My Darkest Secret

​

(Art courtesy Daily Mirror )

Its been close upon two years now but the guilt of it has kept me silent so far. 

Even now I will not tell you who I am, for your author, dear gentle reader, is guilty of having broken the law, violated the penal code and /or acted unconstitutionally to boot and what's worse now intends to crow about it too!

The cause of this was a beady-eyed, near comatose bundle of black feathers I found on Greenpath, one Monday evening last July on my way back from work.

This creature was later named Pokey and he * was seriously ill; birds of his feather had gathered around thoughtfully and were noisily discussing their intention of putting him out of his misery. ( Hint: this would involve being summarily pecked to death because they do not want to Leave you to the Cats. They obviously give a lot of thought to this sort of thing, crows.) Pocky did not have enough strength to so much as lift a wing but lay abject and lifeless waiting for his fate to be finalized.

Well, you know me,(or you should by now if you have been reading what I write -) I cannot walk past a creature that desperate, with my eyes wide shut- so I called up a passing tuk tuk, demanded a polythene bag from the surprised driver and placing the uncomplaining black mass in it, hired a lift home.

The local Vet and I have an excellent understanding: he maintains a straight face and does not burst out laughing (or screaming hysterically) when I bring the latest case in – and I provide him with lots of useful On the job experience. This was no exception.

Pokey was examined closely, his drooping wings flexed, his rigid, gnarled claws gently but forcefully unclenched, and his throat shed light into with a good torch, after which dear ole Dr Perera decided that the paralysis could be treated by modern day antibiotics. He showed me how to take a "karala"(capsule) and divide it into eight parts one of which I was supposed to administer at 6 hourly intervals.

So there was I saddled with a limp, dying crow, a 3-day course of tetracycline and a cardboard box which I hastily requisitioned from the nearby supermarket.

The next challenge was to smuggle said refugee into our residence without my father noticing.

My father is the serious, strict, Decision Maker person at home, the king of the Castle so to speak, who gives a lot of thought to possible calamity in life and solidly disapproved of anything with feathers on the basis that "they can have all kinds of dirty germs" and this, mind you, was in the seventies, decades before bird flu was even invented and in spite of the fact that he practically grew up on something like a farm.

This, therefore, had to be a quiet back door entry kind of thing and so it was that I managed to sprint my unresisting secret up to my bedroom before the gate man could even turn around, and shut the door firmly against inquisitive family members to take a deep breath and really think about what I had just done.

Im a working girl, out from 9 to 5, and I have a small carpeted bedroom about 8 by 10, a very peaceful feminine pad furnished in pastel pink décor with lots of stuffed Disney characters- and now I had a large heavy rude black bird convalescing in it. Just how rude he could be I was about to find out.

The first dose of tetracyclin was a breeze because I d found a needle – less syringe and mixed the dust with honey, and Pokey was not expecting this, neither had he enough strength to object. Down the hatch, it went, with nary a rustled feather.

And within an hour or two, it was working! The listless doomed look was replaced by a suspicious calculating look, the head was beginning to stand alert. Even the feathers were glossier, I swear. It was one of those good moments in a pet rescuers life. It was also when the problems really started because Pokey began expressing his opinion, in a harsh and unlovely tone, probably listing his constitutional rights demanding freedom of expression and movement etc …

7 or 8 hours and two doses afterwards, Pokey was visibly transformed :From being a limp bedraggled black heap of feathers with an obvious death wish- he was now walking around in his cardboard box bobbing his head critically up and down like a hygiene inspector, testing his wings for flightworthiness and emitting short , trial croaks, which in the confines of my pad, sounded like background sound effects from Jurassic Park ….

The challenge was now to get him to shut up because I was just not supposed to harbour crows in my bedroom. Leave aside the penal code and the neighbours, my dad would have a fit. My mother came around as she usually does on her evening -bringing-the-tea-walk, and I opened my door about three inches and had a bright chat with her after which since she knew the funny look on my face was anything but innocent she began pushing very gently at the door and saying sad things like ' is something the matter? I know you are hiding something. Im your mum. You can talk to me, you know," that sort of thing.

Subterfuge had always been pointless with her, so I pulled her into the room and shut the door firmly – subsequent dialogue went something like:

"You can't hide a crow in your bedroom, darling.
" I know"

"Puthey, First of all, you tell this to dad,"
"No, but he will Start Shouting -"

"You are not thinking you can hide a crow in here –its like having a man under the bed, with his shoes sticking out- !"

"He ll be better in a few days and Ill put him out. Do you think Thaththi has to notice??"

(Would he notice all the raucous shrieks, flapping and thumping and the steady build up of guano on the windows –let me think, YES! )

And Pokey chose this moment to burst noisily out of the cardboard incarceration he was supposed to be quietly recuperating in, emit a loud huffy protesting squawk, and go for a preliminary test flight around the room which ended in a loud and negative thump as he connected with the window pane.

