Reality and imagination merge. But these posts are nothing but my imagination. Stephen King is my favourite author. He relates to Maine his hometown and borrows from his real life experiences. I have endeavoured to do the same. I hope you enjoy reading these little snippets of my hometown, they are but imagined somewhere deep in my mind.

I am in the process of working on two other manuscripts. This is an exercise to judge if I do have the talent as a storyteller. Maybe one day I will publish or rather find an agent willing to pursue the publication of my narratives.

You will be one of those then who can say you read my first book online on a blog. With no grandiose aspirations as the booker prize, I write to relieve some of my frustrations. Please do comment on these posts, you will help my learning curve for I have had no formal training as a writer.

Thank you Stephen King for the inspiration.

Where do human rights apply? Plastic Bullets, Hosing and Tear Gas.

The helicopter has been hovering overhead all afternoon. Dusk is dawning and I still hear its rotors whirring. I walk into the garden, look up and see the full black copter. It’s flying low enough for me to clearly see the words ‘POLICE’ printed on both sides. Nearby I see the main road that leads to the village shops and our new retail shopping centre. Police cars in their bright blue and yellow on white body drive up and down.

I am lazy to fetch the camera from inside. The kid laughs at me and warns me that when they see the glint from the camera lens, the filth will think I am a sniper and shoot me. I laugh; we both laugh and agree that the scenario would better fit the US Police, not in UK.

I need to make a quick visit to the post office. As the village is within walking distance I make my way at a cool walking pace. Light up a B&H, inhale deeply to enjoy that first drag of tobacco smoke. Body reacts immediately to the nicotine rush. A tall soy latte with an extra shot at Starbucks is a welcome thought. The riots have been four days now, far from our village of Elstree and Borehamwood. Our only claim to fame being the Elstree Film Studios where Big Brother was shot. Not by a gun, a 35mm camera.

I am however more aware of what’s happening around me than usual. The disquiet I feel is mainly because of the four blokes I see walking up the high street in red coloured hoodies, the white lettering ‘English Defence League’ on both sides stand out clearly. The word ‘Borehamwood’ in smaller print can be seen on closer inspection. I have to walk by them. Eye contact is carefully avoided. I can feel their eyes boring into me. Subconsciously I have put on one of my Che Guevara tees. Jungle green with the mans face large on the front flanked by two red stars. I smile to myself, managing to see the irony of this all.

Back home I watch BBC News. A quick clip is shown of Manchester City. The news reporter speaks to a young man who condones the recent violence and rioting. He believes that the English have been sold out and their jobs taken by Eastern Europeans, other migrants and asylum seekers from Asia and Africa. He believes that the UKGOV must listen more to the English. That rioting is the only way for the UKGOV to give heed to their complaints. The reporter loses all patience and is screaming ‘so burning all these shops will bring you more jobs?’

It’s proper dusk now. I am home, typing this post. I still hear the helicopter overhead.

Elstree, where the Jewish community prosper. Every driveway a marquee car.

Borehamwood, where the villagers roam. In their WWII town houses with the patch of garden in the back. The newer project tower blocks filled with families, all asylum seekers.

25 minutes to London St. Pancras by train. 15 minutes to West Hampstead. Jubilee Line to Bond Street, London, four stops right Joey?

I smile. I am the invisible migrant.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

psalm 23 - bible - psalm of david

Racing Raindrops

Racing Raindrops

Everything has been washed. Everything is pure, pure like the rains that came cascading on a cool Colombo afternoon. I sit on the settee enjoying the complete feeling of being cleansed, bare bodied in an old sarong.

I am extremely comfortable. The settee’s long enough for my body to drape above it and settle on to the old indents made on it by me, for years now. Years of long Colombo rain showers, sitting and watching the rain come down. Watching it in full flow and then enjoying the very comfort of a monsoon storm past.

The rain drops race each other on the telephone wire strung across outside our balcony. The front door is open welcoming the fresh relief of the storm. As soon as one batch of rain drops race and fall, my eyes catch another, and another.

The wires seen through my front door seem to imprison me to the settee. Itself adding to my comatose feeling of inaction of a full stomach and lying still on the settee. My eyes blink, I breathe comfortably, my chest falls up and down slowly, the only sign of life, and yes, I am home.

Yet the open door itself is a symbol of my prison. For I do not exit it. The couch is the handcuff that holds me. Beyond the wires I see a clear blue sky, the church spire and the rooftops of the houses in front of ours. I new day beckons. Yet I lie staring, trapped in my own world, of inaction.

