My school has an unforgotten heartbeat*

Somebody told me that in France people kiss in streets. I think that is love, letting all fears go away. Nobody minds stealing kisses in public. Because to the love giver, it is giving. It is giving at any time. I think it’s nice. Love letting is easy. It’s easy with open words and open actions. There are people I have met. Many  left.  One or two are staying inside my heart.

There are very few people I love. “One is loved because one is loved. No reasoning is needed for loving,” is a saying by Paulo Coelho. A line I adore much. We are too poor to answer why we like or love someone. Heart things are complicated. Not too good to question how strings and valves and membranes work when we see people.

Some people are made of mystical heart beats. Heart warming, generous, empathetic and loving. Mrs NK Pilapitiya, the former Principal of Musaeus College, had true colors of an affectionate heartbeat. She too stole kisses in public. She was a love giver to those who came to her. She bent down to kiss cheeks and cuddle the little ones, I remember. Her kissing and hugging was not only for the kids. When teachers left school or a minor worker resigned from work she had the habit of embracing them and blessing them. She had a way of sharing humor with the laborers, the canteen staff and even the security officers who worked for her.

I think she was the last to leave school those days. She used to walk around the school after gatha in the morning and when the bell rang for us to leave school. She exchanged a few words with the passersby, smiled and laughed. Naturally she had good connections with people. Everybody liked her. She didn’t forget the treat on November 15. It is the Founders’ Day of the school. She had the habit of treating us with cake  and later a quite big Kandos chocolate for every student in the school. These little things were much awaited by students. She knew it. Students loved it.

Big matches are  fun times. For both boys and girls. For some it was a moment of cheer and revel.  I remember how seniors used to confess their crushes to boys who climbed up the walls.  Mrs. Pilapitiya didn't make much of a fuss about these as long as no school boy or schoolgirl crossed discipline that was expected. Big matches have been generally  regarded a headache. Some thought boys should be kept away from girls. For once it was different with Mrs. Pilapitiya. I was told by a senior how  she offered a treat at the canteen to some boys from Royal College  who dropped by to collect money for the match once. Mrs. Pilapitiya , in correct form is very genial and good humored.

There was wisdom and encouragement in her words. Every assembly ended with advice to spread compassion, hate less and help more. Happiness was always shared. When students excelled in academics, sports and other extra-curricular activities, she brought them up to stage with joy and pride and it is same for her working staff.

I don’t know many things about her life. I don’t know what she said and did in life mostly. I’m not ashamed for not knowing many things. Of all things I know, she was humane and dedicated.When St Anthony’s Girls’ College was founded in Kandy, in 1973, Mrs Pilapitiya was appointed as the principal there. She started teaching bio science and home science while heading St Anthony’s Girls’ College. St Anthony celebrates Mrs.Pilapitiya much for her efforts taken to reduce school leavers after O/L’s. In 1981 she was transferred to Mahamaya Girls’ College in Kandy. And soon became the Principal of Musaeus College in 1995. Being an old girl of Musaeus College, becoming a principal would have treasured by her. No doubt.

Her 14 year service at Musaeus College didn’t end with an ordinary farewell. A lifelong dream was fulfilled. The tale of a Mud Hut was retold. Her concept of a book to unfold the Musaeus Saga was completed in around 2011. She left in 2009 leaving love with all her heart to the school she meant the most.And last Saturday a call made me know that she had passed away. A legend is gone. But she will be loved by many.

She owes nothing.There was enough and more knowledge and virtue bestowed in her times.

(Featured in the FREE section of "The Nation " newspaper on June 29th 2014)

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Threads and hearts *

Some threads are heart woven. Knitted close to each. Sometimes to pull one by one out is difficult. I’m scared that everything might come out. It should be done with a lot of care. They are too tender. Only those who weave will know the art of pulling and putting them back right. Weavers are made of hard – wearing hands. They are patient, committed and watchful. If they stitch over the other, that would make a dress look ugly.