Mom was right about this. It wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.

Next week: A crow's got to do what a crow's got to do.

* Neither the vet nor I ever did find out if it was a he or a she , but I prefer to think of most crows as masculine: Compared to other regular birds, they are dark, solid and make a lot of noise so, its obvious they are discussing politics, cricket or the Milanka index.

What followed was about 40 hours of wild and total chaos. Pokey's condition improved exponentially and he gorged himself on papaws and salmon, which he naturally had to expel pretty soon; crows either have short digestive tracts or this one was so starved that whatever he ate went right through. Pretty soon my beautiful bedroom was covered with a series of artistic streaks of half digested muck which I did not want to analyze. My bed, carpet and walls, in fact, any patch of the room I did not cover with newspapers and polythene was liberally decorated with guano. My monitor and keyboard were favourite areas as well as the dressing table where Pokey would land near my deodorant collection and preen in the mirror.

At some stage in the proceedings, Mom reported on me to Thaththi and he mercifully adopted a "Wait and See" approach since it was a bit late in the day to worry about germs. This meant if anything went wrong (or wronger than it already had) I could probably look forward to a humbling lecture on how I should be more responsible and not Do Nonsense like this etc. The rest of the family came by to see things for themselves and were rudely judged by Pokey. The Persian cat gave me a look I won't forget and stayed outside a radius of 30 feet from my bedroom.

Within 24 hours Pokey had learned two tricks. To come when he was called, and sit on my mouse pad if I tapped it(perhaps it looked friendly and familiar  like a helicopter launch site?) and the Silly Cotton Bud Trick: Cotton buds were to Pokey what a red flag is to a bull- you showed him one, he would take it as a personal challenge, and grab it from you, yank it angrily out of your fingers and place it on the ground. Then he would give you a beady-eyed look as if challenging you to touch it. If you did try to touch it, he would hold your finger very threateningly in a strong black beak and push your hand away. But there was a glint of mischief in the beady eyes that spoke of smiling insides.

This then is why it has been outlawed to harbour crows, their intelligence is incredible and I believe uncharted, I'm sure if they had opposable digits these little black-suited gentlemen would be running the show. This was a wild crow that could not possibly have known a word of human, let alone English and here he was answering to a silly name I had given him within a matter of hours.

The worst challenge was catching hold of him for long enough to force-feed the tetracyclin as per the six hourly course. This was an exercise in guerrilla warfare that took about 2 hours for me to win and helped me lose a lot of weight. Pokey did not want to have a bitter powder shoved down his throat and freely expressed his disgust in no uncertain terms. From the strangled objections it was pretty obvious that I would soon be hauled in by the Wellampitiya Police, not just for harbouring a crow but for general breach of peace, environmental pollution, and if Pokey had his say, animal rights violations too.

48 hours of this was the giddy limit. SO two days after I had rescued a weak droopy lump of crow on Greenpath, I opened my windows in Wellampitiya and told Pokey he was free to go.

The croak he let out was definitely something like "that's more like it" and out he flew like a large black torpedo, but characteristically he did not disappear at once but sat on a banana leaf outside my window and I swear he looked at me and said a lot of Crowish things which were not totally unflattering.

I  safely assume it was something in the lines of  "So long and thanks for all the fruit!" or he could have been warning me about the plots my cats were hatching, or telling me to go easy on the deodorant- I do wish I had confirmation.

Either way, within a minute, he was soaring off into the wild blue yonder and I was sitting smiling in a room which needed cleaning.

Pokey may have left me in favour of freedom but I have I have memories, which I treasure, of two days spent hiding a little black suited refugee in my bedroom and I have a 15-minute video clip which I show to my friends and relations when they come to visit.

 Now that's something I'm going to take with me to old age!

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Possible tactical uses for well-trained ravens –

·         watch the defense lines/ act as early tsunami warning systems,

·         fix electrical wiring, paint the exteriors of tall buildings and of course spy on locations of cheating spouses—

·         report on traffic snarls  and advise on alternative routes..

·         in well-organised flocks, help in crowd control, break up mass rallies by dropping guano on unruly crowds/boring public speakers

Things we could really ban in Sri Lanka along with or instead of, crows:

• Wheedling, forging things and perjuring yourself to get your kid into a famous school
• Making bullocks carry more than 1.5 tons of stuff at a time.
• Performing horn cantatas in front of Maternity hospitals/funeral parlours
• Cramming more than 350 people into a 25 seater bus at a time

Grandma Issabelle

And so , since all stories must have a beginning , my life story probably starts with this  wonderful ancestor, grandma Isabelle.

