Calligraphy for Thought

The homosexual ‘cult’

2014-04-01T17:03:00.001-07:00

I came home today to find a very interesting pamphlet among my mail. The cover, printed in gorgeous Algerian fonts read “Concerning the true nature of marriage and the cult of homosexuality”. At first glance, I (an equal-rights advocate attempting to respect the rights and choices of all human beings unless mass murder is involved, of course) was bewildered and tossed the gold and white pamphlet into the garbage. It wasn’t until I threw out last night’s pasta and curry (who eats pasta and curry? Well, that will be my next debate) also into the garbage that my curiosity to know what was actually inside that leaflet arose. So yes, I did dig into the stinky bin full of food-waste and here’s what I found.

The pamphlet contained ten justifications with quotes taken from the Holy Bible as to why homosexuality is a ‘juvenile disorder resulting from the dislocation of normal and natural family relationships’, an ‘essentially immature and generally narcissistic self-indulgence’ and a ‘blasphemy against god and a rebellion against nature’. Before I begin, let me clearly disclose that the content of this is solely based on my opinions and my personal experiences. I am not a religious researcher. I am yet in doubt of my sexual orientation. So, I am not an advocate of myself, just a nauseated self-proclaimed writer facing a quarter-life crisis, attempting to make everything else her problem as means of running away from her own!

I was raised in a conventional Catholic background. I was a convent-girl. Yes, I did go to school with all girls wearing very long, neck throttling, highly self-confidence shattering uniforms. I learned my prayers before I learned my national anthem. All the songs I knew as a kid had something to do with God or Christmas or both. All my crushes were boys from church. My mum considers herself a believer. But as I give her all of the credit to what I have become today (if that’s anything to be proud of!) I also have to applaud her for being a very understanding parent and not shoving down beliefs or broccoli down my throat. Just as she let me choose pathetic men and kept saying “darling, heartbreak is only going to make you stronger”, she also let me discover my own religious and moral grounds.

I haven’t still discovered that ground. I have denounced the concept of creation, but I still go to church. I respect my God for all the values he/she taught me that helped me become the woman I am now but I don’t own a bible. I admit I am indecisive, yet I learn so much from my shifting states for I am still in doubt. I believe that a doubter is the smartest one of all. Or should I say I doubt that the doubter is the smartest one of all! Most importantly, whether I pray to someone who could possibly exist or not, I attempt to be a good human being. I try not to worry whether the heavens will open its gates to me, but I do try to enter as many human hearts as possible. And a part of becoming that empathetic, non-judgmental, accepting human being (current success rate, 0.000007% to be very modest), I try to accept everyone for who they are.

So that is why, like most of you out there, I don’t tolerate arrogant, ignorant concepts shoved at me by people who believe that they are better than the rest or that someone, somewhere has placed them on a pedestal with the giant Final-Judgement Book. I believe in the human right to equality, that everyone should be entitled to make his or her own choices provided no one else is harmed. As I read the quotes from the Bible stated in the pamphlet – “hence the sin of sodomity condemned by St. Paul (Romans 1:24-28; Corinthians 6:9: Timothy 1:10)” – I couldn’t help but remember the verse my mother always used to say to me, also taken from the very Holy Bible - “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?” (Matthew 7:3)

There’s more where that came from. "Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven” (Luke 6:37). “Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister” (Romans 14:13)

It is inherent human nature to think that the group they belong to is better than the rest, but putting down those who are outside your group for being something that don’t fit with you, fit in with the lines that you have drawn for yourself, is just beyond egocentrism – the one value that all religions condemn. To me, it is not a preferment of God’s family, but a display of one’s own inadequacies. To me, the only thing “self-indulgent” or “narcissistic” or “needs healing” is the loathing people carry against others. I believe and I have seen how love, in its pure sense, can exist between a man and another man as it can between a man and a woman. I have seen beautiful, happy children being raised by two cooperative mothers as opposed to a pair of conflicting heterosexual parents. I’ve seen homosexuals as moral, kind and full of love as heterosexuals. How then, is homosexuality a “corruption of morals” or a “disintegration of family life”?

Finally, since this was all triggered by a bunch of justifications with the holy text in the forefront, let me finish also with a quote from the Bible. “You, therefore, have no excuse, you who pass judgment on someone else, for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself” (Romans 2:1).

A Load of Laundry for Loneliness

2013-08-27T13:23:00.000-07:00

There it was - the massive pile of dirty laundry that has been building up for weeks now. It was mounting in the corner of my 10-square-foot room. “Wash us! Wash us!” The clothes screamed out after a few days. Their cries grew louder and louder each week until they collapsed in exhaustion. They didn’t cry out anymore, but just lay there – dirty, stinking and helpless – waiting for me to run out of clean clothes so I will have to turn to them again.

The pile of dirty laundry was all I had for company, each item in the heap telling its own story. Sometimes I wondered if I didn’t want to wash them up. What if the memories attached to each article dissolved in the warm water? What if the floral smell of the detergent replaced the raw scent of the remembrances? I was just another, afraid of letting go of the past. The laundry – with their stains and smells – was the only thing left behind now.

At night, when I lay awake in the darkness, the pile peeked at me – sometimes with a friendly grin and sometimes with a sneer. It formed into a caring friend who was watching over me – probably fighting away monsters while I slept. But some nights, it converted itself into a hideous monster with its head twisted and arms outstretched to get me. Sometimes it sang sweet choruses and other nights it growled and hissed at me, keeping me awake for hours. One night it would gently sway towards me like a caring lover and another night it would creep upon me arousing all the horrors I could feel and make me hide under my blanket, too afraid to open my eyes.

There were days when I picked up one or two clothes to wash, but they always ended up going back into the pile. The red dress that was worn on a first date – a date of sheer romance and frolic. A date that got me hoping for love. The black frock that was worn for my aunt’s funeral – the lonely aunt who died of a food allergy. It smelled of Jess’s tears. She cried on the left shoulder of the dress regretting how she let her mother go so easily.

The navvy suit which was worn for a job interview. The day I met Dr. Francisca who fast became my most treasured acquaintance. She took me to lunch after the meeting and introduced me to several professionals who have offered me more than I could handle during these short months. There was a slight coffee stain on the right cuff of the suit. It still smelled mildly of the rich Colombian coffee that I tasted that day.

The cashmere scarf that kept my cheeks warm during my walk from the library, having spent hours on Greek mythology research; the sheer jacket that I ran to the bakery in to get éclairs to relive me of my heartache; the green skirt in which I danced with David before he left to his home town; the pink cardigan; the yellow sweater; the cotton t-shirt…..

Memories …. So vividly attached to each item…..

I was afraid of washing them away. But I knew eventually I had to. Because even if I washed away the old memories, there will be new ones and the pile will rebuild.

The Dead One’s Tale

2013-05-28T21:51:00.000-07:00

Darkness…..
An incredibly bright light!
Flashes of silver…….
...........................................
Darkness!

I was tainted by the emptiness around me. I felt suffocated – claustrophobic. I had never before been claustrophobic. Why was I feeling like the walls were closing in on me now!?

I tried reaching forward with my right arm. My arm didn’t move. I tried lifting it up again. I could feel nothing.

Ok…. So my worst nightmare has finally come true. I was alone, feeling claustrophobic, in some kind of enclosed space and I was bloody calcified!

I shut my eyes and tried so hard to shut my thoughts too. I wished I could calcify my brain sometimes because the 24-million thoughts that run through it at any given second gave me a headache. Like right now, I was trying to get hold of my thoughts while thinking 'whys' and 'whens' and 'hows' all at the same time! Sometimes I wonder if God put a 6.2-liter LS9 Turbocharged V8 Twin Atomic-powered Engine in my head.

I squeezed my eyes shut for another minute and opened them again. I could see! Finally I could see something other than the pitch blackness and the glowing white alternatively. I didn’t feel so ‘enclosed’ anymore.

I looked around. In a flash, I was surrounded by everything familiar. Well, wait… I was surrounded by TOO MANY familiar things!

There was Aunty Katherine, the painfully parsimonious sister of my mother who thought that money was god. She was sitting by the wall looking around with bulging eyes forming some juicy gossip in her head to talk about later. Next to her, leaning on the wall was Robert. Robert the Snobbert! He was sad. His eyes looked painfully distant, which is a look I have never seen on the teen-aged movie-addict before.

I turned to look to my right. My little sister Jen was talking to some stranger in a white dress. She seemed intensely engrossed in the conversation.

Hmmm….

I looked around a bit more. People were whispering. Why were they whispering? Why was Freda whispering? Usually when she spoke on the phone, the entire neighbourhood would know every detail of the conversation.

Curiously I focused my eyes on the centre of the room full of sad-looking, whispering people. There it was! Right at the heart of the room… a white casket filled with white roses! In it, dressed in a flowing white gown was a girl. She was pale. Well she was dead. Well, obviously! It’s not like a ballerina would be stretching in a casket!

I looked closer, the full face and the sleek hair caught my attention.

Wait! What?

Holy- whatever-the-slang-that-I-am-not-supposed-to-use-here…. It was me! The dead chic was me!

I was dead!

It was me, dressed in a gaudy bride’s gown, surrounded by roses (roses! I don’t even like roses!)… I was lying there dead.

People were sad and people were whispering because I was dead!

I closed my eyes again.

I felt a curling in the pit of my stomach. I wanted to throw up. I felt intensely claustrophobic again.

I was dead… I was dead….. Brianna Helen Montgomery of Bluesdale was no more!

It took me a few minutes to come to terms with the termination of my existence. But after taking a couple of deep breaths and shutting down a couple of my turbo compartments, I was able to go back to the beginning.

I was running late as usual. Trying to multitask – applying my eyeliner and putting on my sandals and throwing in the essentials into my handbag all at the same time, I stormed out of the house. I hopped into my rusty car and drove to the main street. The car was a reward to myself for the years of committed education and the little I saved off doing one part time job after another. I don’t even know why I call it a reward because it was in absolutely shameful shape. Well, at least I didn’t have to take the bus filled with middle-aged perverts anymore.

