Parents who have sinned in their past lives

Drinking copious cups of tea on this rainy day, I work on my thesis. A little earlier in the day, our “domestic” (charming colonial leftover) told me a sad story – she asked me to watch news today at 7pm, on ITN. Every year, she said, they cover the bomb blast in Nugegoda that killed her second son, then in his early 20s. He was a shop assistant at the No Limit in Nugegoda -- now refurbished, with hardly a trace of the devastation that was wreaked – when a parcel bomb exploded near the store. Her son suffered only minor injuries from the blast, and rushed out to see what was happening. At this point, the fuselage of a bike nearby blew up, killing him. She’s quite matter-of-fact about it now; she thought a bit and told me that seven years ago, by around 5.45pm he had already died. She wants to give a dane to the temple near her house, but will only do so in January because of some problems at home.

“Mata dane lang weddi hamadaama heeneng penawa puthawa”, she says, with some incredulity. “Mang diha hangila wage baling innawa. Mang hema raema dakinawa.” So, I rationalized it as probably being because she’s thinking about him as the dane draws closer. She agreed immediately, adding that no matter what she does, whether it’s cooking or sweeping at our house, or travelling by bus, or going to sleep, “mohothakata mohothak mata mathak wenawa”, she’s always thinking of him. She’s a good, hard-working woman, who spoils her two remaining sons a little, but has brought them up to be honest men. What did she ever do to deserve that? As they say, “Paw karapu demawapiyo”, but that seems a pretty tame excuse.

How do you validate your existence, and do you really have to?

Everything seems about purpose nowadays. As an essentially lazy person, this irks me just a little because it turns out just doing things is not very cool anymore. Like, just reading a book. Just sitting in the sun. Just doing something for the heck of. Why, they'll say? What were you trying to learn, where were you trying to go, why didn't you post it on Facebook, so all of us could enjoy it too?
Everything must have a course to take and an end to meet. I sometimes feel like social media has entrenched this need for validation so deep in our souls now that there's no going back. We post our whole lives on social media -- it's like we're putting it out there to validate the way we live, our friends, our relationships. Look, see, tell me it's awesome! More 'Like's must mean that what we're doing is right. It must mean that we're leading a good, exciting life. It's a form of seeking adulation that most of us -- including myself -- are guilty of.

Seeking validation anywhere outside the self could be seriously detrimental, I feel. When you look to another for the reason of your existence and a ratifying of the principles by which you live, you know you're in deep. Easier said than done, of course, is finding purpose and satisfaction within yourself, and not needing anyone else to give you thumbs-up signs, virtual or otherwise.

It's hard, as you go on. You want to impress new friends, bosses, colleagues, lovers. You want them to tell you that you're getting it right. Our work culture is mostly based on feedback -- our chain of remuneration is based on how 'good' we are at what we 'do'. I guess that's why we seek evaluation and appraisal systems in our personal lives as well -- Tell me I'm beautiful. Say it again that I'm smart. Explain to me about how awesome my life plan is.

To be honest, the simple life is way beyond us now. We're too bogged down in our connected, social, dependent lifestyles. But still, maybe we can try to at least to stop seeking validation in others' eyes. All those Facebook memes must be right -- being yourself is the best thing.

Late-life-student ramblings

Why? Sitting here with a coffee and a blank Word document in front of me, wondering why we go through this charade that is "educating ourselves".

Groan.

Distance

Stretched. Wide between
The lives
That moved, endlessly
To the beat of the insistent
Drums of ambition and
What was expected.
Soon, the cracks
Became chasms
Into which moments
Fell, unattended
And words tumbled,
Never said, or half said.
It was all calm, like a
Dead sea
On a still, airless day
With no wind or a wave
To ruffle surfaces.

The drums beat on
And the chasm
Widened
Hungrily.