When I was small, I had plenty of frocks. Most of them were smocked frocks. Appachchi shopped for frocks in “Little Women”, a shop in Majestic City which is exclusive in frock technology. I remember, he took me with him to buy frocks after Montessori sometimes. I went to Tiny Tots School in Bambalapitiya. It was in the left end of Melbourne Avenue, right next to the Majestic City. The frock collection was done when I was about 6 or 7. I naturally shifted to shorts and pants.

I don’t collect anything in specific. People collect many things. They like collecting. I have a friend of mine who has a big collection of stamps. She has almost everything except for stamps in a few countries. Recently, I was invited for some project work at a friend’s house. He had a rack full of movies. All DVD’s and CD’s nicely piled up. Even collecting things need a lot of workout.

When I wrote for the school journal, I would collect the paper cuttings of things I had written. Later, with time I didn’t even bother looking at a paper to read what I had written. Some even questioned me  why I don’t keep them for myself. I didn’t have copies of what I had written when someone wanted to read. Again I vigilantly start collecting stories and poems when I was given an opportunity  to write for The Nation. I would bring printouts of what I have authored. It no longer continued for more than 3 or 4 times.  Naturally stopped. I was too lazy to go out looking for printing shops. I have stories and poems saved in word documents. I thought that is enough. And blogging will not lose anything. Only until Google Blogger would think to stop functioning forever. Still backups will work. Hopefully.

I’m not the ‘collecting ‘ person. I throw things instead. I don’t like when my table is piled up with papers. Same with the drawers. Files full of papers and documents  make me angry . Cleaning days are rare for me . And papers would make me take longer time to clean than I think. I have the habit of reading all papers, bills, handouts and paper cuttings that will come across while cleaning. More ever when I find things that were meant to be lost, I start playing with them. When I see documents that don’t belong to me, I would go asking home people if it’s necessary or not. On such a rare cleaning poya day I found some toys stuck in a drawer. There were toy characters, a toy dog, a doll with no hands and legs and a few metals cars. The wheels were missing. Some papers were covered by dust. Printed text was faded. Some discolored. Over dated. Crushed and torn. It is time for them to be in bin.

Among them were some birthday cards I had received. Long time back. A few photos too. There was memory lagging. They were old friends . All the fun things we did at a younger age . I last saw them 18 years ago. Maybe.

Like everything else, papers get thrown, they get decayed and lost. Toys will get damaged and fixed again and again. When fixing isn’t possible we will put them aside. But for now, I know memories stay for long. Like those close knitted threads, some people cannot be left aside. Because there is possibility for damage.

Did you know that people come to see you all night and day break and that forgetting is impossible?

( Published in "The Nation" newspaper on 22nd June 2014)

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George , Harold and Captain Underpants

On the left, is my friend Harold in green pants. He has bushy hair that grows upwards. Quite funny. But that’s how it is. I’m George, you see in blue pants. Harold is my best friend in school. We walk together every morning to school. Harold is scared of dogs. I carry big plastic injections filled with water to shoot at dogs that come around Harold. Harold is happy. Harold says I’m his hero.

For me and Harold, school is too boring. There is nothing much we could do. One day when Michael climbed up a monkey bar in the playground, I warned him that he is 20,000 feet above a mystical river that kills people if fallen and he can never come back. Micheal screamed, his head was hanging down with legs up and hands were clenched to the pole. He didn’t want to jump off the bar. The whole school came running to the ground. I just made Micheal imagine. Mr. Krupp says that imagination will lead to a lot of creativity. Otherwise it’s boring. Have I committed any offence for being a bit creative? Hmm...

We got to sit at a desk and listen to all the animal stories, big America, water cycles and global warming. Even then, airplanes pee while they are up. Tell me now, isn’t that polluting environment?  Aircraft Engineers should be taught of a better technology to squat.

