More Xmas Lunch Pix

Xmas Lunch 2019

Mind your Cleavage!

Mind your Cleavage!

Times have changed. Tsunami’s have come and gone. Waves of generations have crashed out of our shores seeking greener pastures in far off lands. The slip is showing. Por Favor!

Tolerance, rather than a virtue that pulsates common sense debate and understandings of differences, has unfortunately become a norm that chooses to enforce rather than respect. It is seen as a gesture that groups of people have to ‘put up with,’ within certain limits, towards people different from themselves – the poor, the elderly, the disabled, refugees, ethnic groups, indigenous people, theists, beggars, and even migrants. A thousand apologies!

There used to be an era where homes were fenced by half walls or hedges, over which neighbors and people passing by would stand across and chat. Security, privacy, and the threat of intrusion hardly crossed people’s minds. We used to play cricket on the streets and the neighborhood mums used to support us so gladly with cookies and lemonade. Xmas, Deevali, Vesak, Eid, and Aluth Avurudhu were all celebrated with great pomp, pageantry, and passion, filled with fun and frolic by one and all. Mum was saddled with making Watalappam to whet the palettes of the boys and girls in the neighborhood. Other Mums had to make Cake, Kavum, and Kesari on other festive events. Jolly Good!

Racial insecurity, ethnic disharmony, and the massive influx of high rise condominiums, within an environment of fear and security, have built Chinese walls between peoples. It is time to reassess the development process beyond the second hand approach of handouts to the excluded. Sadly, the cleavage is widening. Oh Blimey!

If teamwork means strength, then, keeping the bodice tightly clasped across our shoulders has to be the right way. Aso!

Fazli Sameer

Sep 2019

Burning Brown

She moans,

as flames ravage her back

skinning it off the surface.

Skies flare,

and smoke engulfs the air

choking like phosphorus.

The Trees,

are green no more

all burned up into cinders.

The Sun,

she struggles in vain

to fight the icy winters.

The Rain,

stays away from the plain

the crops are torn asunder.

Mankind,

whither dost thou complain

you’ve crashed it all like thunder.

Fazli – Aug 2019

Across the Great Divide

Across the great divide

Thangammah knew no Sinhala, I knew no Tamil

Yet, we both comprehended

Each other’s underlying sentiments

For our fallen heroes

North and South of the divide

Precious lives snatched in their prime

Some for a cause

And for the others, it was their duty

We argued vehemently, for “our” people

Yet the salient wish was peace

Our pivotal point of consensus

The distant boom of gun fire and shelling

Shattered the tranquility of a quiet dinner

Tempted to lick my fingers

After tucking into Thosai and Iddly

Dripping with a spicy sambar

My city manners repulse me

I affectionately gaze at her lined face

A mother to me in an alien land

Which I have stealthily trespassed

As the morning sunrays cast a glimmer

In the statuesque Palmyra trees

My gracious hostess kisses my forehead

 Wishing me a safe journey

Across Elephant Pass

Back in Colombo in a plush shopping mall

I spot a Diwali Card, with endearing words

Emotions overpowering, with trembling hands I scrawl

Dearest Thangamma,

May the Deities protect you until we meet again

By: Keerthi Wijekulasuriya

Moss unraveled

It was the cynosure
Of all eyes
Multihued cubes
Were tossed
On to a
Crystal bowl
The glassy liquid
Over it
Created a stunning illusion
Of a
A gem studded mirror
Centre stage among       
Soufflés, Mousses
And Tiramisu
It glamorized
The dessert table to the hilt
The guests gazed at it
In awe
Hesitant to delve in
Lest they shatter the
Spectacular sight

The chef hovered by
Madam,
Why not try this
I ponder
It’s meant to be savoured
The varied flavours
Of Raspberry, plum
Orange and lemon
Invigorate me
We all scoop down
And indulge in the
Delectable Moss Jelly


BY:  Keerthi Wijekulasuriya

July Meeting

We had a very interesting meeting this morning, for July, at the Beach Wadiya.