Canons and the Chinese

Things seen while whizzing past my favourite Colombo place, in a blur. Galle Face still smells the same. Although I don't get close enough to smell the wafting aroma of isso wadey, you turn in from the roundabout, you see the flash of green, and the sea hits your nose. It's a smell that will always remind me of HOME, no matter how land-locked I get or far away I go. That smell of Third-World-country beachfront; tropical, warm, and like an old friend you never realised you would miss.
So I whiz past, the new pavement kicking up dust. It's, what, noon, so the pavements are littered with construction workers in bright fluorescent orange work/life vests. They are probably taking their mid-day 'nap'. Sprawled under coconut trees, supporting each other, in various states of sleep. Some squint at the passing vehicles, another dozes with his life vest pulled over his face to protect him from the startling sun.  This is 'new' Colombo -- the making and makers of it. I figure they're construction workers -- road, port city, or both.
As the backdrop to their siesta, the shining sea and couples with umbrellas. Familiar, again, a 'home' scene. Out there in the outrageous sun, leaning into each other and whispering sweet everythings. Some amble -- playfully, some angrily, in the middle of a tiff. Love and Galle Face and isso wadey -- the inextricable combination.
Then, strolling casually along the pavement like they own it, probably do, a group of Chinese men.I wonder, business men? Construction chiefs? They are walking along, quite relaxed in flapping shirts over tee shirts and long, loose shorts. This new city is partly theirs, after all.
Then we pass the lineup of canons, with soldiers lounging against them. The canons are old and beautiful. They line the Galle Face walk and lend an air of solemnity to the vast green expanse. They remind me of Independence Day celebrations and 21-gun salutes for foreign dignitaries and our fallen young men. These young guys just  lean against the canons and watch the traffic; they're idle now.

I snap a quick picture of the shining sea, the new pavement and the dust that is the port city, as I turn into the road leading to the heart of the city. I feel breeze and sea air, and home city, and dust everywhere! My home is changing fast, but there's nothing like this old lady out there in the whole, beautiful, better-developed world.

Birdsong in the city

I love to listen to birdsong in the middle of the city. You can only do this if you concentrate on what's outside of you, in a moment of silence. I first heard them while sitting on a yoga mat with my eyes closed and my brain poised on emptying -- first you hear the buses, then you can make out the car horns, and then chugging of the tuk-tuks. Then you listen a little more, and you hear the birds that are vying for attention with their big steel competitors.

It's just one of those things you take for granted in a city like Colombo, which still has green life, despite the 'development' and dust and muck of too much humanity.

Today, I listened to the birds while trying to cat-nap in the middle of the day. It's never intentional -- more like a slow awakening to what lies beyond these windows and doors. As I lay, fitfully turning, I realised I was restless because there was so much NOISE. The sound of cooking in the kitchen below, the vehicles on the roads outside, the man bathing outside my window (nope, don't know him), and the damn bird. The bird was at it with stacatto beats - chirp.chirp.chirp. It was drilling into my skull, not giving the nap a chance in hell. I groaned. But then I heard (or, tuned into) another cry. He was a plaintive cheeper, sounding like a "comooon listen to me toooo, comooon listen to me tooo". He would give Mr. Staccato the lead and insert the odd plea. A few minutes later they were joined by a real Mr. Brightside -- chripy chirp chirp; translating from Bird to English, I would say it was "Oh, yeah, it's Friday! Oh yeah! I'm happy!".

Above and beyond the buses and the garbage trucks trundling towards their mundane destinies, the three little birdies serenaded me into sleep.

On choices and dealing with them

The way I see it, moping is the pits. While I do recommend the occasional bout of feeling sorry for oneself, extended periods of this are just going to result in a less productive, unhappy, constantly-down individual.

In my eternal optimism, I find that the solution, then, must be to work. Work, work, work until there really isn't time to wander around the house with a hangdog expression and plenty of depression for anyone who has the misfortune to cross your path.

Every single thing I've read online about motivation and maintaining a study-life balance and stuff (maybe I Googled extensively. Sue me :D) says that organization is key, as is time management. As a champion failure in both aspects, I can say that the FEW times I have actually attempted at these with some mild success have been awesome. You feel like you're doing something in life rather than going through the motions like an automaton.

It's surely not easy, but then, what is? Up to a certain point in life, all seems rosy and delightful. Maybe it's high school for some, college for some, first useless job for others. While you do face challenges and problems, I don't seem to remember the bone-deep fatigue with life that I have heard fellow 20-somethings complain about. But there you have it. By choice, we live demanding lives. At least, most of us. We have chosen our gruelling professions for love or money, or both, and we have chosen our ambitions and our insecurities and our means to becoming "better". Now we all need to deal with it.

Back to work!

But first, some 80s, just because it's Throwback Thursday and all that :)

Keeping up with the Kardashians...

