Violence against women- 16 days of Activism Against Gender Based Violence

Last year, someone known to me was flickering with ebullience and oomph that she was going to get married. She was gracious enough to let my eyes run through her gifts of velvet cased jewellery and other apple polished frilly elegance. She also told me the guy was 23, fluent in his English because she wasn’t and hadn’t asked anything in terms of dowry from her. I understood, she was happy at this prospect.

Then when she handed her invitation card, I took it. Read it. And splashed a smile in order to be nice. As I was holding the card, I shrunk in fear. Was she doing the right thing? Is she going to come through and get better without any sort of academic hand to surrogate if she fell? She was only 18 after all, stopped by 8^th grade but a brilliant student during those 7 years. She maybe in her magical thoughts, but what I knew was that she would only smile into her character and pat my back saying that I was thinking way too far like she had always done if I had brought these questions out to life.

A year later, something happened and her family had to move, save they ended up living at our vacant home downstairs for a few months until things had settled at their end. Dawn came and their final day to leave us breezed in. That day before, I heard a few rumpuses stewing through my room from the house below. I ran a silky thought in mind it must be her parents or some relative with a business collapse. In the mean time my mum was down attending to her plants and greenery when suddenly I heard loud sobs repine through pain. “Don’t hit me, please stop”, it moaned. I hurried closer to the window and it knocked me. The husband was beating her. What the heart of the drama saddened me was her own mother couldn’t stop him. Why being the question posed by my mum later after the man had gone, the girl had said because she has opinions and ‘a big mouth’. And then more spilled out, that his parents are encouraging his beastly seemliness that he never takes her out if she wanted or not and she has never been happy with him ever since she was sprayed off to slog as a maid in her new home. It shocked both my parents and me sharply. I wanted to run down, hold her hand and just lock her in a hug and allow a good cry on my shoulder never mind the dampness. But the same day, the family bid goodbye back to their home. I wasn’t in a position to even sit her down and ask her everything from scratch. The guilt stood by me on the nose. I thought I imagined it all.

When I had visited her months right after marriage all she did was shine with the same old zip of energy and liveliness just as she was known. She also revealed that she was trying for a baby to complete her ‘euphoria’. But coiled inside was a crestfallen, troubled, beaten soul limping her youth cast down. I was ashamed at myself for not trying to break through the mirror she was flashing at me. But what can I say? That everything will be alright if she keeps sticking tapes of patience to the wounds infused? How many women and young girls like her take this as their daily bread? How many are swept off with promises and pledge only to later doom them inflaming the fears and mediocrity? How many silence themselves even from their own parents because they wish not to trouble their gray heads. This, I believe is one of the worst fears young women are embroiled in. The ones tangled in marriage without any education or qualification to back them up are the ones dying and trying to get a grasp of what little liberation marriage they thought once would fix them. A dish of achievement and happiness from a man at least. But no, these girls and women remain beady in their eyes with a beast in their beds waking up to head to the kitchen to chop onions so that one’s mind would ‘clear’ trying to read of as what really, made them cry.

And the Dark Bournville melts

Let me admit, that I’m growing into this real dough of the cookie than the dark Bournville toughie I used to be. Reeling back to the teens, I found an Uma Thurman in me ripped straight from the Kill Bill volumes. I was the girl who would laugh in the faces of those boys who asked me out. I was the kind who’d never let the waters sail as the canoe liked. Instead I loved thunderstorms, the sad rock getting hit by rude currents and everything destructive with a trail of tears soiling the cheeks, emitting assorted cries when I told myself why wait if there was no reason for me at all. There was always anger, fists of rebellion beetling around everywhere with rain of doubts descending upon me every single time it hit me like a kiss on bitten lips. Like eau de cologne on a fresh wound. Sometimes I was a cat snarled by thick fear that’ll end up softening and drowning into hours of sleep and dream, things I can never be. Never have. Never afford to. Other times I was this empty wine bottle placed against the wall righting itself while others pottered along, shaped by everything they had and I didn’t. Even though such things are still a tease to me, with my life travelling as it hasn’t reached the full potential and I can’t help wondering why, things don’t seem promising. Is something wrong with me? Or them and their dubious practices? But

these shoes are learning to kiss water’s softness like heat does to butter and the darkness cloaking my mind is being lifted slowly. I am hugging the word ‘patience’ like it’s the last tree I have found. I am tuning to Jem more often lately (if I was 16 right now I’d gag at this). I’m smiling against battle’s rhythm because its telling me it will eventually turn into relief soon and I will laugh some more. So much more. Like it’s the first thing I’d want to do when I was born.

I am an optimist at heart. I always have been even if I’ve figured out that I am that chocolate with mistakes. A fighter. An abortion survivor. I’ll think myself lucky, because after all what’s a snicker’s best without the nuts?