I dream yet only of my first cigarette, coughing, then that satisfying head rush that comes only to those virgin to the joys of smoking.

My first love, the most wonderful feeling in the world. Kissing her for the first time, that unbelievable feeling of wonder and love.

My first car, the joy and heartache of owning and running a constantly breaking down proverbial red beetle.

7 shri 4743, my chariot, the god gifts to those who believe. I didn’t bother.

Travel and tribulations in foreign lands. Lands where dreams come true in the physical manifestation of buxom blondes and all too willing brunettes.

Finding my Queen, then another and another.

Endless nights, brushes with death, pleasure and pain.

Life, beyond the racing raindrops, the telephone wire, racing my way, running away from the third world.

Realising too late, how much the world itself has prisoned me.

Tell me; was the grass any greener, the wine and women more willing than my true love? 11 shri 417 or was it 517, yellow Colt GLX for sure I remember. Only a few will.

I still think of her, does she know that? Will I have the indecency to disrupt her world of house, husband and two sons? Never. Even if it’s to say hi.

Will Charon, as I pay him be able to give meaning to the nothingness in my world?

Never, never, never, never, never ever will she allow me to hurt her again. Not her.

Now.

If I was American, I would have sat on that settee, shooting those racing raindrops down, you know?

We use to walk back from ballet class, all the way down Duplication Road. Bumping into each other, our hands touching, secretly. Her driver would walk behind us the chaperon, and the gatekeeper.

“When I go from hence, let this be my parting word, that what I have seen is unsurpassable.”

Rabindranath Tagore, Gitanjali

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

Bury me; bury me deep in my Paradise Isle

Cremate me not, for I want not to be ash

Bury me for I want my flesh to nourish

The worms to breed in my carcass, feed from my past life

My flesh to rot away and seep into Mother Lanka’s soil

Oh bury me; oh bury me please in my Paradise Isle

For my rotting flesh and even in death

I continue to nourish my Paradise Isle…

Paradise Lost

Paradise Lost

Friday. Summer. London. Spent the evening in canned air inside printers signing off the proof for our special offer ad on client’s internal magazine. Walked out on Marylebone Road to still bright sunshine at 7pm. Short walk to Baker Street to get on Jubilee Line tube. As usual popped into the bar right next to the station. My usual standing two large Absolut vodka’s with a can of Red Bull and into the underground depths of the tube.

Friday and everyone’s in high spirits, literally. Mostly suits like me, even the women. All hurrying home or on their way somewhere in readiness for Friday night. Finally on Jubilee Line, off at West Hampstead and short run to Train station that will take me to my part of the stix. Trains on time. Suns still out although evenings slightly cooler. A welcome relief. 15 centigrade and I am feeling pleasant. Couldn’t help but reflect on how over the past six years I have adapted slightly to the colder climates in old blighty. Train enters tunnel after Mill Hill and that tells me next stop is mine. Can’t help but scramble with others to the door to disembark. It’s become habit, I am part and parcel of the rat race, the moles who live three hours a day underground, no not the house music underground, actual tunnels and tunnels of Transport for London and the Thameslink.

The effect of the voddies are slightly waning, cross the street from the station and I am at the Crown, my local in the stix. Same ritual, two large Absolut, can of Red Bull, stand and deliver to the depths of my very soul. Meet my yardies from the stix, and they insist on a quick shot of the old Sambuca. Friday night is in effect, for them anyway. I am now looking forward to the home, bath, old Barefoot sarong, spliff and Indian takeaway, relax on couch chatting with the family. In that order. Kid’s got a couple of movies recorded for us on the sky box.

As I step out of the Crown I remember Ealing goddess temple early Saturday morning and the cleaners arrival to dust, mop, hoover and iron. Cash needed. Quick walk down High Street to retail park HSBC cashpoint. It’s past nine now and twilight has descended. Slightly chilly as I just do one button up on the old Kenzo suit. My favourite. When Lintas wiped the old SLIM’s the very suit I purchased at Odel that afternoon to wear that evening. I had called the then SLIM President and asked him one question. ‘I am about to go purchase the agency drinks for the night. Should I buy Red or Black label scotch?’ While he could not give me the result, all he did have to say was ‘Dhammika, go buy Royal Salute!’. That was all I needed to make a beeline to Odel from the then homestead on Kynsey Road. Oxford blue Kenzo suit, shirt, tie and CK black patent shoes! Reminiscing always reminiscing. The past, present and future, all blending into now.