Following attended:-

Asgher Hussain

Chantelle Arendtsz

Fazli Sameer

Kasun Pathirage

Kiara Arendtsz

Kirthi Wijekulasooriya

Melinda Arendtsz

Neela Goonetilleke

Nafisa Thahirally

Peter Arendtsz

Pierangeli Andrado

Proceedings kicked off with,

Kiara (Madonna) narrrating her poem titled, "Nature, Mixed and Matched" where she went into a philosophical dissection of the many facets of thunder, lightning, win dd and rain in a very beautiful manner.

Peter (and Melinda) read out a very hilarious account of his great granddfather's encounter with the "Milk Rice Castle" in a cemetery while riding home after a few, in a horse cart driven by Muthu.

Kirthi rendered a very sweet account of the mesmering effects of Jelly sitting on a dessert table in her "Moss Unravelled" epic.

Fazli read out a poem, titled "Ships", written in 1992 while serving with the MOD in the Sultanate of Oman, that related a brief encounter of people passig each otherr,  that he had experienced in the Persian Gulf.

A finger licking serving of Chinese Rolls, Maalu Paan, and Chocolate Eclairs, washed down with EGB, folded up the morning session.

The August meeting will be hosted by Kirthi & Kasun. Kindly inform them of your attendance to facilitate catering.

We have also decided to set up a WhatsApp Group in order to facilitate communication. Please let me have your mobile phone number if you would like to be included in the group, andd I will add you in accordingly.

Fazli

SHIPS

SHIPS

Just a brief
conversation, over dinner;
Two Worlds had spun!

Two hearts, spoke
across a table;
Had so much fun!

Is it love,
or a loneliness;
that brings us together?

From up above,
He provides us;
A sweet scented savor!

We reach out,
so blindly, moving;
Away, out of sight!

Like two ships,
passing each other;
Through a stormy night!

Fazli Sameer

Ministry of Defence, Seeb Camp, Sultanate of Oman, 1992

A Glimpse of Taste

A Glimpse of Taste

Along the Skies
Around the Mountains
Beneath the Sea
All what we see is Blue and Green.

Look at the Sky so blue and free
Look at the birds that fly with glee
Look at the golden rays that sparkles on the Sea.
Giving the viewer " A GLIMPSE OF TASTE".

Climb on the Mountains so high and tall
Climb through rocks which is steep and small
Climb to a strong tree without a stumble or fall
Gaze towards the pastures and lurshes swaying in the wind.
Proving that" EVER GREEN CAN REFRESH EVERY EYE ".

Dive against the unwinding waves
Dive beneath the rocky road caves
Dive against corals and paves
Swim along the shoal of fish until its dusk and the sun glare quits.


By Kiara Arendtsz (18)
29-06-2019

The Stone Killer

THE STONE KILLER

A Sri Lankan Malay Farook hadn't much to do during this period in Colombo.So he decided to visit his sister in Badulla.Young and full of energy Farook used to live a moderate life in Colombo.

Those good old days only a few people had water service to their houses,the unfortunate had to fetch their water in buckets or pots from the road side tap.

Farook had heard about a family near his sister's house creating problems and giving hardships to his sister and her family.But the sister just bore up or ignored all this injustice and pain.

There was one thing that could not be avoided fetching water from nearby road tap.

One morning,as his sister went to fetch water the men in that house took her bucket and threw it to a distance and started to shout in slang and abusing her.

Farook saw everything from the window,but did not get worked up and waited for the opportunity.

Farook's sister did not know that he noticed the incident.After a while the sister went to do her shopping to town and Farook quickly went up to the gate of the house of the people who were making trouble and shouted,"You dirty cowards you can only fight with women,why don't you come out and fight with me like men".

To Farook's surprise he saw about ten young men walking towards him.What could he have done in a moment like this?His thinking power was all over finally he bent down and picked up a reasonably sized stone and flung it towards the coming crowd.

The stone struck the man who was in the front and he fell dead instantly.The others who were with him ran away.The Police was alerted and Farook fell behind bars.

