"The only things that truly exist in this reality are merely pain, suffering, and futility..." the negativity that lay in each of those words was not comprehensible for a child of not more than seven years of age. Sinuli listened intently, hanging onto each word of the haggard old woman, who sat rocking on a wooden chair on the veranda. Her leathery skin shone in the blinding sunlight that filtered through the Rambutan trees, casting a soft yellow pattern and distorting the old woman's features. Sinuli was too little to understand the nuanced nature of fear and pain; they were different in her eyes. The pain resulted from tripping over a tree root and falling face-first into the soil whilst her friends giggled at the misfortune. Fear was when her father walked into her room reeking of alcohol, dragging a long polla behind him. 

Now roughly 37 years old, she preferred to remember some days- days that didn't remind her of imminent death, its lingering sneer in the sublime horizon. The sky tainted with the coughs of individuals and the cries of loved ones pleading with God to save them. The ones that blamed the world for taking a life that deserved more, and individuals who had just given up.

She dubbed the initial stages of Covid as the "dark years," the blinding number of deaths and the horror she felt as she witnessed people scramble for oxygen tanks- betrayed by human instinct, for a product that engulfed us every day, or so she was taught at school. People believed that through adversity, countries had put aside their differences and come together to uplift each other, "isn't that convenient?" She thought, with a sneer.

Now mature, age showing its wanton appearance through crevices and folds on her skin proved to be a result of deliberate thought and pondering for all these years. She deduced that fear and pain were intertwined, two forces that couldn't be separated but were a derivation of one another. Humans fear pain, and pain is caused due to the overburdening effect of fear. She decided; it was fear. It was fear that provoked mankind to realise the obscurity of the virus. Fear was the fuel, and like how fuel eventually runs out, so did the fear. 

8 weeks

She entered the one-floored house in a town that once was a jungle. Time and development ate away the plants, the animals and the surroundings, birthing a concrete jungle boasting its clean slated roofs and smooth walls. Sinuli entered the house shared by 2 families; hence she felt claustrophobic for most of her years growing up. She never married and didn't plan on, albeit the pressures of it eternally weighed her down, and the constant whispers lingered like a dense fog that suffocated her in public. Her childhood could have contributed, but like all the others, she trudged on and left the past as is. Contemplating would only bring about pain. She sat on the red floor of the veranda while gazing at the translucent red twilight; the sun licked the horizon with its forked tongue, setting the sky ablaze and giving tired eyes a display of art. The work at the tile factory was burdensome, but she needed the money; every joint and muscle ached with an intensity that some days she just fell into a disturbed sleep on the veranda for the cool breeze. The rustle of the banana leaves lulled her to sleep whilst the crickets harmonised in the dark and the frogs sang their individual songs. On cool nights like these, her dreams were light. The obscure spectrum of grey-black didn't exist. She lived a different life in these dreams- one far away from the tiny house and overbearing relatives. Her dreams resonated with shows she had seen on the small TV they owned- of areas abroad in a tall house with white-washed walls. She thought every family in the West had a tall White House with perfectly mowed lawns- the blades of grass reflecting the warm sunlight. Their houses always looked happy, and these perfect families with white teeth and white skin didn't know what fear and pain were. They were too happy to know of atrocities Sinuli had known. This concocted image often rendered a barrier- an expanse that stood in the way of her ability to reason. This resulted from a country boasting its developed areas; they seem to forget that individuals and families like Sinuli's existed. Although the villages had comparatively developed, people in the main cities, vaccinated, in their warm and comfortable apartments, preferred to turn a blind eye to towns like Sinuli's, for guilt can eat a person inside out, starting from the gut, devouring the individual, until there is nothing left, but just a shell of the former person.

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5 weeks

Although covid had become a mere virus, individuals like Sinuli lived in constant fear. Her grandmother had been right and was right all along. The old woman's words echoed in her head, gnats in her throbbing skull, a reminder that families like Sinuli's will never scramble out of the dark ditch. The lack of education and superstitious beliefs of her parents, the government's apathy and the insolent behaviour of her overpowering family proved detrimental. She blamed the world for not opening her parent's eyes at that time, the time when vaccines were free. She could not so much as to afford even one dose of the vaccine; hence she cursed the comfortable world. Being privileged enough to get fully vaccinated 30 years ago, the West was proof that countries like Sri Lanka were left behind, with the ability to vaccinate only half the population. In the race of life, Sri Lanka had lost, and although most of its citizens had moved on with the devastating loss, some families were still facing the direct impact of this loss. 

