I hurt so I hate and so I hurt some more;
Fighting my enemies in my mind;
All those who oppose my -
Right.
The daughter-in-law who refuses to bow to my gods;
Or the wife who says I don’t know what kind of music she likes;
Or yet still the friend who doesn’t share my opinion on the way the country is run;
Trying to show each one that it is not them that is –
Superior.
Trying to make it clear who the enemy is;
And it feels so good;
As I launch my hate machines into the sun;
To fight the enemy –
Within.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Noise
On one side
Booms and clatters
of bombs and machine guns
the noise shatters our peace
It is a nuisance that has to be stopped so we can go on our way
“I have this dinner thing with friends down for the summer”.
This war will end it.
Its only a little while longer
and then
we’ll have peace.
On one side
Roars of
Multi-barrel artillery
Rip
through our heads and our chests
We know the drill.
“Run
and hide
in the bunkers”.
It’s getting
closer.
Hope we see this through.
Booms and clatters
of bombs and machine guns
the noise shatters our peace
It is a nuisance that has to be stopped so we can go on our way
“I have this dinner thing with friends down for the summer”.
This war will end it.
Its only a little while longer
and then
we’ll have peace.
On one side
Roars of
Multi-barrel artillery
Rip
through our heads and our chests
We know the drill.
“Run
and hide
in the bunkers”.
It’s getting
closer.
Hope we see this through.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Birth pangs
She walks with a spring in her step, lighter and freer than she ever remembers feeling. Since she heard the news, she has had something to look forward to. It steals into her mind as she goes about her day, like a secret love, making her heart quicken in anticipation.
It certainly had been some time since she ever dared think about anything as wonderful as the next day. It is a strange and wonderful feeling. Now, she positively glows.
The universe seems to pick up on her vibe and glow back. It’s a beautiful day, the sun shines with a never-before radiance, the air is quieter, crisper, fresher. Even the birds are out, singing in the cool breeze, and the passers-by smile at her. She feels beautiful, capable and strong as she touches the bulge under her blouse. She smiles to herself almost tenderly.
She savours the smell of street-food around her, looking in the store windows and marveling at the displays as she walks to the agreed spot.
She doesn’t have to wait long before she sees him approaching. She feels the old pang of recognition stir within her and marvels at her ability to put it aside. Yes, she is a strong and capable.
As he approaches, bustling in his importance, she is acutely aware of the man inside the uniform - slightly scarred and twisted, his fancy-dress is his both his weaponry and his shield. It is his license to do as he pleases.
She caresses her belly once more and smiles as she detonates.
It certainly had been some time since she ever dared think about anything as wonderful as the next day. It is a strange and wonderful feeling. Now, she positively glows.
The universe seems to pick up on her vibe and glow back. It’s a beautiful day, the sun shines with a never-before radiance, the air is quieter, crisper, fresher. Even the birds are out, singing in the cool breeze, and the passers-by smile at her. She feels beautiful, capable and strong as she touches the bulge under her blouse. She smiles to herself almost tenderly.
She savours the smell of street-food around her, looking in the store windows and marveling at the displays as she walks to the agreed spot.
She doesn’t have to wait long before she sees him approaching. She feels the old pang of recognition stir within her and marvels at her ability to put it aside. Yes, she is a strong and capable.
As he approaches, bustling in his importance, she is acutely aware of the man inside the uniform - slightly scarred and twisted, his fancy-dress is his both his weaponry and his shield. It is his license to do as he pleases.
She caresses her belly once more and smiles as she detonates.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A Fairytale Wedding in every sense of the word….
After dating for two years, my husband, Nikhil and I decided to get married rather quickly. Or rather the decision was slow but settling on a date that was convenient to everyone made it soon rather than later. We were also having 2 ceremonies (a Hindu ceremony in Chennai, India followed by a Catholic ceremony in Colombo, Sri Lanka). As I had not anticipated this new and exciting life-change, I couldn‘t help but wish I has been less of a spendthrift and saved up for my “Big day“. Being the quintessential girl at heart, I too wanted a fairytale wedding (but without the accompanying cash-crises common to so many South Asian families).Luckily for us, Nikhil’s family was planning and putting together the Hindu ceremony. We had only the Catholic ceremony and the reception to worry about. As I was going to be out of the country up until barely 2 months before the Catholic ceremony, I got the ball rolling by going wedding saree shopping with my mum. Sophisticated darling that she is, she managed to get me a beautiful ivory colored Kanchipuram silk with gold brocade work. Other than the fact that I simply loved the saree, I was thrilled that I had to visit only one other shop before I found it at Rasi Silks (Wellawatte) and it cost us only Rs. 15,000/- !!!!
