Look softly my darling
When you look at me
Be calm and be tender
As I take my leave
I want to remember
Your lovely face
Serene and peaceful
As I leave this place
Let us talk of things
That are close to our hearts
Of bittersweet endings
Of gentle new starts
Of faces and places
Those still here, those gone
Of tea-cozied rainy days
As I hum my last song
Look softly my dear one
When you look at me
Let your beautiful smile
Be the last thing I see
Located in the mountains of Central Sri Lanka, and about 30 kms from the city of Anuradhapura, lies the ancient Ritigala Buddhist monastery. Dating back two millennia, the monastic complex is an epic work of mindful architecture connected via a continuous, forest-hemmed stone walkway.
The 1.2 km hike begins at the office of the on-site branch of Department of Archeology of Sri Lanka close to the foot of the Banda Pokuna, an ancient man-made reservoir with a circumference of almost 400 metres. Erected right down to the base are stone steps that circle the entirety of the reservoir. Here visitors to the monastery possibly completed their ablutions before heading on towards one of the many Padhanaghara – double platform structures made from massive pieces of granite linked together by a stone bridge; these served as meditation spaces. There are over 60 such double platforms over 120 acres at Ritigala. Among these structures are also the vestiges of what was once a “hospital” complete with root grinding stones and Ayurvedic oil baths with sophisticated drainage systems; the foundations of “floating air conditioned” rooms; and ornately decorated urinals to remind one of the fickleness of power and glory.
We began our journey at the Banda Pokuna into this ancient realm held as it was in the benevolent arms of nature herself. As soon as we started walking up the granite pathway, we felt the aura around us shift; take on an ethereal feel. The place manifests a melancholic trance in which one becomes completely cloaked, experiencing each of its elements in vivid sensory detail: The murmuring forest, the life force of its roots underfoot, the iridescent salamanders flicking between the stones and the continuous pathway like a silver beacon to venues of meditation and peace.
Trees, some old as age itself, their serpentine roots traversing the forest floor as far as the eye can see, shade the path with their green verdancy. As we hiked uphill, the atmosphere continued to thrum with their primal energy as one ancient one whispered and its murmur was carried like an undulating wave through the rest of the grove. Then all would be quiet except for the chirr of the crickets and the chorus of a songbird. It felt like we were witnesses to the sharing of a sage old secret; the trees of Ritigala retelling it among themselves and then quieting down as 21st century humans hiked up its ancient trails. Then whispering it again, until one stops to listen; and then the pulse slows down as the heart beats to the gentle rhythm of the humming trees. If ever there was a place where one can SEE one’s feelings, this mystical pathway held in the embrace of the ancients is that place.
Serenity is everywhere. The scene is mesmeric. The trees continue to tell their tales in the sun dappled patterns that shimmer on the path and on our skins; like golden runes that speak of the most profound quietude and peace.
To stand there and to take all this in is like absorbing the quiet energy of all that the monsastery once embodied; the tread of thousands of devotees; their quiet meditation, their rhythmic chants and even the ascendency of their consciousness. One can almost see the ascetics of old and the seekers of calm walk up the steps, their spirit energy conjured up again by the gentle cantillation of the trees. The experience rouses in turn, awe and an overwhelming humility; an acute awareness of the smallness of the individual and the profoundness of the collective.
We came away from Ritigala cloaked in the magic of nature that has continued to keep its erstwhile history vibrating through its quadrangles, pillars and its meandering walkway. The Ritigala monastery is truly a mystical portal through time.
There was once a little sub
He was called Eleos*-Blue
His daddy had swum in world war One
His mummy in world war two
He had grown up being taught
That his role was to fight
To carry sailors in deep waters
Where there was zero light
His little body had been trained
To dive in extra deep
Sharks and squids and anglerfish
Would never make that trip
But in his tinny tiny heart
The little sub didn’t like
The grownup chore that they called war
He was a happy little tyke
When the admirals saw that he
Would beam with the purest joy
Everytime he was visited
By a little girl or boy
They took him to the water park
And put him in the pool
And there he still swims happily
There never was a sub so cool!
* Eleos: In ancient Athens, Eleos was the personification of mercy and compassion – the counterpart of the Roman goddess Clementia.
