The Diet Plan

We are temporary assistant lecturers. Those who belong to this species are young, fresh graduates. Somehow God’ s plan for me was a different one. I was going here and there as a visiting lecturer and after around six years I recieved this job. So, I am the eldest. That did not make me more responsible or mature. I can easily camouflage among these girls who are couple of years younger than me.

I have two best friends. In fact all are my friends. Since we share the same floor the two assistant lecturers in German section are more closer to me. I am in French cubical. We are separated by one partition and we can talk to each other even we are at either sides. Since Senior lecturers come when they have lectures only I find myself alone in my area. So, every morning I wait until they come. I hear their door opens. I wait.

” Good morning Akke”

I recognize their voice. If you can hardly hear the voice then that is the smaller one there. If the voice speaks in full extacy, that is the elder one.

” Good morning friends!”

” Had breakfast?”

” No. I was waiting until you both come, will you come to France?”

In a while they come French cubical. Some mornings I bring shorteats, three pieces. One for me and the rest for them. Im the one who come from home. They stay at boarding houses. When they go home they bring a packet of rice. Sometimes, I also ask my mother to make me a  parcel of rice. She cannot do that every day as she had a lot of work to do in early morning. She is the one who drape me in Kandyan Saree. It consumes at least forty five minutes. However if there is rice to eat, then we switch our dining room from France to Germany.

After one or two lectures, we meet again. May be before lunch or for lunch.

” What shall we do now?”

” We’ ll go to canteen”

There are several canteens in campus. Around twelve O clock they are crowded with students. We come out from our department. On the way we might meet our friends from other countries, China, Russia, Korea and Japan. None of them are natives from those countries but Sri Lankans like us. We have some other friends in other departments too. Those who teach Christian culture, Eastern Atchteture, Film and Telivision studies, Drama, Western classics. Most of them are girls. Even if we don’t know them there is a special code to recognize  a temporary lecturer. If a young girl is wearing new vibrant colour sarees and smiles with everyone she meets and greet, then that is one of ours. Honestly there are fistful of boys and novice priests.

We go down stairs in Summer Huts, cross the road. This road which runs to village  is fallen through our University. On the other side, first we meet Juice bar. Avacado, wood apple, lime,watermelon, mango, pineapple or milshakes you can buy there.

” What are we going to drink?”

” Mmm… anything”

” Ok … we ll have Avacado then”

Same scenario every day. We come here and we just discuss what shall we buy and then buy avacado juice. During Mango season we’d buy  mango juice. After that we will have lunch or some snacks. Then two pieces of cake, every day coffee cake with three spoons.

If our work for the day ends at 3 O clock in the afternoon we’ll again go to have a coffee or some shorteats. Around that time there are fresh Parippu Wade, fish patties and vege rolls. Milk tea or plain tea you can have there. There we meet friends from other faculties too.

Food, snacks, juice, tea or coffee is an essential part of our daily routine. One of my German friends and I are  chubby. We often think that we must not eat always. When we have hectic schedules, it is natural that we feel hungry. So one morning my friend came up with a solution.

” Akke, I found a new method.”

” What method?”

” We eat only rice, that is also in six hour intervals. We will stop eating random snacks and sugary items.”

” No cakes too?”

” Yes”

The smaller friend does not have any choice. We thought that she  has a small stomach as she eats a bit.  She can adapt to any situation. I made up my mind not to eat biscuits. For me biscuit is like a drug. It was not easy to not to look at buttery cookies. We were very strong, we maintained this practice for one week.

” Shall we eat something?”

It was a fine morning. I was hungry but as my friend counted we can eat at 9 O clock only.

” No  we’ ll wait.”

” Ok…ok”

Stepping to second week. I felt that I am weak, yet I see no progress in body.

Why did we actully started this diet plan? This was because some people teased us. Not at same time though.

” Oh… you have put on some weight no.”

” Anyway , you all hang out, eating from every canteen no”

” Not yet married right? Better to consider  losing some pounds.”

Sometimes, they come as advice. They will not give these precious ideas when we meet in person but in public.

Third week, we were going somewhere inside campus. There days we do adventure.  There is a huge Robarosia tree in Science faculty. During summer days the tree bloosoms bloom in pink hues. We’ d invade this neighbouring faculty. Sit on the bench under the tree and enjoy the view of falling flowers. Flowering season in the university is picturesque. Golden rain trees are bloom in yellow. Mee Amba Sewana, a serene area here, owns golden rain trees. Every one would love to take pictures and selfies there. So do we. That day we were on such itinerary.

A good friend of ours comes from other side. She is again a chubby girl. She wears beautiful sarees, earings and always a pretty smile on her face.

” Hello, lectures done? where are you all going?”

” Hello, yes done. We just came out”

She went in her way and we were in our way.

” I’ m hungry. Shall we eat something?”

” What do you say nangi?”

” You both are in diet, not me no. So I am ok with anything”

It was a fine evening. Sun rays were hidden behind clouds. we three went down the stairs at summer huts. Crossed the road. Went to canteen. Students were still there. They looked tired after lectures. Some lecturers were having tea. We bought three snacks, coffee and two pieces of cake. Then sat aroud a table.

” I think we are beautiful, piece of cake can do no harm. “

“May be we’ll eat them once in a while”

” You both are pretty, why do you care about what others say”

– Sumudu-

The dark boy from Colombo

” John… you are known for your miraculous back jump no. I challenge you to do one now and prove that you are still capable”

The village chief roared infront of everyone who gathered in the field for harvesting. 

Around ten years back from this incident a ferry harboured near mannar. Passengers are ready to embark. Some carrying simple lugages where as some holding Petti, a type of a suit case. Women dressed in sarees, jwellery and pottu on forehead. Men either in full suit or Sarong and shirt. Among them a boy with umber skin were hurrying.

