The Golden Ankh

Epilogue: The Exodus of the Misfits 

It began with an uprising no one saw coming—not from the royal court, not from the dusty temples of Amok, and least of all from the bureaucratic dung heaps of Sakkara's lower archives.

Mussa, once a slouching, poetry-quoting, sandal-shuffling nonentity, and Princess Naynah, a royal rebel with more brains than patriarchal tradition would ever allow, made a break that would alter history.

With the help of Kephri the scarab—who'd rerouted a labyrinth of guards using nothing but strategically placed dung balls—and the ever-snide Serious, the talking dead cat, they fled Egypt under cover of a lunar eclipse. They navigated through forbidden tomb tunnels, bribed border guards with embalming coupons, and rode atop a stolen sacred ostrich named Marvin.

In the land beyond the desert, on the shimmering shores of the Unnamed River, they founded a city called *Sekhem-Ubasti*—"The Strength of the Forgotten."

There, cats were not sacrificed but consulted. Dung beetles were not crushed under heel but elected to Parliament. Poets, dreamers, and the genetically confused were appointed judges, counselors, and sacred scribes. Everyone had a voice—even if it squeaked, meowed, or buzzed.

Princess Naynah, now simply called Naynah the Bright-Eyed, became the first monarch of this curious land—but only after insisting on the title of 'Facilitator.' Mussa, now High Oracle (and reluctant administrative assistant), composed edicts in rhyme and decrees in riddles.

The people? Misfits, all. Refugees from ancient traditions. Makers of new myths.

And every year on the Day of the Exodus, the citizens gathered at the Great Mound of Reflection, where a marble statue of Serious the Cat stood frozen in his usual disapproving hunch, a papyrus scroll under one paw. 

Below the statue, carved in clean hieroglyphs, read:

Let no one be forgotten.

Let no voice go unheard.

Let no dung beetle go unsung.

History, of course, never mentioned this city. The priests erased it. The pharaohs ignored it. Modern archaeologists dismissed it as a myth.

But if you ever find yourself in this Empty Quadrant and you see a beetle rolling its sacred burden across the sand under the full moon—listen closely:

You might just hear the whisper of a poet laughing.

From Invisible to Illuminated: My Reiki Awakening

It's eleven in the night and my ears are buzzing, my fingers are tingling and I feel like I want to dance in the living room. I've had a tiring day which started at 3:33 with my meditation alarm going off and I've even just watched a movie and had a massive dinner (unusual) but none of that is slowing me down. As I type my latest generation laptop has a hard time keeping up: I have been initiated as a Reiki Healer today. 

Me: 

This ordinary dowdy retired ex-librarian, a character I felt was so gawky and gray that I sometimes have to ask people who cut ahead of me in queues, whether they actually cannot see me. 

At the start of this year I was unseen, unheard, shy, fifty-five and ready to fade away into obscurity. And now, I feel supernatural. I've just been told that I have powers. That we all do. Whatever you believe in, whatever you think is real- the fact remains that we live in a world far more magical than we've been led to believe. And today, something ancient and powerful was initiated for me.

I met Master Gamini a few weeks ago in his airy minimalistic, healing room in Battaramulla that smelled faintly of lemongrass and sandalwood. At 70+ he looks a full 20 years younger. He doesn't dress like a guru. He doesn't perform showy rituals or speak in riddles. He doesn't ask you to come for a four-day, four week or four month course. He treads lightly on the earth with a soft smile and eyes that seem to shine straight out of the quiet heart of a forest. When he speaks, it's like spring water rolling over forest rocks: gentle, steady, transformative and full of latent energy. 

Healing is his passion and he earnestly shows us hundreds of whatsapp messages he has received from all over the world. He answers his phone even at midnight if someone needs healing or even just to listen to someone crying. When he performed a Reiki healing on me a week ago I ended up weeping quietly and then falling asleep as the pain and emotional blocks melted away. 

The Healer Training is even more powerful if that can be. Powerful in its sheer simplicity.

I didn't expect the simplicity. There were no elaborate chants, no cosmic theatrics. He told us plainly, "Reiki is love. Compassion. Gratitude." And then he bowed slightly, with his hands in prayer, and looked us in the eye like we were already healers. Already whole.

He gave us four attunements. Four silent transmissions where all I did was sit and receive. And although I didn't realise it... everything changed.

I cannot explain what happened during those attunements in any logical way. At first I felt warmth, like someone had placed a hand just above my crown. Then tears—strange tears—bubbled up out of nowhere. No sadness, just the body releasing something I didn't even know I was carrying. My hands buzzed. My heart expanded. I felt seen.

The other trainee with me reported that pain that he had carried around for a decade after a serious back injury, was gone. Master Gamini had narrowed into the exact location of this pain in his spine, and gently plucked it away, without a word said.

