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

 

Tuesday, August 06, 2024

blog index




Tintin in Tibet?
at last! a cure for importance!
the dreaded chocoriano© fever …
KUSUMAWATHIE RETURNS
COSMIC TRANCE
Wellampitiya Revisited
The concise "Lonely-Planet-like" guide to...
Why we call Ginger Nuts, Mantal
Oops I did it again, again…
Rain,Rain...
Where have all the beggars gone?
Domestic Bliss- the Kusumawathie Files
Perils of travelling without an ID in Colombo
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2007/
MY BITTER NOVEMBER
SIMBA's STORY
Modera's Baby Twisting Nightmare
Another Day in Paradise
a one in a million publication…
If I wus President for a day...ok, make it a year
on "Provoked"
the Immoral of it all
El Caballo Negro*
of antacids and Destiny
Little Peacock Dancer
My Top Seven Horrors of Modern Living
Chatty heads for Ampara
Shores of Another Sea
Shores of Another Sea Part Two
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2008/
24 USES FOR NEWSPRINT ON A BORING SUNDAY AFTERNOON
How to make a couch potato dance…
LION MOUNTAIN
Weighty Concerns
Of Gnats, Geckos and Creepy hairy things..
THAT FIRST GREAT FEMINIST
THAT FIRST GREAT FEMINIST
THE OTHER OUT THERE
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2009/
PusheeKat Diaries 10
PusheeKat Diaries 9
Pusheekat Diaries 8
DAILY MEWS 6
Patchy Translated..
DAILY MEWS 5
Pusheekat Diaries 4
DAILY MEWS 7
Introduction to Ally
Daily Mews
The Pusheekat Diaries
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2010/
a month in Allys life
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2011/
BRINGING UP CHIPSY
The Environmental Impact of Vesak 2011
Undead Cadaver
Make way for Curd & Treacle!
The Jeweled net of Indra
Water in my grave
Hanwella Murder
Stress proof your motherhood...
Serendipity
now you see me
Tovil for Soma Part 2
Tovil for Soma
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2013/
Escape to Karandulena
HOW I BOUGHT A HAUNTED HOUSE
WALPURGISNACHT Having a devil of a time
A complex Asian funeral rite...and death in Sri Lanka
ALIENS VS PARASITES: Fiery Serpents from Hell
MY TWO SWEETEST GUYS IN ALL THE WORLD
San Michel Idyll
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2016/
Munchi, Salawatte's multi religious Christmas miracle
My Seven Greatest Movie Cats of all Time
Old Traditions Revived
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2017/
My Darkest Secret
Grandma Issabelle
PUPPY LETTER TO SANTA
A Vow for Munchi
A Vow for Munchi
Gods they sure Must be Crazy
Check that Need
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2018/
A Curious Tale
Enduring lessons in love, life and happiness...
Shot Gun Funeral
Weighty Concerns
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2019/
The Snake Rescuer of Habarana
Taking the Bitter with the Sweet
A Week in the Village
The Life and Times of ALJUHARA
Sins of the Fathers
Silver on the Palm Leaves
The Strange Case of ALJUHARA
THE MAGIC OF BREATHWORKs
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2021/
Taking the Bitter with the Sweet
Zeeny and the Pola Cats
The Little Witch of Modera
The Little Witch of Modera 2
Flying fist, noble heart
My poor middle income cats
The Beauty and the Bitterness
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2023/
Who knew there are toilet spells???
BLISS in the here, right now
The Second Arrow.
MY QUANTUM PORTAL TO HELL
The housewives guide to competing for freelance work
WAY TO GO, ROVER
https://aljuharawrites.blogspot.com/2024/
THE THRONE OF THAMBRAPANE
Sinful Sinhala
THE SMILE
Harry meets Satty
The story of my little clay water jar
Bright Sunshiny Girl 2007
My Reluctant House of Cats
The Motorcycle ok,ok,- MOPED.. Diaries part 1