” John, come this way, this way…”

” Kunjiyappan, wait I’ m coming”

Another boy was giving him directions. Two friends were going to sail. Tan boy John, boarded on the ferry. He had a brown colour, a kind of old Petti. John, who was in his early twenties, a thin yet strong  one whose veins in hands  can be clearly seen. He was wearing a faded blue sarong and a white shirt, sleeves were rolled up to elbows. With Small eyes, broad forehead, beard all over his face and a little mustache he was complete contrast of his  friend Kunjiyappan. Kunjiyappan, may be of  same age as his friend, a little taller than John. Well shaved, fair boy, one would look twice at him as in his Vesti and shirt he looked charming.

Ferry departed the shore. Sitting in a corner nearby a shutter of the ferry, John enjoyed turquoise water dancing in the wind and rhythm.  In hours, The two friends reached Dhanushkodi. They hurried through the crowd. John could here people speak in Tamil. Even though he could not comprehend everything, he would slightly understand the language. Their destination was not Tamilnadu. So they had to take a train from Pollachi.

Not that every passenger  was carrying lugages. There were jute sacs full of fruits Or vegetables, specially mangoes. They are sellers. John noticed that other than local people there were some British at the railway station But they  were in a separate carriage of the train. People were not that different from those who were in Ceylon he thought. Somehow, train could not complete their journey. They had to take two buses too. Sometimes, they had to go by foot or by bullock cart passing harvested paddy fields, lush green tea estates.

Kunjiyappan knew some boutiques on the way to have snacks. They were small wooden stalls with food items and hot drinks. Once, they entered such a small place to rest, John understood that the language they speak here is no more Tamil that he used to hear but a different version with a rhythm. They ate Puttu with a curry. After nearly one day, when sky sheds morning blue rays over coconut trees, they reached Kunjiyappan’s state.

” Welcome to Kerala brother, we just have to cross  the river and then you are home”

They were at Aluwa river. Since it was early morning there were no local boats carrying passengers to the other shore but a small one where only two or three people can go. John stepped into the boat. As boat moves to the other bank he could see a familier surrounding. He closed his eyes for a while and opened.

” Where am I going?”

Houses with tiled roofs, long verandas and low eaves, very much like elite mansions in Ceylon. Laterite structures, specially the churches are common feature here. These bricks have a unique reddish colour which makes buidings look alike.The purpose of John’ journey is to see his friend’s village who came to his country to work in laterite making.

Kunjiyappan’s familly warmly welcomed John. A smaller house compared what he saw on the way. They gathered in the inner veranda to have a good breakfast after a fresh bath.  Appam,  Achchar and fish curry. A traditional Malayali house.

During John’s stay at Kerala he was able to enjoy tasty lacal foods and drinks, scenery along riverside and observe  different styles of making laterite bricks. Once in a while  they participated in Kuttinatyam ceremonies. John saw men in amazing costumes and heavy  bright makeup. Most importantly his friend took him to a place which made him learn lifelong art, a Kalarippayattu Sangam.

Kalaripayattu is a traditional martial art style unique to Kerala. Here, the students learn how to  balance their body and fight. John was lucky to receieve lessons from a chief master in the area Master Appakutti. John a strong boy who has workded hard in fields. He could easily catch the body movements, bends and  jumps.They used to practice on hay floors or on muddy courts. Within a short time of six months,  he excelled in back jump and mastered staff fights.

” They have brought a dark boy from Colombo, he fights really well”

There was  rumour around the village.

Years have passed. John, now a family man with kids. Other than working in paddy fields, he is known for some exciting reasons. It says that he knew some black magic and jumps.   He could speak a language to which he refered as Kochi, so thay he could speak with people who come from Kerala.

On this day the village chief challenged him to show his old martial art, a back jump. John has not practiced that for years. And chief wanted to humiliate him infront of villagers.

” Sir, If I am to perform here, that would be under one condition”

“Yes, go ahead”

” First , make your men bring your benz car here”

” For what?”

” I have not done this jump in ten twelve  years. If I die, there won’t be any one to feed my family. So in case my neck breaks, promise me to take me to hospital soon. So, I will be saved. That is why I want your benz here”

Village chief accepted the condition and made his driver bring his benz.

By then people have gathered aroud.John bowed the floor. Looked at his kids who were hiding behind their mother. Took a deep breath. In a second he jumped back rolling on air like a magic and landed safely amidst rapturous applause.

– Sumudu-

Empty Jam Bottles

Pinapple, strawberry, wood apple or mix fruit, jam always takes a special place in breakfast table or teatime table. Strawberry jam has two castes I would say. One, real strawberry jam with small pieces. It would cost more where as fake strawberry jam made with mellon is cheaper and more tastier I guess. I would use the latter when I make Christmas cake. It even smells sweet.

My mother used to say that my grandmother had had a special recipe of pinapple jam. Whenever they planned a trip, grandmother will prepare pinapple jam. When I was in France, Victor’s grandmother used to make jam out of different types of ripen fruits. She told me that one of her friends has so many prune trees from which she made these delicious jams. Couple of years ago, I had a French friend, Dilan. He related me that, his grandmother makes apple jam during the season. So many jam stories!

Empty jam bottles have their own fan base. Asian people recycle these jam bottles. They get a second life as  spice bottles.They meet new partners like  Corriander, cumin seeds, cardamom, cloves or powdered spices like turmeric, chilli, masala. Or, my mother would use them to carry soup. Earlier, all jam bottles looked alike. Later some brands adopted some slightly different shapes. Yet they were used to store some other seed or curry powder.

I would paste a piece of beautiful renda lace around the empty bottle. Then put Some water and some mauve pink gerberas. Once I have a restaurant, I will decorate each table with such bottles. Now a days this decor is common in weddings and functions. So, there is a separate trend in the market of empty jam bottles with copper colour lid. My brother had one such  larger bottle to collect new ten rupee coins.