Next, we got my Maid’s sarees - crepes in a Flesh Pink tone - at a small shop in Pettah for Rs. 700/- each (with blouse piece). I teemed it with blouse pieces in Onion Peel Silk Cotton from Fashion Fabrics (Colpetty) to give it some pizzazz. The Maid’s jewellery (set of necklace, earrings and bangle for approx. Rs. 350/- each) was from Shrina Palace (Wattala) and matched my mum’s traditional family jewellery (crafted by the family jeweller in Jaffna back in the good old days) which I had asked to borrow for the ceremony.
Invites were also from a delightful little shop (again in Pettah). Done on textured cards with an embossed motif, they cost next to nothing and reflected simple and understated beauty. My mother’s friend helped by making a simple wedding cake (with little daisies, just like I wanted it) and individual wedding cakes to serve the guests, all at cost. The cake was packed in traditional-looking Indian drawstring pouches.
After hunting around for venues that would not be difficult to get to given the security situation in Colombo, I was ready to call off the idea of a reception. All the usual venues were 5-star hotels around Colombo’s Galle Face area - which is a hive of security check-points and road blocks. While getting to them after the service would probably be a nightmare on a Saturday evening, I was hesitant to pay a small fortune for Ballrooms and décor and what not. We almost settled for a Lawn but changed our minds when we were told the hotel would not make any provision for a marquee if it rained!!Nikhil, who’d lived his entire life out of Sri Lanka (save for a short working stint during which we met) had been to a couple of weddings while in Sri Lanka. While we had a great time at the weddings, we knew for certain that we would not have a live band nor baila music at our own. Though having lived in Sri Lanka, I hadn’t really imagined breaking with tradition where venue was concerned. Of course, I hadn‘t counted on my husband‘s wonderful lack of compulsion to follow in anyone‘s footsteps.
That’s how we ended up with a wonderful little beachside party at The Golden Mile (Mt. Lavinia). The sumptuous buffet of fresh sea-food and vegetarian dishes, together with champagne and drinks cost us only as much as it would have for food alone if we’d gone with any of the usual hotels. Needless to say the wood-cabin style restaurant’s décor of lantern-candles and fairy lights coupled with the stretch of Mt. Lavinia beach and a full moon (which opportunely was the largest in the year) gave us an ambiance I doubt I’d have been able to achieve with any expensive wedding-décor. I am also positive that it was the combined positive thoughts of the Golden Mile Team that allowed the clouds to part and ensured we had a sunny and beautiful day ending in a beautiful evening under a clear sky in the peak of a south-western monsoon.
The only bump I encountered was in the department of “Bridal-Dressing”. The business of Wedding planning and Bridal Dressing is a lucrative one. But I had not counted on how stressful the whole experience could be to a Bride-to-be.I opted for Ms. Janaki Kurukulasuriya at Salon Bliss (Wellawatte) because my cousin‘s wife had used her a few months before and as Bridesmaid, I found her seamstress to be excellent (she actually got a perfect fit from just one fit on!). However, all my well-articulated notes complete with pictures were no help as the lady refused to discuss anything until I was back in the country (barely 2months before the wedding!). So on her advice, my sister (who was incidentally my Maid of Honour) had paid a non-refundable deposit of Rs. 12,000/-.
I was optimistic on my first consultation, as I was fairly clear on my dream wedding. Unfortunately, for me, Ms. Kurukulasuriya, thought my saree was hideous! The only way I could escape being told I needed to get another saree (which incidentally was what my cousin’s wife had been told) was to say that the Groom’s parents had gifted the saree to me and I dared not change it. It was all downhill from there. The jewellery was dismissed with a disdainful shrug, my ideas for my own and the Maids’ saree blouses were criticized as “old-fashioned” and my request for a simple sheath of lilies condemned as “funeral flowers”.