Day 20

day 20- a poem you want to read when your angry

Sorry by Ntozake Shange. She is one of those voices that is rough, symphonic and fierce like a diamond.


one thing i don’t need
is any more apologies
i got sorry greeting me at my front door
you can keep yours
i don’t know what to do with them
they dont open doors
or bring the sun back
they dont make me happy
or get a morning paper
didnt nobody stop using my tears to wash cars
cause a sorry

i am simply tired
of collecting
i didnt know
i was so important to you
i’m gonna have to throw some away
i cant get to the clothes in my closet
for all the sorries
i’m gonna tack a sign to my door
leave a message by the phone
if you called
to say your sorry
call somebody
else
i dont use them anymore’
i let sorry/ didnt mean to/ & how could i know about that
take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn
i’m gonna do exactly what i want to
& i wont be sorry for none of it
letta sorry soothe your soul/ i’m gonna soothe mine


you were always inconsistent
doing something & then being sorry
beating my heart to death
talkign bout your sorry
well
i will not call
i’m not going to be nice
i will raise my voice
& scream & holler
& break things & race the engine
& tell all your secrets about yourself to your face
& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers
& their ways
i will play oliver lake
loud
& i wont be sorry for none of it


i loved you on purpose
i was open on purpose
i still crave vulnerability & close talk
& i’m not even sorry about you being sorry
you can carry all the guilt & grime you wanna
just dont give it to me
i cant use another sorry
next time
you should admit
you’re mean/ low-down/ trifling/ & no count straight out
insteada being sorry alla the time
enjoy being yourself

I handled the heat

Al Masjid Al Nabawi (mosque of Prophet pbuh)

It was 48 C and the sky was wearing a hot wind, the air with a soul of damascus rose, cardomon patchouli, Italian lemon or a harmony of tobacco running through the streets of Medina. Yours truly was away for a couple of two weeks and more to the middle east for Umrah pilgrimage. Medina was beautiful. It reminded me of New York city for a second. A tray of people from Morocco, Lebanan,Yemen, Dubai, Bangladesh, Istanbul, Egypt, Syria, Somalia keep serving the holiest place for prayer every blink of the eye. The flock was bigger than for Hajj. 4 million as estimated.

Sunshades and crocks. Men in daffah thobes and turbans munching miswak sticks, women black berry bold. Valourous though veiled. None of them sleep. Nor do the shops take a nap. They are just left as it is while the owners respond to the soft croon of azan. Fist of seeds thrown to the pigeons' crib. Black needy girls snake through begging without the police catching their eyes on them. Domes heavily arched like eyebrows. Cars purring their way through speed. Breaking fast at both places; Makkah and Medina was the most zestful. Chances of having it inside the mosques are low if you arrive late. Fingers singing with prayer beads for the sins are sharp. The sky stirring sherbet, dates descending on tongues, cheese, milk, naan bread, unsalted buns, fruit juice, lamb stuffed samosas, pepsi cans were distributed but getting them in your hands wasnt easy as buttercake. A lot of pushing, harsh words sprinkled here and there in the languages of their own like arms juggling for the goodies has to be done.

The 2 riyal shop .Thats 60 bucks in Lankan rupees

Bait al Haram. Kaaba in Makkah

Its no suprise to see these Indians clinching the deal. They go lay their eggs everywhere sigh. Jeddah is clogged with ones from Kerala. Shopping after dusk to 1 in the morning we arrived at a saiwar kade to have dinner I must say the food was legendary. The owner was a sahib fastened with a cap on his head and Mumbai born knew a little Sinhala , so felt a little close to home.

A painting spotted in the room at Sofaraa al Huda Hotel in Medina

All in all the tour was an art of calligraphy. Having walked numerous kilometers I ended up with leg fever. But once you arrive at the strand of leaving for home turning back for the last time to wave at Kaabah there's something refusing to do as you should however I bit back the temptation like everyone who goes there comes back saying in their hearts. I want to go there one more time

More pictures on my flickr page. Go see here

Trees of the Independence Avenue

From the time I was a kid I have been a deep lover of Colombo's trees hugging them everytime I see them and loved travelling around Colombo on a daily basis. Galle face used to be my lullaby cot. Dad tells me when I used to be so rebellious about riding to Galle face everyday until I dosed off to bend back home. Sometimes it struck 12 and I wasnt yet yawning. I was laughing with the stars counting ships as if they were crickets in a black forest. The next used to be the Independent Square. So when I learnt the whole slashing those trees adorning the Independence Avenue hit me home. Hard. Its painful as I watch this visual. These trees have held dusk like pera toffee in my tongue. They have stood like horses. They bow shyly singing through the leaves with their manes touching the Avenue's forehead. I have licked popsicles, lollipops, and mangoes under these beauties. I have dwelled with the moon frozen like a nipple carving a beautiful breast of night. I have thrown my arms to the sky and felt the air thinning. Rain knew how to kiss their embroidery of leaves. I have watched them ripple tensely I know I cant beg back for these trees. Its okay I have the memories. They have now lost their sleep. But somehow let this be enough for now.

