Lost in Knuckles - නකල්ස් හි අතරමං විය

He imagined he got lost on the dramatic day of his conception.

As a sperm, after the ejaculation from his father’s penis, into his mother’s vagina, together with his fellow brother and sister sperms as they swam fanatically like blind tiny tadpoles into the cavernous uterus, and he believed in one defining and momentous moment, everybody turned left, and he alone turned right and swam along the fallopian tube, and found his mother’s egg, just like Prince Philip found Sleeping Beauty, more by fortune than fate. But surely, he was lost that day, and the circumstance would play out numerous times in the small sperm’s life, in his later transformed life, getting lost and finding fortune – it would be his fate. He was the Christopher Columbus sperm that day, falling off the flat table edge of the world, to discover his North American egg and fortune by chance.

The miracle of conceiving.

Crawling over the bat’s shit in the dark tunnel entrance to the cave, he realized his weekend trip had reached its nadir. Sid had shot ahead. His younger, lean, and lithe body crawled through the small tunnel cavity like a hungry hunting badger after flying mice. The crawl space was no more than two feet in height, and all Joe could feel under his hands, and knees, his body was the gritty bat droppings. He sensed the stubborn granite confines above and to the sides, as his reptilian gait slowly dragged his body towards the huge opening edifice of the dark and dank cave. The darkening of his fears in the claustrophobic tunnel was beginning to edge into panic, as he finally entered the wide opening of the huge bat cave. It was disappointing after all the effort in the limited crawl space, the cave with its many tiny crevices hid most of the sleeping bats, the only evidence that thousands of creatures were nesting in the cave, was the mountain of their droppings on the floor like a huge ant’s nest, with their rancid and pungent smell.

Sid hurried Joe back into the tunnel space with the next item on the trip, by pronouncing.

“Let’s go, I want to show you the snakes.”

Sid’s curated week-end trip to the Central Highlands of Srilanka, the Knuckle Forest Reserve was eventful. But that was Srilanka, a surprise at every turn. Joe had been assigned a lengthy period of training and mentoring in the Land of the island (Lanka from Hindu mythology). He was assigned to twelve weeks in Srilanka, and he thought it would be a good idea to organize a Villa outside the busy city of Colombo; for his family. He started looking at locations before he traveled, Galle looked an exotic location by the shores of the Indian Ocean. He found out that the driving authorities of Srilanka required an international driving license, so he applied for the document before he left the shores of the UK.

The first free weekend he had available he organized a rental car to explore the south of the island, with the intention of finding first an ideal location for his family, and then the availability of a Villa in the vicinity. This was the plan, as he set out at dawn for Galle. On the map it indicated the distance was no more than 90 miles along the coastal road, he expected to reach the seaside town before midday. He had witnessed the bumper-to-bumper traffic from the airport to the city that should have warned him of what was to come. After one hour’s drive he hadn’t reached the outskirts of the city. This was before the new motorways were built that now circle the island. This was the old coastal road, a single lane, which was expanded by invading traffic into three chaotic but illegitimate lanes, in both directions; bicycles, motorbikes, cars, buses, so many buses, and cars, wrestled for a piece of the tarmac. It was the antipathy to the definition of highway cruising, as buses, trucks overloaded with goods bullied for that single lane, overtaking with the recklessness of speedway track. Driving etiquette was for the brave and foolhardy. By midday Joe hadn’t reached the midway point, Galle seemed hours away. Looking around at the vistas of the aquamarine blue of the ocean was impossible as invading traffic constantly entered and engaged from all sides, honking, and swerving buses with baggage strapped high on roofs fought for a meter of precious road. Any lapse of concentration would be catastrophic. Sometimes he passed elephants plodding along, or cattle being herded, the term public thoroughfare had new meaning in the Land of the Island, as the never-ending drive to Galle remained in the distance, an elusive dot on the map. It was an exhausting and unpleasant experience. The idea of locating his family to Galle for the summer dissipated with every passing hour, every passing mile was a victory of endurance, the plan for his family to join dissipated like the hot fumes from his exhaust pipe as it cooled in the ambient temperatures of the daytime air.

