It is strange how so much of life can pass you by
During moments undefined
With no memories or emotion to give them meaning
They stretch out into space in one continuous motion
With no start or end or interlude; with no life or death
The hands of the clock go around and around
The light of the sun on my face gives way to darkness
In the darkness I cease to exist until the light reminds once again that nothing has changed
My limbs take on different shapes in the light
Sometimes they lead me through different places only to realize they are not so different
Just like day and night are not so different unless I give them purpose
A life wasted like rain drops that fall in the sea
Not fortunate to fall on leaves and flowers, or give birth to fresh earth with its most intoxicant smells
Just mingle with large expanses of nothingness
With no thoughts or inspiration
No need for food or water
An endlessly passive state of being
No passions to ignite the senses, no beauty to derive pleasure from
Just space divided by night and day; sleep and wake
And yet no dreams; no colours or shapes.
Eyes wide open as I sleep; the mind remains closed when I am awake
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Monday, July 21, 2008
bomb scare in the neighbourhood
A black parcel turned up in the neighbourhood the other day. Nobody dared go near it. The warnings in the media, on the road, in the head, seemed to have worked well in building the paranoia towards anything that seemed not to fit. The little voices inside screamed so loud that everyone could hear each other’s souls cry: “Oh my God what if it’s a bomb!” even as an odd silence took over the tangible realities of their lives.
“Yes, it could be a garbage bag…but, the garbage men came just this morning, how could someone have dumped something in the evening…it can’t be a garbage bag….”
People gathered, eyeing the bag, eying their neighbours, eying everything suspiciously.
A neighbourhood patriarch raised his voice as others whispered amongst them wondering what to do. The man was a Sinhalese.
“Let the Sinhala people handle this. We should not get involved, what if they accuse us?” My mother and another friendly neigbourhood Tamil lady mumbled as they discussed their options under their breath.
“What do we do; should we call the police? I think we should call the police; who is going to do the calling?” the man’s voice boomed, growing louder with each syllable.
“Yes we should call the Police… maybe you should do it… do it now… what if it is a bomb?”
The voice was that of a Sinhala woman; also from the neighbourhood. She had said it. She had voiced everyone’s fears. The moment the word bomb was said out loud, things seemed to ease up, people started to talk.
The Tamils remained silent.
The Muslims spoke, but remained noncommittal. They threw questioning glances across at the Tamils. Or so the Tamils thought so. They nodded, and the Tamils looked away.
It was left to the Sinhalese to do something about the parcel. In what was normally a close knit neighbourhood, where everybody knew one another, the possibility of a “terrorist” presence was too much to handle.
And so they called the police.
One by one the Tamils left the scene and went into their respective homes. My mother had turned pale, she was worried about something. “No,” she said, it was not the fact that we could potentially have a bomb go off in the neighbourhood. She was worried about something worse than a bomb, she was worried that I was home and the police were coming.
Her logic seemed reasonable given the context. I had retuned from India a couple of weeks earlier. I was the odd one out. If the police came, I would be in trouble. The fear Other Tamil mothers, equally afraid of the same fate, cautioned their young sons and daughters.
“They will come and search our houses; they will arrest us if they suspect it is a bomb. Better to stay indoors and not draw attention, we will say we were indoors all day.” The thought seemed to have popped into every Tamil mind.
The patriach continued to shout, “Do not worry people, we have called the Police, they are on the way. We are safe now.”
The Tamils shuddered; they hoped that it would not be the STF. They went indoors and shut their doors. They prayed the STF would not come to arrest them.
The STF did not come.
A group of local constables were sent to detonate the potential bomb. One of the constables was forced to poke the package with a large stick. He did so positioning himself in a comical fashion reaching out with one arm and its extension; the stick. If it had, in fact, been a bomb, his positioning would not have done him any good, but he preferred to do it that way.
The Sinhala man watched. Maybe the bomb warning messages in the media were not consistent enough, because he did not seem to want to protect himself from it, and instead preferred to watch. He raised his voice once again and told the neighbourhood that everything was ok now that the police were here. He then turned around and shouted at the police for taking so long to respond to his call. All this he did while he watched the cop prod the parcel with his stick.
Luckily the bag was just a late edition garbage drop. Someone at the scene must have been aware of this fact, but was too afraid to own up.
The police left and the Tamils heaved a sigh of relief. “At least they did not come in to check us….” The sigh was for the absence of checking not the detonated hoax bomb
Everything returned to normal within minutes of the police leaving. Everyone was back to being friendly. The ethnic divide disappeared…. “Thank God it was not a bomb no?”
