And made me sing.
26th Sept. ’04
12.32 pm
Fundays spent with you.
Without, I drift.
As the stars go out in the sky of my heart.
You touched my heart.
And made me sing.
26th Sept. ’04
12.32 pm
Coming Home
I’ve scoffed at it
Thought I knew it all
Knew
That I would never give in to this feeling again.
What child’s play !
Now again I think
This is it !
But what is it ?
Really ?
I don’t know.
I do know though
That I can’t explain.
Can’t explain
How it feels when you look
At me
Call me
Put out your hand
Touch my face
And then you place your hand
On my head
That’s it !
Now I know !
It feels like
Coming home….
12th Sept. ’04
9.44 pm
Thought I knew it all
Knew
That I would never give in to this feeling again.
What child’s play !
Now again I think
This is it !
But what is it ?
Really ?
I don’t know.
I do know though
That I can’t explain.
Can’t explain
How it feels when you look
At me
Call me
Put out your hand
Touch my face
And then you place your hand
On my head
That’s it !
Now I know !
It feels like
Coming home….
12th Sept. ’04
9.44 pm
No Escape Either Way
Close upon four days. Actually approximately twenty-one minutes shy of four days since my steely resolve not to wallow in the all too soothing depressive nectar – tears.
All fond remembrances, fears and doubts of the future that keep cropping up in this self-imposed amniotic world elicits signs of downpour – trembling lips wobbling chin, moist eyes and quavering voice – man at his ugliest of utter despair – before he can sink into the welcoming pain. Surrender to the lump in his heart, rising up now to his throat while the difficulty of swallowing almost teases him with the idea of a welcome death.
Till with long drawn out breath, he gasps, either fighting the urge to succumb or gives in and lingers on the pain. No escape. Either way.
11th Sept. ’04 (9.04 pm)
Psychological Morbidity
Three near-flawless pieces every ten minutes. Funny how despair – all rotting, life blood draining – has the power to create.
To create “bookshelf” pieces; to be picked up casually and flipped through; to be pronounced heavenly or hideous; and then to be stored away for intellectual flouting. Power of praised and expertise of word-culling and placing commended.
Source of such, No matter.
This is all psychological morbidity of a literary nature.
Now doesn’t this all sound grand ?
Where did you read for your Degree ?
11th Sept. ’04
9.15 pm
All fond remembrances, fears and doubts of the future that keep cropping up in this self-imposed amniotic world elicits signs of downpour – trembling lips wobbling chin, moist eyes and quavering voice – man at his ugliest of utter despair – before he can sink into the welcoming pain. Surrender to the lump in his heart, rising up now to his throat while the difficulty of swallowing almost teases him with the idea of a welcome death.
Till with long drawn out breath, he gasps, either fighting the urge to succumb or gives in and lingers on the pain. No escape. Either way.
11th Sept. ’04 (9.04 pm)
Psychological Morbidity
Three near-flawless pieces every ten minutes. Funny how despair – all rotting, life blood draining – has the power to create.
To create “bookshelf” pieces; to be picked up casually and flipped through; to be pronounced heavenly or hideous; and then to be stored away for intellectual flouting. Power of praised and expertise of word-culling and placing commended.
Source of such, No matter.
This is all psychological morbidity of a literary nature.
Now doesn’t this all sound grand ?
Where did you read for your Degree ?
11th Sept. ’04
9.15 pm
See-Saw
See-sawed on life’s balance
With cooling beliefs
I recall,
Tentative exploring of mind and soul
As scales dip and up down -
Measures of bliss immeasurable.
That feeling of a heart’s belonging –
No questions asked.
Safe from all giddying falls.
Then suddenly heights
Plunge
Rushing down to encounter
Numbing
Pain
Which all but numbs
And all entreaties yield
A heart
Torn out
And left to sail on
Fancy’s see-saw
11th Sept. ’04
8.54 pm
With cooling beliefs
I recall,
Tentative exploring of mind and soul
As scales dip and up down -
Measures of bliss immeasurable.
That feeling of a heart’s belonging –
No questions asked.
Safe from all giddying falls.
