Portrait

Standing in a pile of rubble can change your life quite unlike anything else. As I stood there, miles of devastation surrounding me for as far as the eye can see, I saw it. Life is so fickle. Life is fragile, delicate, like a beautiful glass statuette that is so breakable yet so invincible in its glory. Life is one constant tragedy, one never ending drama, a soap opera on non stop, something unhealthy yet irresistible. I felt so insignificant, so small and useless. A speck of dust in the sands of the universe, a tiny particle in the tumbling, larger-than-life atmosphere. The sky was so vast above me, the ocean so boundless before me. I felt I could’ve broken down crying on the very beach right there, and it wouldn’t have made a difference. It wouldn’t stop time, or halt evolution. It wouldn’t do anything really, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t sketch a dot on this enormous sheet of life on which we so carefully tread day after day. I was powerless. A nothing. It could be a tsunami, an earthquake, something by which millions were senselessly massacred. Whichever, however, it was just life. Occurring everyday. Every moment, every instance was life. Happening, continuing. In a cycle of crazed chaos, shamelessness, and raw emotion, it was life. Occurring in its usual overwhelming fashion. The magnitude of the tsunami calamity only goes to remind me how tiny we are. Despite the common belief amongst us humans that we’re unbeatable, this colossal loss will remind us that there does exist greater, bigger things. That our deep intellect and intelligence will fail to find reason and science in everything. That our machines are still no match for mother nature, or in fact destiny itself. And the restlessness, the frustration was born from the most humane quality in me: the need to pin the tail on the donkey. There was no one to blame.

The sea and I were always on good terms. She and I shared my most intimate, secret, wonderful memories and moments. From a very young age, I remember traveling time and time again to Unawatuna. I went there with people I loved greatly, those who were the mere symbol of why I lived. Many of my most favourite memories from my childhood, and of my family and my friends are directly connected to the Unawatuna beach. The sea was always so effortlessly romantic, so easily charming. It could soothe a bad mood, mend a broken heart, and stop the flow of angry childish tears. From our trek to the ‘Jungle Beach’, to endlessly snorkeling near the reef, to openly staring at rather liberal tourists on the beach, to moon lit baths in a sea of our very own, it was my refuge. Many things have been said under the hypnotic influence of the sea and the warm sand, many things have been vowed and many hugs shared. As we grew, the beach came to be a different attraction altogether. My cousin and I have ogled endless ‘cute’ foreigners, on a dark night, with the sea all to ourselves, the girls have dared to take the top of their swimming suits off, boyfriends and girlfriends have started getting added on to the usual list of family that went down to the Unawatuna beach. Still, out childishness is preserved in the memories that the place holds. My cousin and I do water ballet to music that we hum horribly off tune. I look ok, he looks hideous! (N, wish you were here!) We have begun staying up till the sun rises, singing (I swear) every song we know between us, and occasionally finding a beach disco and dancing till one of us collapses. One of my oldest memories of my father, to whom sadly I am no longer as close as I’d like to be, is in the sea. He found this tire, and pulled me with him to the deeper sea, where I dared not venture. I clung to the tire, laughing hysterically. I got my first period by the beach, on a cast trip with some of my favourite people in the world. One of my ‘older sisters’ (V, I love you, and miss you) was present, and later gifted me a gorgeous little golden pendent: a dolphin. The note said ‘to remind you always of the place near which it happened’. Quite recently, just a week before that fateful December last year, two people closest to my heart were married on the beach in Unawatuna. That evening was one of the happiest evenings in my life. The grace and beauty in a union so perfect was emotionally overwhelming. I cried, so completely happy that they were in my life, and that the bride, a new addition to my life, was so marvelously well fitted in my little world. And there couldn’t have been a more perfect venue.

The first day of my O Level exams was a stressful yet exciting one. My mother and I reached the vicinity of my school an hour early. All my mother needed to do was suggest a trip to Galle Face to kill some time before she bought me back to school. The two of us walked to the Galle Face Green. The early morning ambiance on the green was irresistible, and inevitably calming. I was so glad my mother was so flawless, and that the sea was so close by. I faced my first paper with the salt in my hair and sand in my shoes. It couldn’t have been more perfect.

