A Real Taste of Paradise – my two-week stay in Sri Lanka

Despite numerous travels, I get habitually fascinated with the scene from above on board an aircraft, when the preparations for the landing at the Bandaranayake International Airport are in progress.

The fact that I am about to land on my motherland instils an inexplicable joy in my soul which then animates body in the form of pins and needles; I am sure that I do not belong to an emotional minority in this regard.

My first striking sight during this period of excitement was that of a pair of knickers; and it was the southern tip of our giant neighbour, India. In the shadow of the seductive geography lies, the Pearl of the Indian Ocean, with a unique lush green appearance in stark contrast to the landscape just north of its border. A provocative poet doesn’t need a stimulus more than that to produce something erotic.

After making a hasty, yet relatively smooth exit at the airport, I was compelled to rush to a town in the North-Western province to attend a funeral of a close family member. It is not urban; nor is it rural enough to rekindle the pleasant memories of the very early childhood that we spent on regular basis as and when time permitted in similar surroundings.

The sudden death of an influential nobleman is serious news in the village. Despite the relative prosperity over the recent years, the rural set-up is still typical of something that has been in existence for generations – the peaceful co-existence of the tank, pagoda and temple in perfect harmony , which has been the cohesive force in holding the innocent inhabitants together as a community.

Sarong-clad villagers still stick to their own code of conduct - a relic from the past - despite the efforts by those who take modernisation in their stride to make it otherwise.

For instance, some men still prefer entering a house of significance through a backdoor, despite the absence of mechanisms to stop them from doing so through the front door. They may still resort to gestures like scratching the back of their head, even if they are bald or croaking in order to make their presence known to the household; if it doesn’t bring the desired outcome, a bolder one may pluck up the courage to shrill an old tune, until he catches the attention of someone who has some authority. The appearance of a beautiful lass, by an accident or stroke or luck can amplify the shyness of the man in question along an exponential curve.

Of course, the villagers don’t always see eye to eye. Nor do their counterparts in the city. However, at a time of calamity, the former shed their differences and unite themselves in grief and do what they can in the spirit of service. The abundance of food at a grieving residence – and at any time of the day – reflects the constant flow of supply by the villagers, as they consider it as a moral duty.

Almsgiving is an essential part of the Buddhist household following a funeral. Prior to that noble deed, a Buddhist priest delivers a sermon at previous night which lasts for about an hour. The priest normally focuses on the good done by the deceased and encourages the living to follow in his / her footsteps to accumulate merits for the next life followed by the inevitable transmigration. A powerful sermon on this occasion can have a lasting impact on a layman provided that his spirit is in a receptive mode for the same. The sermon that I listened to was spiritually exciting and intellectually appealing – and was delivered by a young Buddhist priest.

Once the sermon was over, the attention was shifted to the impromptu kitchen that had been in operation at the back of the house. The kitchen that exists inside the house is no match for the external one when it comes to feeding hundreds, if not thousands during the Almsgiving.

This was the place where village women volunteered to offer help in preparing food for the Almsgiving, the following day. Gossip, mild bickering, blowing of one’s top, spontaneous fallouts or stabbing in the back do take place at random, which in turn, keep the women awake for the few hours until dawn, while delivering a meaningful service in the name of the deceased. Almsgiving, the next day brings the religious duties of the living on behalf of the deceased to a conclusion until the next phase which starts after three months.

The weather during the first week was very hot during the day indeed; the humidity was not very high. So, a man who is used to temperate climate could still breathe without much effort or moaning. The temperature, however, fell significantly in the evenings that prompted villagers to complain about being ‘too chilly’, when the temperature was still in the double figures.

After spending a week in an arid province, we made our way towards Colombo. The highway is fully carpeted and travelling was smooth. However, folks at the wheel of all walks of life, by strange convention, drive on the wrong side of the road whenever they get a chance to do so in order to overtake what they contemptuously call ‘snails’.

This phenomenon sheds light on the unusually high number of head-on collisions that occur on these roads at regular intervals - and of course, fatalities and injuries too. Manoeuvrability alone will not guarantee the survival when you are in this mode of movement; you need the guardian angel constantly on your side and never-ending stream of blessings from the Lady Luck.

When we were in the city limits of Colombo, the new flyovers had eased the congestion level to a significant degree, which was a notable relief for both the drivers and occupants. The openings of the outlets in every major hub of the city by a supermarket chain whose motto says ‘on the way home’, make the life easier for the weary traveller until he lands in the comfort of a bed.

The life in the suburbs of the city is far from fascinating. The menace of mosquitoes is unbearable even during the day; adding to the torment, is the high humidity that makes the atmosphere almost lifeless and boringly static. Those who hate both fans and air-conditioning are at the mercy of unreliable mild breezes that radiate from the seafront at their choosing.

The roads of the city’s suburb do not welcome a fitness fanatic of my calibre. I loved to jog, but the stray dogs were after me until I gave up. They were real ‘bastards’ who every bit lived up to the enviable nomenclature – unpredictable, aggressive, attack from behind at random and of course dirty. They have taken over the road networks thanks to the compassion extended by the Buddhists. You have to frequently bend towards the ground as if you picked up stones to hit them, if you are to keep this carnivorous harassment at bay; it was not a pleasant sight before curious onlookers. So, in the end, I took the membership of gym just for one week to get rid of excess calories which the frequent meals inevitably brought in.

After spending my second week in Colombo, I flew back to London on the national carrier, the Sri Lankan Airlines. The service was superb and the girls and boys who looked after us delivered wonderful service while we were on board, on behalf of the airline.

Unfortunately, the landing at the Terminal 4 of Heathrow did not generate much enthusiasm at all. The airport had been virtually deserted even in the middle of the day. If one wants to see how the recession bites Britain, a simple walk through the corridors of this massive place offers a more meaningful picture than the pathetic illusions created by charts, models and economic forecasts of the learned in a year.

-Asian Tribune -