I turned on to the high-way and drove at the speed I had lately begun to allow myself to drive at. As usual, my brain was filled with things I was supposed to get done that day as I was making an imaginary checklist of dos and don’ts. Well, I bet you think you know what happened next? Really, you think I got hit by a massive truck and exploded in my upturned car?

Well, no. I drove to my workplace, parked the car and climbed the stairs to the fourth floor….. Ok, I was kidding just because I wanted you to think that I had JK Rowling skills in adventure writing. I did get hit by another vehicle.

Not a massive truck, but a speeding bus that lost control and skidded towards me. I cannot remember if I was killed immediately or whether I put some under-qualified paramedics through the misery of trying to keep me alive, but what I do remember are the undertakers.

Greasy men with red faces, they looked emotionless as they cut me open and discarded my insides piece by piece. Lungs first, the intestines, liver and gut…

“Strange how youngsters die before they live while old grumps like my mother-in-law are still alive, you know!” I remember the youngest one of the men saying.

“Maybe she didn’t deserve to live” replied the oldest.

Helloooo people, I can hear you. Quit judging the dead girl!

“Maybe she just deserved better than life, man. Better than life!” said the cross-eyed lean one avoiding eye contact with the other two.

I felt sorry for the men. They made a living off hacking dead body parts. Could life get any more miserable?

Either way, the point was, I was dead. Well the other point was, even when I am dead, my turbo engine of a brain has not shut down.

I looked around the funeral house again. I didn’t know how I could see everything and I got to admit that it feels pretty weird to be staring at my own self. Maybe I was an angel!

At that thought, I relaxed a little. Everyone wants to be an angel right? Isn’t that why people pray, confess and try to fill their earthly days with deeds that will add to good karma?

So maybe I had become an angel and didn’t need to bother about the good and the bad anymore. Hmm…. Where was St. Peter with his gigantic book then?

A car parked outside the gate. In came Leanne dressed in a knee-length, fitting, black dress. Oh Leanne Leanne!!! She totally didn’t know how to dress appropriately for a funeral. Her cleavage was showing a little too much and she had dark eyeliner on. Her pointy shoes made tapping noises on the cement floor and everyone stared at her head to toe.

She looked awkward. As inappropriately dressed as she was at my funeral, I loved Leanne. I met her during my final year as a volunteer at the Suicidal Youth Campaign. Many are surprised when they get to know Leanne’s true personality. She looks like an alcoholic party girl on the outside with her nails painted in deep shades and a thick blob of eyeliner on her at any given moment, but she was one of the smartest and the most empathetic people I had ever met. She was beautiful.

In my short life – which is now over btw – I had known many many people and many of them just passed by. Some came in when I needed them and some came in by force. Many left after a while and when they left, they either took a part of me with them or left a part of them behind. Some left hairballs in my comb and some semen on my blanket!

Well, ok in the more philosophical sense, each person I’d known in my life made me grow a little. Leanne was one of the very few people who stuck around. She was the one I called in the middle of the night when I found out that my boyfriend was cheating on me, she was the one I sent pictures of my dress choices for an important date, she was the one who motivated me to lose the extra pounds I was packing around my middle, she was the one who advised me on dealing with my overactive imagination issues…. Leanne Leanne… she was the one I stalked ‘diggable’ men with, she was the one I took a road trip with when I graduated, she was the one I shared shoes with.

Now here she was, my beautiful, out-of-place Leanne, clasping her hands across her ample chest, bowing her head and praying. Yes, she was praying.

Well, Leanne and I both were not too high on religion and god. We thought of ourselves as more philosophical, scientific, logic-oriented people set out to define ourselves with proper understanding. We believed that the rules of religion were not necessary unless you didn’t know good from bad and needed someone to spell them out for you. After all, all most religions do is judge and what good ever comes out of judging?

As she prayed, she looked up from the corner of her eye. I laughed. She looked really uncomfortable. I knew she was trying hard to make her eyes tear... well, because that is what people are supposed to do at funerals! People are supposed to be sad!

But knowing Leanne inside out and knowing how similar we are, I knew that she had come to terms with my death. She missed me of course! She had to miss me! I was her best friend! But she was smart enough to wrap her mind around the fact that everyone dies. Even if my death was premature and unexpected, that is how it works sometimes. Existing things need to be whipped out for new things.

Both Leanne and I were startled at the sound which suddenly filled the small room. “waaaaahhhh…. Why did you have to go!!!! waaaahhhh” came the continuous wailing. It was coming from just beyond the door. I peeked to take a better look.

Nan Reese!

Oh no wonder. I rolled my eyes and laughed again.

I was half mad and half ridiculed by the annoying whines of Nana Reese.

This was a woman who had no involvement with my life. I hadn’t spoken to her since high school, after she shunned me when I asked her for a $2,000 loan for college. She was a woman who re-carpeted her kitchen floor every six months because she had nothing better to do with her money.

After I asked her for the loan with the same interest as the bank, she avoided me like I was a cat carrying mad-cow disease.

She stopped answering my parents’ telephone calls and made some sort of excuse to avoid the family dinner at Christmas.

Now here she was, out of the blue. Dressed in an over-sized wrap dress, gaudy gold jewelry and wiling for dear life.

I looked at Leanne and winked as if she could see me.

See this is what I hate about funerals. People who don’t turn up when you are alive turn up when you are gone. Relatives you have not seen in decades come out and shed tears for you and god knows what aspect of the fact that you are dead is saddening for them. Friends who don’t return your telephone calls when you were alive suddenly become your best pals and end up talking about what a wonderful life you lived.

Ex-boyfriends turn up with bouquets of flowers that they should have given when you were alive and suddenly you become the love of their lives that died. Suddenly, you become the climax of their life-stories.

“Oh and this woman I loved five years ago died in an accident and my heart is still broken,” they would say to their dates hoping for some sympathy which will justify his careless behaviour. “Please understand why I am so afraid to commit…”

Well, I don’t get the point of funerals. If I had thought I’d go so soon, I would have written my will (which I had been planning to do for years by the way!) sooner. I think people should throw parties instead of having funerals. (I think one sappy movie I watched had this going).

People should have parties with smoked salmon and rich wine, dancing and karaoke; dress up and bring dates! Talk about the life the dead person lived and rejoice at the memories they left behind – be thankful for the done life! That is how funerals should be.

If I could plan my own funerals, I would opt for cheap sunflowers which as big and yellow. I would have laid myself on a bed of flowers instead of a ridiculously pricey casket that is going to melt to the ground anyway.

I would have opted for soulful music instead of hour-long prayers. I would have… I would have…..

But it didn’t matter anymore. Because I was dead and no one listens to the dead man!

No, my story doesn’t have a culmination. There is no hero and there is no mawkish running-towards-someone-in-the-pouring-rain scene. There is no grand end and there are no heart-melting twists. Yeah, so basically that was the story – me being dead and all - and this is the end.

Oh yeah, just one thing! Life is full of darn surprises that can blow up in your face, so do what you have to do and do it NOW! For all you know, tomorrow you might be lying in a box surrounded by people who don't really care!

I Departed

2013-02-11T02:27:00.000-08:00

I glide down the azure stairs,

Feeling cold as the granite beneath my bare feet

I lingered for years to sense your heart

You lugged me around with your pungent words

Like a vine battered, beaten

Unloved ‘till wasted

You are callous

Pitiless is your being

Like a fraught child

Keen to give all up for a scrap of care...

When I opened my eyes to see

The true colors of you

I was so dazzled by,

I departed.

Death, to me

2013-01-03T20:27:00.003-08:00

Death, to me, is a beautiful affair, a reason for delight, a moment of rejoice

It’s merriment of a done life and a thrill of the strange

Death, to me, is a divan of Lucerne, not a blaring murky casket

It’s a melody completed, not an inch of bitter grief, nor penitence

Death, to me, is a juncture for champagne and jollity, extolling and glorifying

It’s a farewell bid; no fright, not sadness, but a tad ounce of loneliness

Boiled Chicken and Running Away

2012-09-12T09:48:00.000-07:00

Inspired by 'Who's Irish?' (1999) by Gish Jen, I attempted to write a short story in a very colloquial manner, almost like what it would sound like, if the character, not so good in her middle-school English, would write. It is a satirical story of a girl who has just attained in age and has elements of Sri Lankan culture in it. So unless you are a conventional Sri Lankan, you will probably not understand the sarcasm. Either way, enjoy and feel free to comment!

She no small girl now. She big. Blood coming from between her legs every month now. Everybody knows it. Embarrassing! She can’t see boys for five days, not even Father. She can’t play with boys now after this day. She must learn to cook rice, dhal curry, scrape coconut and make a Sambol. She must learn to wash clothes, bashing them on the granite rock and know the exact amount of whitening powder to put for white clothes. She must also wear long skirts now and talk softly. Can’t shout, even when she see a big iguana across the road. If iguana attack her, she can’t shout. If iguana eat her, she can’t shout. Now she is woman. Can have baby if not careful. Imagine having baby at thirteen! Boys in village will now come to flirt with her. In five years, one will be lucky to take her to his mother’s house.

Now she must be cautious. Every month, she will have tummy aches and head pains. She will be allowed to sleep during the day and skip school if she want to. She can’t wear white skirts. But school uniform white skirt. Poor girl. Oh no. Poor woman! So, in five days, at 06.43 in the morning is the auspicious time. She cover herself with a white cloth and go to have a bath with lavender flowers. She crack open a coconut. She can’t even carry the cleaver. She is so petite. Not five feet tall and weight less than 40 kilograms. Opposite of her tall, fat sister. She open the coconut. Good luck came! Then come inside house and wear gold and pink dress. Gold and pink! Mother put a thin gold chain on her neck. Now she can look at boys. So, Father put two thin gold bangles on left arm. Grandmother put big, chunky, rose-shaped, gold earrings on her ears. “Ouch” she say. She doesn’t like earrings. “Pull my ear down”, she say. “Now you must wear earrings all the time. You are a girl” grandmother say. “I always a girl” she say. Mother frown. Sister laugh.

