I Departed

I glide down the azure stairs,

Feeling cold as the granite beneath my bare feet

I lingered for years to sense your heart

You lugged me around with your pungent words

Like a vine battered, beaten

Unloved ‘till wasted

You are callous

Pitiless is your being

Like a fraught child

Keen to give all up for a scrap of care...

When I opened my eyes to see

The true colors of you

I was so dazzled by,

I departed.

Death, to me

Death, to me, is a beautiful affair, a reason for delight, a moment of rejoice

It’s merriment of a done life and a thrill of the strange

Death, to me, is a divan of Lucerne, not a blaring murky casket

It’s a melody completed, not an inch of bitter grief, nor penitence

Death, to me, is a juncture for champagne and jollity, extolling and glorifying

It’s a farewell bid; no fright, not sadness, but a tad ounce of loneliness 

Boiled Chicken and Running Away

Inspired by 'Who's Irish?' (1999) by Gish Jen, I attempted to write a short story in a very colloquial manner, almost like what it would sound like, if the character, not so good in her middle-school English, would write. It is a satirical story of a girl who has just attained in age and has elements of Sri Lankan culture in it. So unless you are a conventional Sri Lankan, you will probably not understand the sarcasm. Either way, enjoy and feel free to comment! 

She no small girl now. She big. Blood coming from between her legs every month now. Everybody knows it. Embarrassing! She can’t see boys for five days, not even Father. She can’t play with boys now after this day. She must learn to cook rice, dhal curry, scrape coconut and make a Sambol. She must learn to wash clothes, bashing them on the granite rock and know the exact amount of whitening powder to put for white clothes. She must also wear long skirts now and talk softly. Can’t shout, even when she see a big iguana across the road. If iguana attack her, she can’t shout. If iguana eat her, she can’t shout. Now she is woman. Can have baby if not careful. Imagine having baby at thirteen! Boys in village will now come to flirt with her. In five years, one will be lucky to take her to his mother’s house. 

Now she must be cautious. Every month, she will have tummy aches and head pains. She will be allowed to sleep during the day and skip school if she want to. She can’t wear white skirts. But school uniform white skirt. Poor girl. Oh no. Poor woman! So, in five days, at 06.43 in the morning is the auspicious time. She cover herself with a white cloth and go to have a bath with lavender flowers. She crack open a coconut. She can’t even carry the cleaver. She is so petite. Not five feet tall and weight less than 40 kilograms. Opposite of her tall, fat sister. She open the coconut. Good luck came! Then come inside house and wear gold and pink dress. Gold and pink! Mother put a thin gold chain on her neck. Now she can look at boys. So, Father put two thin gold bangles on left arm. Grandmother put big, chunky, rose-shaped, gold earrings on her ears. “Ouch” she say. She doesn’t like earrings. “Pull my ear down”, she say. “Now you must wear earrings all the time. You are a girl” grandmother say. “I always a girl” she say. Mother frown. Sister laugh. 

In afternoon, Mother, Grandmother and two aunties serve a grand lunch. They cooked fried rice, chicken curry with extra chilies, potato and dhal. Always have dhal in special occasions. Dhal is a must! They have fried papadam. She can’t eat papadam. She can’t eat fried rice, because have oil. She can’t eat oil, until blood stop. Otherwise her stomach will hurt more and she will get ugly. She grab plate and serves a big papadam. Grandmother hit her hand. “No papadam for you! You want to be ugly skin with pimples like your sister?” Sister make a face. Mother bring plate full of white rice and boiled chicken for her. Mother has served vegetables also. She hate vegetables. “So bitter” she say. Her chicken have no spices. It is yellow. But chicken for guest is nice brown curry. Now she make face. Boys from the village eating tasty food, laugh at her. One boy wink. She turns and looks behind her dress. She have to be extra careful now. Can’t jump, can’t run, can’t sit.

She gets lot of small, small gifts. A few big gifts. She get another gold chain and a few earrings. And she get another three bangles. A small pendent. She get a few ornaments. Pink dolls with green dresses. She doesn’t like ornaments. She get some cloth for making dresses. Some fancy things like chains and bracelets. She wants a makeup set. But no. No one give her makeup set. She put them in a small box. She is happy because now she can run away when she is fifteen. She can’t runway now because she want to run away with O/L results. Otherwise can’t find any job after runway. She want to hide the gold under her bed. But Mother come and take it. “Safe with me” Mother say. She make a face. 