...cannot be as difficult as keeping up with my own life and its menagerie of mad people. If it's not trying to write a thesis while battling chronic lethargy and spurts of holy-shit-why-why-why-did-I-take-this-on, it's family members with attitude problems, dogs that refuse to leave your room, and friends dropping bombshells, accompanied by clients with bad accents and worse personalities, chores, and just general fatigue.

Taking deep breaths would help, I guess. But it's too bloody hot here in sunny Colombo for that, and the lights just went out. Godforsaken CEB. Might as well listen to some good music. Pfft.



Also, loved Kim's wedding dress. So pure and virginal *snigger snigger*

The Philosopher's Stone

There are times in life, when all you want to do is bang your head repeatedly against a hard concrete wall and gouge someone's eyes out just to release your extreme frustration and inability deal with some shit.

In times like this, I assume mature people would listen to awesome, sublime music like this. I am so freaking mature, and hence, here it is.



Sometimes I wish I could just pack up a car and head off into the blissful unknown, seeking the Philosopher's Stone.

A visit to a home on a Saturday in May

The ‘home’ seems a little run-down from the outside. When you walk in, pushing aside a big iron gate, the first things you see are a lawn that leaves the impression of uncut grass and a fat soft toy of a panda that I first thought was a dog on a bench in front of the house. I find out later that the house belonged to a once-famous actress, Ruby De Mel, who started this place with 10 children with special needs. Later research tells me that this is her home, and that she had a role in the Indiana Jones movie that was filmed in Sri Lanka.

We walk in and are greeted with familiarity and warmth by a young girl who ushers us in – one of us is a regular donor and from the area. We walk into the verandah to the curious stares of three girls – women – on the left, in various poses on the terra-cotta floor. Two are sitting, one is on all fours. All three stare unblinkingly and somewhat unsurely at us.

Inside, the house is spacious, built with the corridors and middle courtyard so familiar in old Sri Lankan houses. The feeling of being run-down prevails, but in a clean, hygienic and slightly familiar way. It’s how you would see any old house that hasn't seen renovations in a long time but is full of people who love it and keep it habitable.

We are ushered in to the eating area. I get the impression of children, adults, in-betweens of varying types. I try to zoom in on their disorder with my psychology-student insight; doesn't appear to have Down’s, but yes, I was told that this is a home for people with Autism. I try to spot the characteristics we learned about – the love of order, the dislike for maintaining eye contact. I do not find it, or I am too afraid to look properly.

We are asked to serve, and this is nice. It feels like you’re really a part of the giving process. Rice, a big aluminium dish of dhal, potatoes with chili, chicken, fish, and salad. A young girl who is a helper serves out the rice, but we dish out the curries onto plates that are plastic or aluminium and have numbers and faded letters on them, written in permanent black marker.

Once done, the helpers call the girls and women in, and they stream in, not unruly but now uncaring of the company. We hover by the door and a stout lady in a Kandyan sari asks us to come closer. She asks what the ‘occasion’ is. It is an anniversary – five years of ups and downs together. We hedge a little; the absence of marriage makes this kind of joint donation a little tricky by societal standards. We stick to just our names. The woman nods understandingly and begins.

It’s very similar to many I’ve heard before. Ayubowan! We are here today because these wonderful people have donated our lunch for us. So, to thank them, we wish and hope for them happiness and health always. She pauses to mangle my name a little and looks over at us. We look somber, I think, to suit the situation. She goes on. We wish them success in everything they do. The girls and women stand with their hands folded, possibly unaware of what is being said, mostly likely only registering hunger.

For the first time, I am just impaled by the irony of the situation. Here they stand, some 20 women of varying age, with mental disorders that will never allow them a full societal life. They will be happy in this home, they are well taken care of, but they will not know real health, ever. They will never know ‘success’, personal fulfillment, the whirlwind romance of youth, doing work you love, being a woman and enjoying what that means in this day. There they are wishing us happiness because we donated Rs. 2,000 each for their lunch. The bronze highlights in my hair cost me more than twice that amount. And they are wishing us – happy, healthy, fit, in love and with the world and our life together stretching in front of us with endless, frightening, glorious possibilities.

