Mud Ghecko

Wednesday, October 09, 2024

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-

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*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

Thursday, September 26, 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 !

Tuesday, September 24, 2024

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..... .

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

Monday, September 23, 2024

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?"

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

Tuesday, August 27, 2024

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.

Wednesday, August 07, 2024

50 Ways to Kill Your Lover

The Mad Witches of Modera

In a modern Colombo suburb, three long-suffering housewives decide to punish and reform their errant men using black magic, a daring plot that has unpredictable results.

CHAPTER ONE

Resting Witch Phase

Really-what kind of man can cut off his dead lover's head? It's not easy. You need muscle. Your arm aches for days afterwards. The spinal column in an adult female can not be easy to sever. I wish I could find out from that girl, what she saw in him. What do we see in any of our abusive South Asian men?

That is what I was thinking while I ran to meet my writing deadline at the Weekend Financial Review. I had an idea about this because I had once cut off a dogs head. When it was dead of course. It took some time. That is an old story.

Once upon a time in Colombo there were three forty-plus women who were friends.

One was an actress, let's call her Bibi, one was a journalist, that's me and the third was a social worker and animal rescuer named Faa.

We were what you could call Bad Wives because it was a South Asian country, and we were not obedient and did not do whatever our husbands expected us to do. We are too bossy and independent. Me specially because I ride a motorbike and I don't need a man.

For example bad wife number one didn't like it that her ex husband (Lord Ravensport) who did business kept mistresses in various towns and spent money on them and didn't look after his family. He also insulted, hit and abused her. So she kicked him in the nuts, divorced him and went away. She found some other men. But because she was thirty plus by that time the only available men were the rejects. Sri Lankan women don't easily let go of their men. They tolerate a lot and stick to them. Because there are disadvantages of being man-less. By the time you are thirty in Colombo all the good men are taken. You can only find married men, impotent fellows and weirdos that all the other women just could not tolerate. So Chubs found a man she liked, whose dick worked well too, but he turned out to be drunk every evening. And he could not hold down a job. But he was entertaining, so she kept him.

Bad wife number two didn't like it that her husband wasn't with her and only came home to eat and bellyache about life. He insulted her often and took her stuff and gave it to his girlfriend. When she had an accident and really needed help, he wasn't there for her. Then he wanted a divorce. But in Sri Lanka being divorced is rather third grade. You get the feeling that people cross themselves and cross the street when they see a divorced lady. He walked away anyway. So she found another man. But it turned out he wasn't really ideal either, because he was rude, loud and racist and she had a strong suspicion that he was actually married.

Bad wife number three dumped her man because, among other things, he was a proven child molester who had groped one of his own daughters (from a former wife).

Maybe he had other good qualities, but she didn't want to find out. She was the most beautiful of these bad wives and she had been an actress so it was easy to find men. Again since she was like forty by the time she searched, she found only married or odd men. This one turned out LATER to have multiple wives whom he hadn't even bothered to divorce because his Eastern religion and Muslim Law allowed it. He convinced her that it was ok. But he took her money and turned out to be a control freak. Strangely the things that Allah had said about women, were just what he too wanted, which might even make you think that Allah though divine was male. Bibi was convinced most of the time that if she was a good wife and did what her religion wanted, she would be rewarded in the afterlife. In the meantime this life was completely impossible at times.

Looking at these three ladies you would agree that they really didn't seem to be able to work out this holy matrimony thing. Instead of being a dreamlike condition of bliss it seemed to be a trap they had fallen into.

Today I was writing a story about another marriage that had gone wrong and ended up in homicide and suicide. It was now called the Midlands murder because the killing happened in a motel named Midlands.

"No, you cannot interview the wife, she is just too tired to talk anymore," says my editor. I stare angrily at him down the phone. I can picture him running around the office with his sleeves rolled up and his collar awry. He has nice grey eyes. He does not take leave, even on his birthday or on Ramadan. He goes home at 2 am, after everyone else has left the evening shift. "Ill get you the number of the Officer in Charge of the investigation,"

Boring. Taking to a cop about a murder. There wouldn't be any human interest in it. How will I write my piece on the Midlands Murder? All I can think about is this buff mutton headed ole cop dude who has now hung himself in the middle of the jungle.

