TRIP TO THE MOTHERLAND: REAL, RAW, AND SLIGHTLY OVERPACKED – BY MARY-ANNE ALLES
Source: Sri Lankan Anchorman (thanks to Dirk Tissera)
I was Lakeshore-ling through Oakville, pretending to be calm and composed, but let’s be real — I was spiralling inside. It felt like someone had taken the manuscript of my life and scribbled all over it with a red Sharpie. Rudely. Without asking.
But lashes don’t cry. And I wasn’t about to unravel in broad daylight — not in Oakville, where even the squirrels probably have therapists. So I did what any emotionally overloaded woman would do: I booked an emergency session with my Brampton hair magician. She handed me tea, threw in some unsolicited (but solid) therapy, and pinned my hair into an updo so tight it could hold the rest of me together.
While faking composure in the mirror, a woman next to me leaned over and whispered, “Try Lashes by Shan.” It felt like a divine nudge — minus the wings, plus some eyeliner.
The lash studio was pink and serene. The music, soft. The lash tech, graceful and focused. I told her, “Soft, not scandalous. I’m going to a wedding, not auditioning for Real Housewives of Borella.” She nodded. I blinked out of there like I’d just been spiritually recalibrated.
Naturally, I took my new lashes for a spin — and landed in the middle of a couple’s sidewalk showdown. He was flailing a scarf. She looked like she hadn’t slept since 2019. He turned to me and asked, “Can you tie this on her?” I blinked again, shrugged, and tied it. She gave me a look that said, “You get it.” I did.
Later, I had tea with a friend. We laughed, got misty, hugged hard. And just like that, I was off — solo, carry-on in hand, dragging invisible baggage.
Pearson greeted me with its usual flair. My lashes held. My confidence? Hanging by a thread.
Then came the dreaded line: “Where’s your visa, madam?”
Pardon?
My brain stalled. My heart did somersaults. I called an old pastor I hadn’t spoken to in a while. He calmly walked me through the online visa process like it was Sunday school. Crisis averted. Pride, slightly bruised.
Next: Delhi. A 7.5-hour layover.
The lounge was overflowing. Spa? Fully booked. Prayer room? Occupied — one woman sobbing, another chanting to unknown deities. I gave up and collapsed on the floor like emotional luggage. A bug crawling across my cheek was my cue to get up. Bug phobia in a prayer room!
Just then, a text buzzed: “Your spa slot is ready.”
I bolted like I was fleeing unresolved trauma. The massage? Heaven. For 45 minutes, I felt human again — until I reached the baggage counter.
A man lifted my suitcase with a hook and announced, “Three kilos over.” I smiled, expecting a minor fee. The woman behind the counter typed like she was decoding nuclear codes and handed me a bill for 22,000 rupees.
That’s $250 USD! Approx.
I stared. She smiled. I paid. Then rage-ate a granola bar in the corner, cursing softly in three languages.
Finally — Sri Lankan Airlines. Gentle lighting. Kind flight attendants. An empty seat beside me. I looked up and whispered, “Thank you.” I knew who arranged that.
Touching down in Colombo felt like entering a dream I’d half-forgotten. The first voice to call me “Akka” — sister — unlocked something inside.
Back in Borella, the house stood still. Same furniture. Same portraits. Same staff. I slept in the same room I stayed in 14 years ago — when The Girl Upstairs was still here. But I didn’t let myself go there. Not yet.
The heat, the grief, the déjà vu — it all surged at once. I had one week to make peace with it. And look semi-graceful in a saree while doing it.
A few days in, I met my sister-in-law Fairlene at the Dutch Hospital (a shopping and dining spot, not an actual hospital). We sat over karapincha mocktails, saying little, just being us. Sometimes, that’s enough.
Then came the Marino Mall Miracle — our St. Anthony’s College reunion. Dinoo arrived first, full of energy. Lourdette brought calm. The Organiser. The Protector. Dharshika flew in like a goddess. Zareena’s quiet warmth held us. Thusitha, the prayer warrior. Hemamali and Sonali, still sweet as ever. We hugged like people who’d survived something. Because we had. That night, I didn’t spiral. I just breathed.
