Day 1 Colombo

Our first day here began in a state almost of transit. In my mind, the day began the minute I boarded the plane for Colombo via Dubai; this was at 10.30 pm on Tuesday the 22nd of June. From then on, the day that continued from that morning, extremely gradually turned into the day I landed here, the beautiful island that I had marveled at from my wing-window seat.
Being on that flight had been a major experience in itself, never before had I eaten such satisfying plane-meals; or watched three movies in one night on two planes! It was truly a taste of luxury- in economy class ;). My friend stared wide eyed and poked me when I broke into peals of laughter while watching those intensely silly romantic comedies: the rebound, when in Rome and Valentine’s Day. The rebound was the funniest, and in fact the one that also made me cry.
When we got off our flight, we were greeted by this long looonngg line in front of the immigration. It is without doubt that we were overwhelmed by this great tear jerking event. In an almost defensive-mechanism fashion, the thought that struck of us was, “we are Pakistanis, we can slither through the queue at the drop of a hat!” turned out the queue was full of similar resumes, so many other Pakistanis! While we lugged our laptops and counted the number of heads in front of us, there was a constant background bore of an identity crises behind us. An old tall man kept speaking to another in a frenzied combination of an American and a srilankan accident, oops! I meant, accent!; and we made deductions as to why the line we were in was the slowest and why that man was discussing medication rules in USA when the hot – and appropriate – topic was obviously the glacial pace of the line!. It was here that the architecture student in me screamed, “The line weight is too much!!”
However painfully, we got to the immigration counter eventually. We had landed at 9.00 am and hit the counter at 10.30 am, took another two minutes to give the politically correct answers and yet another thirty minutes to find our luggage. Once we began dragging our suitcases, we realised how heavy they actually were. Anyways, now came the best part of our airport experience. It was like we were in a movie, a man stood there waiting for us with our names on a placard! We got so excited we bared all our teeth to him together, not even half bothering that we were giving our best smiles to a driver!
Exhausted, yet running on our adrenaline-rush energy, we got into a huge car, wondering aloud why only two people had been sent that huge vehicle. Actually, we were extremely grateful to our employer for making this arrangement for us. The idea of finding transport when I was that tired still makes me shudder. So, Thank you so very much Sir! 
The drive from the airport to our hostel seemed to never end, even though it was just two and a half hours. On the way we asked our driver to stop somewhere we could buy a phone sim. He did. We got off, excited that it was drizzling and entered a shop where we asked the shopkeeper which connection had the cheapest rates. He informed us we couldn’t buy two of the available srilankan connections, because we weren’t srilankan; we were left with two choices, out of which he told us that one had signal issues. Obviously, we chose the one he said had the better coverage, the next thing we knew was that was the most expensive connection, 600 SLR!!. We had just been thugged. 
Driving through the traffic ridden and sometimes empty roads of Colombo, with my friend sleeping on my lap; we finally reached our destination – the YWCA Hostel. Here we had to wait for another half an hour before we were shown into our room. We, like finicky mummies checked everything from the bed sheets to the window latch and door lock to the socket, the only single one that was there, to our great dismay. Finally out of the two rooms that had been shown to us we chose the more practical one, instead of the more beautiful one, because the socket there wasn’t working, and the lock was also fishy.
Glad to have reached a place we could call “home”, we dropped on the beds and broke into an architectural discussion about the ventilation of the room, which was actually so well designed that even when we kept the window shut, there was a constant circulation of cool air in the room. Later we found out that, that our hostel, is a bawa building! Well bawa certainly knew how to provide comfort without air conditioning.
Soon, we joined our so-called male counterpart to drop in to the office to meet our bosses. Even though we were so tired, we walked all the way to the office, through a twisted path of lanes and alleys. It had strange looking men in lungis checking us out. Thankfully, we did not take that route on our return. It was a twenty to twenty five minute walk to our office, depending on the traffic.
