Right at the entrance of the path leading to the magnificent Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, there was a man sitting on the right side of the road, overlooking the horizon. He was tending to a pot of rice cooking over a makeshift stove. It was such a simple, heartwarming sight. It made me wonder what everyday life would be for these people who dwelled in the small village Nallathaniya, the most popular starting point for the pilgrimage trail up Adam’s Peak.
I have changed my phone and with that change of course came the software updates that were not incorporated due to my devise being backward. Now the new OneDrive update has this feature of photo shuffle in and I find myself shuffling through photos and seeing things that I never knew I had save. I don’t know who took this photo or how it has ended up in my drive so if it is not by me credits to the owner. The reason I think it’s not by me is because there is a mute feature right at the right hand bottom corner which tells me this was not a pic that was taken from my phone.
Anyway. Long story short. I might have been captivated by the scene in someway. I usually do get captivated by these things. I love when I see two people so engrossed in something that they are doing that they seem untouched by everything else that could be happening around them. Such moments leaves me feeling sentimental.
Many moons have passed. I have not seen her for a long time. She disappeared—not physically, but inwardly. The person she used to be is now a faded memory in our minds. Perhaps in hers too. There are too many layers to the story—more layers than what used to cover her skin during her prime.
Not many people knew that even back then, what appeared bold was just a cover she put on for the outside world. Because she was lost. Even when she was found—here and there—she was never really there. Always a figment of an image formed in their minds, and she knew how to play the part.
Until she didn’t.
Until she tied the knot with the only person who fought to keep her. It isn’t as romantic as it sounds, because it was a violent affair. Perhaps to keep the peace she moved away with him. Self exiled to an island, where people didn’t know her fame.
After years of disappearing from the crowds that once hailed her as their queen, I received a video call.
The girl who smelled like cherries sat on a swing, her beautiful long hair cascading over her shoulder, her smile radiant on her bruised face.
I started feeling sorry. But the sorrow I nearly felt for her retreated to the back room within a minute of the conversation.
She was studying teaching. She said it would gain her respect in the community. That was all that she wanted. Respect.
She was happy. That was what she said. She said she was happy. And I believed.
Mine. Not yours. It is eye. The I that never left. That always saw. That never claimed. But it did. It is the rhyme to the unheard rhythm, the snake that bit its tail, and the circle that went down the hill. And the month approaches its end—and nowhere has it begun—until it did yesterday. And then he said, let me share this happiness. This mind then tried to put together this and that, of how it could be, even when it thought it shouldn’t be. It was a prompt—and prompts prompt exploration—of the barriers that weren’t meant to cross. And the eyebrow was in place this time but the eyes were lost. Gone. Somewhere inside my head someone was getting ready to fight the dragon for the knight. As usual, it was giddiness by and by. And today, he vanished. Mine—the experience is just mine.
I have stopped questioning the decisions you took. Someone once told me that motives are never clear. I realize now that your decision to end things with me was you honoring your needs—making way for the new and clearing room for growth. I don’t cry about you anymore. My throat no longer gets blocked when I mention you to others.
But as July approaches, I find myself thinking of you.
I always told you to let me go and watch me thrive. You were afraid I might not find myself on steady ground. I always reminded you that I am made of stronger material. You always thought you were part of my core. Whatever gave you that impression was probably me—the way I continued to give you power even when you didn’t know what to do with all of it.
I like to think I did what I did without expecting anything in return. But while you needed your self-worth proven by your own vigor and ability to do for yourself, my worth was being proven to me by the attention and care you extended—even if it meant letting you do things I was capable of doing on my own.
Until I forgot what I was capable of.
Until you forgot it too.
To have positioned myself in a place where your actions or inactions could affect me was not an act of bravery. It was a desperate attempt to secure you in my life.
July is still a month away. But it is the month you were born. The month you got married again. I saw you both in my dreams recently. I was always the observer—one who has gone through it all.
She was beautiful. The way she looked at the camera, as if she knew what the camera wanted to capture. She was June. Sister of May. The one who wears the hints of summer in her hair.
“June is around the corner,” they will cry whenever she walked down their lane. But June is when the storms hit the southwest and stir the seas to rage.
