Sellam Badu Kollo ” a short story from “Rainbows in Braille” – A collection of short stories – By Elmo Jayawardena
The sunsets were magnificent; long and slow as the western sky got splashed in marmalade and vermillion. The glow in the far horizon was burnt gold where the sun’s thin red rays sprouted through low ‘mackerel shoal’ clouds like a mute symphony from heaven. The beach became copper coloured and the water’s edge a rare purple with white-foamed waves still battering the shore. Far to the right the rotating beam of the Galle lighthouse made its lazy rounds, still an infant blip against the fading last light of a day nearing its end. The sky, the sea and the beach in harmony were picture postcard perfect, an instant painting that would last awhile till the night cloaked it in darkness.
The two lay on large Poseidon Inn towels spread on the sand, white with green lines with an oversized crude looking print of the sea god himself in the middle. None other than Mr. Poseidon himself, trident in hand, matted beard and the facial features all inter mixed in a grotesque design; result of a cheap and poor print job on the towel from a poor and cheap dye factory.
The girls were long-legged and blond, one with cascading hair and the other the upside down bathroom mop style, both very easily pole-vaulting over the average hurdles of beauty. The French cut strips covering their near nakedness were blue and blue, a dark and a pale; they had picked them from the same shelf at half-price from a swimwear shop in Osterfeld, their hometown in the fatherland. The suits were about to go out of fashion and no one would possibly wear them in the grey and gloomy winter weather in Germany, certainly not in the small community where they lived. No wonder the swimsuits were so cheap.
The typical beach-bummer paraphernalia were scattered around them like children’s discarded toys; almost empty Evian plastic water bottles and half-squeezed tubes of sun-lotion lying on the ample towels along with cloth caps and sunglasses that had become redundant with the dying sun.
Brigit rolled on her stomach and picked a Marlborough and flipped a lighter to ignite.
“Want?”
Dee shook her head. Her mouth still tasted stale from the last one she had smoked
The late evening was the time Dee liked best to be on the beach, twilight in the tropics, just to lie on the sand and watch the looming sky fade from light to dark and spot the stars as they got lit one by one by some favoured angel on star lighting duty for the day.
“You could pick them as they come to life and count them, if you cared,” she whispered to herself.
Dee watched Brigit in cigarette mode; face tilted up, cheeks hollowing on the inhale and then making her ever vain attempts to send out half-broken smoke rings with pouting lips. They both started the course together, this sending smoke ring business as they arrived at the hotel, self taught, to pistol-barrel the lips and push the tongue out to make the smoke drift off in abstract circles. Dee mastered and Brigit struggled, it was the story of their life in anything they did, biking and swimming and tennis included and not excluding who got the “strip for me please” penetrating looks they got on their Friday night disco crawls.
“Time to go Brit,” saying so Dee stood and picked her towel in one fluid motion and gave a vigorous shaking to get the sand off. She then rolled and squashed it into the bottom of her duffel-bag. Brigit took her last Marlborough pull and made her final attempt to send one last smoke ring to join the sunset.
Brigit and Deidre had been in Galle for three days; three sun-filled lazy days that were nothing but wonderful. The Inn was exactly what the Travel man in Düsseldorf promised when they booked the trip. “Poseidon” that was the name and the seven rooms that Poseidon boasted of were all occupied, one for Brit and Dee and the other six for some noisy Italians from Catalina who walked all over the hotel n their pyjamas.
“What can you expect?” Brigit calmed Deidre, you know where they are from; they only know to make shoes and pasta and anything beyond that they are either Ferrari mechanics or hairdressers.”