Master Gamini said something that I will carry with me for the rest of my life: "Even if you don't heal others, you can still heal yourself. That is one more healed person in the world."

I've spent most of my life giving everything to everyone else. I didn't know how to love myself. But now, every morning, I put my hands gently on my heart and say: Thank you, Pushy, for being here. Thank you, Reiki, for being here. Thank you. And I feel it. Not just the words. The truth of it.

We were taught to begin every self-healing with gratitude. To trust our intention more than any timer or technique. To sit with the energy like you'd sit with an old friend. The practice is beautifully slow. You place your hands over your chakras, over your knees and ankles. You don't force anything. You don't make an effort to focus. You care for yourself and in caring, you begin to remember yourself.

Tonight I am buzzing, yes. But underneath the wild electrical current is a deep, pulsing peace. Like the Earth is breathing through me. Like I'm no longer a stranger to myself.

I never imagined I would be the kind of person who believes in energy healing. I thought that was for others—more spiritual, more radiant, more whole. But Reiki doesn't ask you to be anything other than what you are. It just meets you. And then, if you're willing, it begins to reintroduce you to your own light.

I don't know where this path will lead.

But I know I've stepped onto it barefoot, raw, grateful.

Thank you, Master Gamini.

Thank you, Reiki.

Thank you, Me.

(Author's note: Master Gamini welcomes people who want to train as healers. There are no unnecessary complications, and the whole introductory process takes four hours from start to finish. If you are curious to see what it's all about please contact him at +94774590604 https://naturesgracehealing.com/

From Invisible to Illuminated: My Reiki Awakening

It's eleven in the night and my ears are buzzing, my fingers are tingling and I feel like I want to dance in the living room. I've had a tiring day which started at 3:33 with my meditation alarm going off and I've even just watched a movie and had a massive dinner (unusual) but none of that is slowing me down. As I type my latest generation laptop has a hard time keeping up: I have been initiated as a Reiki Healer today. 

Me: 

This ordinary dowdy retired ex-librarian, a character I felt was so gawky and gray that I sometimes have to ask people who cut ahead of me in queues, whether they actually cannot see me. 

At the start of this year I was unseen, unheard, shy, fifty-five and ready to fade away into obscurity. And now, I feel supernatural. I've just been told that I have powers. That we all do. Whatever you believe in, whatever you think is real- the fact remains that we live in a world far more magical than we've been led to believe. And today, something ancient and powerful was initiated for me.

I met Master Gamini a few weeks ago in his airy minimalistic, healing room in Battaramulla that smelled faintly of lemongrass and sandalwood. At 70+ he looks a full 20 years younger. He doesn't dress like a guru. He doesn't perform showy rituals or speak in riddles. He doesn't ask you to come for a four-day, four week or four month course. He treads lightly on the earth with a soft smile and eyes that seem to shine straight out of the quiet heart of a forest. When he speaks, it's like spring water rolling over forest rocks: gentle, steady, transformative and full of latent energy. 

Healing is his passion and he earnestly shows us hundreds of whatsapp messages he has received from all over the world. He answers his phone even at midnight if someone needs healing or even just to listen to someone crying. When he performed a Reiki healing on me a week ago I ended up weeping quietly and then falling asleep as the pain and emotional blocks melted away. 

The Healer Training is even more powerful if that can be. Powerful in its sheer simplicity.

I didn't expect the simplicity. There were no elaborate chants, no cosmic theatrics. He told us plainly, "Reiki is love. Compassion. Gratitude." And then he bowed slightly, with his hands in prayer, and looked us in the eye like we were already healers. Already whole.

He gave us four attunements. Four silent transmissions where all I did was sit and receive. And although I didn't realise it... everything changed.

I cannot explain what happened during those attunements in any logical way. At first I felt heat, like someone had placed a hand just above my crown. Then tears—strange tears—bubbled up out of nowhere. No sadness, just the body releasing something I didn't even know I was carrying. My hands buzzed. My heart expanded. I felt seen.

The other trainee with me reported that pain that he had carried around for decades after a serious back injury, was gone. Master Gamini had narrowed into the exact location of this pain in his spine, and gently plucked it away. 

Master Gamini said something that I will carry with me for the rest of my life: "Even if you don't heal others, you can still heal yourself. That is one more healed person in the world."

I've spent most of my life giving everything to everyone else. I didn't know how to love myself. But now, every morning, I put my hands gently on my heart and say: Thank you, Pushy, for being here. Thank you, Reiki, for being here. Thank you. And I feel it. Not just the words. The truth of it.

We were taught to begin every self-healing with gratitude. To trust our intention more than any timer or technique. To sit with the energy like you'd sit with an old friend. The practice is beautifully slow. You place your hands over your chakras, over your knees and ankles. You don't force anything. You don't make an effort to focus. You care for yourself and in caring, you begin to remember yourself.

