Landing on my island

Memories of landing in Colombo in the seventies.

I tighten my seatbelt as the Air Ceylon plane starts its bit-by-bit descent. I see an archipelago covered in green from the window of the DC-8 aircraft. Green everywhere on land. It is such a drastic change from where I fly from, from the deserts of Dubai. I continue peering through the window, not taking my eyes off the view. The shiny blue sea with sandy beaches on one end envelops the long-curved lagoon. Coconut groves cover the green landscape. This is like the jungles of the Amazon. Houses with red-tiled roofs sparsely dot the coconut groves and plantations.

There is no arid desert here — no dunes anywhere except on the sandy beaches adjoining the lagoon. A few fishing boats ply the lagoon and the blue sea. From above, everything looks small, houses, roads, cars, buses, the occasional bullock carts and fishing boats.

I see two aircraft parked on the tarmac — one BOAC and the other an Aeroflot. A whitewashed control tower and a white windsock jot the runway. The aircraft finally comes to a halt. I walk down the rickety steps and enter the airport building.

In the terminal building, everyone seems to know each other. The airport has been run down compared to the pristine Dubai airport where I boarded the flight. White uniformed customs officers stare at my oversized luggage when it finally arrives. At last, I am a big man, an adult returning from overseas with goodies for the family. Porters jolt to carry the packages for me, for they are too heavy. Everything seems dark, the lights are dim, and people are way darker than where I came from in Dubai. Everything seems different and unique, although I lived away from my island only for eight months.

The thought of being home, in my own country, brings happy thoughts. Finally, I am home for two weeks to spend Christmas with my family.

My father, mother and kid brother are at the airport. They embrace me, kissing me on my forehead and cheeks.

I get into the car, a black VW Beetle driven by Uncle Armstrong, my father’s friend and our neighbour. There is no air-conditioning in the car. The atmosphere is humid; my skin takes time to get used to it. I sit between my mother and kid brother in the back seat. My father is in the passenger seat. My mother has brought coffee in a flask and is offering it to me. My tummy is full of inflight food and drinks from the 3–1/2 hour flight. I do not want to disappoint my mother, so I drink a cup. Homegrown coffee tastes way different to the Nescafe I drink in Dubai.

Going home is so pleasing. I am being transported to being a son, a brother again. I know this is short, from 20th December to 3rd January. Just two weeks; that’s all the leave I could squeeze from my work. It was my reward for the hard work in the last few months. This is a limited, defined and contained holiday. I am determined to enjoy every minute of it. My folks deserve it.

I pass buses and large crowds in bus shelters and shops. Many churches with their Roman architecture dot the main road. Finally, almost an hour later, we arrive home. Uncle Armstrong invites me to his home. I will take up the offer and visit him in a day or two, perhaps to see his four daughters on the pretext of thanking him for the ride.

The local temperature suits me. Instead of the desert heat, I am again exposed to the tropical December breeze in my familiar home. I look at my home, the home I grew up in. I see everything differently, in a distinct light. This is where I dreamt of childhood dreams of adult existence. What will I fit this house with for my parents?

It is nighttime. I yearn for a bath at my water well. It is much better than a rushed shower in my apartment in Dubai. I gather a towel, and run to the water well in our garden. and strip under cover of darkness. I immerse myself in cold water.

I have arrived home. I feel ecstatic.

It feels so good to be home again with my parents.

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