In The Shadows

Asela sat cross-legged on the grass at the edge of the field. Normally sitting upright and attentive, he now slumped a little with his head resting on his hands following the lull in the game with impatient eyes. The batsman yelled something to the other batsman across the pitch, he yelled something in response, the wicket keeper set the bails on the wicket, and the fielders shuffled impatiently shielding their eyes against the late evening sun. A scruffy red leather ball sailed through the air and was caught by the bowler; the game resumed. Asela sat up straight, his eyes on the bowler who, after a moment of concentration, ran towards the wicket and sent the ball flying towards the batsman. 

Asela sighed. They had lost the ball among the thick undergrowth on the far side of the field again. Two fielders were already wading in the thick growth of leaves looking for the ball. A third fielder joined them. The three boys seemed to be having fun and not feeling any of the impatience Asela was feeling judging by their uproarious laughter. Suddenly one boy collapsed, probably after having his legs entangled in the dense growth of vines, evoking peals of laughter from the other two. Asela squinted, he tried very hard to see what was going on. His heart ached to join their laughter. The boy who fell emerged from the leaves clutching the ball triumphantly and making a face at the other two began to run back to mid field with the other two in close pursuit. Their white uniforms were a little muddy, a little grass stained.

How Asela wanted one of those uniforms! Once, after a long evening of watching the boys play he had asked his father for money to be enrolled in the school cricket team.

What do you want money for? Play cricket on the road!

But Thaththa, it’s for the uniforms…

You don’t need damned uniforms! I have no money to give you anyway.

Asela, still feeling the sting of the slap which he had got for the fault of asking, felt rage building up inside him, and from somewhere he summoned the audacity to say…

If you stopped wasting Amma’s hard earned money on alcohol we wou…

The game resumed, the boys concentrating harder to see the ball in the dimming light. Asela absentmindedly fingered the bruises on his legs which had dulled their throbbing pain over the week. A breeze swirled through the trees sheltering him and ruffled his hair. He sat there watching the boys play, listening to their yells which were indignant and playful until the light became too dim forcing them to stop. In the dark, under the trees, he felt quite content. The lights in the pavilion were switched off, the gates shut, the boys' raucous voices died in the breeze.

Asela got up and walked towards the gate. The moon was out now, accompanied by a smattering of stars. As he was passing the pavilion, something in the grass caught his eye. Curious, he walked towards it and picked it up. The scruffy red leather ball. The ball was heavy in his hands as he walked towards the pitch. In the soft moonlight he imagined a game in place and with a gleeful smile he began to run and tossed the ball into the darkness.

Christina De Silva

20 October 2010

Revulsion

She shook her head, tears springing to her eyes.

‘Don’t… Don’t come near me. I told you…’ Her whisper was barely audible.

He stood there, uncomprehending. His eyes bright with a lifeless light.

‘Heyy baby..’ The slurred words grated on her ears.

He staggered towards her. Stumbled.

The memories came rushing, she had nowhere to hide. From him. From them.

He grasped her arm and she winced with the pain he was unconscious of causing her.

An image forced itself out of the barriers in her heart.

A woman being hit repeatedly and a child screaming.

She shut her eyes tight, hoping vainly that she could shut her heart to the flood of memories which now threatened to paralyze her when she shut out his unfocused eyes.

She felt his breath on her cheek and shuddered as she smelt the alcohol.

A smell that had caused her so much pain.

He coughed, nearly threw up.

A weakened old man, lying in bed for years, waiting for release. His own and for the others who suffered with him.

‘I told you I never want to see you drunk.’

The bitter reproach did not register in his head. She didn’t expect it to. Not now.

‘We were just having fun. I’m not that drunk.’

The old excuse.

Words she had come to hate because they were a premonition of a fight.

He wavered. She instinctively put her arms around him to steady him. He hugged her and she responded despite the bitter tears that were running down her face.

‘I love you’

Never trust a man capable of getting drunk senseless.

A child always believes his mother.

As if burnt, she drew back her hands. Drunken words never held a meaning for her.

Love Is Just A Chemical Reaction

In the morning, wake up… and remember.

What homework is due today?

That day, that dress..

Sulphur dioxide in industrial waste causes acid deposition.

The look in his eyes, those eyes..

French has too many irregular verbs!

History. Past. Forgotten. Over. Memories.

Juxtaposition is a literary feature.

What am I now? Does he care?

An oligopoly is where a few firms dominate the market.

It can be either a collusive or a non collusive oligopoly.

Doesn’t anyone realize this smile is fake??

Alienation and Brecht. Actors stay on stage through out.

Everything is done in full view of the audience.

Damn Brecht. No one needs to learn alienation to be alienated.

Conversations, if any, are shorter… distant.

Like intimacy never existed. Feelings are just hormones.

Shakespeare manipulated the iambic pentameter to emphasize words.

Especially in Hamlet’s speeches, they are used

To mirror his state of mind and relationships with others.