Night came and the O.I.C was having a conversation that could be heard to a distance.He spoke in his native language Malay.

Farook listened to the conversation and understood that the O.I.C was a Malay as him.

He waited until the telephone conversation was over and asked to see the O.I.C. The O.I.C from a distance asked him what was the problem.The O.I.C got Farook out and changed the statement of inquiry,gave it another look.A much more favourable one for Farook.The case was heard and Farook was given a three year jail sentence.When Farook got out,he was not the old person he used to be.

He associated with all the Criminals and Drug dealers.Once he became a pawn for three criminals,undertaking all their contracts.

After coming out of Prison and three years he spent in jail has changed his life completely.He became a big Drug dealer and faced many Legal and Social Problems.Once he had to hide or run to another City to avoid confrontation with such noted characters.
Finally he thought of coming back to normal and civilized life.It was determination that has brought him where he is today.

When I met Farook in year 1997 at Dons Stanley's where I was a Manager and he was a senior cook.After working for a while we became friends.

Farook had given up all his bad habits and chosen to be a cook.He still lives near the Insurance Corporation Headquarters,Slaves Island.

Anyone who wishes to meet him may do as he is a good guy now and is called"FAROOK    
NANA".


By Peter Arendtsz
29-06-2019.

The Right Side

It is always good to write about the right. Specially the right side. It is so good to see someone on the right side.

Think about your right hand how helpful it is to you in many ways. It is advantageous to be the right hand person of somebody.

Even in the High Courts or Police they say that you have the Right to remain silent.

It is always safe when you walk on the right hand of the road. It is useful to recognize the right.

I am presently writing and talking as I have the right to do so.

Do you remember when your teacher used to put a right to your answers. Right is always good and bring you joy.

Even God loves righteous people. Have you ever heard about the Right Royal Welcome.

How if I would say that it serves you right for being late to work. It is possibly difficult to live without the right person.

The right has five letters, while the wrong also has five letters.

Now realize which side you are on, the right or the wrong?

Madonna Arendtsz (12)
29-06-2019

June Meeting at the Wadiya

After a lapse of two months of silence we managed to round up a decent gang of 11 members to meet at the Wadiya on Sat Jun 29, 2019

The following attended:-

1	Asgar Hussein
2	Carmel Miranda
3	Elmo de Silva
4	Fazli Sameer
5	Kiara Arendtsz
6	Madonna Arendtsz
7	Melinda Arendtsz
8	Nafisa Taherally
9	Neela Goonetilleke
10	Peter Arendtsz
11	Pierangeli Andrado

Pierangeli kicked of the proceedings with a very passionate poem titled "Oh Love" in keeping with the months theme of "My First Love"

Madonna (12) followed up with her own perspective of "Right" in expressing its meaning in her text titled "The Right Side"

Her sister Kiara (18) then gave us her "Glimps of Taste" in verse extracting the flavors of Blue ad Green through various forms of natural artifacts.

Neela read a thrilling account of the emotional turmoil of love in her interesting piece.

Elmo de Silva then read out his short story, "Was it a lifetime's mistake" in his romantic addventures as a little boy wading through University and life in general.

Peter, in his own spevial way, shared a valiant story about his friend, the gallant Farook, and how he faced up to the ups andd downs of life through hardship and enddurance in his "Stone Killer" story.

Carmel chose to read an extravt from her book defining the conversaton with a witness of an auto accident down Havelock Road.

Fazli summed up the proceedings with a tale of "Third Culture Parent" based on his sojourn in the Middle East for forty long years.

Fish Cutlets, Chicken Patties, Cheese Cake andd Ginger Beer was served plentifully, hosted by Fazli & Elmo, to conclude a very fruitful and interesting day at the Wadiya.