We reached the office to find it a pleasant wooden floored building with a cheerful bunch of people greeting us. Each kept asking us our names, and if we had had lunch. The people were very warm and welcoming, and so were our two bosses, Jennifer and Madhura Premetillike – together, Team Architrvae. After having met all the employees, we finally met our boss, Madhura; someone with a great sarcastic sense of humour, and a presence which felt like that of a combination of a father figure and a teacher. Jennifer too, was very jolly and approachable. Madhura joked about how we didn’t have to do any work now, as Murtaza has already done all the work; and I just looked surprised and looked from madhura to Jennifer. Both, to our surprise, asked us to have fun and absorb srilankan and take trips. They asked us to read about bawa, to which I confidently replied we already had and that was why we were there; in response Madhura exclaimed, “oh they’ve come because of him not meee!”. Everyone laughed loudly, while I blushed.
Madhura told us that we will be cataloging in the room he called “the sweat shop”. I just asked him if there were power cuts or load shedding in srilanka; when he said there weren’t I gave him examples of the scheduled and un- scheduled load shedding that we suffered in Karachi. Obviously, sweat shops were neither new nor a big problem for us – me atleast.
One very interesting character that we met in the office was chaturanga. It took us a while to get his name right, especially the last syllable, but he was very considerate about that. He had learnt a lot of hindi and kept conversing with us in that language. He understood most of what we said and the rest of the office kept cracking jokes on this event of him finding natives of urdu to speak to in Sinhalese. He explained to us very carefully that he learnt hindi from bollywood, and not only movies, the primary reason had been the songs. To my great disappointment, his favourite singer was himesh reshammiya.
At our office we were also served tea. Our first tea in srilanka, and it was great. I was beyond glad to know that I wouldn’t have to suffer drug-tolerance-symptoms the way I had to on my turkey trip. I was also told that are three rounds of tea in the office. Murtaza almost disowned me because I clapped.
Being too tired now, we begged our leave from the office people and left for our first walk back home. On our way we decicde it wasn’t too far or long so we should walk to the office everyday; not only would that save us money, that would help us lose weight. Wow! What a slimming program!. We took a different route back and on our way saw this shop which apparently sold “biriyani”, “kuruma”, “nann” and “roti”. For reasons named in inverted commas in the previous sentence, we eagerly entered the shop, and asked about those items. The only thing actually available was parathas the size of a slice of bread – 10SLR – and a very repulsive looking biryani, the price of which we didn’t bother to ask. Afer asking the price of everythi ng that was visible, we came out with a loaf of bread – 40 SLR and me with the special satisfaction of knowing that tea was avialble – 25 SLR.
While we were walking down Galle road, we were suddenly shouted at by the police. We wondered why they were calling our attention. We had not been here even a day, and yet?. They were telling us to go to the other side of the road. When we were at the office, moses, one of the architects working there had commented that we were living next to the president, and what more could we want. We hadn’t understood that comment then. Now, we did.
It was a challenge to cross thease roads with raging traffic and no traffic signals. We would have to put ourselves on the death-zebra-crossing and then do the multi-tasks of walking fast and praying to not get hit. When we reached home finally, we opened up one of our packed-in-pakistan Pakistani-food-cans. A curry of potatoes and hungrily gobbled down half of the loaf which I had sliced irregularly, with a 3” knife. The same that made my luggage look suspicious at each airport security check.
We were extremely tired, yet I wanted to bathe so I left the room, for the shared hostel bathrooms, happily unaware of the ordeal that awaited me. The ordeal of bathing in cold water, oops! freezing water. I bathed, shivering; clothed, shivering and ran back to my room, shivering more than ever.
Exhausted beyond explanation now, I just collapsed on bed and fell asleep.