        Now if that name makes you think of sweet, genteel colonial ladies with delicate fans, parasols and elbow length white gloves, partaking of "Tiffin" or groping tremulously for their smelling salts, let me bust the bubble because Grandma Isabelle was – different. [1]

        I remember her looking sternly at me over her thick spectacles and saying "are you sure you are wearing decent knickers, child? Otherwise  skirt going up and people will laugh- big shame,  no"

        I remember looking back at her and nodding humbly "yes, nana" ; I dare say your own grandma probably told you stuff like this too, when you were a kid, but the difference here was probably that I was 30 at the time, and had come to visit her, riding a small Indian Yamaha, without a valid license. …(ouch!)

        She boasted of language that could out-swear the hairiest Pettah drunkard and was not afraid to use it. Words like thoe, yakoe, and bung, and rolled off her tongue with as much dubious ease as the lyrics of Edelweiss and old Nat King Cole numbers…

        She was maybe a tad over five foot high and as light as a thistle but ate like a Marine, and knew how to enjoy life to the fullest.  I remember she loved anything packaged in England (peaches, tarts, wheetabix) for the same reason that children do, that its bright , flavorful and generally not locally  available, and she would cheerfully guzzle chocolates, fig biscuits  and apple tarts with a devil may care "to hell with the diabetes" attitude.(Blood sugar, predictably, didn't dare to rear its ugly head and try cramping her style, because I suspect she would have told it to go take a hike)

        My art, writing and sense of esthetics I believe I owe to her side of the family and she taught me, I remember, how to paint ostriches in the African Savannah. I can still mix the exact color of an ostriches butt feathers which are a "bluish greenish black with a slight touch  of yellow in it for depth".

        It was later on that I actually learned that Colombo's"Morotuwa" people are somewhat famous for the arts, (art, music, sculpting and writing ) and that "down south"  people sometimes don't really value this much because they are way more practical in useful talents like cooking and making broods of exemplary offspring…intermarry these two and there will always be gentle disdain from both sides about what the other cant do.

        Grandma Isabel's favorite movie was "Colomba Sanniya " which although I have never seen in my life, I have listened with delight to the detailed accounts of,  since I was 7 and thus can actually picture clearly in my minds eye, right down to the white scratch marks on the movie.

        The hero was played by Freddie or Eddie someone  who won a lottery as the story was repeated to me on torpid tropical Ceylon afternoons, which along with ambul bananas , large Marie biscuits(no longer produced) and good Ceylon tea, makes me now realize how ancient I must be…it is  classic 1940s style comedy about some village godaayaas[2] who get a luxury house in Colombo that they don't know what to do with. Around the point where they start doing their laundry in the commode, grandma falls into numerous microsleeps and I have to start nagging her for the balance.

        By 90 and bordering on Alzhimic, Grandma Isabelle had a distinctly selective and very volatile memory, something computer junkies would have called "Need Only Memory" because she remembered things only if they suited her, and otherwise resorted to a an extremely blank and innocent expression of pleasant non recognition which she had perfected down the years.

        So questions like " would you like another piece of angel cake ?" would be met by a carefully worded and vague " what angel cake ? did I just eat a piece?" which meant of course but don't tell anyone I ll be having two.

        I don't believe Nana worried about death at all, even thought she was past 90 when it got her. Although she sometimes discussed passing concerns like globalisation, deforestation and whether young Tushi was having an unsuitable affair in her office , she accepted inevitable eventualities like illness and mortality with the calm don't care attitude of a tattooed underworld thug.         

        In fact quite predictably she went down singing and joking and her last recorded words where a cracked baila very loosely translated as "shall I tell you of the love I have for you? In the afternoon come to the bathing pipe-and ill tell you" and I know she went laughing all the way.

        Grandma was a rebel in her age, like I am in mine.

        They say that each person will somewhere be duplicated in her ancestry or among her descendants, and if so I wonder if I will someday have a pixie faced, happy go lucky tomboy of  a grand or great grand daughter, who will write about me.

        Just maybe she will be called Isabelle, too.

---

[1] This sort of explains me, but not fully

[2] Pardon the haughty colonial reference.

PUPPY LETTER TO SANTA

Dear Santa,

 

Firstly, I would like to thank you for visiting us once a year and giving us presents. That's really sweet of you.

 

In all my early letters, I have asked for things like "elimination of pollution" and "increase of moral values in mankind" and "better treatment towards animals and women" but I think none of it has happened.

 

Men, women, children, animals, plants and earth herself is dying of starvation, wars, abuse and all sorts of nasty things. So I take it that you probably have a lot in your plate and that's why it's still going on. I hear God is pretty busy too. I don't read the news or watch television much but from what I hear Daddy say, the world has become pretty much a poop hole. But not in so many words. Id have to put a penny in the word jar if I said the word he used. That and I probably wont get this years present from you too.

 

I wrote a letter to God asking why he hasn't looked into all these stuff that's happening. I didn't get a reply yet. He's probably busy looking into it. So I thought I'll try you.

