Power politics

Readers say that most of my tales are from a female point of view. This is true because being a female, I understand my own kind better than the opposite sex. However, since I find every being complicated, there might be errors in my judgment.

This story has a male voice though it is a female's voice which finally addresses his thoughts. I have associated with the speaker closely for a few months but, as always, it took time for me to discover the real person. I suspect that there are many layers of him yet to be discovered.

He is a gray shaded character, meaning like us, that there are plus points in him as well as negative qualities.

We shall name him P. He is self-employed and highly educated. His passion in life derives solely from his work and occasionally from the annual trips that he takes with his friends. Anyone who spends time with him is struck by his luxurious tastes.

After all, if he can make the bucks, why shouldn't he spend it lavishly and heap the notes in bundles in his safe?

He is all for the glitz and glamour partying life that most of the wealthy people go for. He believes that it is the 'spice of life' but only a few know how humble his beginnings are.

A well respected school on the hill country rather than the popular Colombo schools or international colleges. Parents with simple tastes. A Buddhist background and simple village life. Then after school it was higher studies in the city. The glitter and artificial flavours of Colombo, embedded into your breath.

The champagne flowing in rivers at midnight get-togethers. Black coated gents and vibrantly clothed women step out from the cocoon of their shinning cars.

Women with hair like silken threads, blow-dried, spun into curly strands and styled into ones poles apart from their originals. They strut around, dressed in sequined and hand embroidered sarees.

Fabrics which feel like tissues and so expensive that we who live on our daily bread and butter hold our breath, terrified that least the edge would catch on a nook and tear its shimmering cloth.

Some wear short cocktail dresses or bright reds, pinks and oranges.

They lace long nailed fingers around delicate wine glasses and look at the men through heavily kohled eyes or beckon them with blood stained fingers and plum coloured lips.

The men chat around tables and swing around to observe a new entrant. There is a chorus of greetings. Small talk continue while sipping sparkling spirits. None of the cheap arrack or beer are accepted at their doorstep.

They socialize to form 'connections'. It is a game of who outshines who. Attire, men, women and gossip are a part of this 'power politics'.

You may outsmart them one day but you need to watch your back during the next round.

You are caught in that web. How can you untangle yourself now to enjoy the simple pleasures that I relate to you? The sunset over the dunes... the smell of fresh cut grass... the joyful tears in parents' eyes... swaying your body to a slow music under a starry night... P, I wonder if you are too far gone not to notice the true essence of life.

A job, a house, a car, clothes, the latest trends... All this you can buy with money but imagine a faithful companion, unconditional love, trust, respect... How much money will it take to measure the price of these?

Shehara

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