That’s interesting. Random text. Oh no. Wait. Never mind.

L’imparfait. Le future. Le present. Le conditionnelle.

Pretty phrases – au contaire, autrement,

Il me semble que, j’imagine que, si vous le permettez...

Laying in bed, remembering his touch…

Get up at 5, get up at 5. Math homework.

Christina De Silva

23 August 2010 

Reflection

She looked back at me with a rueful smile.

I finally saw the beauty in her eyes, the messy softness of her hair and the fullness of her cheeks. I had always said that everyone is beautiful in their own way and beauty is something that radiates from within. It’s not skin deep, it goes right down into your heart. But I had never believed in her beauty.

‘It’s not your fault. The lies, the hurt… none of this. You are beautiful.’

She smiled as she heard those words but the smile wasn’t reflected in her eyes. I saw the hesitancy to trust in the crinkle of her eyes. The automatic analyzing and dismissing of my words in the way the momentary sparkle in her eyes dulled.

I wanted to reach out and hug her. She looked so vulnerable. She was careful to hide it and put up a wonderful front that could fool anyone except someone who cared enough to look deeper. But no one bothered to care these days so it was effective. But you could see it in the defiant point of her chin and the way she would suddenly go quiet that she had a lot to hide.

‘They don’t change a damn thing about you. You’re still a great person and one day you know that someone is gonna come along and wow you. If anything, all they’ve done is make you stronger, wiser and prepared you for what people are like.’

She looked at me. A look of concentration. A slight frown.

The corners of her mouth relaxed. The wrinkles eased out of her forehead.

The radiant, full smile was reflected in her eyes.

Satisfied, I walked away from the mirror. 

Christina De Silva 

03 October 2010 

Where The Conflict Stagnates

‘Dhemala huththi’

‘Dhemala wesi’

The bright lights and the uproarious laughter seemed almost vulgar as I listened to the old woman huddled in a corner. She was dressed in a red sari which lent some fullness to her scant frame. Her graying hair was neatly plaited and her smile took away some of the gauntness of her face. Laying on the bare wooden surface of the little dais which served as a tv area, she said the music gave her a headache. 

‘I have been to Muskeliya. It’s so beautiful there, and the air is so clean. Achchi why are you living here in Colombo? Do you have no work there?’ 

‘No I had work there. I have enough money. I am here because of my daughter. She can’t take the cold, she gets sick a lot. She has asthma. I couldn’t send her to Colombo alone so we live in Rajagiriya in a slum. I hate it there. But what to do. I miss Muskeliya a lot.’ 

‘What does your daughter do, Achchi?’

‘She works for a family of foreigners. She cooks and cleans for them.’ 

‘Do they treat her well?’ 

I could feel the burning stares of my relatives as they wandered through the house, congregating here to discuss the plight of some unmarried niece, joining a pair of whispering women to add to the scandal under dissection, being pulled into dancing by a pack of tipsy old men or being forced to eat some more. 
Why is she sitting on the floor talking to a servant? their stares clearly said. 

‘Yes they do. My daughter is honest and hard working. They like that. It’s the people in the neighborhood that I don’t understand. There’s so much jealousy and hatred. Now in the neighbourhood we used to live in there was no discrimination. We were so happy there. The people used to call me Rani akka or amma. But we had to move here because of my daughter’s new job. The women in the slums don’t do any work so they gossip the whole day. They always harass me on my way to work every morning, calling me dhemala wesi, dhemala huththi. And I say to them; ‘Nangi why do you say this? Doesn’t the same blood run in our veins? Colour is the only difference we have. I am human too, just like you.’’ 

I sat there, tears in my eyes, marveling at the strength and wisdom of this woman. 

‘See this chain? I never wear it at home. We never wear any jewelry when we step out of the house. Baba, we can’t even dress well when we leave the house. Those women ask me where I’m going dressed so well and I tell them you must look presentable where ever you go. You can’t go about looking shabby. There was this old amma who lived behind our house. Her treasure, 10 thousand rupees and a little jewelry, was inside a battered ice cream container. She guarded it with her life and slept with it under her. One night she was stabbed and robbed.’ 

‘I’m not lying to you, baba.’ She said in reply to my shocked look. 

Finally, I had to get up to go, echoes of dhemala wesi and dhemala huththi downing out the loud music. 

- This is a true story. 


Christina De Silva 
18 June 2010 

Timeless Wanderings of The Human Mind

Who is God? What is God? Where is God? 

I don’t know. 

But I don’t doubt the existence of God. 

Anyone who has taken a step back and taken time to observe nature will know what I’m talking about. The intricate vienation on a leaf. The subtle shading of a delicate flower petal. The complex melodies of bird song which no human can duplicate. The overwhelmingly beautiful power of a fork of lightning. 

I believe the sciences are the study of God.

God exists. It’s an irrefutable fact. 

Why do we feel the need to pin God down? Simplify, cage and personify that which cannot be simplified, caged and personified? 

