Portrait

galapita healing garden

as we head to buttala on the kataragama road, it is clear that nature is a main victim of this war. we drive past miles and miles of devastation; where the jungle has been chopped, burned, bulldozered and cleared on either side of the road for hundreds of meters in. we are stopped by several checkpoints. they say that it’s a security measure taken by the armed forces to prevent the tigers from hiding in the jungle. the explosion recently in buttala has triggered this reaction. every hundred yards or so there is a lone soldier posted inside a barricaded hut; boiling in the sun, all by himself. they do not leave their posts. they cannot. they stand, lonely, bored. young boys, with nothing to their protection but some barbed wire. is this what they signed up for, i wonder. how many species of birds and insects have been displaced by the destruction, i wonder. but maybe this is the price we must pay.

when we ask them who they suspect for the bombings, they confidently parrot that it was the LTTE. they have no evidence, no proof. they are trained for a mere three weeks before they’re chucked in the middle of nowhere to stand guard outside a thick jungle, and then, to destroy it. just young boys. aching for conversation. for some kindness.

we drive into galapita, a beautiful piece of land on the banks of the river, right in the middle of the jungle. there is zero connectivity, no electricity. the buildings are of clay walls and thatched roofs; they barely have walls. we are so far from home. so far from anything we know. the days we spend there are magical. we swim in the river, eat from clay pots, and listen to the birds. we are amidst nature at its most untouched. we sleep at night surrounded by the whispering of the trees and the rushing of the river. we awake at dawn to the call of the peacocks. we swim in the chilly, clean water; and dry ourselves on the steaming rocks. we lie, moon-bathing the night before poya, as we revel in the glory of a near full moon. it is as though the light itself has pushed the clouds away, for although the days before have been overcast, come monday night, we have a crystal clear vision of the moon and the stars. it is like someone has turned on a tube light.

and yet, i think, to build this place, there must have trees cut. more birds displaced. maybe nothing in the world is absolutely pure.

what we manage to forget, we are reminded of again on our drive back. whatever we fought hard to leave behind; the knowledge of the war, the pain, the loneliness, the mindless destruction; we must once again pick up, as we are stopped by checkpoints, as we pass miles of what used to be jungle, as we pass lonely young boys, in camouflage outfits, watching, waiting.

how many lives will it claim, wild and tame, before it has run its course?

the villa, galapita