Of course in her favour, she did suggest a bridal bouquet of roses at Rs. 10,000/-, (though personally I thought it was a crime to spend so much on flowers for a few hours) or the option of checking elsewhere if I so wished, as her suppliers wouldn‘t work within my budget. I say “helpfully“ because it was indeed a great suggestion which led me to find beautiful bouquets and hair pieces for myself and three maids (with boutonnières for Nikhil’s and my Dad), church and car décor in a pretty Daisies & Tulle theme - all for just Rs. 18,250/- from Flowers of Summer (Colpetty). It was excellent! And best of all, the proprietress of Flowers of Summer (Ms. Janaki de Soysa) was warm and helpful and made me really feel like I was going to be a Bride!! It was all discussed and arranged in just 2 visits and I didn’t have to worry about a thing once it was in the capable hands of the Flowers of Summer team.
But back to my dressing nightmare, I was slightly jaded but stubbornly set on having my dream-wedding and therefore was (hopefully understandably) disappointed when I saw that my idea for boat-necked saree blouses was changed to scooped-necks at our first fit on. This was compounded by the fact that the dressing-room was a walled-off little space between the salon and the adjoining building, complete with ally-dirt, a barely covered drain and a makeshift roof. I was told that if I wanted to be dressed in a hotel room (which I did) I would have to pay the lady Rs. 10,000/- for her trouble (and this was in addition to her travel costs).I could feel myself turning into the proverbial Bridezilla as I almost burst into tears. This was not what I wanted!! Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t I the Bride-to be??? Didn’t want I want matter???? But I was in for a rude shock as I was told off very bitingly by the lady that I had an “attitude” and that she regretted having taken my booking!!!! So much for customer service and giving a Bride her fairytale wedding!
To cut a long story short, after a series of ugly phone calls in which Ms. Kurukulasuriya had apparently told the seamstress that she would not get any more orders if she gave us our outfits directly, and I was told I would not get my tailored outfits unless I paid a further Rs. 14,000/- I decided to cut loose and go with someone who would help me make my dream wedding come true. Though I was very relieved to be done with the good lady, I was unhappily relieved of Rs. 26,000/- for my trouble gained Ms. Kurukulasuriya’s expert condemnation that mine was the ugliest saree she’d seen in all her 30odd years in the business and the curse that I’d probably have the ugliest wedding ever!!
But in retrospect, I think I should atleast send her a thank you note because she (yet again!) did me a huge favour because I ended up going to The Cutting Station (Jawatte) where my stylist Leena did an excellent job of making us all look like glam-girls. Again I must mention the entire experience of pre-wedding trial and wedding-day dressing up left me feeling pampered and special. I got a free haircut and was dressed at the hotel as I’d planned for no extra cost! Brilliant!!
So fast forward to the long-awaited day, surrounded by my sis and mum (my pillars of strength and good sense), my angelic little nephew who graciously acted as Ringbearer, best girlfriends, dear friends and relatives, and my handsome (and oh so patient and loving) husband Nikhil, his loving family and best buddies, I felt radiant and beautiful and happy to become a wife (which is hopefully how all Brides feel irrespective of how much their bridal bouquets cost) Young and talented photographer Dhanush de Costa was at hand to capture it all.
Everyone had a great time and I certainly had a Fairytale wedding in every sense of the word.
Friday, January 02, 2009
Self Portrait
by David Whyte, Fire in the Earth (shared by Jeyanthy Siva on 2nd Nov. '08)
It doesn’t interest me if there is one god
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have been told, in "that" fierce embrace,
even the gods speak of God.
It doesn’t interest me if there is one god
or many gods.
I want to know if you belong or feel
abandoned.
If you know despair or can see it in others.
I want to know
if you are prepared to live in the world
with its harsh need
to change you. If you can look back
with firm eyes
saying this is where I stand. I want to know
if you know
how to melt into that fierce heat of living
falling toward
the center of your longing. I want to know
if you are willing
to live, day by day, with the consequence of love
and the bitter
unwanted passion of your sure defeat.
I have been told, in "that" fierce embrace,
even the gods speak of God.