A window into the life of a Third Culture Parent (TCP)

A window into the life of a Third Culture Parent (TCP)

14 addresses; 16 jobs, 40 years in the sands

Leaving Sri Lanka at 30 seemed like an adventure into the unknown. It took me back to Odysseus in Homer. Our little girl was only 5. The second princess was yet to be born. Slumped in the window seat of a PIA jet in 1979, from Colombo to Karachi, en route to Dhahran in Saudi Arabia, seemed like we were moving into a new home that would become turn out into our cloud for the next four decades.

Travel became a way of life. Countless hours of flying became the norm. Longing for home sweet home became the dream. Imagine feeling like a foreigner when touching down at BIA, and not fully belonging to the country of our residence? Having to check the time in the locality of our friends and family, before calling, so we don't wake them up, was mandatory. Not being able to integrate into a specific community, one hundred percent, and feeling like we belonged to all of them at the same time was the default. Developing the ability to talk in many different languages, accents, and even moods became endemic. Friends were wishing us happy birthday hours before the day had actually dawned. We were brushing our teeth in airport toilets, like we owned the place. Unhealthy periods of time seated in the departure lounge and then, suffering through the immense struggle of Jet-lag when we returned “home", flying east or west. Anxiety and panic was in the air when a form requires us to list our permanent address. And the worst of all, being asked the question "Where are you from?" Because in short, the answer is, we really don't know.

We have had fourteen different mailing addresses of which five were in Sri Lanka. The Middle East was another long and winding adventure. Now, when people think of Saudi Arabia, they think of all the negative images associated with the desert, or, they think of Alladin lamps, the big blue genie, date palms, sand dunes, and camels. Very few people know the reality of the place we lived in. The girls attended an American International School that was considered one of the best in the world. The residential and working environment we lived in was populated with almost every nationality on earth. A country with 10+ million expatriates, making up half the population, was like a Disneyland in the desert.

Traffic on the multi clustered highways, built by giant US consortiums, was always hectic. Work was cool as a cucumber. There was never any rush to beat the clock as the local culture mandated that everything can wait. Weekend parties were so filled with goodies from many different countries. People always kept a close eye on BBC or CNN, to be aware of what was going on outside the Gulf. Local media was filled with a load of absolute crap.

Being of South Asian heritage, growing up in a cardboard “American” city, and living in the heart of the desert exposed us to a multitude of people and perspectives. We would be subject to a barrage of so many dialects within a given day. The reason why we are now so open minded and free to accept people from any culture is because of this place we called home and will always be grateful for.

But wait, is it really home? Because this home, these houses that we lived in have a shelf life. They only last as long as my employment contract is not terminated. Nothing belongs to us except the clothes in our brown suitcases and a few knick knacks we have bought for ourselves. Everything is leased and paid for by the employer, including transport, utility, health insurance and medical bills. We have to cook our own food like the rest of humanity, of course.

The eventuality that we kept telling ourselves is that heartbreaking and devastating moment we would have to face when it was time to go “home”. It is an indescribable type of emotion because we know it would be virtually impossible to return to this “home” again. Maybe just one day, as a visitor, pilgrim, or even a business consultant, but never as a resident anymore. Not at this age and disposition.

We always knew and shared what it was to be a TCP, but we were only able to grasp its true essence when we were fully retired in 2018. Sixteen jobs came my way during this forty year sojourn. The longest kept me on for 20 years.

Our two girls had grown up, graduated, married, and two grandkids had joined the nest. They also belonged to another species called the Third Culture Kids (TCK). They faced even more difficult challenges than us. 

Most folks will never fully understand where we are from and will probably misjudge us through stereotyped thinking and a lack of awareness. And to be very honest, nobody will ever comprehend, with full depth and perception, where we are from, other than those who also shared a similar background and lifestyle with us. And that is something we have to come to peace with. We have learned through experience that people build more on differences than similarities because it stimulates the mind and challenges presupposed beliefs.

We also learned that everything in life is temporary, especially for our genus. The home is temporary. Transport is temporary. The environment is temporary. People around us are temporary. Work is temporary. The transitory state shocked us every time we thought about leaving the place. Capturing moments on camera and writing about life in a bubble became part of our existence. We just wanted to preserve the memories.