Two beds and a little table crowded the Poseidon room and a built-in wardrobe fought for space beside the entrance to a tiny bathroom. The shower sprayed a trickle of water to bathe, which was fine for the price they paid. On one wall was a mirror and on the other hung a half naked slant-eyed dancer with an abundance of overflowing breasts and a seductive behind, a brown batik hanging on a cheap frame. As for the linen the sheets were brilliant white and had the unmistakable odour of Sunlight soap. The towels were the same, fluffy and thick and smelling strongly of laundry detergent as if the housekeeper here was hell-bent on keeping matters clinically clean. Though small, the room was airy and a wide window faced the sea for the guests to spectate how the waves broke on the shore. It was all golden sand and a nursery blue sky with the sea rolling and churning in the middle. The Poseidon Inn was certainly a haven to be for anyone who loved the sea.
Brit and Dee were more than happy; they had traveled very far for this serendipity. Bar the minor annoyance of the noisy pyjama clad Italians, the rest was all heaven. Wake up late and loll in bed and amble to the breakfast buffet where a feast of fruit and bakery delights awaited them. That took care of the best part of the morning.
Then to the beach to burn in the sun and dip in the blue and lie on the sand and make vain attempts to send Marlborough smoke rings to the sky. Such was life, rest at its best, and five more days before they packed.
The restaurant was almost empty except for a local family that had taken a corner table facing the sea; the husband and wife were engrossed in menu reading while the children played with the cutlery. Dee chose to sit away from the noisy stereo, old voices and old songs, Belafonte was on a popular medley in a rustic voice, asking Lisa to come back and wipe his tears followed by a romp around the bay of Mexico and finally saying a farewell to Jamaica.
“The local beer is tofs madam,” lisped the waiter advertising Lion Lager.
“Big one,” Dee ordered gesturing with the hand and Brit nodded consent..
“Make sure it is well chilled.”
“You like pried fotatoes”
“No”
The waiter ambled off to get the beer and the “fotato-refuses” looked at each other over the menu cards they were attempting to decipher.
“Mixes his P’s and the F’s, doesn’t he?”
“Must be pucking with his frick,” Dee laughed loud and rowdily and Brit matched in equal pitch.
By the time the beer arrived they had decided on devilled crab and mixed fried rice together with papadam and white vegetables to palliate the chillie in the devil. That is the first thing Dee and Brit learnt on the very first day they arrived. Less chillie to a Sri Lankan palate was mouth-burning to a German, almost like eating a meal with sulphuric acid.
Drinking beer and munching the crab having mixed it with crusting papadam and softening greens all added to make the fried rice a treat for the divine. The food was that good.
“Like some affle-fie?” the waiter was back again.
The ladies passed and opted for coffee instead.
It was then that they noticed the two young men who were sipping drinks a few tables away, trigger-happy with darting eyes and inviting saucy grins that had so far been wasted on the German duo. It didn’t take long for the tall one to muster the courage to unseat himself from the chair and head towards his hopes.
“Hello.” The voice was deliberated to be soft, a notch or two softer than normal to make it somewhat raunchy.
“Hello,” that was Dee.
“You ladies on holiday?”
“No we are locals,” that is Dee again.
“Oh, is that so? My friend and I are from Europe,” says the tall one with a glint in his eye, widening his open mouth to an easy smile.
The ice is broken and the tall one makes the move.
“Mind if we join you, maybe share another beer?”
“Sure, come over,” this time it’s Brit. “Call your friend.”
They declined the beer and had their coffee. The conversation filled the blanks on who and what and the where and when of both parties by the time the second round of coffee was consumed. The tall one was talkative and the short one continuously smiled. Ruwan, the taller, could be labeled good-looking, Sri the shortie was rounded, Danny Devito look, almost qualifying for fat man status. He had that unmistakable ease and jollity of those that carry a bit of extra weight.
They were both young, more like a decade younger than Dee and Brit who were born in the same month in the same year in the same German village almost four score ago.
“No we sell cars,” Ruwan said.
“I was born in Colombo, but grew up in Galle,” Sri added.
“We went to school together.”
“Same as we” quipped Brit. “Not only did we go to the same school, but we lived down the same lane too.”
Small talk took its time. The two young men conversed with practised ease and knew a lot about people and places in far away Europe.