"Sinuli, please let me know when you'll get off work today. You've been getting late the past week. An unmarried woman shouldn't be loitering on the dark streets. What would the others say?" Her aunt said in an exasperated tone. She was amazed at how shallow an adult could be, to prioritise "what others would say" over the desperate situation they were in. She hated the people, hated their mentality and hated everything she came in contact with; even the lush green paddy fields were powerless in trying to impress a hardened soul.

"5.30," sinuli said, disinterest coating each syllable, rendering a slow gush of air from her clenched teeth. The constant repetition of this same conversation bored and frustrated her entire being. The frustration from having to work at a dusty tile factory from 6 in the morning that rendered her breathing difficulty ate away at her once bubbly personality. She sighed in pain at her plight.

1 week

That night she got dressed and slithered out like a panther on the prowl, the night showed its dark features, and she showed hers, even darker. She breathed in the cool night's air and welcomed it into her ravaged lungs. She sauntered along the muddy road until she came in contact with a cat. Its green eyes glowed in the dark, giving off a vicious appearance at first sight. She moved closer, gently trying to assure the small being of safety and comfort. The cat, frightened by the enormous shadow, scurried in the opposite direction, away from lurking danger. Annoyed at the insolent animal, she kicked a stone, causing a shower of sticks and dirt to be cast in the same direction. Big fat glistening tears rolled down her caramel skin; she didn't know why she was crying. "How can I promise that cat safety and comfort when I don't have them myself." She thought as tears continued to stream down her face. The hunchbacked moon, with its crooked nose, shone a dim translucent light on her face, distorting her image.

She sat among the big rocks and watched the soft paddy sing to the chorus of the wind, their tired green backs bending for the weight of the rice, ready to be collected. The tears had stopped, but her body ached, a thousand pollas whacking her. It took her back to when she was not yet eight but had gotten late from her temple lessons. Her white redda hatta swished in the wind as she took quick strides to get back home in time for dinner. The sun was casting a play of yellow, orange and red dancers in the sky, a sign that she was late. As she set the religious texts on her bed and took off her braids, she heard the heavy pounding footsteps approaching her small room.

The distinct crackle and scratching of the polla on the red floor alerted her tiny ears, but before she had time to register the raising of the polla and the gurgling voice, it had hit her on the temple hard enough to make her ears ring. Hot tears welled in her eyes as she fell on her knees whilst pleading and begging with the drunk man. He didn't understand her muffled words, and she didn't understand his gibberish. Another blow on the thigh and another on the arm left her motionless and bleeding.

A pitiful sight indeed, but the coupled emotion of fear and pain had now been birthed in this tiny figure, a product of a loveless marriage and inconsiderate society.

Yet, this harshness is tenderness itself when compared with the universal harshness from which they stem from. She preferred to look at the situation from these blurry lenses as they could easily distort the pain that was coupled with the memory. The memory was still raw and fresh, and the thought of it brought back the pain from the moment, the blurring amount of blood that tie-dyed her white redda hatta and the eventual hollow love showered by her father in order to zip her tiny lips, to conceal her little white pearly teeth from revealing the incident. The hunchbacked moon hid behind the clouds, grateful for the veil they provided.

To be continued…

I know it has been a minute. But decided to break away from the rat race and upload this ancient piece I wrote a couple of years ago.

If you have taken time out of your day to read this piece, Thank you so much! It means the world :D

Right now, the plan is to upload at least every other week, so please leave a comment and a like to motivate me to use my lazy brain- heu heu heu :[]

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Yohan padded on the soft muddy road, his tiny caramel hand in his mother's soft chocolate brown hand laden with gold jewellery. The ground vibrated with the thudding from the individuals performing in the Perehara. He watched as the heavily accessorised elephants in bright silks with heavy reflective beads and sequins walked carrying the glimmering tooth relic, their mahout's dressed to blind the people watching. The trees around them framed the Kandyan dancers as they twirled in their white sarong's, their bare backs shining in the light of the fires around them.

