Nirmala's writings

Hey guys! This is I am posting some excellent work on behalf of Nirmala, hope you enjoy its :)


  King of the chase

 Stepping of the curb my hand firmly in a commanding gesture to those little kings who ride in their metal roller coasters. A ninety degree turn in mid stream and the metal trap screeched to a halt in front of me. Four hundred he says to Welawatte, I vigorously beat him down. I thought I had won the bargain when he suddenly threatened to pull away which would have stranded me on the side of Duplication road. Hurriedly I get in clutching to the metal pole as he zooms off in to the thick traffic. While buses and cars tower over us we chase one head light after another only to come to a standstill at the next traffic light. By now I have swallowed great clouds of dust mixed with carbon monoxide. Go says the indicator but the metal can refuses to move. The lorry driver behind us stands on his horn, a Benz car looks down disdainfully from behind. We don’t seem to be able to start off. I am alarmed when the driver turns around and unceremoniously stretches his hand to a little valve where I am trying hard to sit lady like in my short skirt. He grins and tells me he needs to tinker with the knob. I don’t have much of a choice. He fiddles, heaves on his starter and we are off. This time we are ahead of the Benz and weaving in and out like a drunkard ice skater. He now over takes on the wrong side of the car. Electronic shutters come down and the chauffer glares, his mouth moves in an ugly movement and then we are off again. Narrowly missing the young lady under a pink umbrella on the pedestrian crossing. I should have known those yellow stripes were the starting lines for a dash to hell. The next traffic light and this time we are not that lucky. It was a “Hells angel” dressed all in black on his powerful purple metallic 1000 cc motor bike. I shoot instructions to turn right. It was inevitable. The metal can misjudged the space between the lamp post, jay walker and “Hells angel.” Bang! I felt my neck being wrenched and then I was on the outside of the three wheeler which lay down flat with its wheels spinning crazily on it’s side. Its black plastic shell crumpled. The driver yelling, the pedestrian getting up and suruptiously slinking away quickly while the motor cyclist yelled at the top of his lungs. Mayhem. An audience gathered like ants to honey. The show was on. But the driver simply continued to berate the angel from hell, he just pushed his metal jalopy back on to its wheels and smiled sheepishly at me and we were off on the road once again. Since we had missed the turning, he just reversed at full throttle. After all we were still on the one way moving the other way. The streets of Colombo were an adventure to the courageous heart. Another said it taught him to pray harder than he had ever done before. I just know it is such a wonderful part of the life of Sri Lankans. How boring the city would be if we had orderly lanes of traffic all adhering to the uni-flow.

By Nirmala Paiva



  19th October, 2011 Pregnant wind 

 “We are late; let’s hurry up before the rain comes down.” Benji was concerned that his brand new vehicle would get wet. They were at a vantage point overlooking the village. The mountain loomed behind them, solid like it had been for the past century. She could feel the coolness of the laden wind swiftly moving up and inland. Ruki seemed rooted to the spot. It was like everything was being carried on the silken strands of mist. Strange why could not others see it? Could they not hear the air was static with sound? Breath deep and you could smell it and close your eyes and you could feel it. The sudden gust brought with it grit and a flurry of dried leaves from the mango tree. “Oh gosh my eyes feel like it’s got a mango seed in it.” Tears oozed unchecked. “Stand still let me see if I can clean it out.” He took out his soft handkerchief and tenderly wiped her eye. “There just a tiny speck of dirt ah now it’s gone.” Comforted she continued to lift her face to the wind. It spoke of the sounds of a wailing wife. She cowered in a room, a welt across her face. Her hiccups subsiding. The sounds of a hammer while a laborer put the finishing touch to a gate. A horn blared in the distance while the mournful low of the cow walking to ease her load of milk at the shed nearby. “Can you smell it Benji?” “Smell what?” The wind is like a channel of a slice of life. “I know someone is cooking on an open fire, because the wood smoke is wrapping itself around me like a warm sari.” “She’s cooking garlic and ginger right now, its left its foot print in this swath of air” “Come on, garlic and ginger only makes me think of your chicken back home.” Another eddy of wind and a giant hand bent the tall grass one way and then the next. “I can feel it calling.” “Now don’t be daft, you’re getting glassy eyed again and there is no time for that now.” Her half hearted move towards the car did nothing to take away the fact that she knew. The wind had a way of conveying all that was happening close at hand. How come others never seemed to be aware of the special inbuilt antennas that we all had. Some just did not know how to use them. She savored the smell that she knew was coming from the hut close by. It spoke of love and warmth. It told her of a difficult teenage son, who had just lit up a cigarette he should never have. It told her that the mother was in anguish because her husband had still not come home, which meant another violent abusive night. She heard the radio been tuned and re-tuned as a young girl got the right hindi station. She could hear the joy in her young voice as her feet slapped on the floor, trying to keep to the rhythm of drums and tambourines. She could taste the pungent spices cooking as it hung in the air like an oriental curtain. The wind was now bringing with it beads of moisture which flung itself against the mountain and shrouded her body. The sun was slipping on a greased yellow ribbon on its way to bed. Her eyes feasted on the burst of yellow, pale pink, magenta and finally black. The wind carried treasures to each of us, if only we would be on the alert to recognize it. Almost leaving a gift at our feet. As it said, did you see, did you feel, smell, taste and hear it?