RISK
Author unknown (shared by Bishan Rajapakse on 8th June '08)
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out to others is to risk involvement
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self
To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss
To love is to risk not being loved in return
To live is to risk dying
To hope is to risk despair
To try is to risk failure
But risks must be taken,
because the greatest hazard in life is to do nothing.
The person who risks nothing,
does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow,
but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes, they are a slave,
they forfeited their freedom.
Only the person who risks can be free
To laugh is to risk appearing the fool
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out to others is to risk involvement
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self
To place your ideas, your dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss
To love is to risk not being loved in return
To live is to risk dying
To hope is to risk despair
To try is to risk failure
But risks must be taken,
because the greatest hazard in life is to do nothing.
The person who risks nothing,
does nothing, has nothing, and is nothing.
They may avoid suffering and sorrow,
but they cannot learn, feel, change, grow, love, live.
Chained by their attitudes, they are a slave,
they forfeited their freedom.
Only the person who risks can be free
Saturday, August 30, 2008
The African Adventure - Settling in....
So I finally was disgusted enough with the whole work scene and decided to put myself and my loved ones first. I’ve quit my job and lazed around for a whole month (not nearly enough to make up for all the frenetic days but still it’s a start). Now I’m ready to go visit my partner in Africa!
The last few days of cleaning up and vacating the flat were fun because they were interspersed with drinks and meals and catching-ups. So I am finally here in Hargeisa, Somaliland. The flights were mercifully short & the transits too but I was so keyed up it was no joke.
Africa is something else. But as long as you are out for adventure (like I am!) you should have fun. My luggage got here a day later & the suitcase is in pieces & when I asked someone at the airport if the airlines would take care of it I was informed calmly that "this is Africa". My partner says I should shed “work mode” and learn to chill out and not stress about stuff and that's exactly what I propose to do!
So I'm all unpacked and now fully settled in to the ridiculously & unnecessarily large house (named Gorgor to mean Eagle). We share the house with with my partner’s colleague and another guy from the development world. They are both good fun and so far we've had awesome fun taking walks (we saw Dikdik - tiny deer like creatures which are smaller than dogs - a tortoise, a desert snake, goats and assorted birds and insects) watching movies, soccer, having dinner at the local Fish & Steak house and generally having a great time.
When I arrived I was told that one of our housemate’s friends (also from the development world) had been kidnapped by rebels but thankfully they were released the following day. Apparently this is a fairly regular occurrence with people being kidnapped and held for ransom. (Apparently) the hostages are treated well and there is nothing to fear(!)
The flight into Somaliland from Ethiopia was spectacular. The landscape is a mosaic of ridged and ruled greens and browns with diamante-glints of tins roofs. The city itself looks like it is laid out in a large dish and the view from our rooftop is beautiful.
The people are extremely friendly and easy going. Traffic is no different from any under-developed country you’ve been to but what’s great here is that people shout out in a friendly manner, smile and shake their heads and go on their way – which is very refreshing. You get greeted (with the Somali Navat!) whenever you take a walk and we always look like the Piped Piper with a string of kids following.
The terrain is slightly hilly and its cold in the shade (we don’t have/need fans/ac in the house) and in the evenings it gets pretty chilly while outside in the day the sun is scorching. The women are tall and strikingly beautiful in their colorful long dresses and flowing veils (like our maid Xaraqiya – pronounced Haraqiya - who could be a super model in different circumstances).
The women look amazingly serene despite the hard work and heat and carry their babies in slings across their backs. The little ones get to ride under their mother’s veils if the wind/sun gets too harsh. The men are quite noisy and sometimes I think there’s a fight breaking out but it only turns out to be friendly banter. Our office assistant Abdi (Abdul Rahman) and driver Ahmed are very friendly and helpful and since the office is set up downstairs always stop by to say hi and check on how I’m doing.
We have a visitor staying over for a few days and hope to host our first party tomorrow (Thursdays being half days and Fridays being the day off) I’m now silently cursing myself for bringing only one bottle of wine but our guest has brought us a small gift and between the guys I’m sure they will be able to conjure up something. Anyways the company promises to be good so its going to be camel/goat barbecue tomorrow!!
