Home Again
A visit to his old country brings back memories long past.
Every time I go to Sri Lanka, I have this packing list that I religiously follow. It contains linen pants, shirts, cotton and robust walking shoes. I make it a point to travel light to Lanka to remind me of the value of simplicity.
I am partly climatised when I land in Colombo, having stopped in Singapore. The smells, the weather, the greenery, and the base colours are the polar opposite of Sydney. People and their surroundings are pale to dark brown. The air I breathe is different. Despite living outside Sri Lanka for nearly half a century, I am home in the land of my birth, my old country. I feel normal immediately. I am ecstatic.
I navigate the exit logistics in Colombo airport and am met by the driver my friend has arranged to pick me up. We drive through the highway and land at my friend’s house in a spiralling suburb in Colombo. One horn sound from the driver at the massive black gate opens instantly as if by a Google assistant’s voice command. Instead, a grinning watchman dressed in a brown uniform opens the gate.
Jayamanne, the helper cum butler out to help me, ensures I am comfortable. He brings me a freshly brewed cup of tea. I drink it, enjoying its aromatic taste that one can get only in Sri Lanka. Immediately my mind goes back to the fusion fresh tea, immersed with condensed milk that I drank in my teenage years during my school holidays in the hills of this blessed land. I am told that breakfast will be ready in half an hour.
My friend has arranged all my living logistics. He is my friend since my teenage years. I must have impressed him as a friend when we both had nothing. Or is it simply Sri Lankan hospitality to be so generous, particularly to old friends? We studied together fifty years ago. I ponder his generosity and kindness, a trait Sri Lankans are blessed with.
I have a lovely room, a comfortable wooden bed covered in crisp bedsheets. It has an adjoining ensuite, built to a grand style. Everything is plush, with green plants in the garden and natural-looking grass. I am the sole occupant of this large house, bar the helpers there to look after me.
I have a quick shower; the water coming through the showerhead smells different; I think of the days, in my free boyhood spirit, I bathed from the well, pulling water from a bucket on a husk rope, drinking half of the bucket of water in between those cold showers. It is a crispy feel, better than today’s highly marketed spring water.
I change into my linen clothes, a must in tropical Sri Lanka, and walk towards the large dining room. Jayamanne is preparing the table for my breakfast in a meticulous setting. I cannot resist and want to see the kitchen in the back of the house. I am met by the cook, who is dark and friendly. Rajendra smiles at me with his ultra-white teeth. An assistant is helping him. I peep into the stoves and observe how he cooks a lentil curry. Rajendran goes to extraordinary lengths to explain the cooking rituals in fluent Sinhala. I listen to him attentively. Rotis are already made and waiting to be served. Red-coloured sambal, oozing with freshly made coconut, is too tempting. I think of my time in my grandma’s kitchen, watching her make rotis, sambal and curries. Every ingredient is fresh, spices freshly ground, just like in the old days. I am reliving that experience now. My eyes swell thinking of my grandma in her beautiful wood fire kitchen, me sitting on a tiny stool watching her.
The morning sun appears through the lush trees outside. Despite this house being in the city, birds abound and are signing in a rhythm. A worker is sweeping the huge front yard. In between an Asian koel bird (කොහා) sings. I think of the mornings when I get up to the sound of koel birds and the neighbours’ cockbirds.
The driver is ready to take me to my auntie’s home. I am driven through the city in my friend’s black limousine by a uniformed driver.
We pass the Galle Face promenade in the heart of spiralling Colombo city. Young men are flying kites before the harsh sun hits town. I think of the days when my father took me onto this terrace to watch the sunset many decades ago. I think of my late teenage years in the seventies. I raced with friends on my Lambretta scooter on the same road track I am now being driven on. Sometimes on the wrong side of the road to beat them. I enjoyed my youthful bluster, sometimes recklessly, right here on the same soil in times past. That scooter had more value than my net worth back in the day. I am grateful for those experiences realised in my country of birth. I feel dewy-eyed thinking of those sentimental times.
All I hope for is for this part of Sri Lanka that is locked in my memory to be remembered. It can be imperfect and creaking but always memorable. It is nostalgically beautiful and brings tears to my eyes. I pine for the world I lost as a youngster.
Let that memory spell not be broken.
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe.
Images belong to the original copyright owners.