In afternoon, Mother, Grandmother and two aunties serve a grand lunch. They cooked fried rice, chicken curry with extra chilies, potato and dhal. Always have dhal in special occasions. Dhal is a must! They have fried papadam. She can’t eat papadam. She can’t eat fried rice, because have oil. She can’t eat oil, until blood stop. Otherwise her stomach will hurt more and she will get ugly. She grab plate and serves a big papadam. Grandmother hit her hand. “No papadam for you! You want to be ugly skin with pimples like your sister?” Sister make a face. Mother bring plate full of white rice and boiled chicken for her. Mother has served vegetables also. She hate vegetables. “So bitter” she say. Her chicken have no spices. It is yellow. But chicken for guest is nice brown curry. Now she make face. Boys from the village eating tasty food, laugh at her. One boy wink. She turns and looks behind her dress. She have to be extra careful now. Can’t jump, can’t run, can’t sit.

She gets lot of small, small gifts. A few big gifts. She get another gold chain and a few earrings. And she get another three bangles. A small pendent. She get a few ornaments. Pink dolls with green dresses. She doesn’t like ornaments. She get some cloth for making dresses. Some fancy things like chains and bracelets. She wants a makeup set. But no. No one give her makeup set. She put them in a small box. She is happy because now she can run away when she is fifteen. She can’t runway now because she want to run away with O/L results. Otherwise can’t find any job after runway. She want to hide the gold under her bed. But Mother come and take it. “Safe with me” Mother say. She make a face.

Three days later, she not go to school. Blood still coming from her private part. She thinks blood never stop. If she can’t go to school for week, she will miss so much. An exam also. Then, in two years, she can’t pass O/L exam. She can’t runaway then. Fourth day blood is still there. She gets dressed and go to school. Cloth between her legs is uncomfortable. She walk slow. She make a ugly face. “Give this to Teacher and worship” Mother tell and give a bundle of beetle leaves to her hand. “Why? It is no Awurudu still!” she ask. “Don’t talk back! You are a big girl now! Big girl don’t talk back to Mother”. Class is uncomfortable because of the blood coming between her legs. She don’t want to stand. But teacher ask question. “Name three national parks in Sri Lanka!” She names them. She knows them well. She knows a lot of things well! She reads. She smart girl. Smart woman! She want to pass O/L and run away. But now can’t run away because mother has gold. How to run away without gold?

For lunch, still boiled chicken and dhal with white rice. Sister eats left over tasty food. Next door boy comes and ask her to play hide and seek. “Go! She won’t play” Mother shouts and next door little boys get scared and runaway. She want to play hide and seek. After few hours she is hungry and boring. She scrapes the wall. “What you doing child!” Grandmother shouts. “Big girls not supposed to shout” she tell Grandmother. Sister laugh. Grandmother angry. Mother complain. “No use, these girls.” She pout. She go to table. Remaining boiled chicken in a pot, is covered with a cloth. She put little hand and take a piece. She open her history book and study. Boring. She eats chicken. Boring. But she somehow reads the history book. Must pass O/L and runway. Must get that gold. She fall asleep on the page about King Dhutugammunu...

The Cinderella Blah

2012-09-08T08:57:00.000-07:00

To be ‘ugly’ according to conventional standards of society is a terrible misery. I don’t know who said that mere brains get you to places, but trust me, brains are no good unless they come with beauty. And that brains too, used for the 64 whatever-women-are-supposed-to-master only. But the irony is that you can be pretty with no brain and man, can you get to places! I was once a believer of wisdom, because that is what society tells you. “No man wants a hottie with puckered lips and an empty head”, but men believed the contrary. No one flirts with intellectuality and a man in his right mind doesn’t fondle with it anyway. A typical man, evolved to be vision indulgent and all, prefers a woman who can take him to places with her mouth shut. Maybe that is the reason why I repelled almost every guy who dared to even ask me on a date – a first date to never call back, just so you know. Day after day, through middle-school and high-school, I repelled man after man in my life. And bit by bit, with every passing rejection I turned bitter. Oh, I was once nice and all – I would help old women carrying shopping baskets cross the street and feed a lost lonely pooch in the street corner. I once even sacrificed my knitted scarf to warm up a little beggar with sore feet. But as each year dawned, I turned in to a miserable snob, even more miserable than my cellulite packed butt. It all started with a bit of sneering. Then came the snobbish remarks. Then came the thrashing and stealing and lying and cheating and then came Cinderella!

My mom is alright. I mean, she is not that ugly, but her old man, my daddy, left her for a prettier woman he met at the carnival. She then met this man, who is now my stepfather and not a bad one at that, who kinda swept her off her wrinkled feet and she sure was swept off. He was a divorcee (because of ‘incorrigible differences’). Before I, or my twelve year old sister knew it, Mom was off on late night dates with extra rouge and before we could express our concerns, she was married to this guy. He was no rich man, probably why his wife dumped him. But my mother took hold of his business and worked hard to get it to the level it is now. We are now one of the richest and the ugliest families known in Once-upon O’Land. Mom was sure a hard working gal, but she was also a control freak. She wanted to show off to the world that life was good, by adorning us with ridiculously large feathered hats and frilly dresses. She painted my acne-drenched face with a coat of foundation and drew up my lips so that they look fat. She crammed my blubber in a corset so that it sounded like I wanted to throw up whenever I spoke. The tightness made me aggravated too. So basically, the tighter the corset became, the wickeder I grew. I guess holding your breath too long makes you callous. I was at the peak of loneliness and desperation, when Cinderella walked in through our Mahogany door. The unfortunate blonde’s mother has passed away on an overdose of rich wine. (Oh did I mention that she got carried away by her newly acquired rich life with her new husband?)

Something in my unshapely heart shuddered at the sight of this fair-skinned, blue eyed, blonde. She wore a cobalt dress with a white sash and her thick hair which was braided symmetrically flowed down her toned back. Imagine her in a silk gown and she’d look like she was straight from up there. The moment Cinderella walked in, the room filled with jealousy and the sound of my stepfather’s uncertain voice. “This, my daughter, has no place to go now. I took her in”. First of all, I don’t know how he took her in, because the house belonged to my mother now. She had seduced him into signing the deed a couple of years ago. She deserved it anyway, because without her work, the house would still be leaky, musty and cramped. At first, Mom didn’t mind, because she could always use an extra hand around the house while she was off either balancing cheque books or lying around in the spa. Cinderella was pretty submissive. She scrapped clean tarred pots, while we complained, because they made our dark hands darker; she scrubbed the floor left to right, as we complained of our back aches; she watered the flowers at noon and we complained because sun made our dull skin duller. The complains, genuine mind you, made us lazier and uglier and fatter.

What became of my intellect, you may ask. I kinda evolved to keeping my mouth shut, because when I spoke, people felt threatened. My croaky voice didn’t help much either. As for Cinderella, she could sing a shallow song about tender flower petals and deep blue eyes and walkers-by would lean on the fence to listen. The moment I realized why even the ugly guys didn’t call me back and my few friends refused to keep in touch, was because of my know-it-all-ness, I began to give up on my Einstein dreams. First of all, I started watching Gossip-Girl instead of Disocvery-Plus on TV; I traded my thrillers to Cosmopolitans and I spend time plucking my eyebrows thinner and thinner, rather than spending time on homework. By the time I turned 17, my eyebrows had vanished and so had my intellect. I was no more interested in Harvard or even the local community college. All I wanted was to be beautiful!

Sadly, I didn’t know how to. Cosmopolitan advice is for the thin chicks. Even the workout clothes advertised on them come only in sizes 0 through 6. What about something that a size 14 can fit into? I sought comfort in chocolates and fries. I cried myself to sleep on bed, at least thrice a day, I scrubbed my skin with all the beauty stuff I heard of or saw. I colored my hair blond and red and blue and black, I painted my eye lids in every shade of magenta. The more I tried the more depressing it became and the bitterness was expressed by anger. That was my part of the story.

It was all bad, but not closely as bad as the day of the long awaited royal ball. Prince Charming, was the one man around, I had a massive crush on. Ever since I saw him on telly, when I was six and he was some ten-years, standing beside his mother, the queen, I wanted to marry him. I would spend hours dreaming about his hazel eyes and dimply smile and scribbling his name in curly letters all over my notepads. Ever since I heard that it was customary that princes throw a 21-year old birthday gala, I counted the days to see his face in real. Since six months to his 21^st birthday, I tried very hard to look better. I went on a celery stick diet, jogged to the spa every day and even did a thousand ab crunches morning and night. My dress for the ball wasn’t that amusing. Well, when you look like me, nothing thrown on you, even if it is designed by Vera Wang, would disguise you. No coats of Mac or conditioned, heat-styled hair would look appealing. But I did try. I hoped that Charming would see me for who I am. My long tarnished personality didn’t help much either. Before a could blink off the leaking mascara off my eye balls, there she was, Cinderella, dressed in the perfect gown, hugging her 25-inch waist, in the arms of the one man, I’d have given my right arm to share a kiss with. Need I say more?

Years after Cinderella’s story was penned, I the ‘ugly’ step sister seemed like a good-for-nothing villain, to millions of young and old readers. Everyone rejoices at the fortune of the ‘poor-hardworking girl’ who acquired the life of a goddess, but no writer talks of the three nights I stayed locked up in my room, out of sheer misery of knowing, believing, that I was going to age into an ugly, wicked, lonely old woman. The later versions of the story turned me into a joker with no desire to be nice too. Would the story have been any different if Cinderella didn’t look so good or she didn’t sing like a nightingale? Would I still be misjudged if someone asked why I was the way I was?

But what I want you to know is that, there is always, ALWAYS another perspective to every story. Don’t embrace the obvious. Maybe, just maybe, things aren’t always what they seem.

The Rising

2012-06-19T11:07:00.003-07:00

By the doorstep

I saw a derelict limb

One belonged to a wounded

From a battle of survival,

Longed serenity

Lost peace.

Her child sat wailing for his broken mother

Holding her heart in his palms

“Rise my little one, beyond the acrimony and neglect!”

She cried.

