Lost in translation

I recently bumped into a batch mate B... we weren't the greatest of friends in Uni, but it was amazing how pleased I was to see him.

He - typically - had a comment to make about the extra weight, and jokingly said I had lost my "cute mousy look".

O_o

And then I remembered. 

New experiences do not generally faze me. During the first few weeks of Uni, much of the time reserved for dissections was spent wandering around the dissection halls, plugging into random conversations and generally making friends.

On one occasion, B was telling a story about himself... hilarious and told with much self-deprecating humour. After I finished wiping tears of mirth away, I patted him on the cheek and said ඔයා පවු (poor you!). Trust me not to realise that this can be taken as an incredibly personal gesture. Soon afterwards, he blurted out ඔයාට අය්තිකාරයෙක් ඉන්නවද? (do you have an "owner", i.e., boyfriend). The tubelight clicked, I mumbled a confused no, and then scuttled away.

B later told another (new) friend that " Angel මී පැටියෙක් වගේ cute" (Angel is like a cute little mouse). The friend decides to report this exciting new development, but unfortunately chooses English to convey this message of (what she assumed was) ardent admiration. She said:

"Angel, B said you look like a rat".

I spent the rest of the year giving B the stink eye.

______________________

Yes, some memories will make you cringe no matter HOW many years have passed.

To the true heroes...

Life was so crazy that V-day in May passed by without so much as a meh from yours truly. Therefore is came as a bit of a surprise to find out that the whole victory day parade and she-bang had been postponed to June 18th as the rain gods had expressed their displeasure regarding the timing. It was the very welcome public holiday and long weekend that triggered it alll! :)

On a very personal note, I can't even begin to find words to describe my relief when the conflict was finally over. Like so many many more, the bloody civil war was a part of my life... I grew up with it, went to school with it, felt the tremors of explosions, watched black columns of smoke climb heavenwards and felt the fear of those who wondered, day in, day out "will my loved ones come home in one piece".

Whatever his situation is now, we should never forget the role played by Gen. Sarath Fonseka in the brilliant tactics and sheer persistence that helped stomp the collective tiger asses. Whatever their failings now, we should acknowledge the political backing that supported the military. But, as so succinctly put by David Blacker, these are the true heroes. To he military strategy, to the political bulwark but most of all to those who fought long and hard, to the everyday men and women, burnt under the grilling sun and drenched by relentless rain, hungry, tired, lonely -who gave up their health, their limbs and their lives for us - to them I bow my head.

The following is adapted from the famous poem In Flanders Fields by John McCrae. It is dedicated to all who sacrificed their today for our tomorrow.

In quiet fields, wildflowers grow
Amongst row upon haphazard row
Of monuments, that mark where heroes lie;
And birds spread carefree wings and fly
For the guns are silent down below.

They are the Dead. Short days ago
They lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now they lie
In eternal sleep.

Oh ye who live, hold up high
The torch of mem'ries of those who died;
Let not conflict cause untold woe,
Let the guns be silent forever more;
Let them in peace at long last lie.

Of copper suns and scarlet seas

Born in SL, I grew up in Africa...

Some of my earliest memories are of the swaying grasses of the savannah as we drove from Zambia to Zimbabwe to Kenya. Long legged giraffes grazing peacefully by the roadside, zebra, elephants and antelope. The blazing hot sun as I ran around the garden.... and the dense exotic smell of the flowers cultivated in dazzling, unruly profusion by my grandfather.

I remember being cuddled by Rose, our housemaid, as she fed me kshima (the local porridge, made of maize). Guests were offered a sumptuous meal whatever time they turned up and I remember my grandma presiding over the kitchen, directing a dozen cooking activities at once... I remember Ms. Launa (Laura?) in Nursery school teaching me to curtsy. I remember running screaming around the playground, colour, race, nationality not yet an "issue".

I remember the gentle spray from the Victoria falls, and my mother saying sweetie, this is the biggest body of falling water in the world. I remember wondering what it would be like go over the edge... the water looks smoother from a distance, I had no concept of the mindless raging swells that would have dashed me to pieces.

I like to think that I still retain an essence of that lush, golden, wonderful continent... that it somehow colours my words, my actions, my thoughts. One friend (who had no knowledge of this piece of my history) said I had an "African aura" around me, words that caused me to smile out loud. Memories still surround me...

Copper carvings of elephants adorn the walls...

Ivory bangles and earrings lie nestled in velvet, too politically incorrect to be worn...

A rhinoceros horn necklace gently decomposes in a sili sili bag, too manky to be stored in velvet, too connected to precious memories (raiding grandma's jewelery box, dancing around with said necklace draped in hair) to throw away...

Malachite ornaments... Copper flower vases... Strange carvings of faces, frozen expressions staring at me staring back.

It's been almost a quarter of a century, memories are faded at best... yet in a strange way, I miss it...

And I yearn to go back...