Life need not be dictated by tangible boundaries and fixed material. Let it be defined by fleeting experiences and adventurous journeys. People, are the most important commodity in human life. Meeting, knowing, and associating with them is an education one cannot reap, even at Harvard or Eton.

Trapped in a New Dimension

TRAPPED IN A NEW DIMENSION

Yesterday, this rotund old man

Had been trundled in –followed by

a bewildered wife, blank –faced, weary;

Today their world is spliced open

to encompass a new dimension.

A pitiless probing  beam now reveals:

Too many white cells, in his blood

and the red corpuscles way too few –

She had thought all blood was red,

She never knew.

She looked at him in secret fear

He, who was so familiar:

How could they say his blood had changed?

 his  spectacles reposed

on the same huge, hooked and spotty  nose,

He had the same beloved, sober  face -

Snored loud , burped long - He was the same:

She prayed it was not, it could not be,

The  begining of the end.

Trapped in this new dimension

Uncomprehending  yet courageous

Bracing herself, with trembling hands,  

She carried out an old familiar task,

 pouring out a mug of tea

 from their old familiar flask.

 Sakuntala Sachithanandan - Mar 2019

**********

Math or Maths?

An interesting observation that was discussed at the March meeting on the use of the abbreviation Math or Maths for Mathematics givs rise to this explanation:-

"Is “math” or “maths” the correct word to use as the shortened or colloquial form of the word mathematics? The answer is that it depends on where you are.

To North American speakers of English, the word to use is “math”, as in “I majored in math”, and “maths” would sound wrong. Speakers of British English, however, would always say “maths”, as in “I took a degree in maths”. They would never say “math”.

There are logical arguments for both spellings. The word “mathematics” can be considered as a singular and as a plural noun. Both the Oxford and the Merriam-Webster dictionaries say the word is plural – hence the s on the end – but also that it is usually used as if it was a singular noun. So, most people would say “mathematics is my best subject” and not “mathematics are my best subject”. The shortened form “maths”, then, makes sense because the word is still a plural noun and so should still have the “s” on the end. On the other hand, it could be argued, “math” makes sense because it seems wrong to remove the letters “ematic” from the middle of the word and leave the final “s”.

There are a number of other plural nouns that are used as if they were singular – for example economics, ethics, politics, gymnastics, measles and dominoes. These words, however, are not habitually shortened, making math/maths rather an unusual word.

It’s sometimes surprising how much argument and disagreement small differences such as that single letter can make. Readers in the UK, for example, sometimes get very upset if someone writes “math” rather than “maths”. No doubt the reverse is true in the US. In practice, it’s simply worth being aware of the geographical differences so that you can use the correct form of the word in your writing."

https://www.thoughtco.com/usage-grammar-1692575

March Meeting at Dr Vimala's

The WWG March meeting went off well at Dr Vimala's residence on Mar 30 with the following attending:-

1. Asgar

2. Carmel

3. Elmo L  

4. Fazli 

5. Haig K (surprise, but mst welcome) 

6. Keerthi

7. Kiara

8. Madonna

9. Mohan

10. Nafisa 

11. Pierangeli

12. Peter (& kids)

13. Sashi M

14. Saku

15. Dr Vimala G

Saku opened the morning with two of her poems related to the life of a tea plucker and cancer which were very moving and real.

Dr. Vimala read our her poem on the travails of a young man and the memories of his ornamental fish tank in a refugee camp in the north.

Asgar read an extract from his book related to bullying in schools which is relevat to his theme on how youth get indoctrinated into terrorism and militancy.

Carmel also read her book extract related to life behind medical school/hospital walls and an episode specific to unethical practices that go on wihin these walls.

Keerthi read out her poem "Green" where she used botanical objects in an attempt to identify the need for gratitude and contentment.

Pierangeli shared a write up of a memoir of her late father which she was planning to send out to Australia. The final para of her piece was read out by Madonna, our youngest member, Peter's daughter.