“No we studied in an International School in Galle, the first that was opened before they mushroomed,” Ruwan laughed as he answered Dee’s comment on how fluently the car-sellers spoke English.
“I know words in German too, inder nacht, sind die catzen grau.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Brigit simpered and translated, “all cats are gray in the dark.”
Time passed in laughter and light talk and more coffee.
The waiter came back with repeated offers of “affle fie” and they were seduced.
“Looks like he’s got no place to store his affle fie,” Ruwan mimics and laughs.
“They are ok” thinks Dee, “a bit on the young side, but not bad company to drink coffee by the sea.”
Paul Simon is now on the stereo in perfect harmony with Art Garfunkel as they give a nostalgic rendition of ‘Dangling Conversations’ praising Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. That went over the head of the motor-trade men, different generation.
“Maybe we should drive somewhere and listen to some live music,” invited Ruwan.
“Its getting late,” negatives Dee.
“Oh, come on, the night is still very young, and it’s just ten minutes away and you can hear the best local band.”
“We can even request German songs for you,” added Sri.
The drive was shorter than the predicted ten minutes, maybe because Ruwan drove like a Daytona Ace; wheel spinning start and rocket accelerations on his modified noise-making Mazda sedan that had black leather seats smelling rich.
The place wasn’t crowded and the band was nice, two guitars, a key-board man and the fourth was a drummer who was singing a local love-song. The band boys all wore their hair long and sported scanty beards. They had on red, gold and green rasta-man berets that Bob Marley popularized along with his Raggae music. A few couples were dancing, slow and easy on the spacious floor.
The drinks arrived; the girls agreed to try the Margaritas which both Ruwan and Sri swore by.
“As good as what you get South of the Border,” the car salesmen promoted their choice. It was true, the mix was exactly right with the crushed ice and the salt on the rim and a cherry to top it all.
They raised glasses and toasted to new found friends and sipped on.
“Dance?” Ruwan gestured to Dee and they strolled to the floor hand in hand.
The music changed to a slower tempo and they moved in rhythm and saw Sri and Brigit nod at them from across the floor.
The drive back was slow and they detoured to go by the majestic ramparts of Galle’s old Dutch Fort wrapped in a silvery veil of an almost full-moon that had crawled up from the eastern sky.
“What’s up for tomorrow?”
“What else, but beach, beach and beach.”
“That’s why we came,” Dee detailed. “Simply to take a long lazy rest and soak in the sun.”
“Why not take a day off from your beach and we will go some place?”
“We’ll take you to Rumassala Hill and then to the Unawatuna beach to spend the afternoon. You will still have your sun and sand and at a much better place than the Poseidon.”
“Is it far?”
“Just a few miles away, we can have the whole day out and be back for dinner.”
“What is this hill about?”
“First you say yes, and then we will take you and show you. You have to see to believe how beautiful it is, the place is too good for words.”
The morning was cool, it had rained in the night and the remnants of a few nimbus clouds still hung about in the far horizon rumbling with occasional growls of thunder, harmless like aged zoo lions.
“Where are you off to?” The lady manager Vini asked more or less in greeting.
“We are going to some famous hill and then to another beach.”
“Oh! Must be to Rumassala,” manager Vini guessed correct. “It is a must for anyone who visits this part of the island.”
“How are you going?”
“Our friends will take us,” replied Dee, “They were supposed to be here ten minutes ago.”
“Ten minutes late?” Vini exclaimed puckering her face and swinging her head like a wandering street cow. “This is Sri Lanka Madam, anything within half an hour is early for us, don’t worry, they’ll be here.”
“Hope so, hope so,”
Just then “Affle Fie” walked up to them with two young men in tow.
“Here they are Sir, the German ladies.”
The manager and the waiter watched them walk away; the German girls and the local boys, out for fun, to swing in the sun. They’ve seen this before and that too, many a time, intercontinental fairy tales that unfolded in two-week longevity and vanished like a sweet taste that once teased the tongue.