He stood

Holding her broken body by his chest

Glorifying the skies for the grace

He lingered

Buried her beneath the primrose bed

Watered

Blooms rose nurtured in her wisdom

As he, with her vigor

Marched forth to the oceans of quietude

Farewell

2012-06-19T10:48:00.000-07:00

Beyond a world of fairy-tales,

Of innocence, of delight,

Buried in his rusty treasure tin

Lies his childhood

Those striking eyes

Tearing with maturity past years

Reddened with drugs, lust

No longer will he return

He smiles unknowingly that before daybreak

He must bid farewell to his youth

Quicker than the days of a butterfly

His youth will disease

No longer will he return

Truth or Descrimination? You Decide!

2012-06-04T04:04:00.002-07:00

Before I begin I wish to state that the content of this article is purely my personal opinion that was fed on my experiences and encounters over the years. If any of you are offended by it, I apologize in advance. But I am a strong believer (and I try to do whatever necessary to stick to my belief) of the power of equality and the freedom of speech. Thus, I use this space (calligraphy for thought indeed) to forward my ideas about an issue that evokes a great deal of empathy and sorrowful confusion in me, an issue that several of my Islam friends and I have painstakingly discussed for hours, an issue that small groups of women in Arab are fighting about and an issue that is constantly being debated in nations that are advocates of freedom – discrimination against Islamic women.

A male Islam friend of mine was recently talking about the ‘modernization’ of the Arabic burqa. Well, elimination of it altogether where many Islam girls nowadays choose the ‘unconventional’ kurtha top, jeans and a shawl instead of wearing the former. Another friend publicly told a young girl off because she was ‘too friendly’ with male colleagues, whilst the same friend danced with a non-Islam colleague wearing a tube dress at a company formal. The logic of this I do not understand. I also do not have the mind scope to process how spelling out rules to a group of imperfect humans by another group of humans is the right thing to do. Didn’t God create all living beings equal? How is it that a man can wear shorts on a hike and a woman is expected to cover her arms on a scorching summer day? Why is it that women who reveal a modest amount of skin are labeled provocative (I’m am not talking about provocative standards in the West mind you, I am not talking of anything close to what Lady Gaga wears in her videos!) while men can go for a swim in a public pool? Aren’t the good and the bad, a state of mind? Shouldn’t we stone snobs and jealous women and liars and perverted men instead of those who choose to harmlessly deviate from standards?

The provoking point for this theme of my article is nothing I’ve against the Islam religion. In fact, I am marveled by the constant faith Islamic people hold. The number of people that walk out of a Mosque Friday afternoon each week is a sign of the commitment these men have for their faith. The Koran is a beautiful book that I haven’t got the privilege to read cover to cover yet. But like stated in the first bit, the experiences I sometimes have are ones that get me thinking and wondering why some are incapable of accepting their very faults. I’m sure that I would receive some defensive comments upon this piece as well.

Islamic men expect to marry a beautiful, religious, young virgin. I believe (with my limited knowledge and a slightly larger common sense) that the same ought to be expected of men too. But the unfortunate experience I have had as a non-Islam associating with dozens of Islam men and women are that some men are fans of Pitbull, whilst they expect their female counterparts to abstain from shaping their eyebrows. ‘Natural beauty is a worthy woman’s asset’ they say, yet Pitbull’s curvy Latinos are entertaining?

Religions are beautiful communities (even though, in the ideal world, everyone would be good with no religious commitments or all people would be equally united under one universal faith. Maybe this would happen in another couple of centuries when the human morale is advanced enough to not need rules to do the right thing, but right now external disciplining is essential for humans just like it is for a kitten who steals food from the table or a puppy who chews on slippers). They were born to improve the quality of life of humans and not oppress a part while exhilarating another. If one wishes to follow a teaching steadfastly, they should give the others the freedom to choose their own way rather than discriminating them for what they choose to do or choose not to do. I’m sure that all of you will wholeheartedly agree that all religions were created for love and care, for creating a safer society and a enriching atmosphere.

I admire Islam girls who choose to wear the burqa or commit to religious responsibilities and marry the man their families choose for them and still be happy. In fact, I carry a great deal of respect towards them, for I can never obediently agree with the choices others make for me. I guess I am very unruly in that department. But my concern is for intelligent women who wish to peruse their PhD’s, but are forced to marry and produce children rather than going abroad and studying; my concern is for girls whose brothers do not let them talk with boys in public while they date non-Islam girls all their teens to ultimately marry a ‘pure’ Islam woman of a good breed; my concern is for girls who have made the mistake (If I recall right, it is human to make mistakes) of falling in love before they should and get battered by their families for it. Above all, my concern is for those who expect women to follow their religion perfectly, while men – the makers of the conditions and the implementers of the law – are openly doing things clearly against religion. If it is not OK for a girl to post pictures of her uncovered face on “Facebook” (I’m sure Zuckerberg and the gang named the site ‘Facebook’ for a reason), it should not be OK for boys to post school trip photos with swimming trunks on. If a girl who has an innocent love affair is not ‘clean’ enough to marry, men should not be allowed to date a dozen different women before they formally settle down.

Well, pardon me for repeating the words ‘should’ and ‘it is not ok’ because all this is a simple matter of self worth. If one wishes the world to do the so called truthful thing, that one should do it first. Being offended or defensive against those of us (because we judge on what we experience) who point these illogicalities is not the answer because that would simply prove the lack of openness that all educated individuals should carry. But reflecting upon the image that a group presents to those who are outside and forming it in such a way that the undistorted image is communicated is essential. If you have gaudy silver chains around your neck and tattoos covering every inch of skin and do not want people to mistakenly judge you for a delinquent, you should show them that you are a timid, kind hearted person in spite of your fashion sense; if you wish to disprove the fact that blondes are dumb, then be smart. The theory is pretty simple. Practice what you preach because what you practice is what the world will judge you on.

I wish to repeat the fact that my opinion was aroused by a couple of dozen experiences I’ve had. If you are a man of religion who practices every deed to the best of your ability, I respect you. But if you don’t, you are just human – join the club! But if you are one that sits around not doing the right thing or not even trying but expecting others to, it is your strange behavior that scar the reputation of a whole bunch of people that belong to your group. This is true in the case of all stereotypes, all condemnations. No stereotype was born out of the blue. Never the less, whichever group you belong to religious or not, racial or not, sexual orientation or food choice, robbing away another’s freedom ought to be unethical, shouldn't it?

Manual for Working in a Local Government Office

2012-06-04T04:02:00.001-07:00

I started a job at a pleasant place

Dozen trees, a fat cat, a grouchy pup, people and all,

“Where you from?” asked one, the one who showed me around

“Where your mother?” asked another, a petite one

“What you do? What you eat? Man, is that gum?”

“Any pets? No boyfriend? Shoes how much?” asked another.

At first I wished to tell them off

Or boast or joke, say “shoes 11,000 dollars you bum!”

But on my first day I had to be nice

If not they’ll chop me off and my career they’d dice.

I knew so ‘cuz I told one from my previous place “Yum, Italian mice”

When he asked me what I was eating with my lunch time rice.

Next day, he screwed up all my appointments, you see?

And complained to the boss I kicked his weak knee.

It was such a hassle to tell those new ones

Of my history, family, hobbies, habits and pets

Why people get so nosey I don’t understand

It maybe because they’re scared maybe I look like a criminal brand

“Wear your hair up in a bun. Don’t apply lipstick or paint your thumb”

“No sunglasses when you are traveling far”

“Flat shoes ok? Get permission from your Ma!”

“Say ‘sir’ when you talk to your boss”

“You want PhD? What about children? Your loss!”

“Why women want degree when they are going to marry?”

“Oh, child! Why you questioning about the salary?”

“Don’t wrap your meal in tin foil, such a waste!”

“Tell your clients to stand by the gate”

It took me months to process all these laws

Of a ‘typical’ institution, full of mules! (Oh yes I’m mad!)

Why not leave me to be and my lose hair for a while,

Let me do my job well and live life fine?

No, I don’t weigh a ton; no I haven’t colored my hair

Why is my parent’s origin such a curious affair?

So, I have a pet snake, does it interfere with my job?

Do my pointy shoes make my typing any slow?

Or my lipstick make my brain waves blur?

Seriously, people should stop being such snobs

And expect all else to stick to the so-called norms

So long as I look decent and do my job

It shouldn’t bother them, they should (Polite request) shut up!

Rise against Domestic Violence in Sri Lanka

2012-04-27T06:31:00.000-07:00

Domestic violence should not be considered as a part of Sri Lankan culture; each individual should intervene to create a violence-free society.

Domestic violence is an issue that is getting a great deal of attention, but is still a throbbing problem in our society. Family is the most important unit in any community, because it is from the family, that a child learns the values he or she implements in the future. A good family will produce a good child, who, in turn, will grow up to be a responsible and productive adult. Hence, it is an obvious cycle, where superior upbringing will directly influence in the betterment of society. Domestic violence, which is defined as “abusive behavior directed against another in a family context or among partners who are married, cohabiting or dating” (Hamel, J. and Nicholls, T. L.,2007) is a massive problem in Sri Lanka, especially in low-income families. Unfortunately, people turn a blind eye towards such violence, because of the lack of awareness. According to the United Nations’, ‘National Strategy for Protection against Domestic Violence’, domestic violence is also referred to as spousal abuse, battering and intimate partner violence. It entails physical, sexual, mental, emotional and verbal abuse. Unpermitted domineering, intimidation, covert abuse, financial deprivation, trespassing, kidnapping and unlawful imprisonment are all forms of domestic violence (Dutton, D. G., 2006). This brief essay contains statistics about domestic violence and why Sri Lankan authorities and society in general, ignore such behavior. It will also entails the importance of spreading awareness about domestic violence.