The woman mentions our names again, and I look down, feeling depressed. People often talk of feeling “so depressed” after coming to ’homes’. I often get angry at these people for their superficial charity and their fleeting emotions towards people who have a million more reasons to be ‘so depressed’. But, I am depressed at all of this – at me, at them, and at the world and how life works in general. The woman finishes, and the children and women give a rousing “thank you!” (I think that was it, I don’t remember) and immediately turn to their food, quite happy with life.

What is twerking?

Why do we look for answers anywhere else but within ourselves? I often think this when I Google something that I really shouldn't be Googling, mostly existential questions. Of course, Google, and the millions of confused cyberstruck souls that we share the planet with, has the answer. Whatever you want to know, they got the answer to, sometimes with long explanations as to WHY you're feeling the way you are, other times with neat and clean little bulleted lists with steps to take to achieve/get rid of/change whatever it is you're trying to.

I'm thinking it might have to do with how little we think these days. It's always easier to click and share now than to sit down and ruminate over the why's and where's or how's of Life. If you put it out there on the public forums, now, THEN you'll get a response, a Like, a Comment from some smart-alec who's been there and done that. You needn't bother with introspection.

So Google will tell you how to get your life in order, how to concentrate for an exam, why your hair is falling, how to be a better man, ways to pleasure your woman in bed, why you can't get over a broken heart, what to listen to when you're upset, why the sky is blue, who you should really be in life, what career you should be following and why you're not doing what you're supposed to be doing in life.

It's easy and manufactured, and ready-to-go answers are what we all seem to looking for these days. Just seems to take away from the whole point of the thinking man/woman, that's all.

'What is twerking?' -- the most Googled question in America in 2013. She came in like a wreeeecking baaalll, indeed :-/

Frank's the man...

After revamping my blog, I tried to write a meaningful and deep post -- FAIL. Did not work. Pleased as I am with the casually abstract and slightly winsome look my blog now has (not contrived at all), I'm all out when it comes to the written word. So, here I share what's occupying me as I sit, sick, in the middle of this balmy, mosquito-infected Colombo night:

1. Reading this. Discovered on one of those late, not-doing-much-here-boss nights at work. Turns out Gaius Vallerius Cattulus was an ancient Roman orator, philosopher and poet. Tidbits of knowledge like that always make me feel hopelessly ignorant of everything else I do not know.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/advice-to-himself/

2. Also skimming through this. Found through a friend's Facebook post, and I must say, it seems sensible.

http://www.trulybuddha.com/

3. Also reading Sophie's Choice. Brilliant and almost done with it!!

4. And finally, listening to this man -- nearest thing to chocolate that I can stomach right now. Ah...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7GHgE8fylQ

60 small ways to improve your life

I found this interesting. I often read these 'How to improve your life' posts on various websites, but these 'tips' hit home in the areas of relevance and simplicity. I will be trying out a few of these, particularly those related to de-cluttering my mental Colombo evening traffic jam.

Checkiddout.

http://www.trulybuddha.com/60-small-ways-to-improve-your-life-in-the-next-100-days/

Aunties on rainy days

Why do we love Sri Lankans? Better yet, why do I love my fellow weird countrymen/women? The thought popped into my head this Friday, as I sat stretching on my mat at yoga class. Now, the class is primarily populated by people who very accurately fit the description 'aunty' -- middle-aged, child-bearing, slight busy-body-ish ladies who drive to class in posh vehicles that I ogle jealously at as I disembark from my tuk-tuk carriage :) They vary in age from possibly early-30s to mid-70s I would say, and are a sweet and completely inoffensive bunch that smiles dotingly on me when I walk into the capacious hall looking and feeling like the youngest in the group. They also strike up conversations with me about 'what are you doing', as aunties are wont to do. To our fun bunch a recent addition has been a foreign lady of unknown origin, whom I gather is called Theresa, and is very nice. The aunties love her, and while stretching out into Adhomukhaweerasan, I catch pieces of conversation that go along the lines of, "now you must learn to speak Sinhala, Theresa" and "give me is denna, da, da, like you would say 'the'."