 Professor Poopypants is amazed by triangles, rectangles and squares. He thinks Pythagoras is the greatest of all. I think Pythagoras is his hero. Professor Poopypants say that someday he will solve the Polydimensionarian theory. Oops! Let me introduce Professor Poopypants. I think he is important because he is taking all troubles to solve theories around the world. He is our math teacher. But Harold says he poops in his pants. Everybody in the class laughs then.

One day I and Harold had to fight some aliens to save Captain Underpants. A spaceship was trying to abduct that poor soul. He is the crazy Principal in our school. He may well be the greatest scientific genius the world will ever know. He knows every chemical reaction on earth. May be he even knows what will happen if pee gets mixed up with adenosine triphosphate. Unfortunately, nobody takes him seriously! He is been laughed out by every University he has taught, possibly for his name. In fact, he comes to our school under one condition. Captain Underpants assure to himself that “kids are so accepting and loving”. He thinks that nobody will make fun of his name or write a comic book out of him. Because if someone does, he will fly into some rage and destroy the planet by mixing all acids and carbons he has got to know.

Childhood days are fun. I’m sure we’ve all found funny teachers and comic Principals of whom we've laughed off our backs when in school. But not for all. For some they were bad days, trying hard to put on with homework, getting scolded by teachers for not giving the correct answers, getting punished for not bringing books or bad handwriting and many more. And yet, we embrace those days with much happiness. There are days we wish to go back. Like for Harold, we had many friends who helped at every instance. They became our heroes of all time. Friends were good enough to trust because they were easy to know. We were all carefree.

But time has a way of taking away the joy. We are left with nostalgia as we move on from childhood.  We ought to become more responsible for what we do. We are forced into a society filled with imbalanced proportions of laughter, pain, trust and seeming goodness. We are thrown into a society where human action is complex to explain. There are men capable of doing many things. There are men who can hide their spots even when a tiger cannot. There are friends today, who become tomorrow’s backstabbers. Stealing and killing have become a way of life. Some satisfy their worries by putting others to death. There is jealousy  where there is beauty. Laugh is rare. Tears have conquered.

Kids are the most accepting and loving.  Captain Underpants is correct. But interestingly they turn into rascals as they grow into adults. 

What carbons and acids would have turned these loving creatures into deadly rascals? Would Underpants know to  formulate  the chemical reaction?

 ( Published  in " The Nation" newspaper on the 15th June 2014)

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Rain and Heart

It's ten past in the morning

in early June

And I'm just seated here

Blank and grim,

A less speaking heart,

some things straying inside

some vanish like soap bubbles 

So fast ,uncatchable.

Papers and notes

fly in air

lost words and the  forgotten.

Pen flips,

Hands go mad,
and it's raining here

But one side blue

and  the other is grey.

I'm sure,

Where ever you are

it's still morning as mine

may be in bright pastel color

more warmed and smooth.

And,
among all flipping pen  , papers , blue skies and greys 

there is 'you'

stuck in my eyelids

and my eyes , so poor

cannot close

because you are too tender

even tender than this teardrop and sigh.

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Love Things

Eye to eye

Lip to lip

He stole kisses

Mischievously

Wall to wall- 

hidden beneath

Love cuddles- cuddles not

Threw hearts

Into breathless winds

Of words

Of joy and tear.