Fwd: how about this













Monday, August 05, 2024

THE THRONE OF THAMBRAPANE


PROPHESY
Time stood still, three centuries away in silent jungle glade in Northern Xhindavia and a gutted white war horse thrashed in dying agony and the Princess Aria gasped for breath and turned to look into the eyes of her killer.  Here as she looked death in the face, instead of the world around her paling in comparison, suddenly it throbbed in more vivid lustful waves, in tune with her thumping heart. The sky seemed impossibly blue, her dying horse was a screaming pattern of crimson on white and around her the jungle bulged and thrummed in a thousand shades of emerald. The air around her was thick with sweet fruity smells almost too rich to bear mixing to an evil cocktail with the smell of fresh blood. She was pinned under this beast, he seemed to weigh at least three logs and his breath was hot and alcoholic against her throat. He had ridden her horse to exhaustion, over stones and through brambles, for miles without giving in,  killed it with two vicious arcs of his greatblade and thrown her to the ground in grip that sent the very breath out of her. Like a henacanda , the giant constrictor  of yore he seemed to be planning to kill her by simply pressing the air out of her body. Aria needed to stare at the light merciless eyes of this lione and curse him with the last breath she had. Yet as she stared and their eyes locked, and slowly imperceptibly, a shift began in the veins of time.

It was what happened to men when they looked at her. She knew about this thing she caused.

The terrible lione of Tambrapane was not and exception, he was flesh and bone like the rest of them, blood, heat and lust. Almost in a trance Aria felt the monster shift and change and slowly grow different on top of her , its jagged nails letting go of her throat as the tawny light eyes with pin point pupils raked her with questioning which turned to fascination and then seemed entranced Was he merely reaching for a better weapon?. Aria moved slightly and found that she could, found that he had allowed her to breath, although their eyes were locked he was moving away slowly. Aria did not want to die, she came forward with him now clutching softly to his clothes, slowly cunningly caressing remaining pressed against him and feeling Tambrapanas carnivore until she found that hot secret  part of him she needed to feel. She knew it was there on men this part, knew it made men do strange things and made women suffer and scream, and she wanted to feel its sinful fascination. She would die anyway so the secret shame didn't matter. She would caress this beautiful hard male creature if it were the last thing she did. She would take control of his lust and play it in her tiny cool hands, kiss it and lick it, if he let her before he savaged her -  She heard rather than saw , his breath leave him in a heavy gasp. … he could  not move to defend himself  from this sly sensuous female attack . He groaned in surrender and this time it was his unmoving eyes that knew their fate.  In that glade under the blazing equatorial sun of Tambrapane , Aria knew she had found a beast as wild as she was, a creature who could tame her inner torments , a lione she would ride.

image: Wall art at Hanwella Avissawella Route A4 @Chandrika Gadiewasam 


(this is some stuff I wrote last birth (about 20 years ago), not to be continued because no one seems to want this)


Thursday, August 01, 2024

Sinful Sinhala

Horrible Histories: The Sinful Sinhala

Their name means "People of the Lion" because their race began with an Indian princess who mated with a lion (dont try this at home!),- they have been around for more than 3000 years and they have history books to prove it ! ..the Sinful Sinhala had a long series of Kings who became king by killing the one before them, usually their dads, and since this was bad and sinful according to Buddhism, they made really big Buddhist temples to say they were sorry and reverse the sin.

They led ancient irrigation and architecture, built beautiful fortresses and brought torture to a fine art in the region.

Discover the sinful details of their savage armies, colorful gods, scary demons, somewhat small elephants and  (of course!) their big big old temples.

Find out how one king plucked his step brothers eyes out, and another one had his dad cemented into a wall, and discover the truth about naughty Queen  Anula who had thirty husbands poisoned just to get at the Sinhala throne! Vote for your number one Cruelest Buddhist King and find out how to poke an elephant where it counts! Learn about the country with the most snake bites in the world and nice recipes for cooking snake, and bat, and turtle, and anything that crawls, slithers, or creeps along the island as the islanders do!

History has REALLY never been so horrible!