On Blessings and Curses..

Life brings you quite a lot of surprises. All the time. Sometimes good, and other times bad, I mean really BADD. I’m not going to throw some worn out advices on how to cope with them, since I’m not so good at it either. I remember when I opened the luggage for the first time in my room, (it was past midnight and I was extremely exhausted after a long journey), I found out that the two pickle jars (Sinhalese vegetable acharu and Lunu Miris) I brought were broken and spilled all over my clothes. Those were the only SriLankan food I brought to Sweden, in case I became nostalgic. Looking at the suitcase, for a moment I wasn’t sure whether to worry about the ruined clothes or the ever lost pickles. Then I broke into tears. I still don’t know if I was crying for the clothes or the pickles, or for leaving my better-half behind, or for the lonely 10 months that lie ahead. Nevertheless, I cried, and cried and cried. But you know, I’m a very practical girl, I just don’t sit and cry or lie down and cry, I clean and cry, I wash the clothes and cry, I arrange my room and cry. After everything’s done, and eyes are out of tears, sleep will eventually take over. Then you can happily flash into a dreamy world. Now, that’s how you survive this not-so-pleasant-always life. Whatever happens, life must go on; and on; and on. There’s nothing wrong with crying or losing your mind. When you gotta freak out, you freak out. And then, do whatever you have to do and move on.

Then comes the good times, which toss you up in the air, and make you feel great about everything. The girl who lived in the same room before me, was an angel, or so I’d like to believe. Maybe she was psychic and knew a broke girl would move in after her, so left tons of useful things behind, including a quilt, pillow, laundry detergent, sleeping bag, weighing machine, extra towels, and some really nice TEA, actually the list goes on. For the first few days, it was like a treasure hunt in the room, closet and kitchen cupboards.. Not many other students were lucky as me, they had to buy everything on their own. This room was not that bad after all!

There are some other times when you are not exactly sure how to feel or react, and could not make up your mind if it’s a blessing or a curse. Since the moment I decided to travel to Scandinavia, I had this strange feeling that grows in the stomach, travels upward and get stuck in the throat, which obviously I could not avoid. It was a very different feeling, not similar to the one I had when leaving Sri Lanka for the first time. From Colombo, I directly went to Toronto - a very colourful city, where you can find people from almost all the different ethnic groups that exist in the world. Maybe I am exaggerating a little. But only a little. With the large Tamil population living in Scarborough, it’s almost impossible to feel nostalgic, even if you tried. The first few weeks, I had to remind myself that I am in Canada, and did not move back to Jaffna.

Unlike Jaffna, Colombo, the city where I grew up, and where my first childhood memories bloomed, has a quite heterogeneous population though not comparable to Toronto. I was born a Hindu but went to a Catholic school, my parents are from Jaffna but most of my friends were Indian/Colombo Tamils, Sinhalese or Muslims. I was very fluent in both Sinhala and Tamil so was able to travel around the city even when times were tough. As far as I remember, I wasn’t very attached to our hometown, Jaffna, since it was too far away, and by this, I do not refer to physical distance but the cultural one. Maybe because it was detached from rest of the country for a long time due to the armed conflict, or maybe it’s just the way it is. So, by moving to Toronto, where a large proportion of Tamil diaspora resides, who are mostly from Jaffna, or the surrounding parts, and whose concept of culture/home was frozen at a time when they left the country – which I believe usually happens with all the diaspora communities, I was able to witness the construction of ‘a home outside the home’. I saw Scarborough as a replica of Jaffna – a landscape recreated; ‘the home’ was everywhere, in the names of the stores, the temples, the food. Well, the problem was, that wasn’t ‘my home’. There were traditional Tamil foods and things that you couldn’t even find in Colombo, which I never saw in Colombo.