According to a research done by Leelangi Wanasundara (2000), the number of reported cases of domestic violence has increased dramatically between the years of 1991 and 1997. The number of cases of harassment has increased from a 295 in 1991 to 1526 in 1997. The number of murders has increased up to 73 from 13 in 1991. Complaints regarding attempted murders, child abuse, rape and incest have also increased radically (Wanasundara, L., 2000). These statics are not up to date, but several news items have shown that domestic violence is on the rise in all provinces of Sri Lanka. An article published in the Daily News on the 08^th of January 2011, stated that violence against pregnant women has increased by 40%. This news item further stated that such incidents often result in complications during birth and bring threat to the life of the mother and the baby. Intentional blows on the stomach are a common cause of birth defects in babies (Bandara, S., 2011). Police stations state that they receive an average of 10,000 complaints regarding domestic violence annually (Wijeyesekera, R., 2011). This is in fact a major problem considering that 51% of the Sri Lankan population is female. Around the world, at least one in three women is subjected to violence. About three women and one man are murdered daily by their intimate partners. One in five teenagers is in abusive relationships and at least ten million children witness domestic violence each year. But, it is reported that only about half of the victims get help. In some parts of the world, up to 95% tolerate domestic violence due to cultural obligations and in Sri Lanka too, women and children fail to reach out for help when it is indeed (Domestic Violence Facts, 2007; Dutton, D. G., 2006; Wanasundara, L., 2000).

Sri Lanka, similar to may parts of the world, has a clearly patriarchal society where prominence is given to the male role of a family. This and the fact that there is strict hierarchy in the Sri Lankan social system has lead to discrimination against women and children. Authorities tend to take complaints regarding domestic violence less seriously and many of these cases can be very costly and lengthy. An extract from a study done by Leelangi Wanasundara, from the Center for Women’s Research reads, “Many victims of violence believe that the law enforcement personnel are insensitive to their needs and the victims are perceived as the ones who committed the crime. Domestic violence is still regarded as a family matter and a rape victim is humiliated in courts…” (Wanasundara, L., 2000). In spite of the fact that there are clear laws against all forms of domestic violence written down in the national convention, the society seems to ignore them. The punishments for such behavior seem to be taken less seriously. Sri Lanka has four major international instruments including the 1966 International Covenant on Civil and Political rights, 1976 Convention of Elimination of All forms of Discrimination against Women, 1989 Convention on the Rights of Child and the 1984 Convention on Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman or Degrading Treatment or Punishment. The government initiated a program named ‘Mithuru Piyasa’ in 2007, which is based at every government hospital. There is now a special division that handles such cases in each police department. There are rehabilitation centers, child protection agencies, NGO’s and religious organizations spread across the island. Never the less, very few seem to know of the importance of putting a stop to domestic violence.

The impact of domestic violence is massive. It not only affects the person directly maltreated, but also those witnessing the happening. For example, a child seeing a father ill-treat his mother regularly may either develop severe anxiety or even model the father’s unprincipled acts. Studies have shown that over 60% of victims of domestic violence are likely to develop anxiety and/ or depression. Many of them attempt suicide (Dutton, D. G., 2006). Children who come from abusive homes have a greater chance of failing in their academic work and engaging in violent behaviors in the presence of their peers. A considerable percentage of juvenile delinquents are those who have been abused or seen such acts. In addition, many studies repeated over the course of history have shown that those who come from abusive families are likely to get into abusive relationships themselves. This could be either as the submissive partner, who is involved with someone with similar traits of violence they experienced as children or as the abuser. Hence, it is an accepted fact that domestic violence is a learned behavior that can only be stopped if each person rethinks the impact of what they do.

A society cannot be changed at once, as a whole. Change should be brought upon any community issue, by changing the outlook of the mindsets of every member of that community. The law enforcers should be strictly advised to adhere to the punishments stated in the national convention and be supportive towards victims instead of putting them to further shame. People of all walks of life must be made aware of what domestic violence is and how they should react if they become victims. Just as it is done in the case of epidemic diseases like Dengue, awareness campaigns must be held so that every individual knows where to go and whom to contact if necessary. Gandhi once said “be the change you want to see in the world”. This is indeed the attitude that should be imposed upon each mind if we are to create a violence-free society for the future. A home is the single place on earth that an individual feels safe and comfortable. All relevant authorities and most importantly, each citizen must take measures to grant this right to all.

References

Bandara, S. (2011) Increasing Domestic Violence Against Women. Daily News Online,
8^th January 2011. Retrieved on 12^th April 2011 from
http://www.dailynews.lk/2011/01/08/news31.asp

Domestic Violence Facts (2007) National Coalition Against Doemstoic Violence Retrieved on
9^th April http://www.ncadv.org/files/DomesticViolenceFactSheet%28National%29.pdf

Dutton, D. G. (2006). Rethinking Domestic Violence. Vancouver, BC, Canada: UBC Press
Retrieved on 10^th April 2011

Hamel, J. and Nicholls, T. L. (2007). Family Interventions in Domestic Violence: A
Handbook of Gender-Inclusive Theory and Treatment. New York, NY: Springe
Retrieved on 11^th April 2011 from http://books.google.lk /books/abo /Family_Interventions_in_DomesticViolenc.html?id=e9YJKzn5LDcC&redir_esc=y

Sri Lanka: Violence Against Women on the Rise (2008) Gender Based Violence Forum.
Retrieved on 11^th April 2011 from http://www.irinnews.org/Report/81693/SRI-LANKA-Violence- against-women-on-the-rise

Wanasundara, L. (2000) Country Report on Violence against Women in Sri Lanka. Center for
Women’s Research. Retrieved on 11^th April 2011 from http://www.isst-india.org /PDF/Violence%20against%20women%20-%20Sri%20Lanka.pdf

Wijeyesekera, R. (2011) An Introduction to ‘Prevention of the Domestic Violence Act of Sri
Lanka’. Department of Private and Comparative Law, Faculty of Law, University of
Colombo, Sri Lanka.

Essay by – Hansini Gunasekara

Find Help

Sahanaya National Council for Mental Health

Telephone - +94 112 685 960, +94 115 350 819

Website - http://www.sahanaya.org/

Sri Lanka Police - Children and Women Bureau

Telephone - Please visit the web address below to contact the police station in your area

Website - http://www.police.lk/index.php/child-a-women-bureau

Women in Need Sri Lanka

Telephone - 011 2671411, 2671 401, 4641 466, 4641 543, 24-hour Hotline - 4718585

Website - http://winsl.net/

The Haiku Expedition

2012-04-10T09:35:00.000-07:00

I learned Haiku today. This word sounds like a form of martial arts to me, but it is not. It is a form of short poetry. I am no guru in verse and of course, I am still learning. So, in my Modern Literature class I learned Haiku. It is a form of poetry with a Japanese origin (obviously right? Where else on earth would poetry have such a name?) which is typically characterized by three features. But, the basic feature of Haiku is that they are three-line poems with 17 syllables. The 1^st and 3^rd lines consist of 5 syllables each and the middle line consists of 7 syllables. I could go on about the techy stuff forever, but the point of this post is to share two haiku verses that my group came up with.

Raise Your Glass

Cells, rotting purple,
Swallowed his limbs; drinks, more drinks!!!
In his casket sinks

This is one Haiku verse that we put together and it is a piece about alcoholism written in an paradoxical manner. The alcoholic is quite obviously in his death bed (or is headed there) but continues to drink. Usually we ‘raise a glass’ to cheer, but this addict raises his glass (ironically) at his ‘rotting cells’. What denial? What uncontrollable addiction?

Cool

Sleek hair, breath puffs, stinks.
Pants hang loose, bling tinkling, smirks.
Kids, these days are cool.

The other Haiku is another put in a mocking manner. It is a light-hearted criticism about the sense of ‘coolness’ among teenagers. Personally, I am no fan of smoking, bling blings or loose pants on guys, but the style exists. (What do you know, the world does not revolve around my choices!) It is a 17 syllable mockery of the sense of fashion some have.

Credit for these carefree, beginner Haiku verses also goes to Tharaka Premarathne and Dilushi De Mel, my fellow group-members.

2012-04-01T00:25:00.002-07:00

To let go is not to deny, but to accept...

Gossiphilosophy

2012-03-29T02:53:00.001-07:00

Will you agree with me if I say that gossip is the best thing that happened to us humans? Without it, what would social gatherings be? Without it, how can we belong to the “it” group? And without it, how can we look better than others? So yes, gossip, as I’d like to put it, is the life-giving tug at the human heart. The psychological perspective of gossip is a whole higher level and I believe I lack the knowledge to even dare to start about it. But what I really want to know are some simple answers to three questions boiling in my mind.

- Why do we gossip?

- What happens when we are gossiped about?

- Is gossip inherent to humans?

Even though classically, women are supposed to be more fluent at gossiping, men do so too. Of course, like with everything else, groups belonging to different genders have different ways of gossiping. Women are probably known at it better, because they can voice their emotions better. Women are much more verbal than men. (I’d love to know your opinions on this) Hold on; let me clarify to you, my definition of gossip. Gossip is malicious talk about another’s personal affairs with the intention of disrupting his or her reputation. Now, the later part of this definition is subjective. Just because we gossip, that does not make us cold-hearted, evil-doers, up and about to tarnish another person’s status. (That would make us all malevolent!). Gossiping could be intended harmless, but it will, directly or indirectly, be pointed against another. If we go down the evolutionary track, at the end of the day, Darwin is right. Ultimately it is the fit who will survive. Thus, we are, like all animals in this kingdom, hold one goal in life- to be fitter than the other in order to survive. Thus, gossiping is a subtle way of letting down another which in turn, pushes you or your group of comrades, higher in the status pedestals. Greek? Ok, I will restate it with an example. Imagine the political scenario in Sri Lanka. One party discusses the affairs of the others (not the good ones, mind you). Why? Obviously, to let the rivals down and exhilarate themselves. Why does Cosmopolitan carry a gossip column in which they discuss the number of times JLo failed at marriage and Britney’s mental health? To gain popularity and trust me, these beauty magazines are much more intelligent than we give them credit for. They know exactly how to cater to their audience by using gossip tactics to reach to their readers’ inner psyche. Well, with all that said, I still haven’t answered my first question – why do we gossip? After reading a few pieces here and there (they weren’t all scientific, mind you) I came up with four answers to this question

to bond with each other
to stay in line
to gain popularity
to learn lessons

If we were to wake up tomorrow and gossip no longer existed, what would life be? What are we going to say to our comrades when we see them? What are we going to preoccupy our minds with all day long? Thus, gossip, since tribal times was a strong glue that bonded groups of people and excluded groups of others. This is exactly why girls who don’t wear cherry lip-gloss cannot be friends with the popular ones! And this is exactly why guys who sit in the first row in the history class, can’t hang out with the beer-exploiting oafs. Gossip is a mode of information. By gossiping, we stay on track with the norms of our community. And of course, some people like to be gossiped about, to be popular and others are the best gossipers and a social gathering cannot run without them. Finally, and this is the good of gossip, we learn a whole deal of lessons via gossip. Do not sleep over at a guy friend’s house unless you want to be called a heedless slut. If you are shopping at the discount section of a flashy store, make sure to dress like a ninja. It is through the mistakes of others that we learn (and somehow, not through our own mistakes!).

