Milieu
- Galle Road, Colombo, SRI LANKA
| by
Sunalie Ratnayake
(
September 30, 2012, Los Angeles, Sri Lanka Guardian)
Passersby
in thousands may,
or
perhaps more in a day,
never
bothered to care,
or
stop for a share,
of
a coin or two,
for
a bun for my day…
Ladies
hop from sparkling drays,
dolled-up
in heavenly wear,
shielding
their broods with much care,
on
their way to the mall, for a day’s saturnalia,
“Majestic
City” - as it’s known in a sheer stare,
its
boutiques and bistros – majestic, they do glare,
yet,
in my eyes unfair…
If
a child stares at me in a quizzical way,
on
the pathway by the ingress on the way,
heading
to the grand brasserie – rest of my life, which shall remain a mystery,
if
he attempts a stare at me,
the
child is heaved in missile speed,
from
the asphalt trail, away from me,
with
a yelling from his mother - for prying
and the bother,
when
the drive is plainly not me,
a
vagabond untouchable - so yucky…
but
a meal rich and lavish, a great feast,
never
meant for s sucker like me…
Others
in duos - too young to be paired,
passes
me by, like the sun and its rays,
as
I look up from my locus,
their
eyes out of my focus,
so
in love, yet unaware of its meaning,
tangled
in a world - utterly striking,
where
vagrants are far from existing…
yet
I nod a blameless nod - with drained anticipation,
in
this helpless situation – a world far
from exoneration…
The
reverend heading the adjoining church,
the
next only option for my blistering burp,
at
least so, I tend to urge, with a moan,
as
I step on the new golden strides at its entrance,
placed
freshly by a follower, via acclaimed praise,
for
healing his mother’s ill state, so they say,
celebrated
grandly with the region’s faith,
the
day I was lucky to gulp a slice of rejoicing cake,
despite
of my ugly face…
Yet
today before I even entered the place,
by
the gate two guards did sway me away,
“where
do you think you are heading old man ?” –
“this
is a church, not your park to stray”
saying
so, they chased me away…
the
church that once sheltered,
God’s
children – void of margins or limitations,
has
today turned to a discerning stage,
what
a change a ‘golden walkway’ could make…
Then
as I head towards the school by the sea,
built
for boys with esteemed and rich family history,
where
only the well-heeled could afford to be in,
all
others cast-off, ridiculed and dimmed,
‘Thoras’
they cheer ! – they’re acclaimed and swathed,
even
the majority now pardoned from their sins…
Forgetting
the struggle for a breakfast I’ve made,
now
past lunch time, with only my spittle to nip away…
the
ingress of the college would be packed in a minute,
like
a herd of ewe, white garbs would flow in a torrent,
while
most of the boys will hop into sedans awaiting,
others
will walk up the lane, for their girls at the (bus) ‘STOP’ waiting…
but
the boy tall and lean, who’s chauffeur blows away his horn,
of
a crimson Mercedes, gleaming, from a world to me now unknown,
hands
me his hoagies, never touched from his breakfast,
with
a pacifying smile, he leaves me with much hope and satisfaction…
For
the evening, my stroll’s towards the chief’s manor outstanding,
now
the sun in contraction makes my journey
worth the rambling,
not
because I’m invited for a feast to sway the vote casting,
or
any other consistent gathering - the common merry-making,
yet
the vagabond in me, dare not give-up his breathing,
hence
continue the struggle, with feet now thin and trembling,
The
walls are soaring, almost touching the sky – high rising,
the
frill inside the parapets, now how could I think of comprehending ?
though
many moons ago, I too have been in parallel bearing…
yet,
half way towards the supreme zone, I’m turned away with compound warning,
not
that I never expected such handling - from an army on duty, commanding…
but
the secrets I hold – dare never be told,
in
a vagabond’s world – infuriating…
My
life may have changed, whirling degrees at a rate,
and
today have made me an old man with no name…
no
worth, no fame, no history to claim,
a
vagabond roaming for his mere shy subsistence,
on
the streets he once proclaimed,
as
his own speeding dimensions,
when
he sped away with lasses,
in
a Mercedes his father had gifted…
the
crimson car – still rosy, and now vintage,
of
the boy today who saved him with mercy - not bondage,
of
dying from famine, paleness and age,
the
winding of life’s cycle, who could ever estimate ?
Pupils
of my portal of learning,
where
I’ve studied with much conceit,
no
longer shall effort,
to
even realize my defeat…
yes,
I am now a scrounger - so filthy to the core,
left
with a single garment - I’ve been wearing for years or more,
its
shredded, threads sagging - barely covering-up my sores,
even
those from my own eon - fail to recognize my face,
now
a wrinkled piece of waste - no one dare look in my face…
Once
upon a time I moved, with kings and dominant folks,
as
a son of a famed politician – yet with an arrogant nature well-known,
his
rearing would never let him, to steal from innocent folks,
for
his deceased wife and child - that’s me – he left no other goals,
elections
were a time for giving - many properties would be sold,
no
capital, no hidden treasures, or a name to even moan,
let
alone building dynasties – like the king
holding to his throne…
when
my father was a rich man well-known, - back in the day,
this
reeking king was far from been known – a servant in a mere hallway…
If
the destiny of the honest, once in power is as such,
God
only knows what lies ahead of these rakes – for their mishaps,
never
underrate the curse of a vagabond, cerebrally stout,
especially
from a caliber - holding proof of darker
slots,
something
went wrong, somewhere in my life – today a scrounger, I stand with no luck,
yet
underrate never, where vagabonds dare - that vigorous curse, some have dared to
forget,
“Where
Vagabonds Dare” – No wonders could be brought…
“Where
Vagabonds Dare” – The shady shall finally be caught…
“Where
Vagabonds Dare” – No wholesome winds shall be blown…
“Where
Vagabonds Dare” – Curses shall never ever be short…
[The
moods, feelings, biddings, yearnings, a day’s experiences, and interpretations
of a lifetime, of now a beggar, who had once lived a luxury life, born to a
once affluent family, the only son of a once highly connected and influential
political father of a post-independent Sri Lanka, who had studied in one of the
most renowned boy’s colleges in the city, having had a carefree young life,
with zero shortcomings, currently roaming the streets of Colombo as an old and
waning man, under the present day sun and ascendency.
All
these factors combined, stimulates his hatred towards the thriving segment of
society as a whole, yet mainly targeting his abhorrence on those presently
governing the realm, for the mere reason, that those in present day power,
chock-full with corruption had only served as mere servants to his family,
during an era bygone.
The
story of an individual, now heading towards his final destination. Yet, leaving
a curse behind, prior to his departure. A curse in his eyes, that could never
be overcome or ever taken for granted. Moreover, an enlightenment on how a life
could be altered for the better as well as for the worse, within a mere
lifetime, due to various given reasons – some seen and others concealed].
Sunalie
Ratnayake is a Sri Lankan journalist based in USA.
She
could be reached at:-
sunalie.secretandbeyond@yahoo.com
/ sue@srilankaguardian.org
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