I’m still in the lazing-around-phase and crave for little tasks like seeing that the internet guy gets the work done and writing out grocery lists and planning where to put up pics. Between yoga, meals and lots of movies (yep we’ve got cable!) I can see I’m getting thoroughly spoiled and look forward to meeting some people at the party tomorrow to check out work opportunities. At present BBC Food is my favourite channel and my partner is my unsuspecting guinea pig (he doesn’t like the term lab rat). Meanwhile I’m also seriously considering learning the language.
Prep work on the proposed vegetable patch is being meticulously carried out by our watchmen (Daud and Mohomed) but I think we will have to build some cover first or the plants will never survive the wind (which I can hear even now at 10.33am howling outside)
I’m still a bit hesitant about carrying my camera around and appearing all “touristy” so pictures are yet to come.
The last few days of cleaning up and vacating the flat were fun because they were interspersed with drinks and meals and catching-ups. So I am finally here in Hargeisa, Somaliland. The flights were mercifully short & the transits too but I was so keyed up it was no joke.
Africa is something else. But as long as you are out for adventure (like I am!) you should have fun. My luggage got here a day later & the suitcase is in pieces & when I asked someone at the airport if the airlines would take care of it I was informed calmly that "this is Africa". My partner says I should shed “work mode” and learn to chill out and not stress about stuff and that's exactly what I propose to do!
So I'm all unpacked and now fully settled in to the ridiculously & unnecessarily large house (named Gorgor to mean Eagle). We share the house with with my partner’s colleague and another guy from the development world. They are both good fun and so far we've had awesome fun taking walks (we saw Dikdik - tiny deer like creatures which are smaller than dogs - a tortoise, a desert snake, goats and assorted birds and insects) watching movies, soccer, having dinner at the local Fish & Steak house and generally having a great time.
When I arrived I was told that one of our housemate’s friends (also from the development world) had been kidnapped by rebels but thankfully they were released the following day. Apparently this is a fairly regular occurrence with people being kidnapped and held for ransom. (Apparently) the hostages are treated well and there is nothing to fear(!)
The flight into Somaliland from Ethiopia was spectacular. The landscape is a mosaic of ridged and ruled greens and browns with diamante-glints of tins roofs. The city itself looks like it is laid out in a large dish and the view from our rooftop is beautiful.
The people are extremely friendly and easy going. Traffic is no different from any under-developed country you’ve been to but what’s great here is that people shout out in a friendly manner, smile and shake their heads and go on their way – which is very refreshing. You get greeted (with the Somali Navat!) whenever you take a walk and we always look like the Piped Piper with a string of kids following.
The terrain is slightly hilly and its cold in the shade (we don’t have/need fans/ac in the house) and in the evenings it gets pretty chilly while outside in the day the sun is scorching. The women are tall and strikingly beautiful in their colorful long dresses and flowing veils (like our maid Xaraqiya – pronounced Haraqiya - who could be a super model in different circumstances).
The women look amazingly serene despite the hard work and heat and carry their babies in slings across their backs. The little ones get to ride under their mother’s veils if the wind/sun gets too harsh. The men are quite noisy and sometimes I think there’s a fight breaking out but it only turns out to be friendly banter. Our office assistant Abdi (Abdul Rahman) and driver Ahmed are very friendly and helpful and since the office is set up downstairs always stop by to say hi and check on how I’m doing.
We have a visitor staying over for a few days and hope to host our first party tomorrow (Thursdays being half days and Fridays being the day off) I’m now silently cursing myself for bringing only one bottle of wine but our guest has brought us a small gift and between the guys I’m sure they will be able to conjure up something. Anyways the company promises to be good so its going to be camel/goat barbecue tomorrow!!
I’m still in the lazing-around-phase and crave for little tasks like seeing that the internet guy gets the work done and writing out grocery lists and planning where to put up pics. Between yoga, meals and lots of movies (yep we’ve got cable!) I can see I’m getting thoroughly spoiled and look forward to meeting some people at the party tomorrow to check out work opportunities. At present BBC Food is my favourite channel and my partner is my unsuspecting guinea pig (he doesn’t like the term lab rat). Meanwhile I’m also seriously considering learning the language.