Identities – a baggage you have to always carry with yourself, whether you like it or not. I imagine myself as a girl carrying a heavy bag of masks. Different, but colourful masks. Depending on the time, place and circumstances you put the mask that best suits you. It was a lot difficult in Colombo, because the mask you want to wear may not always be compatible with what the society imposes on you. Or what the documents say about you. I am a Tamil from Colombo, but for them, I am a Tamil from Jaffna. I say ‘this is where I belong to’, but they say ‘no, you’re not’. In general, one might tend to think what difference would it make, if you’re a Tamil, you’re a Tamil. But no, it makes all the difference in Sri Lanka. It is what defines if you’re terrorist or not, it is what defines if you’re with us or them. But sadly I was never able to find a place in Sri Lanka, where I was considered into the group of ‘us’. When I travelled to Jaffna, people always identified me as someone from Colombo, but in Colombo I was always from Jaffna. So this is where the masks come in handy. You change your dialect, put on the mask, and there you are, one of ‘us!’ There are times when the mask doesn’t work, for instance, when you cross a checkpoint where they don’t care about your masks, only your id, and you get caught off-guard.

When I moved to Toronto, I had to rearrange the masks, for the Tamil diaspora and the mainstream society. Think I had a hard time with the Tamil community and not the rest of the society because, for others you’re just a Sri Lankan Tamil. It’s clearly defined. Period. But things get complicated within the group you belong to, or wanted to belong to. After much struggle, at some point, I lost the tendency to be included into the group of ‘us’. I was too tired. I wanted to be let alone. I wanted to show that I was different, and the Sri Lanka I know was different from theirs. Even yet, I could not live up to the expectations of how a recently migrated girl from Sri Lanka should look, act, and behave. I couldn’t cook a proper meal, didn’t know how to wear a saree, didn’t observe any religious practices, and didn’t care about the culture/tradition. The masks I carried in my baggage clashed with one another, crushed, and became worn out. I tried to make new masks to suit the new me, the responsibilities and duties come along with the new me. But I think I failed miserably. It’s not something that could be explained in plain words. Maybe I’ll try it again some other time but I know it’s not gonna work. Never.

And then I decided to travel to Scandinavia, a region quite homogenous compared to Canada, which does not have prolonged experience of migration from different parts of the world. I started to have this strange feeling since I know my masks have given up on me. This time it’s different. There’s no way I could get into the group of ‘us’. After all I’m a coloured girl, among a predominantly white population. I’ve heard people say that it’s good to be different, so you’ll get more attention. I am not the type of a girl who wants to draw attention all to her. I am more of an invisible personality, who enjoys staying in the background and observing silently. But not anymore. All these days, I am constantly reminded of Foucault’s (is that Foucault, uh my poor memory) idea of ‘gaze’. ‘visibility.’ In the classrooms, dinners, parties, dance floors, it follows everywhere. It doesn’t mean that people here are rude and stare at you all the time. No, it’s nothing like that. As Foucault (uh, is that Foucault?) explains, it’s the internal fear of being visible. Of course, you get a lot of attention, and arouse curiosity.

But would you call it a blessing or a curse?

The baggage, full of identities, different colourful identities, each of them defines a part of you, without one you cannot be the whole, and strangely enough, you cannot wear them all. New ones pop out of the bag when you travel to new places and surprise you, even when you’re not aware that you had it within you all along. Then some get lost along the way, and you throw out some away. But it’s the beautiful bag that you can never leave behind.

Huh, it almost sounded like a poem, written by a girl of her candy bag. Wow, I’m getting good at itJ

Of Times and Places..

When I get introduced to new people in Uppsala, there’s a question that I always encounter: Why did you select Sweden/Uppsala of all the countries/universities? It’s mostly the Swedes who ask, international students, they already know their answer. The truth, I don’t know. It just happened. York, my home university, has exchange partnerships with over 100 universities around the world, which involves at least 50 countries! That’s quite a huge list to select from. During the long, exhausting process of applying for international exchange, for no reason, I was struck by the name ‘Uppsala’. There was something in that name which aroused my curiosity, made me research a little more about the university and the surrounding town, and in no time I made up my mind that it’s the ONE!

I’m an anthropology student, no wonder I get excited over old things and old places! Uppsala University was the first university ever built in Scandinavia, somewhere around the 1400’s, the school of some prominent figures like Andres Celsius, Carl Linnaeus, and many other Nobel prize winners, well also, the present Swedish crown princess!! The town of Uppsala, with its beautiful cathedral, where the Archbishop of Church of Sweden resides, has been the religious capital of Sweden for quite a long time. Even before that, during the Viking period, Uppsala has been a popular pilgrimage center. Three ancient royal burial mounds are located in Gamla Uppsala (meaning ‘old’ Uppsala) and every year, I heard, a pagan religious festival is still held at a temple near these burial mounds. Apart from all these exciting facts, situated in this small charming town (well the Swedes don’t consider it a small town, as they say, it’s the 4^th largest town/city in Sweden, but for someone from rushing, highly populated cities like Colombo or Toronto, this is nothing but something between a village and a town), is a castle, botanical garden founded by Linnaeus, and an impressive library called ‘Carolina Redviva’. Besides, one should fall in love with this place simply for the architectural excellence of its buildings. Anyways, these are mere facts, the real magic of Uppsala is in the air, is in its own unique traditions, and its hills and slopes.

