It's been more than a month since I've left Sri Lanka ( The Motherland) behind to now reside in India. But, here are a few words I wrote two days before I left...
Written September 15th 2012.
If you ask me where the essence of the Island lies, I will tell you it does not exist amidst the Colombo Elites.
It does not exist behind the gated walls of Colombo 7.
It does not exist in the hands of an extraordinary bowler that can hit a wicket with more precision than the English men who taught him the game.
It does not exist amidst the large world trade towers that decorate the Colombo skyline.
It does not exist with the aunties who hold 'High Tea' at the Mount.
It does not exist with the consumer at the local ODEL who reverts to English with the store clerk rather than speak the native tongue they share.
It does not exist amongst the one who does the best impersonation of a white man. The one who's body, soul and mind continues to be colonized.
Rather, the essence of that Island is amidst the few who have not forgotten. The few that have risen above the tide of Anglophilia that consumes the world.
Throughout the Island you'll find them bare-feet down unpaved or paved roads.
They wear their sarongs or cropped blouses with a retha.
They still work the fields for sustenance.
They live in simple homes with simple means and simple hearts.
They beat their drums on special occasions.
And when they feast as a village, they proudly place their meal on a large leaf which can be easily discarded back to the nature it came from.
They live as their fore-fathers and mothers did. They hold on proudly to the ancient wisdom they've inherited. They have not forgotten. And in their eyes and lives resides remnants of the Island's essence.
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| In the spirit of matrimony local woman beat the drum. Photo Taken by I in 2009 |
Written September 15th 2012.
If you ask me where the essence of the Island lies, I will tell you it does not exist amidst the Colombo Elites.
It does not exist behind the gated walls of Colombo 7.
It does not exist in the hands of an extraordinary bowler that can hit a wicket with more precision than the English men who taught him the game.
It does not exist amidst the large world trade towers that decorate the Colombo skyline.
It does not exist with the aunties who hold 'High Tea' at the Mount.
It does not exist with the consumer at the local ODEL who reverts to English with the store clerk rather than speak the native tongue they share.
It does not exist amongst the one who does the best impersonation of a white man. The one who's body, soul and mind continues to be colonized.
Rather, the essence of that Island is amidst the few who have not forgotten. The few that have risen above the tide of Anglophilia that consumes the world.
Throughout the Island you'll find them bare-feet down unpaved or paved roads.
They wear their sarongs or cropped blouses with a retha.
They still work the fields for sustenance.
They live in simple homes with simple means and simple hearts.
They beat their drums on special occasions.
And when they feast as a village, they proudly place their meal on a large leaf which can be easily discarded back to the nature it came from.
They live as their fore-fathers and mothers did. They hold on proudly to the ancient wisdom they've inherited. They have not forgotten. And in their eyes and lives resides remnants of the Island's essence.
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