By Nirmala Paiva



 7th November, 2011 Moody sky It was the Australian Outback. 

 The advertisement read, “Join at your own risk.” The tour operators knew how to capture the interest of nature lovers who wanted to see the Never Never as it is called by the rough riders of the planes. Traversing thousands of kilometers through the red hot dessert gave me the experience of varied weather in diverse locations. It was deep in the Northern Territory. Hot, sweaty, filthy and grimy the tailor made bus finally came to bone shaking stand still. Thirty five of us tumbled out. We longed for a bubbling river and a hot meal. The heat like a furnace put an end scorching our longings. The desert stretched endlessly to the horizon. There was not a tree in sight but I could see the heavens arch over the globe. The semi circular slope giving you the impression that you could just step off the earth and walk right into the clouds. What struck me most was the deep silence all around. It compelled us to all speak in whispers. Dotted all over the gritty ground were clumps of spinifax grass. We all sat around on our collapsible stools as the camp cook got out his gear. It was close to supper time. The quietness was what gripped me. Then the atmosphere completely changed. The placid sky did not look gentle anymore. The clouds rushed around like they were getting ready for some grand atmospheric show down. The air became heavy and then the forks of lightening ripped the sky into fragments. The sky turned purple and in some places a navy blue. The sky rolled angrily, the clouds bellowed and collided. The charged air was electric. We all held our breath. There was something ominous about the buildup. Then the electricity was almost palpable. We could not see it, but feel it we did. A rush of air commanded the hair on our hands and body to stand up straight. A gush of air and the hair on our heads were filled with static and I could hear and feel it crackle. We were all a bit apprehensive. Sitting hushed, while it seemed like a tormented sky rebelled as it shook and tore into fragments. The absence of sound was now almost frightening. There were sudden gusts of blistering sand thrown up into our faces accompanied by a deep stillness in a lonely empty place. You could suddenly see bundles of dead grass being tumbled by the wind, rolling one way and then the other way. They were called the wily nillies. They rushed furiously towards us and giddily crashed against our legs. Someone yelled “electric storm take cover.” We rushed into the bus. It seemed the wind came right out of hell. It scooped out great mountains of sand and flung it with all its strength against the only object in that vast open landscape. It crashed against the bus like a sledge hammer. We lay on the floor with our hands over our ears with our eyes tightly shut. The sand found its way in. It trickled in through the chink in the window, through the space in the door and the tiny perforations that no eye would have found. The sand got into every part of us. A thin red dust streaked with white powder. Strange , no sound, no rain, no thunder. Just a giant hand that swept away a blue day and brought in a blanked of static which simply gripped your heart with fear. The wind dropped, the air suddenly felt lighter. It seemed like it drove its self over the horizon as quickly as it had crashed into our little arena. We were safe. Just powdered all over, while our mouths were filled with grit.

 By Nirmala Paiva