“Nice ladies madam,” Affle Fie commented to Vini, his Argus eyes following the ample Deutsch hips saucily swinging from loose-legged micro shorts.
“The girls are nice indeed, but the boys I don’t know,” remarked Vini.
“They are always the same, just SBKs,” she added with a sarcastic half smile, her comment vacillating between statement and gossip.
“Nothing but Sellam Badu Kollo, young, rich and think they are it, a gift from the gods to women; but very little else,” condemned the manager with a faint trace of envy.
They were on the road, Ruwan expertly dogging, braking and cursing, tooting the horn and changing gears as he maneuvered the Mazda through the heavy morning traffic. The motor men knew their trade, not only on cars, but on other things too. They smoothly arranged the seating; Sri opening the front door for Dee ensuring his place in the back seat with Brit.
All done with practised and experienced ease, the who’s who ‘couple slotting’ was complete.
“Tell me about this place we are going to see,” Brit questioned without addressing.
“You tell them Sri, I’m driving.”
“Rumassala goes back four thousand years to Valmiki’s Ramayanaya,” Sri started the ever so many times repeated myth. “To the time King Ravana abducted Princess Seeta and her husband Prince Rama came to rescue her.”
“Legend has it that Hanuman, Rama’s friend the monkey was asked to bring medicinal plants from the Himalayan Hills. Having forgotten what was requested he carried a whole jungle area and a part of that had fallen down over Rumassala. Hence, the hill is famous for medicinal herbs, and the view from up there is spectacular.”
“Can’t take the car, got to walk, climb the escarpment and walk back,” Ruwan laid the game plan.
“It’s good that way, the climbing and coming down will make us hungry and we will take you for a nice local lunch and then go to the Unawatuna Beach to spend the rest of the day.”
“Perfect,” Dee responded whilst watching the car swerve to avoid a hay laden bullock cart that came from the wrong side of the road.
The hill was an easy climb and the view at the top was indeed something to remember.
“There’s nothing from here to the South Pole,” Ruwan pointed a finger at the wave-crested sea below and commented.
“I thought the Maldives were there,” inquired Dee.
“Oh! No, those islands are more to the west, there’s really nothing south of Galle up to the pole, only the sea.”
The vegetation along the path to the top and the small garden at the summit was rich in colour and was carpeted with a variety of dwarf caladiums. The few trees looked stunted, their gnarled trunks covered with various creepers like embracing lovers. There were flowers everywhere, dots of red and blue matched by white and yellow blooming to make their presence against all the shades of green leaves.
“There are some plants here that you cannot find anywhere else in the entire Island,” Ruwan explained. “That is a fact, gives some credibility to the Hanuman’s story.”
The walk up and the coming down made them pleasantly tired and hungry.
“We’ll take you to one of our favourite places, Muslim food, and the best in Galle.”
It was a small café run by a kind old man called Samsudeen. They sat outside under the shade of woven coconut fronds supported aloft by bamboo-stalks. The sea shimmered in the distance and they were close enough to still hear the sound of waves amidst the rasping traffic noise on the main trunk road to Matara town.
It was halal food they ate, and the specialty was two mains, mutton buriyani or kotthu roti, Dee and Brit had both and washed them down with ice-cool sweet Portello.
“Ruwan was right,” thought Dee, Samsudeen’s food was excellent.
Next was Unawatuna, a crescent moon shaped palm shaded paradise for beach-lovers and sun-worshippers.
“The sand beside the Poseidon Inn is no match for this,” boasted Sri. It was true. For here the beach stretched for miles, as far as the eye could see, vacant except for a few beach lovers some distance away, walking ant-like in the wide golden beach and another few bobbing and weaving out of the shallow shoreline where the waves came in to worship.