One thing we felt great about was the fact that we ranted on and on in Urdu and people couldn’t understand most of it. Of course they understood the basic, thanks to bollywood.

I

He wanted attention, her attention. She didn't realize it though. He had given her the license to pay him attention, it was mutually agreed upon.

They had set the stage now and the lights were on them; but she stood there frozen, not playing her part. He kept trying to activate the stage. Trying to hold the audiences interest, trying even harder to keep his own. He gave her all the hints he could think of; even said some of her lines, yet she seemed unaffected.

The dialogue that the audience expected wasn't happening. some got impatient. He wondered why she wouldn't budge. They had rehearsed these scenes endlessly and now, when they were to breathe life into them, her silence was causing this suffocating abortion.

He could hold the stage no longer. It was just unbearable. His part had been played, more than played. He left her, unwilling and in disbelief, to the questioning waiting of the audience.....

He was all alone, though surrounded by the audience. All those people, yet more to feel for him and she stood there frozen. Emotionally frozen. Obviously not feeling his loneliness. He called out to her from the audience - to disguise this void as part of the play - he called to come to him. He pleaded he couldn't punish himself any longer. She didn't seem to care. He cried he needed her. In response, she asked him to come himself. To the shock of the audience, she repeated it. Repeated with open abandon. There, abandoned he felt; and abandoned he was.

II

The next scene was to begin. Curtains drew. He came to the backstage and jolted her. She said they'll continue from where they had left off. He wondered if she cared at all, confrontation wasn't seeming to help. She embraced him, and reminded him of all their great past performances, how the audience had always loved the chemistry they shared. But the doubt had settled now, he could trust her no longer. He couldn't believe himself. Couldn't believe that he couldn't trust her enough to just respond appropriately. They prepared to get on stage again. This time she made a promise to deliver a most gripping performance. But he didn't know where the play was headed. He depended on her cues, helplessly now.

Curtains opened. The audience gasped. She looked mesmerizing, bathed in that fake moonlight. On a pedestal, making her untouchable to us mortals. He entered the scene and demanded her attention. She responded, by just looking away. He walked to where she seemed to be looking, and she told him not to block her view of the garden below. He said he was the gardener. Despite the beauty of those flowers, which stood there, trying their best at pretending to be real and fragrant, she told the audience of their truth. They are plastic, she exclaimed.

The stage darkened. Lights focused on just the two of them. He deemed confrontation inevitable now. But he chose silence over confrontation. He was tired of pleading, tired of saying her lines and doing her part, and his own alongside. It was his turn to be silent now. Now that she was listening.

She looked blankly at the audience. It was not until the murmur grew loud that she spoke. She asked him what it was he wanted. The backdrop couldnot please him, neither couldn't her best costume. This was a play done and redone!, what was making it so difficult for him?. Why was he standing stunned?

Caught off guard, he snapped it was the mere repetition. He was enjoying this moment, her asking him what she wanted. Her wnating to please him, to induce him to say something agreeable.She asked him if he expected her to read his mind. Tears glistening in his eyes, he left, he couldn't ask her for everything.

Death

Her opinion of death was very different from others, simply because it was an anticipation of it. Not silent, not loud; just passive anticipation. She did not fear it, except she didn't want it to be slow or painful; unlike others she did not fear the coming of it. She knew exactly what she wanted it to be like; as a personal experience. She never thought about the circumstances of it; but she knew what she wanted death herself to inflict upon her person.

She wanted it to be sudden, not something she had a foreseen in a manner that she could tell upon its arrival-date; post a disease maybe. She wanted it to be quick, yet slow enough for her to notice and absorb it. She wanted it alone; so she could her - death - why she had let life torture her so. She didn't want it to leave her unsightly, so people would gather and leave her funeral talking about how miserable she looked. It felt like she wanted more from death than she wanted from life!

In each situation, she had imagined death. In each picture, each scene she could see it, with a recognition like no other. She thought of it with a passion, almost as if it was love. She experienced a preparedness for it at all times, aware it could hit her anywhere anytime; like someone with cancer. Except, she was fine. No cancer, no being suicidal, yet playing hostess for death all the time.

She saw so much in common between celebrations in life and the ceremonies of death in her culture. The use of the same red roses. The serving of similar food. The fact that people cried hyaterically, similarly at both a wedding reception rukhsati and at a funeral amazed her. The fact that white is said to be classiest and most elegant, and white is the shroud that drapes us last. Death in all its darkness and dark associations is commemorated with white.

It was a marvel, the power that death had. To end a life, while it changed the others in a way they had to re-begin. To be that which was feared more than yet asked more for than life! To be a relief, felt from throwing away a gift - of life.

When she drove, an awareness that she could die anytime, made her a confident driver. When she slept, the fact she could die, made her dream easy; sleep heavy.
When all awaited a storm, she was celebrating; saying it may be her last encounter with life.


What most feared, was what made her fearless. Death. Not a word, a sentence.