I await June as I sit and write this. The storm rages outside. One more day to go. Tomorrow it will be July. July is just a prompt.
Temporary. That is what I keep telling myself as I cross this place that offers no light at the end of the tunnel. The inner guidance system knows the way — but I don’t. I am anchored by my senses, by what I can perceive and what I can make sense of.
And so, my body is in knots. My stomach twists and turns. I am not doing too well.
But then, as usual, I am being asked to trust.
It feels like I have stopped moving, yet I am constantly being moved. Things happen, even when I feel frozen.
Earlier, in times like these, I would sit quietly in remembrance — recalling the many things that had brought me to such places.
But this time, I remain apprehensive.
I don’t wish to sink into my being, because I am not comfortable in my body. My body is not at peace. It doesn’t offer me peace. I continue to hold my breath.
There is a part of me that asks: what is the worst that can happen if nothing changes?
Perhaps it’s time I begin to let go of the outcome I have in mind.
Tiredness overwhelms me.
It really has done a number on me.
It really has.
Singling out single—the conscious will, the constant play. The thought that said think, and the thought that thought of thinking.
I’m coming to understand that as long as I talk and engage my speech, I am held hostage by mind. And maybe—just maybe—I don’t want to know where this thought would go.
I’m just happy that I’m here, writing the way I used to write every night, for a long time.
Hello hello. I’m happy to be here. Tired. I woke up early and have been on edge, catering to the demands of an irate son who’s trying to adjust back home. I’m also thinking about the article I’m supposed to write. But the thing is—it’s not flowing. Not yet. Why? Because there’s still information missing. I can’t fill in the gaps.
If it were a fantastical piece, I could make it work. I’d just invent a magic spell and the two continents would be bridged or repaired or whatever. But this is an article based on facts. Even if I’m presenting it in a light tone, I still need to know the timeline. And what is it that I’m seeing today? Is it something that was worked on before?
And oh my god—the beauty of that man.
A long time ago, I had a dream where someone I liked back then came back to me and asked why I didn’t want his help. We were sitting in a shelter; the world outside was flooded. I answered his question and showed him a big, fat pomegranate in my hand. I said, “It’s too late. I’ve already got what I needed.” I thought it was a beautiful dream. Pomegranates have long been associated with abundance.
Just the night before, I had another dream—a pomegranate growing on a dead branch. That dream filled me with hope. I woke up convinced it was about this new man who had recently started courting me and wanted to settle down. But there was a nagging feeling inside me, telling me I was exchanging my power for something—and that it wasn’t really the way forward.
I might have remained convinced, if not for what happened yesterday.
I arrived at an interview and, lo and behold, in front of me stood one of God’s most beautiful creations. He was absolutely breathtaking. I’m not someone who usually gets swayed by looks, but I found myself looking at this person, wanting to cry—honestly. By the time I finished the interview and reached home, I wasn’t so sure of my earlier convictions anymore.
As usual, I took my customary phone call with the man who’s been courting me. I heard the hesitation in his voice. It seems I wasn’t what he was looking for—I don’t share his love for high-energy, adventurous activities. He wants someone who can enjoy those things with him.
Had he said this before I met the beautiful man at the interview, I might have been crestfallen. But somehow, the effect of that man lingered. It had a strange, calming effect on me.
Long story short: I went to sleep realizing how, by a twist of fate, I’d been brought back to my senses. In my need for companionship, I might have been compromising on things that weren’t really compatible with me.
What about the interview guy? I think he served the purpose he needed to. What about the pomegranate? I guess the pomegranate shows up in my dreams each time I’m about to trade my power for security. As maybe a message from divine letting me know that I am already the bearer of the blessed fruit.
Maybe what happened that night was meant to happen. Like a masterful piece of music written by divine hands, the sound of the fall from the ninth floor onto the roof below was the climax — the noise that shattered the illusion. Something was wrong with the perfect order that had been sold as the face of the new order. This wasn’t the new order; the fall was the twist that woke everyone up.
Then came the silence, and the whispers between people. The people — and their discord.
But one thing was certain: the bleeding had started. Those they thought were mute began to speak. They were able to silence the lies that flew from the mouths of those above.
They demanded a sacrifice, so that they could return to their solitude. And together, they all remained in the vestibule.
Vanilliz 