Showcased on the New Ink digital forum in Colombo on July 23rd 2022. Introducing my book of short stories “The Girl with the Paisley Dupatta” and reading an excerpt from the Sri Lankan section of the book: “Serendib Lodge”.
I look at the book
Have I read it before?
It’s a throng of short stories
My favourite genre
I took it from the shelf
In my own home
So it has to be one of the
For-sure-read tomes
Still, as I glanced
At the back cover blurb
Nothing jumped out
Not a line, not a word
I looked at its front
Multi shades of grey
The image glimmered
In its dusky array
I opened the book
I had to recall
A story, a plot twist
A mystery resolved
In the 267 pages
I held in my hand
So I started reading
Page one, it began:
That day Alisha
Looked up at the sky
The purples and blues
Looked terribly awry …
The rest of the story
Unwrapped itself
As I glanced through page two
Of the book from my shelf
Yes I had read it
The memory crept in
Of ETs and UFOs
And otherworldly things
Of skittering creatures
That had huge heads
Full of insidious plans
To make us all dead
Or not! Even in fiction
They were polite
Giving us choices
Being forthright
Choices! Forthrightness!
Now those are things
That are as alien now as
Well … human beings!
Laughing, I put
The Sci-Fi away
Our own lives were stranger
Than fiction these days
It’s your birthday today
And I wanted to say
That I wish I could see you
For a little while today
That your essence surrounds me
On all of my days
Even if you are a breath or eons away
That I love you
And I miss you everyday.
Even if my words limited as they are
While making their cosmic way to you
Should lose their form, be strewn apart
That the love in them still finds its way to you
I hope that you are happy and you’re well
I hope you still have your special sparkle
I hope you’re still lighting up lives
As a friend, a mentor, a spirit divine
I hope your radiant glow also reaches within
To make your big, lovely heart sing
My dearest I hope you get this message of mine
In these words, on the breeze or in the warm sunshine
My memories of you are full of joy
Uplifting, heartwarming, they don’t usually hurt
But today thoughts of you that flit through my mind
Bring a sweet achiness to my throat
It’s your birthday dear Mama and I wanted to say
May the choicest of blessings fill your time and space.
… Only because more and more it seems like the apple doesn’t fall far from its rotting, pestilential tree. But being the eternal optimist that I am, I’m hoping that a handful of the sons and daughters are at least questioning the political and entrepreneurial legacy they are inheriting from their thieving, deceiving, mobster parents and grandparents. But then I also think, who am I kidding! Still, here’s a verse which is probably farce by its very idealism.
I look at the statement
That I have received
At the burgeoning wealth
In my off-shore company
I revel in the fact
That I’ve paid zero tax
To the exchequer of my home country.
“Remember your legacy and your roots”
I always say to my progeny
They will of course some day
Fill my stompingly ample boots
I see the smirk
On my son’s face
It always gets to me
In some weird way
“I’m involved in this
Complex enterprise
Always walking
On the edge of a knife!
For your sister and you
So get on the same page!
Boy, this churlishness
Is not a good look!
Show some gratitude!”
I thunder and rage
“You’re stealing from people
In thieving hoardes
Tradition and Legacy
Are just hollow words
If this is my ethos,
Why does it reek
Of insult, deception
Of sly treachery
I don’t want these roots
No, no thank you
These gnarled and twisted
Tendrils of greed!”
He looks at me
With storms in his eyes
Intimidating me
Cutting me down to size
He looks at the statement
That he has received
Of the plundered millions
In his off-shore company
He holds it gently
Almost reverently
Even as he upbraids
And tongue-lashes me
He now stares me down
I have to look away
But at least I found the courage
To finally have my say
I looked at her over my coffee mug
Stealing silent glances
Looking her way
Then looking away
My heart had set up a regular cacophony
As I stared at her secretly
From above the rim of my cup
That I brought to my lips to sip,
The adrenaline instead making me chug
She sat there, serene and beautiful
An ode to perfection itself
Between the gulps I watched and drooled
Oh lord! I felt like such a fool!