I have a long collector's streak me as a result my memory invites thses photos taken way back in the 90's . :B

Yours truly knows this change maybe good, but people like me, stung with memories put together cannot touch new things. We are old fashioned like that.

Little things I love

I was at the beach last week. A beach thick with beauty and a long drive. There are things that are madly attractive. I love things. things that have a soft foot traipsing around the waist of the sea. I love when tiny teeth of waves munch through the shoreline. Like a fire on a candle. I love how the sea is still beautiful without having sliced bread of flowers buttered somewhere in fresh corners. There is the sun that is going down at its side kneeling down in prayer. I love her more when she wakes from her ageless bed oblivious about how many spirits would have stayed awake counting her eyelashes. And the way she wakes the world colourfully, noisely yet without her own. Clouds and their singing in priests' attire carrying pink candy in their pockets. Sometimes we want to tell the world what we saw but not with our tongues. then there are the people. like avocado seeds removed from their fruit of duties. leaving it for glasses to drink their pain away. There are the poorer ones less known who are fully human rather looking richer for death. Then are things that are difficult to think they are animals crossing you, bent with hunger and sometimes with no waiter. Waiting with complains draped in care. Which question that answers will be the wind with a message that never will feed or greet their faces. To learn that they are here for a different reason, that they are naked with a brain but are acceptable from a human eye because we are different with reasons and I love how I love, listen and learn so many but I live only once.

Day 19

day 19- a poem from your favourite anthology/collection

is of an indian's. Kamala Das. As you know I mentioned before that a majority of my favourite poems cocoon from Kerala. Ensconced with her poems one evening, I was immensely snatched by the voice in her throat. The way it once said at an interview, ' I always wanted love and if you dont get it within your home you stray a little.' The voice of a female. Her tradition to being frank. Powerful. Lyrical. Honest. Dangerous. Like the roar of the ocean. Always honest excluding her autobiography where the words dance a little fictional dance, not appropriately that which should be saying about who she is. Unfortunately hasnt. Her poems mostly spin around red marks on skin, controversy, metal sky adventures and a captive life story that leads to something darkishly beautiful.


This is ' An Introduction' taken from her first collection of poetry, Summer in Calcutta.

I don’t know politics but I know the names
Of those in power, and can repeat them like
Days of week, or names of months, beginning with Nehru.
I am Indian, very brown, born in Malabar,
I speak three languages, write in
Two, dream in one.
Don’t write in English, they said, English is
Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave
Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins,
Every one of you? Why not let me speak in
Any language I like? The language I speak,
Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses
All mine, mine alone.
It is half English, halfIndian, funny perhaps, but it is honest,
It is as human as I am human, don’t
You see? It voices my joys, my longings, my
Hopes, and it is useful to me as cawing
Is to crows or roaring to the lions, it
Is human speech, the speech of the mind that is
Here and not there, a mind that sees and hears and
Is aware. Not the deaf, blind speech
Of trees in storm or of monsoon clouds or of rain or the
Incoherent mutterings of the blazing
Funeral pyre. I was child, and later they
Told me I grew, for I became tall, my limbs
Swelled and one or two places sprouted hair.
WhenI asked for love, not knowing what else to ask
For, he drew a youth of sixteen into the
Bedroom and closed the door, He did not beat me
But my sad woman-body felt so beaten.
The weight of my breasts and womb crushed me.
I shrank Pitifully.
Then … I wore a shirt and my
Brother’s trousers, cut my hair short and ignored
My womanliness. Dress in sarees, be girl
Be wife, they said. Be embroiderer, be cook,
Be a quarreller with servants. Fit in. Oh,
Belong, cried the categorizers. Don’t sit
On walls or peep in through our lace-draped windows.
Be Amy, or be Kamala. Or, better
Still, be Madhavikutty. It is time to
Choose a name, a role. Don’t play pretending games.
Don’t play at schizophrenia or be a
Nympho. Don’t cry embarrassingly loud when
Jilted in love … I met a man, loved him. Call
Him not by any name, he is every man
Who wants. a woman, just as I am every
Woman who seeks love. In him . . . the hungry haste
Of rivers, in me . . . the oceans’ tireless
Waiting. Who are you, I ask each and everyone,
The answer is, it is I. Anywhere and,
Everywhere, I see the one who calls himself I
In this world, he is tightly packed like the
Sword in its sheath. It is I who drink lonely
Drinks at twelve, midnight, in hotels of strange towns,
It is I who laugh, it is I who make love
And then, feel shame, it is I who lie dying
With a rattle in my throat. I am sinner,
I am saint. I am the beloved and the
Betrayed. I have no joys that are not yours, no
Aches which are not yours. I too call myself I.



Even though I wish to add Eunice de Souza's Advice to women, I want Das here in Day 19.