"Sunset by the Beira Lake - Sri Lanka" - Watercolour

 

Robert Louis Stevenson

Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) was a Scottish author. He was one of the most versatile of writers. His romantic novels of adventure captured the public fancy as had no British works since Sir Walter Scott’s. Treasure Island (1883), a story of a search for pirate treasure, is the most popular of these romances and one of the best children’s books in English. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886), an allegorical novel about man’s dual nature, is a suspenseful horror story that shows psychological insight. A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885) is a classic.

Stevenson proved himself a master of the short story in such tales as the eerie “Marheim” and “Thrawn Janet,” the tragic “The Beach at Falesa,” and the fanciful “The Sire de Maletroit’s Door.” His essays travel books, and letters are polished, witty, informative. Stevenson’s writings brought him great popularity during his lifetime, but after his death, his literary reputation declined for several years and he was thought of only as a competent writer of children’s tales. Toward the middle of the 20th century, however, a new critical evaluation of his work ranked him with the great writers of the 19th century.

Stevenson was born in Edinburgh, the son of a prosperous engineer who wanted him to follow the same profession. Instead, Stevenson studied law at the University of Edinburgh. He passed the bar examinations in 1875 but never practiced law. Since 1873 he had been publishing essays in various periodicals and he now turned all his attention to a literary career. Stevenson had never been robust and he began traveling early in life, partly for health and partly for pleasure. In 1888 he sailed to the islands of the Pacific Ocean, settling finally in the Samoan island of Upolu in 1890. There Stevenson bought a large estate he called “Vailima.” He took an active part in Samoan political affairs and wrote extensively.

Stevenson died suddenly of a cerebral hemorrhage. He left an unfinished novel, Weir of Hermiston, that was published as a fragment in 1896. This novel, set in 18th century Scotland, contains some of Stevenson’s most powerful and realistic characterizations. Some critics believe it would have been his masterpiece. Samoan friends affectionately called Stevenson Tusitala (teller of tales). They carried his body to the top of Mount Vaea, where it was buried under this epitaph written by himself :

Under a wide and starry sky

Dig a grave and let me lie

Glad did I live and gladly die

And I laid me down with a will

This is the verse you grave for me

Here he lies where he longed to be

Home is the sailor, home from the sea

And the hunter home from the hill

H.G. Wells

Herbert George Wells (1866-1946) was an English writer. He was prolific in many genres but is best known now for his early science fiction novels including The Time Machine (1895), The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), The Invisible Man (1897), The War of the Worlds (1898), The War in the Air (1907) among many others and also his comic novels. Wells was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature four times. His science fiction novels revealed him as a writer of marked originality and an immense fecundity of ideas. He also wrote many short stories. During his own lifetime, however, he was most prominent as a forward-looking, even prophetic social critic who devoted his literary talents to the development of a progressive vision on a global scale. A futurist, he wrote a number of utopian works and foresaw the advent of aircraft, tanks, space travel, nuclear weapons, satellite television, and something resembling the World Wide Web.

John Higgs writes: Wells’s genius was his ability to create a stream of brand new, wholly original stories out of thin air. Originality was Wells’s calling card. In a six-year stretch from 1895 to 1901, he produced a stream of what he called “scientific romance” novels, This was a dazzling display of new thought, endlessly copied since. A book like The War of the Worlds inspired every one of the thousands of alien invasion stories that followed. It burned its way into the psyche of mankind and changed us all forever.

Wells's earliest specialized training was in biology, and his thinking on ethical matters took place in a specifically and fundamentally Darwinian context. He was also from an early date an outspoken socialist, often (but not always, as at the beginning of the First World War) sympathizing with pacifist views. His later works became increasingly political and didactic, and he wrote little science fiction, while he sometimes indicated on official documents that his profession was that of a journalist. Novels such as Kipps and The History of Mr. Polly, which describe lower-middle-class life, led to the suggestion that he was a worthy successor to Charles Dickens but Wells described a range of social strata and even attempted, in Tono-Bungay (1909), a diagnosis of English Society as a whole.

From the Travelogue

 

Because I had gone to Nuwara Eliya in November, I found it was off-season and intensely cold. After tea I went to a hotel. The owner was inquisitive to know why I was traveling and I explained my philosophy of travel. I said I was traveling all around the country using only public transport and I wanted to draw or paint everything I came across. He looked at me like I was from another planet.