Fazli broke the atmosphere of the rough and tough of lifes pangs with a romantic episode of his 16 year old days titled, "Am I that easy to forget" which brought in some nostalgic group singing by the whole gang of two old 60s Radio Ceylon hits. 

Elmo read out one of his poems on the "Buddha bids farewell" which was published in the Sunday Times of Feb 1991.

Peter lashed out one of his old tales about Marjan the voyuer in his xray shades, that went down well with the members.

Sumptious sandwiches, patties and chocolate cream buns were served by the March hosts, Pierangeli & Peter.

A suggested writing theme for the April Meeting was accepted by all as "My First Love". Members are however free to choose any topic they may wish.

Looking forward to another good session in April.

Stay safe and well until then

Pre 2019 Submissions by Saku

A MORTAL OF A LESSER KIND

She drags the hose taking care

not to trip in its cunning   coils

Has she ever dragged one before?

Perhaps in another existence,

Blindly obeying  orders from ‘Above’,

Supping on left-overs,

Sweeping , washing pots and pans,

Putting out the garbage

Sleeping on the floor?

Her squint eyes deny access

to her inner being as though

One eye drew you away from her

even as you made contact with the other -  

the dull  greyness hides a hint of fear.

Where did she exist , poor soul,

All of her many  years?

Did she ever feel and express love

to parent, sibling or  her Man,

Some spurts of happiness

She must have had ?

Whose wickedness had withered her  spirit,

leaving her shriveled, resigned, subdued,  and –

so sad?

Did she ever have a corner on this Earth

to call her own, or was she, for as many years

as she can remember

a poor mortal of a lesser kind,

Cooking, sweeping , dusting  and

washing other people’s

pots and pans?

October 2016                              Sakuntala Sachithanandan

*************

PARVATHY  - THE MIRIYABEDDE DISASTER

Parvathy melted clotted oil over the fire

And lit her lamp and prayed

to her trusted  gods and goddesses

In a dim recess arrayed,

dried up garlands casting shadows

in the flickering glow.

Her sons Perumal and Selvan

Set off to school, stumbling under

tatty umbrellas - two wet magpies

chewing on remnants of roti,

the cold relentless rain

dissolving the lines of holy ash

on their young brows..

Downing a half –mug of plain tea,

Tucking a chew of betel in her jaw

And the hem of her saree at her waist.

Hoisting a bundle of cut grass upon her head,

Parvathy set out  to feed the goats.

Noiselessly at first, like moving treacle

tons of sodden earth shifted

pushing all before them and then with

a mighty roar like a billion angry bees,

descended, boulders crashing……. final darkness  

smothering, sparing none.

in school, the children huddled,

Amidst chaos  “Amma-a-a-a!” Selvan sobbed

and Perumal hugged him, pleading,

Unconvinced and unconvincing:

“Thambi ! Don’t cry! Hush, hush!

Amma will surely come for us!”

                                                                                      November 2014.

                                                                                     Sakuntala Sachthanandan

************

HER BOY

In the dawn lit dew fresh  garden

Latha swished her ekel broom,

at ease, with the world at peace –

her heart swelling  like

the ripening  grain in  yonder field,

with silent pride at her good fortune

which seemed to rise and flow

around her in a golden glow

with every  eddy and whorl of dust,

every stroke.

As she lit the lamp and  joss-sticks

And lay fragrant  stars of jasmine

At her altar to The Buddha,

her mind raced unbidden

to the manicured lawns and buildings

glittering in the sun at the Exalted Citadel -

The university! -  the sight of which

had struck her dumb with awe:

to leave him in such

a wondrous place - her boy!

Soon, in the Exalted Citadel,

the pitiless sun beat down upon

her boy,

as he, with  tears mingling with  sweat,

bleeding hands,  knees, and wheezing chest

with a knocking heart and broken spirit,

crawled across concreted floors

With his comrades in misfortune,

on all fours.

“He deserved it all!” thought  fond  Latha

memories of her boy flooding her mind:

Running home  from the village school,

Slippers flapping, rushing through the door,

throwing his  old bag  on the  floor!

