There are all types of loss

Sometimes it takes a great tragedy for one to see what reality looks like. Because, in the aftermath of unhappiness and despair and tears, the rubble starts clearing slowly, and truths emerge. Suddenly you realise that people have changed, friendships have matured, and some folks have just moved away. Sometimes you realise that some haven't been around for the longest time but that in our constant need to maintain normalcy, we have been consciously overlooking the fact.

This is a loss of innocence and childhood. It's disturbing and unsettling and it's not the kind of thing that you want to think about. But the truth is, as the cliche goes, we live and we learn. And the less we cling on to willful self-delusion, the better it is for our mental well-being and the truer we are being to ourselves.

For the lies we tell ourselves are often the most involved and are well crafted to protect us, but they won't save us when the crap hits the fan. Instead, they beget expectations, which, as we all know, bring pain. More than that, they beget unhealthy, half-baked relationships based on old truths and private jokes, little vignettes that have now faded away into memory. Some friendships, it seems, die a natural death -- it's sad, but that doesn't mean that what was was not true, nor does it mean that the same friends are now terrible people. It just means that things have changed. And it would be wise and enlightened to remember that without bitterness or regret,

On being shape eke good with yourself

Life sure is a funny thing. It speeds by, you speed with it, and you don't realise how much it changes inside of you with its passing.

Today an old friend Whatsapped me about her wedding -- excitedly, we discussed plans, places, outfits, dance routines. I remembered that it was just a little over 365*3 days ago that we sat on our hostel-room beds in the college hostel, discussing boys, marriage, and life. We were young, literally jobless, and in that beautiful bubble that is university life. The world and we were yet to meet. I meet girls that I went to school with, on the streets of the city. Some are wearing splashy new rings on their fingers, others are sporting kids, like, multiple kids. After the requisite cooing, it always strikes me hard, how they have a life that is completely different to my relatively unencumbered existence. This feeling magnifies when I see their photos of kids' birthdays. Kids' birthdays. A few years ago, those existed only in photo albums of ourselves that our parents had preserved with careful love.

Assessing life is always mildly frightening -- you see your achievements, but you also can't help but see the many, many, many things you still have to struggle through. Higher studies, marriage, other adult-life-related bothersome details that don't bear thinking about on this gloomy Saturday in Colombo. But most of all, if I ever actually sit down and think about my life, I see how I have grown. And it's kind of surprising. I never used to do that before. I never read that particular author before. When did I start caring about Syria? When did I suddenly develop an interest in the Kuiper Belt that holds that icy dwarf planets in our solar system? What the frick.

It's weird. But then, I guess that's just life. Have come to realise that the thing that matters the most is if you like the person you've become/are becoming. Sometimes that takes a little more digging deep into the stuff souls are made of, but if you can actually do that, if you take the time off social media and growing up and being cool to actually do that, and you realise that, yes, I'm cool with this strange but pretty freaking wonderful individual occupying skinny limbs and female balding well-hidden by a fringe, then you're shape eke good.

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.