Requiem for an Island

 I’d like to remember those halcyon days of the emerald isle where one never had to read catastrophic headlines which screamed “Sri Lanka is burning”; “Curfew imposed”; “Death toll rises”

 The Sri Lanka of my memory was genuine, sun-filled land of rolling hills and meandering roads, of white-washed stupas and incense-filled air; of temples, temple flowers and lanterns swaying through the balmy air. The haunting throb of the drums at Perahera fills my ears even now, Kandy! Colombo! Gampola! stalks the land.

 Gampola! Nestling amidst hills- a tranquil, little hill town like many others of its ilk- of steep, sleepy roads ad old houses. The pains of growing up tempered by the untroubled air, among the non-militant Goonewardene’s, Fernando’s, Alwises, and Pelpola’s and still more no aggressive Kumaraswamy, Selvanayagam’s and Muthunayagams.

 Days of togetherness! Of treks along hillsides, resting near miniature waterfalls and like all children everywhere, sharing the joys of fruity loot or jointly shivering and quaking in fear at the scary walk to school by the side of the cemetery. Could it be that the tranquillity of my childhood days has really been desecrated? Could it be that Tamil, Singhalese and Malayalee children will no longer play hop step and jump on the long flight of steps that once led to a mythical King’s treasury upon Hill Street? Will they no longer be able to peep in fearful anticipation of seeing the ghosts of the Dutch descendants of the Jantzes or Stockman’s through the lace curtained windows overlooking manicured lawns and prim hedges?

 When “I summon up remembrances of things past”. I cannot recollect a more exciting event in our world than perhaps the great flood, where Barton’s Dam gave away. The homes were left wide open to swirling waters, remained intact except for the damage done by swirling waters, timely help was extended. We stayed, 45 families, in a sprawling mansion of a Sinhalese friend, and were fed by a Muslim merchant who opened his godown and poured out a cornucopia of good things. Mothers chipped in to help, and it was hey day for us children. But it seems those dear days are dead and gone.

 “The woods are lovely dark and deep” but no longer safe for a stroll when season is spring

 It was a good time for both grown-ups and children, Christmas, Wesak, Ramzan, and Pongal were exciting days for us. Hovering in my memory are those delicious trays of sweetmeats, covered in snowy white pillows, lace-edged tray covers, that were sent as gifts from house to house. Oh! That delicious feeling of anticipation! No racial overtones there!

 Holidays saw our home filled to the seams with friends of all groups, many of them staying on for lunch to taste Kerala food. Many was the time we raided the meat safe to assuage those in between meal time pangs with bibinque. Kokis or kallu dodohl. It was a rampage with a big difference.

 Peradeniya gardens! So, exciting a botanical wonderland for school children and picnickers. I wonder whether I would ever again be fortunate to see the giant Wanda in full bloom in Orchard house-with no fear of being attacked. The typical relaxation was to wander in the well-laid out gardens or to browse with a book ‘neath the shade of some exotic tree or to stand amazed in awe at the ancient travellers palm with the names form a century ago carved on its fronds. The spirit of those days is gone forever’.

 Nuwera Eliya, Mount Laviniya, Trincomalee.. names that conjure up a thousand many splendored images. Images that now lay shattered. Mythical sirens will no longer sing hauntingly on the coral strands off the shores of Sri Lanka, for the mood of the serendip has been lost forever among the gunfire and blazing human hearts.