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The feet we keep

To the left 

to the right

the feet we keep 

forward and backwards 

the feet we keep 

in and out

the feet we keep

on sand and soil 

the feet we keep 

on rock and cement 

the feet we keep

thorn and stone

that pierce feet

smiles and thoughts

that fleet in speed

( Inspired by Thilina Brown Photography)

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Land

There is cut and erase of " render",

replaced by others

And for now

it is more than an endnote

big sized and bolded

shaped in 'Italics',

There is transfer and gift,

Deeds of trust,

Mortgage and recovery,

Land acquisitions

Title and declaration

in millions and billions,

in measure of gold,

Kidneys for free

'lands for sale'

And there is no pay toll for blood vitamin

pumped to liver and fingertip

So little and prized,

I wonder why they wonder why

Blood is cheap

and land is sky- high

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Sundown

( After Gordon Lightfoot)

sundown , i'll creep into his room

to a room

he prays every morning 

but no confess made

in sunset.

let there be dark

just the moon ,

a few stars

to feel better 

in no shame

to lie my back

on his chest 

get fastened

to his blue jeans 

and be warmed 

skin deep .

sundown , just hold on

let my eyes 

rest in his.

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Track Field and Parallel Lines *

The grubby waters were gushing into the narrow drains. Pipes were cracked and blackish. They were too old. Time for new ones to come. The steaming hot rays wetted my t -shirt. I walked fast to climb up the bridge to cross the other side of the road. The aluminum like metal sheets that were fastened to some rusty wooden planks underneath were shaking. Far away stood some buildings that looked very colonial with huge windows and pillars. They hark back to the Dutch and British eras. On the other side would be the red and white Cargill’s and Miller department store. It wasn’t visible this time though. Some were blackened. Pettah is old. Even older than it was. But is elegant and historical. Captivating!

Climbing down the stairs I entered the Fort Station with Thilina. I was only 5 or 6 years old when I made a few trips by train to see aththamma in Meerigama. It was hard for me to discover any changes in side the station .Thilina knew the way around. He is a usual visitor to the Fort Station.

I met Ferguson and a few old people. Some old trains too. They were black and white. I brushed my fingers against them. I switched eyes from one to another slowly. There’s some history  deep down.

Its old footprints are found in front of the Technical College which is next to The Department of Railways today. It’s gone wild now. There’s tall grass rooted around that little compound which resembles a small house .This had been built in 1864, which ran a train upto Ambepussa for the first time in SriLanka’s rail history .There are no trains running here any longer. Rather it is transformed into a museum. Commonly known as “Fort Museum “, hardly visited by people. Some doesn’t know. No wonder! It’s not popular either.

The current white building facing the Budu Medura  is the 3rd station to be known as Fort .This has been built somewhere around  1913 which was used  to store rice and other dry rations during the plague of 1914, when world war hit globally. The Fort Station we see today has been officially opened around 1917. Railway enthusiasts call it Fort 3, Mr. Vinod added. The very first Fort Station has been opened on the Coast Line in late 1870’s, exactly where the Secretariat Halt stands now. This has lasted for like five years and later been switched to a station behind what is now Lake House. They say that the station which was built where the Lake House is today was used until Fort 3, or the current Fort station was ready for functioning. So, once Fort 3 came into operation, the Fort 2 has been used as a Railway Store. But subsequently, this dirty and dilapidated building was used as the Employment Exchange (EE). I was further explained. The EE was connected to the Labor Department, he said. The Employment Exchange was there in existence until late 1960’s.

However EE has been abandoned in later years. It became free for all, for all kind of dubious activity. One could hear stories about drugs, prostitution and other violent activities inside the EE.

But what’s more important is that, the current station is not in Colombo Fort we know today. It is in Colombo 11, known as Pettah.

A few pictures on the wall inside the office revealed something interesting. The Beira Lake earlier extended over the entire extent of the railway track that now leads to Maradana from Pettah. It was later filled to construct the track. Ever growing passenger needs have dictated that a larger station was needed, and thus they came up with the current station while the very first station and the Colombo terminus halted their function forever.

The day to day activities in Fort hasn’t changed much for about 50 years! The only changes made , for the last 25 years have been the office equipment and communication improvements .

You may have noticed how at every station, as a train approaches it the station master in his full  uniform including the cap, is ready to receive the train. The engine driver has an instrument to hand over to the station master and in turn collects one from him. This is called a 'Tablet' which was introduced as an instrument to ensure the safe operation of trains on single lines as speeds and frequencies increased.