Always first in class, poring over books

Muttering and wheezing

in the bottle-lamp’s flickering  glow,

how Latha watched  and laboured over him,

Only she would ever know.

The next morning in the citadel

They thrust his head into a pail

Which  first, they had filled  for him

With  urine and spittle,  to the brim.

Lurid commands, vile obscene gestures,

Exploding in his ears, screams of lunatic laughter  

While the beasts, the so-called Seniors

ragged   and terrorized  the  Freshers

in sadistic  vicious pleasure.

And who were these beasts,  but

the inexplicably depraved sons and daughters

Of ordinary law-abiding people who

would invoke The Blessings

of The Triple Gem and all the gods

At every turn and juncture

in piety, and never knew

How such a  potent vicious brew

Came to surge and boil

In the blood of their

progeny.

July 2012                           Sakuntala Sachithanandan

************

DAUGHTER

Daughter,

I see you in the young girls

on the sidewalk, laughing,

jaunty, jolly,  in tight jeans

or  sarees swishing at their heels

fat or lissome, stocky or lean.

Their  soft skins glow like

the smooth petals of the plumeira

with the  ebullience of youth

and their bright luminous eyes

beam a confidence that life,

as they knew it, would last a lifetime –

just as you thought ,

daughter.

But then, to you,

The Unspeakable happened.

We bow our heads in grief

But our tight - shut eyes cannot shut out

the tragedy of your rape,

nor bring you back to life.

But speak we must, which is the least we can do

although our lips stick together ,

our teeth clench and our throats turn dry

and hoarse with horror .

Speak up against the bestiality of some men

Whose cruelty is well beyond

the nature of the beasts:

Five dogs may line up near a bitch, each

snarling for his pleasure,

but: they’d never think of  clubbing her

nor ramming metal rods in her

nor try to run her over in a bus

for good measure : -

that’s the human demons’ forte.

Battered, shattered, mangled

cut up, sewn up, entangled

in a web of tubes and bandages,

Your life spluttered in and out

And in the end you died,

Damina.

And now, your ashes scattered,

you are gone -

But the scum who did it all:

They  live on.                                        

January 2012                               Sakuntala Sachithanandan

************

THE HALF-BUILT HOUSE OF DREAMS

The half-built house of dreams stands

on the wind-blown hill

under a blinding bell of  hot  blue sky.

From a corner beam hangs  

a lantern  from last Wesak,

or maybe the one before,

its  paper  torn, mildewed,  struts  askew.

Planked up on many sides where

the cement blocks ran out,

wads of newspaper replace

its broken window-panes.

Above, a slab now long-abandoned, moss- adorned,

Sprouts   bouquets of bent steel  wires,

rusted, forlorn.

A soiled dusty curtain flaps  across the door – it sports

faded beauteous  damsels from Sigiriya , row on row,

bejeweled, heavy-bosomed, lotus-eyed,   –

and from within , one hears the  “krus-krus” 

of the brisk  scraping of  a coconut  -

then a slap -

and a little child bursts forth,

sobbing loud.

Through  listless  weeds  a  bitch

of many litters  slowly crawls –

and rests its weary  head  upon its paws.

At the far end, of one bare, dejected wall, 

there appears the devout  legend,

Hopeful of protection from all harm:

“Budu saranai – Devi pihitai ”

in a giant, shaky scrawl.

October 2011                              Sakuntala Sachithanandan

Wesak:- Buddhist festival commemorating the birth, enlightenment and death of Lord Buddha.

Sigiriya:- legendary rock fortress of King Kashyapa now also believed by some to have been a monastery prior to that.

Sigiriya damsels:- beautifully executed frescoes of women on some rock faces in Sigiriya.

Budu Saranai:- (Sinhala)  “May one find refuge in the Buddha.”

Devi Pihitiai:- (Sinhala) “May one  receive the blessings of the gods.”

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G O N E

(for my son)

I turn the handle and

the door opens –

The grey pall swings in, shocking,

Drawing decisively, the final curtain

on our foolish joy in you.