Yohan had seen a plethora of Perehara's, this one was no different. His indifference in the colourful performance led him to look at the enormous banyan tree, its branches and ariel roots akin to saliva dripping out of his dog’s flabby mouth. He wandered towards the small boys who danced their way through the narrow road, unaware he wasn't holding his mother's palm. Yohan noticed an emaciated boy at the back of the group of dancers, he stood away and taped his feet with surgical tape. “Why did he do that? Why didn’t the boys just wear shoes like he did?” His small mind couldn’t comprehend poverty.

Yohan changed directions and walked in the opposite direction, he didn’t like the red-yellow-black-orange-green devil masks and suits the next lot of performers adorned, they frightened his 9-year-old mind. He knew the dance was to chase the devils away; that was what they were taught at the temple but in his eyes, it appeared as if they were calling the devils.

He clamped his hand, where was his mothers’ soft hand? Fear gripped him, his heart; a pulsating engine threatening to kill him, sweat lined his forehead. Fire? The long flames of fire licked the black night sky, they licked the performers, where was his mother? He heard a shrill cry, and realised it was from his tiny mouth. His beady eyes moved around their sockets in a frenzy, like the Bharatanatyam dancers, instead he was afraid. His little eyes searched the colossal crowd, he could only see legs and buttocks, how would he find his mother?

“Amma! Amma!” he screamed, hoping his shrill voice would reach her ears through the stamping of feet, the thumping of chests, the banging of drums and the thudding of elephants. A tear-streaked face and blurry vision rendered him banging into legs, tapping strangers in hysteria, only to scream and grow more frantic. He fell to the ground in a heap, “Amma, where are you?” he sobbed, his puny hands unable to carry the ocean of tears they cried.

Hands picked him up from behind. He kicked his tiny legs to escape from a stranger trying to kidnap him. He knows he shouldn’t walk away with a stranger or take sweets from them, so he kicks with a ferocity that leaves him breathless within a few seconds. Big fat tears roll down his face when he hears someone whisper in his ear; “Puthe its Amma.”

Sinhalese words and phrases;

• Perehara- It is a historical procession that is held annually to pay homage to the Sacred Tooth Relic of Buddha.

• Bharatanatyam- It is a major form of Indian classical dance that originated in the modern-day region of Tamil Nadu.

• Amma- mother

• Puthe- an endearing term used towards a person younger than the person utilizing the term.

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Let's address the elephant in the room first- sorry I haven't been able to post as regularly. Will try to keep up with this drowning country.

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Till next week, hopefully:)

Maali (7 years)

He ran along the cemented road operating a remote-control car that the child didn't know the value of. The comfort children had, the oblivion they lived in was often craved by those older.

"Neluka I'm going to beat you! My car is faster. Yours doesn't have the horsepower mine has!" Maali mocked his friend.

The two boys ran among tall buildings that boasted long automatic windows and tall ceilings with thick draperies that cut out the sun, eventually rendering the artificial lights to be on when they needn't be.

Maali knew that a virus once consumed half the population, but was too comfortable in his little bubble of childish oblivion to give any thought to the atrocities.

Maali was fortunate enough to not know, his place being secured in society due to his parents effort in creating a stable life due to the economic pressures on the family from 30 years ago. The years that were destroyed by an organism that needed to be viewed through a microscope, mocking the human race for believing they were the better creation. Sri Lanka cried for help but its place in the world rendered it to be amongst the last few at finishing the race, while other countries had already moved onto the next race in life. Greenery was replaced with elongated silver poles that created a shade from the sun, almost like that of an enlarged umbrella that cursed the ones below for exposing it to the sun that lacked empathy. The buildings that appeared to be made mostly of glass cast dancing rainbows that flickered on the cemented road when a cloud passed by, obstructing the show by these coloured dancers. Peace enveloped the area, and the children grew up unaware and happy.