Thank God!
“Yes, it could be a garbage bag…but, the garbage men came just this morning, how could someone have dumped something in the evening…it can’t be a garbage bag….”
People gathered, eyeing the bag, eying their neighbours, eying everything suspiciously.
A neighbourhood patriarch raised his voice as others whispered amongst them wondering what to do. The man was a Sinhalese.
“Let the Sinhala people handle this. We should not get involved, what if they accuse us?” My mother and another friendly neigbourhood Tamil lady mumbled as they discussed their options under their breath.
“What do we do; should we call the police? I think we should call the police; who is going to do the calling?” the man’s voice boomed, growing louder with each syllable.
“Yes we should call the Police… maybe you should do it… do it now… what if it is a bomb?”
The voice was that of a Sinhala woman; also from the neighbourhood. She had said it. She had voiced everyone’s fears. The moment the word bomb was said out loud, things seemed to ease up, people started to talk.
The Tamils remained silent.
The Muslims spoke, but remained noncommittal. They threw questioning glances across at the Tamils. Or so the Tamils thought so. They nodded, and the Tamils looked away.
It was left to the Sinhalese to do something about the parcel. In what was normally a close knit neighbourhood, where everybody knew one another, the possibility of a “terrorist” presence was too much to handle.
And so they called the police.
One by one the Tamils left the scene and went into their respective homes. My mother had turned pale, she was worried about something. “No,” she said, it was not the fact that we could potentially have a bomb go off in the neighbourhood. She was worried about something worse than a bomb, she was worried that I was home and the police were coming.
Her logic seemed reasonable given the context. I had retuned from India a couple of weeks earlier. I was the odd one out. If the police came, I would be in trouble. The fear Other Tamil mothers, equally afraid of the same fate, cautioned their young sons and daughters.
“They will come and search our houses; they will arrest us if they suspect it is a bomb. Better to stay indoors and not draw attention, we will say we were indoors all day.” The thought seemed to have popped into every Tamil mind.
The patriach continued to shout, “Do not worry people, we have called the Police, they are on the way. We are safe now.”
The Tamils shuddered; they hoped that it would not be the STF. They went indoors and shut their doors. They prayed the STF would not come to arrest them.
The STF did not come.
A group of local constables were sent to detonate the potential bomb. One of the constables was forced to poke the package with a large stick. He did so positioning himself in a comical fashion reaching out with one arm and its extension; the stick. If it had, in fact, been a bomb, his positioning would not have done him any good, but he preferred to do it that way.
The Sinhala man watched. Maybe the bomb warning messages in the media were not consistent enough, because he did not seem to want to protect himself from it, and instead preferred to watch. He raised his voice once again and told the neighbourhood that everything was ok now that the police were here. He then turned around and shouted at the police for taking so long to respond to his call. All this he did while he watched the cop prod the parcel with his stick.
Luckily the bag was just a late edition garbage drop. Someone at the scene must have been aware of this fact, but was too afraid to own up.
The police left and the Tamils heaved a sigh of relief. “At least they did not come in to check us….” The sigh was for the absence of checking not the detonated hoax bomb
Everything returned to normal within minutes of the police leaving. Everyone was back to being friendly. The ethnic divide disappeared…. “Thank God it was not a bomb no?”
Thank God!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Yes I write...
I tried to revive this blog a couple months ago, and failed misearable. This time I write, just to keep the blog from being deleted by the blogspot folks.
But that does not mean I don't still write. Yes I do write. Infact I write everyday, for one of the biggest newspapers in India. But then again I don't know if I really write. And I certainly don't call what I write, writing.
I mostly write about some odd meeting happening in the city of Chennai. I write about a rotary president being elected or about one more of those many college functions that take place in the here. I would be relecutant to call all that writing, but if anyone asks me what I do, I tell them, "well I write." Becuase that is in fact, in writing, what I do.
I friend of mine recently told me "Ababuo,you write so well, why don't you just write," and I told him, well becuase writing is what I do, everyday, I write so much that I am tired of writing. I write so much that I have forgotten how to write.
But that does not mean I don't still write. Yes I do write. Infact I write everyday, for one of the biggest newspapers in India. But then again I don't know if I really write. And I certainly don't call what I write, writing.
I mostly write about some odd meeting happening in the city of Chennai. I write about a rotary president being elected or about one more of those many college functions that take place in the here. I would be relecutant to call all that writing, but if anyone asks me what I do, I tell them, "well I write." Becuase that is in fact, in writing, what I do.