Prep work on the proposed vegetable patch is being meticulously carried out by our watchmen (Daud and Mohomed) but I think we will have to build some cover first or the plants will never survive the wind (which I can hear even now at 10.33am howling outside)
I’m still a bit hesitant about carrying my camera around and appearing all “touristy” so pictures are yet to come.
Sunday, July 06, 2008
Survivors guilt
I feel ill and there's a churning bitter bile rising in my throat.
It's not the the usual glad rush of getting "last-minute-gifts" for a friend going away. No chocolates, clothes, toys or novelties are required. These are distractions they have no need for.
So I have sent Shanti on her way with a bagful of medicines. Remedies for all types of bodily ailments. But she needs remedies of a different nature. She needs to be able to be. To laugh. To hope. To Live.
She carries the bag carefully not wanting to appear ungrateful. But I know that it is just weight in her hands and I am sorry I am sending her off, with this heavy bag. Heavy with my guilt and hope. Guilt that I am me and she is she and that we live such different lives though we are no different in the eyes of those who classify and demarcate according to ethnicity, race and other glorious things. Hope that we could be equally free to live a life of our choosing.
As the car pulls away I pass by the early morning flurry of people going on with their lives. They are standing at a counter of a new and sleek-looking sales outlet sporting a board that proclaims the sale of "fresh fish at cheap prices".
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.
Shanti is on her way home, back to Jaffna.
7.56am outside the Expo Air office in Colombo on 14th June 2008
It's not the the usual glad rush of getting "last-minute-gifts" for a friend going away. No chocolates, clothes, toys or novelties are required. These are distractions they have no need for.
So I have sent Shanti on her way with a bagful of medicines. Remedies for all types of bodily ailments. But she needs remedies of a different nature. She needs to be able to be. To laugh. To hope. To Live.
She carries the bag carefully not wanting to appear ungrateful. But I know that it is just weight in her hands and I am sorry I am sending her off, with this heavy bag. Heavy with my guilt and hope. Guilt that I am me and she is she and that we live such different lives though we are no different in the eyes of those who classify and demarcate according to ethnicity, race and other glorious things. Hope that we could be equally free to live a life of our choosing.
As the car pulls away I pass by the early morning flurry of people going on with their lives. They are standing at a counter of a new and sleek-looking sales outlet sporting a board that proclaims the sale of "fresh fish at cheap prices".
I swallow down the bile rising in my throat.
Shanti is on her way home, back to Jaffna.
7.56am outside the Expo Air office in Colombo on 14th June 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Mea Culpa
This year, I missed Ash Wednesday. I unconsciously avoided watching television or reading the newspapers. I didn’t call my family or friends. I felt it helped me stay slightly removed from the madness of military victories and resultant casualties or indiscriminate violence and the bitterness it left in its wake.
I was only reminded that the season of Lent had begun when I received an email from a friend on how to make self-denial more meaningful than mere fasts and prayers.
This time of the year usually brings back memories of crowded churches I attended as a child, and the people lining up to kiss the feet of the statue of the crucified Christ.
However, for the last year or so, my memories have been of a service I attended in a church in Colombo. A member of the congregation spoke of Jesus’ long walk to Calvary bearing a 110 pound beam on which he was going to be nailed and left to die.
Beaten and tortured, he staggered and fell. Fearing he would not make it to the place where he was to be crucified, the Roman soldiers compelled an unwitting passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, who had just come in from the country, to help him.
The speaker explained how crucifixion was the worst form of punishment given to criminals and the shame and humiliation attached to such a fate. It was also believed that anyone who touched the cross would be defiled and could not take part in the Passover.
Imagine what Simon must have felt like when he was asked to share in this fate. To stand next to a man who was already half dead having been taken from trial to trial and beaten and humiliated. To walk with him amid the jeers and taunts. Carrying the sign of shame.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like. Then the speaker compared this incident to all the many times we are called upon not only to witness the humiliation of someone else but to share in it. The example he used was his own experience in Jaffna long before the legendary “83 Riots”.