Three days later, she not go to school. Blood still coming from her private part. She thinks blood never stop. If she can’t go to school for week, she will miss so much. An exam also. Then, in two years, she can’t pass O/L exam. She can’t runaway then. Fourth day blood is still there. She gets dressed and go to school. Cloth between her legs is uncomfortable. She walk slow. She make a ugly face. “Give this to Teacher and worship” Mother tell and give a bundle of beetle leaves to her hand. “Why? It is no Awurudu still!” she ask. “Don’t talk back! You are a big girl now! Big girl don’t talk back to Mother”. Class is uncomfortable because of the blood coming between her legs. She don’t want to stand. But teacher ask question. “Name three national parks in Sri Lanka!” She names them. She knows them well. She knows a lot of things well! She reads. She smart girl. Smart woman!  She want to pass O/L and run away. But now can’t run away because mother has gold. How to run away without gold?

For lunch, still boiled chicken and dhal with white rice. Sister eats left over tasty food. Next door boy comes and ask her to play hide and seek. “Go! She won’t play” Mother shouts and next door little boys get scared and runaway. She want to play hide and seek. After few hours she is hungry and boring. She scrapes the wall. “What you doing child!” Grandmother shouts. “Big girls not supposed to shout” she tell Grandmother. Sister laugh. Grandmother angry. Mother complain. “No use, these girls.” She pout. She go to table. Remaining boiled chicken in a pot, is covered with a cloth. She put little hand and take a piece. She open her history book and study. Boring. She eats chicken. Boring. But she somehow reads the history book. Must pass O/L and runway. Must get that gold. She fall asleep on the page about King Dhutugammunu...

The Cinderella Blah

To be ‘ugly’ according to conventional standards of society is a terrible misery. I don’t know who said that mere brains get you to places, but trust me, brains are no good unless they come with beauty. And that brains too, used for the 64 whatever-women-are-supposed-to-master only. But the irony is that you can be pretty with no brain and man, can you get to places! I was once a believer of wisdom, because that is what society tells you. “No man wants a hottie with puckered lips and an empty head”, but men believed the contrary. No one flirts with intellectuality and a man in his right mind doesn’t fondle with it anyway. A typical man, evolved to be vision indulgent and all, prefers a woman who can take him to places with her mouth shut. Maybe that is the reason why I repelled almost every guy who dared to even ask me on a date – a first date to never call back, just so you know. Day after day, through middle-school and high-school, I repelled man after man in my life. And bit by bit, with every passing rejection I turned bitter. Oh, I was once nice and all – I would help old women carrying shopping baskets cross the street and feed a lost lonely pooch in the street corner. I once even sacrificed my knitted scarf to warm up a little beggar with sore feet. But as each year dawned, I turned in to a miserable snob, even more miserable than my cellulite packed butt. It all started with a bit of sneering. Then came the snobbish remarks. Then came the thrashing and stealing and lying and cheating and then came Cinderella! 

My mom is alright. I mean, she is not that ugly, but her old man, my daddy, left her for a prettier woman he met at the carnival. She then met this man, who is now my stepfather and not a bad one at that, who kinda swept her off her wrinkled feet and she sure was swept off. He was a divorcee (because of ‘incorrigible differences’). Before I, or my twelve year old sister knew it, Mom was off on late night dates with extra rouge and before we could express our concerns, she was married to this guy. He was no rich man, probably why his wife dumped him. But my mother took hold of his business and worked hard to get it to the level it is now. We are now one of the richest and the ugliest families known in Once-upon O’Land. Mom was sure a hard working gal, but she was also a control freak. She wanted to show off to the world that life was good, by adorning us with ridiculously large feathered hats and frilly dresses. She painted my acne-drenched face with a coat of foundation and drew up my lips so that they look fat. She crammed my blubber in a corset so that it sounded like I wanted to throw up whenever I spoke. The tightness made me aggravated too. So basically, the tighter the corset became, the wickeder I grew. I guess holding your breath too long makes you callous. I was at the peak of loneliness and desperation, when Cinderella walked in through our Mahogany door. The unfortunate blonde’s mother has passed away on an overdose of rich wine. (Oh did I mention that she got carried away by her newly acquired rich life with her new husband?) 