The tablet gives the authority for the engine driver to proceed to the next station. He hands over the tablet at the next station to indicate that he had the authority to pass the previous section. The  station master gives the tablet only after ensuring by telephoning the next station master that the line is clear for the train to precede. This happens in single line trains only.

In the early days the signals were operated manually from high level booths built for the purpose. These booths were situated in between stations with telephone facilities to indicate the movement of trains. Colour Light Signalling and Centralized Traffic Control were started in 1959. The railway telecommunication system has been modernized by the introduction of VHF/UHF radio telecommunication facility between stations and control offices.

One can take train journeys through call reservations now. Things are easy. Mobiles are even upgraded with e – ticketing facilities. For Dialog users, a call to 444 will help to take the next train. The Mobitel users are also provided with this facility. No hassle in queues anymore. Something to be happy about! 

“With the new transport Hub construction happening in Pettah, the station will be demolished to make way for a station hotel. Shopping malls will come up too. Only the facade will remain for historic importance” One of the work men who met with us randomly said this.

Remnants of the colonial era will be gone soon.

Letting go should be preferred. We are born into a world of constant change. In the process of decay, new things are necessary. I think that.

1890’s were significant years for the Fort Station. Mr. Chandrasoma, the Chief Superintendent divulged with much regret the things about all sorts of strikes and protest campaigns that happened those days.

“In 1893 the top public servants working at Fort have attempted to go on a strike, which became a failure due to lack of proper organizing. However things haven’t stopped there. There had been continuous mobs by Colombo laundry workers’ and even by the cart drivers which at least won a few rights. Followed by these, in 1910 for the first time the coal workers in Dematagoda have led a sudden strike, just for one day and had been a failure again.

Developments   in economy and the rising needs resulted in many conflicts among public servants after 1910. Even when tea and rubber exports brought money in, the working class wasn’t benefited, at least in terms of salary. “Kamkaru panthiya” (working class) was disturbed by the non payments of salary. . Workers weren’t paid their bonuses, no extra payments were made for working on Saturday and Sunday and sometimes retired workers had to forego their pensions. On the one hand there was too much work. On the other workers have been dismissed for no reason. These led to humungous riots.”

He remembered of a bomb that was exploded in 1984 while he was on duty. 

“Probably it was the climax of a strike, luckily nobody got injured. Sadly every hunger strike and protest campaign takes place outside the Fort Station obstructing its functions, even today. Sometime back in 2006 I was a part of a tear gas attack “

He reminded of a woman who died in the dead night during her journey in the night mail, from Colombo to Hatton.

 “It took so much of effort to buy her a seat. She was too late. Already a train had left to Hatton. There was no train to come. The last was a night mail. No one can buy seats for a night mail just by paying money. The Station Master should offer his permission with a little document. I somehow got that for her.  I was supposed to inform the Hatton Station that this particular passenger is arriving in a night mail. Early next morning I got a call. I was shocked to hear, the woman had died! They suspected of a criminal activity. I still wonder in least had I supported such activity.”

Until 1892 trains have only functioned during the day. The mails were carried by passenger trains in day time. For the first time night mails were introduced by Fort station in 1892, March 14th. Many Tamils have been working in Fort Station in 1960’s and thus so many night mails made their journeys to Kankasanthurai, to drop and pick Jaffna Tamils who were on duty at Colombo Fort.

Back then the Fort Station was used to transport all sorts of milk products, thal hakuru and thal pani from Jaffna, flowers, plant varieties and even vegetables from NuwaraEliya, which were brought down to Manning Market. There were no passenger carriages at all. Fort was busy carrying parcels and goods from place to place.

Today one would hardly see parcel counters at Fort. Fort is the central business district. All levels and strata of society converge here to go to their offices and business places. People even make holiday tours now.