We often buy jam. Once jam is over amma makes sure they are well washed and stored in her pantry.

One day I returned home after work.There was a jam bottle inside the refrigerator. A different one with white food item and covered with a piece of paper, tighten by a thread.

” Amme… what is this thing? Can I eat?”

There are two things I would do after coming home. I will scream ” Amme” to see whether my mother is there and then I would go to fridge and open it.

“Yes , you can eat. It is Curd”

“Curd?”

Of course I am not a curd fan. It is sour. You need treacle or sugar to tackle that. I am not going to eat that. After having a wash also I went to fridge still wondering, whether to try that curd or not.

” It is not sour… “

Amma said. Im not going to get deceived. One day she was making a traditional salad, sambolaya with the green leaves named Aguna Kola. Back then I did not know what leaves are these. Then I asked Amma.

” What is this thing?”

” It is Aguna kola, good for health”

” Can I eat? What taste it has?”

” It is like Gotukola”

Gutukola is a friendly leaf. Grown in small pots or just in yards, in tiny chinese folding fan shape. We make either sambola or poridge. It smells nice. I love them. So, since Amma said Aguna kola is similar to Gotukola I added some with rice. To my utter disapointment it was extremely bitter. Very bad. Therefore cannot trust Amma this time.

Somehow, whenever I opened the fridge, the white jam bottle was smiling with me. Ok, let’s keep my ego aside. I took it out. Opened the paper lid and put some to my cup. Poured graceful amount of treacle over it. I am hungry, more than that I am curious.  I tried one spoon of newly invented curd. My God! Amma had reasons. Yes, it is not sour. Tastes good. 

There was a grandfather in area who had had a herd of buffaloes. We often see them on the road. He is the one who has brought curd. As Amma told me, this grandfather makes curd out of buffalo milk. Then he goes door to door and sell them.

His business was a very different one. Before the eara of yorgut cup comes the curd were stored in clay pots with a flat bottom. Those pots are heavier than those we use to cook. They are called ” kiri hatti” Later a smaller version of these kiri hatti was introduced which had curd enough for one person. But this grand father did not sell curd in clay pots. He used jam bottles instead.

Amma found a buyer for her bottle collection, the curd grandfather. We called him “Kiri Seeya”.In fact Amma did not sell them. She gave all her collected jam jars to him. One fine holiday, I was lucky enough to meet this milk grand father. He rings the gate bell.

” Duwa… Duwa…”

She calls my mother. For him Amma is like a daughter. I wanted see him, so I volunteered to go down and open the gate for him.

” Oh… you must be her daughter”

Surprisingly he was happy to see me.

” Yes, I am”

” We know your father since childhood. A good one”

I am not that good anyway like my father or mother but yes I accept that beautiful gesture. He handed over two curd bottles. 50 Rupees for each.

” Thank you seeye”

” If there are any empty jam bottles, please ask your mother to give me”

He departed.

Twice week he appeared from nowhere and sold curd. I spreaded the news about this tasty curd among my friends too. Back then I  worked at the official residence of his excellency French Ambassador to Sri Lanka. I taught French to Sinhala and Tamil crew there. I related the story of this newly found curd to the head chef in the kitchen. He told me that it evoked his childhood memories where there was a person who used to make curd in the area. So, I determined to give him a one.

Kiri seeya had found some bigger jam jars. If the jar is bigger it would cost more, around 80 rupees. My mother was very humble to buy anything he brings. When we see curd bottles in different types we made fun of them.

” Amme, for sure he will bring a bigger bottle next day and it would be 200 rupees”

I said.

” He might bring the buffalo itself and sell to amma”

Brother said.

We enjoyed this tasty curd. I even asked Amma to order some bottles for chef. A Sustainable process for jam jars. They come  as fruity delicacy. Then we finish them either eating with slices of bread, cream crackers or pan cakes. Amma cleans them well then  jam bottles get a second chance. There were such five, six bottles in Amma’s pantry waiting to be curd containers. Somehow we didn’t see Seeya for somedays.

” He must be planning to bring one of his buffaloes”

My brother and I were thinking.

One evening I came home after work as usual. Screamed ” Amme” to make sure she is there. Then, father who was sitting in living room said that she is in the kitchen. I went to kitchen. Opened the door of the refrigerator.

” Kiri Seeya didn’t come?”

” No… there is something important to tell you”

May be Amma wants to ask me to wash my hands or take a wash and come.

” Yes, I am listening”

” Kiri Seeya has passed away. Thaththa brought the news. Feel very sad”

” Oh!”

I had no closer connection with him. I have not spoken at least ten words with him. But this news shattered me. Why he needed to appear from nowhere and become a part of us and disapear suddenly?. Why he needed to make me eat something I hated throughout my life?. Now who knows the recipe? So many questions. For sure we will miss him.

Couple of weeks later, my father told that kiri seeya’s  son has taken the duty to take care of buffaloes. May be he will sell them or give them to some one.

” Amme, now what will happen to your empty jam bottles?”

– Sumudu-

A cup of coffee with a cloud of milk.

” So, what’s the plan?”

He asked in his bass voice.

” It would be a small restaurant. We can have puff pastries, croissants, eclairs…”

She could not complete.

” Some indian items too?”

” Oh, then a fusion cuisine, yes why not”

She stopped for a while and leaned to Walakulu Bemma. Waves dance calmly in the half lit moon light in berry blue sky.  One could see the majestic Temple of Tooth relic at a distance.The city is getting ready for its night shift. Gigantic hotels, Shopping malls and Coffee shops in full form while street vendors are still well settled under green canopies of large trees.

