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 :)