Well, now I think, though unintentionally, I’m giving you a rather romantic picture of a girl, strolling along the parks, and cobbled streets of a charming old town, enjoying every breath of life, getting excited about its calmness, old-ness, and uniqueness. In part, it’s kinda exactly what’s happening, but life, in general, always comes with its own practicalities. I arrived in Uppsala, exactly at 12 o’clock midnight. That’s not a very good time to arrive in a new town, except if you’re too interested in the ghosts of the town, and wanted to explore the haunted side of it. In that case, it’s just perfect. But not for me. After an exhausting journey which took more than 24 hours and not sleeping a wink, with delays at Toronto Pearson and Keflavik airports (Iceland), and the anxiety of being in a new place, all I wanted to do is to get to my room and just lie down. But as I sat down on the bed, and looked around the room, emptiness, sheer emptiness weighed heavily upon me and a voice cried inside, ‘No, I don’t want to be alone, now get me out of here’.. It was then I realized how much I hate to be alone in my own room, how much I detest sleeping alone in my own bed.

Yes, of course, journeys break the myths you have about yourself. The myth I had of me, as a girl wanting to be independent, alone and manage ‘things’ on her own, pathetically shattered into pieces. That was the first lesson I learned about ‘myself’ in Uppsala: that I simply want a little space of my own, in a larger shared space. That’s it. Period.

In a strange way, the place I live now, is not so bad at all. Called ‘Flogsta’, this area filled with student residences (high-rise buildings), is popular in Uppsala for its 10 o’clock screaming, otherwise referred to as ‘the stress buster’. It’s one of the strange student traditions of Uppsala. Every night, at 10pm, not even 09:59, exactly at 10, people open their windows and scream until they lose their voice. It’s creepy when you hear it for the first time, but fortunately, I was warned beforehand by my corridor-mate. And then you get used to it, just like getting used to the beeping of an alarm clock, after sometime you won’t even notice but continue with your thing. Whenever you meet some other student at the university and tell them you’re from Flogsta, you usually get a smile back and hear them say, ‘I heard some really interesting things about Flogsta’. Well, other than that, living in a corridor can be quite interesting. We get to meet many people and never feel too lonely. I share a corridor with 11 others; most of them are Swedish, and students. Since we all share a common kitchen, there will be someone in there always no matter when you go in, so you can have a little chat, peek into others’ dishes, and try to steal their recipes if you’re really into cooking. It’s a nice and warm environment, and Swedes I’ve met so far, are nothing like what I’ve heard of them before coming here. Well, at the least, I have to be faithful to the Swedish girl next door who made me strawberry pie and the guy who shared a cup of rice when I forgot to buy some!

However, it’s still too lonely, in the room. For someone who grew up in a small house with two siblings, with lots of fun, and fights, it’s hard to bear the emptiness, the quietness filled in the air of this room. We were used to sharing things.. Though I hated it most of the times and badly wanted to be on my own, now that I’m alone with no ‘sharing/shared’ responsibilities, I understand the price one has to pay for being alone, ‘independent’. It strikes you quite hard, when having to eat a really nice dinner all alone, with no one to share it, and especially when it’s chicken biriyani, which surprisingly turned out quite good. Not many of my corridor-mates can stand the spicy biriyani, the two guys who tasted it the last time would probably never want to taste it again, so I didn’t ask. Well, they might accept it out of politeness but why torture them?

Now.. now.. This is not what I intended to write here, at least in this page. But as I always say, human mind is a very special thing, so is life, you can’t expect them to follow your schedules, or act according to your plans. They never listen, like a strong-willed stubborn kid! I was gonna narrate the story of this girl, first time travelling to Scandinavia, who was afraid of this awkward feeling of whiteness surrounding her, engulfing her, but then I lost myself at ‘chicken biriyani!’