Devi (16 years)

She sat slouched over her books at a study table that bore pen mark's, faded and peeling paint, and scratches as a result of 3 siblings utilizing it before her. She eyed the question with an intense curiosity, and wished she knew what the world looked like during the pandemic. She often rolled her eyes when her parents spoke of what the world was like 30 years ago and showered them with cynical remarks and her eyes would always touch the back of her head in the attempt to show disinterest. "Why do we need to learn about the pandemic?" She said with exasperation. The dim light in her room cast eerie shadows on the mint green walls. She detested the colour chosen, but in difficult times who was to complain about the colour of a wall? She stood up from the creaky table and walked outside to sit under the only Rambutan tree that remained. Over time, developers claimed land and everything on it, promising a compensation that hardly covered the cost of the land. Her father was able to fight off the shrewd man in his perfectly pressed shirt and tie, with jet black hair that was slicked back with too much gel rendering a shine even in the night. Sunlight filtered through the leaves of the tree and formed soft yellow patterns on Devi, giving her an angelic presence. She looked around her area, the lack of human connection due to the urbanization in certain parts meant that teenagers like Devi didn't have friends to pass time with. There were a few small houses apart from hers, all embarrassed to be basking in the sun whilst showing their awkward coloured walls of mint green, peach, pink and purple. Cruel it was, but it was only the fortunate who could afford to take the fast paced train of development.

Sinuli (26 years)

Contrary to Maali, Sinuli couldn't boast an expensive furnished apartment in Colombo. She entered the one floored house in a town that once was a jungle. Time and development ate away the plants, the animals and the surroundings, birthing a concrete jungle, gloating its clean slated roofs and smooth walls. Sinuli entered the house shared by 2 families hence she felt claustrophobic for most of her years growing up. She sat on the red floor of the veranda while gazing at the translucent red twilight. The work at the tile factory was burdensome but she needed the money, every joint and muscle ached with an intensity that some days she just fell into a disturbed sleep in the veranda for the cool breeze. This is the result of a country exaggerating its developed areas, they seem to forget that individuals and families like Sinuli’s existed. The tile factory was a colossal building but had an unrefined look, somewhat similar to that of an unpolished vase. The machines leaked oil and the smell hung in the factory like a dense fog that the workers had forgotten that death lingered in close proximity. That was the reality of life for those who could barely make it out from the after effects of the pandemic. Although the villages had comparatively developed from 30 years ago, people in the main cities, vaccinated, in their warm and comfortable apartments preferred to turn a blind eye to towns like Sinuli's, for guilt can eat a person inside out; starting from the gut, devouring the individual, until there is nothing left, but just a shell of the former person.

Farouk (41 years)

He sat on his prayer mat and prayed to God for a way out whilst also thanking God for all the blessings bestowed. His mind raced back 30 years when the future seemed so bleak that even children had lost hope in the possibility of survival. Now with a family of 5 children, and the economy fluctuating, he lived in an eternal abode of worry. Sri Lanka made it out, yes, but she had to scrape through and was barely alive, the inmates she carried were on the brink of death. He lived in a two storied house in the suburbs, and considered himself quite lucky to even own such a big house with the constant fluctuations in the market like the heartbeat of a patient on an ECG machine, after every low there was a high.

The neighbourhood they lived in was noisy, with similar houses, where paint peeled off the edges and moss spread like a map near the pipes. Children ran around kicking a ball that was slightly deflated and had a layer of dry mud pasted on its side. Dust and debris tossed up from the diggers, and tractors that were demolishing a house next door. "Soon..." he thought "...it'll be my house" he was afraid of what the government would do if he didn't agree to go along with their plans, "would the compensation be enough? Where do I go if they take my house away?" These thoughts flew around his mind like ravens that ate away at his peace. "The government has been considerate of my business, I cannot complain" he thought with tears in his eyes. "I cannot complain"

Outside, the walls crashed down and each day the machines got closer to Farouk's house.

Esther (64 years)

Her slight figure rocked back and forth on a creaky rocking chair. She lived by the grace of God through all the difficulties life could have possibly thrown at her. She held onto the gold cross that hung around her bony neck and prayed. Esther was a fairly old woman with a mouthful of yellowing teeth who munched on nuts often, her hands like twigs with a layer of skin thin as paper, spotted due to the excessive exposure of the sun on her long walks when she was younger.