He, a tall, fair, thin boy with some stubble, short hair, sharp eye brows, almond eyes and a charming smile. May be not that charming but for her, she could not resist keep looking at his random smiles. Wearing a denim, arctic blue and white striped T shirt and simple sandles. She could hardly noticed that he was wearing any accessories but a Rolex watch.

She, a short, caramel skinned, a little bit curvy girl.A little messy bun, sharp eye brows, may be she has  never done them,  round eyes hidden behind half framed purple spectacles. She was wearing short sleeved, Forest green, knee length check dress, but over which a chocolate colour sweater which hid her hands and shoulders .He rarely examined her features or smile. Instead he prefered silence or a couple of dialogues.

” We must have nice paper bags with our restaurant’s name on it,  brown colour i’d prefer. And paper serviettes too. Mmm… if we sell something like burgers, or may be your Indian dosas, we can wrap them in a oil paper with our name”

She loved details.

“Yes, we can arrange them. So, whats the name that you are going to have?”

“Let me think…. Bistro. We’ ll call it Bistro”

” What is Bistro? Sounds foreign”

” That’s a type of small street restaurant in France, mostly in Paris. “

” I don’t think it is a good name. Why Something French?”

He did not want to agree.

” Come on… That’s the name I prefer”

“I thought we are business partners. And I have my rights to decide a name.”

” Ok then, go ahead, give some suggestions. We’ ll come to an equilibrium”

She started walking again. A mango seller was cutting his rippen mangoes. That is an art. He selects a mango from his bucket, peels it carefully, holds it vertically and give some cuts but does not separate any piece. He holds it like a flower and then adds some spices over it.

” Would you like some mangoes?”

She turned to him who was silenty following her and asked.

” No… Thanks, Im sorry I am not a fan”

” Of what?  Mangoes?”

” No… street food”

” No surprise”

” why?”

” No.. just”

Some foreigners were roaming along the street. Some were wearing colourful tops and a piece of white wrap round and shawls around shoulders to make sure that they are allowed to enter to Temple. Local Devotees clad in white enjoying scenery around while city dwellers attending their day today work , going home after work, waiting for buses or buying bread from a bakery. Among the crowd, a very young couple was holding hands and going down the city stairs bellow Bemma. She saw that he was looking at them. He had had a nostalgic smile on his face.

” Must be after support classes”

She said.

” But it’s already dark”

” They are in their own world, they don’t feel that”

Now the sky is no more berry but thick royal blue and brush strokes of gray clouds. Soon it will rain. A gentle zephyr swirling along the Bemma. She tighten her hands to her sweater sleeves.

” You must feel the breeze when you are in hills”

” No, it is too cold”

” Anyway you are well prepared no”

” Yes, for me this is a trip”

Without their knowledge they have reached to an edge of Bamma where there are less people. They are now little far from centreville.

“I’d love to have some empty jam jars, wrapped in lace to put flowers. Fresh flowers like little violet chrysanthemums. One each table”

” Good idea. You have to find fresh flowers then. Each day”

” No worries, there are flowers in Deans Road”

” No need to go there, the best flower nurseries can be found in Nuwaraeliya”

” Nuwaraeliya is far no. We can easily buy from Colombo”

They were walking together. They have already forgotten that they are no more in city.

” I thought we have our cafe at Colombo”

” Why not at Nuwaraeliya? We can target tourists. And there are places too see obviously”

Less lamps were lit. Surrounding is getting more darker. Heading to a mountain road they stopped.

” Want to grab a drink?”

” Yes, It’s cold”

Villagers pass by. Shops are closing. At one unexpected corner a small restaurant still open. They walked towrds there.A wooden cafe,  pots of small red flowers hanging from roof at the entrace. He opened the door for her. More of a pub. Young people hanging out,some middle age men having a sip at the corner. Foreigners singing around one table. She hesitated to proceed.

“Why?”

“If Amma is around , she would not have allowed”

“Neither my mother. This seems to be the only option”

“But..”

” Don’t worry.I’m here with you”

Then, aged man dressed in a sarong and a shirt greeted them with a pleasent smile.

” Come putha, wadiwenna, wahinnai yanne hondatama meka, gedara kiyala hithanna”( Come son, take a seat, it is going to rain, make yourself home)

They followed him and sat in a table in front corner by the glass window.

” Monawahari bonawada? Rasne deyak? Sera deyak?”

He was listening carefully but turned to her suddenly.

” He is asking whether we need some hot drink or hard something”

” I ‘d go with a beer and you?”

” Coffee”

Cafe owner would liked to be precise

” Americano, Latte, Expresso…?”

” A nice coffe with a cloud of milk”

A moment of silence.

” Oh, I am sorry, a cappuccino”

Seller left with the order.

” So, tell me what is the story about cloud of milk?”

She didn’t expect that sort of a reaction from him. Seems he is exacited to know the story.

” I am sorry , that is a French term. Café avec nuage de lait”

Inside the cafe was warm. She was getting used to the place. She removed her sweater and placed at the edge of the chair. He was sitting at the opposite chair.

” Sounds nice. Anyway, you are teetotaller  then?”

” No. Today I don’t want”

” May I know why?”

” Tomorrow I have to attend a conference”

” May be I am the key note speaker there”

He smiled while looking at her eyes directly for the first time. Coffee and beer arrived.

“You are ready with your speech then?”

She asked while sipping some coffee to get rid of coldness.

” I went through lines. Can manage”

Suddenly a gush of water were pouring. Since they were inside, they could not see that rain has already started. Coffee is not hot anymore. She clasped her hands. Her lips were little shivering.

” May be you put on your jacket again”

” Yes”

She wore her sweater but it did not help her much. By the time he has finished his beer. He asked the owner for a glass of hot water.

” Give me your hands, if you don’t mind”

Her naturally pink nails were turning to blue. He took her hands and cupped them around the glass of hot water.

” Feeling better? “

She nodded her head.