The day wore on; the four lay on the beach, the girls stripped to their blue and blue skimpies and the boys in crotch tight Speedo shorts that bulged boastfully to show off. Ruwan expertly applied suntan lotion on Dee’s back and patted the voluptuous buttocks to say he’s done. Sri was telling some story to Brigit, must have been very funny as she started laughing well before the punch-line. Such was the day, perfect for the young; when it got too hot, they dipped in the water and came out, to surrender to the sun again. They munched Marie biscuits whilst watching the snorklers looking for corals and shoals with their periscopes up. The windsurfers were there too, skimming the waves in perfect balance, more like nimble ballet dancers with the sea as their stage.
The sun started its final crawl on the western sky and was getting ready to say good-bye to another day. Brigit pulled long on the last Marlborough and made her vain attempts to send out lop-sided smoke-rings. Ruwan and Sri helped them to pack their sling bags and carried them to the car.
They drove by the Fort again, the ramparts were breathing in the last light of the sun and timid lovers who had enjoyed stolen moments were walking away holding hands, scared to be out in the dark, or maybe to get home in time before the excuses ran out.
The motor men were invited to have dinner, perhaps a fitting reciprocation for the wonderful day they planned and executed for the German duo. Ruwan wanted to shower and Dee took him to the room. Sri and Brit walked the beach to see the moon wake up through the palm trees.
‘It’s good we left them alone,” Sri concluded. “Two is company, four is a crowd, isn’t there some saying like that?”
Brit ignored the question, absorbed more in watching the water glittering in silver sparks as the moonlight soaked the beach.
“I think Ruwan likes Dee,” says Sri, “and I think she likes him too.”
“I am sure they like each other,” added Brit.
“Maybe they might go a little further than mere liking?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well you know, man meets woman, soul meets soul, nice beach, nice food, nice people, things do happen,” Sri prophesised with practised ease.
“I don’t think so,” Brit gave a shy smile.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugged her shoulders.
“Well what about you?” Sri asked.
“What about me?”
“I mean,” Sri stuttered, “do you like me?”
“Of course I like you Sri, you are wonderful.”
The moon had just risen above the trees and was giving its florescent tint to anything and everything. The waves pounded the shore and provided an unchained melody. The stars were there, temporarily obscured by the lunar light, yet twinkling faintly to herald their presence to anyone who cared to observe carefully. It was a night of fairytale beauty, ripe for romance.
Sri searched for Brit’s hand and entangled the fingers, like lovers do. There was no protest.
He turned her around to face him; their eyes met and glistened for a moment.
“Can I kiss you?”
There was a foreboding silence, the world stood still, the sea froze and the wind became listless. Brit loosened her hand and set herself free.
“You know Sri,” she whispered softly, “I’m sorry but it is an altogether different story.” Then she looked him straight in the eye and concluded “it so happens that we are from the other team.”
Their bags have been brought down and the car was waiting. Like all good things the sunshine holiday was over and it was time for Brit and Dee to leave Poseidon Inn and the beach paradise.
As for the motor trade men, they never came back, Rumassala romp was the last day they had seen of them. They didn’t even call. Sri and Ruwan had simply vanished.
Manager Vini was there to do the checkout formalities and sort out the bills, of course to say good-bye and tell the German girls to come again. ‘Affle Fie” who doubled as porter sorted the bags and loaded them into the vehicle.
“I thought your Sri Lankan friends will come to take you to the airport,” Vini gave a knowing look and a smile that said it all.
“We know them well, they come here often looking for company; harmless and useful at times,” Vini prattled.
“Nothing but Sellam Badu Kollo,” she cackled like goose. “What we call SBKs.”
“What’s that?”
“Oh! Just Toy Boys,” Vini laughed louder.
“Hmmmm Toy Boys,” Dee repeated manager Vini’s denotation, matching her cackle with a wide winsome smile. And then turned to Brit and declared naughtily “pity they did not know the real score,” she nodded her head and said the last bit in whispered Deutsch, “wir sind lesbierinnen,” and they both followed the comment with a rowdy laugh.