Tonight I am buzzing, yes. But underneath the wild electrical current is a deep, pulsing peace. Like the Earth is breathing through me. Like I'm no longer a stranger to myself.

I never imagined I would be the kind of person who believes in energy healing. I thought that was for others—more spiritual, more radiant, more whole. But Reiki doesn't ask you to be anything other than what you are. It just meets you. And then, if you're willing, it begins to reintroduce you to your own light.

I don't know where this path will lead.

But I know I've stepped onto it barefoot, raw, grateful.

Thank you, Master Gamini.

Thank you, Reiki.

Thank you, Me.

(Author's note: Master Gamini welcomes people who want to train as healers. There are no unnecessary complications, and the whole introductory process takes four hours from start to finish. If you are curious to see what it's all about please contact him at +94774590604 https://naturesgracehealing.com/

Down with the Rain!

  

I wish the sun would come back! And small wonder they worshipped Him in Egypt, Greece and Mesopotamia and killed for Him in South America, what with sacrificing virgins yada yada.- I keep wondering what it would take to get rid of all that drippy weather - it really gets to me this time. Yes, it is that time of the year when you wish you were anywhere else but damp, sticky, moldy-smelling Sri Lanka- officially monsoon time- or to use less exotic terminology "gloomy weather predicted in Colombo" 

My cats are frozen into catatonic lumps the whole of this week- you can see them lurking like watchful gargoyles, on sideboards, in the ceiling ornaments, on cupboards, too cold to shake a limb but occasionally blinking balefully at the podgy geckos they are too lazy to catch. The half Persian has swollen to twice her size because she is cold and her bristles are sticking out, and taken to answering the calls of nature indoors, ie, in the kitchen sink. 

And the Ally living room: permanently damp and dotted with empty plastic Cargill ice cream tubs strategically positioned to catch stubborn leaks. Friends are compelled to fend off the damp purring advances of half-grown cats who are trying to poach body heat from them, and had to sit across from me on the couch and make themselves heard through the gentle tympany of heavy tropical droplets of water landing on plastic. To the optimistic feng shui enthusiast,  this may have its charm but I personally hate the whole idea. Leave aside the limp underwear and tea cloths with things growing on them, rugs so damp that you have to actually fight them to get your shoes back, reeking feline foot prints patterning across the tiles in livid muddy shades- there is the smell: take old army boots , a second hand chicken coop , manky gym towels, a lot of rotting wood and a generous dollop of pulsating tropical lichen (and this mind you is after the household dogs have been banned and cruelly locked out to fend for themselves!)- and you come somewhere close to this, keeping in mind that its not very strong, just a faint whiff, since we have got used to it anyway and if it were stronger we would have to root it out some how: no the damp atmosphere does not smother – it just hangs about sheepishly. 

But the smell does get to me – so once I land at home in the evenings I need to light two Ninja coils and 3 Dhoop sticks before I can even begin to think straight. –that's after the trip home since I  need a little time to "unwind" and recap the journey home- 

and did I forget to tell you how I actually got home, those rainy evenings? Well, I couldn't use the moped because my spectacles get foggy in the rain and don't have wipers- so I have to travel in bus like all the other normal middle-class peeps, which means squeezing in with about 85 other damp wheezy people who have just folded their dripping umbrellas and found a spot to stand in that's not half an inch underwater on the bus. Then we spend 45 minutes in the compulsory company of all kinds of droplet infections produced by the copious hacking and sneezing  and  occasional snorts from people who forgot their kerchiefs and are using their sleeves instead (or even perhaps your shawle if you doze off a minute-) …in a hurtling petri dish sealed from the outside because everyone thinks its a good idea to close the bus windows in case they get dew on them- 

Having survived that, theres the lovely tropical trek, home depending on how far you live from the bus halt.  

Wonderful Serendipity! Ten to fifteen minutes trudging cheerfully up those rustic, winding little side tracks that lead to home, if  you think about it carefully: these puddles are SCARY. Never mind the typhoid and gonorrhea that must lurk in them I personally have a horrible phobia ( due to watching too many horror flicks like Jaws , the Deep and Lake Placid) that if I put my foot in the wrong puddle I may not actually get it back!

 

And here at last is a regional problem that we cannot blame on the GOSL, LTTE, globalization or the IMF! So there's no point ranting about it on Kottu – unless Waruna* gets His own blog running and allows us to post comments and suggestions to him. And if He does and if we are real nice and grovel enough, maybe we should ask for lots of rain in just those "catchment areas" and not necessarily in Town Hall, Airport road and our local school backyards.. ..or maybe we should consider praying to the Sun-god, instead. 