But the great train journey uphill had aroused my interest in Surrealism so I started to draw my first surrealist drawing. Surrealism is an odd thing. Everyone accepts that something illogical has no value, but the objective of this Surrealist movement is exactly this – to create unnerving, illogical scenes with the objective of freeing the unconscious. Nothing less. Amazed by what I saw in the hill country, I drew a landscape following the strange theories of the Surrealists. It was an enthralling experience. In an attempt to draw realistic and impressive drawings and avoid mistakes, the artist sometimes loses the thrill of drawing and painting...His output drops...But in this new Surrealist method I invented, mistakes are modified or left as they are to make the drawing more energetic. The artist finds the true purpose of art - to express oneself and be happy...I felt incredibly proud of my first Surrealist drawing, it really had freed, if not my unconscious, at least the full potential of my creativity. So I took my drawing to show the owner, and all he could say was, “What the hell is this?” Damned if I knew.

But that was nothing compared to my experiences in selling drawings. Many years ago, I came up with a novel way of drawing. For me Art has always been synonymous with magic, so one day I wondered whether there was some theory that, when applied, would lead to interesting paintings or drawings. Unfortunately there seemed to be no such theory, for some reason some paintings are pleasing while others fail to satisfy the mind. But I didn’t want to give up so easily. So I analyzed the paintings of famous artists and found that the most interesting paintings had an element of crudeness in them. Take Vincent van Gogh’s “The Church at Auvers” for example, the whole building is crooked and the colors unnatural. But what would have happened if he painted it straight using natural colors, then it would be like a million other architectural drawings, competent but boring. This was good news for me because I was one of those people in this world who is too lazy or too incompetent to draw buildings perfectly. I felt that the real secret behind a really good painting was a certain crudeness mingled cleverly with a really impressive element. The impressive element makes the painting realistic, while the crudeness energizes the painting or drawing making the whole painting interesting.

I used this theory to paint and came up with some eerie paintings. Part of my technique involved random squiggles, particularly for the sky, which I called energy lines. Apart from the energy they added they helped balance the composition which I think is crucial in any drawing. The next step was to find someone to sell it to. At that time, I was attending a tuition class to pass an exam, but the people there were not the kind who would buy a drawing. But there was a certain intelligent person who took the trouble to have creative conversations with me. She was much older than the others, and said she also had a law degree, and had an intellectual air to her, which made her an ideal candidate to sell my drawing to. So I talked about the subject and showed her the drawing, hoping to charge only a small amount because it was my first sale. She was immediately repulsed. She took the drawing and turned it sideways and then upside down and looked at me in a weird way that some people reserve for particularly stupid people. I was shocked, why I wondered was she turning it upside down, after all it was one of my best landscape drawings with energy lines for the sky. Then she said "I don't know whether it is upside down or not, but after framing it make sure you display it the wrong way to the wall. Life is a joke.

Short story - The Terrible Idea

 In 1954 I worked as the chief engineer for Ceylon’s Laxaphana hydropower project. Laxaphana is in the Hill Country, the picturesque central mountainous area, where tea is grown so abundantly that almost all the mountains are entirely covered by perfectly trimmed tea bushes, making it look more like a fairytale painting than an actual mountain. I was one of the “foreign experts” who would make Ceylon’s ambition of becoming self-sufficient in energy a reality. Life here was good with its slow pace and laid-back attitude and a cup of Ceylon tea is just what you need in the cool Hill Country. But laid back is one word you could not call Somadasa a young man who worked on the project and did various odd jobs one of which was as a porter.

A man with big ideas, Somadasa wasn’t educated but considered himself a practical man and “a man of the world.” It was obvious that the Hydropower project had caught Somadasa’s imagination.   So I was surprised when one day he came up to me and said that he had an idea that would make him rich, but he wanted to try it in his hometown of Galle first. He said he wanted to build an enormous tank, (he would collect money from the villagers to build it), which would be filled with rainwater. From this tank would flow water through a pipeline downwards which would be used to turn a Generator, from which he would get electricity, but most of the electricity would be put back into an electric motor, which would pump the water back to the tank, that way he said in a confident tone the generator would not run out of water. At first, I could not decide whether he was extremely intelligent or a little too simple-minded, but I soon realized that it would never work, for according to Lord Kelvin’s First Law of Thermodynamics, even if all the energy is used to pump the water back, it would lose energy through heat, and so would soon run out of water. But to my utter disbelief he wouldn’t listen, he was convinced that it would work and nothing I said could convince him to give up his idea.