Now, what happens if we are gossiped about, other than the phenomenal realization that we are popular? Have you ever been the topic of a social gathering? I have, and I know it darn browbeats you! Even if I said that I will not go into psychological substance, here’s the deal. Being constantly gossiped about, thus having your name tarnished has a lot of impact on you. Along the same lines of the Greek I was rambling on about above, being accepted is a part of being human. The moment we get completely excluded from groups we ought to belong to, it frustrates and impairs the other departments of life. This effect is much stronger within adolescents and unfortunately, gossip is at its most fiery among them. Being gossiped about is somewhat similar to being bullied. It will not only make us feel judged and mortified, but will also rob away our trust on humans. Of course, I am stating obvious things. But sadly, these simple and obvious things are greatly ignored.

Finally and most importantly (I am awfully curious regarding this question) is gossiping inherent to humans? Would animals gossip if they had a vocal language? Maybe they do! (I am letting my imagination go bananas and picturing an arrogant poodle commenting on how rusty the coat of the street-pooch next door is). If, as I said, gossiping is a vital means of socialising, then shouldn’t it be an integrated part of humanness? The answer is yes. (Feel free to comment if you know otherwise) This also means that there is no escape from gossiping.

Well, let’s now let’s lay the cards on the table. Gossiping is mostly not good, but it is unavoidable. Yet, just because we have no escape from something doesn’t mean that we can’t have it under control. How? Maybe gossiping a little bit and not too much? Well, maybe. But, what we really need to do is to start understanding what bad reputation can do to people. It can steal away a lifetime of hard work and achievement; it can turn a once dear friend to a mortal enemy; it can even make people begrudge society. Depression is not cool, when you are the victim. Having people turn heads every time you walk into a room is worse. So let’s be blunt. Do not gossip. If you can’t hold up your tongue, try to reconsider what you say and who you say it to. Well, you know, you can always gossip about public gossip like what they do in telly shows or better, why not talk about philosophy, science, technology and other educable stuff at gatherings? (I’m just suggesting J ). Remember, people are beyond what we see and what we think we know. They are deeper than what they do and who they display themselves as, on the outside. Just because a rumour scandalizes a person’s character, it doesn’t mean that they are all bad. The rest of us are not all good either, mind you. Remember the story of Mary Magdeline and Jesus? Well, dare to throw that first stone if and ONLY if you are all angelic. If you don’t know this story, just ignore that bit, but please let’s not commit murder. Because, gossip, the tangled up grapevine, chokes its victims to painful deaths and we are all responsible for watering it.

Engaño (Deception)

2012-03-29T02:50:00.002-07:00

She’s twisted, turned, delusions in her head

She races toward the mirage, the shadow so blur

But oh so clear from the sidewalk path

Where she stands

Feet planted on the dirt crusted earth

Clutching on the pound of life she’s got left behind

She runs

Hunts,

The illusion…

Half way through the chase, she stops, turns back

And takes in through her hallucination that it is nothing but a dream

A salient vision, maybe a thought, she can’t say

She wouldn’t know

“It’s like walking towards the rainbow

A ray of sun I try to contain”

She sobs

“When I reach thus far, it is naught but dew drops,

Nay but a light, that brightens my darkness yet it cannot be held

The night will come

Inevitable

And the darkness…aye it cannot be undone”

She shrugs…

“What becomes of me, if the sun doesn’t rise again?

There will be no light

No reason for life

I may not see my mirages to boot

Because with no light, nothing will be visible

What becomes of me with no color?

Will all be black or white?

Like a page from the news or maybe a dull brown

Like the autumn ground?”

“Engaño!”

She cries

“I feel so deceived… alone…. yo mismo

Mislead

When I wake up will the light be gone?”

But she smiles, out of liking, out of dread

Out of confusion perhaps

‘coz fear, she ponders, is life unsought,

Fight not fought

Doubt is none but days unlived

And land not walked”

The light may dim, maybe when the morning dawns

Or when her life is done

But no fear nor hoodwinking sight

The twist of karma or the panic of the night

No forlorn paths she treaded can pause

The days lived, the loves mislead, the tears shred, or the joys sensed

Vida

It’s a battle

Delusions lead the way

Tez

2012-03-27T22:17:00.003-07:00

I like colors, I swear I do.

Lots of them,

Like the purples, reds and blues.

I see them deep, bright sometimes mixed up together in swirls,

Amaranth next to Cerulean and Folly edged with Rose.

So pretty, I must confess,

That sometimes I get carried away by them.

Then I think of all those colors,

And try to figure out if there are enough,

Enough for me, enough for you

And enough to describe all that I see.

I like painting people, To say he is an Olivine and she is a Peach

I decide for myself that the man with a walking stick is a Taupe,

And the girl on the phone is Regalia,

You may find yourself a Quartz when you wake,

A Stizza just by lunch and maybe a Goldernrod before bedtime.

I am usually a Sienna most of the day,

Because I feel happy and sad in equal ways.

I wish I was a Byzantium though,

It is such an attractive shade you know!

But painting ought to be my fault,

Because nobody deserves masking and nobody deserves a judge.

Who’s to say that Tyrian is better than Maize

Or that Wenge looks so blue?

Pink isn’t always endearing and Green isn’t always you.

The effect Sunglow has on vision,

I believe is an asinine overestimation,

But then again, Jazberry Jam is bliss.

I want to know, of all the colors that there are,

How many, who saw them first

(God must be pretty arty)

And where they come from…?

But,

I still think there aren’t enough Electras, Deeps and Coppers

To capture me or all I see.

List of all Colors

Meaning of Colors

Color Meanings

The Orange Café - A very Lankan Affair

2012-03-27T10:20:00.000-07:00

I was not supposed to be here. I was not supposed to see him. When my parents first found out about Rukshan, they didn’t tell me. They didn’t ask a word about the boy I’ve been seeing for the past 5 months and 20 days. Later, our home was chaos. Father blamed it on Mother’s lack of parenting competency and Mother blamed Father, for being over-protective. My father was never too over protective. If you meet Nishanthi’s parents, you would know what I mean. Her father wouldn’t let her go even for a group tuition class. She had teachers coming to her house to help her with the second round of Advanced Levels. She was never allowed to come on class trips, nor was she allowed to go to parties. Nishanthi didn’t own a skirt shorter than her knee and she wasn’t allowed to be seen in skimpy tops even if the temperature outside was well over humid thirty-two degrees. I was not overprotected like that. In fact, that is why I’m sitting here, in a middle-class café, waiting for my lover of almost half dozen months.

It was eleven in the morning. I had to be in my accounting tuition class by twelve thirty. It was hot, even with the massive rotating fan which was fixed to the wall. The wallpaper of the café was orange; someone with very bad sense of colour had placed vases filled with hot pink roses on each table. On the side of the small area was a beat-up staircase that led to the top floor. It had a sign with an arrow pointing upwards on it saying ‘Lunch Only’. On to my right was a glass shelf full of various short eats. They looked fairy fresh. Even if the fish-buns were stuffed with half-boiled potatoes (and no fish at all), I would have eaten one. I was hungry. Rukshan never gets late. It was 11.03 already. He was three minutes late.

Rukshan and I met at a friend’s birthday party. It was Kasuni’s 18^th party and she had a splendid celebration at her grandmother’s massive garden. It was one of the few parties I’ve been to. I didn’t get invited to many. Rukshan was with some guys, most of them were known to me from this tuition class and that. But, I had never seen Rukshan before; I would have remembered him if I had. He wasn’t exceptionally handsome that night, with his spiked hair and dark clothes, but there was some charisma about his personality which struck me. He was standing at the center of the group of boys (well over half a foot taller than most of them) and when he spoke, they all stopped to listen. When he looked at me that night, for the first time, I could feel my eyes darting away towards my feet. I blushed. After that moment, I couldn’t pay attention to what my friends were chatting about around the dinner buffet or hear the music on the dance floor. My eyes would search for him moment after moment. That night I was a lovesick fool. But, sitting here, after nearly six months of getting to know Rukshan, my affection for him has grown beyond a moment’s infatuation. I am in love with my head. Rukshan is my first boyfriend, and I knew he was definitely the last. At that thought I smiled. I checked the time on the wall clock on the orange wall again. 11.07. Four more minutes had passed. I was getting anxious.

After the night at Kasuni’s party, I asked around about Rukshan. It was a fortune that I had managed to overhear his name at the party. He was twenty three back then. Definitely not one of the boys from my world! He would be twenty five this August on the day of my first advanced level paper. I looked around the place, while fiddling with my silver chain. He got it for me for new years. It had a heart shaped pendant on it and fit around my neck almost perfectly. I was getting rather hot. “Excuse me, can I have something cool to drink?” I asked the man who brushed passed me. He looked down at me in an odd way. “Miss, I am not a waiter” he said without smiling and continued to go wherever he was going. Embarrassed, I blushed. I decided it was best I kept quite until Rukshan came. I looked at the pastries next to the fish buns. I would never eat a pastry when I was out in public. You get the pastry crumbs all over you and you’d never know if you’ve got them on your face or not. Such a mess!