Retail parks deserted. Shops all closed now. Take my wallet out and punch in numbers. Five crisp new 20’s cascade out and I slip them in wallet with card, drop wallet into back pocket and turn.

As I turn I see a blur of a blue t-shirt and denims. White male, 35 – 40, medium height and build, shaven head, tattoo on neck, cheap boots, stubble on face.

‘Alrite Bruv, handover the fricking wallet!’

His hand flashes towards me. I see the shining blade of the Filipino Visan Barong knife heading straight toward my chest. Years of challenge fights behind the Royal Junior School cricket pavilion, big match fights, stick fighting, boxercise at the gym, rough housing with my Indonesian black belt friend all reflex together and my body reacts as fast as my mind.

I grab and twist back the hand coming towards me and use my assailant’s momentum to slam back into his body. Surprise and shock in my mind as his own blade penetrates through his t-shirt and into his chest. Ever want to experience the feeling? Buy a shoulder of Lamb, take a kitchen knife and stab downwards into it. If the knife is sharp enough it will graze through the bone and sink into the flesh. Almost like jelly.

Pure instinct takes over and I throw my mugger to crash through the bank glass door. Mayhem of glass breaking and the loud ringing of the bank burglar alarm. I go into shock. The mugger lies inside the bank floor twitching. I see two pools of blood converging to one from his head and the other his chest. My hand is sticky with his blood. No blood is not red, its ruby black. The knife handle sticks out from the muggers chest.

I am in shock. I sit outside the pavement. It doesn’t come into my mind to dial 999. People from the Nando’s restaurant spill out for the commotion. Women scream. 30 seconds, an advertising TV commercial has passed. I wipe my sticky hand on my suit jacket and light up a cigarette.

Sirens scream as the cops arrive. Police quick reaction squads in two BMW’s. Heckler and Koch submachine guns gleaming as they cover me from behind their cars. They assess the situation in seconds. They go into execution mode. I am now face down in the pavement on cold concrete. My hands are clasped behind me. I am cuffed, both for their protection and mine.

From there onwards everything goes into slow motion. The ambulance arrives. I am shocked as I realise that the muggers dead.

You are captured on CCTV in England over 200 times a day. Something I have never ever been comfortable about. Suddenly I am very thankful. I am now in the back seat of a normal Police Vauxhall Corsa still cuffed. People are talking and I can’t help but notice admiring looks towards me. Police have pushed them right back but mobile phones are busy capturing the moment. Welcome to the Digital Age!

The Police Sargent un-cuffs me. They have been briefed about the situation by the CCTV operator sitting god knows where to what took place. They will also be able to get the HSBC ATM video recording of how events transpired. I have called home. The partner of the law firm I am a marketing consultant at screeches in to the parking lot in her gleaming Merc E320 which plates read W1LAW1. I finally remember to breath properly. A copper hands me a plastic cup of water.

Her Majesty the Queens well oiled system of justice efficiently rolls into motion.

I live to fight another day.

When does reality stop, and fiction begin?

Spring in Paradise

Spring in Paradise

The normal hot humid weather gives way in May to chilly but pleasant Colombo mornings. I wake up as usual to the toll of the Church bells at 5.30am. The cold makes me burrow into my pillows and pull the sheet up to my chin. My cat Choco stirs annoyingly as I have woken him up too. I lie awake listening to the morning sounds of the birds chirping in the Murunga tree outside my window, whispers of the domestic and my mother and the clatter of cups being washed for coffee in the kitchen. My internal clock is timed to wait for the prayers from the Muslim mosque at 5.45am followed by the chimes of the Temple at 6am. I live in urban Colombo and I am within short walking distance to these places of worship. Multicultural diversity at its best I guess. Today is a holiday and excitement slowly wells within me in anticipation of the day to come.

My niece’s day nanny has arrived early and she brings me my coffee to bed. As soon as I see her I spring out of bed. The nanny and I don’t have the best of friendships and I remember the three Vesak Pandols I have hanging in the living room fan blades. How last Vesak the nanny switched the fan on to get my goat, successfully. Despite sleeping late the night before I am full of energy as I turn the shower on high in the bath. Morning showers in Colombo are incredibly cold as only the rich and famous have hot water showers. Refreshing nonetheless and the best way to fully awake in the tropics.