A year or so later I heard he had tried to implement his idea and had lost a lot of money on it, had been beaten up by the villagers, and put in prison; I blamed myself for not having convinced him to give up his idea. Many years later I visited Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) as a tourist, and was walking in the dusty streets of Colombo with my son; memories of my earlier days on this adventurous island came flooding back when all of a sudden a Limousine stopped in front of us. The man who got down from it had the appearance of an important politician, but then I realized that it was none other than Somadasa. “Don’t tell me you made it on the Electric Tank” said I. “No” said Somadasa in his thick accent “But while working on it I came up with an idea to use the ocean to make Electricity, you see I invented a special mechanism where the motion of the waves pushes water through an enormous pipeline but because of the mechanism I invented it can move in only one direction, up, so I pumped it into a nearby cliff and from it I generated electricity.” “That’s unbelievable,” said I not knowing what else to say. But in a way it wasn’t unbelievable because Somadasa had always had ideas, most of them bad, but he had so many bad ideas that one of them turned into a good idea with experience. And that’s more than you could say about most people in this world, they do not have any ideas either good or at least Bad.

Rough pen drawing

 

Pen Drawing

 

Oil Pastel

 

Oil Pastel

 

"Factories at Sunset" - Watercolour

 

The Last Stars

 

When I heard the news that my grandfather was agitated, I rushed to see him. Night had fallen, and I had to walk along the beach for about 2 Km to reach his home. Why one of the greatest scientists on the Island had to live in this remote corner of the world had always been a mystery to me. He once said that bright city lights interfered with his observation of the stars. Here near the equator in Trincomalee, Sri Lanka, in a remote fishing village north of town, he carried out his work undisturbed.

As a young man, he had made great discoveries in physics. But it was as an inventor that he excelled. Although his inventions laid the basis for great technological advances in the 21st century, he was never interested in making money, something I could never understand. He scorned wealth and worldly honors. While other men made money from his inventions, he dedicated himself exclusively to scientific research.

But lately, he had become strange. I think it all went wrong for him when he ventured into fields of science that he should best have left alone at his age. As a young man, he could have easily solved the great mysteries of the Universe, but now he was very old. Senility (The decline of memory and other mental functions associated with old age) really is a sad thing.

The first thing he said as I entered was, "I am on the verge of a discovery that will transform the universe."You mean transform the way we view the Universe," said I. "No, literally transform the Universe," said he. "Gravity affects Time; that part is certain, but what is the true nature of Time? That's the question I want answered. If you go endlessly in a straight line, you will end up in the same place you began, but how much Time would it take.......for example, if you go at an almost infinite speed. Answer this question, and you would have answered how big the Universe is, and more importantly, how it was created. "You mean how the Universe was formed," said I. " No created," said he. A great fear verging on panic had come over me; clearly, he was talking rubbish, and it had a religious element too, which was all the more worrying. But before I could say anything, he went on........

"I have built a machine Kelvin that will take an object to the end of the universe in an instant, at which point it will be in the same place it began; by using it, I want to find out how the universe was created" I panicked, I feared for his sanity. It was obvious he had suffered from what some people call a breakdown, perhaps related to overwork and old age. The best thing I could do was run back to Trincomalee town and try to find a doctor fast. I mumbled something and turned to go, but he interrupted me. "One other thing, Kelvin, there is a slight chance that my experiment could go wrong, which would, of course, mean the end of the Universe. To start the experiment, I must press the switch, do you think I should press the switch or maybe destroy the machine." He brought the most strange-looking black box, perhaps a little bigger than one cubic foot, on which was written, Anti-matter. I didn't know what to say, and I didn't say anything. I walked out, resolving to find a doctor fast.

When I reached the beach, it was midnight. It was a strange night, and the ceaseless waves of the Indian Ocean broke with a thud on the sand to my left. To my right was a thick jungle with noisy insects. I remembered what my grandfather had said many years ago "I want to see the stars shine over the sea." Then I got a strange feeling that it was getting darker, so I looked up and there over the Indian Ocean one by one the last of the Stars were sputtering out....................

Excerpt from the Travel Book

 

In Sigiriya, I met one of my relatives. He was quite old and from the things, he said I could never decide whether he was extremely intelligent or a little mad. Over a drink, he started his “advice to the young” though god knows I could hardly call myself young. “ You know what the problem with the world is” began he “ No,” said I. “Well, the problem with the world is that many people walk with only a vague idea of what they want to do.” I wondered secretly whether this accurately described his condition – senility (A decline in memory and other mental functions associated with old age). “Great wars have been fought, and millions upon millions have died because people don’t know what they really want.” “Take Hitler for example, he was a man who walked with a great anger about the injustices to his country after the First World War. But he never had a clear idea of what he really wanted, the result - 75 million people died in the Second World War, “True” said I, (though this was new to me), “and how do you solve this problem” said I, trying to sound intelligent. “A piece of paper,” said he “Just write all your problems on the left side, and the solutions to each of them on the right side, and suddenly everything is clear. No more walking vaguely with anger or greed in your mind” said he. I only wish somebody had given me a piece of paper and said this when I was younger. Come to think of it maybe someone should have given this paper to Kashyapa, there would have been much less trouble and many more lakes.

