The Way it used to be ” a short story from “Rainbows in Braille” – A collection of short stories – By Elmo Jayawardena
This is no Englebert love song – it is something with much more meaning.
The gram-sellers at Galle Face Green sold their ‘kadala gotu’ topped with ‘isso wade’ for twenty-five cents. The moviegoers at Savoy cinema came out; couples went to Aleric’s for ice-cream and families miserly budgeted for Chinese fried rice at Golden Gate. Gunawardena opened batting for Tamil Union and Sunderalingam kept wickets for the Sinhalese Sports Club. This was once nostalgic Sri Lanka on easy street sans the raging war and the terrible turmoil; ‘The way it used to be’.
The ‘Yal Devi’ took the Madhu pilgrims and the ‘Ruhunu Kumari’ carried the Kataragama clan. Marawila fishermen fished at Mulativ with the monsoon change and Lever’s and Reckitt’s Sales-Reps sold toothpaste in Jaffna and drank ‘Tal Raa’ whilst bathing in the Keeramalai tank. The “Vale” cart used to come down the Galle road at Wallewatte and the waiters worked double-time at the Sarasvati Lodge. The differences were there from the North to the South, but who cared? Nobody killed anyone. There was a life, simple and in peace. Bala Tampo took the CMU on strike every year and the Parliament changed colours every five years with mythological promises. That was acceptable. The queues got long at the CWE to buy “Jumping Fish” and the bread prices leapt like high-jumpers. Those were our big problems.
The smiles were there too, affordable to all and sundry, beat shows and big-matches, sports-meets and school-carnivals, all within a ten-rupee budget. Fashion wise, the pinnacle was the CR Havies match at Longdon Place; the Suesetts and Claudetts were there, dazzling in mini skirts, making their best attempts to get partnered to go to the Coconut Grove and jingo and jive to the Jetliners. Some made it to “Akasa Kade” too, to eat egg hoppers and hold hands and become more naughty whilst pretending to be watching the ships lights at the Colombo habour.
There was peace; it was a long long time ago. That was before the Morris Minor taxis changed their English alphabet number plates.
Then came the carnage. Who’s to blame? Don’t waste time, that’s kicking the moon and corralling clouds. We all know better. We are all to be blamed, some for cheering and others for their silence.
It has always been ‘our soldiers’ – but it is ‘their war.’
The guns are still firing while the talks go on in Swiss towns and hope seeps slow like a weed-clogged wave. If the gods are kind, we’ll have peace.
Let it lie there.
“North and East must be separate,”
“Don’t give this,”
“Can’t have that,”
“Autonomy? What nonsense?” Such passionate phrases bellow from borrowed patriotism.
“My son has to study,”
“No no, not to join the Air Force.”
“Army? Are you mad?” The same voices add the contradictions.
“We must continue to fight at any cost.” Brave words, quite cheap too when rights and wrongs are just “whys” sprouting out from empty opinions on even emptier forums.
Try telling all this to mothers who buried their sons or children who pray for their missing fathers. Voice it to a legless ‘Boy’ from Velvatathurai or a sightless soldier from Devundara. Or maybe to a lover who lights a candle for some forgotten fighter buried under swollen earth, too poor even for a gravestone.
What does it matter to which side they belonged? They paid the price, we didn’t. They shed the tears, we didn’t.
Let us then wish, no, that’s not enough, let us pray, to all the Gods in creation for “The way it used to be” to return.
Or…. let us be silent.
We owe that much to the one’s who died nameless.