The night before I completed the three pandols and they hang waiting the last touch of the fluffy kite paper balls for the corners. They are really intricate to make and the speciality of my third sister. Patience is required, none of which a 15 year old will ever have. I have also finished all the bulb holder streamers with intricate joints to couple with one of the bulb holders hanging in the living room. The joints and extensions are many as everything is connected to light up the colourful streamer with blue, yellow, orange and red bulbs and three extensions for white bulbs that light up the white pandols. So far in my memory although I have managed to set the trip off many times over I was never electrocuted. Not seriously anyhow. I quickly dress in my school clothes although it’s a holiday. Smart white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and white trousers. Waking my sister up and taking the fuse off for the living room fan I set off at a run to the temple down our road. The Mettaramaya down Lauries Road in Bamabalapitiya. A brief stop at my friends house and we arrive excitedly to the temple.

As we enter the tranquillity of the temple even calms the teen tempest within us. The Bo tree surrounded by the white wall sways softly to the wind. The yellow sand all over the temple grounds crunch beneath our now bare feet. It’s surprisingly cool to walk on. The innumerable jasmine trees that dot the temple glisten with morning dew and scent the cool May morning as if we were in heaven itself. As always we enter the Buddhu Mandiraya to pray for the blessings of the triple gem, the Buddha, Dhamma and Sangha. I wipe my feet off the sand on the big coir carpets outside before entering the big prayer room. A reclining Buddha and a sitting Buddha, larger than life size welcomes you. The tiled floor is cooling, flowers of every form and colour are on offer from Frangipani, Jasmine to Lotus. Mingled with the incense and the burning of coconut oil lamps the scent almost hypnotises you into a trance like silent meditative state.

After offering our prayer we run off to see our friend, teacher, advisor and overall psychologist the Reverend Mahinda. Never forgetting to carefully circumvent the living quarters of the Head Reverend of the temple who we are mortally afraid of. Reverend Mahinda as usual is sitting in his hansi puttwa (reclining chair) drinking a cup of plain tea. He carefully unravels the huge bunch of keys tucked into his robes and presents us with the key to his famous cupboard. The cupboard is famous only for the goodies it secrets. Every foreign chocolate, fresh fruit and all forms of biscuits reside in this cupboard. All offering from the rich Colombo ladies who travel abroad frequently. The good reverend uses this key to good effect to keep all of us well disciplined during Sunday school. Good behaviour is well rewarded by delicious chocolates from far away foreign lands such as England and USA.

After our snack and chat we are now finally ready for the day and what we have anticipated from last Vesak. About ten of us have collected now to be marshalled by Reverend Mahinda. As we are in the temple we are quiet and industrious. We break up into two groups, one to fetch the long bulb streamers and white bulbs that we’ll hang all around the temple, Bo tree and Chaitya. The others fetch the long bamboo stems, white kite paper and wheat flour to mix with water for paste. A basic vesak pandol is built by cutting 24 thin bamboo sticks to one length. Then you proceed to tie them into square of four. Finally these are tied to each other to create a hexagon shape. This is then hung on a tree at reachable height. The white kite paper is cut into squares and carefully pasted on to the hexagon frame. White streamers are added to the bottom and the four corners. White kite paper is preferable but people to build more colourful ones with different colours of kite paper. We hustle around attending to our tasks and are careful not to disturb the gathering of sil mathas (usually old ladies who celebrate Vesak, the birth of Lord Buddha by observing prayers to the triple gem all day and fasting).

Late lunch time and our stomachs begun to rumble. Hunger is secondary when you are a teenager on a mission, but as all teenagers are, food is a must. So we quickly break up to head home. At home I quickly eat my lunch. My sister has finished the pandol décor and I proceed to quickly hang the colour light bulb streamers and the pandols. Superstition and habit prevent me from testing the lights, a ritual left for late evening when darkness descends. All of us gather again at the temple late afternoon. Now we hurry, hurry to finish all our tasks before the thousands of devotees flock to the temple to celebrate the birth of Buddha and offer their prayers. As usual we finish at the very last moment. Tired and weary our white clothes are now drenched with sweat and all the dirt accumulated during the day with the entire cutting, hammering, tying and pasting. Finally the Reverend Mahinda arrives to cast his final glance over everything and switch everything on. The pandols sway in the evening wind, the temple is now brightly lit with all the bulbs and we all now run home to get ready for the night.