Then I tried hard to change the conversation to something more interesting like the weather, or something more relevant to him like the latest obituary notice in the newspaper, but he continued…“You know who your biggest enemy is,” said he. “No, I don’t” said I. “Well your biggest enemy is also your best friend, and that is YOU.” Nobody in this world can harm you more than yourself, nor help you more.” “Don’t compare yourself to others, but compare yourself to yourself over time by improving your skills and habits. Are you better at doing something today than yesterday? then you are on the right path.

Excerpt from the Travel Book

The road south from Colombo can be a bit confusing, somehow even if you scan the map for a long time it doesn’t register. From Colombo to Moratuwa is only 19 Km. From there you expect Kalutara to come quickly but it takes longer than you think for it is about 26 Km further south. In Kalutara is the famous Buddhist temple. You expect Beruwela with its beautiful seascape to be very far from here but it comes surprisingly quickly being just 14 Km south. By this time the landscape has a very rural seaside feel. Happily, Bentota with its beautiful beaches and river is just 8 Km South. Then here the distances seem to widen. From Bentota to Ambalangoda is 24 Km, somehow it seems longer than that. Hikkaduwa, a tourist destination known for coral reefs and sea turtles is 15 Km further south. By this time even without noticing we have come 114 Km from Colombo. Till Hikkaduwa, the coast that runs more or less south seems to curve a little more prominently till it reaches the Historic fort city of Galle. The coast continues to curve until it reaches the southernmost city in Sri Lanka – Matara. Then it moves upward reaching Tangalle and Hambantota, Kirinda, Kumana, Okanda and then almost vertically up to Potuvil, Tirrukkovil and Batticaloa. Very rarely if ever have I heard some of these place names in the news so I tried to find out. Kumana is a bird sanctuary, Okanda is a small hamlet in the eastern coast of Sri Lanka, within the Ampara district.

 

In western and southern Sri Lanka most of the main cities and towns in the coastal region are quite well known, but some Kilometers inland from the coast there are some obscure areas that hardly ever come to mind, except for the people who live there. I wondered what these places were and then I looked at the map, what a fool I had been, for this is exactly where they have built the new southern expressway. Travelling in the southern expressway you find that the landscape is mostly fields and jungles with very few buildings.

 

Somewhere between Beruwela and Hikkaduwa I had an incredible experience, a kind of perfect moment that comes very rarely in life. I got down from the bus shocked by the color of the sea. It was around midday, and the sun shone brightly overhead. The color of the sea was a shockingly bright turquoise blue and it was glistening and I was alone on an enormous beach. A song started playing on my mind: We’ll sing in the sunshine….We’ll laugh every day…..We’ll sing in the sunshine ……then I’ll be on my way. Some HAPPY sounding songs are actually depressing….and some sad sounding songs are Happy…..But this was a Happy sounding Happy song at least for me despite its silly lyrics. 

 

There are some places with beautiful scenery that ought to make you happy…but make you sad….similarly there are some really ugly landscapes that fill you with joy…..Well, this was a Happy looking place that actually made you happy. I walked on the beach, I climbed the rocks, it was for me the most perfect spot on earth. After about an hour it was time to be on my way. I wondered whether if I came another day at the exact same time I would find the sea the same glistening turquoise blue and the beach deserted. I came again a few times but could not locate the beach again. As the actor, Leonard Nimoy (Mr. Spock in Star Trek) said in his last message “A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory.” 

Pen Drawing

 

Rough pen drawing

 

Rough pen drawing

 

Adventures in the Art World

 

The best Art book I have ever read, was a relatively small book as art books go by British artist, Adrian Hill. How so many good ideas could be packed into such a small book is amazing. This book doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, but the drawings, in particular, are so “clever” that it inspires you to take up drawing.

Adrian Keith Graham Hill (1895-1977), enlisted in the Army at the start of World War One, where due to his artistic abilities he was assigned to the Scouting and Sniping section. He had to sketch the enemy in front of allied trenches, in no man's land. Later Hill recalled such a typical patrol as follows:

“I advanced in short rushes, mostly on my hands and knees, with a sketching kit dangling around my neck. As I slowly approached, the wood gradually took a more definite shape, and as I crept nearer I saw that what was hidden from my own line, now revealed itself as a cunningly contrived observation post in one of the battered trees.”