Too many times to be counted have we visited the green, in search of solace, after dinners, after parties, after coffee at Barista. It has become our late night hang out, our instant remedy for hang overs, the easiest way to access the sea.

After the tsunami, I haven’t been able to place myself well with the ocean. It seems imposing now, and angered. It’s hard to hate it. But it’s been difficult to love it again. Two days ago, on the way to a camp in Polhena, we stopped by the sea. I told my friend Ryan how beautiful she looked. He agreed, after which he said ‘what a temper though’. It was my turn to agree. But I still loved it. I still wanted to jump in it, I still wanted to touch in with my feet, to capture the turquoise, to bask in it’s shallow waters.

That day at the camp in Polhena, we spent a day with the kids. While it was exhausting and taxing, it was like a glass of iced water after long hot day. A hundred percent satisfying. I heard no horror stories about the tsunami, I heard no complaints. They threw themselves into the various workshops we had prepared for them, and enjoyed themselves thoroughly. What was astonishing was the courage, the immense bravery. They were so energetic and enthusiastic, that it was contagious. It was immaterial how tired I was, their willingness to participate was motivating. I found so much solace in those hours, so much inspiration, so much unadulterated contentment. They were so brave. Not once did I hear a ‘tsunami story’, only tsunami jokes. Not once did I see a pout, or hear a complaint, only them making new friends, and helping each other with most active aspects of the workshops. It is we, who sit in our comfortable chairs in our luxury homes and gasp at the news, and swap hero’s tales over our walls. It is we who sing songs for the tsunami. It is we who refuse to move on, and dwell in someone else’s misery, because that’s the most catastrophic thing we’ve seen in our time.

I have no hero’s tale. I’m one of the lucky ones, who indulged in social work in the aftermath because it was the only thing I could do. Mortality was questioned, I imagined night after night what it would have been to lose those I loved. One of my oldest friends was in Unawatuna, my best friend, my pillar was at the Triton hotel, and when I saw them after their return to Colombo, I couldn’t remember having been more thankful. I escaped the tsunami, I escaped the chaos, I escaped the destruction. But I didn’t escape the depression, or the guilt.

See, one would expect their lives to be thrown into perspective after a disaster like this. One would expect to always be reminded how trivial their problems were in comparison to those of the innocent masses affected by the tsunami. One would expect to have learned to know what’s important, and what’s not. But true to our human nature, its not so. A few days after my return from doing needs assessment on the east coast, I was back to worrying about if we would win a debate. What is important is to never forget is, though, that problems are problems. Our problems are ours alone, and will be problematic to us in a way that it’s not to anyone else. And that’s OK. Life is prone to change, hope is not. Life is prone to danger, faith is not. Even though life itself is breakable, hope is the thin line from which we cling in times of need, in times when death, loss and misery surrounds us all. Hope is true, always honest, always sincere, always the same in everyone. Believe. Be fuelled. Be driven.

Let’s not judge nature, or grade disaster. Because the moment we think it can’t get any worse, we know it always can. Let’s just be prepared to face whatever catastrophe is hurtling towards us right now. Let’s stay true to our reputation of being the ‘predominant’ species. Let’s never forget why we are called that.

note to readers : i wrote this sometime ago… i realize it maybe a little long, and maybe even uninteresting for those of who you cannot relate to the mentioned experiences, but if you read it up to here, thanks for bearing with me. at the time, i was feeling a lot of strange things, and needed very badly to express myself, and hence this piece came into being. maybe thats why its long. because i didnt write it for anyone to read, or to put it up in my blog, i wrote it, well, for me. anyways, thanks to the Tsunami Relief Foundation, for the wonderful opportunities to work with the kids in the tsunami affected areas. it has been a wholely satisfying and enriching experience. the TRF is a fabulous NGO, full of enthusiastic, creative, compassionate young people. well done everyone!