It quickly spreads,

Pressing reality into place,

As I see your pillow

Where you had lain your head.

Cheerfully you chatted

And we drank in every word

Like camels storing food

in their  humps for a long fast

waiting sadly

for the bond to break,

Leaving us bleeding.

I see the book you read

I strip the bed  and

Cover it in its customary shroud,

and place the pillows in the sun

Emptiness hits me in the face

Taunting, inescapable

Wherever I may turn

And shrill, inside my head

Unaccepted still,

Screams a silent good-bye.

4^th January 2011                              Sakuntala Sachithanandan

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THE DOWRY AND WEDDED BLISS

It was only last night they had lain

in the soft moonlight streaming

through the bars of the window

past the flapping banana  –

ecstatic, delighting in each other

He the handsome god of her dreams

and she his golden goddess:

Tender endearments were whispered

In the fulfillment of wedded bliss.

But morning brought his father,

The War of The Well  and disaster

Here  they were now,  before the lawyer:

The groom and his father on one side

the bride and her father on the other,

The bride was quailing, tearful,

the groom was  solemn, doleful,

Not even stealing a look at her

To ease her woe.

“This well in the dowry deed - ”

The father of the groom began,

Red in the face, waggling  a finger -

“You knew, that it wasn’t  there –                            

You didn’t tell us – was that fair?

WHAT is your explanation?”

The lawyer looked at the ceiling

With a resigned and pensive air.

Meekly, she peered at her groom

Who sat up as straight as a broom –

As though to him, she lacked something too

minus the well – and his father now boomed:

“We must be honest – mind you don’t cheat!

Without the well the dowry’s incomplete!”

The lawyer smiled  in anticipation

Of  the fee he’d charge for consultation

From this boor.

She thought the groom  would now say:

“Let it go, she’s now my  wife

And   a vital part of my life - ”

But he looked straight ahead

She waited in dread:

And waited…and waited ….and waited… and then

It was her father’s turn to bargain.

SAKUNTALA MOHINI SACHITHANANDAN                        

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NATURE VERSUS NURTURE

The leopard  prowls at night creeping

from dank  forests through Hatton  tea  fields

Into homesteads , snatching screaming goats and dogs

And fearful human wait – would they be next?

It brings back to me  the night some  years ago

When  I lost my little dog to just such a leopard -

the sudden fearful  screams, heart rending -

at dead of night- a horrendous shock

And a long and grueling  grieving .

But I bowed my head to  the relentless laws of Nature

for the leopard killed  only to feed its brood

Not because it hated a dog for the colour of its face

Nor  its religion  or race

in incomprehensible  convoluted

Hatred of The Other.

But  In the dim and distant past,

my young husband  travelling by bus

Was dragged out by a gang  of men                                                  

lusting for blood,  who  bawled out a question

to the people In the bus -

Are any of you -  Demaloo??

And he stood up   - what were his thoughts? -

to be  hauled out,  assaulted, i thrown about

And was being  dragged to a wayside hut

When  some women begged of them

to let him go.                                                                    

The  wounds gaped and  bled   for   years to come .

And to this day I have not  forgotten

Nor have I  forgiven   

those mindless brutes   who must be old men now.

Demaloo – colloquial Sinhalese for Tamils

SAKUNTALA MOHINI SACHITHANANDAN    

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TEA

            Stunted, gnarled and ancient,

                     grows the  tea -

         pruned time after time to give us of its life

              in the sap of it young leaves

           in the famed, much advertised two leaves and a bud.

        Likewise,  stunted, thin and  gaunt faced ,

            The women scramble on the hills

      Youth and innocent joy fled too quickly and too soon,

      With their backs bent with the weight of harvest

       Hour after hour, day after day,  heads bent low –

            Scorched when the sun rides high;

                  Wet and shivering,

             leeches burrowing in their toes

              when the rains descend

             And the chill winds blow.

December  2011 

Two leaves and a bud:- the number of leaves a tea - plucker plucks at a time.

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