She went back 30 years and reminisced days of death; its lingering sneer in the sublime horizon. The sky tainted with the coughs of individuals and the cries of loved ones pleading with God to save them. The ones that blamed the world for taking a life that deserved more, and individuals who had just given up. She looked out from her relatively comfortable apartment in Colombo and looked at the buildings around. The fancy malls and theatres seemed to compensate for the years of struggle Sri Lanka went through due to the pandemic. A tight-lipped smile arched on her face, at the thought of the news, "30 years ago there was only death at least now I have something to look forward to in my old age".

Despite it being in the height of the afternoon, billboards flashed ads for new music and movies, Models with their plastic smiles promoting creams to make one fairer and brighter, all of it seemed so amusing and most of all so different in comparison to the life she lived. Her sojourn in this world would soon come to an end and the development was a compensation and an escape from the atrocious memories of cries and screams.

She could finally breathe in peace.

I really hope you enjoyed the read, and if you did, please don't forget to like, share, comment and subscribe!

You tug at the drawstring of the cloth that was slung on your back, carrying a papaya baby. Soft snores as you bend and pluck a bunch of green leaves from the tip of a bush of tea. Mosquitos swarm at your bare dirt-coloured feet, they blended well with the moist soil. Grunts from your back as you stooped to brush away the pesky insects.

The baby wails, loud scouring shrieks from the pink mouth. You hop, akin to a kandyan dancer- a mechanism you adapted since you didn’t have enough milk. The wails dulled to a soft whimper; you were glad the other tea pluckers had dropped their piercing glares. The sun blazed on the line of necks, beads of sweat glistened as they raced down on the chocolate skin.

Grimy nails raised small sticky balls of rice to yellowing mouths. You were glad for the shade the tin roof offered. The wind blew soft kisses, cooling the burnt necks and drying the sweaty backs. Your eyes listlessly scanned the green expanse of monstrous steps. The leaves on the tea shrubs danced to the slow breeze, and entertained the bored tea pluckers.

You sat on a grey cement step, away from the group of tea pluckers as they turned away, giving you your space to feed the girl child. The child suckled- grateful for the liquid that quenched her thirst that had been long ignored. The child's hair was matted to her dark forehead, her eyes glittered- dark pupils that sucked you into them. You regretted the life you forced her into.

The group rose silently to start the burdensome work. In a single file they took their places on the steps, readying themselves for long back breaking hours. The sun had dropped several degrees and the clouds graciously covered its piercing presence. A drop of water- cool, it touched your scarred hand, reminding you of blessings. You squint your beady eyes at the heaven's- heavy cement clouds formed.

“Maduvi, we need to move to the next step. Hurry up.” A strained voice called through the piercing, blinding, deafening raindrops. You looked around for the tea plucker who called you- everyone had moved to the next step, their baskets brimming with bottle-green leaves. You looked at your basket, today you were slow, something seemed to occupy your mind.

A single line. The dull translucent setting ray's filtered through the tiny mesh window and rested on their chocolate skin. You knew you wouldn’t get one thousand rupees for you didn’t have a full basket. You resented the other tea pluckers, they had excess, but they were never paid for the excess work they did. He never gave anyone more than one thousand rupees. He didn’t have emotions.

You put the basket of tea leaves on his leather-brown table. The rusted chair's legs cried out at the weight they were forced to bear. His shirt buttons- suffocated. His unkempt moustache hid a mouth full of red teeth owing to the beetle and areca nut they were chewing. His oiled hair was pasted to his scalp rendering a shine in the sun. He was a man most unpleasant to the eye according to you.

“Hmmf. Is that all?” His body vibrated with the whoosh of air that left his mouth. “Yes sir” with your head hung low you answered him. It had always been better to answer his questions like a dog being threatened of a beating- it pleased him, and in return he wouldn’t ask too many questions. “Why haven’t you brought me a full basket? You know you won’t get one thousand rupees today”.

You had to be smart when you answered, excuses that didn’t make sense always amounted to mumbles in his ears. “It was the baby. She wouldn’t stop crying.” You knew it was the perfect excuse, since he had children of his own. Who could ignore the wails of one’s own blood? “What baby are you talking about woman?” his temper had risen, the beads of sweat on his forehead were proof of it.

