Shirani Rajapakse
MaliSad eyes stare at the world outside,
iron bars lock you in. Four thick walls mark your space. This is all you have and nothing more. Proud strong woman from my homeland you live imprisoned in a web of lies they churn out for money from crowds that come to ogle as you stare out of your cell with lonely gaze. Your feet hold scars of neglect yet the pain in your heart can never be seen by those that claim you are well. There’s no one in that space that can share your grief. You hide it inside as you have all these years. Can you still speak oh woman of my land? Do you understand the words your ancestors spoke, recall the stories they whispered to you as a child? Do you yearn to walk across the lands they owned, feel the breeze on your skin once more as it blew warm and free? Remember your life long ago dear friend, in that far away place divided by earth and sea. You roamed with your family, played in the woods, picked up trunkfuls of earth that you smeared on yourself, bathed in rivers deep and narrow as the fish swam below between your feet. Remember the days, you walked with the herd across vast tracts, brown and green and azure up above. They promised you happiness the day you were sent as a gift yet all you got was this prison lonely and sad. Solitary confinement yet you committed no crime. How long will this last? Every day you die a little and every day the lies grow strong. Driving Down Galle RoadDid you see the dead walking
along the shore last night? Or hear the mournful wails of souls caught up in limbo? They came ashore from the bottom of the sea that stole them many years ago. Branches of the coconut trees shivered as they stood swaying in the balmy nights’ breeze. The lone dog howled from the house many miles inland. He seemed to sense all was not right. Was he the only one to know of your presence? Did others inside houses not know? Or were they tired of it all? Lost souls wrenched away by the sea so long ago now coming ashore to call on the living, asking for things they couldn’t get in their life. Taken away too soon, before they could begin to live. Borne away by the roaring waves away, away many fathoms into the deep. They now cry to return, unfinished lives, unfinished business but the seas only roar as they hover about on land. Waiting. (Galle Road is a major highway that connects the capital Colombo with the city of Galle in Sri Lanka) Questions Left UnansweredA head in the drain, he tried to
understand why. They took him in for questioning, dragging him out of the house. A rude awakening. Fifteen years of sharing life but can you really know someone? He thought he did until they told him about the head, bloodied and severed from the impact lying in the drain and the many lives lost on the street. She stopped the rush hour traffic with her swift movements. Nothing remained except pieces of lives swimming on the street and soaking into the earth to disappear the next day. The numbers could only be imagined. The hole in the ground, smoke on the air and the smell of burning, burning. He sits in the front room of the house they once shared unable to go inside as the memories have shattered into tiny fragments. They lie scattered across the floor like the flowers of the Sepalika tree in the early morning dew. He wonders at it all trying to understand while in the jungles far away someone else is groomed to take her place.
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Dream of the HousemaidReturning home on a stretcher, a
plane ride to the desert many months ago gone so wrong. You got much more than you bargained for with a salary paid in nails. Hard as hell. Forced inside, damming your veins, piercing bones, rotting, festering. Tears all dried up you came back in pain. Dreams shattered, leaving them scattered in the sands for scavengers to feast. The oil merchant’s wife made sure of it. There was something she didn’t like, or maybe he didn’t like being rejected. Wasn’t used to it. They held you down on a chair in the kitchen writhing and howling in pain, nails hammered in, one at a time. Your hands, your feet as you cried out in vain. Stuffed some down your throat until you were too full of it all. The X-rays back home confirmed, but oh the shame. No one believed. No one. Your story was good, made the news that night and the next day too. Everyone had something to say. But no one believed. The press was amused; you made it all up, someone sniggered. Couldn’t handle the pressure, the agency that sent you grumbled and ignored your plea. Said you did it for a piece of fame; time in the spotlight. But what a show. You got nothing, nothing. Alone on a hospital bed swathed in bandages stuffed with medication they stare and talk in whispers as you recollect the journey to the Middle East, oasis of the poor. You went to make money, like everyone else in the village, build a house, educate your three children waiting at home with their grandmother. Your husband a drunkard, he couldn’t keep a job, so you took over. They had to live. But all you got were nails beaten in like Jesus that day. Yet where’s your cross? Where are your followers? Money gone, dignity in shreds you yearn to return as unfulfilled dreams refuse to leave tugging at your heart calling, calling come finish what you started. SamsaraI’m bored with this life.
Can I go home? But where is home? How do I get there? Which bus do I take? Do I fly instead, or can the road take me there through its twists and turns? And if I fall along the way will you lift me up? Give me new shoes and food to eat and a place to stay. Will you come with me, or do you stay behind? Alone. I could do with some company on my way there. To nowhere. To where I don’t know. For I cannot read a map and you can. It’s as simple as that. The ViolinistLifting, moving,
bowing. I saw her move many years ago. It seemed like yesterday, or so my memory said. Blue stripes on loose white covered skin and bone too young to look like that. Old and gnarled like the trees in the garden somewhere nice. She steadied her arm and lifted again. The star gleamed on translucent skin. I remembered. Dark black with numbers to count. Her days were numbered. One. Two. Three. She knew. I saw. The music rose from her bow. She played. They played with her. I tried to follow. Another performance. Another day to live. Cold, shivering, yet the bow moved up then down as the music moved the audience to tears. Medals gleamed, while hearts bled, yet she lived another day. While all around fell to his command. |