He had annoyingly taken the mystery with him. A mystery that has the entire island talking.

"How do you know the wife didn't have anything to do with this?" says my mango friend Faa, in the middle of feeding her cats, in a rather baggy dressing gown. Through the WhatsApp video call, I can see them ploughing restlessly through her house, on her laundry, on her countertops, on her washing machine, in her armchairs, on her bed. There seem to be cats everywhere. I know the next time she sees a kitten or some geriatric dog she will feel sorry for it. A crow popped its head in at the window and cawed raucously for food. Faa had named it Rasta.

"How do you know- she must have got fed up with this old bugger messing around with the girl and she must have done something. Like a hooniyama," said Faa. "Go away Rasta, I gave you your breakfast!'"

Hooniyama is the Sri Lankan word for Voodoo. There is a God in charge of this process, named the God in Charge of the Village. I'm surprised at her conclusion because Faa is a Muslim.

"What kind of hooniyama can you do?"

"Sue knows we should ask her, there are lots of things… that can be done" says Faa, evasively. I feel that she has already consulted Sue-Lakshi and is not ready to discuss it yet. Faa was creative.

Sue-Lakshi wrote horoscopes. This was a lucrative occupation in Sri Lanka where most people had one. But she couldn't get her head around doing it for money. She felt sorry for people who were in pain and ended up doing their horoscopes for them free of charge. This resulted in her never getting anywhere as a businesswoman. She also did mantras. To heal people. To keep them safe. She had studied all of this in an actual course with a famous gurunnanse and she did it with good intentions. Would she help with Bibis' problem? She was also a medium and she could speak to the dead. There was a spirit who helped her, a kid who had died in the time of the JVP.

Maybe I could get an interview with the SP himself? Through a medium? Radical. This is interesting. Why didn't I think of this kind of solution before?

As a journalist and an ex-wife myself I can begin to imagine the drama behind this murder story. And feel compassion for us all, the dead man, the murdered other-woman and the grieving wife and children. No one plans these things they have a way of happening. Well, sometimes wives plan things. But we will come to that later. I needed to finish my article. My petrol tank has corroded and I'm without transport too, which is bad in the middle of a pandemic. I have to get through all of this without getting this damned virus and spreading it at home. Colombo was under lockdown and I would not be able to go meet Sue-Lakshi for some time yet.

So till then I can continue the story of the Three Bad Wives, who could not get matrimoney right.

Their current men could not figure it out either. They did not agreed to professional counselling or mediation, saying that this was a stupid Western idea, along with concepts like women's rights and support for Gays.

The women decided to look Eastwards for answers. But, tediously, Eastern religious books and old wives in the neighborhood would advise them to give in, and do what was expected of them. And to tolerate the cheating, drinking, wife beating and whoring. For the sake of the family. Cos family comes first.

They were supposed to do what their husbands said, especially the kinky sex, and to bear up with anything for the sake of the children, and to be good obedient housewives and do their duties, like fucking, cooking and laundry. In other words to not really have lives of their own. And what would they get in return? Protection. From what? Tigers? Invading armies? Not in 2020. Other men, apparently.

For a short while they did try all of that too. Working hard, earning giving their men their money, cooking nice stuff for them, ignoring the toxic language.

But it still didn't work out the way they wanted. Their men still did whatever they wanted- they kept mistresses in comfort, they got drunk daily and they went to screw their ex-wives in secret. Not only that they did it without shame and were quite bold about these things too and added verbal and physical abuse and mind control into the mix because Eastern culture accepted that men could do all these things.

This was annoying.
Something had to be done about this.

You have been reading the first chapter of

THE MAD WITCHES OF MODERA

Three frustrated Sri Lankan housewives trapped in dead-end marriages decide to take revenge on their unfaithful, abusive husbands.

Working with a combination of undercover investigation, hi-tech solutions and local witchcraft, they do the unthinkable, in a last desperate attempt to make their men conform; A high school friend has studied the occult formally for years on the side. To convince her to help they must tell her everything and tell the truth. But unless they come from a place of honesty, their hexes will have dangerous and unexpected results . And, things can go very wrong.

A tangled web of love, betrayal and revenge set in the volatile background of the Covid 19 pandemic.

Not for Sale in Sri Lanka