You looked at him stunned, afraid that he would hit you. Your excuse was perfect. “Woman, you Woman you sound like a mad lady. Where is this baby you speak of?” his voice had risen eight octaves higher, deep and threatening. You turned around in a hurry ready to show him your baby, to prove to him that he was the mad person in the room, and so you pulled the draw string.

Out rolled a tiny baby, the most perfect being. She was fast asleep- she laid in your hands motionless. You took the precious being to him- “My child sir, now pay me.” You thought you had won with those final words, but shrieks of laughter erupted from your co-workers and the employer himself. You stood isolated, in the middle of the room, clutching your baby. You were a picture of a trapped animal.

“You are a mad woman. Holding a fruit and claiming it’s a baby. I’ll pay you for making us all laugh after a long day of work.” The words pierced you. Hot tears welled in your eyes as you clutched onto the tiny breathing figure and ran out of the room embarrassed. You didn’t want the payment after he had embarrassed you. It would mean you and your baby starved that night. You didn’t mind it.

The sun had set, and the stars had come out to light up the way home. As soon as you reached the small shack you fell down in a tired heap, your feet burned and your limbs cried. “The baby! I need to feed her” you cried in realization that you hadn’t fed her since the afternoon. You took the slight figure out of the cloth and crooned to it. The figure lay in your hands motionless- unnatural stillness as you cradled the being. You slept alongside your “baby".

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It really helps out this “newsletter” :’) I'm also going to be uploading on the weekend so that if I'm not free on Saturday I can always upload it on Sunday.

Also, I wanted to know what you think I should write for a later edition. Leave your ideas in the comments (It can even be a random word, but it has to allude to something/anything cultural)

Although it is dawn, in Ravin's heart it is dark.

He sits up as the first rays of the soft sunlight filter in through the crack, where the tin roof meets the wooden planks- makeshift walls for their “home". Soft snores from six other bodies fill the tiny rectangle as he gets a whiff of an acrid mix of sweat and damp air. His shift had begun. It was ghost-quiet outside except for the occasional ebb of the tides on the hull's of the motor boats lined on the plastic strewn beach. His tiny eyes squinted for possible “threats" until Appa came home with a boat laden with silver shiny slippery fish, that they later chopped into chunks and sold to rich people who came on their daily walks on the beach. He didn’t know who the “threat" was; but, he still had to sit for hours on end, where he stared at the ocean as if the waves were performing just for him, until he was relieved of the burdensome task.

The sun had risen, smiling on the colony of huts put together with scraps of metal and rotting wood. The alleys with its tiny streams of toothpaste and utensil water that flowed out from each hut gurgling as they entered the ocean didn’t affect the dwellers. The rattle and din of pots being washed in the open as well as the subtle whiff of urine that hung in the air like a dense fog didn’t have an impact on its squatters. The occasional, “Malu! Malu!” From men in yellow-stained sarongs and women in mismatched skirts and blouses had become an alarm for the rest of Ravin's family. A herd of beasts annoyed at being risen from their deep sleep, they trudged out, dragging their yellow nailed- grotesque feet out of the shack to start a long day of cajoling customers to buy their fish, all while looking out for the possible “threat".

“Malu! Thora Malu, Paraw Malu!” saliva coated incomprehensible words flew out of the fisherman’s red stained mouth from the continuous chewing of betel leaf and ararricanut. “Appa, I didn’t see anyone suspicious. Can I go play?” said the slight boy. His chocolate skin stretched over bones that pierced the stretched layer like the pointed rocks of the cliff. “Yes, yes. Just come home before the sun sets. I need help with the boat.” Said the preoccupied father. Ravin had no issue coming home early, he had no friends to play alluding to the fact that they had settled here only 4 weeks prior. The boys on the beach hadn’t been welcoming. Their behaviour reminded Ravin of the dogs on the beach- threatened by a new face in their territory. He preferred to sit among the rocks and play with the critters that were washed ashore. His rubber slippers raised grains of sand as he walked towards the rocks that housed hundreds of creatures that had temporarily claimed rock pools and selfishly attacked newcomers, “Just like us" he concluded.