One of those hardly remembered days was the Easter Sunday Japanese Air Raid. The Japanese attack had begun at 07:30 on Easter Sunday morning. Air defense of Colombo Fort and harbor have been provided by the 3rd Searchlight/Light Anti-Aircraft Regiment,Ceylon Garrison Artillery with two batteries based at Galle Face  green  and Mutwal. This was an air attack carried against SriLanka by the Japanese, on the 5th April 1942, during  World War 2. The targets were British  warships, harbour installations, and air bases; the object was to disrupt the war effort of British Commonwealth  nations and force the British Eastern Fleet to leave Asian  waters. They say that this was a time when Fort was hive of activity and there were no trains.

  

 A train station is interesting. I like to think like that. They know stories of every kicked –out gut. Of all things like risk and adventure, love giving and love taking, connection and divergence.

 ( Featured in the FINE section in " The Nation" on 8th June 2014)

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Yakku saha Boothayo* ( Devils and Monsters)

After hearing to an year’s family law stories, he is very much ready to reveal  his stories on Administrative Law. He says, “they were lessons, not stories”. He fondly remembers the days.

Mr. Nawaz is currently a Deputy Solicitor General. He is busier than a bee , naturally , a Royalist , scholarly and well read. A voracious katha malla too. It’s a blessing to have people like him who are experienced and well exposed.

Two days before he was talking about loose heads , being loose headed and  yaka . In his words it was “yaka nagina hati” . Yaka rises unexpectedly , no signals or warnings given ahead. Yaka is such an interesting fellow. We hear “bootha Katha “too. I’ve heard some people say bootha kiyawanne nathuwa inna (don’t talk weird things). Boothaya is thousand times better and calmer. I think like that. Yaka is good at messing things, flipping things upside down and chopping things completely.

We live in a society where we all compete for food, shelter, money, good jobs and even a good education. Basically we struggle for every good thing because there is only little good available. There is living rage within us. Yaka rises when we don’t receive what we have been expecting. Just think, long queues, traffic jams, computer crashes or crowded buses make us see a red mist. These are little things, but we’ve lost control. Yaka has lessened the discipline within us.

Mr. Nawaz regrettably said that he argued a Policeman on the Vesak  day.

 “I was wrong, I knew. I did not see the No U turn board. The Policeman tried to take me to Prison . I stopped the car . I didn’t reveal him that I was a Lawyer though . There was an exchange of angry words. I shouldn’t have done that. I was too foolish”

Yes, we lose our heads at times. Just like those Commissioners who terminate licenses for no reason. Funny at times. But they can be disastrous.

His story was followed by another. It was thought provoking.

“I was in the second year at law College. Many were coupled at that time. There was a girl in our batch whose boyfriend was one of my best friends. One morning I was heading to lectures in a trishaw. I saw my friend’s girl walking all the way. I stopped and gave her a lift too.  I didn’t know that my friend saw his girl getting down with me. I just helped the girl who was walking to College. Two days after I got to know that they broke up. It was 3 years for their relationship already”

“So, the yaka within my friend signaled that I was trying his girl”. This was his story.

This is no surprise for us . Today, girls and boys chat on facebook, meet up, sleep together and break up the next day with all sorts of rude text messages and phone calls. All happens very fast. The underside is that we are not ready to hear anybody. We don’t like to hear what others have got to say. We assume what we see to be correct. We blast at people not knowing the true facts of an incident. One may think that it’s a waste of time to gather the truth. If you think that time is precious, you are too selfish.

“You shouldn’t be the judge of your own case, neither you shouldn’t be one sided. That’s injustice, you know” Mr. Nawaz exclaimed.

I just got to know that natural justice claims a part in our lives. Injustice can even make us lose people we love. Is there anything for us to learn from this? Or have we learnt already? I like to think that we know these already. It’s just that we don’t bother applying them in real life.