I took in a ragged breath
I had to calm myself
I had to let the feeling pass
To wring it, wash it from my heart
I had to fight, wrest my hungry eyes
Off that whetter of fantasies, that queen of delight
That mesmerizing, will-defying Passion Fruit Tart
Day breaks and I’m asleep
But I can tell it’s dawn again
The light touches my retina
Through the barrier of my skin
It gently feels its way around
The darkness behind my shuttered lids
Then it sits itself down
Waiting for me to let it in
To start its morning ritual of
Dancing with my rods and cones
The caper sometimes morphs into
A red hot duel that is fought
Electro-impulsively in my brain
Where the battleground is wrought
Or we break into a marathon run
Away, away from every one
Flowing with the adrenaline
Out of the arteries, into the veins
I lead it where it needs to go
Some days we waltz, and on some
We antelope it out the door
Day breaks, I open my eyes to see
I’m floating, floating into infinity.
I sit with the sweet pain
Of remonstrating muscles
Aching tendons
It’s been a good day
I’ve clocked my vital number
Of steps again
Day Eight. Eight days. Day Eight
Of doing my best
The precious little victories
Sit like shiny safety pins
In my body. Their lancing points
Glimmering. Abrading. Wounding
Forcing tiny trickles of red-hot plasma
To run outside my veins
In the sweet agony of pain
Reminding me that I’m still alive
I’m still surviving, still striving
Still clocking all the steps
That keep this life ongoing
Going on. Ongoing. Going on
I breathe in deeply. Tonight
I am serene, there will be no dreams
To torture or torment me. Tonight
In Sleep’s benumbing arms
I will lay down my head
I breathe out, uncoil, soft-ache-bound
As I sink into the swelling seams of my bed.
A tad controversial? Maybe. But am I still saying it out loud, in rhyme and meter no less? But of course. Some folks mull over things in the privacy of their heads, others whisper them in low tones while my iPad … well, it just blurts them out, no holds barred. Whoosh! Here it comes like a sweetly painful winter chill to get your adrenaline up and your spine a-tingle.
Hello 46th*
Are you seeing this?
A war has been stoked
Europe has refugees - Look!
The shock of it!
Afghanistan and Kashmir
Don’t count; neither does
The Middle East
Oh please!
The world is used to those
People, forever in the throes
Of some tragedy,
Some devilry,
Some new-fangled holocausts
Of their own
Russia, the land of Ruskis and Putin
You do so hate them all, Joe Biden
Your last names though
Have such a harmonious ring
Putin, Biden … Biden, Putin
But I digress, your sentiments
Have reached across the continents
To grapple at the throat
Of that villainous foe
That Trump-loving pariah
That creator of election drama
That divider of the faithful
And good American folks
Oh, and you’re still not over
The Hunt for Red October*
The hunt that Hunter* hunted
Via the Kiev crossover
All the chickens that got away
Came home to roost and lay
Their devilled eggs, without the yolks
Putin had them all artichoked!
You believe in all of it
The fairytale, the who-dunnit
To Russia is where all the trenches lead
Putin has always been so full of sheeet!
So now there’s bloody war afoot
The gloves are off, we’re all in it
It’s the same old American adage
“You’re with us or you’re with the villains”
And while you’re beating
That hoodoo drum
The whole world is slipping
Into a recession.
There’s no food, no fuel,
No jobs to do
These trickle-down economics
Don’t affect you
They make their insidious paths towards
The poor, the beaten, the never seen nor heard
Hellooo 46th
Do you at least see
How so much is attributable
To you directly?
The depression, the frustration
The agony
That is doing the rounds
On its maleficent spree
I can see how you wont
See this like we do
How? you declare, can
Uncle Sam be such a brute?!
But you are! You are!
And a bully to boot!
On a final note, dear Joe
May A tad bit of third worldliness
That has so diligently been foisted on us
Graciously, karmically circle around
To you and yours. Please be assured
It will be an experience profound.
* 46th: the 46th president of the USA
* The Hunt for Red October: Tom Clancy’s debut novel, it shows the contrast between Soviet and American societies as exemplified by their militaries. Another significant theme that is played out on several levels of the novel is that of betrayal.
* Hunter: Joe Biden’s son who is rumoured to have had dodgy business connections with Ukraine.
Mahvash Mohtadullah 