They were having small discussions time to time until ranin stopps. Somehow rain was  not having any intention to cease. Once it slowed down, they paid the bill and thought of going back.

“Still raining, you have an umbrella?”

He asked looking out side the window.

” No, we just stepped out no”

He took his phone out. He might have forgotten his phone for a long time.

” Battery dead. Nice!”

Now she could see that he is annoyed.

“Anna”

A boy at the restaurant called him behind.

“Annaa,
intha kudaya niinga eduththukkonga.” ( Brother, take this umbrella)

“Nanri brother. Aanaa naama thirumba intha valiyaala vara maattom. Athanaala kudaiya thirumba kodukka mudiyaama poiyidum.” ( Thank you brother, but we might not come by this way again. So we   won’t be able to return this)

“Paravallanna. Eduththukkonga. Ongalukku uthavurathula enakku santhosham thaan.” ( That’ s ok brother. It s a great pleasure to help you)

His eyes were gleaming with happy.

They left the cafe. Foreigners were watching TV. Under the programme they were watching it mentioned as ” A breaking news soon”

It didn’t take much time for them to come back to their familiar vicinity. They understood that all this time  they were just couple of steps away from the city. They were walking together under the umbrella. He was holding it.

” By the way,  I am ok with the  name you decided for our restaurant”

”  What? Bistro?”

” Yes. That is a good name”

” I was thinking that we can have a branch of our Bistro at Nuwaraeliya too”

They stopped under the a tree just to avoid rain. There were some other people too.

” You can add your signature coffee to our menu”

” What coffee?”

Since there were some crowd under the tree they had to come more closer to avoid getting wet.

” A coffee with a cloud of milk”

She could see herself inside his sharp eyes. She smiled and looked out. Now only his eyes have started to read her features. Very slight dimple on her left cheek when she smiles, a small chain around her neck. He noticed that she is not fully caramel colour. Bellow the necklace he could see she is fair. He suddenly took his eyes away.

They stepped into the pavement along the Walakulu Bamma again.

” Tell me why you were ok to walk with me? “

” Just, cos you asked me. I was thinking what to do in the evening”

” So, you’ d go with anyone who asks you to accompany?”

She was not at all comfortable with his question.

” You are so mean to say that”

Annoyed, she tried to cross the road where a  police car passed at a high rate of speed.

” Are you mad? “

He screamed. She was standing still unable to understand what happened.

” Ok I am sorry, I just asked that. “

” I wanted to have a change from my hectic life. I said ok because it is..”

Before she continue she noticed that some thing going on near the hotel far. Blue and red lights of police vehicles and the siren sound which contininue.

“Look…”

” What’s happening?”

” How do I know. Let’s ask someone”

Road is crowded and police trying to send them away. People aroud the area also peeping at the scene. One could hear walky talky sound too. They crossed the road.They were at one edge of the hotel, infront of a boutique. A middle aged man was standing behind them trying to see the calamity.

” Uncle, mokakda wenne issaraha? Ai me policiyen?” ( Uncle , what’s going on? Why police is there?)

” Hariyatama danne na duwa.Queens eke hitapu kauruhari  manussayek  athurudahan lu” ( Don’t know exactly, Someone who was at Queen’s Hotel seems to be missing )

The boy who did not hear what the man said and was waiting until she explained the situation.

” What’ s it?”

“Seems to be someone is missing”

” Ok , let’ s go”

He held her hand hurried to go. Police were arranging some barriers near the back entrance of the hotel. People around were pushed back and the girl too. Still it is raining. 

” You go… I’ll come begind”

” But it is raining, I have the umbrella.you’ll get wet”

Slowly she was thrown back with the people on the roadside.

” You go. You are the key note speaker. You must be safe”

Siren sound were near by. He disappeared into crowd.

Inside the small pub at hills, most of the customers were sitting at the television.The breaking news is there. ” A young Minister who checked in to Queen’s Hotel this evening to participate in a conference tomorrow was missing since two hours. His squad and the police are taking every action to find him. “

The barista boy who gave the umbrella to the couple was listening to the news while  making a cappuccino. He gently poured a cloud of milk over the cup of cofee.

– Sumudu-

The Generous Bo Tree!

Everyday I step out from the house when the sky is still berry blue. This would be around six O clock in the morning and the junction is awakening. A string of sun light lits the area. There is a large Buddha Shrine at the opening end of the village Shaded by a massive Bo tree.  The canopy of Bo tree spreads covers a considerable area.From the side which leads to the village there lies a Three wheeler park, the other side bordering the main road, the bus stand where my father and I stand waiting for a bus.

The Lottery ticket seller is the first one to greet us. He opens his stall early morning. He arranges his tickets of different colours over his wooden board. He knows about buses in this route in detail. In case we are late to go to stand, my father would go to him and ask whether we missed our bus. He has his regular coustomers. Most of the times they are villagers, middle aged and aged people.

In a while, comes the Choon Paan vehicle. “Choon Paan” is a name given to mobile pastry and bread sellers. “Paan” is the sinhala term for bread. They belong to different bakeries in the area, normally come in a small three wheeler, van or a truck. World renown “Fur Elise” by Beethovan is their signature music. This culture popularized during pandemic days, as they brought bread to your door steps.

The pastry vehicle at the foot of our Bo tree is run by a young boy. He comes there around quarter past six and parks his small boutique near the temple. Then he goes to Lottery ticket seller to burrow an ekel broom. He sweeps the fallen bo leaves, worships Buddha, starts selling bread. In his small vehicle there is a variety of items : tea buns, jam buns some sugar sprinkled over their heads, fruit cup cakes, fish pastries, egg pastries, fish chinese rolls, egg rolls, vege buns, loaves of breads. Some items and names belong to local tradition. The local term for Cup cake is “Ispunchi” derived from sponge cake. “Ada” is a small fritter like brown cake with a bun shape head. It smells sweet. ” Ros Paan” a thin bread with a roasted crust, good for tea time with some jam or you can soak them in tea and eat. Or else this bread is good with Coconut Sambol.  Most importantly all these food items are smaller in size and less expensive so that anyone can afford.

