Premature

A smile floats from a silent dream
Like a six-winged snowflake, falling
Music flows through a waning night
I listen to a quiet heartbeat's calling

Sweet melodies flow through empty space
And we stand still in a timeless world
A secret wish fights to escape my heart
And rest in another exposed, unfurled

Two hands toil for that silent dream
And a heart is hopeful, though weary
Two unknown eyes in soft moonlight
I imagine, asleep in innocent reverie

Signing in

I have not blogged in a while, for which this is no apology, but a finely brewed cocktail of the silent thoughts that stirred within me during the past three months. Last June, I flew back home after spending two years in exile and returned just over a week ago. Perhaps I should start where my holiday ended.

Seated in the departure lounge at the Bandaranaike Airport with a friend who was also getting back with me – perhaps our sad faces being starkly contrasted by the excited throng of 125 senior scouts making their way to a jamboree in England – I looked up to see three supersonic fighter jets of the Sri Lanka Air Force take off with a thundering roar. I had dreamt of becoming a fighter pilot all my life and for a moment, that dream came back. As they banked shapely soon after taking off, I imagined the G-forces and the thrill of riding in one of those cockpits. As we strolled through the duty free shops, I wondered what their target was, as my friend commented about how he would dread to be a terrorist in whatever place they were going to attack in a few minutes. I briefed him on the science of it and that ordinary terrorist combatants on the ground don’t even hear supersonic aircraft until well after they have bombed them and turned around to go back.

Forty five minutes later, it was time to board our plane and an hour later as our aircraft was taxiing on to the runway, the three jets landed just ahead of us and almost magically disappeared in a few seconds. It was then that I realised the depth of what I had witnessed during that hour – that someone not too far away would have lost a parent, a child, a spouse or sibling, a loved one, a friend. They will cry, mourn, there will be a funeral if they could find the mortal remains of someone who was alive at the time I saw the jets taking off, but was dead an hour later. Out of the hundreds of friends and loved ones I met during the last seven and a half weeks, some will call it a victory over terrorism and rejoice, some will at least hurt even though they may not mourn the loss of a person who speaks their language and worships the same God. Some will not even know.

It is not easy – even after a week – for me to describe, let alone define what I felt then. What I felt about the country and people I was leaving behind, the faces of loved ones, the warmth of friends, the smiles of strangers, the emerald green treetops and gleaming paddy fields that never seem to change, the narrow cratered roads and the rickety vehicles that whistle past on them… but I had never seen a supersonic jet take off on a sortie before, so that image never came up in my mind when I thought about home… but it does now…

Waiting by the riverside

I sat by the river and dreamt of the night
When you held my hand and I held you tight
A million stars fell down from their height
Yet the world seemed brighter
For a forlorn old fighter
And a kiss is all I remember
Of that night

I ran up the mountain just to hear your voice
Didn’t know how anyone could my heart so entice
You know there’ll never be too high a price
That I would pay just to hear
You whisper in my ear
And to see a happy tear
In your eyes

The wind blows promises from a far away place
I imagine the smile on your pretty little face
When we dance hand in hand
And dream of things grand
Our hearts will keep pace
And guide us through this maze
And I’ll wait for you by the riverside-
As we navigate time’s twisted pathways

Today

I picture your smile
And hear the laughter
On a distant isle
Oceans crash in-between
I imagine your voice
At the edges of ever after
And descend those brown eyes
To a place I’ve never been

Respice finem (6)

I grew up in a nation at war. I was only a couple of years old when violence and death became a part of daily life in this land, so I have no memories of peaceful coexistence among people in my own country. I belong to a generation that has grown up, taking all this violence and social divisions for granted as facts of life. I no longer have any illusions about the defects that plague the western world. However, as someone who grew up with a civil war, it took me a flight out into a different way of life in a different land, to understand how the war has changed us as people; our culture and values and the extent to which we have come to accept violence in its many forms in our society and in our lives. It took me only a few months of solitude, to realize how I have been taught to undervalue ‘human life’, by a war that reached my life through newspapers and the TV in the form of a daily death toll. Yet lives alone are often an inadequate expense, in a nation struggling to buy freedom and peace by pawning its soul. As a nation, so many of us have committed our liberties, dignity, honour, pride and even our very lives in a fight to break free of the shackles in our minds that divides us.

Australia it is a young and resourceful nation; its society is one of the richest, not only in terms of natural beauty and resources or the size of its economy, but also in terms of cultural diversity. As a result of what I have seen in my own country, I was in a position to appreciate the beautiful and harmonious blend of people from many different cultures and backgrounds where I hardly experienced anything that reminded me that I belonged to a minority. Yet I also realised that it is only the idealist in me that demanded a world that was free of hatred and unjust prejudices. There will always be those who will judge me before they know me, and some of those judgements will be based on the colour of my skin, the words I use to describe God or how I accent my words. I felt sad when racial violence marred the beautiful golden beaches of Sydney in the summer of 2005, but the people on Melbourne decided that day, to give hi5’s to strangers irrespective of the colour of their skin or the accent in their speech. It reminded me something I had learnt back home, that the world is indeed an amazing place that I could never tire of, because of how even destruction and violence can inspire reconstruction and peace.

I did not get the chance to travel much during my modest student life, but I have also seen enough of the world’s landscape to know that I would never be too tired to climb a mountain, wade across a river or look down from the edge of a cliff and marvel at its beauty. There is more land and relatively less people in Australia and therefore plenty of wide spaces to roam. The vast open spaces in its landscape always appealed to me because no mater where I am, it is never too hard to track the Milky Way on a clear night, stretching from one end of the horizon to the other. There are plenty of clear nights for me to lie down on a little tuft in the middle of a park and count shooting stars to my hearts content and the ocean is never too far away for a game of tap-rugby on the beach with friends or a quiet stroll.

In the rare but memorable occasions when we drove out from the city on impulse out into the countryside and sometimes even beyond, we came across an arid landscape that seemed harsh and dull on my first glance through the windows of a car. But the desert is a sacred place and it was not until I had finished my studies that I was ready to make my pilgrimage into its heart. It was a place where I completely lost the sense of independence I had worked so hard to gain over the years, because the desert made me feel helpless like no other place had done before. It made me rely so much on all the elements of nature that mankind has grown proud enough to think we can control and made me look at a dew drop hanging at the edge of a blade of grass from a whole new perspective. It opened my mind to the mystery of ‘life’ itself and being there alone in the middle of a desert. It was a spiritual experience hhere I met God face-to-face because the desert reminded me of my inadequacy and helplessnes and the reason why I always believed in a higher power.

Here in Australia, I have not yet seen the particular hue of deep, bright and refreshing green that I had taken for granted, looking down from the slopes of Kadugannawa on my weekly train rides from Kandy to Colombo. I have not yet found the cool winds like those that blow across the Kandy Lake or the same sweetness in a juicy pineapple. Yet, the moon is a lot bigger when it shoots up from the purple horizon and the night sky seems to have more stars in it now than I had seen before. The sea breeze still brings with it, memories from a place that I could never leave and of people who live on that distant shore.

So after a reasonably fulfilling education, I am still struggling to find my place in the world. My mind is eager to explore the hidden corners of the world but my heartstrings bind me to my home; the land, its people and the sincere smiles on their faces that I have not found elsewhere. As the hand of time is about to turn over a new chapter in my life, I look forward to the rest of my life with optimism. Looking back, the certificates, awards, diplomas and degrees I have accumulated mean less, now that I have achieved them, but it is the excitement and hope that I have preserved within, that inspires me to dream and live life on impulse and faith - the way it’s meant to be lived, because I know now that it will only make sense looking back.