Anything to not have to drape your underwear across a kettle to get it dry, which I have had to do in some hotels-

 .......................................................................................................................................................................................................................

*Balinese deity of Rain, Oceans (and thus tsunamis) and other water related issues..

  

The author lives in damp Hanwella but half-heartedly considers immigrating to a sunnier place, once a year around this time.

 this article from years back was adapted to suit 2024 

 

THE DIVORCE DIARIES

October is the month of my wonderful liberating divorce, and I remember it with such mellow happiness, you might consider it rather shocking. 

The truth is, hardly any anniversary makes me so inexplicably happy!! 

Perhaps obscenely, I have many times wanted to propose divorce parties and I know if I was a minister or something I would host large-scale nationwide celebrations with free butterscotch ice cream dansal, pole dancers and/or fireworks, which ever is more fun...
I want to tell you because I trust you not to judge me… sometimes divorce can be a really good happy thing, and people really should do it more often - and with more kinds of things (not necessarily your spouse) that are just not working out- you can divorce your job, your daylight robbing trishaw man, your insufferably nosy aunt next door, your current vocation if you don't like it, your motherland if its taxing you too much and you cant take it anymore.... theres so much to be said about simply not taking it any more, giving up, moving out and starting anew! VOTING WITH YOUR FEET ! 
Someone should tell you there really isn't some celestial clock up there which is giving you points for the amount of needless suffering you endure every day to prove that you can…

Divorce is a whole lot more positive than suicide which people do in Sri Lanka with disturbing frequency…its cheaper than getting continuously drunk, and remember, that will kill you of cirrhosis before you are 59, anyway…and its simpler than living a life that is a continuous lie, because, we have only one life to live right now and it's a rather short one if you come to think of it, so hey isn't it better to make the best of the little time we have?
..What I don't understand is why people speak about it in such hushed tones, and even try to sympathize with you when they hear that you are divorced! The alternative might have been living day in day out in terror and misery, with an obnoxious, unpredictable, violent confirmed schizophrenic with control issues…and then your girlfriends actually say that they are sorry to hear you split? Sorry about what precisely? That may be the polite, social thing to say but please, its SILLY if you think about it carefully so please try and be rational! I think people should sympathize with people who have drunken or philandering and violent spouses in a daily basis and send them GET WELL SOON  cards every year (or better: GET A LIFE cards) and truly rejoice en masse when its over, and there is no more suffering required, and incidentally…. the sooner the better!

cute graphic from https://www.cleanpng.com/
Finally when all else fails, to convince- I always fall back on the words of Lord Buddha, since I'm a great believer in ancient philosophy which you can test yourself: you remember those words "mame baalasamagamo" something, something –in short: "Stay away from idiots"
There, I knew you'd understand!- anyway, one October twenty years ago really good for me, and Im feeling celebratory again woot , woot !

DOMESTIC VIOLENCE - The Kusumawathie files

(Unrelated artwork by Chandrika Gadiewasam)
 Scandalous, I know,  but I have concluded that if it wasn't, the human race , which put man on the moon and invented Velcro, not to mention, outwitted the smallpox vaccine, and the bubonic plague, would have done something about it …so all I can conclude is , there must be some people out there who support it, and not just the perpetrators…I think I know a few... it's like this…

Last week, three days in a row,  yours truly had to go shockingly dinner-less! I had had my share of late work at office and so it was quite demoralizing when I had to crawl home in the dark, to find my home dark , silent and cold, with nothing on the dinner table except for a few moldy rice grains and bread crusts, and a starving cat or two.

"Madam I am not able to come today and tomorrow as Champika has a Problem" my dear domestic assistant Kusumawathi notified me in  a sepulchral tone in the middle of one of our Unit Head meetings . My feet ran cold, I totally adore Champika and consider her almost my foster daughter, she is 17 and beautiful like a tiny amber skinned gypsy. Where she got the light brown west Indian curls , Ill be darned if I know , not to mention the mischievous Polynesian pixie face. … Due to her wonderful hair and the unusually lovely  "face cut" she has unfortunately been the focus for some unholy attention from the male population of the seedy neighbourhood where she dwells with Kusumawathi , rather a lotus out of a mud pond, I often think.

Her problem it turns out, after I dig deeper into this,  is the unwanted attention of the 26 year old jobless misfit of a slow thinking cro magnon homo erectus named Sunimal who lives next door. This is the sort of bad boy brat that gives Wellampitiya its evil reputation. Jobless after his three wheel was seized in Gampaha , no doubt for being part of an  illegal and unmentionable plot, (long story) and hiding from local traders of a different ethnicity because he has been involved in assaulting one of them(even longer story) Sunimal now sits evading the law at home, and generally passes his time drinking, shouting,  quarrelling with his sisters , beating his mother, ogling the next door girl (who happens to be poor Champika.) and generally being a smoldering temporarily impotent threat  to society.