A week and a day after Kasuni’s party, Jehan passed a note to me during a Business Studies class. My heart skipped a beat when the girl next to me handed it over and said it was from Jehan. He wasn’t bad looking and he had a reputation for being smart. In our class, the boys sat on the left side and the girls on the right. They didn’t sit together even if they were brother and sister. I took the note from Jehan and looked up at the teacher. He was explaining something with his back to us. Christine who was sitting next to me nudged my thigh and whispered ‘What?’ With the folded note still in my sweaty palms, I looked at Jehan, he was looking straight ahead at the teacher, with a very serious expression on his face. He was handsome. I didn’t consider myself a pretty girl. I had a shapely body, my friends would say. Ruskhan has mentioned the slenderness of my limbs and the graceful height I inherited more than once. But I felt too lanky. I wish I had rounder breasts and larger hips. A friend once mentioned that boys liked curves, but not fat. I am not anywhere near fat or anywhere near curvy. But flipping through foreign beauty magazines, I’ve realized that my body could fit in well with those girls; except, my face would have to be blotted out. My skin is a golden tan – the only physical feature I’ve inherited from my father. My eyes are small and close-set with short eyelashes and drooping eyelids. I hated them. My nose is small and asymmetric and I have large maroon lips I feel are too close to my nose. My hair is a jet black mass of waves, which I usually tie in a knot at the base of my slender neck.

Another five minutes passed. Three boys entered the café, all of them dressed in skinny jeans and brightly colored t-shirts. They had their hair stuck down with too much oil. One of them looked at me, but turned to the shelf of food. “Three plain teas, brother” one shouted to the waiter who was now behind the counter. “No no, two plain and one Nescafe ok?” the second changed the order. “Anything to eat brother?” the young waiter asked the three boys. “Wade? Six Wade with Sambol is good” (Wade is a deep fried patty made of flour and dhal ground together and Sambol is a rather popular food here, made of scraped coconuts mixed with plenty of onions, slat and chilies). The boys sat around the table next to mine. They were chatting about Sangakkara stepping down from his captaincy and this and that about cricket. They seemed to be keen fans and maybe players themselves. After a moment, their Wade arrived, hot and aromatic. I grew hungrier. It was 11.28 now.

It took me a lot of bravery to open the note Jehan had passed. I was half excited and half anxious that it might be a cruel joke played on me by someone. A distant cousin once drew an elongated, distorted me, with ‘You are a Pabaya’ (scarecrow) scrolled at the bottom and gave it to me saying it was a picture of me. I opened the note to find a couple of short sentences written in untidy handwriting. It said “I would like to know you better. Please call me if you can – 07*******. Rukshan from Kasuni’s party J”. I folded the paper almost immediately. My heart beat faster and I felt suffocated. The class was over packed anyway. There was barely enough space on the bench even for my bony buttocks. I sat through the rest of the lesson uneasily, looking at the massive clock that was above the blackboard in front of me. It was five minutes slower, so every time I checked the time, I had to add five to it. I didn’t own a phone. My parents thought it was unnecessary. I didn’t stay out late anyway. Apart from school and then one extra class on Monday evenings, and my Accounting class Saturday afternoon, I was always with my parents. I would spend my days studying or watching TV. If my older brother was at home, I would have a chat with him. He studies in Paradeniya University and comes home only once a month or less. Sometimes I’d help Mother in the kitchen.

I felt uneasy now. It was nearing midday and seemed like Rukshan was not coming. This was the first time this has happened and I felt confused. I sat at the table half surprised that no one had questioned my presence for nearly an hour in the café and half scared. I remembered all the accidents I’ve heard about on TV and the even more terrible stories of people getting kidnapped. But I didn’t have a choice. So grabbing my linen book bag, I headed to the exit of the café. The waiter looked pityingly at me. “He didn’t come? You didn’t eat anything also sister”. I smiled with no enthusiasm and asked him to pack a pastry for me. Then I asked him for another pastry. “Give me two of those and a milk packet. Oh, I want an egg cutlet also please”. “115 rupees” he said. I pulled out all the cash I had in my wallet and gave him two hundred rupee notes. I realized I had only hundred more. “Five rupees miss?”. “No”. “No change?”. “No”. “Ok, I took 110. ok?”. “Thank you”. I put my food and drink in my bag and started heading towards my tuition class. That afternoon, I sat through an accounting class with no numbers in my mind. I didn’t even bother to take notes. I was there because I had to be. My father was coming to take me home. I wished in my mind, I could go back to the orange café. Maybe Rukshan would have come anyway. Maybe he got late. His mother may have gotten sick or he maybe sick.

I remembered the first time he kissed me. It was on my right cheek. We were at some small restaurant too well-set for its cheap food. It had beautiful paintings on its clay walls and a small recorder played piano music. We had started talking about our future when the expression on Rukshan’s face changed into something I couldn’t read. He looked around quickly and pecked me on my cheek. “I love you” he said and I believed him. I blushed. “I’d run away with you if I could”. I smiled. Two days later I missed my Monday class to go to the afternoon movies with him. I changed into jeans and a t-shirt from my school dress. The movie was some English action film. It wasn’t good. It didn’t matter because in the darkness of the corner of the theater, he kissed my lips. The man on the screen was talking to his General about devising a killer plan. He pressed his lips against mine with force. I had mine closed and my eyes wide open. I wasn’t sure what to do. He put his arm around me and told me again, for the second time in less than a week that he loved me and I believed him.

I got three simple passes for my advanced level exam. I failed in English. I wasn’t that good at my writing and we never had qualified teachers for English. I ran out of time for the essay which carried a good chunk of my mark. I didn’t get entered to the university. “Told you not to get distracted with unnecessary things” Mother whined. “In vain I spent all that hard earned money on you. Should have saved for your sister. She will be a doctor for sure” Father blamed. My brother just said I wasn’t smart enough. I wasn’t like him. I decided to do my advanced level exam again. I enrolled at all the classes and promised my parents I would try harder. There was no other option for me anyway. So it was with great determination and courage I went to my new accounting class. There, after six months, I met Jehan. I was surprised that he hadn’t got through to the university either. He was sitting on the front row in the class and as I walked passed he stopped me. “I’m sorry” he said. I stared at him. “I lied. Rukshan was a cheater he didn’t love you.”I continued looking at him. He looked edgy. I didn’t find him attractive anymore. He had become fat and dark. His hair was like those other boys’ – glued to the skull. “He cheated on you with another girl”. He mumbled. “I know”. Standing there at the front of the class like a scarecrow, I remembered all the times he held my hand and made plans for the future. “He was lying” Jehan mumbled again. The moments with him, they were sweet. I never cried during the months after the day in the orange café, though I missed him and wondered what had gone wrong. I hoped at night that he was safe. I didn’t cry. It was as though I couldn’t. But standing there, where all could see me because of my slender height, listening to Jehan’s mumbles which had become senseless now, somehow I felt that I knew. I turned away and walked out of the class room. The evening sun was hot against my sweaty skin. I brushed the loose strands of entangled hair off my face. I walked with no awareness of the direction I was headed until I reached a small board which said “Breakfast and Lunch. Tasty Food”. I knew I was where I was meant to be. I stepped onto the café with gaudy orange walls and sat by the bright pink roses. Maybe he’d come today and I could ask him why.

The Aappa Story

2012-03-27T07:59:00.003-07:00

t was early morning on Saturday. Kumdu stretched while letting a long, loud and lazy yawn out. Her little sister kicked her on the right. “aiyooo! (Oh no!)” Kumudu whispered irritated. Iresha was small but her bony kicks hurt. Kumudu got off the bed quick because she didn’t want Iresha waking up at this early hour. If she did, it would be a nuisance. Babysitting Iresha was the most pathetic task and Kumudu hated it. So getting off the bed in haste, she covered up Iresha with the stripy bed sheet and walked to the broken mirror glass that was hanging by a nail by the bed. Wiping off the fog with her palm, she quickly fixed her hair in two pleats and rushed to the kitchen which was in the other room. In fact, the only other room in the house.

Amma (Mother) was already busy in the kitchen, baking the aappa (hoppers). The woodchip stove was blistering on the left corner and a pan on that was baking the 15th hopper of the morning. “Amma… How many aappa today?” Kumudu asked her mother, through another lazy yawn. Ignoring her question, her mother continued to stir the mixture in the aluminum pan. “Today also hundred and fifty aappa, amma?” Kumudu tried again. Her mother was acting deaf to Kumudu’s annoyance. Usually, their early morning exchanges consisted of details about hoppers, the hopper dealers and their customers. Eager to wake herself up from the sleepy daze, Kumudu leaned on the wall and went on. “Yesterday, I saw teacher. You know teacher no? She asked me if I could make aappa on my own” not knowing whether her mother was listening or not, she continued blabbering “when I said I don’t, she was surprised. She said ‘shame shame’ shaking her head. I was so embarrassed amma” she stopped to take a breath. “So I thought during this Aurudu holiday, you can teach me how to make aappa on my own. Not only aappa amma, I want to learn how to make Kawum (oil cakes)…ummm ummm…. You make Kawum so tasty no amma? Will you teach me? My friend Chathu said she knows how to make………..”

“Here, Kumudu, scrape that coconut near the stove, hiramane (coconut scraper) is behind the door” her mother interrupted her. “ane (please) Amma, you were not listening!” Kumudu frowned. “You talk so much child. Can’t understand what you are saying even!” her mother said with a blank expression across her face. Confused and wondering if they had lost yet another customer, like they had during the past few days, Kumudu decided to remain silent. The last thing she wanted was to get her mother angry before the break of dawn. So she sat down on the narrow hiramane and started scraping the fresh coconut. Sitting by the door, Kumudu remembered her Appachchi (father). He was shot dead on the very same spot she was sitting. Appachchi had failed to pay the debt he took for his bicycle from the Mudalaali (owner of a shop). Mudalaali had threatened him several times, before turning up at their door step one night with his riffle and shooting appachchi. Amma was dragged off and she came back looking aghast the next morning. Mudalaali was a crazy man, that is what everyone said. Kumudu didn’t miss Appachchi that much because she was very small when he died. Iresha was just a baby.