Time to time villagers come to bus stop. Well dressed getlemen and ladies clad in colourful sarees are those who go to work. Couple of mothers escorting kids to nearby schools, children who goes alone or in gangs to school are the other  genre. Sometimes seeing parents with school going children is very nostalgic to me. My father used to take my brother and me to school. He took us by foot. 

My father knows most of  people who come here. They great him. Some older men wait and have a little chat with him. Among them there is a wonderful person. He looks bit older than my father. He wears a Sarong, a shirt and a matching cap, carries a bag in his hand. Everyday he has something to say regarding the weather.

” Good morning Upasena, sky is dark, soon it will rain”

” Today sun has risen early”

” These days, days are short and nights are long”

Im so used to these conversations. When I have doubts about weather I ask my father to inquire him. He answers very attentively.

After a while another older gentlman comes in a short and a Tee shirt. He also greets my father. He croses the road. There are some flowering shrubs along the fence at the opposite side. He comes to pluck flowers. My father also brings a small bag, so that he can collect flowers when he goes back. This is to offer to Buddha.

” Dadz, you can get some flowers there. That uncle also comes for that. “

“No, I dont pluck those flowers. Those are for him. Everyday he comes no.”

When sun is risen, comes another uncle. An older person who carries a plastic table. He brings that in two pieces and fixes it next to Lottery ticket seller. As my father told me he  used to be a wealthy man in area. Now he sells dry fish here. Before him there were a lady who sells green porridge and lunch packets. Several buses come in this route. Some goes very far like Kandy, Galle, or Mathara. Those who go far wait with their luggages. Some highway buses can be seen as there is an entrance nearby. Colombo – Galle Highway bus stops near the temple, worship Buddha and offer some coins to the till. All these little little stories happen under the migty Bo Tree. The tree homes many birds and squirals. Their small conversations can be heard when you stand under the branches of Bo Tree.

Bo Tree is considered as a sacred palnt in my country. I have rarely seen they grow all alone in wild but mostly inside temples. A lot if stories are related to this tree since the days of Lord Buddha. Ascetic Siddhartha who went insearch of noble truth has attained enlightenment under Asethu Bo Tree in India. Later During emperor Asoka’s reign, a branch of this sacred tree has been sent to Sri Lanka as a token of gift, along with emperor’s daughter Theri Sangamiththa. At Kelaniya Raja Maha Vihara, you could see serene frescoes of the scene how she brings the branch of Bo tree and hands that over to then King. It was planted at Mahamewna garden at Anuradhapura. Since then a cult is created around the sacred tree. It is said that there were special guardians for the Tree.

Symbolizing lord Buddha’s enlightenment , each temple has Bo tree. Good health for loved ones, blessings for examinations are written in a small colourful flags and are hang and clean coins washed with turmeric water, wrapped in a piece of cloth and are tied on branches. Devotees, most of the times women fill plastic or Buddist school has a Buddha srine and a Bo Tree.

Long ago, at the entrance to our village there was a lonely Bo Tree, under which we could see a small shrine of Buddha. The tree was inside the huge cemetery. No one offered flowers or lighted a lamp inside the shrine but villages had had a bad habit of dumping broken buddha statues around the Bo Tree.Neither Budhda or the Patient Bo tree would mind that. This was some twenty years back.

Today I stand under the same Bo Tree. Separated from cemetery the very Bo Tree houses a big Buddha shrine. During festival days villages decorate the temple, light oil lamps ans surrounding fills with the scent of incense sticks. Above all the tree is no more lonely. The Bo tree has made a lot friends through out years. The soft rattle of Bo leaves in the wind hums a sweet melody to whoever wait under this generous Bo Tree.

-Sumudu-

Rosa Raffaello

With a hand- tied bouquet of pretty Pierre de Ronsard roses,In a sleeveless peach floral dress, she was a young caramel skinned girl with wonder-waiting eyes, her wavy hair tied in a ponytail. The day was fresh and a little humid. A soft breeze blew, while under the giant tree at the gate visitors were waiting to see their loved ones.

she found herself walking through the corridors of ward number four. She could see the marble walls with stickers of Simba and Pumba, Pooh and Tiger which gave a kindergarten ambience to the ward. She was caught in a nostalgic moment when she passed the painted walls. She recalled walking along the same corridor for the first time. She’d have never guessed that there would be a second reason to visit the hospital.

Time to time she could hear babies crying. She could see the different emotions of the kids in pediatric beds. Some did not even realize that they were sick or that they weren’t at home.Some playing with toys, some with building blocks, some with crayons enjoying making art; and then others sitting their eyes desperate, longing to go home.She stopped for a moment in the half way, not quite knowing which way to turn. Her eyes were searching for something familiar. Unable to rely on her own feelings she sat on a bench for visitors. She was holding the bouquet of large pink roses, so tightly that her fingers were glued to the beige kraft paper. As the staff was busy she did not feel like disturbing them.. A fusion of colours of clinical scrubs were passing swiftly in front of her. A set of medical students in a discussion passed her while two attendants were pushing a diet trolly.

Suddenly she saw the silhouette of a familiar figure at a distance of the corridor. A smile escaped her, dimpling her soft cheeks. A young male doctor in emerald scrubs hastily came to the ward along with some others . The rush of adrenaline made her stand at once. As the doctor stepped towards her, she took a deep breath. To her utter surprise he just threw a glance and walked right past her.