I continue to wonder about families like this.

I realize that Wellampitiya's mothers take their duty to nurture offspring , very seriously, but sometimes this mindless determination to foster and safeguard just about ANYTHING that bursts fourth from your reproductive tract, regardless of whether it is a potential serial rapist, arsonist, murderer or general disgrace to society – goes beyond touching and strikes me as ,well just that – mindless.

The issue had been that he had hung about skulking near the Water Pipe , and poor Champika had complained to her family about this panting male waiting with his unwanted attentions to accost her ( possibly the remaining details were too lurid for my gentle ears) and when the old grandma and grandpa had gone along to investigate and provide her some measure of security , he had been "coming to the body" or launched himself violently at them ,protesting indignantly to her defamation of his character and tale bearing. …

One thing led to another and as understandable my Kusumawathi had lodged an entry in the Police Station (ah the Wellampitiya Police , I know for a fact are a truly busy bunch ) and incidentally was full of praise for the prompt way they had handled it- resulting in the miscreant having to spend a night or two in the local clapper, to cool off .

Imagine my thoughts when Kusumawathi went on to say that he was not really a bad child, and his family were quite nice, and this was just a rough patch he was going through .The family, it  appeared,  had apologized charmingly  for his behavior (instead of writing him off and throwing him out onto the street -) and promised that they were trying to organize him foreign employment (God help international Relations ) or better get him married and settled.-as soon as possible-

And here, in spite of all the things Ive seen in my 37 years-  I freeze.

Theres that strange theory again, and who does that remind me of? Actually on a slightly more middle class scale, wasn't that exactly the attitude of my own ex in laws at one point? Oh this is so déjà vu or what ever –

The strange Sri Lankan theory that our own women have, that after almost three decades of bringing up totally drunk rotters ,delinquents and blatantly anti social elements,.. the cunning reasoning that marrying them off to someone innocent will solve the issue …

Well I like that , and I will also spend sometime amusing myself drafting a suitable marriage advert for such a person, just to test my writing and advertising skills…

Can it seriously be that the reasoning here is that the poor new wife should reform said delinquent, while close onto thirty years of howling, threats, mild ekel lashings and bouts of forceful Sunday school have not had an effect, ---or perhaps the secret science to this , which Im actually missing till now---  is that the women of the family know that this new comer will take on a very important and socially accepted role of official punching bag.

Now, why did I not think of this before? I must talk to my friends who are graduates in Social Science …is there some title to this theory , or am I the first to have noticed it?

What it comes to is simply that the women of the family mothers, aunts ,sisters etc, connive to arrange the partnering of a young man they know is actually almost criminal write off material , to some innocent young female who,  once the ceremony is over, will have to take on the important socially relevant role of Violence Absorber. That means that violence which would otherwise spill out into the road and neighbour-hood and lead to arrest and imprisonment, sometimes permanently, is actually contained within the household by the female specimen thus singled out. Just think, just imagine how many men would be in jail if they lost their tempers with the bloke next door and pulled his hair or shoved him around,(not to mention engaging in general rapine which mostly goes uncharted and unreported ) which is not the case if you do it to your lawfully wedded spouse? The mind boggles at the prison space these sad women save for the government! Maybe its not openly discussed, its merely subconscious but Ill have you know dear ladies, this is a plot and a plot so devious that only women can be at the bottom of it:- in a bid to keep their unlovely misbegotten criminal element sons(or brothers or nephews etc) out of real trouble, they bring in the Official Punching Bag, the all round Blame Taker and Violence Absorber who will suffer her whole life wondering why…

But the next question is , after they  know about this , will the little girls of today continue to sit and bear all of this?

Sadly, my dear ladies, I don't think so. Sadly, the times they are a changing…

​Of destiny and antacid

 

In my thirty sixth year , so the planets dictate, I am to publish my first book. Now that's big news I just cant ignore, as fanatical as I am about the whole subject of reading , books and the Written Word.

I have to then grudgingly acknowledge that many of the milestones in my humble life have in fact been previously dictated by the same bunch of nine regular suspects that affects everyone else only at a slightly different angle. Birth , Childhood illnesses, a fore doomed marriage and the exact number of offspring I will finally produce , you name it, the same set of interstellar gas balls was at the bottom of how they turned out.

I objected. I scoffed. For the last thirty six years I have successfully dismissed the entire lot of predictions as the improbable , impossible rantings of dazed tribal witch doctors (which for the most part they probably all were, except for my darling mum who is a qualified architect, and the best in her predictions) - but now I am forced to cringe at how diabolically accurate they all were.