God isn’t confined to the four walls of a church, symbolized by the guilt-provoking cross hanging over the altar, supplicated to by the parroted words of the I Confess, Gloria, The Creed, The Lord’s Prayer, in the melee of hypocrisy and self righteousness of the faithlessly faithful congregation. God isn’t in the weekly Sunday rituals: stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, stand, sit…. 

The Bible is not the word of God. It is a collection of books written by humans selected, edited and compiled by humans to suit and reinforce human intentions.

The word of God is not subjective. How can something so fundamental be subjective? 

I believe God is in the passing smile we give someone. In noticing someone’s sadness and trying to uplift their mood with a silly joke. In making allowances for someone’s moods, for as someone once said, everyone you meet is fighting a great battle. In the silent moment of triumph when you conquer a willful part of yourself. In… 

It is said by those God-anointed people chosen by God to lead us that There Is NO Life Without God. 

It’s true. I believe God is a consciousness of humanity. An awareness, an understanding empathy, a joyful sharing of our human experience. 

There is mere existence without God. But there is no life.

They call me an unbeliever. Yet, I believe. 



Christina De Silva 
25 April 2010 

Freedom to conform

I am a Good Person. 

I do not drink.
Correction: I was brought up not to drink
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

I do not smoke.
Correction: I was brought up not to smoke
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

I do not wear revealing clothes.
Correction: I was brought up with an awareness of decency appropriate to a woman
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

I do not lead a loose life. 
Correction: I was brought up in fear of a patriarchal society
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

I do not steal or kill. I am not a criminal. 
Correction: I was brought up controlled by social and religious dictations
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

I am helpful and caring.
Correction: I was brought up to emulate the Virgin Mary
Would I be different if I was given the choice? 

i am a conformist 

Christina De Silva 
25th April, 2010 

Society Condemns Me

I would sell my body 
To take my mother to a doctor 
I would sell the only thing that’s truly mine 
For the sake of the one who gave me all I am.

I would bear on my body 
The naked weight of another man 
Just to take my weight 
Off the man, my father, who keeps me alive.

But would they understand
Would they see that was the only way 
Would they just call me 
A whore 


Christina De Silva 
20 March 2010 

Shorn

The mirror reflected the apparatus
Lined up on the dressing table,
With cold clarity. 
A scissor. 
A knife.
A box of matches.
A screwdriver.
The intense gaze of the girl in the mirror
Unsettled her. Made her falter. 
Only for a moment. 

What attracted?
Identify and annihilate.

Hair. 
Robotically picking up the scissors
She hacked at her hair.
Peacock feathers fell to her feet
Each strand lustrous with 
Vanity and sugared-words.
Nothing but dead cells really. 

Lips. 
The knife glinted as she raised it and
Sliced the tender skin. 
A smile once so inviting
Once so warm 
Now oozed warm blood. 
Nothing but dying cells really. 

Skin. 
Strike. Flame. Blow. 
The smoldering black tip 
Jabbed deep into her skin
Making marks in a clear complexion 
Burns in a skin that had never seen a blemish.
Nothing but burning cells really.

Eyes. 
Knuckles whitened as the grip 
On the screwdriver tightened
Her hand shook as she pierced her eyes
Bloodcurdling screams
Once so lively…so expressive.
Nothing but dead cells really. 

She couldn’t see the bleeding mess 
She believed would free her
Just because you can’t see
Doesn’t mean there’s nothing to see. 


Christina De Silva 
20 March 2010 

Tear-drop shaped

Exotic to the world 
This tear-drop shaped island of ours 
Did we really think we could 
Escape the fate that defines us? 
Tear-drop shaped. Oh how exquisite. 

For the dark skinned, stripped 
Of their rights by a grenade
A tear drop.

For the sacrificed ones, stripped
Of their glory by a false smile
A tear drop.

For the slum dwellers, stripped
Of hope by a greed so destructive
A tear drop.

For the survivors, stripped 
Of their future by a fraud
A tear drop.

For the unborn child, stripped
Of its life by a limitless lie 
A tear drop.


Christina De Silva 
27 January 2010 

Avarice

Screaming she falls to the ground 
A ruthless slap across her face 
Reduces her to heaving sobs 
Scarred, she shies from the 
Bitingly cold wind that stings the cuts 
Which cover her once so beautiful skin 
Glistening red in sharp relief against the blue bruises.

A passerby is merely a passerby. 
And no. No. Absolutely not a witness. 

Blood pouring out from between her legs 
They mercilessly force themselves 
Into her with abandon. 
They take turns. Greedy for her screams. 
She lies at the end of an alley 
Among fermenting garbage bins 
Strong empty crates and dog shit.

A window closes. No one ever saw. No one ever heard. 

A dead end.
And an end that begins with dense darkness.
She shudders, naked on the cold tar 
Not daring to look up 
Look up and see the dark figures looming above her.


Christina De Silva 
27 January 2010