 

There is this picture I saw on the internet. It's very sad. I love animals and I even have a rescued kitten . Seeing this doggie like this made me wanted to cry out and hug my poopsy. I don't understand why anyone could do such a thing to a sweet soul like this. I mean, look at those eyes. What wrong has this doggie done to receive such treatment? What moral misconduct has he done to be treated like this? I don't know the whole story behind it but maybe he stole a loaf of bread or something and he was kicked out on to the streets. He has all sorts of wounds in his body and I cant for the life of me imagine what would have made such horrible wound. Doesn't anybody know that it hurts the same way whether they're humans or animals? I hear people throw gasoline at doggie's backside so that they wont get more puppies. Is that true, Santa? Do they really hurt these defenseless animals like that

                                  

After several months of poor treatment like this, someone had come forward to rescue this soul. It had been a group of people who go looking for injured animals who had taken this poor animal to their shelter to try aand help them in any way they can. This would have been difficult as nursing sick animals back to health is quite expensive. ( I should know, Poopsy was bitten by my doggie, Mickey and had to be nursed back into health. Poopsy cant use her right leg now but apart from that she's perfectly fluffy and happy. Daddy paid quite a lot to get her better again)

 

Apart from rescuing puppies they also hold sterilization camps. I think what they want to do is reduce the number of puppies on the road so that poor doggies don't have to starve and suffer a lot. But some people don't like that too. Because apparently it is against God and it is his will that girl doggies have babies without being stopped. I don't think God will mind . Because at the end of it all, they are helping the doggies by eliminating the beginning of suffering. 

 

Some ask them why they do it for animals, and why not human beings, like children in the cancer hospital. Yes humans should be given priority compared with animals but don't animals feel pain and distress just like we do? Don't they also feel hunger like we do? Don't they like to get a decent bone or two to munch once in a while? Don't they feel pain and sadness when pelted with stones when they try to make friends with you? I think love and compassion should be felt towards animals as well as humans because we both feel the same things in the same way although we don't communicate it in the same way.

 

This group of loving and caring people did come forward to help this dog. Not just him, but many many doggies on the road. Some with terrible wounds like these and others who have been dumped on the road by mean people. What's more, these aren't those fancy wooly doggies you on magazines and TV. People dont hesitate to take them home even though they are very expensive in buying as well as maintaining. But what about the street doggies who have no one? They need someone to care for them too.

 

So maybe God does send his angels on and off to help around. And he does show that whatever someone does, may it be a giving a biscuit to a cat whose starving on the road or offer a ride to an old lady, if they do it with a good heart and in the genuine hope of giving someone a helping hand, it makes a difference.

 

Maybe it doesn't have to impact a whole group of people or create a huge announcement in mass media. Maybe it'll just touch one soul in a way that makes that his or life a happier place even if its just for that one day. A small group of thoughtful people can make a difference.

 

It is a fight for them. Money is a major issue. Social opinion is another. But I don't think they are willing to give up just because they don't have any money. They cant help all the sick doggies in this country. But they are trying by beginning somewhere. They know what they do will change the lives of atleast one soul that is need of help and comfort. They cant do it all by themselves. They are called Adopt a Dog in Sri Lanka. And they need your help.

 

I'm sorry if my letter is too long but I needed to tell you everything. And for this year's Christmas  it would be make my wish come true if you could help them out.

 

Whenever you can. With whatever you can. It will make a difference. I promise.  J

 

--visit their page on fb on https://www.facebook.com/adoptadoginsrilanka

and explore how you too can make a difference for a street pup this Christmas.

A Vow for Munchi

Its six months since Operation Munchkins, when we ran after a little stray heifer for 4 hours in a tropical thunderstorm, trapped her, jumped her and got vets to cure the hideous nose wound made by a rope that was eating into her flesh.

We didnt know where she was from - there were two theories that she was an escaped slaughter house cow, and the second theory that she had been releasaed in fullfilment of a vow as is done by some Buddhists and Hindus. I personally go with the slaughter house story because the "Vow Cows"in Sri Lanka usually have a little branding saying PINg so that people know they are sacred or whatever. Munchi dosnt have the branding.

 

​

Thats a psychedelic camera phone image of a photograph of Munch after the rope was cut away.​ Belongs to Zeenath Amanath my partner in crime

 A neighbor of mine named Zeenath and I became the best of friends as we sat in the evenings after work, looking after her, swatting mosquitoes, bringing her kilos of food, dancing about after her trying to spray maggot repellent on her sore nose which she thoroughly resented. 

Then there was the incredible Christmas eve drama of how we had to work around the clock to get the government papers and transport ready to whiz her out of Wellampitiya which was not safe, teaming as it is with druggies and abbatior lorries ready to get hold of a vulnerable walking beef. 

We spent another tense couple of weeks watching over her as we tried to integrate her into the rural environment more suited to a lady of her vegetarian requirements...and she very literally dragged a number of strong men over drains and ditches in her stubborn attempts at escape. Our ideas of her gently grazing while tied to local trees were rudely shattered by a stubborn little barrel of bovine determination who insisted that she would not be tied, would not live in anyone's backyard and damn well wanted to go whereever she wanted.