About a fortnight ago, if I am correctly informed, Saturn shifted to the sign of Leo. Or some such thing. Personally I couldn't give a fig leaf for where Saturn wants to park itself, but imagine my consternation when no less than five people I know met with accidents on that day( or perhaps this just says a lot for the type of company I keep?)

By bizarre coincidence I too have been plagued since that day, by vague but consistent discomfort in the middle region - more on that later.- apparently there are also other things I can look forward to:

My lord the Sun was generally in some house which gave me regular gastritis, my Lord Saturn was squeezed unceremoniously into some house with Venus and Mercury which meant they were all probably cramped for space and subsequently bad tempered, an that darling gentle satellite the Moon "conjectured" them and sat alone (probably laughing stupidly )across at a tangent on my Birth-chart, giving me my mildly autistic and half dazed disposition.

How could I ever hope to exercise free will over my destiny with such a formidable gaggle of cosmic debri out there to impose their effects on me and generally give direction to my life? I mean- what am I actually supposed to do?

Ill be good in what I study, they say…does this mean that I should study more? Or less? Or just relax and expect to pass by the will of Saturn? Or will I just want to study by default and pass because I happened to turn up for the exams?( I guess I wont be able to if I don't turn up ,eh?)

Im a spender, it says, due to Kuja being in some place. Good, that means I shall have money( haven't really seen any yet but one lives in hope) Since of course theoretically its impossible to spend unless you have the stuff (wwwwell, ok you can always spend on debt but that isn't the same. Gulp. Lets not even go there.) Anyway I thought the whole point of earning was to spend -that would really add meaning to the whole concept of earning , right? Since if you actually had money that you didn't spend, what exactly were you supposed to do with it? Wrap lunch? Wallpaper the drawing room?

Since it seemed like an accusation I must admit I kept trying not to. Spend that is. But then with the cost of living in Sri Lanka that's not really easy. Even if you bank it you find that it's been spent for you on bank charges, Withholding Tax and odd little penalties. …

Then there is my weak tummy: Im always being hit below the belt by this Shunny character and doubling up in agonies of gastritis although God only Knows I do not have worries (motto: hakuna matata-) nor am I a great fan of chillie( its ruddy expensive for one thing). Oh the Vedhas have a good explanation for this - nasty "heaty" planets in the place of my digestion. So its just me and my absurdly puny defense of a bottle of strawberry flavored antacid against some giant malicious fireball spinning inauspiciously against me some thirty million light years away. Bad show, I say- why don't they pick on someone their own size?

And yet, destiny has it that I have a few friendly, positive giants on my side too. The Lord of the Rings is really out to teach me a lesson and not necessarily make my life a nightmare- so I will end up wiser and more decent and probably appreciate things I would otherwise have taken for granted. Like non gastric days. For example, how many of you have actually leaned back and sighed with pure happiness and thought, "what a lovely day - my digestive juices are staying down"? Jupiter will make me generous so that my spending will be on the less fortunate (so don't look at me like I'm some sort of angel-) and Venus will force me to appreciate the beauty all around me (even in stinking Dematagoda- have you seen dew drops on a crow at dawn?) and finally that big gentle moon will keep me mildly unbalanced so that the incongruity of it all wont tax me too much….

Thirty six years after my birth chart was foisted on me, I finally believe in this whole bundle of waffle. I know I shouldn't -I know its not logical or justifiable - that there is absolutely no basis for this (I mean they talk about the magnetic push from planets but then shouldn't it affect us the same according to where we live?) but-

Even beginning to figure out the grandiose plan which directs the interlinking destinies of 6 billion humans and probably a thousand times that many non humans- would honestly tax my delicate grey matter beyond endurance.

So I've decided to accept what my astrologer says without questioning it and watch my first book come out, by co incidence in the same year foretold in 1971. I shall think of it as destiny. And if you enjoy reading what I write, perhaps you will think of it as something to look forward to..... .

…………………………………………………………
All my writing is available, entirely free of charge, mind you, at http://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com

Degrees to Success

I dont have a degree in Communications. Neither does my daughter Nadeesha. But we have been published for a number of years in leading newspapers, written two columns and been co- authors of a book, not to mention becoming co-founders of popular online forums with thousands of members. My writing has shamed a big company into doing the right thing. It has organised charity work, saved a number of animals' lives big and small, alternatively boiled and soothed my readers and also brought many a smile to their faces. We have written Sri Lanka's first book of Horror Stories in English, which was great fun in the compilation. I've also had the honour of working with the company doing promotions for a very famous international drama series in 2010, as a Social Media researcher during its production stages.  Nadeesha worked part-time with a British content provision company. She influences many friends to eat better, live better and be happier. We are above all, happy communicators. We earn comfortably from doing what we love which is writing and I daresay our dubious names are known better than many journalism graduates, mostly because we do communicate well. Its nothing to do with a fancy foreign degree. It's also why I want to talk about foreign degrees, suitable marriages and highly paid careers, which are popular goals towards which many parents blindly and determinedly push their unhappy offspring..