Works of human mind..

What do you call a traveler who can’t say goodbye?

It’s going to be two weeks, exactly at 12am, since I arrived in Uppsala. I can’t believe it is two weeks already. Feels like I have been here forever, at least a few months. Life is strange.. last days in Toronto seems a distant reality, not something happened two weeks ago. It is funny how easily our mind gets used to new environments, places and people, at times when you least expect it to happen. I have always been fascinated by travel writings, well needless to say that most of them were by men (though I found a wonderful anthology of women travelers), but they always promote the same image of a lonely traveler passing by, without any regrets, or memories of the past haunting along the journey. They don’t feel sad about the places they had just left, they are always excited about the places they will visit next.. and they only carry memories, beautiful, pleasant, sometimes adventurous but not so dangerous or painful memories. I wanted to be that traveler. I imagined myself as one of them. Never, ever would I have suspected that my travel journal would start with tears, and continue with sadness, pain and melancholy.

Oh, melancholy.. what a beautiful word that is.. I first came across the word ‘melancholy’, maybe that was not my first encounter with the word, but when that word particularly struck me, was when reading Ivan Turgenev’s translated short story ‘Asya’. The author describes of a calm quiet evening, (this I recall from my memory since I don’t have the book with me to recheck), when the protagonist was sitting under a lemon tree by the river, hearing music and merry voices of partying people in the distance, feeling the soft breeze on his cheek, when for no reason he becomes suddenly overshadowed with the feeling of melancholy. Well, as a reader you read, but grasping the feeling, the true meaning (if there’s such), not necessarily. But there I was, on a plane named ‘Hengil’, looking at the distant lights beneath, and the clouds that obscure the landscape, overcoming with the feeling of melancholy!

Maybe I should start narrating the story from the beginning.. It’s not a very beautiful story but not a very ugly one either. Maybe there is no point in narrating this story, maybe that’s why I didn’t want to write it for two weeks, maybe no one will be interested in reading it. But I can assure that it’s going to be different, different than the popular travel journals/writings of a happy-go-traveler, because this traveler did not want to travel. Well, that was not the entire case, she wanted to, as much as she did not want to. You know, human mind is quite a complex thing. You can never try to draw boundaries or try to fit that into certain clearly labelled boxes. So when I say, this traveler wanted to travel as much as she did not want to, you should understand that this is not the only case, there is a subsequent pattern.. well you will understand it quite clearly when you come to the part where ‘she wants to be alone, as much as she does not want to be alone!’ So let’s skip it for now.

People say that you learn so much about yourself, apart from the things outside yourself, through journeys. If I have learned anything, anything at all, from previous journeys is that I’m no traveler, at least not in a sense how the word ‘traveler’ denotes certain kinds of personalities or attitudes. Me? No.. Never.., though I badly wanted to be one, though I badly wanted to feel the earth sliding beneath my feet. I still remember the day when I left SriLanka, I kept reminding myself that I am off to an adventure and will be back in no time. But somewhere, somewhere deep in my heart I knew that I won’t be back, at least not for a while. I remember the wrinkles on amma’s face, (they were ‘sad’ wrinkles not ‘old’ wrinkles cuz amma never gets old! She still boasts about not having a single grey hair) I know she was sad though she pretended to hide it, because she knew I’ll be gone forever. Appa never suspects anything.. I remember the grey hair on the sides, his smile, the proud and also painful look in his eyes.. I was his favourite girl!! Akka and thambi used to push me to get anything from dad, let it be some pocket money, going to a movie, dinner at a restaurant, or shopping for some treats at Cargills supermarket. He never said no to me. And I didn’t tell him that I won’t be back. I didn’t tell him that his little girl is now grown up and going away. I didn’t cry then, at the airport, but I do now, when thinking back every now and then. I so wish I had said good-bye! I so wish I had said sorry! I so wish…

So you might have an idea right now.. It’s a story of a girl who regrets leaving people and memories behind, who feels sorry that she did/didn’t do certain things.. though off to an adventure, the strong presence of melancholy shadows her along the way. As a little girl picking up seashells along the shore, she collects memories of the past, good or bad, happy or sad, carefully wrapping them in her little flowing skirt.

Now, what do you call a traveler who can’t say goodbye, who can’t leave the past behind?

What do you call her?