So for the next three months as we trailed uselessly in the background biting our nails

​, falling in ditches and getting lost in the jungle (me mostly, and thats when my husband said, "the cow I can find, but where the blazes did you go!")​

 ​

and whatsapping photos of her latest exploits, she managed to integrate herself with a little herd of fellow 

​bovines, in a small community of newly developing houses, there to retire gracefully... or so we hoped.

​This month July was incredibly difficult for me. Not only did my beloved mother in law pass away,(peacefully and gracefully as was her way) marking the end of a chapter in my life, and bringing me closer to my mortality...but an incident of wanton cruelty resulted in my favorite cat dying a gruesome, ghastly ​death after prolonged suffering due to someone having thrown boiling water on it. Biscuit suffered for days and his dying took hours, and hours of agony. 

I was with Biscuit all along and the worst part is not every one will understand the pain this process caused me, as after all, Biscuit was a cat. 

the adorable chubby Biscuit so named because he liked eating said confectionery 

​

IN the midst of trying to recover from this difficulty came the news that Munchi was missing, and, when we followed up, some of our more smart ass young neighbours insisted that she must have been "taken"

Now you know what I mean, "taken" as in kidnapped by a passing lorry of cattle smugglers, to be sold at the nearest abattoir for a quick buck and some beef. My mind imagined ways in which parts of Munchi would be roasted, grilled, boiled, fried...for the alcoholic evening enjoyment of groups of loud local three-wheel drivers (you have probably picked up that I hate this entire sub section of society.) It was like imagining gang rape. 

I could not stay calm.

I went blind with rage at the whole idea.

There were seven cows in just the herd she belonged to, and there were about twenty cows i personally recognised in my neighbourhood, black ones, brown ones, white ones, spotty ones, grainy ones etc and who the HELL were these people (including my husband) to stand there and calmly suggest that Munchi alone had been taken ?? for that is what they did, as if they knew it all. There was supposed to be a white van of all things, taking cows. 
But why Munchi? 

Because she was fat looking? gingerly suggested my cowboy husband, and got a truly poisonous look from me...

I didnt know what to do. 

Spent some time actually crying.

I had been playing with being a vegetarian for a couple of months, but this time I decided to put my foot down on it and reject any temptation this filthy universe sent my way. No I would not be part of a system which tormented innocent beings the way this world did. No I would not put innocent misery in my stomach again.

I hated the world, hated nature, hated the whole of Godforsaken Hanwella including my husband who I insulted and bullied as much as I could, implying that his manhood itself was to be doubted if in the whole of his hometown,where he was such a figure, only his cow got lifted out of the dozens I could see. 

He refused to be insulted but was genuinely sad about the lost Munchkin. 

the kovil inside- not sure if its allowed to take photos though

Then some village woman suggested we make a vow at the local Hindu Kovil, which was actually a place with a large stone cow kept as an effigy- supposedly a vehicle of the Gods, or a favorite of the Hindus or some such thing. I liked the idea. I loved the kovil as i had earlier visited out of curiosity, and this time I was here on business.

Making a vow (not to be confused here with the original vow made by the people supposedly releasing Munchi from a slaughterhouse death) means you promise to do something that the Gods want, and ask them to grant you a favour.  

I had to resist the impulse to ask for uncounted riches and fame, helicopters and a yacht as well as food for every starving cat and dog in the world,- and instead tied a modest 5 /= coin and lit some lamps and joss sticks and reasonably asked instead that the Gods please please look after this stubborn BITCH of a cow and keep her safe into her old age, and also send us a sign soon that she was ok. 

My promise was that I would bring them a fruit basket (big deal?) and also incidentally, by the way, if anyone cared, that I would be vegetarian for the rest of my life. (apparently this could mean something)

Pretty colorful pooja items, fruits, and coconuts, innocent stuff that Hindu Gods seem to like

I loved the camphor and the joss sticks, and the Swami was actually a rather dishy young dude though very full of himself, and principled I understand as he had put up a board saying he would not do magic and curses, but for other matters to contact him ( I guess he would do the vows thing) He made us buy a ticket for the upkeep of the kovil, and also told us to walk three times around the place with the burning coconut and wish hard in our minds for what we wanted while he also said something very iconic in some other language, which is presumably how he communicated with the deities...and I was supposed to break the coconut and make the wish.

I did, and the coconut broke at once, meaning that the wish would be successful.

I hoped so and I felt good.

I dont know.

I didnt know what to think 

And yet, just a day afterwards, just this morning the message reached us from the village that Munchi had been spotted and was fine.

I like to think it was my vow and my prayers, but  I also feel it was the luck of one very blessed little street cow.

Ive decided Im not going to look for her any more, but I will trust in the Gods, the goodness of the universe, and her own powerful destiny to keep her happy wherever she is until the end of her time and mine. 