 

(A delightful old artwork from an NSB advertisement on Housing Loans. Not really relevant to the article - but saved here because you cant find this graphic anymore)

 

I once overheard a strong and brave mother from the village who decided to home school her children plus send them for private tuition, rejecting government institutions of schooling in Sri Lanka. This made absolute sense because anyway in Sri Lanka hardly anyone gets educated at schools because of the apathy of underpaid teachers. Children spend 13 of the best years of their life learning nothing that they will use in later life; they do not learn to co-exist, respect each other, elders and the environment, they do not learn basic first aid or any perceptible life skills, and hardly any learn even to stop spitting on the roads. They do not learn to grow or cook wholesome food for themselves, or the importance of keeping fit and healthy,(how many average Sri Lankans have an exercise habit?) how to resolve conflict without violence and how to balance a budget. Thirteen years of life wasted.

Everyone also sends their kids for private tuition. Which is expensive. This is where this insane rush for formal education begins. It ends with people selling valuable houses just so that the precious child can get a US degree. They don't not stop to think of alternatives. Consider the cost of snooty foreign paper qualification.

My daughter did spend on a local bachelors degree of 650,000 (mostly because the relatives advised her to do this) and lets say theoretically she earns monthly at the rate of 65,000 per month.. Her cousin, educated with the shiny US degree which cost 4,500,000 certainly does not earn 450,000 a month part-time. His parents had to sell one beautiful house and take out a five-year educational loan to help him get this. He earns nowhere close, coming probably to a maximum of about 200,000 if he's very lucky, and if it is Sri Lanka that work will involve all the misery of office politics, jealousy, backstabbing and aggravation not to mention a daily grind of commuting to work through third world megacity traffic, ...something that neither me nor my daughter has done for a long time now. At the same time have you given a thought to the opportunity cost of putting 4,500,000 in a bank  or just renting out the house you sold to get a monthly income of at least 150,000/= without any work at all? It boggles my mind as to why any human running logically on Maslow's theory, any one who has remotely studied economics and opportunity costs, would justify such suffering just to be able to tell a few relatives or judgemental potential employers that they have an American degree…just to send our money abroad and enrich Uncle Sam.

(HAPPY TOES - dosnt take much to be able to relax by the beach in our serendipitous island - but how many do so. and how often?)

If its fulfilment you need in life there are wonderful ways to work for the community, to help people and animals, join politics, take up the violin, whatever it takes to keep you occupied rather than actually do a job merely to keep you out of mischief. Finally if its fame you are looking for, if you google her cousins name it wont turn up anywhere. Whereas my daughter and I are communicators, influencers and changemakers actually making a difference in the life of people we encounter. And you are now reading my article, not his. Hopefully this article may save one person from making the mistake of selling parental houses and getting in debt for years only to drain rupees to the UK or USA and become stuck in a twenty five year rat race from which you emerge at 55, gouty, diabetic, out-of-shape, unhappily married and generally unfulfilled and maybe barely able to complete the mortgage on a nice house which reminds of the nice house your parents sold 20 years ago, to get you the degree….

 

Dont get me wrong and think I look down on education or qualifications.

I certainly would hope that the anesthesiologist who knocks me out for brain surgery has been through formal and structured training…. In the same way as I wish that parents who undertake one of the most challenging tasks known to mankind (bringing up offspring) were in someway educated in that subject or took the effort to educate themselves and think carefully before they followed the crowds like leaping wildebeest...learning is always a good thing but it doesn't really have to be through American (or British or Australian) universities...think of the most famous, awe-inspiring, revolutionary people the planet knows, Mother Theresa, Michael Jackson, Meryl Streep, Mohamed Yunus...and diverse modern icons like Lily Singh, Trevor Noah, Jane Goodall, Sathguru, Malala Yusefsai... was it university degrees that made them who they are?

When you think of the talents that are needed in real life, qualities such as empathy, emotional quotient, sensitivity, adaptability, creativity, humility the capacity to think out of the box, the ability to respect other humans, and a host of other important characteristics are not taught in Universities although they are very important. Then why is it that such a disproportionate amount of time, effort and money is put into obtaining degrees from abroad?

 

This brings me to the next item on my list, career success. Everyone seems to want it, to be able to climb right to the top and boss people around. To get to the top of your profession, to earn accolades, win recognition, have paper articles written about you, be there do that. That's a worthy goal, I concede, and it's quite grand for the people who do achieve it. But for every top chairman or woman, how many hundreds meander through a tedious daily grind which lasts through 30 years spending more than three-quarters of your waking life in a cubicle, and in traffic, with only miserable thoughts spinning through your head about office politics, glaring injustices and simply torturous interpersonal conflict at the work place, waiting for something good to happen, or simply waiting to be able to leave this drudgery...which is not a way to spend this precious commodity called life.