I friend of mine recently told me "Ababuo,you write so well, why don't you just write," and I told him, well becuase writing is what I do, everyday, I write so much that I am tired of writing. I write so much that I have forgotten how to write.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
I'm back...
Yes I am.... After struggling for a couple of days to remember my password, I was told by the blogspot people that I could just sign in using my google ID. So that's that.
Why was I missing? (Not that anyone cares-- but the irony must be spelled out to that poor soul who's been pulling his/her hair out wondering where i was)
I was at a journo school, that blocked our access to blogger! Yes, that is the plight of our revered principle of the modern world; the freedom of expression.
It's time to fight for its survival.LONG LIVE THE BLOG!
Why was I missing? (Not that anyone cares-- but the irony must be spelled out to that poor soul who's been pulling his/her hair out wondering where i was)
I was at a journo school, that blocked our access to blogger! Yes, that is the plight of our revered principle of the modern world; the freedom of expression.
It's time to fight for its survival.LONG LIVE THE BLOG!
Monday, June 05, 2006
I was ashamed to be a part of the deafening silence…
I found myself sinking deeper into a form of depression. I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this way…And then I visited Anoma Wijewardena’s Quest at the National Art Gallery last Sunday and realised exactly why…
The exhibition was a painful reminder of my inadequacy, of the hope that we all hold in our hands but choose to forsake. I felt ashamed to be a part of the deafening silence that surrounded me…. The images stared starkly at me and the words screamed at me making me feel hollow and inconsequential like as if I was stranded in front of the large waves of an ocean, ship wreaked and alone. My head throbbed with guilt, for the words were known, the images familiar and yet I had chosen to ignore them; ignore others like me, those others wanting to sing with me. Some images teased my guilt with traces of what could be if the chorus was loud, if the words that accompanied were echoed by all of us. But I continued to feed the silence.
Part of the process of healing is remembering and remembering is always agonizing that’s why we choose to escape its forces, shamelessly absolve ourselves from responsibility; choose to live with the silence. The silence kills each day more of the soul and yet we trick ourselves into believing the silence is normal, that it is all we can expect, that it is us. I hear whispers of dissent, but they are not loud enough to break through the silence.
I left the exhibition feeling even more depressed because. I carried my guilt and walked away. I remembered but did not heal, for I cannot heal alone. Until we all release our clenched fists we will not see the hope, only the starkness of the images, the words will not inspire they will only continue to condescend.
The exhibition was a painful reminder of my inadequacy, of the hope that we all hold in our hands but choose to forsake. I felt ashamed to be a part of the deafening silence that surrounded me…. The images stared starkly at me and the words screamed at me making me feel hollow and inconsequential like as if I was stranded in front of the large waves of an ocean, ship wreaked and alone. My head throbbed with guilt, for the words were known, the images familiar and yet I had chosen to ignore them; ignore others like me, those others wanting to sing with me. Some images teased my guilt with traces of what could be if the chorus was loud, if the words that accompanied were echoed by all of us. But I continued to feed the silence.
Part of the process of healing is remembering and remembering is always agonizing that’s why we choose to escape its forces, shamelessly absolve ourselves from responsibility; choose to live with the silence. The silence kills each day more of the soul and yet we trick ourselves into believing the silence is normal, that it is all we can expect, that it is us. I hear whispers of dissent, but they are not loud enough to break through the silence.
I left the exhibition feeling even more depressed because. I carried my guilt and walked away. I remembered but did not heal, for I cannot heal alone. Until we all release our clenched fists we will not see the hope, only the starkness of the images, the words will not inspire they will only continue to condescend.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
Losing face…!?
Losing face…!?
I’ve always had difficulties saying no. While I’ve often thought it was a personality trait that was exclusively mine, I’ve discovered of late that I cannot be so selfish.
There’s something in our culture that makes it difficult for us to lose face. The inability to say “no” is one way this trait manifest’s itself in our part of the world. Maybe it’s all to do with our much maligned (secretly revered) system of social hierarchy; remnants of our colonial past or our feudal origins, whatever it is, you all know what I’m talking about.
Let me start at the micro level of our day to day lives.
Example 1:
I’m utterly and completely broke, my friend invites me for a drink or something and I go grudgingly. I end up spending too much money- including my taxi fare home- and curse my friend for no fault of his/ hers…but somehow it was easier than saying no…phew I did not lose face!
