Mutterings*

Listening to stories from Kandy, how buildings, homes, and livelihoods of innocent people were looted and set on fire by “mobs” was awful. Suddenly we were all reduced to the racial categories on the birth certificate as fear and uncertainty took over. There was CCTV camera footage of homes and alleyways with burning objects hurled at them and screenshots of horrific social media comments. Videos showed army tanks rolling down the streets in the city of the Temple of the Tooth. Then, there were stories of the dead, used as accusations and justifications for the civil unrest. Al Jazeera aired a news clip of an elderly man as he stood in front of the smouldering flames and debris of what used to be his shop; he told the reporter Sri Lanka was still a beautiful country. I cried in disbelief with my agonised friend on the phone worried about her parents as I heard myself utter desperate, powerless words, “don’t worry, you have us.” At that moment, I felt the price we were p...

The many fallen white tree trunks rest on the empty river bed, decaying slowly, yet, retaining its former glory. The stones and rocks on this dead riverbed are all white, grey, and reddish toned. They all have the same rounded soft edges formed over years of water flow. The relatively smaller river that is before me is joined by other branches of random streams; the water itself is a turquoise blue tinged grayish color. It is crispy cold. The water gushes down, drowning out everything else around; an endless gush, as millions of tiny water particles merrily trip and fall over thousands of rocks underneath; dancing along the way. I imagine this water must be melting glaciers from Mount Rainier.  Right in front of me, I look up to see the colours of the sun setting behind a giant mountain. I can see why the hiking trail here is called the Wonderland Trail. This water stream is a mere 1/10th of its original size, leaving the river bed rocks and a slightly dampish sand that ...

The feeling of numbness that echoes through each bone of our bodies. A low rumble of a shudder, a cry, a piercing of the heart in a loop of despair. Suffering. Questions,  hopes, and fears played over and over in the brain. An unbearable longing for a loved one that brings you to your knees. Musings on loss, of the mundane  everyday   afterwards . Of the absolute nothingness and horror of sudden goodbyes that are filled with words unsaid. Hugs ungiven, and memories not quite cherished until you realize they were all. Silent tears threatening to spill at random moments of the day.  Trickling down  on to  an already damp pillow... 

Trick = One day, we disappear. People everywhere. Loved ones, family and friends, acquaintances,  neighbours , strangers. Treat = Happiness. Love. Contentment.  Laughter, community, traditions and simple rituals. Insider jokes, memories. Secrets. The treat, easily becoming a simple trick.  Might as well be a dream, lost in the yesteryears of the corner most echoes of our brains. Life continues the trick and treating of one another.

The soothing cacophony of crows can be a rare insight  in  to  something deep. I'm not sure exactly what that is right this moment. But I know it is. I find the thought to be soothing. Crows conjure up memories of garbage cans and  left over  food. It also reminds me of YouTube videos on the "Secret life of crows." Google it. You'll see. Crows share food. They call upon each other when they spot anything to eat. They also pass down memory and secrets to their offspring. So, generations of crows can learn from their elders. Knowledge for posterity. Very human like. Misunderstood creatures of darkness, these peculiar creatures, they have so much character. Most humans misunderstand, our nature is to fear all things black. Crows. Cats. Darkness. It's a  pity,  because I am in awe of these wild feathery, shiny beaded creatures that are so adaptable to their environmental conditions. Such clever beings. Next time, listen to their sermons. W...

At times, it hurts. As tears pour down your cheek Stubbornly irritating the eye scratching the eyeball an angry red Sometimes, it is a wish Gently laid on a wrist Blown away with whispers of hope At times, it is beauty. Loning for shiny black curls At times, peace and calm As you pray to the universe At times, signs of aging. Turning grey, then silvery As the years become numbered And they have been a witness They are the glue. Holding the eyes tightly shut The eternal rest When they close one last time A million memories turn to dust Having softened the tears Over the years As they fell

My days are blurry, these last few weeks. Maybe they were months. I can't really remember anymore. I battle with insomnia induced by caffeinated drinks at unholy hours of the day. Once a tea drinker, now a hopeless coffee addict. I think I battle slight fits of depression and anxiety too. Who knows. I push these things aside for my life post-thesis writing. I play chess and learn arabic obsessively, anything to procrastinate writing a thesis. I have also started thinking in my dreams. My best ideas,  swear, come to me at my waking hours. Between the few feet from getting out of bed to switch the hateful alarm off, to walking to the sink to wash my face. I have allergies too. Detestable unruly runny nose, constantly sore and red from wiping. I sniffle a lot too. I am caffeinated right now, too. A mocha. Did I mention it also adds quite a bit of calories to my otherwise non exercise receiving body. My cheeks are fatter, I swear. I miss my family. I miss my grandmother who i...