Something in my unshapely heart shuddered at the sight of this fair-skinned, blue eyed, blonde. She wore a cobalt dress with a white sash and her thick hair which was braided symmetrically flowed down her toned back. Imagine her in a silk gown and she’d look like she was straight from up there. The moment Cinderella walked in, the room filled with jealousy and the sound of my stepfather’s uncertain voice. “This, my daughter, has no place to go now. I took her in”. First of all, I don’t know how he took her in, because the house belonged to my mother now. She had seduced him into signing the deed a couple of years ago. She deserved it anyway, because without her work, the house would still be leaky, musty and cramped. At first, Mom didn’t mind, because she could always use an extra hand around the house while she was off either balancing cheque books or lying around in the spa. Cinderella was pretty submissive. She scrapped clean tarred pots, while we complained, because they made our dark hands darker; she scrubbed the floor left to right, as we complained of our back aches; she watered the flowers at noon and we complained because sun made our dull skin duller. The complains, genuine mind you, made us lazier and uglier and fatter. 

What became of my intellect, you may ask. I kinda evolved to keeping my mouth shut, because when I spoke, people felt threatened. My croaky voice didn’t help much either. As for Cinderella, she could sing a shallow song about tender flower petals and deep blue eyes and walkers-by would lean on the fence to listen. The moment I realized why even the ugly guys didn’t call me back and my few friends refused to keep in touch, was because of my know-it-all-ness, I began to give up on my Einstein dreams. First of all, I started watching Gossip-Girl instead of Disocvery-Plus on TV; I traded my thrillers to Cosmopolitans and I spend time plucking my eyebrows thinner and thinner, rather than spending time on homework. By the time I turned 17, my eyebrows had vanished and so had my intellect. I was no more interested in Harvard or even the local community college. All I wanted was to be beautiful! 

Sadly, I didn’t know how to. Cosmopolitan advice is for the thin chicks. Even the workout clothes advertised on them come only in sizes 0 through 6. What about something that a size 14 can fit into? I sought comfort in chocolates and fries. I cried myself to sleep on bed, at least thrice a day, I scrubbed my skin with all the beauty stuff I heard of or saw. I colored my hair blond and red and blue and black, I painted my eye lids in every shade of magenta. The more I tried the more depressing it became and the bitterness was expressed by anger. That was my part of the story. 

It was all bad, but not closely as bad as the day of the long awaited royal ball. Prince Charming, was the one man around, I had a massive crush on. Ever since I saw him on telly, when I was six and he was some ten-years, standing beside his mother, the queen, I wanted to marry him. I would spend hours dreaming about his hazel eyes and dimply smile and scribbling his name in curly letters all over my notepads. Ever since I heard that it was customary that princes throw a 21-year old birthday gala, I counted the days to see his face in real. Since six months to his 21^st birthday, I tried very hard to look better. I went on a celery stick diet, jogged to the spa every day and even did a thousand ab crunches morning and night. My dress for the ball wasn’t that amusing. Well, when you look like me, nothing thrown on you, even if it is designed by Vera Wang, would disguise you. No coats of Mac or conditioned, heat-styled hair would look appealing. But I did try. I hoped that Charming would see me for who I am. My long tarnished personality didn’t help much either. Before a could blink off the leaking mascara off my eye balls, there she was, Cinderella, dressed in the perfect gown, hugging her 25-inch waist, in the arms of the one man, I’d have given my right arm to share a kiss with. Need I say more?

Years after Cinderella’s story was penned, I the ‘ugly’ step sister seemed like a good-for-nothing villain, to millions of young and old readers. Everyone rejoices at the fortune of the ‘poor-hardworking girl’ who acquired the life of a goddess, but no writer talks of the three nights I stayed locked up in my room, out of sheer misery of knowing, believing, that I was going to age into an ugly, wicked, lonely old woman. The later versions of the story turned me into a joker with no desire to be nice too. Would the story have been any different if Cinderella didn’t look so good or she didn’t sing like a nightingale? Would I still be misjudged if someone asked why I was the way I was? 

But what I want you to know is that, there is always, ALWAYS another perspective to every story. Don’t embrace the obvious. Maybe, just maybe, things aren’t always what they seem.

The Rising

By the doorstep

I saw a derelict limb

One belonged to a wounded

From a battle of survival,

Longed serenity

Lost peace.