I arrive home, have a quick dinner and complete my own ritual of switching on the lights of my three pandols and the streamers at home. My family is all there to see and everyone commends me on a good job. I shower quickly and this time around dress in traditional Sri Lankan dress of a white lunghi and a long sleeved white shirt with a low collar. White flowers have been picked by my sisters to take to the temple along with oil for lamps and incense.

The temple is a short walk away. As we all leave I look back at my decorations at home in pride. Back at the temple all of us teenagers assemble again to organise the lighting and hanging of the coloured Vesak lanterns all over the temple trees. We are encouraged by the Reverends to involve all the children who are at the temple. Everyone excitedly runs around lighting the lanterns with the candles inside them. Finally it’s all finished. The core of us who laboured during the day finally takes time out to admire the fruits of our toil.

Even as a teenager I still remember how my heart would swell with pride at the beautiful sight of our temple and a small tear of joy would gather at the corner of my eye. The temple would blaze with glory in light, a pandols rustling and swaying gently in the wind. Our parents, the sil mathas, worshippers and the reverends would all smile and acknowledge us as the architect of the most satisfying aspect of Vesak – Decorating and lighting up our temple for Vesak in home to the Lord Buddha and blessing of the triple gem.

Nights in Paradise

Nights in Paradise

Nightfall is here and its pitch black. It’s slightly chilly as I wrap myself more securely in the blanket. I lie on the bed, scared to look out of the window into darkness, and spooked by the sound of insects. My only reassurance is the deep sleep breathing of my sibling fast asleep next to me and all the other cousins all scattered around us in what was called the kids room. I am born and bred a city kid, school term holidays otherwise when it was time for the families to visit my Grandmother in my village of Udispaththuwa, close to Kandy in the middle of farm country in Sri Lanka.

My fear of the darkness was aided more by the fact that I was also scared shitless of my grandmother. A tall stately lady, who used to wear long sleeved, white, lace jackets and a white Osari, the popular form of the saree, worn Kandyan style. We were to never venture to her room and my memories of her were glimpses of her smoking a cigar before bedtime or taking long walks down the corridor of her home. My siblings and cousins had better more pleasant memories and experiences but mine were these. The house itself was large with my vivid memory of the old but still working pinball machine and the brilliant actual Tiger skin hanging on the wall.

The corridor in the back starting with the prayer area leading to the huge smoke kitchen. The long table in the corridor where the less fortunate ate. A huge table in the middle of the dining room where the family would sit and eat. Memories of my father always saying that when he romanced my mother, he was entertained where the less fortunate sat, and how when he married my mother, all she came with was one pillow. Obviously one had to add about 750ml of alcohol into the pater to come out with these little gems. Warm goats milk for the children in the morning with jaggery. My aunt, Cheeti’s occasional forays to the kitchen area to cook us delicious tidbits. The much looked forward to evenings with my huge bunch of cousins, being one of the youngest and always being bullied. The fear of the dark coming from Sumith Aiya’s ghost stories. All of us going to temple. Wesak and all the decorations that came up around the house. Plucking the forbidden Coccoa fruit from the back garden. Thellija, (Honey distilled from coconut trees) each child getting a spoon each as one can become drunk with too much consumption. Walks through the paddy field for baths in the well. Our aunts screaming at the older cousins to ensure we do not fall in.

People, laughter, noise, pets, fun.

All of us have moved on now. Some of us to other lands far away where the ‘Sudhdha’ lived. Exploits of even how the house suffered slight damage in WW2 due to bombing. The house now quiet, locked up. The paddy fields unploughed. Only signs of life being the people hired by my aunt who live in the kitchen area. My grandmothers grave area with the jam tree and cement seat sits forlorn. My daughter I take whenever in my motherland for she must know this is her heritage.

Sinhala, Buddhist, Govigama people from Kandy. During recent years this is fast becoming a point of debate and looked down on. That we the Sinhalese subjugate the others into servitude. I am not ashamed to be Sinhala Buddhist. This is our motherland. Our roots, our culture, our heritage.

By choice my friends are of other cultures, multi-cultural or ethnically diverse Sri Lankan’s. My best friends and all of them Sri Lankan’s. They belong as much as I do. Especially the Tamils as they are part of our motherlands history and heritage. Not separately, in one motherland – Sri Lanka.