A Vow for Munchi

Its six months since Operation Munchkins, when we ran after a little stray heifer for 4 hours in a tropical thunderstorm, trapped her, jumped her and got vets to cure the hideous nose wound made by a rope that was eating into her flesh.

We didnt know where she was from - there were two theories that she was an escaped slaughter house cow, and the second theory that she had been releasaed in fullfilment of a vow as is done by some Buddhists and Hindus. I personally go with the slaughter house story because the "Vow Cows"in Sri Lanka usually have a little branding saying PINg so that people know they are sacred or whatever. Munchi dosnt have the branding.

 

​

Thats a psychedelic camera phone image of a photograph of Munch after the rope was cut away.​ Belongs to Zeenath Amanath my partner in crime

 A neighbor of mine named Zeenath and I became the best of friends as we sat in the evenings after work, looking after her, swatting mosquitoes, bringing her kilos of food, dancing about after her trying to spray maggot repellent on her sore nose which she thoroughly resented. 

Then there was the incredible Christmas eve drama of how we had to work around the clock to get the government papers and transport ready to whiz her out of Wellampitiya which was not safe, teaming as it is with druggies and abbatior lorries ready to get hold of a vulnerable walking beef. 

We spent another tense couple of weeks watching over her as we tried to integrate her into the rural environment more suited to a lady of her vegetarian requirements...and she very literally dragged a number of strong men over drains and ditches in her stubborn attempts at escape. Our ideas of her gently grazing while tied to local trees were rudely shattered by a stubborn little barrel of bovine determination who insisted that she would not be tied, would not live in anyone's backyard and damn well wanted to go whereever she wanted.

So for the next three months as we trailed uselessly in the background biting our nails

​, falling in ditches and getting lost in the jungle (me mostly, and thats when my husband said, "the cow I can find, but where the blazes did you go!")​

 ​

and whatsapping photos of her latest exploits, she managed to integrate herself with a little herd of fellow 

​bovines, in a small community of newly developing houses, there to retire gracefully... or so we hoped.

​This month July was incredibly difficult for me. Not only did my beloved mother in law pass away,(peacefully and gracefully as was her way) marking the end of a chapter in my life, and bringing me closer to my mortality...but an incident of wanton cruelty resulted in my favorite cat dying a gruesome, ghastly ​death after prolonged suffering due to someone having thrown boiling water on it. 

I was with Biscuit all along and the worst part is not every one will understand the pain this process caused me, as I tried everything I could to save this cat. 

the adorable chubby Biscuit so named because he liked eating confectionery 

​

IN the midst of trying to recover from this difficulty came the news that Munchi was missing, and, when we followed up, some of our more smart ass young neighbours insisted that she must have been "taken"

Now you know what I mean, "taken" as in kidnapped by a passing lorry of cattle smugglers, to be sold at the nearest abattoir for a quick buck and some beef. My mind imagined ways in which parts of Munchi would be roasted, grilled, boiled, fried...for the alcoholic evening enjoyment of groups of loud local three-wheel drivers (you have probably picked up that I hate this entire sub section of society.) It was like imagining gang rape. 

I could not stay calm.

I went blind with rage at the whole idea.

There were seven cows in just the herd she belonged to, and there were about twenty cows i personally recognised in my neighbourhood, black ones, brown ones, white ones, spotty ones, grainy ones etc and who the HELL were these people (including my husband) to stand there and calmly suggest that Munchi alone had been taken ?? for that is what they did, as if they knew it all. There was supposed to be a white van of all things, taking cows. 
But why Munchi? 

Because she was fat looking? gingerly suggested my cowboy husband, and got a truly poisonous look from me...

I didnt know what to do. 

Spent some time actually crying.

I had been playing with being a vegetarian for a couple of months, but this time I decided to put my foot down on it and reject any temptation this filthy universe sent my way. No I would not be part of a system which tormented innocent beings the way this world did. No I would not put innocent misery in my stomach again.

I hated the world, hated nature, hated the whole of Godforsaken Hanwella including my husband who I insulted and bullied as much as I could, implying that his manhood itself was to be doubted if in the whole of his hometown,where he was such a figure, only his cow got lifted out of the dozens I could see. 

He refused to be insulted but was genuinely sad about the lost Munchkin. 

the kovil inside- not sure if its allowed to take photos though

Then some village woman suggested we make a vow at the local Hindu Kovil, which was actually a place with a large stone cow kept as an effigy- supposedly a vehicle of the Gods, or a favorite of the Hindus or some such thing. I liked the idea. I loved the kovil as i had earlier visited out of curiosity, and this time I was here on business.

Making a vow (not to be confused here with the original vow made by the people supposedly releasing Munchi from a slaughterhouse death) means you promise to do something that the Gods want, and ask them to grant you a favour.  

I had to resist the impulse to ask for uncounted riches and fame, helicopters and a yacht as well as food for every starving cat and dog in the world,- and instead tied a modest 5 /= coin and lit some lamps and joss sticks and reasonably asked instead that the Gods please please look after this stubborn BITCH of a cow and keep her safe into her old age, and also send us a sign soon that she was ok. 