Her child sat wailing for his broken mother

Holding her heart in his palms

“Rise my little one, beyond the acrimony and neglect!”

She cried.

He stood

Holding her broken body by his chest

Glorifying the skies for the grace

He lingered

Buried her beneath the primrose bed

Watered

Blooms rose nurtured in her wisdom

As he, with her vigor

Marched forth to the oceans of quietude    

Farewell

Beyond a world of fairy-tales,

Of innocence, of delight,

Buried in his rusty treasure tin

Lies his childhood

Those striking eyes

Tearing with maturity past years

Reddened with drugs, lust

No longer will he return

No longer will he return

He smiles unknowingly that before daybreak

He must bid farewell to his youth

Quicker than the days of a butterfly

His youth will disease

No longer will he return

No longer will he return

Truth or Descrimination? You Decide!

Before I begin I wish to state that the content of this article is purely my personal opinion that was fed on my experiences and encounters over the years. If any of you are offended by it, I apologize in advance. But I am a strong believer (and I try to do whatever necessary to stick to my belief) of the power of equality and the freedom of speech. Thus, I use this space (calligraphy for thought indeed) to forward my ideas about an issue that evokes a great deal of empathy and sorrowful confusion in me, an issue that several of my Islam friends and I have painstakingly discussed for hours, an issue that small groups of women in Arab are fighting about and an issue that is constantly being debated in nations that are advocates of freedom – discrimination against Islamic women. 

A male Islam friend of mine was recently talking about the ‘modernization’ of the Arabic burqa. Well, elimination of it altogether where many Islam girls nowadays choose the ‘unconventional’ kurtha top, jeans and a shawl instead of wearing the former. Another friend publicly told a young girl off because she was ‘too friendly’ with male colleagues, whilst the same friend danced with a non-Islam colleague wearing a tube dress at a company formal.  The logic of this I do not understand. I also do not have the mind scope to process how spelling out rules to a group of imperfect humans by another group of humans is the right thing to do. Didn’t God create all living beings equal? How is it that a man can wear shorts on a hike and a woman is expected to cover her arms on a scorching summer day? Why is it that women who reveal a modest amount of skin are labeled provocative (I’m am not talking about provocative standards in the West mind you, I am not talking of anything close to what Lady Gaga wears in her videos!) while men can go for a swim in a public pool? Aren’t the good and the bad, a state of mind? Shouldn’t we stone snobs and jealous women and liars and perverted men instead of those who choose to harmlessly deviate from standards?

The provoking point for this theme of my article is nothing I’ve against the Islam religion. In fact, I am marveled by the constant faith Islamic people hold. The number of people that walk out of a Mosque Friday afternoon each week is a sign of the commitment these men have for their faith. The Koran is a beautiful book that I haven’t got the privilege to read cover to cover yet. But like stated in the first bit, the experiences I sometimes have are ones that get me thinking and wondering why some are incapable of accepting their very faults. I’m sure that I would receive some defensive comments upon this piece as well. 

Islamic men expect to marry a beautiful, religious, young virgin. I believe (with my limited knowledge and a slightly larger common sense) that the same ought to be expected of men too. But the unfortunate experience I have had as a non-Islam associating with dozens of Islam men and women are that some men are fans of Pitbull, whilst they expect their female counterparts to abstain from shaping their eyebrows. ‘Natural beauty is a worthy woman’s asset’ they say, yet Pitbull’s curvy Latinos are entertaining? 

Religions are beautiful communities (even though, in the ideal world, everyone would be good with no religious commitments or all people would be equally united under one universal faith. Maybe this would happen in another couple of centuries when the human morale is advanced enough to not need rules to do the right thing, but right now external disciplining is essential for humans just like it is for a kitten who steals food from the table or a puppy who chews on slippers). They were born to improve the quality of life of humans and not oppress a part while exhilarating another. If one wishes to follow a teaching steadfastly, they should give the others the freedom to choose their own way rather than discriminating them for what they choose to do or choose not to do. I’m sure that all of you will wholeheartedly agree that all religions were created for love and care, for creating a safer society and a enriching atmosphere. 