Waking to Paradise

Waking to Paradise

I wake to the slight chill in the air and the blur of bright sea blue as someone adjusts the pillow on my head and covers me with a blanket. The steady drone I hear is the aircraft engine and the bright blue morphs into a smiling stewardess. I have slept for over five hours on my flight to the Paradise Isle from London. I stretch comfortably and slowly meander my way to the back of the cabin for a fresh cup of Paradisian tea, a shining red apple and some Paradisian chat. The Malaysian Tamil female passenger reads the palms of the stewardesses and mine. I smile as the stewardesses ask her the main question in any single female Paradisians mind, when will they marry? We all cross the fortune-tellers palm with silver and I meander my way back to my seat.

It’s early morning when we land in Paradise. In the typical Paradisian way everyone pushes each other to disembark. I make my way through immigration; pick my bags up, quick stop at duty free and onwards to book a taxi to take me to the salubrious surroundings of Pelawatte. After a prolonged dismal English winter and dodgy spring, the April heat of Paradise overwhelms me. I long for the air-conditioned comfort of my sister’s home.

As always I am delighted by the sheer colourfulness of my Paradise Isle. The painted and gaily decorated public buses and scooter taxi’s, cars as old as 1950, the latest in luxury SUV’s all jostle and bustle with each other as they proceed at breath taking speeds down the airport road to Colombo. The only differences are the slow bullock carts, cows and street dogs that sedately share this road with vehicular traffic. I look forward to the three weeks ahead as I flinch and close my eyes inside the taxi that’s taking me to Pelawatte. I flinch because the taxi driver keeps taking his eyes off the road to talk to me.

I jump into the shower as soon as I get home. After five years, the solar powered panels that provide hot water still surprisingly work well. I set the water from hot to really cold as I wash the journey off me. I am wide awake as I jump off the shower and what seems to be ages, which it actually is as I put on a pair of my GAP shorts, a tee from Abercrombie, slippers as my friend arrives in his jeep to pick me up. Its post election day so the sale of alcohol is prohibited, therefore all the clubs and bars are closed. We head to another friends house and I start my holiday in earnest as I sip my first long ice filled glass of Absolut and Red Bull. Helped down smoothly at dusk by the freshly fried chicken and prawn rolls from Tasty’s. My thirst and hunger sated it is late night as I head back for a long nights sleep. My stay in Paradise has begun. I awake refreshed late next afternoon. Meeting family, seeking funding and partners for business, the Sinhala and Tamil New Year, the post new year procession in seeking the blessings of Lord Skanda in the deep south of Paradise, Kataragama, the wedding of one of my best buddies, catching up with college mates, clubbing, bar hopping, binging on drink and food all await me. I am truly in Paradise. As I have been strictly warned to not mention smoking material from Pakistan and Thanmalwilla I shall detest. Ask any Paradisian they will know.

I blaze my way through the two most happening nightclubs in Colombo. Mojo at the Taj Samudra Hotel and the Silk nightclub next to the CH & FC rugby club. Highlights at Mojo are meeting the former Blue Elephant DJ Naushad who spun one complete night of house music for me, helped along with bottles of Absolut, Moet and Grey Goose.

At Hambantota, just before we come to town we are sent on a detour due to construction of the new port. We drive down a brand new fully carpeted road. I get my driver to stop quickly to take pictures of the peacocks hanging out by the roadside. The peacocks are fully alert and as long as we stay in the SUV they stay put. The minute I get off the jeep they run away. We pass the new International Conventions Centre in construction. The sheer size of the structure leaves all of us in the jeep impressed.

Usually extremely hot in April, Kataragama is pleasantly cool, as rains have fallen at night. We visit the Kirivehera Stupa and Temple to offer flowers, incense and light oil lamps to seek blessings of the Buddha, dharma and sangha. Afterwards we walk to the scared temple of Lord Skanda to seek his blessings and protection. In April I usually time my visits to Paradise in time for the procession of elephants in ball gowns and dervish dancers in homage of Lord Skanda. Firewalkers, various forms of ethnic dancers in brilliant costumes are a photographers dream.

Back in Colombo, family and friends take me to some of the best fusion, Indian and Chinese restaurants in the world. Sunday and poya day dim sum at the Wok in the Colombo Hilton, Mango Tree for Indian food and the Peach Valley Chinese restaurant down Flower Road in Colombo are most noteworthy.

Meeting old school mates and friends at the members only private clubs and bars in Colombo and bacchanalia is a special treat that one must enjoy in Sri Lanka. A prelude of our colonial past and a memento of the British, clubs such as the Old Thomians Swimming Club (OTSC), Orient Club and the Swimming Club must be visited to see true friendship and bonding amongst Paradisians.