Albeit the family had lived in the slum for four weeks, Ravin was not accustomed to the children’s unruly ways. Being raised among farmers, where they listened to the whistling of the wind between the dancing paddy stalks and the king fishers that flitted among the great expanse, rendering a flash of colour for cautious eyes, he couldn’t adjust to the loud calls, the bustle and the smell of the slum. The fields of paddy filtered the harsh sunlight and guided the wind to brush on sweaty necks. The slum didn’t filter anything; the atrocious smell from the one toilet shared by a few huts, the muddy houses, the rough ocean that often starved them when Appa couldn’t catch fish, the small stale meals, and the demeaning glares from passers-by, their cold dark eyes of disapproval. Here he saw everything.

The sun cast a play of red, orange and yellow dancers as it exited the stage, Ravin was late but the sky boasted a brilliant ombre of warm shades and he couldn’t miss the final act. He sauntered home, aware that a beating was possibly awaiting him, he had rather prolong his walk, using the time to bask in the little freedom and peace gifted to him. The sea spray had dampened his discoloured skinny and his tiny body was covered in goosebumps- hard as grains of sand. The stars were now casting a play of their own, lighting up the sky with their indifferent twinkling. He was closer to the slum when he heard a few raised voices- rough and loud, each one competing with the other, as if volume alone could win an argument. A fight. He assumed it was a regular slum fight but a slick black car that shone in the moon’s light parked outside the conglomerate of shacks caught his eye. His father’s distinct voice wafted from the group of individuals that had gathered outside their house. Ravin creeped through the fish scented bodies and watched as his father was reprimanded by a man of incredible height and stature. The man was attired in a perfectly pressed grey suit with hair slicked back that it shone, his appearance contrasted the general recurring message of poverty. Ravin couldn’t quite comprehend the words being flung at each other but the next day he found out the result of the brawl.

The family trudged out of the slum with the little belongings they had, the utensils clanging as they made their way to a railway station. The six children, tired from the walk, cried in hunger whilst the mother listlessly rocked back and forth on her heels, mimicking a rocking horse. A pitiful picture for onlookers, “who has a heart generous enough to provide for eight stomachs, better to look the other way than concern themselves with squatters.” The father echoed not addressing anyone in particular. Though the family had been thrown from the land they were squatting on, Ravin knew they’d just find another land and move there, it was the same process.

The family would spot a patch of land, where he would accompany his father to scout for possible traces of human activity on the barren land. The family would then occupy themselves by taking shifts and watching out for possible “threats". This included walking around the area as if they were taking their usual morning walk, making Ravin and his siblings “play" so that neighbour’s would warm up to their presence. Once his father saw that they could pull together a shack with some tin and wood, and not excite suspicion, they moved in.

Ravin was glad they were turned out from the slum, it nauseated his entire being. Though they would have to spend weeks living off scraps he felt positive they would find the perfect land and trotted around. A spring in his step and a giggle accompanied him when they went scouting, happy that he could leave the demonic slum. That night it was his shift. They were surrounded by hunched trees, who’s branches arched like arms in an embrace. The wind whispered through the leaves and the moon light filtered through the branches- it didn’t shine a spotlight on their helpless family.

Although it was dusk, in Ravin’s heart it was dawn.

Sinhala words and phrase meanings;

• Appa- father

• Malu- fish

• Thora malu- Seer fish

• Paraw Malu- The giant trevally fish

If you have taken time out of your day to read this piece, Thank you so much! It means the world :)

Right now the plan is to upload a post every Saturday, so please leave a comment and a like to motivate me to use my lazy brain :D

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Till then,

Chocolate milk is superior!

(What do you think?)

Here's a sneak peek to a piece i’ll be releasing;

“Being raised among farmers, where they listened to the whistling of the wind between the dancing paddy stalks and the king fishers that flitted among the great expanse, rendering a flash of colour for cautious eyes, he couldn’t adjust to the loud calls, the bustle and the smell of the slum. The fields of paddy filtered the harsh sunlight and guided the wind to brush on sweaty necks. The slum didn’t filter anything;…”

Coming this Saturday, the 11th of June!

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