And just being at Marino, brought something else with it. A memory, a rhythm, a presence. St. Anthony’s still felt sacred. A kind of blessing floated in the air. I whispered a quiet thank you under my breath. For old friends. For laughter. For moments that felt like grace.
And then: Kandy.
My chaotic, beloved childhood city. Weerakoon Gardens. Monsoons. Shiranthi Akka’s music classes. My father’s animal menagerie — from parrots to a cow that moved houses with us. The driveway where we played cricket. The corners where we told secrets. The madness, the magic, the mess.
We were loud. Wild. Dramatic. And somehow, it was still a kind of sanctuary.
I walked through those memories as if on a tightrope — one side joy, the other grief.
At Kandy City Centre, I was dropped off like visiting royalty. Waiting: Szu En, Zacky, Ailan, and Ingitham. My high school gang. Same jokes. Better skincare.
We lunched at Senani, overlooking the lake. On a whim, we rented a boat and waved at the Temple of the Tooth like fallen queens reclaiming our thrones.
Then came the tuk-tuk saga. I told the driver in Sinhalese, “Ane, me paththen newei. Ara paththen yanna.” (Not this way. The other way.) He smiled like a prophet and took us through every pothole in Kandy. Frank and his mom tried to redirect him via WhatsApp. No luck.
Eventually, we made it to Digana.
Frank and Shereen — my gorgeous niece and nephew — welcomed me like I’d been at war. Later, I joined Vijitha and her kind husband Nihal at the Digana Golf Club. Clay pots, warm food, real laughs. It felt like medicine.
Kandy cracked something wide open.
Then came Dinesh — sorry, “Dinexh.” ( with an X). He sat beside me on the train back to Colombo. Young. Awkward. Earnest. Helped with my bags. Asked for my number. I was tired and heat-drunk and gave it.
Soon, I was receiving poems, emojis, and love declarations. I gently told him, “Sweetheart, I could be your mother.” He wasn’t discouraged.
So I ended it kindly but firmly. Told him to build a life, hit the gym, and leave me out of his Bollywood daydream. I had my own reality to live.
My nephew Krishan was getting married.
Enter Selvie — saree genius and household queen. She pinned and pleated me into six yards of grace. As she worked, I remembered her catching The Girl Upstairs, mid-fall on the staircase — like a heroine in a teledrama. My heart ached and smiled at once.
The wedding was at Cinnamon Grand. Chandeliers like stars. The church ceremony sang of mothers and legacy. I cried — quietly, deeply.
At the reception, I danced with Harsha and his lovely wife Dinali. For a few moments, joy returned. Krishan and his bride looked radiant. I met all my cousins – precious moments. The love in that room was a balm.
Among all the losses, all the broken pieces — I felt something magical that night. A midsummer dream. A Cinderella kind of miracle.
Then came June 8.
Time to leave. Lilly the dog whimpered. I hugged Aunty Rohini. Selvie’s eyes said everything. I left with more than I came with. I left with grace.
At the airport, I did some therapeutic jewelry shopping. Heathrow was grey. I met a kind Sinhalese man who offered to send a driver.
I asked, “ඔයා සිංහලද?” He smiled. “ඔව්.” We talked non-stop, Sinhalese at its best.
The Girl Upstairs chimed in: “Mom, you put your keys in the fridge and now you trust random drivers?”
Afterlife accountability is 24/7.
The hotel was safe. The room, quiet. The man, respectful. I slept. And then — airborne.
Canada greeted me with chill skies and a stretched heart. I whispered, “Thank you, Sri Lanka. I’ll be back.”
It wasn’t perfect. But it was mine. And The Girl Upstairs, as always, had the last word:
“Beautiful, Mom. Not perfect. But real. And real is enough.”
The sky didn’t cry. It sang. And this time, so did I. Softly. Not from sorrow. But from remembering where I came from.
From knowing the streets still whisper my name. From feeling the divine everywhere — in the wind, the waves, the laughter.
I’m not whole. But I’m here.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
At Krishan and his bride’s wedding reception