Then suddenly heights
Plunge
Rushing down to encounter
Numbing
Pain
Which all but numbs
And all entreaties yield
A heart
Torn out
And left to sail on
Fancy’s see-saw
11th Sept. ’04
8.54 pm
Another Another
The awful ache of being there; mutely aware of the world around you. Lost in loud oblivion. It makes you weep to see the setting sun’s rays high up on a tree. Children play while the world shuts down around them; stealing moments from their happiness. The lonely light in the vast settling twilight; the house barred against the coming night and you are left on the outside, looking in on the world.
Somewhere in the house a teaspoon’s tinkling promises sanity - peaceful brew, antidote to my heart’s death; the bitter ache of a manless home and window-fastening women. Who will brave yet another. Another day.
11th Sept. ’04
8.44 pm
Somewhere in the house a teaspoon’s tinkling promises sanity - peaceful brew, antidote to my heart’s death; the bitter ache of a manless home and window-fastening women. Who will brave yet another. Another day.
11th Sept. ’04
8.44 pm
Neither here nor there
The new hair-do makes me look younger and I’m glad I invested in the hair mousse. If I just wake up a few minutes earlier I can manage to style my hair and turn up at office looking (if not feeling) as civilized as the others.
I should practice smiling more though. I think it will help me look a bit more approachable and will definitely ward off the effect of the gathering years.
And maybe I should invest in some well sewn kurtas. Might help me look the part. 29 year old successful single city girl. I’m neither here nor there. Not exactly old but certainly don’t feel young.
I like the fit that Indian tailor gets, even though he is slightly expensive. I wonder if someone can copy his fit. Someone a bit less expensive.
Today’s lunch was sumptious. The beach was beautiful. The crowd was great. I actually managed to relax and be witty and talkative.
If I take the laptop home I can watch a movie tonight. I want to save the movies for the weekend though. Will help pass the time.
On the other hand it would be good to go home and see mama. I can collect the giveaways as well. Looks like the trip is going to be pretty costly. I wish I’d been more careful with my spending now. The whole hair-do and stuff. I feel sick when I think of the dinner treat and the night of partying. Today’s lunch was another killer. I could do so much with that money.
I wish I had checked out prices of coloring books, exercise books and color pencils and stuff. I’m sure they can use them their. I know I used to love coloring when I wanted an escape.
Now I look at the house and the bills and my stuff and I feel sick. Where will I wear all those shoes and clothes to? They will never fit in. they will never sit well on me.
A different me. A slightly darker me – who has to walk because that’s the only way to get about.
A slightly shyer me – there is no avoiding their penetrating looks. They know they have the power to make me afraid. I am afraid.
A slightly rougher me – fancy hair-do’s and creams and mousses are things that will never go down on my shopping list
A slightly smaller me – the gnaw of hunger is a bit too constant to have to worry about putting on weight
A slightly harder me – I never had much expectations in life. I got married so I wouldn’t be alone. I hardly even knew my husband before they killed him.
I often sift through my phone looking for someone to call. Longing for company
I long for my own company
I am elated and defeated. I am energized and tired out
I think I know but I don’t know how
I feel I’m neither here nor there...
29th Nov 07
8.08pm
I should practice smiling more though. I think it will help me look a bit more approachable and will definitely ward off the effect of the gathering years.
And maybe I should invest in some well sewn kurtas. Might help me look the part. 29 year old successful single city girl. I’m neither here nor there. Not exactly old but certainly don’t feel young.
I like the fit that Indian tailor gets, even though he is slightly expensive. I wonder if someone can copy his fit. Someone a bit less expensive.
Today’s lunch was sumptious. The beach was beautiful. The crowd was great. I actually managed to relax and be witty and talkative.
If I take the laptop home I can watch a movie tonight. I want to save the movies for the weekend though. Will help pass the time.
On the other hand it would be good to go home and see mama. I can collect the giveaways as well. Looks like the trip is going to be pretty costly. I wish I’d been more careful with my spending now. The whole hair-do and stuff. I feel sick when I think of the dinner treat and the night of partying. Today’s lunch was another killer. I could do so much with that money.
