Think of this, if you will, as a mere supplement to the powerful and yet entertaining rag, fondly remembered amongst its many admirers as The Ever-So-Oftenly Bugle, or simply The Bugle to its closest friends. To the uninitiated, read on. I'm feeling far to full of myself to explain.
Duty Free and Duty Bound
Sri Lanka is a land of many contradictions (or perhaps, to some of those crazy Americans, contra-indications). The airport fairly buzzes with the foreign goods displayed to full effect, cajoling and luring unlucky retail-challenged hags (yes, yes, I refer to myself, go on have a laugh) to spend their last pennies and wager the last shirt off their backs (in my case, maintaining my precarious hold over a sweater in the name of dignity and the honour of the ‘Indian’ woman. God save me from the Shiv Seniks).
What hits one, as one steps outside the rarified airport atmosphere of course, is how much like home it is. Dirty, sweaty and brown at the edges. Gone is the shiny splendour (as is the retail high of having copped a deal on the much wanted and much fake, but shiny new glares). Gone are the foreign goods and the bright lights.
What remains is the everyday-ness of people. People who look, simply put, like a small section of Chennai. Largish at the roots and trunk, darkish, not-speaka-the-language-ish, and (frankly the most galling), no Surds-ish. On an offside, any utter lack of Surds from (yes, ‘from’, as in not ‘in’ my life so much as out and about it) my life always brings with it an amazing and inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps it’s to do with a sense of familiarity with Surds, a sense of being at home and being secure that having Surds around brings. It’s about being a Delhi-ite. It’s the same way whether I’m in Bombay (now Mumbai, but well not much different is it?), Madras (now Chennai, but much the same, DUH!) or as at present, pseudo-Chennai.
The starkest difference of all though, is the sense of instability. It fairly pervades the air; as one zooms out into the night on the way from the airport to Colombo, one is stopped several times by men in tights (no, not really. Men in fatigues, but I couldn’t resist :). Passports (in my case) and National ID Cards (in the case of the driver) are produced and puzzled frowns are thrust in one’s direction (as I said, we don’t look much different from the general populace). That is of course, till the knitted brows are replaced by a sparkling grin and “Indian?”“Speak Tamil?”. “No”, you say; feeling for yourself and the poor witless souls who left it out of your comprehensive education. 17 years down the drain. “Aah”, says the understanding Man in Tights, nodding with an air most compassionate, feeling with you. Accompanied, most strangely, with that same sense of loss I feel at not seeing Surds. Perhaps they like Tams much as I like Surds. To-may-to, To-mah-to. One woman’s Surd is another man’s Tam.
Pleasant, though as the Men are, the duty they swear by is plain for all to see. They would not hesitate, were one not to turn up with a goodly reason for besmirching their soil, to send one and one’s luggage, on to the place where all is at peace. This feeling is carried over in the faces of the people, their habits, their life. No one objects or finds out of place the presence of police and military in every-day lives; at malls, outside hotels, restaurants, on the road. No one questions their right to stop and inspect at will. People invariably carry the National ID card; foreigners would do best to carry their Passport at all times. Blockades are put up at will; for allowing the Political Higher-Up (or, I am told by my driver, the Political Higher-Up’s brothers, with whom I share a locality) to pass by on the way to a night of revelry; or simply for the purpose of more stopping and inspecting.
In Delhi, we would have honked and created a ruckus, not to mention, given the poor, unsuspecting, innocent (!) thulla nightmares for weeks to come. Shouts of “Do you know who I AM?” would rend the night, with the sweet flowing music of a multitude of to-be road tearer-uppers leaning on their horns. Those of the loitering bent would have stepped out of the steaming vehicles to have a chat with strangers; the commonality of cursing the thulla, the light and the Higher-Up elevating them above any differences. In Colombo, people barely turn a hair; much less make someone turn in their graves long after the night is gone. The wait is swallowed without protest, without a frown, or even a muttered imprecation.
It’s Your Problem!
A rather common phrase that does the rounds in Sri Lanka is “It’s your problem medem”. The magnificence of this rather understated, and perhaps just a tad trite phrase, is the fact that it can be trotted out in any situation and is of course, invariably true. Having a taxi not show up, breaking a rather painful nail, being kicked out of the pool, being thrown in jail. It’s ALL your problem. The phrase earns the place of honour though, not due to its widespread suitability; it earns the top spot because of the beatific smile that infallibly accompanies it. Picture, if you will, the toothiest, happiest, sunniest, positively “I woke up on the best side of the bed and it’s YOUR problem”-iest grin. Now double the intensity, add cheese, a large coke and fries on the side. Now THAT’s a grin that says “It’s your problem medem”.