Has a partner left you with valid reason?  The dramas that all drama kings and queens script has no reason at times. It is the anger that makes the other to pull strings away easily. We own nothing in the end, but some blood boiling inside us with big bubbles.

Do you know now that there is a yaka within you, playing all things? Boothaya is much better. They  only scare you .

 ( Published in "The Nation" newspaper on 08th June 2014)

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Isso Wade

Among the  green,
the little cement blocks,

magnificent  canons

ancient and heroic 

is a token of remembrance 

of peace and war.
And among them 

are some umbrellas,
some cracked tables fixed together

and vendors

under the steaming sun

disturbed by tears

rolling down the galle face sand

seated with trays

full of newly fried isso wade 

scrummy and drooling

on market days .

oh wait!

even the Sundays

there's no leave ,
no leave for isso wade 

that tummies gulp in joy
one after another

to the tempting winds

that galle face squalls

and I hear

a little less far away

someone mimicking -

"kamuda isso wade?"

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Rock , Weed and Hearts

rock and weed

grimy waters

sea salt and sea spray

historic and labyrinth

threadborn hearts

bitten and bitten

patched , then cross stitched 

one- time and some time 

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Things

Of all things,

Blood and wire

Thread and valve

Scattered catacomb,

I have saved some  heartbeats for you

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Night Love

He curls

he turns

clenched fist to fist

he snuggles 

tied lip to lip

ensconces one 

coupled by breath to another 

from fatherly notes to nocturnal  songs

of kites and rainbows

of butterflies and angels

that rise and fall

the night and day 

he nuzzles and fondles

skin warmed

and ease the moans

from nightmares 

of all sorts 

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Northern Toll

Under the heating skies of Kankasanthurai

the sweat streaked 

down my legs .

They landed on the neat tarred road 

in drops like ,

there was little wind 

that cooled wet cheeks.

A little ahead , in Elephant Pass

there was sun set one side 

and one raised voice

"hey you,

there is sun rise on the other."

A little more to Aiyyakachchiya

to the water wells of healing powers,

a few more kilometres 

drove to Ariyale

from the old to new roads,

old and new points,

teared eyes were gulped

warm hugs slipped 

sweeping the walls of Iranamadu.

There is joy flooded,

love swamping.

Headlights illuminated nothing 

but a night was impossible

because ,

there was humanity cascading,

not even canon sounds 

one does hear

shrieking Thal trees

and sand trembled 

unlike then.

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Suicide is not the last resort

I don’t remember her name. She was only 16 years when she jumped off a building from its 7th floor, early one morning. Nobody knew she was gone. Not even her dearest friend, until her body was found lying on the ground. This was 10 years ago. There were many stories about her.  She was always neglected by her parents. Often her older sister was praised for academics. She has failed in math, and has been afraid how mad and disappointed her mom would be. She didn’t want to hear her mom’s growls. She didn’t want to get beaten. Things had been tough with her mom. She has felt it’s pointless going on with life.

I was only 12 when I heard this story. It trembled me. She is not the first one to kill her self, neither the last to lose her self. Another comes to my mind. Aththamma fondly remembers one of his sons who faced him self to a train while in Kandy. He was one of my mom’s two brothers, who always wanted to become a monk which their father strictly denied. He was too small. Perhaps their father didn’t want to lose him in the family.  Followed by terrible fights,  lost hopes of becoming a monk stopped his life.

“Back then he acted to plead for a yellow robe from podi hamuduruwo in the village temple and act how it would be when he becomes one “Aththamma said. This is his story.

Life is too surprising to hear these. Some people aren’t blessed to live long. They aren’t strong enough to face the onions and rotten bread that is thrown at life. I think, it is Karma. To kill one self is the worst Karma. They’ll cycle in life getting killed themselves in every birth.