Example 2:
My date is one busy guy. He promises to leave work early the next day just to see me- how sweet! I fall for the line hook line and sinker and forget all our previous episodes. He swears he’ll come, he even says “don’t bail on me right!” The next day I wake up slightly earlier than usual, make sure to iron my half decent (for a change) clothes! I shave my legs, put on some jewellery and even some cheap perfume. The morning hours are less cranky than usual….Morning turns in to evening, the minutes tick and well… no call. I text and…no reply, I text again…still no reply. I call… a hurried voice answers “I’m at a meeting, I’ll call you back ok”…call me back my ass! fuck you! And suddenly I feel a strange sense of de ja vous…hmmm… strange feel like I’ve been here before…My date escapes, phew he didn’t lose face.
Example 3
I’m throwing a party, I call my friends…”oooh how lovely!! Yes of course we’ll come, do you need some help?”...oh no don’t bother just bring yourself.
The day arrives, I’m slaving at the stove, one friend calls up and sweetly offers to help once again, such a darling now isn’t it? No no! don’t you worry…ok could you bring me something cold do drink and come a tad early? “Sure hon, see you there…4.30?” great! Ok ...4.30, 5.30, 6.30…
Another friend suddenly texts, “sorry sweetie I’ve got a fever, have fun!”…10 minutes later another friend “sorry darling, I got the runnies, have fun!” ??? what’s this some kind of collusion!
7.30, 8.30,…party starts, we have fun, get drunk, go to bed…wake up the next morning, clean, the place…oh what I wouldn’t do for a cold drink right now….HEY!! Hang on a minute wasn’t my friend supposed to bring me one yesterday?...and she didn’t even bother to call and excuse herself…phew she didn’t lose face.
Sounds familiar anybody?
Anyway let me move on to the macro level, to my “ah-ha moment”, my realisation that this phenomenon is inbred in our genes.
“The Ceasefire Agreement is in tact”
This seems to be the buzz statement these days, regurgitated by those SLMM folks the Government, the LTTE, the media….
“X number of navy officers killed in yesterday’s attack, the Government and the LTTE reiterate the importance of the peace talks…”
“Y number of young men shot in their homes, we condemn such attacks and reiterate our commitment to the CFA…”
“Suicide bomb attack in Colombo, retaliatory air strikes… the ceasefire agreement stands!...”
What CFA? Where CFA? Whose CFA? People continue to die, but just in the right numbers to maintain the façade of a ceasefire. Life goes on, we pretend as best as we can that everything alright, we stop counting. We fall for the propaganda slogans once again, we begin to take sides. The country is at war but we’re not going to tell anyone…phew we didn’t lose face!
Maybe it’s some strange coping mechanism, maybe we are all just a bunch of escapists. We were taught to keep our feelings to ourselves, because it’s bad manners to talk about your problems (read bad manners to be honest) we beat around the bush and feel comfortable in our little zones. We cheat, we lie and the next time we meet those same people we are sugary sweet. Because we are comfortable with a “no shows”, we know that people are not going to believe us and that they might even think bad about us behind our backs…but behind our backs is acceptable…we just want to lose face!
I’ve always had difficulties saying no. While I’ve often thought it was a personality trait that was exclusively mine, I’ve discovered of late that I cannot be so selfish.
There’s something in our culture that makes it difficult for us to lose face. The inability to say “no” is one way this trait manifest’s itself in our part of the world. Maybe it’s all to do with our much maligned (secretly revered) system of social hierarchy; remnants of our colonial past or our feudal origins, whatever it is, you all know what I’m talking about.
Let me start at the micro level of our day to day lives.
Example 1:
I’m utterly and completely broke, my friend invites me for a drink or something and I go grudgingly. I end up spending too much money- including my taxi fare home- and curse my friend for no fault of his/ hers…but somehow it was easier than saying no…phew I did not lose face!
Example 2:
My date is one busy guy. He promises to leave work early the next day just to see me- how sweet! I fall for the line hook line and sinker and forget all our previous episodes. He swears he’ll come, he even says “don’t bail on me right!” The next day I wake up slightly earlier than usual, make sure to iron my half decent (for a change) clothes! I shave my legs, put on some jewellery and even some cheap perfume. The morning hours are less cranky than usual….Morning turns in to evening, the minutes tick and well… no call. I text and…no reply, I text again…still no reply. I call… a hurried voice answers “I’m at a meeting, I’ll call you back ok”…call me back my ass! fuck you! And suddenly I feel a strange sense of de ja vous…hmmm… strange feel like I’ve been here before…My date escapes, phew he didn’t lose face.
Example 3
I’m throwing a party, I call my friends…”oooh how lovely!! Yes of course we’ll come, do you need some help?”...oh no don’t bother just bring yourself.