Sitting back on the bench, she was lost in deep thought about their encounter. But she quickly snapped out of it when she saw him again. This time she was determined. She waited until he was a little closer, and then stood directly in front of him, so that conversation could not be avoided.

“Hello Doctor, how are you? If you can remember I am the friend of Dr. Esmerelda”
“ Hi”

There was hardly an effort to make conversation. But before either of them could say anything else, he was called to see a patient. Unable to believe his indifferent attitude, she was lost in thought again, taking her back to a past incident.

Last month, on a fine morning she was having a simple celebration with her family at this very same ward. She was from a humble family, and they had wanted to spend their day with the children.She was serving chocolate cake to cute little patients. Her act gave them a moment of bliss amidst all the pain they were undergoing. Her one bosom friend at this hospital, a lady doctor around her age, had wholeheartedly helped her in this. While she was enjoying the party she was caught off guard by an unexpected charm. A boy in scrubs appeared from nowhere. A colleague of her friend. Sharp eyes, broad forehead, finely crafted cheeks, he gave a hearty smile to the kids in beds. In her eyes he was like an angel with a halo.

Snapping out of this nostalgic memory, she was trying to understand his indifference towards her. She couldn’t think of what to do next. She was holding the bouquet so tightly when she felt someone tugging on her dress from behind. To her surprise it was a little girl from the ward, who reminded her of Smurfette from the cartoon The Smurfs.

Later in the day he was going about his work, charming everyone on his way . The kids were so fond of him that some had even drawn his portrait, some had a lot of stories to tell him and some would even ask for his stethoscope. There was a tiny toy koala bear attached to his stethoscope. He noticed that some of his patients were playing with roses of pink hues. These roses made the children look smaller than they already were. But he did not bother to ask anything beyond his daily inspections.

Once having checked on the patients, he walked down the corridor of ward number four looking tired. Someone called him from behind.
“Dr. Raffaello… please wait”

It was an attendant at the hospital. She rushed towards him.

“Sir, I found this on a chair.”

She gave him the beige kraft paper inside which there was a small card. A rose pink greeting card with “Rosa” engraved on its cover . He opened the card. One could not have comprehended his feelings or thoughts while he read the card. He looked through the windows to where he could see the kids playing.

“Dr Raffaello…. The director is calling you”

While standing there a nurse passed him a message. He left the greeting card on the table behind him where there were two feeding bottles. He then continued through the corridor.

A mischievous breeze entered through one open window and flipped the greeting card lying on the table. There it was written:

“To dear Dr. Raffaello”

-Sumudu-

Let them die!

“A news!
A boy,
Shot dead.”
“Oh where?”
“There, the other side of the fence.”
( No reaction)
“In Which country?”
“There,the other side of the border.”
( silent)
“Which religion?”
“The other side of the sacred line.”
( indifferent )
“Which colour?
Of the other nuance.”
(…………)
“Of which community?”
“Not of ours of course.”
“Then why do you tell me these?”

“Coz it was a boy
Of just 19 years old.”
“From which country, religion,colour, community again?”
“From the other side of the fence,
Where war is going on,
Where hunger prevails,
Where there is an epidemic,
Where the land is disaster-prone.”
“Ah then happens,
Always there are casualties.”

“So no good bye
Deserves he?”
“Why do you care
Their problem, their sins, let them die.”

Let them die
Those who live at the other side of the fence!
The Yellow Roses
At the border Sigh!

-Sumudu-

The Kind Sweet Seller!

A drop of rosâtre hue over soft milk chunks lying on a silver tray. Milk cubes of lime green are placed one over other in a pyaramid pattern. Lemon yellow milk bricks dressed with pistachio hats jump to a paper box one by one. The pretty Barfies looking at the bussy road. I didn’t know the name of this magical confectionary though untill the freindly sweet seller taught me.

“Bombay Sweet Houses” are little little colourful patches settled in various corners of Colombo. This particular sweet shop was introduced to me by Mizra, a close friend at university. We used to stop by this stall and enjoy ” Peni Walalu” , whose actual name was Jilebi. Big yellow rings dipped in a sugar syrup. Back then it costs around Rs.150.00.For that amount you can buy a bag full of this magic rings. This sweet house had a signature fragrance, a fusion of milk, sugara and ghee.

The seller has so many items, Indian sweets of myriad colours: Boondi, Gulab Jammun, Dodol, Musket. Wait! “Dodol” is something ours I guess. The mushy blocks of black and brown nuances which is the traditional gift from historical sites. Once we go in pigrimages Amma’s first job was to find the best Dodol stalls. That was for neighbours and relatives.

The most imporatant fact of these sellers is their customer friendly nature. That is an inherent quality of Muslim vendors. I would get a chance to have a little bite from each sweet if I show interest in buying. Even if not they would give a small piece as a sample. However with the time I learnt to go there alone. Later I told the secret of the newly discovered shop to my brother. He also started buying Jilebis.

Not only sweets, they have Samosas, the trianglular fried fritter inside which you can find a tasty mixture.South Indian Samosas are mostof the times contain only vege stuff. So with high hopes one fine day I asked about Samosas.

” What do you have inside them?”

This question is to make sure they are vege.

” There are chopped meat and potatoes”

Then definitly not for me as I am a vegetarian. But I can buy them for Amma. She’ d love them. Anyway I am used to this situation of not having suitable food items for me. I know I am minority and have to accept what is sold. May be I should ask whether they make them using vege only.

” So you don’t have vege ones?”

” Oh madam, I am sorry we do not make them. But you see, you need to eat meat. They make you strong”

The happy seller was telling me. That of course I know. But I chose this life so I live up to that. I bought some Samosas for amma and left the stall happily imagining how she would be pleased to see them. All these happened some six years ago, during my undergraduate days.

