Unfortunately just when my travels started to gain real momentum the covid 19 pandemic struck. We went through a series of strictly imposed lockdowns, that made travel impossible. However, during one of the brief interludes of the lockdown, I decided to walk somewhere, anywhere at all away, as far away from home as was possible to be. I had never been a great fan of walking, but the lockdown had made me a kind of aimless wanderer. So I set out of my home and “discovered” for the first time that on both sides of the road were large Kohomba (margosa) trees. From what I understand the margosa tree is one of the true shade trees that thrive even on the meekest trickle of groundwater so it is invaluable for those of us who can’t afford to air-condition. People in Sri Lanka, India, and Africa love it for this reason and its many medicinal and other uses. So it is surprising that it was declared a weed tree in northern parts of Australia in 2015. Introduced as a shade tree for cattle in the 1940s, it spread so quickly, that It is now illegal to buy, sell or transport plants or seeds. I have always wondered why this was, for as everyone knows nothing much grows in most parts of Australia except gum trees. Then I realized that in reality, many great trees grow in Australia, most of them endemic. An aunt of mine once visited Australia and she told the story of how she ventured into a woody place (she was always venturing into woody places) and found that there were countless Uguressa trees full of fruits. When she inquired from an Australian, she got the answer that it was not edible, and was in fact fit only for birds. Hey, we eat this fruit around here, it’s one of my favorite fruits.
Greatly troubled by this thought I moved on and entered a shop. It was a small model of a supermarket, with difficulty you could move about and pick what you want, but the suspicious salesgirl keeps a close eye on you with a series of convex mirrors. Shops like this have spread all around Sri Lanka in recent years, which I think is great. As I was eating the quickly melting ice cream without a mask, I came upon a picturesque lake that was lined by a long row of Kumbuk Trees (Terminalia arjuna). For me, the Kumbuk tree, with its shiny smooth bark and colorful leaves is one of the most pleasant trees that God has put upon this earth. Then I looked at the lake, it was a large man-made lake, whose primary purpose seemed to be to collect the rainwater and wastewater of a thousand houses that had been built less than twenty years ago. In this short period, it had become a proper ecosystem in its own right. Cranes, herons, and a strange crow-like bird whose primary purpose of existence seemed to be to dry its feathers all its life made it a strange place to be. Which made me wonder what the difference was between a crane and a heron. A crane's neck is shorter than herons and cranes hold their necks straight, while herons typically curve their necks into an “S” shape, particularly in flight. It was also full of fish, though fishing wasn’t allowed. It seemed that even in a dry region if you dig a large hole deep enough and plant some trees around it, it will soon fill with rainwater, and if you put some fish, in no time it would be teeming with life. At a distance, I could see cashew trees. The trees in this area seemed to do a weird thing. They spread so widely that they sagged down and were supported by the ground though still attached to the tree. Now isn’t that clever, no stilt roots or other complicated roots are needed. Entertained by this foolish thought I moved on.
I decided to walk all the way to Colombo but gave up halfway and got on a bus. I got down at pettah. I decided to wander around Colombo as much as possible during weekends and write about this city for I found myself greatly attached to it. As everyone knows Colombo isn’t exactly New York, but it is a bustling, happy city where a lot of interesting things happen all the time. Its port is one of the busiest in Asia, and it really is a flourishing city, but what makes it interesting for me is that it is a city with many art-minded people. Some people accuse its artists of copying the west, and worse being decades behind the west but that isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I am not an expert but as far as I am concerned the west has come to an artistic dead-end, where even the most idiotic paintings are called brilliant. Calling everything brilliant is the same as saying that nothing is. If you paint a red circle, on a black background and call it something like “The portrait of the artist's soul” it could be sold for millions of dollars if you could first get the artist to kill himself although, for most people, it looks like a traffic light. Or if you have a clever artist who can talk great things bordering on philosophy and psychology then that will sell for millions too. I am a great fan of surrealism and have great enthusiasm for this kind of thing but sometimes it makes me wonder what it is all about. If you put a small chair in an enormous room and call it minimalism for example it seems to be a very clever thing to do. If doing next to nothing seems to be the point why bother doing anything at all. But this problem is not found among artists in Colombo for they are busy drawing colorful complex paintings.
I am not trying to be professional, but for many years I have wondered what the answer was to the following question: WHAT MAKES A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST. (In an artistic sense, rather than a financial sense). I guess the simple answer is: If art makes the artist happy then he/she is a successful artist. But why I wondered were so many artists so unhappy. The answer is that art is such a thing that it makes most people prisoners of style and prisoners of their own success. In the music world, it is like being condemned to sing the same few songs again and again, because those songs were the ones that made someone famous. It took many years for me to realize this, but one day I realized that I was a prisoner of my own unfortunate painting and drawing style. But I want to change that and draw in different styles, mediums, and subjects each time I draw or paint. I think many artists are prisoners of their own technique and success, for almost all their paintings look alike. But “WHAT MAKES A SUCCESSFUL ARTIST” in the financial sense. Artists, as everyone knows, have highs and lows, when in a high an artist is capable of doing great work that could be sold, but when the artist hits a low which is almost all the time his paintings are uninspiring and can’t be sold. The aim of the artist if he/she wants financial success is to improve his technique to such an extent that he is able to paint great, inspiring paintings even when he hits a low and the only way the artist can achieve this is through constant practice.
After wandering through Galle face and Kollupitiya, at last I came to Bambalapitiya where I visited the Majestic City, and decided to meet a godforsaken relative of mine. Godforsaken because although he is one of the cleverest people I have ever met, he said some of the biggest bullshit I have ever heard. His domed-shaped head seemed to hide a brain of exceptional ability. It seemed like there was nothing he didn’t know and understand fully. I suspect he knew a great deal about human nature. He believed that a large number of people in the modern world were very unhappy and it was his duty to advise them and treat them if possible. At that time I had a lot of problems in life and was really feeling down. Perhaps sensing this he said a strange thing. He said that a cure for unhappiness could only be found if we know the definition of “Happiness”. Happiness, he said is really a “sense of improvement” which many sad people seemed to lack. But by adopting a “philosophy of improvement” that is by making “small conscious improvements every little while” they could find true happiness. He said “When you walk into a place, by the time you walk out, make sure you have either improved yourself or improved someone in the room with your knowledge or something in the room has improved, however small it may be. When you walk into a garden make sure you plant a seed, or at least water the plants. I thought this theory sounded like a joke, but in some way, it also fascinated me.
So when I returned home, decided to try out his weird theory more as a joke than anything else. I made small ridiculous improvements every little while and found a strange kind of happiness, a kind of job satisfaction that seemed to increase every time I did something. And things started improving around me, things in my room seemed neat and tidy, I had a small but flourishing vegetable garden, I had made new friends, and new opportunities came to me more than ever before, it was unbelievable really. I really wonder whether this method could be used by people who are having a bad turn in life for it certainly helped me.
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.
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.