In 1938 while recovering from tuberculosis at a sanatorium, he found that drawing nearby objects from his hospital bed greatly aided in his recovery. This led to Occupational Therapy being introduced in Hospitals, and Hill was invited to teach drawing and painting to injured soldiers and later civilian patients. Hill believed that Art helped divert patients and relieved their mental distress. He also believed that Art appreciation aided recovery and this led to a picture lending scheme (of famous artists' work). Hill himself along with other artists talked to patients about artworks. Hill coined the term (Art Therapy), and published his work in his 1942 book, Art Versus Illness. Hill published many books about drawing and painting and was the first artist commissioned by the Imperial War Museum in 1917.

In his art book: "THE BEGINNER'S BOOK OF OIL PAINTING" he had drawn a black and white drawing, of a 1950's landscape I think. These drawings inspired me to such an extent that I turned it into a watercolor painting: Both the original drawing and my painting are given below. I only wish I had used more green for the trees and foliage.

The Evolution of Man

 

Somewhere beyond a tree

A wild man came to be

To conquer a world

But he was just a monkey

Somewhere along the way

He used his hands to sway

When other monkeys stayed in trees

He made his way with greed

Somewhere beyond the sea

Did he lose his way like the beasts

No no not him

He became the king

As a king he was cruel

He made animals duel

Flightless birds he made

Hundreds in a cage

Trees that just had fruit

But it was still not good

Animals born for meat

Didn't stop his endless need

From the wheel to the plane

Causing endless pain

But I will not complain

I am one of them

Somewhere beyond the moon

A wild man came too soon

To conquer the stars

But he was still a monkey.

To conquer the stars

And be like a god

But if deeds define a being

We will always be monkeys

Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

Nathaniel Hawthorne was an American author. Most of his work shows concern for moral issues. A deeply ingrained conscience seems to generate in him an obsession with the problem of sin, its nature, and its consequences. His strong sense of human guilt tinges most of his novels and short stories with a somber hue. Unlike some other puritans, Hawthorne apparently felt a keen sympathy for the erring and demon-driven people he pictures.

Hawthorne liked to call his novels “romances” because they deal with interior rather than outward phases of life. They explore the secret chambers of the heart, soul, and mind. He maintained that a writer of romances, unlike the realist who relies upon personal observation and fidelity of facts, need be faithful only to “the truth of the human heart.” Hawthorne frequently pictures people who are morbid and melancholy, but their gloom is mostly of an inner kind, unlike the physical horrors that are characteristic of Poe’s tales. His people ordinarily are more symbolical or allegorical than lifelike, manipulated by the author to make a moral point.

Science vs God

 

Science that filled the moon with men

Built planes rockets and flaming jets

Split the atom to countless shreds

Put empty dreams on bad men's heads

Could not duplicate a simple leaf

Or solace a man filled with grief

Clouds that filled the earth with rain

Filled wells rivers and mighty lakes

Was it the work of earthly heads

Or God's hand overhead

Science may harness a million powers

Make greedy men its earnest lovers

Make a few to rule many

Desperate people without any money

But can they bend the hands of Time

That neither you, I nor them can find

No my friend they just can’t

All of us have to reach the Past.

Rough Pen Drawing

 

A Tree more valuable than Gold

 

Here along the reef lies a sunken treasure

Of a ship that sailed but did not measure

I seek to find it soon

Under eloquent stars and moon

I use starlight to navigate the seas

It will be in moonlight the treasure will be freed

Of foolish men who did not see

That numbers will ruin their destiny

I reach the treasure sailing East

But the stars disappear with my endless needs

I throw the treasure overboard

I need the stars to sail back home

The stars guide me to reach my isle

I walk inland a hundred miles

I reach a jungle of a billion trees

But I came here for just one tree

Here in this jungle grows a hidden tree

That all the eyes in the world cannot see

I seek to find it soon

Before the noon seals my doom

What is gold but a hideous thing

That kills more men than a ruthless king

But each atom in this wondrous tree

Has magic in it that can cure all ills

Of a Black Ship that Sailed

 

Once the ocean told me

One of its secrets

Of a moon that shone full

And old idiots awoken

Out of the darkness

Of a black ship that sailed

Of shrieking old men

Who came from a grave

A celestial bird beckoned me

To a land of gold

But the ocean echoed

It was a land of unattained hopes

But more wonderful than

The gold of crumbling old men

Or the words of decaying law books

Are the secret laws of the ocean

The un-written laws of good and evil

The un-written laws of right and wrong

Ethel M. Dell

It is difficult to talk about popular literature in the 1920s without talking about a particularly shy British novelist whom critics liked to hate with a passion but readers loved to read named Ethel M. Dell (1881-1939). So shy was she that she was never interviewed. But starting in 1911 she wrote over 30 popular romance novels and several short stories but remained quiet and almost pathologically shy. What the critics said didn’t seem to bother her for she considered herself a good storyteller – nothing more nothing less.