After several hours, the sun started to rise. The birds were chirping outside. Kumudu loved this time of the day. All she wanted to do was run along the gravel path on bare feet and sing with the birds. She was no singer, but she didn’t mind. She had a song in her mind about flowers and rainbows and flags waving in the wind. But her daydream trance was broken when her mother handed her the two large baskets filled with hot hoppers and sambol (a popular food item in Sri Lanka which is paired with almost anything from bread to string hoppers made of coconut mixed with chilli, onions, lime and salt). “Give this to the Udaha Kade (Upper shop - Location of the shop) aiya (brother) and tell him we need money today ok?” “Don’t come without the money child”. Iresha was now crying in the other room. Maybe she was cold or mosquitoes were biting her poor little toes.

With the baskets in either arm, Kumudu set out to the Kade (shop). “Maybe Kade Aiya will give me a toffee today”, she smiled broadly at the little squirrel that was perched on a dead tree. “Maybe today’s toffee will be coffee flavor…. maybe caramel. Who knows, he may even have an apple taste toffee… maybe if I am lucky, he would have an extra Kandos (a popular brand of Sri Lankan chocolate) chocolate from yesterday…………maybe if I drop a piece of chocolate in the right spot on the ground, it will become a chocolate fountain!!! I will call it my mother’s name! All the children can come and fill buckets of chocolate. And near that I will plant toffee trees, red one on the right……………”

(Adapted from a true story)

Easy recipe fro Aappa - http://www.infolanka.com/recipes/mess1/35.html

The Smooch Module

2012-03-27T07:56:00.003-07:00

Here’s a fact! Dating makes you smart. It makes you (putting it dramatically) unveil the bitter (sometimes sweet) truths of humanness and start seeing the world beyond the retrospect, beyond the familiar colors. Parents would probably frown at this, but some fancy research has shown that dating helps young adults to develop self-esteem, social presentation, communication skills, intimacy and several other areas that contribute to success in later life. Well… in that case, the more you date the better! That’s a different story. But then again, stories are always so interesting, especially the inside stories – almost as interesting as a soppy Bollywood film.

Statically speaking, above 75% of college students date other college students one way or the other. (I am using the word “date” quite loosely, mind you. All kinds of relationships including fighting couples, the friends with benefits, the torrid couples, just for the sake of it couples, the sorta-kinda-in-love couples, cheating couples, sickly-in-love couples, couples with a control- freak partner and normal couples are included). But only less than 20% end up together in the long run. It is in fact, a part of college life, almost inevitable that is, especially here, when kids who were brought up in same-sex schools all their lives, are suddenly put together. Maybe it is because the hormonal surges are undeniable or maybe it is because the possible “catches” are just too hot to ignore.

Then of course, cultures come into play; we have the “gode” couples who giggle in the corners of the cafeteria and the “posh” ones who hang around with the happening crowd. (Pardon me if you identify yourself here, I truly mean no offense). Then there is also the serious stuff, not just between the Buddhist mother who just found out that her daughter is dating a Muslim boy and the Colombo 07 businessman daddy who heard rumors about his 6” handsome son “hitting-on” a dark-skinned girl from the village, but between Lankanness and Americanness. We are after all, Sri Lankan stuck on the way to the USA. So, who’s to blame and what’s to be called wrong? But it would be nicer to see a bit more principle, even when it comes to dating.

Even a bigger deal in college love is heartbreak. Attraction is good, in fact it is superb and hey, I’m in no position to judge so please do spare me. But love at first sight seems to work quite well here. (So girl, think that guy is hot? Go ahead, make a move. You’ve got to do what the handsome bloke is not brave enough to do) I believe it is a great practice for project initiation. There is also the fun bit, mind you – hiding away from the snobby cameras. Rule breaking is in fact underestimated. One with no fine intellect can’t do it.

Unfortunately so, the butterflies choose to fly away in most cases and the honeymoonish days come to an end – hearts break, girls cry, guys fight. The culture clashes, the self-discoveries, all play a role in shooing the butterflies, but sometimes it just happens and yes, “hubba bubba” another catches your eye and the cycle starts all over again. Everything is suddenly so great except during those rare awkward moments when you get into the lift and find your ex is in too.

The backstabbing, gossip and the “looks” are all a part of the package. It’s what makes the module interesting. Like said, the only challenge is to set up principles and stick to them whether it is the boxer-pant trend, tittle-tattling or maintaining a perfect A grade. Dating is an all-inclusive curriculum after all. Maybe we should get credits for it. The number who fails will indeed come as a massive surprise, believe me.

Benefits of Dating
Understanding the 'Hookup' culture
How to Revive your Ailing Self Respect

Denial, maybe a dash of reality…

2012-03-27T07:56:00.000-07:00

Because I miss you even when you are around
It’s that smile, it makes my heart skip a round
I am happy, perhaps sad, rather confused, but content
Sometimes not ever knowing is better bliss than the truth
Denial! Denial!
There’s a nagging inside of me, wanting to know who I am
Who I am to you and us who we’ll be
Flying around in circles until I get nauseated
I keep refreshing the moments to look for inklings
But when morning hits and I see ‘em all in clear bright light
You ain’t there, I don’t see you on the other side anymore
Reality strikes
I am happy, perhaps sad, rather confused, but content
Sometimes holding on to that last breakable string
Is utterly what we need
When life blurs up and fogs around
An uncertain coup is the last drop of vim
Not knowing us is, I deem (with an inch of anticipation)
Is what makes all such worth the trance…

Her Eyes

2012-03-27T07:55:00.002-07:00

If you look close, gaze long enough, stare deep

Into her eyes,

You will see

They are beautiful

Deep brown with a glint within

Lashes so copious, lined with thick black

They glow

They tell you tales,

Those eyes

Unimaginable

Her eyes… the passage to her humanness

Her lips curve up into a smile, a smirk,

Spiteful words they spit

She may utter avowals of passion

Of intelligence

And of bitter hatred

They tighten up with anger, trembles with guilt

Her cheeks, they blush of flattery

Bloom with joy and line up out of exhaustion

Hey nose, it wrinkles with disgust

Twirls up in girlish giggles

But her eyes,

Never does the light in them dim away

Never does the tale change

Oh so beautiful

Her eyes cry out the tale of humanness

If only you would look close, look deep

Stare long enough

Into her lustrous eyes…

Squeezing the Toothpaste Tube from the Wrong End… Again!

2012-03-27T07:53:00.000-07:00

I bumped into her when she was fuming with rage. You could say that she was trying to hide her anger under her carefully made-up face, but I saw it and I’m sure anyone else who met her during that hour would see it too. Funny how people try so hard to conceal emotions and those efforts turn out to be worthless in the end. Yes, she definitely was mad, even when she smiled sweetly and asked me how I was. I replied with the question, the usual question I use as an answer to anyone who I know, is wishing they could jump down the elevator shaft and hide there until they were back on track. ‘Are you ok?’ well that was my annoying question. But I just can’t help it. I guess nosiness is my weakness! After a brief ‘yes’ she pulled me to a corner and whispered. She told me her story. And her story began with squeezing a toothpaste tube from the wrong end… again!

They were so much in love. They met at a carnival or maybe in college or maybe at work, oh I can’t remember that bit of the story! Either way, they were so in love. They did everything together and it was almost ‘icky’ for an outsider to watch (No offence intended, I’m not a corny soul!). They held on to each other for four long years before they could get married at a grand hotel in Colombo. Well, now all of you surely know that this is about love and marriage and all of those things that the new age kids believe is pathetic. You are right! This is about marriage. But, an unfortunate failed marriage. When I heard the story, the couple married just for eight months was headed towards a separation. I’ve heard worse stories, but never such a silly story, because the end of their relationship started with a toothpaste tube.

He would wake up each morning and get ready for work. She would wake up and get the breakfast table ready. After she sent him off to work, she would get ready taking her own time (to look perfect of course), but never was she the same girl who walked into the bathroom, when she walked out. She walked in, tantalized by her husband’s handsomeness and kind-heart, but the moment she saw that toothpaste tube, she was bewildered. It was like seeing a monster! No matter how many times she whined about it, he had squeezed the toothpaste tube from the top again! How ridiculously disappointing! She tolerated the squeezing of the toothpaste tube for a week or two, especially when they were spending their honeymoon, but when the steam of the first days of the marriage had cooled off, she started seeing other things. He left the towel on the dressing table chair. Not just left it there, left it there all crumpled up! He never ate the carrots she served for dinner. How she toiled over pealing those carrots! He didn’t wipe the sink after he was done with the dishes. He left the containers in the kitchen half open. He burped loud. How could she not see this before??? She was married to an inconsiderate man! An irritating pig!

She had to correct him. So she would whine and yell each morning. One day she refused to come to bed with him, and another day, she refused to get out of bed, she refused to make breakfast and on the tenth or eleventh day, she went to her mother’s place complaining. What a ridiculous man had she married! He didn’t stop either. Every time she whined, he would whine too. (Oh sheesh, I’m imagining a man whine!) And of course, he started seeing things he never saw before! She was monstrous! She took his credit card without asking. She was a horrible cook. She failed to remove all the stains on the tiles when she cleaned them. Her taste in music was horrendous. Why had he married such a ridiculous woman! She wasn’t all that beautiful either!

Their whining lead to fights, loud, harsh fights that made him shove her to the wall once. To an outsider, their fights - that started silly and grew into suspicion about fidelity and made them gradually question their love and most importantly, their marriage - would seem comical. But it hurt them. Made the lady cry her eyes out and the man curse his guts off! Where had it all gone wrong? It was in the communication portal they had blocked (Maybe their love got stuffed in it!). If she had asked him to stop squeezing the toothpaste tube at the wrong end and told him about how it bothers her OCD mind, things would’ve been different. If he had thought twice before pushing her to the wall, they would still be together. Unfortunately some couples choose to fight and breakup, rather than talking about things like full-grown adults.

Well this isn’t the only story. I’ve heard tons of tales about cheaters and broken hearts, depression and poor kids caught in the middle, failures in work and studies, etc, etc – all these consequences of lack of communication and in turn, failed relationships. I do not wish to end this with a ton of advice that you will forget minutes after reading this and closing the page, I just wanted to share a story. Oh wait, next time you squeeze that toothpaste tube from the wrong end, think twice!

[Inspired by a true story]