The day arrives, I’m slaving at the stove, one friend calls up and sweetly offers to help once again, such a darling now isn’t it? No no! don’t you worry…ok could you bring me something cold do drink and come a tad early? “Sure hon, see you there…4.30?” great! Ok ...4.30, 5.30, 6.30…
Another friend suddenly texts, “sorry sweetie I’ve got a fever, have fun!”…10 minutes later another friend “sorry darling, I got the runnies, have fun!” ??? what’s this some kind of collusion!
7.30, 8.30,…party starts, we have fun, get drunk, go to bed…wake up the next morning, clean, the place…oh what I wouldn’t do for a cold drink right now….HEY!! Hang on a minute wasn’t my friend supposed to bring me one yesterday?...and she didn’t even bother to call and excuse herself…phew she didn’t lose face.
Sounds familiar anybody?
Anyway let me move on to the macro level, to my “ah-ha moment”, my realisation that this phenomenon is inbred in our genes.
“The Ceasefire Agreement is in tact”
This seems to be the buzz statement these days, regurgitated by those SLMM folks the Government, the LTTE, the media….
“X number of navy officers killed in yesterday’s attack, the Government and the LTTE reiterate the importance of the peace talks…”
“Y number of young men shot in their homes, we condemn such attacks and reiterate our commitment to the CFA…”
“Suicide bomb attack in Colombo, retaliatory air strikes… the ceasefire agreement stands!...”
What CFA? Where CFA? Whose CFA? People continue to die, but just in the right numbers to maintain the façade of a ceasefire. Life goes on, we pretend as best as we can that everything alright, we stop counting. We fall for the propaganda slogans once again, we begin to take sides. The country is at war but we’re not going to tell anyone…phew we didn’t lose face!
Maybe it’s some strange coping mechanism, maybe we are all just a bunch of escapists. We were taught to keep our feelings to ourselves, because it’s bad manners to talk about your problems (read bad manners to be honest) we beat around the bush and feel comfortable in our little zones. We cheat, we lie and the next time we meet those same people we are sugary sweet. Because we are comfortable with a “no shows”, we know that people are not going to believe us and that they might even think bad about us behind our backs…but behind our backs is acceptable…we just want to lose face!
Monday, May 08, 2006
coffee shop blues
Coffee shop blues
Coffee shop lounge
On a late night out
Watching people pass each other by
Still in some sort of a slow motion rush
A surreal modern ritual
Incomprehensible yet instinctively followed
Some sit with their computers
Waiting for some one to steal them away
Some intently take their late night dose of caffeine
Addicted more in spirit than taste
Weariness of the endless rat race
Or aimless wastrels wasting away
Laughter of the intoxicated
Empty gazes of the lonely
Rings of cigarette smoke…
Texture the waves of the late night blues tunes
While a tired singer loses a note,
Insomniacs sit and ponder
Sleepwalkers stroll by…
Fighting their way through thick nicotine clouds
Slouching on the ample couch
Stealing a glance now and then
Playing with a memory
Shared with the once familiar stranger…
Sitting across
Hiding a boundless longing
Shrouded now for loyalty’s sake
For the friend who sits between us
The smile on her face we dare not lose
Of the few things still of worth
Like the old time blues
That draws those sleepless souls
Like the coffee that brews
Keeping awake the night’s fools
The ritual continues till it’s time to go home
But only for tonight…
For tomorrow the doors will be open
Many stories like this I’m sure it holds
Of nights and patrons guarding the gloom
Coffee shop lounge
On a late night out
Watching people pass each other by
Still in some sort of a slow motion rush
A surreal modern ritual
Incomprehensible yet instinctively followed
Some sit with their computers
Waiting for some one to steal them away
Some intently take their late night dose of caffeine
Addicted more in spirit than taste
Weariness of the endless rat race
Or aimless wastrels wasting away
Laughter of the intoxicated
Empty gazes of the lonely
Rings of cigarette smoke…
Texture the waves of the late night blues tunes
While a tired singer loses a note,
Insomniacs sit and ponder
Sleepwalkers stroll by…
Fighting their way through thick nicotine clouds
Slouching on the ample couch
Stealing a glance now and then
Playing with a memory
Shared with the once familiar stranger…
Sitting across
Hiding a boundless longing
Shrouded now for loyalty’s sake
For the friend who sits between us
The smile on her face we dare not lose
Of the few things still of worth
Like the old time blues
That draws those sleepless souls
Like the coffee that brews
Keeping awake the night’s fools
The ritual continues till it’s time to go home
But only for tonight…
For tomorrow the doors will be open
Many stories like this I’m sure it holds
Of nights and patrons guarding the gloom
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