Waft of burning cedar filled the air, punctured only by broken scent
of trunks of pine. At last, an evening goaded by rest and peace, I embraced the
full moon floating brightly above my flowing hair. I sauntered up and down the
grassy hill to until feeling my feet swollen, I walked unevenly to the couture
grass lawn, next only to middle-class residence that had served as my abode for
three days now. “Be staying here for the next five months or so,” I said to
myself. “This place should remind me of home, it is where my thoughts shall
bloom,” I murmured. With a book resting between my arm and chest, I got myself
into a corner, pulled out an old maybe dingy couch, then enthusiastically
dropped myself like a bomb. Boom! Just like that, I have built, literally, my niche
in Sri Lanka.
12:00
midnight. With unobstructed silence, I began poring over page upon page of this
tiny crimson-covered book by Grisham. The plot was engaging, so were the words
he used to describe each event. I could feel the pain and the twist, even the
angular cirrhosis, of a life gone mad. Grisham is really good at picturing
people. “The man is a torturer, a savage,” in whispers, I briefly described the
hero who was slowly but surely turning into a villain. He represented whom I
resented back, well, home.
Bong!
Bong! Prack! Prack! Prack! The successive volleys pulled myself back to
Colombo. I know that sound! Know it very well. It is embedded in my mind,
in my life. Prackpakaprack prack prack prack! Bang Bang Bang! It is so near,
so close - I could hear the shouts of men – to my home. It is the sound of
gunfire - from long firearms. My heartbeat quickened with the sound of
it. My senses intensified as they upped their ante for any sound of stray
bullet. I stifled some nervous laughs at the thought of coming to a foreign
country just to die. Such a paradox. A few minutes passed. Then silence.
People
have woken up. I hear shouts from the neighbors. Probably checking if everyone
was okay. Well I hope everyone is okay. I hear cars starting up. The
sounds now intrude into the eerie silence after the spate of gunfire. But I
take comfort in the thought that there is still life. I can still hear the
world, I can feel my heartbeat, I can still breathe the air. I am supposed to
be in the posh side of the city – within a stone’s throw away from the Prime
Minister’s Office, the Russian Embassy, the UAE embassy and other foreign
embassies. This is supposed to be a ‘peaceful’, ‘secured’ place.
Only
a handful lingered to kibitz. Most have gone back to their homes, ready to
resume the sleep that was rudely interrupted. But not a soul seems to want to
protest what happened just moments ago. I am in Sri Lanka. Should I have
expected this? Perhaps not, not here, not anywhere, not ever. My only wish –
whatever happens – bring me home.
“Pero
es bello amar al mundo
Con
los ojos
[1] Otto Rene Castillo’s “Frente al balance, mañana.”
Translated as“But it is beautiful to
love the world through the eyes of those who have not yet been born.”
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