A Bachelor of Arts, now reading for Masters, earning some money by giving couple of visiting lectures, After a long time here I walk through same busy Colombo road. My sole intention was to find the sweet seller. So many thoughts flux into my head. May be after years he might not be there. With the Pandemic and drastic economic downfall many small vendors dissapeared from streets.

I see a pastryshop. May be they have changed it into a restaurant. I peeped to make sure. No sweets are inside glass racks. Dissapointed, I left the place. A fruit seller, another shop, another shop, another shop… wait….! Bombay Sweet! It is there, the small sweet Mahal well imbedded in to array of food stalls. The young seller was there. Cutting rose milky sweet chunks. I checked all the racks smiling with sweets to see whether Pani walalu is there.

” Today you do not have Paniwalalu?”

” Oh I am sorry Madam, Jilebis are over. But you can buy Boondi”

” Ok. Then give me some Boondi”

” Red or Yellow?”

” Yellow, yellow”

Red of course Amma buys me in village market. Yellow has its own taste. I am sure he did not recognize me. I am in same Denim and T shirt, but with face mask still not recognizable. He put a good amount of yellow pebbles, made in besan flour, bathed in a sugar syrup and gleeming with ghee. My God what a treasure. I wanted to know what are this Pinc chunks. Similar cubes were neatly arranged in other trays. Then the seller said they are ” Barfi” prepared using milk powder. I aked him to pack two slices. Oh ..there are Gulab jammun swiming in sweet water. At the absence of opportunities to go and buy I prepared them at home. Now I am kind of expert. So no need to buy.

Before I leave I noticed Dates also sharing space with confectionaries . I will need dates to make my Christmas cakes. December is no far. This fruit may be invited from rich Middle East is becoming a luxury item im the market.

” Oh you have dates too. How much they are?”

” Not that expensive madam. We have the best Dates. You want to taste and see?”

The best part is coming. But still I didnt want to waste his stock. I humbly said no.

” No madam, you taste and see. Here… You should eat Dates, They make you strong”

After six years he has found something that suits me. That of course I can eat. Plus they will give me strength. I bought a bag of Dates. Amma would be happy too.

– Sumudu-

Veetu ( The house)

At the foot of majestic temple of Munneswaram, resides a beautiful, calm and lively village. The traditional Brahmin houses at the backdrop of the temple, garlands with jasmine, roses and marigold hung along the shops, One could breath the fresh serene air here. Not so far from the temple, at a distance where Gopurams are still visible, stands a busy restaurant. Ten to eight dinning tables, over which banana leaves spreaded or silver thalis, Red chutney, green chutney and the sumptuous sambar. Happy customers enjoying their favourite dosa or paper dosa.

Little Mallika runs through the hall while her gang of sisters and brothers following her.Sienna skined, Mallika is of age eight or nine, a little dominating and leading the brethren runs to kitchen and then disappeares to inner house.The Kitchen where aroma of frying Bonda, wadei and murukku swirls, the fresh dust of spices hung, dosas with perfect diameter smilling on the dosa pan and Amma the chef reigns. Amma could handle dishes for around hundred people. No sous chefs, her two hands could do marvels that ten hands would do. One or two helpers but Amma closely watched every single dish that departs from the kitchen. During festival seasons of the temple when city gets busy with devoties, of course she needs more hands to work. So more helpers will arrive.

A boy who caters food passes the cachier. Pictures of Deities infront of wich couple of marigold flowers, a lamp lit and a insence stik. A chanting is on radio. Behind the glass bottles filled with laddu of sunflower dust, boondi oil sprinkled and crispy murukku, sits Mr.Narayanan the Mudalali. Wearing his witty look, who could perfectly speak both Tamil and Sinhala he ushers his customers warmly. A parcel of hot samosa, and Alu parotha was handed over to a customer who leaves the restaurant. At the entrance the name board displayed ” Mallika Hotel”, named after the eldest daughter of the familly.

Mallika cared less about the bustle in the hall unless Amma askes her to give a helping hand. Wearing a nice flowered frock with golden gopuram bordrer, pottu on forehead she represents the mixed culture of the state. Two little sisters a perfect mini versions of her, anna resembling Mr. Naayanan and thambi a silent little fellow. They run to back yard chill around the friendly Well under the orange tree. The well was the early sourse of water to family and the business until pipe born water was introduced. However Still serving with daily chores. After school children used to play with neighbouring kids. With no hesitancy they burrow new clay pots to play from the pottery house behind.

Having the colourful picture from her best days in childhood Mallika got down from the bus at Chilaw town. Munneswaram temple was awaiting for her.Grown up to a young lady, draped in a green saree with gopuram design on golden border, pottu on forehead, jasmine on her curly hair she carries her cheerful traits still but more calmer.Studied far from home for ages, now a lecturer at a university, happily married, husband abroad. She walks through the hometown. No traditional brahmin houses, cleared all to make a city a cultural site. “Why do so? They perfectly fit the scene no?” She thinks. Roads broaden, houses pushed considerable feet back.

After the demise of Mr.Narayanan hotel closed long ago. . One sister left with Amma and the rest flew away.

” Amma chuti waara”

Mallika was called chuti for her ultra skinny look. She was welcomed warmly. Not the first day she returns home but today comes with nostalgic souveniers. As always Amma was happy to see her. She had a wash, some hot rice and curry with all love from Amma. An envelop lying on the dinning table.The appointment letter of her sister.

“Prasanna Narayanan, Mallika Hotel, Chilaw”

After lunch she walked through the inner verenda. She wanted to feel the cold cement floor where she used to run through as a kid. Restaurant attached to house and a new part was built behind to make one entity. An inner garden structure is not the design of the architect but naturaly created with slight changes. Through the grilled widow in the living room she could see the orange tree beside which humbly standing good old friend The Well.

“Wait! Well was used to be behind the house, how come it stands here somewhere middle of the house?”

Mallika had a lot to think.

– Sumudu-