Dell whose father was a clerk grew up in a middle-class family and started writing at an early age. Her romantic stories which were said to be racy were set in India and other British colonial possessions. Her cousins would count the times she used the words: passion, tremble, pant and thrill. She worked on a book for several years but it was rejected by eight publishers. When it was finally published in 1911 it was entitled “The Way of an Eagle.” George Orwell in his novel “Keep the Aspidistra Flying” has his protagonist make several scathing attacks on Dell, reserving special venom for “The Way of an Eagle”. However, the book was incredibly popular and between 1911 and 1915 it had gone through 30 printings.

In 1922, Ethel married a soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel Gerald Tahourdin Savage, when she was 40 and the marriage was happy. Colonel Savage resigned his commission on his marriage and Dell became the support of the family. Her husband devoted himself to her and fiercely guarded her privacy. For her part, she went on writing and made a lot of money eventually producing about thirty novels and several volumes of short stories.

Travel Story - Trincomalee

I will begin the story of my adventures with a certain morning early in the month of June, in the year of grace 2003, when I first returned to my hometown Trincomalee. I was born and lived there till I was 13. And now many many years had passed and I wondered whether it would be the same place I left. You know what they say about returning to places that you left when you were a child. That enormous lake that you used to fish in is now only a small muddy pond filled with dirt and other similar stories. As the bus neared the town, I wondered about the foolishness of trying to recapture past glories of childhood. The concept of “you can never go home again” hung heavily on me. But I was wrong, Trincomalee is almost exactly the place I left when I was 13. 

I have traveled to some strange places on the island. Trincomalee is one of them. I feel something about Trincomalee every time I go there, but I can't describe exactly what.  It has the world's best natural harbor, and a wonderful cliff, perhaps the highest on the island for a coastal region, and in it is a Hindu temple said to be one of the oldest and most important temples since ancient times. This cliff juts into the sea with two different beaches on both sides, and the sea dashes on the rocks below. It is a place where dreams are formed. From here, the Trincomalee town is quite close, but you get the feeling that the town is actually quite small compared to the impression it makes. The beach and the mountain were incredible, just as I had remembered them all those years ago. 

I have always been fascinated by what lies far north of this remote town, so I decided to take the bus and find out. The strong smell of spices mixed with kerosene wafted through the oppressive humid heat. The town of Trincomalee, which borders the sea, is many miles from my destination, a village in the east. So there was a sigh of relief as the dust-covered bus finally pulled out of the depot in the middle of the crowded marketplace. It sped past the deserted playground, fast turning into a scrub jungle, and past the last stop railway station. As it labored up a slight inclination, a black stone catholic church comes into view. And then, the landscape changes suddenly without warning. There are few significant buildings beyond this point, mostly shrubby jungle interspersed with large trees and bare open land. From time to time, you would catch an odd glimpse of the sea. The road is full of potholes. The trees that accompany the road are large and wild and many hundreds of years old. We drive past many Banyan Trees with their eerie aerial roots hanging from spreading branches.

 

The bus stops abruptly at a dull structure that looks like a cement box, this is the bus stop, and I am the only one to get down. As far as the eye can see, all around me is what looks like sea sand, though the sea is almost two miles to the east. It could be mistaken for a desert had it not been for the low-lying areas in it that were filled with water. The population density here must be low; that part is clear, for there is not a soul in sight, not even a villager. Spiky trees that looked like a small model of a coconut tree with spikes at the tip of the leaves and other thorny trees make this landscape an incredible experience. Not a soul, not even a damn villager in sight, and for a moment, I felt like running after the bus. But I gathered enough courage to walk along the meandering road that would lead me to this village in the east. I had been walking for nearly 2 miles when the sandpit desert turned into a shrubby bush jungle and eventually to tall trees. More signs of life now, the mud huts and children playing with discarded tires. Finally, I met one of the villagers. It was a mud hut; just one small room with a roof of dried thatched coconut leaf is all there is. The floor too was made of mud, it was very cool inside, and though dark, it had a good earthy smell. The husband was a fisherman who mostly didn't fish but drank, a very pleasant man who would have become a stockbroker in a different world. The woman, too, was generous (but, if provoked, would scold so loud that it could be heard a mile away), and the food and the tea from the pitch-black kettle were tasty. The landlord had allowed them to stay without rent to look after the chilies and onion plantation.