Who can quarrel with the justice of that?
Of Babus and Creakier Old Men
Let us not lose sight of the main purpose though. One is here to work one’s self to the bone. A chronicle that dismissed out of hand the work aspect of this trip would be both incomplete and unfaithful to its true purpose.
Everyone has seen the Indian Babus sitting smugly in their red stained, smelly, cramped offices. Those grand relics of the gigantic slug that is the administrative machinery of the country. Their Sri Lankan counterparts could easily put them to shame… they sit in beautiful colonial buildings; airy, wide, high ceilinged spaces, with white, unblemished (you might here want to refer to the Great Indian Spitathon) walls and red brick roofs distinctly reminiscent of the Portuguese style of architecture. And this is a local body mind, a small Municipal Council. What a contrast even with the North Block.
That, however, is where the nebulous superiority ends. While we’re all familiar with the Indian Slug version, we’re also aware that most of our IAS officers tend, for the most part to be strong, vital specimens, not usually given to dropping dead. Oh no. These slugs (much like the cockroaches) will out-survive any final cataclysmic, nuclear armageddon that may threaten the politicians.
The Sri Lankan versions are not for the faint of heart; to typify an encounter with these administrators as alarming would be to call Tiramisu a sweet with a few extra calories. Or (and you KNOW I’m talking about you…) to call Mayonnaise a dressing with a dash of oil. At first sight, a perfectly rational person would be forgiven for trying to rush to the aid of what must indeed be roomfuls of Egyptian mummies with a severe case of over-exposure to sun, sand and humidity. To paraphrase Wodehouse, you may see them steadily, but you’re unlikely to see them whole. While I’m getting bored (they speaka onlya them Singhalese, the chappie translates my words and I nod sagely at the walking talking human jig-saws), I can always resort to spot the missing feature; teeth, chin (well, with wrinkles reaching their toes, do you really think those count as chins?), roof of mouth, sense of humour...
Perhaps we really ought to be thankful for our lot. Sometimes the grass on the other side is greener simply because it’s growing on someone.
Duty Free and Duty Bound
Sri Lanka is a land of many contradictions (or perhaps, to some of those crazy Americans, contra-indications). The airport fairly buzzes with the foreign goods displayed to full effect, cajoling and luring unlucky retail-challenged hags (yes, yes, I refer to myself, go on have a laugh) to spend their last pennies and wager the last shirt off their backs (in my case, maintaining my precarious hold over a sweater in the name of dignity and the honour of the ‘Indian’ woman. God save me from the Shiv Seniks).
What hits one, as one steps outside the rarified airport atmosphere of course, is how much like home it is. Dirty, sweaty and brown at the edges. Gone is the shiny splendour (as is the retail high of having copped a deal on the much wanted and much fake, but shiny new glares). Gone are the foreign goods and the bright lights.
What remains is the everyday-ness of people. People who look, simply put, like a small section of Chennai. Largish at the roots and trunk, darkish, not-speaka-the-language-ish, and (frankly the most galling), no Surds-ish. On an offside, any utter lack of Surds from (yes, ‘from’, as in not ‘in’ my life so much as out and about it) my life always brings with it an amazing and inexplicable sense of loss. Perhaps it’s to do with a sense of familiarity with Surds, a sense of being at home and being secure that having Surds around brings. It’s about being a Delhi-ite. It’s the same way whether I’m in Bombay (now Mumbai, but well not much different is it?), Madras (now Chennai, but much the same, DUH!) or as at present, pseudo-Chennai.
The starkest difference of all though, is the sense of instability. It fairly pervades the air; as one zooms out into the night on the way from the airport to Colombo, one is stopped several times by men in tights (no, not really. Men in fatigues, but I couldn’t resist :). Passports (in my case) and National ID Cards (in the case of the driver) are produced and puzzled frowns are thrust in one’s direction (as I said, we don’t look much different from the general populace). That is of course, till the knitted brows are replaced by a sparkling grin and “Indian?”