My holiday is fully completed with my attendance at a best friends wedding. Quick purchases of fresh spices, Paradisian Tea, and souvenirs for friends from Barefoot. A pair of perfectly matching pink sapphire earrings for my wife. All too soon it is time to leave. The cab arrives late night as my friends help me load my bags in. Hugs, kisses and goodbyes.

Intermittent lights of Colombo blink below me as I look down from the Srilankan Airlines flight to Heathrow. This time back I get a seat by the exit door with loads of leg space. I stretch out and allow the drone of the aircraft engine to lull me to sleep. Dreams, sweet dreams of my motherland, and another fantastic holiday.

Sri Lanka, the Paradise Isle.

Missing Paradise

Missing Paradise

Two days to Christmas. The DJ plays a soft bluesy number as the house lights come on. I look around with bleary eyes. The less inebriated amongst us have checked our coats out and the bouncers gently try to dislodge us to begin the journey home. As we stumble out the rush of cold air is welcome. Minus 10 degrees means none of us hang around and all bundle into the cab. Everyone’s still in high spirits and talking loudly.

No one notices as I sink into a corner of the cab and wearily watch the lights of London fly by. It’s early morning and the only one’s out and about are revellers like us, the East-Europeans heading off to their early morning jobs, milk and newspaper delivery trucks. I am looking forward to home, a hot bath and unwinding on the couch with a hot mug of coffee. Although tired I know that I will need that ‘me time’ to properly fall asleep.

Unconsciously my thoughts roam to the year gone by. As I grow older I have matured. My world has slowed down, while the rest of 2010 flashed by. My other four mates in the cab surround me but yet I feel tremendously melancholy. I call them my ‘mates’ as they are still not my friends. I am more than guilty as they think of me as a good mate, I take long to make friends, and again as I mature it’s harder and harder to change my Sri Lankanisms. I worry I am becoming a grumpy old man. Little things don’t worry me anymore, but the big things worry me more.

Christmas and Christmastime bothers me the most. To me it’s that specific time of the year you are sharply reminded of the income gap that bridges the haves from the have-nots. The homeless man I just saw sleeping under one of the Harrods shop windows as we pass Knightsbridge will haunt me like the ghost of Christmas past. How is he managing in minus 10 temperatures?

Last year I arrived in the Paradise Isle on Christmas day to party non-stop with my friends in Dickwella and onwards to 31st night at Galle Face. This year in the London-Elstree Holiday Inn Masquerade Ball. Actually my first 31st party in London. With my mates!

Non-Christian me will celebrate Christmas in our own special way. My wife’s relatives will come home early morning for mutton curry and milk-rice. Presents will be opened. Sash and San who are my sis-in-laws kids are still 2 and 6. They believe in Santa. One of the nice things about Christmas, Santa. Our kid is a teenager, she knows, but still expects as many presents under the tree.

I am home. The repeat of the Amir Khan fight’s on Sky Sports. I take a sip of hot coffee and snuggle under the duvet. Everything is ready for Christmas. As I drift to sleep I lay my soul for the good Lord to keep and pray I will not dream of the homeless man I saw earlier this morning.

Last call.

Life after heaven

Life after heaven

Lazy Sunday morning. The aroma of fresh coffee wafts into the room. This is enough incentive for me to roll out of bed. Everyone eventually showers. All of us take off for Dim Sum at the Hilton Emperor Wok.

Full as we eventually head off to my piece of heaven in Sri Lanka, The Barefoot Shop, Gallery and Café. We immediately leave the heat and humidity of the day as we walk into the Barefoot Garden. The splash of colour never fails to surprise me. Sunday Jazz Band in attendance and the crooning voice of Jerome Speldewinde entertains.

Christmas hols and it’s almost like back in London. I spot many of the Diaspora. Wave, grin and cheerful greetings shouted across. Many of us carrying around the absolutely necessary piece of Diaspora kit, a digital camera! Picture’s taken, hugs and New Year kisses. I quickly look about and spot in relief that my mates have headed upstairs.

The true beauty of the Barefoot garden is truly captured from the balcony. The Jazz Band forms the centrepiece to a bustle of colour. The religious statues from far off kovils in the north, ethnic Christmas trees, the wonderful painting hung on the bar wall, a fusion of colour in the table cloths, huge ceramic pots teeming with little orange and red fish.