 

Being just 5 degrees north of the equator, this is a very sunny country, and this eastern part of the island is known to have the highest temperature. But the term dry zone is not very accurate, for when the northeast monsoon blows in, the landscape transforms unexpectedly, with luscious green vegetation sprouting up as far as the eyes can behold. We finally arrived at the onion land where many women were harvesting, row upon row of green stalks. I strolled to the edge of the barbed wire fence where a large Tamarind tree grew. And on the opposite side was another large land with another barbed wire fence, beyond that another, and it goes on and on like this forever until you meet the very edge of the sea. Around here, the biggest threat was a wandering stray cow eating the plants, so a barbed wire was all that was needed. The view was unrestricted, presenting an incredible sight. Trees and shrubs, bare open land, noisy insects, the smell of sand, a yellow flowering shrub that had a strong heady aroma, birds of the brightest hues, a sun so bright that it burnt the skin, what would Vincent van Gogh have painted if he was born here. I felt a great energy come over me, and I took out the oil pastels and started to draw the village and this picture I am giving below.

 

But what in God's name lies north of this remotest of places, is there a road? Actually, there is a place called Kumburupiddi, and north of there Kuchchaveli, Thiriyai, and Pulmoddai. But does this coastal road take you to Mullaitivu? Nobody seems to know, but if you look at the map there seems to be a large area, like a lagoon, where the sea has come in called Kokkilai sanctuary, and so you can't go to Mullaitivu directly from here I think, though it is quite close to it. So what are these towns, villages, or whatever so many miles north of nowhere? Well, it so happens that these places are of great historical importance. For example, Thiriyai, a small village of 650 people, is an ancient Tamil village with an old seaport that is more than 2600 years old. An ancient tribe of Naga people seemed to have populated this place. The first Buddhist Stupa in Sri Lanka, The Girihandu Seya, is located in Thiriyai. It is highly venerated, as it is believed to contain the hair relics of the Buddha.

 

Unfortunately, I had to leave this village and its beach and go back south to Trincomalee town. Rather than taking the only bus that would arrive, I decided to take a shortcut. My theory was simple. This fishing village was situated on the east coast, and so was the Trincomalee beach several miles to the south, so a continuous beach must connect it. When I asked one of the villagers, he thought I was crazy. There were jungles and mountains, not to mention snakes. It seemed to be a place where nobody dared to go, but I felt I could. After walking south, I found that I was cut off by a large hill jutting into the sea, and rather than walking into the thick jungle to the right, I decided to climb it. It had boulders and reddish sand. I hadn't seen a single person for more than an hour, so I wondered whether it would be better to turn around. The climb got my heart pumping, but on the other side was a magnificent beach with a sea that had an unusual blue. I kept walking for hours, hoping to find someone, but I was the only person on this beach, except for an eagle who was busy fishing; there was no sign of life here. To the right of me was a thick jungle, and it worried me.

 

It seemed that there was no way out of here before nightfall, and the last thing I wanted was to stay here at night. Then, out of nowhere, the sky darkened; big warm raindrops started falling with such force that it felt like I was being pelted with stones, then just as swiftly as it came, the rain disappeared, and the sun shone brighter than ever, and I discovered one of the advantages of living in Trincomalee. The sun shines so brightly and burns the skin with such intensity, and the violent rain together with the brightness of the trees and the sky and the thundering sea act as shock therapy and makes even the most dismal mind happy again. It seemed the sun shone a little brighter in Trincomalee, and when it rained, it rained harder too. Then, after a few hours, I came across another hill, and after crossing it, I looked up, and there on a mountain was the ancient temple I knew so well, and that day stands in my memory as one of the best I've ever had.

A Travel Story - Sigiriya

 I don't know why but I find it very difficult to explain the complicated series of events that led to the building of Sigiriya. I am not an expert in this, I will just tell the story the way I understood it, which I hope is right. About 1600 years ago there lived an extraordinarily talented king named Dhatusena. Among his many accomplishments were defeating the formidable south Indian invaders and re-uniting the entire nation under his rule, and building artificial lakes and other irrigation works which were engineering marvels of the ancient world. He was ruling very happily and building great things when a terrible family feud erupted. 

King Dhatusena had two sons Kashyapa and Mogallana.  Kashyapa although the eldest was the son of a "concubine" and was not eligible to be king, while Moggallana was the son of a "true queen" and so was the rightful heir to the throne. The army commander Migara persuaded and helped Kashayapa to overthrow his father and imprison him. So Kashyapa became the king in 473 AD and Moggallana fearing assassination fled to India. But worse was yet to come for Migara led Kashyapa to believe that  Dhatusena had a great treasure hidden away. When Kashayapa demanded the treasure from his father, he took him to the Kalaweva, an enormous lake he had built, to irrigate the land, and taking the water in his hands said "This is the only treasure I have". This seems to have infuriated Kashayapa so much that he murdered his father by entombing him behind a wall. An amazingly cruel thing to do, which earned him the name Kashyapa the Patricide among the people. 

