Entries from February 2011 ↓

Yearning for Spring

සුදු පාට ගවුමක්
වරලසේ මලක්
තණ බිමක දිගාවී
කියවන්න පොතක්
වසන්තය සැනින්
යළි එන්න ඉතින්
ඉවසීම සිතින්
ගිහින් මුළුමනින්.

Mind knows

Courage or strength
never had is not
other’s fault
though, sometimes, mind is like a pot
With a narrow neck
Nothing comes out
Only boils inside.
Who left first is
not a real question
If heart still aches
with what’s left within.

Big Words/බරපතළ වචන

Big Words are for private use
depth of the ocean and sky hues
are for the others
from different planets.
බරපතළ වචන
පුද්ගලික පරිහරණයට
සාගරේ ගැඹුර,ආකහේ වර්ණ
වෙන ලෝකවල වෙන අයට.

Birthdays

It’s my birthday today. My grandmother was told by an astrologer if I was born after the 8th of January my mother will lose her mind. My grandma, quite an intelligent woman though not formally educated, knew a lot about post natal depression- helped my mother a to be a happy healthy new mother not letting one more of her girls to suffer by the sad mental condition. My mother had me on the 7th . Didn’t go crazy. She still says I was a healthy, pretty and a good baby who made little noise. When my mother tells this story my youngest brother jokes that she is mistaken. He says the astrologer actually meant that she would go insane if she had me before the 8th. He implies that my mother is insane anyways. It’s a joke!
I remember those cakes from Pagoda or Green Cabin, the dresses and the photos taken at the Seagulls’ studio until the time went things bad.
My mother is funny in many ways. She rang me yesterday to make sure that she is not mixing up the dates because of the time difference. Today she rang to wish –to give me the blessing from her thirty two million gods. Tomorrow she will call again to remind me that it’s her birthday. Then again on the 10th to remind me, my little brother’s.
My mom tells a lot of stories about the best years she spent with my father and us babies. I remember most too. I was told that my father was overwhelmed by the news of my birth-a baby girl and slept in the bus halt that night in front of the Castle Street hospital because he didn’t want to go home. My parents were young, naïve and in love at the time. After my parents got separated when I was just 13, I was anxious, disappointed and stressed but mostly angry about the non-conflict divorce they chose subtly silencing my teenage voice leaving me in a confused situation. But my father never forgot my birthday until the last three years of his life. He sent me cards written in French followed by phone calls apologizing for not being able to find a card in English in Montreal. We talked hours on the phone. I made him laugh a lot. Every time he ended the conversation in the same manner. He said not to have a lot of kids. However added how much he loves me and my brothers and also to love my children more than anything else in this world. On his birthday three years before his death I rang him to wish but only found out that he left his apartment and work place and us without leaving a trace. I was furious. I wowed not to forgive. I told my good aunt that this is another stunt of my never growing up father.
I wish I knew he was suffering from depression, losing his memory at a rapid speed and battling alcoholism. It is true what they show on tv- depression hurts a lot.
Today I miss him a lot. His French birthday cards, and phone calls and long lectures over the phone. In my heart, I treasure two birthday gifts I received in my life more than any other birthday gifts. Both are red in colour. It’s my first Sinhala-English dictionary dressed with a red cover and a red dress. Both suit me- ‘the me’ nobody sees from outside. My father is dead now. And I’m dead to many people. According to the religion I believe in death can only be avoided by avoiding birth. It’s hard work.
Whenever I tell someone I’m 30 my mother protests and so do the kids. My mother says she is not mistaken about the year I was born. Then my children ask ‘How you can be 30 every year?”. My husband winks and get everyone to agree with that number.
I got calls and emails today. The first one is from my parents- in- law who have never missed my birthday for the last ten years. Usually my husband forgets the day. My mother in law would laugh every year and tells me “ Puthey, I lived with thaththa for 30 something years, he forgets every year. But they are good men.” I know my mother in law is not justifying her son’s absent mind. She is a good woman who loves me and is trying to make me not feel bad on my birthday. I love her and it’s nobody’s business. This year he remembers. I am glad but not too excited. I’m getting old and soon will be dead.
Yesterday I read a poem ‘Bee Cultivation’ written by Vihanga K. Perera. Then he told me to check on the song ‘like a rolling stone’. Yes I know how it feels to be a rolling stone- to be on my own as a complete unknown with no direction. I felt it, when I was about 17 when my father told me to learn to solve my own troubles. It was the time I started to rebel to get some attention from my parents and thought to punish them for separating. He left a hole in my heart that day. But just 13 days before his death I hugged him and patched that hole. I told him that I only remember the good thing he had done for me. He smiled like a baby. My parents gave me life and taught me the values of humanity. I am grateful. But birth is the number one suffering. I wish I will be born less times before I reach ‘Nirvana’. A year ago my good friend told me that there is nothing like ‘Nirvana button’ even if there is such thing, no one would press. I agree. I want to spend many birthdays until my kids grow up. Then bring on the ‘Nibbhana button’.

Note: I love this stanza of the poem written by Lord Byron on one of his birthdays:
Tis time this heart should be unmoved
Since others it hath ceased to move
Yet though I cannot be beloved
still let me love.



No Condition is Permenant!

අලුත් දළු පීදෙන්න
තාම සීතල වැඩියි
ළා ඉරට ඉඩ දෙන්න
වළාකුළු කළු වැඩියි
ඒ උනත් පුංචි මල්
පිපෙණු ඇත සිනාසී
සිසිර කල කිසි රටෙක
සදා කාලික නැතී.