He eventually entered the fortress port of Galle, a shattered man from the unexpected rigours and turmoil of the journey. He had planned to visit Yala nature reserve, leaving Galle in the late afternoon, he did attempt the sojourn, but with the light fading fast, he needed a roof over his head that night. At least the traffic was considerably less chaotic east of Galle, as the dark of the night loomed overhead. He saw a sign for a possible night’s refuge, Paramulla Temple - guests welcome. The turning from the main road took him along a dirt-track towards the sea. To his surprise he entered a temple-like construction with some outbuildings. He staggered away from the rental car, hoping that the temple would shelter this weary and fatigued gypsy – lost and uncomfortable again. Walking into one of the buildings, it was empty, candle-lit, and had a bare austere appearance. Finally, a little woman appeared, and without any ceremony checked Joe into the monastic surroundings. She escorted him to his room, there was not a living soul around, so peaceful. They came to one of the buildings, it was like a stable, with a row of doors. Opening the door, he was surprised to see a bed, a small reading table, and a chair, nothing else. Bare whitewashed walls, and a small window high above on the rear wall, and a toilet, and a crude shower unit. The room was lit again with a large candle. As she closed the door leaving him in the room, there was one thought on his mind – bed and sleep.

The dawn light, and the sound of birds greeted his opening eyes, but he heard another unfamiliar sound, that of a saxophone. Was he dreaming? He went out of his room to investigate. There in front of him on the porch of an adjacent larger building, was a Buddhist monk, certainly his appearance in a regalia of robes hinted of a Buddhist monk, playing a bright brass saxophone, his upper body swaying to his musical exertions. He stopped playing. It wasn’t at the sudden appearance of Joe from his room, he had finished his rendition. He looked over, and gave Joe a friendly smile, and then said.

“Welcome to our monastery, prayers will start shortly in the main hall, and then breakfast will be served, and after breakfast, the mediation class will commence outside in the mediation platform to your right.” Pointing with his free hand, the other hand still pressing against the saxophone brass keys.

Joe didn’t reply. He thought about the prayers, and gave it a miss, but breakfast sounded nourishing, His adventurous, nosey spirit was aroused, as he investigated the grounds of the temple. The buildings of the temple hid a beautiful lawned expanse and a well-kept garden, slowly dropping down to a row of tall trees, mysteriously hiding an open view of the Indian Ocean. In the middle of the lawn was a large swimming pool. It was an unexpected, but pleasant surprise, the invitation to explore, and walk down to the thrashing thunderous waves below was impossible to refuse. Walking past the tall waving trees buffeted by the sea breeze, Joe stepped onto the empty beach. It was paradise. Outcrops of rocks stood like sentinels against the crashing waves, and in the distance, he could see the local fisherman perched high on their poles above the water, simple cane rods and small nets looking downwards for their catch. It was the most tranquil scene that would live in his memory for a lifetime, it wiped away the tiring road rage from the previous day. Paramulla temple was the closest place he had been to a heaven-like world on earth in all his living days as a transformed sperm.

He swam in the pool, it was filled with sea water, a truly environmentally friendly, and sustainable ambience.

It was time to leave on the dreaded return journey. He bid his farewells to the little lady, and head monk now without his saxophone. They encouraged him to return, apparently, they have guests from all over the world seeking peaceful solitude. He agreed with their comments, about the place being a sanctuary for the soul. A perfect respite from the challenges, which lay ahead.

His working days were in a towering building overlooking the old habour area of Colombo, with imagination one could easily visualize the busy habour in the yesteryears of the 19th century with wooden masted vessels loading and unloading their goods, the tea clippers sheltering from those tempestuous ocean journeys of long ago. Now it was a stagnant remnant of the past, overgrown with vegetation and trees leaning towards the water, and allowing shade and shelter for the pelicans, storks, and large sea birds. The building where he worked had a small array of shops, small restaurants, and a busy coffee shop, with its chairs and tables scattered within and outside the business entrances to attract the passing traffic inside the small mall. Joe often took coffee there, it was his type of coffee shop, with a “bring and take” bookshelf, free newspapers, to keep the customers entertained. There was a small noticeboard, where anybody could pin up their advertisements. Joe often stood, pondering, reviewing the notices pinned up for a passerby to peruse. One notice caught his attention and interest, one day, it read.

“Visit Knuckles and the Central Highlands with Sid” with a repeated telephone number that you pulled from the bottom of the notice.

It was a communique sent from the Gods, provoking the mind and soul of the simple and lost children on earth, particularly Joe. The blind sperm transformed into a human body, fodder for any adventure, where being lost and uncomfortable nurtured and stirred the soul.

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Part of an anthropology of stories – “Chronicles of a Working Life.”