 

Fearing an attack from Moggallana, Kashyapa moved from the traditional capital of Anuradhapura to Sigiriya. He built an amazing fortress and castle in the rock and an elaborately planned city. But after ruling for 22 years, just as he had always feared Moggallana organized an army in India, came back to Sri Lanka, and defeated his army. Kashyapa killed himself by falling on his sword. 

 

The area around Sigiriya is still very much a jungle with stunning trees. I bought half-ripe mangoes with salt from an old woman who kind of seemed nervous, but halfway into the jungle path monkeys climbed down from trees and came threateningly toward me trying to steal the mangoes. I have heard that monkeys could be aggressive so I threw the mangoes toward them, and they took the food and climbed back as if nothing had happened. After buying tickets I crossed a moat that is said to have been full of crocodiles during Kashyapa's adventurous days.

 

After entering the base of the rock I started climbing a long staircase, which led to what is called the mirror wall. This wall was once so well polished that the king could see his reflection. This wall is covered by verses written by visitors over the centuries. All kinds of people wrote all kinds of fascinating things on the wall, and these might be the world's oldest blogs. Many wrote poems and some were written as early as the 8th century. Even I felt like writing a poem. Unfortunately, authorities have banned further writing on the wall in order to protect the older scribbles. 

 

Then I ascended a spiral staircase that seemed a bit like a cage. This staircase is slightly scary to climb for it seems to be attached to the side of a sheer cliff of great elevation. And then I arrived at the Sigiriya Frescoes, which are beautiful paintings of women painted in the fifth century. And the question that comes to mind is good God who are they? Nobody seems to be certain but there are several theories. Many years ago I read a book by one of the world's greatest science fiction writers. According to him - while most of the Sigiriya damsels hold flowers, one woman holds what for all the world seemed like a transistor radio. He then says that it made him wonder whether King Kashyapa was really the inventor of the radio, fifteen centuries before it was invented in the west.

The Kelani River

  So I will now tell the story of how I got the idea to travel around the island. Once I lived in a place called Peliyagoda, which is a suburb of the capital Colombo. The trouble with Peliyagoda was this – despite being the closest suburb of Colombo, it was not very developed. Many other suburbs like Wattala or Kiribathgoda had much better buildings and facilities. The biggest landmark there seemed to be the police station, which I think says a lot. And before the police station, its most famous landmark was enormous rubbish dumb that could be seen from miles away, which I think says even more. 

However, it was an exciting place for me because the great Kelani River flowed through it, and I wanted to paint it. I am only an amateur artist, but I have a great passion for painting and drawing. But unlike most artists who draw rivers, I wanted to draw it at night. And so, many years ago, I did one of the weirdest things I have ever done; I decided to stay in the garden at night and paint till morning. The night was infinitely dark and strange; it seemed that everyone had gone to bed and switched off all the lights. The road was deserted except for a lone cow which seemed half asleep. A blue-green firefly, very rare for this part of Sri Lanka, flew and disappeared behind a leaf. Flowers that bloom at night are usually white, and most have a fragrance.

In the foreground, I could see the great river flowing. It moved slowly in the night like destiny itself. It was silent, mysterious, and fatal. Above the river shone many strange stars. There was a particularly bright reddish star that didn't twinkle. Could it be Mars, the one they called the red planet? Unfortunately, I could not be certain. Then there was another bright star which, for some reason, I felt was Venus. Unfortunately, my knowledge of astronomy, like so much else, was incomplete. All these thoughts made me tired that I sat down in the garden and couldn't remember anything after that except the ground felt hard on my head, an annoying cricket made an annoying noise, the smell of grass and marigold flowers and once I imagined that the cow was in the garden.

 

The hoot of an alarm made me jump, and for a moment, I was horrified to find that I was not in bed but outside at night. I went to the gate to see what made that noise but could not locate it.  Then I looked up, god how things had changed. Now it was around two in the morning, and the stars were brighter than ever. I couldn't see the Great Bear, the only constellation I knew apart from Orion, but I could see a group of prominent stars which curled down and formed what looked exactly like a tail. I wondered whether this was the Scorpion constellation, and I still do. I looked down again, and the river was still flowing endlessly, and at that moment, I felt a great energy come over me, and I decided to explore my country even if it was the last thing I do. 

 

George Orwell once wrote, "By retaining one's childhood love of such things as trees, fishes, butterflies, and toads, one makes a peaceful and decent future a little more probable." I always believed that this was so. People who grow up and forget these things altogether either become dictators or, worse, become depressed. My way of celebrating these things is through art and traveling. I am giving below the watercolor painting I did of the Kelani River that night.