Pleasant, though as the Men are, the duty they swear by is plain for all to see. They would not hesitate, were one not to turn up with a goodly reason for besmirching their soil, to send one and one’s luggage, on to the place where all is at peace. This feeling is carried over in the faces of the people, their habits, their life. No one objects or finds out of place the presence of police and military in every-day lives; at malls, outside hotels, restaurants, on the road. No one questions their right to stop and inspect at will. People invariably carry the National ID card; foreigners would do best to carry their Passport at all times. Blockades are put up at will; for allowing the Political Higher-Up (or, I am told by my driver, the Political Higher-Up’s brothers, with whom I share a locality) to pass by on the way to a night of revelry; or simply for the purpose of more stopping and inspecting.
In Delhi, we would have honked and created a ruckus, not to mention, given the poor, unsuspecting, innocent (!) thulla nightmares for weeks to come. Shouts of “Do you know who I AM?” would rend the night, with the sweet flowing music of a multitude of to-be road tearer-uppers leaning on their horns. Those of the loitering bent would have stepped out of the steaming vehicles to have a chat with strangers; the commonality of cursing the thulla, the light and the Higher-Up elevating them above any differences. In Colombo, people barely turn a hair; much less make someone turn in their graves long after the night is gone. The wait is swallowed without protest, without a frown, or even a muttered imprecation.
It’s Your Problem!
A rather common phrase that does the rounds in Sri Lanka is “It’s your problem medem”. The magnificence of this rather understated, and perhaps just a tad trite phrase, is the fact that it can be trotted out in any situation and is of course, invariably true. Having a taxi not show up, breaking a rather painful nail, being kicked out of the pool, being thrown in jail. It’s ALL your problem. The phrase earns the place of honour though, not due to its widespread suitability; it earns the top spot because of the beatific smile that infallibly accompanies it. Picture, if you will, the toothiest, happiest, sunniest, positively “I woke up on the best side of the bed and it’s YOUR problem”-iest grin. Now double the intensity, add cheese, a large coke and fries on the side. Now THAT’s a grin that says “It’s your problem medem”.
Who can quarrel with the justice of that?
Of Babus and Creakier Old Men
Let us not lose sight of the main purpose though. One is here to work one’s self to the bone. A chronicle that dismissed out of hand the work aspect of this trip would be both incomplete and unfaithful to its true purpose.
Everyone has seen the Indian Babus sitting smugly in their red stained, smelly, cramped offices. Those grand relics of the gigantic slug that is the administrative machinery of the country. Their Sri Lankan counterparts could easily put them to shame… they sit in beautiful colonial buildings; airy, wide, high ceilinged spaces, with white, unblemished (you might here want to refer to the Great Indian Spitathon) walls and red brick roofs distinctly reminiscent of the Portuguese style of architecture. And this is a local body mind, a small Municipal Council. What a contrast even with the North Block.
That, however, is where the nebulous superiority ends. While we’re all familiar with the Indian Slug version, we’re also aware that most of our IAS officers tend, for the most part to be strong, vital specimens, not usually given to dropping dead. Oh no. These slugs (much like the cockroaches) will out-survive any final cataclysmic, nuclear armageddon that may threaten the politicians.
The Sri Lankan versions are not for the faint of heart; to typify an encounter with these administrators as alarming would be to call Tiramisu a sweet with a few extra calories. Or (and you KNOW I’m talking about you…) to call Mayonnaise a dressing with a dash of oil. At first sight, a perfectly rational person would be forgiven for trying to rush to the aid of what must indeed be roomfuls of Egyptian mummies with a severe case of over-exposure to sun, sand and humidity. To paraphrase Wodehouse, you may see them steadily, but you’re unlikely to see them whole. While I’m getting bored (they speaka onlya them Singhalese, the chappie translates my words and I nod sagely at the walking talking human jig-saws), I can always resort to spot the missing feature; teeth, chin (well, with wrinkles reaching their toes, do you really think those count as chins?), roof of mouth, sense of humour...
Perhaps we really ought to be thankful for our lot. Sometimes the grass on the other side is greener simply because it’s growing on someone.
the Ed.
Next on the Sri Lankan Chronicles: The ape, the apartment and the damsel in distress
Small print: the Ed. shrugs off all responsibility for international incidents caused by the complete and utter lack of respect for other cultures. That's more the alter-ego's problem. All bouquets may be addressed to the homestead, mark them to Mum, she'll think I sent them.