Suicide remains as one of the main causes for death in our country. Especially of those who are aged between 15 to 35. So far, SriLanka has attempted a lot to provide mental care, more still needs to be done, not least in social and cultural level but something beyond that. Before the tsunami, most mental health care was carried out in tertiary level hospitals, and mostly near Colombo.  Trained mental health workers were rare in other parts of the island, but the national and international response to that disaster has changed things drastically. In 2011, mental health clinics were established in many divisions across the country.

Treating mental health is a challenge in this country. Some deny medication, some are ashamed of visiting mental care professionals. They think everybody who is mentally sickened are fools or lunatics. There is reason even behind lunatics. They just don’t happen, they just don’t become such!

Suicides are not an issue only for us. It’s global. Global data shows that for the last 40 years suicide has increased worldwide, with one person killing himself in every 40 seconds and 1 million people dying by their own hand each year. This is why it is important for us to think of mental health care. Are we going to lose gifted lives?

Mentally disordered are stigmatized around the world. People just don’t bother to listen to them. But what matters is hearing them, understanding them, and encouraging them to live instead of letting them to put a halt to their lives. We cry when they are gone. Too late for us to think what we could have done, when they were alive! This is why they say: prevention is better than cure.

One should find it easier to say “I’m suffering from depression”. But we are not ready to hear this. Remember , one who thinks to suicide or attempts suicide will always give us a clue , in least they will hint us verbally that they don’t want to live anymore. Surprisingly we take it as a joke. People think that those who talk about suicide won’t really do it. That’s wrong. That’s a signal of suicide. We got to identify it. It is not because they are crazy that they would think of dying. Suicide is a matter of escaping things in life. It’s a result of being grief –stricken, depressed or being emotionally broken down. It’s a state where one cannot bear the pressure any longer. A long term thing.

Most people who think of dying do not want to die. They always weaver around, whether to die or not. What they want is to stop the pain, not death. So there is enough and more ways to stop them. We commonly believe that those who suicide cannot be stopped from doing it. It’s a false fact. Physiologists have proven another thing. Those who write and talk a lot about death, or those who recklessly take drugs and alcohol just because they can’t even take a little thing easy, are prone to suicide.

The most striking feature of suicidal behavior is sudden happiness. If one seems to be calm and happy after a long term of unhappiness, it means the person has decided to end life.

These are a few things I remember reading from a book. They might help us avoid suicide.

1. Be yourself. Let the person know you care, that he/she is not alone. The right words are often unimportant. If you are concerned, your voice and manner will show it.
2. Listen. Let the suicidal person unload despair, ventilate anger. No matter how negative the conversation seems, the fact that it exists is a positive sign.
3. Be sympathetic, non-judgmental, patient, calm, accepting. Your friend or family member is doing the right thing by talking about his/her feelings.
4. Offer hope. Reassure the person that help is available and that the suicidal feelings are temporary. Let the person know that his or her life is important to you.
5. If the person says things like, “I’m so depressed, I can’t go on,” ask the question: “Are you having thoughts of suicide?” You are not putting ideas in their head; you are showing that you are concerned, that you take them seriously, and that it’s OK for them to share their pain with you.
6.  Do not argue with the suicidal person. Avoid saying things like: "You have so much to live for," "Your suicide will hurt your family," or “Look on the bright side.”
7. Lecture on the value of life, or say that suicide is wrong.
8. Do not promise confidentiality. Refuse to be sworn to secrecy. A life is at stake and you may need to speak to a mental health professional in order to keep the suicidal person safe. If you promise to keep your discussions secret, you may have to break your word.
9. Do not offer ways to fix their problems, or give advice, or make them feel like they have to justify their suicidal feelings. It is not about how bad the problem is, but how badly it’s hurting your friend or loved one.
10. Do not blame yourself. You can’t “fix” someone’s depression. Your loved one’s happiness or lack thereof, is not your responsibility.

White Wreath Day is coming up. It is time for us to take things into head seriously.

( Published in "The Nation"  newspaper  on the 1st June 2014)

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