I admire Islam girls who choose to wear the burqa or commit to religious responsibilities and marry the man their families choose for them and still be happy. In fact, I carry a great deal of respect towards them, for I can never obediently agree with the choices others make for me. I guess I am very unruly in that department. But my concern is for intelligent women who wish to peruse their PhD’s, but are forced to marry and produce children rather than going abroad and studying; my concern is for girls whose brothers do not let them talk with boys in public while they date non-Islam girls all their teens to ultimately marry a ‘pure’ Islam woman of a good breed; my concern is for girls who have made the mistake (If I recall right, it is human to make mistakes) of falling in love before they should and get battered by their families for it. Above all, my concern is for those who expect women to follow their religion perfectly, while men – the makers of the conditions and the implementers of the law – are openly doing things clearly against religion. If it is not OK for a girl to post pictures of her uncovered face on “Facebook” (I’m sure Zuckerberg and the gang named the site ‘Facebook’ for a reason), it should not be OK for boys to post school trip photos with swimming trunks on. If a girl who has an innocent love affair is not ‘clean’ enough to marry, men should not be allowed to date a dozen different women before they formally settle down. 

Well, pardon me for repeating the words ‘should’ and ‘it is not ok’ because all this is a simple matter of self worth. If one wishes the world to do the so called truthful thing, that one should do it first. Being offended or defensive against those of us (because we judge on what we experience) who point these illogicalities is not the answer because that would simply prove the lack of openness that all educated individuals should carry. But reflecting upon the image that a group presents to those who are outside and forming it in such a way that the undistorted image is communicated is essential. If you have gaudy silver chains around your neck and tattoos covering every inch of skin and do not want people to mistakenly judge you for a delinquent, you should show them that you are a timid, kind hearted person in spite of your fashion sense; if you wish to disprove the fact that blondes are dumb, then be smart. The theory is pretty simple. Practice what you preach because what you practice is what the world will judge you on. 

I wish to repeat the fact that my opinion was aroused by a couple of dozen experiences I’ve had. If you are a man of religion who practices every deed to the best of your ability, I respect you. But if you don’t, you are just human – join the club! But if you are one that sits around not doing the right thing or not even trying but expecting others to, it is your strange behavior that scar the reputation of a whole bunch of people that belong to your group. This is true in the case of all stereotypes, all condemnations. No stereotype was born out of the blue. Never the less, whichever group you belong to religious or not, racial or not, sexual orientation or food choice, robbing away another’s freedom ought to be unethical, shouldn't it?

Manual for Working in a Local Government Office

I started a job at a pleasant place

Dozen trees, a fat cat, a grouchy pup, people and all,

“Where you from?” asked one, the one who showed me around

“Where your mother?” asked another, a petite one

“What you do? What you eat? Man, is that gum?”

“Any pets? No boyfriend? Shoes how much?” asked another.

At first I wished to tell them off

Or boast or joke, say “shoes 11,000 dollars you bum!”

But on my first day I had to be nice

If not they’ll chop me off and my career they’d dice.

I knew so ‘cuz I told one from my previous place “Yum, Italian mice”

When he asked me what I was eating with my lunch time rice.

Next day, he screwed up all my appointments, you see?

And complained to the boss I kicked his weak knee.

It was such a hassle to tell those new ones

Of my history, family, hobbies, habits and pets

Why people get so nosey I don’t understand

It maybe because they’re scared maybe I look like a criminal brand

“Wear your hair up in a bun. Don’t apply lipstick or paint your thumb”

“No sunglasses when you are traveling far”

“Flat shoes ok? Get permission from your Ma!”

“Say ‘sir’ when you talk to your boss”

“You want PhD? What about children? Your loss!”

“Why women want degree when they are going to marry?”

“Oh, child! Why you questioning about the salary?”

“Don’t wrap your meal in tin foil, such a waste!”

“Tell your clients to stand by the gate”

It took me months to process all these laws

Of a ‘typical’ institution, full of mules! (Oh yes I’m mad!)

Why not leave me to be and my lose hair for a while,

Let me do my job well and live life fine?

No, I don’t weigh a ton; no I haven’t colored my hair

Why is my parent’s origin such a curious affair?

 So, I have a pet snake, does it interfere with my job?

Do my pointy shoes make my typing any slow?

Or my lipstick make my brain waves blur?

Seriously, people should stop being such snobs

And expect all else to stick to the so-called norms

So long as I look decent and do my job

It shouldn’t bother them, they should (Polite request) shut up!