My promise was that I would bring them a fruit basket (big deal?) and also incidentally, by the way, if anyone cared, that I would be vegetarian for the rest of my life. (apparently this could mean something)

pooja items, fruits, and coconuts, innocent stuff that Hindu Gods seem to like

I loved the camphor and the joss sticks, and the Swami was actually a rather dishy young dude though very full of himself, and principled I understand as he had put up a board saying he would not do magic and curses, but for other matters to contact him ( I guess he would do the vows thing) He made us buy a ticket for the upkeep of the kovil, and also told us to walk three times around the place with the burning coconut and wish hard in our minds for what we wanted while he also said something very iconic in some other language, which is presumably how he communicated with the deities...and I was supposed to break the coconut and make the wish.

I did, and the coconut broke at once, meaning that the wish would be successful.

I hoped so and I felt good.

I dont know.

THe last I heard this morning was that Munchi had been spotted and was fine.

I like to think it was my vow and my prayers, but  I also feel it was the luck of one very blessed little street cow.

Ive decided Im not going to look for her any more, but I will trust in the Gods, the goodness of the universe, and her own powerful destiny to keep her happy wherever she is until the end of her time and mine. 

Stay safe stubborn willful Munchi and may you be blessed like we are to have known you! 

Gods they sure Must be Crazy

​​and so now that I live in Ratmalana I hardly visit the mothership, except on occasions, and yesterday was one. Mahagedara is half way across the country that could be a problem too, just the sheer aggravation of getting there in public transport. But duty occasionally calls.
So there I was yesterday evening, at dusk on Dickmans Road (now called Lester James Pieries mawatha to confuse both tourists and three wheelers alike) pondering slow wittedly and with genuine dread, as to whether i should take a bus, or a train or a combination of train, bus, and threewheel to get there, when an adorably wizened old lady practically falls against me, and hangs on to me for life, saying she is feeling faint and asking how to get to Maradana.

Sigh.

OF course.

Just what I need right now.

I ask her why she wants to get to maradana- where is her home and she says Colombo in a firm and defiant voice. (Reminds me a lot of my mother, this one) 

Completely lost and pathetic and angry at the world too. Shes not begging for help but demanding the universe help her. and if course when you are pathetic and demand things like that along comes a sucker like me.

Worst of all, when I again ask where her home is she says Salamulla which is of course a town next to where Im heading

so I bundle her in a threewheel and off we head

about an hour and a lot of taxi fare later, we the tuk tuk driver and me both urgently tell her to tell us how to get to her home, but she is vague and also slightly defiant about it. Knows where it is and dosnt actually. No we should have turned off there. No that way. NO no its this way. 

Intersperced with grateful mutterings that God must have sent me along(if so I demand to know why me)were also scary moments when she seemed to be in some other world. 

So after some rather giddying sightseeing of the entire wellampitiya region, and a number of mistaken landmarks, grilling resident tuktuks who by the way knew Exactly who she was and where she was from with chilling certainty (though quite often she didnt !)... we landed her safe at home, and with much happy cringing, wrested ourselves away from a grateful family and ran along. My fare was of course half my weekly transport budget, but it seemed to have brought some comfort to a tired person so I wrote it off.

This of course brings me to what I would be doing at that age. 

At least she had a houseful of kids and grandchildren who seemed cheerfully eager to have her back regardless of her geriatric disruptiveness. Im not sure about if I want to cause that much aggravation, and if that was the case, what I would do, and if anyone would stick around and tolerate it. Not sure what a lot of people around would do, because they seem to have far fewer children, and also humans seem to be living separately as much as possible, and rejecting the whole concept of family, in many places. 

because like it or not there just might be a time when you clean forget who and where you are. 

more about dementia and aging at 

http://www.who.int/features/factfiles/dementia/en/

at https://www.agingcare.com

New survey reveals startling facts that everyone suspected were true anyway

​

●     Legendary "Milk for Colombo" not so good for health after all, says CRaP report

●     Gamata Kakiri movement grows following launch

 

Al Juhara/Colombo:

Hard-hitting Colombo based think-tank the Centre for Regional Alternative Proposals (CR-P) recently issued a timely and voluminous piece of ground-breaking research on the subject of Human Satisfaction in Rural Sri Lanka in the backdrop of "kakiri" consumption statistics, based on a three year long research exercise which involved thousands of interviews, field trips and Focus Group Discussions (ie meeting with people) and a budget of only $ 2 million.

Startling findings from the epoch-making 240 pg survey, which was printed sparing no expense since it was funded by gullible generous Nordic Donors, conclude that rural humans in Sri Lanka are actually happier than they look, in spite of a bucolic diet of previously maligned vegetables like manioc, talana batu and the supposedly inferior "Kakiri" of yore.