The Tiger beer I sip feels colder, much better than anywhere else in the world. I am home, in heaven, in my Paradise Isle. The two Diaspora kids who run up to see me are impressed. They believe that broad upper floor over the Barefoot Café bar is where I live when I am in Sri Lanka! Reluctantly I set them right.

I give up on the uber cool image I am trying to project and click away with my piece of Canon kit. Dom the owner of Barefoot spots me from downstairs. Grin, wave and a huge thumbs up.

Some of us head into the Barefoot shop to do some shopping. I have already been. Sterling statue of God Gnanapathi, the famous Barefoot stone Buddha’s, compulsory Barefoot sarongs, Table Mats, Napkins and a load of knickknacks for the kid. All for just under £100! All in the unimaginably glorious Barefoot colours of Sri Lanka.

With the mildly amused acceptance of Nas and the obliging grin of Dom’s I take a few shots of inside the shop that you enjoy now. Normally a strict no the shop staff looks at me annoyingly and are still suspicious despite the fact that I inform them I have approval.

Dusk arrives and all too soon Jerome and the Band pack up for the evening. Few pictures, goodbyes to everyone and we head off. Getting into my friends monster sports car I take one last look back. It’s Sunday, I leave my Paradise Isle early Tuesday morning. My heart aches, the lump in my throat and teary eyes I hide from my friends. I console myself that I am back in April for a friends wedding.

It’s twelve inches of snow and minus eight degrees outside as I sit here typing this from the stix of England. But in my soul I hear the voice of Jerome Speldewine. Brilliant colours mix in my mind. I am full from the café’s fresh fusion food. I am wearing the bright gold Barefoot sarong mixed with shades of black. The warm tropical wind caresses my back. The scent of frangipani flowers scatters everywhere. Lord Gnanapathi gazes at me in benevolence.

Colombo’s wonderful oasis for every weary traveller. Barefoot.

My paradise isle

My paradise isle

It’s 30 centigrade and the sun blazes overhead. The humidity adds an extra dimension to the heat. Landing at the international airport in Katunayake I especially feel it as I had left cold miserable weather back in Heathrow. I have been dying for a smoke after the 12-hour flight and I quickly light up as I stand on the pavement in front of the airport passenger pick up point and look for Bandu and the car.

As soon as I landed when switching the mobile on I already had sms’s from my friends in Colombo welcoming me. Nice, very nice. Bandu rolls up and almost leaps from the car in welcome. As usual he tries to worship me and I stop him by giving him a warm hug. The sweat sticks to my body; my white linen shirt is covered with sweat. I don’t mind, I love it. I slide into the refreshingly air conditioned car but immediately roll the window down to light up another cig. Bandu helps the porter load my bags; I call out a warning to them to ensure none of the booze bottles purchased from duty-free break.

Finally as Bandu pulls out of the airport I just let the tension in my body, just let it all go and slide more into the car seat. I enjoy the incredible feeling of the suddenness of everything being completely right. I am home. Bandu wants to stop for a cool Thambili (King Coconut), I am more eager to get home, so we keep on. The school and work traffic has started and the goings slow. I greedily take in the sights and sounds of my Paradise Isle.

A fusion of bright colour.

The Buddhist priests standing by the bus stop.

The orange king coconuts in the wayside shop matching their saffron robes perfectly.

The little kid inside the bus on the way to school. Peering at me curiously and rewarding me with a brilliant white toothed smile and shy wave.

The private buses shooting recklessly by. Their coloured livery and signs make me smile.

‘Don’t kiss me’ stickers on Scooter Taxi bumpers.

The young lady in her pastel flowered Saree and umbrella to match walking to the train station.

The girls from the garment factories hurrying by, chatting one to a dozen. Pretty, very pretty.

Noise emanating from everywhere, the record bars littering the Wattala area blasts pop music from speakers placed right outside their shops.

A Policeman stands in the middle of an island on the road. His face in resignation to the chaos around him.

I am waiting to just get home and stand under the cold shower for hours. Wash off the dirt from the journey, all my trials and tribulations. For I know I am home. Home in my Paradise Isle.

I am surprised to find my cheek already wet as I wipe it. Jolted out of my dream I realise I am in bed snuggled under the duvet. It’s cold outside in my part of Hertfordshire, just 12 degrees this morning. The alarm from the mobile rings urgently. I quickly wipe the tears off my face and head downstairs to prepare my first cup of coffee for the day.

It’s OK, I am OK. I have my precious memories, my dreams. Home, my Paradise Isle.