Now this T had been absent from the past few classes, but this last Friday, a gloomy morning in Colombo, I saw her flitting across the yoga hall, yelling hello to the aunties. As I sat on my mat and watched, beaming, the aunties descended on this T like a pack of benevolent vultures, genuinely thrilled to see this woman, kissing her and hugging and all the works. Now, I don't know if the aunties knew her from elsewhere, or if yoga class is their only point of meeting, but I thought to myself that this is one reason why Sri Lankans are so freaking awesome -- that warmth was unchecked and sincere and the garrulous aunties represented, for me at that moment, the clanking societal mechanism that I often find myself criticising. With the wind whistling outside, I sat there on my mat grinning to myself and thinking that despite being a messed up group of small-islanders, we're a cheery lot, and when we're not busy poking our noses into everybody else's business and trying to generally screw each other over, there's no better group of people you'd rather call family, and homefolk.

Am also feeling very charitable towards my fellow woman/man because of the T20 World Cup victory. I could have kissed all the random strangers partying on the roads of Colombo that glorious Sunday night, and I'm pretty sure they would have kissed me back.

So, for now at least, I am a happy Sri Lankan.

Mental funk and other junk

I had the worst case of Writer's Block over the past few weeks -- I kept wanting to pen some thoughts down, but all I could come up with were melancholy ramblings that are too morbid even for this blog (hah). This has been the result of a slight mental funk, I believe, the kind of thing that we fall into on and off due to small, seeming insignificant incidents that we shrug off and act mature about. These come back to haunt us. Such unfunky times are characterised by thinking, over-thinking, brooding, feeling generally sorry for self, and going on Facebook too much. Facebook is the worst thing that ever happened to us. Even I -- the world's greatest nerd and self-proclaimed bigger-than-Facebook person -- had to deactivate my account for a bit to deal with some snazzy exams. I've already checked the damn thing about 6-7 times TODAY to see if a new picture I've been tagged in has got more likes. The picture is cute, but that is far and away beyond my original point of Facebook being the bane of our damned (and I'm not swearing here) generation. Also, Whatsapp and its darn faulty time-stamps.

Anyway! Before this develops into the kind of full-blown rant that my Inner Goddess is oh-so-very capable of, let me just say that church and cookies got me through that mental funk. Church, because I believe and my faith is something that has always guided me when things go wrong. Cookies, because I baked them alone, dancing alone to some good 70s songs, gesticulating with my wooden spatula at my (very curious, and maybe a little frightened) dog, who was keeping me company. The cute little baby girl.

So, if the mental funk descends upon you, brood a little, as we all have the right to do, and focus on the things you have to get done in life. These things seem to fall by the wayside when we're too busy feeling spaced out and weirded with our own selves. Also, do something you enjoy, alone. Company is nice, but sometimes you need to do stuff for yourself, by yourself.

That's all, folks.

On growing up

Growing up, it seems, is a bit of a painful business, to put it lightly. An inspired person I know says that when he looks back at what he was an year ago, he can't believe how much better a person he has become. That's inspirational.

It seems that when you're young (er), you measure your change by the bulk events that occur in your life -- first relationships, the last few years of school, college, your first real jobs. What were you before, what are you after. As you get old (er) though, you see the more gradual changes; you feel how life has settled its heavy hands on your shoulders and pressed you down to the earth, telling you that some things are that you have to be 'adult about', and that now you are actually 'adult' enough to deal with them.

One of the toughest lessons you could learn is that the world doesn't, surprisingly, revolve around you (fancy that!). Younger, even the humblest among us thinks that, hey! This is all pivoting on me! I am the pivot! Everybody's waiting for me. But then you realise that they're not waiting for you, because everybody grew up. And maybe some of them lost their faith in you along the way, while you were busy being fabulous. And maybe you lost your faith in some of them. Maybe we all realised that we're alone in this journey, and that we have to build our survival skills alone.

This is a hard lesson, especially for us silly few who believe in rainbows and happy endings and good things for good people :) Our philosophy is broadly idealistic and highly impractical -- a beautiful world where everyone muddles through together and makes the most and best of every situation together. *Cue the violins*. It doesn't matter that we're practical young professionals with keen intellects and years of solid education backing us, we still believe in this crock. Perhaps we need to maintain some of this possibly destructive idealism, but it bites us, often right in the butt, when the rest of the world plows over it with its practical cynicism and its hard realities.

But that's ageing for you; when you can't escape it, you're old (er) enough to accept it for what it is -- the way of the world, and its people. 

In the middle of exams...

...and I just realised there is something SO satisfying about finishing a pen. Buahahaha.