The Aussie Hustle
A journey of roots and dreams
From Sri Lanka to Sydney: Luck, Life, and the Aussie hustle. Yeah, people from Sri Lanka, Dubai, or just around the corner in the suburbs might think I stumbled into a sweet deal, calling Sydney my home as an Aussie. Some say it’s luck. Well, call it what you want, but my journey has been a wild ride, not just some stroke of fortune.
Back in Sri Lanka, life was a joy. I revelled in a content upbringing, attending a private school. Our home was a social hub where relatives and guests relished my parents’ company, indulged in their culinary delights, and showered compliments my way. Friendship thrived in the daylight of schools, neighbourhoods, and churches and in the cool evenings when the world slowed down.
Having enjoyed a restful night, I made it a habit of promptly rolling my bedding. Perhaps to avoid incurring my mother’s stares. A quiet morning ensued to the sound of preaching on the radio and the garden birds, and the kitchen was busy with breakfast preparations underway. Hastening to the water well again, I attended to my morning routine — brushing my teeth and discreetly pissing in the expansive garden in the open air.
Days were serene, with minimal traffic on the gravel road, occasional bicycles, bullock carts, the odd car, and probing but kind neighbours. The night flickered with little oil lamps. Amidst parental laughter, we played games and told stories — simple pleasures that made for cherished memories.
The nightly ritual of a clandestine bath under the shroud of darkness was pure bliss. Waking before dawn, before the household stirred, was routine. Breakfast, a swift affair of bread, butter, Marmite, and coffee mixed with a raw egg, preceded my dash to the bus stand in seven minutes flat. The small village sparkled like gold, morning walks accompanied by the moist breeze through coconut trees and the flap of my white shirt.
In a blink, the transition from boyhood to manhood unfolded. Cigarettes instead of toffees passed between friends, secrets hidden away in my room. An apprenticeship saw clashes with senior workers and a disregard for societal norms.
An enticing job offer beckoned from Dubai, and without much foresight, I quit and left. Living fearlessly for a few years paved the way to a futureless existence. My life was never settled; I yearned for a fresh start.
Dubai became a new chapter, a shift from bus stands to airports, chasing planes instead of buses. Leaving behind tears and family, I aimed to be tough beyond home’s confines. The desire to live my life burned within me.
In my thirties, I hit the repeat button on life: I ditched comfy life in Dubai for a dose of ‘fair go’ and ‘fair dinkum’ in Australia. ‘Time for a fresh start, mate’.
Getting dispossessed early may sound like a recipe for chaos, but it is lovely. Wilful disruption is the way to go.
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