I wish I had checked out prices of coloring books, exercise books and color pencils and stuff. I’m sure they can use them their. I know I used to love coloring when I wanted an escape.
Now I look at the house and the bills and my stuff and I feel sick. Where will I wear all those shoes and clothes to? They will never fit in. they will never sit well on me.
A different me. A slightly darker me – who has to walk because that’s the only way to get about.
A slightly shyer me – there is no avoiding their penetrating looks. They know they have the power to make me afraid. I am afraid.
A slightly rougher me – fancy hair-do’s and creams and mousses are things that will never go down on my shopping list
A slightly smaller me – the gnaw of hunger is a bit too constant to have to worry about putting on weight
A slightly harder me – I never had much expectations in life. I got married so I wouldn’t be alone. I hardly even knew my husband before they killed him.
I often sift through my phone looking for someone to call. Longing for company
I long for my own company
I am elated and defeated. I am energized and tired out
I think I know but I don’t know how
I feel I’m neither here nor there...
29th Nov 07
8.08pm
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
A beautiful woman
I always remember her as someone around whom I could put my arms.
She is compact is a strong and sensual way.
I love the way her hair smells of the tiny jasmines she tucks into it’s depths.
I remember the little jasmine bush growing outside her window and as I peer through the trellis I see her lying in bed, propped up on one elbow, reading a book. One hand casually drapes along her leg.
I know I can run into the coolness of her room and she will talk to me. Her fingers distractedly plucking at mine or thrumming a tempo on my body, while her eyes rove hungrily over the page, drinking up life from between the pages.
And I lie mesmerized, pressed up against her. Marveling at her as she lounges in a sari of soft white cotton patterned with the silken weave of crimson dots.
She is queen of this, my world, calm and self assured.
The reassuring warmth and confident pressure of her hands are my all.
And I drowse in dreams snatched through the sun filtering in through the snowy filigree of her curtains, reflected in the polished floor.
I’ll grow up to be like her one day.
This beautiful beautiful woman that she is.
She is compact is a strong and sensual way.
I love the way her hair smells of the tiny jasmines she tucks into it’s depths.
I remember the little jasmine bush growing outside her window and as I peer through the trellis I see her lying in bed, propped up on one elbow, reading a book. One hand casually drapes along her leg.
I know I can run into the coolness of her room and she will talk to me. Her fingers distractedly plucking at mine or thrumming a tempo on my body, while her eyes rove hungrily over the page, drinking up life from between the pages.
And I lie mesmerized, pressed up against her. Marveling at her as she lounges in a sari of soft white cotton patterned with the silken weave of crimson dots.
She is queen of this, my world, calm and self assured.
The reassuring warmth and confident pressure of her hands are my all.
And I drowse in dreams snatched through the sun filtering in through the snowy filigree of her curtains, reflected in the polished floor.
I’ll grow up to be like her one day.
This beautiful beautiful woman that she is.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
To A Flautist....
I loved your performance last night! Lots of people there did. However, for me it was a special experience. As I sat there lost in the music I closed my eyes and I recognized the music I’d heard you make while I lay in bed next to you or while I was doing something else in another room. And I pictured you sitting cross legged and playing. You yourself lost in the ecstasy of the music you make. And then I opened my eyes and I saw you and there was just you and me. And you were playing. And I was listening. And there was no one else. And I saw the person I love to cuddle – with your sweet dimple and darting eyes which I so love to kiss; the warm hands which hold me holding the flute and moving so beautifully; your leg beating out the rhythm coursing through your body. And I relived the love I felt for this passionate person. A person who had followed his passions and was living it. In his music and his work. And I marveled at you. And I reveled in the knowledge that I knew you like no other person in that room did. And it made me feel tender and passionate towards you. And then the music stopped.
And I opened my eyes and watched you speak. And then I saw the people around me. Saw the way you won their hearts. And I smiled at them and with them. While my heart flowed over.
It’s easy to love when I’m loved by you.
Your Audience
And I opened my eyes and watched you speak. And then I saw the people around me. Saw the way you won their hearts. And I smiled at them and with them. While my heart flowed over.
It’s easy to love when I’m loved by you.
Your Audience
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