 

"The report is well researched, thought provoking and printed on expensive glossy paper," MD of Barbell Printers, the CRaP regular pointed out enthusiastically when interviewed at the launch, concluding that "I recommend it as a Must Read." He added that he was available for similar contracts and had extensive experience in printing CRaP reports.

Findings include the conclusion that Colombo folks who regularly imbibe of "Kiri" or the expensive imported dairy products are known to be prey to diabetes, cholesterol, obesity and a general discontent in life stemming from a feeling that regular village folks have it good after all.

 

The revolutionary survey which also compared such factors as air and sound pollution levels, commuter density and  the price of Tea in China, went on to conclude that nothing really changes and urban people keep looking for greener pastures wherever they are anyway.

 

In contrast the grassroots appears to be witnessing a revolution in terms of a reverse flow of youth who will NOT be migrating to the urban metropolises but instead will be content to continue farming and living the pastoral life, satisfied with a simple diet of fibrous organic vegetables and exhilarating five mile treks to the pharmacy around twice a year when they need a Panadol.

"It's always a case of us ending up with Kakiri but now we are realising the health benefits of its roughage and antioxidant properties and lack of 'bad' cholesterol," according to citizen PunchiSingho hailing from Thooththukudiya, famed for its legendary inaccessibility.

 

 

BOX

Produced in all the official languages of Sri Lanka, in four colour, on 250 GSM artboard paper, and weighing a mere 1.2 kg, this NGO report is a true collector's item and can also be used as an ornamental conversation piece, to prop up  a lopsided coffee table,  and even in self defense. More information at www.craplanka.lk

Check that Need

 

(old article written 7 years ago and guess what Im still running around! Photo from http://zenchick.com)

Last Sunday, I slowed down.

I mean, seriously:  I was fed up with running around, beating deadlines, meeting schedules, pleasing other people and doing my duties like a perfect person – I went on a small discrete personal strike and took a cruise down the highway with my speedometer set at 20 kmph.

Now finally I can in fact recommend everyone to try this once at least ... It changes perception, it puts things in proportion, and it totally surprises. Its almost as funny as being able to put the rest of the world in fast forward and sitting back watching their curious antics with total detachment.

Well, this is how it felt.

The rest of the country seems to be obsessed with speed. Sonic wooshes as cars, lorries and bikes overtook on a race somewhere where good things were happening, where regular mortals did not want to be left out. (And since this was Sunday morning it could not be the office crowd or the Sunday evening crowd returning from their families outstationed…) so there was I sitting day dreaming about life and time and the need for speed…

Ever noticed how rushed people are today ? Stop, slow down a minute and look around . From around day break when the school vans wake non school going people rudely with their raucous honking, to the daily rushes at banks for example and finally the evening daily office returning crush; are all these desperate house husbands really speeding and cussing and ploughing their way HOME? You wonder- are there so many dedicated family men on the roads at 5 30 pm or is it something else Im missing? Are these guys ALL running home to help the wife with dinner or take over the toddlers so that Missis can put her feet up and  take a break?? wow!!Im impressed !…

 People are so obsessed with getting to the head of the queue or winning this race, the man in front of you moves half a step and the man behind you is practically panting down your neck to urge you on. And trust me  the "ladies" in ATM queues are worse, they actually poke you with the edges of their check books or umbrellas or sharp things which you don't dare turn around to face…

The amazing thing about this modern rush is that it happens in a time when science has fine tuned time saving devices to next to absolute perfection. Civilization never took less time than this to , for example, get you your so called "daily bread" and no, lets be honest, its not the price of that bread which is keeping our noses to the grindstone.

Coffee machines make your beverage in two minutes, rice cookers, pressure cookers and washing machines finish your work for you unsupervised and grinding grain and curry powders is the work of minutes, and the ubiquitous computer spews out spreadsheets and reports that would have taken months in a matter of seconds. Isn't it wonderful. Just one question-  where did all that saved time go? You would think it meant that we can  practice a minute or two  of patient

​Tai Chi

 , when we are in hospital cashiers queue, instead of scuffing the heels of the person in front?

The cost of living is high but then that's not what kills us, its this need for speed, because we don't eat properly, take walks or exercise and we don't talk to our parents or children any more,let alone having a meaningful conversation with someone who may actually need us, or time for a pet.

 Before you know it you are hit by diabetes, cholestrol and thickened arteries not to mention a whole horde of mental hang ups caused by the sheer stress of the race- and this too in a time where things have never been quicker ,easier and smoother than right now.

There was admittedly a time when people got around by bullock carts and elephants which mean maximum speed was about 20 kmph. A time when you did your own laundry near some well, with the birds singing around nearby and took time off to grow your own vegetables and cook them slowly over wood fires. And there weren't these wonderful ATM machines which saved your time, or the Internet over which you could manage your finances without having to step out onto the street in the first place.

Did all of that give us more quality family time? And if not, what happened?