Do you sometimes feel like the consultant in the story of the fisherman and the management consultant^[1], waiting for some perfect moment in the future, when things will be just right- the story is about a happy island fisherman who was doing nothing lolling in a hammock under a coconut tree on a balmy tropical beach, having finished his days work early noon with the rest of the day off.

Along comes a consultant and tells him that with the wind speeds and directions he could easily triple his productivity, invest in two fibreglass fishing boats and some manual labour, open a marine company so that he can catch many more fish and make much more profits. He can invest this money in the bank no doubt the consultant will tell him how to work the stock exchange and invest in bitcoins etc, and apparently that way he can retire early. To which the fisherman in puzzlement asks, "what would I do if I retire?" And the consultant says "why you can  visit wonderful beaches, play with your kids, simply relax by the beach doing nothing, go for a beer and a baila in the evening every day..." and of course the fisherman gives him an odd look, and says "Isn't that what I'm already doing anyway?"

 

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^[1] https://www.thesimpledollar.com/some-thoughts-on-the-parable-of-the-fisherman-and-the-banker/

Where Angels Fear

Moonlight across the dunes.

Gentle, ululating expanses of sand. 

This is the scrub desert surrounding El Thebsi and there is a soft breeze in the air and the muffled sound of hooves in this sand.

A lone horseman accompanied by a lithe desert Saluki gallops towards the vast red fortress on the horizon. He is smiling in the moonlight beneath his shawl, and the dog is frisking with joy since this is their home and they have been away for months and they long to be back home.

The horse is most eager too, because of its exhaustion - it has travelled uncounted miles

The horseman shouts.

The fortress does not reply.

The dog begins to curve around and whimper, dashing erratically back and forth in anxiety. The horseman, Carlos Romero DeLa Nostra y Carreras - he wheels his horse around the dog and urges it on, suddenly uneasy at the atmosphere that exudes from his home. 

"What has happened? Where is everyone?" Carreras choked into his face covering, his joy changed in the flicker of an eyelid, into blind panic.

The ancient and heavy gates of the Ochre fortress lie open and from beyond comes the ugly ominous silence of abandonment, tragedy and loss. 

Carreras leaves Saklawi outside tethered loosely to a crumbling post and races after his whimpering dog, his horror giving him wings. The guard posts are empty, no single soul has come fourth to meet him and the heart within him begins to thud in unspeakable horror. 

"Ibn Jibbal, where are you? Sebira! Who hears me reply, it is your master returned '' his voice cracked in panic and then he remembered it was best to be silent in case some unspeakable danger waited within to ambush him too. Although he knew that without his family he may as well be dead. His death would matter nought if his worst fears were to be true- that the Ochre fortress had been invaded and plundered and all were ruined and killed including Sebira and the very animals of the place, their bones whitened during the threescore days of his absence… 

His boots crunched loudly as he stumbled across the courtyards, diving in and out of kitchens and stables and stores. His breath came in ragged, disbelieving gasps and his mouth was parched with dread.

But Carreras did not trip over the desiccated bodies of his loved ones nor did the stink of death meet him so he decided that no matter what miseries they had suffered they had to be alive: possibly kidnapped, and spirited away, perhaps already sold to slavery. 

And if there was no one to tell him who it was, how it happened then he must find the grisly clues himself if that was the last thing he did.

Careras stopped at a well and peered down it.

He threw down a bucket and hoisted this up and was about to drink deep of the cool water, when something, a foul and nightmarish animal, loathsome and hairy jumped on him from behind and knocked the bucket from his grasp. Kesab the sand hound instead of jumping to his masters defense merely wagged his tail rather limply and the hideous animal proceeded to scream shrilly and hysterically into the Spaniard's ears, 

Carreras with considerable difficulty peeled the hairy nightmare off the back of his head and examined it in the moonlight.

"It is as I thought. You little monster. It is Mushkila, Ibn Jibbal's pet monkey! Where is your master, you mangy creature from the pits of purgatory...? Take me to him at once! You hear?" 

It seemed Muskila was agreeable. He crashed off into the shadows screaming and gibbering and Carreras rushed after him, the hound Kesab bringing up the rear, tripping and skidding. They stumbled across disarrayed furnishings and disordered draperies and as Careras ran he was worrying more and more if that was possible. The monkey was leading him down into Ibn Jibbals dungeons. 

He hoped his friend was alive.

Someone had to tell him who had been responsible for this pillage and kidnapping or massacre if it was one.