A note on ocean transcripts
Over 20 years ago, one night in August, my friend Mahendra 'Patta'
Silva and I took a walk by the sea. I think it was from Bambalapitiya to
Wellawatte, along the railway track. He told me that the sea always
calms and explained why. He said that each human being is calmed by a
particular combination of sounds, tones if you will. The sea contains
the entire range, he said, and therefore is able to pick that particular
node of sensitivity to the extent necessary for subduing all agitation.
Galle Face Green
I like sea-sounds. In fact I like all sea-things: boats, waves,
spray, sand, lines written in the sand by wave-end, shells, colour
variation, sea-sky lines and the poetry of colour-agitation at sunset,
curve of bay and the stories swept before nostril and sensibility by the
wind. Passing Galle Face Green towards the Continental Hotel in a
speeding three-wheeler, the brine heavy breeze told of things ancient
and new, kindling memories of places and people marked by encounters
that rolled into life's footnotes and forgotten transcripts of being.
I remembered Mahendra and his theory on my way back, again in a three
wheeler, passing Galle Face Green, not ten minutes later. I had just
been abused in raw filth by a security guard because I hadn't seen a
'squad car' as I crossed the street. He was followed by a less abusive
but equally agitated police officer who insisted that go far away if I
wanted to make a call (I was texting the person I was going to meet).
About turn.
I hammered out a few agitated text messages to my friend who wanted
me to identify the abuser explaining to him, it's the bosses who are to
blame; that it was my fault was coming in a three wheeler (which the
security guards might not have noticed anyway), wearing sandals and with
shirt hanging out; that abuse is what people who look like me get, have
got and will get in the future; and that those who 'belong' are probably
uncouth, ill-bred thugs who come in flashy vehicles wearing tie and
coat. Sea-ridden memories
It was wonderful to get the elemental backing of things associated
with the sea at that point. I found myself transported to that time of
sea-theory and the sharing of stories, of a terrible time to live in and
the bliss of love-encounter that 'irrelevanced' all terror. Un-agitated.
I remembered beach histories, from childhood to parenthood; sandcastles
and sand temples, re-crafted into sand mounds which were dissolved by
wave-lap into nothing, by and by. And how these timeless tales of wave
and sand were interrupted by a roar that robbed a child's smile and left
a soaked soft toy clothed in sand granule. When writing time came
around, I was surfing sea-ridden memories. And like child digging deep
into wet sand, my heart fingers excavated from another August a
transcript that makes no sense now but said it all a long time ago.
August dimensionality
The time: after sunset.
Place: nondescript beach on the Western Coast.
There are lights on the sea,
Christmas Islands
somewhere where black sea meets black sky
and on this August night
the Indian Ocean looked so small
and the sky
just big enough for a scorpion
and a hunter:
Small, all things considered.
And far away in this same land without sorrow
serendipity, I learnt,
has been legislated out,
forbidden.
No, no....not forbidden,
Irrelevanced.
the universe of love
stands at the gate,
detained on account of an illegal passport,
expired.
And when the dimensions of propriety
fall from an exquisite sky
as garland and noose,
when child is made knife
to stab again and again
when the allowed breath
is a poisonous gas
designed to suffocate,
when hands outstretched in innocence
are cut forthwith,
there is little to be said,
for it is after sunset now
and there's a say-it-all sign on a nondescript beach on the Western
Coast;
it was planted by a midget sea, I am told:
BE SILENT.
The sea has a way of taking care of her many children. With a wave and a
soft, turning tear heavy eye into wonderment birthing smile. To this day
I have not tested Mahendra's oceanic theory. Neither have I heard anyone
else echo what could be one of the most precious texts pertaining to the
sacred. Maybe we are blessed to live in an island. Speaking strictly for
myself, I am grateful. The sea works for me. In the strangest ways too.
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