I can still remember him standing up there, telling us of an incident he witnessed while visiting Jaffna in the early ‘80s. He told us he saw a member of the Sri Lankan military reach down from the back of the truck he was travelling in and knock down a cyclist with the butt of his gun as he drove by. He said seeing the military behave like an occupying force in a foreign land, he had felt then that we were headed down a very dangerous path. How long could this go on? He said the letters he wrote to the various newspapers never made it past the censor.
More than two decades later, as we begin the season of Lent, I am reminded again of this man who dared speak of what many of us choose to ignore.
I wasn’t too sure what ethnic group he belonged to. But I was aware that he cared enough to stand up in front of the crowd and talk about something which most of us would consider "controversial".
Protected by censorship and fed by propaganda, we choose to be happily ignorant of what goes on in the “war-torn areas”. Even when are own streets are torn apart by the war which is no longer confined to these areas, or our neighbours are pulled out of their homes and taken away, we choose to happily sigh and pass on by.
We choose to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the many who stagger under their crosses of hopelessness, violence, harassment, fear, poverty, starvation, coercion, injury, grief, loss and death.
We choose not to care. We choose to let others do what they do because they have the authority to do so. We choose to ignore the injustice and the wrongs. We choose the crucified plaster statue to the real thing. We can endure blood as long as it comes out of a tin and doesn’t soil our hands.
And so as yet another brother falls and his mother wails, we must pray Mea Culpa… Mea Culpa… Mea Culpa…
11th February 2008
11.19pm
I was only reminded that the season of Lent had begun when I received an email from a friend on how to make self-denial more meaningful than mere fasts and prayers.
This time of the year usually brings back memories of crowded churches I attended as a child, and the people lining up to kiss the feet of the statue of the crucified Christ.
However, for the last year or so, my memories have been of a service I attended in a church in Colombo. A member of the congregation spoke of Jesus’ long walk to Calvary bearing a 110 pound beam on which he was going to be nailed and left to die.
Beaten and tortured, he staggered and fell. Fearing he would not make it to the place where he was to be crucified, the Roman soldiers compelled an unwitting passer-by, Simon of Cyrene, who had just come in from the country, to help him.
The speaker explained how crucifixion was the worst form of punishment given to criminals and the shame and humiliation attached to such a fate. It was also believed that anyone who touched the cross would be defiled and could not take part in the Passover.
Imagine what Simon must have felt like when he was asked to share in this fate. To stand next to a man who was already half dead having been taken from trial to trial and beaten and humiliated. To walk with him amid the jeers and taunts. Carrying the sign of shame.
I couldn’t begin to imagine what it must have been like. Then the speaker compared this incident to all the many times we are called upon not only to witness the humiliation of someone else but to share in it. The example he used was his own experience in Jaffna long before the legendary “83 Riots”.
I can still remember him standing up there, telling us of an incident he witnessed while visiting Jaffna in the early ‘80s. He told us he saw a member of the Sri Lankan military reach down from the back of the truck he was travelling in and knock down a cyclist with the butt of his gun as he drove by. He said seeing the military behave like an occupying force in a foreign land, he had felt then that we were headed down a very dangerous path. How long could this go on? He said the letters he wrote to the various newspapers never made it past the censor.
More than two decades later, as we begin the season of Lent, I am reminded again of this man who dared speak of what many of us choose to ignore.
I wasn’t too sure what ethnic group he belonged to. But I was aware that he cared enough to stand up in front of the crowd and talk about something which most of us would consider "controversial".
Protected by censorship and fed by propaganda, we choose to be happily ignorant of what goes on in the “war-torn areas”. Even when are own streets are torn apart by the war which is no longer confined to these areas, or our neighbours are pulled out of their homes and taken away, we choose to happily sigh and pass on by.
We choose to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear to the many who stagger under their crosses of hopelessness, violence, harassment, fear, poverty, starvation, coercion, injury, grief, loss and death.
We choose not to care. We choose to let others do what they do because they have the authority to do so. We choose to ignore the injustice and the wrongs. We choose the crucified plaster statue to the real thing. We can endure blood as long as it comes out of a tin and doesn’t soil our hands.
And so as yet another brother falls and his mother wails, we must pray Mea Culpa… Mea Culpa… Mea Culpa…
11th February 2008
11.19pm
Monday, December 17, 2007
Until the Guns are silent
(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)
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)
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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