My late father used to say after he turned 70 that it was time for him to stop reading to reflect on everything he had read. I feel the same now having worked hard these last few days absorbing a shedload of interesting history, religion and ancient architecture. My head feels full. I am glad that today is the last day of sightseeing.

We treated ourselves to a swim and a bit of lie-in on the poolside loungers. After a breakfast of coconut roti with sambal, eggs and fresh tropical fruits washed down with flavoursome Ceylon tea, we were ready for the UNESCO registered world heritage site of the tabletop rock mountain of Sigiriya built by King Kashyapa in the 5th century. Our driver had warned us that yesterday’s gruesome climb up to the rock cave temple at Dambolla was nothing compared to what lie in store for us at Sigiriya. My stented heart beat that much faster listening to him.

Looking up at the 180m high rock fortress with 2000 steps filled me with dread. Noting the average age of people attempting the climb made me sweat. I couldn’t find many of my vintage. Strange and morbid thoughts crossed my mind – How would I be carried down the narrow steps if I collapsed? Are there helicopters for medical evacuation? We had turned down several guides and were doing this on our own. So, no local knowledge or help either.

Then I remembered my own advice to a young student at Sheffield University in the mid 90s where I was a mature MSc student. He used to worry so much during exams that despite being very clever, he invariably failed. I had counselled him,
“What’s the worst that could happen to you?”
After he responded with various scenarios including failing the course, his father stopping funding, he being jobless for ever and so on, I said to him,
“No. The worst thing that could happen is you could die.”
I don’t know whether that advice worked but he stopped talking to me after that.

So now it was time for me to try my own medicine. Yes, I could die. So what, I said to myself without a lot of conviction. And it did feel like that a quarter of the way up as I panted like a dog and my head spun. Then it settled down. Halfway up at the plateau with the giant lion paws, I felt refreshed and the breathing became normal. The fear of death had disappeared and was replaced with the vigour of youth.

The caressing breeze and delightful panaromic views, the distant white statue of the Buddha standing out amidst the verdant hills, terraced gardens with ingeniously engineered water features and concealed interconnecting conduits, soothed my fears which seemed insignificant in the midst of all this grandeur.

We spent a lot of time at the summit admiring the ruins of palaces and gouged out reservoirs with breathtaking 360 degree views of the lush vegetation all around and the water gardens below. We were glad to have visited the dedicated museum before we embarked on the ascent. It gave us a better appreciation of what we saw. To add to the drama, a monkey snatched a slab of chocolate from Raju’s bag.

Going down was a lot easier than going up and we returned to the car, but not before grabbing a few beers – no, just joking. We did get some fresh musambi juice on the way down. By dusk, we arrived at our final stop in Sri Lanka – a beach resort north of Colombo where we said goodbye to our wonderful driver and companion for the trip, Buddhika Sadaruwan.

I look forward to some deep relaxation for the next two days. But, Raju is already talking about the lagoons of Negombo only a few kilometres from the resort! As a wise Indian mechanic on one of my ships said, “There is no rest for man or ox.”

Every time I visit a place of historic interest, the thought occurs to me: does a tourist guide exist anywhere who really knows what he or she is talking about? I have mostly come across guides who know a little bit about everything, who parrot off what they know in a robotic manner, struggle to answer questions sensibly and are more often than not, poorly paid. (An exception was the guide we employed recently in Istanbul).

Our guide yesterday in Mihintale claimed to speak English and he did sound confident and erudite, but I could only get half of what he said in his own version of the English language. When I don’t employ a guide, I am racked by a sense of missed opportunities, of having traveled all the way and then not appreciating the significance of the place – like visiting the Louvre and not seeing the Mona Lisa. However, when I use the services of a guide, I feel like I could have had a much fuller, richer experience had I only taken the time to do some self-study in advance! What a conundrum!

What I really need is someone with a good university education in history and archaeology of the area and a good command of a language I understand. But then the tourist guide profession is poorly paid and most people won’t be able to afford the services of a guide with a PhD. Such a person will be scarcer than hen’s teeth, as they say.

Considering there are AI tools available which understand natural language and know everything about everything, I think it’s just a matter of time before this profession is replaced by machines or even an app. Perhaps there’s already one.

Having got that rant off my chest, let me describe what I saw of the ancient capital of Anuradhapura. We stopped at Kuttam Patuna commonly known as the twin ponds. Decorated with carvings of lotus and sedges, the banks were fortified with stone steps to facilitate bathing of monks. It is a marvel of hydrological engineering with two tanks, symmetrically aligned, one smaller than the other and both connected by underground pipes with an ingenious filtration system.

We then visited the Jetavanaramaya stupa, built in the 3rd century CE and is one of the tallest brick structures in the world even today. The sheer size and scale of the structure is overwhelming and the spiritual veneration displayed by the locals enhanced it from a wonderfully engineered building to a temple of peace and prayer. So was the large white Abhayagiri dagoba (a Sri Lankan term for stupa) only a short distance away.

When we visited the archaeological museum yesterday, I chanced to see a notice which said that as a mark of respect one should try and wear white when visiting places of worship. So, I donned my Kerala mundu which has the added advantage of converting it to a knee length garment by going half mast or lowering it to a more respectful full mast position. Many Lankans asked me if I was from India and I happily replied, ‘Yes, Kerala’. I’m like a chameleon changing national affiliation as it suited me! The guard at the ‘foreigners only’ toilet tried to direct me to the locals’ toilet and I said to him, “I’m a foreigner” – Indian, British, take your pick. Chameleon indeed!

I’m digressing. What little I saw of Anuradhapura makes me want to come back and spend a long time here. It has everything, engineering marvels, spirituality and a wonderfully peaceful and friendly people. People, mostly dressed in white, circumambulated the stupas chanting prayers and offering incense and flowers to the several shrines dotted around. As tourists, we felt like intruders. It felt the same at the Mahabodhi tree, the oldest documented tree in the world and a progeny of the original Bodhi tree of Lord Buddha. The menu card at the government run cafe we visited at the end of our brief glimpse of Anuradhapura was for me a metaphor for the immensely rich and diverse culture of the country and this city. It was the longest and most varied menu card I had ever seen and some of the snacks we tasted were out of this world.

We headed to Dambulla to see the rock cave temple carved from a large granite stone and dating back to the first century BCE. Although the climb up was gruelling and cramp inducing, we were just gobsmacked by the sheer scale of the statues of the Buddha, deities and kings. The walls and ceilings were covered with frescos apparently making them the largest collection of murals in southeast Asia. They looked like fabric folding over the contours of the cave ceiling and walls.

I wish I had a day to rest between each day of sightseeing. I could be my own tourist guide then with the ability to educate myself for the next day. It’s hard work, this relentless sightseeing and then writing about it in the middle of the night. I’m enjoying it though and thank you for making the effort to read it all.

The tribulations of Day 3 seem to have caught us in the wake. We realised this after arriving at the wonderful accommodation at Anuradhapura late in the evening. Despite being promised by the owner that an extra bed would be provided for my nephew and travel companion, we found the room had just one king-sized bed. In every other way, the place was ideal with just two large bedrooms, one on each floor. The building was set in the midst of a large compound on the shore of a lake. But we didn’t see the greenery nor the lake as it was dark and that was just as well because the last thing we wanted to see was more water!

The person who checked us in spoke no English and we were left to deal with him as our Sinhalese driver had left for his hotel. A sample of the conversation went,

“Where is the extra bed?”
“Bed?” He pointed at the only bed which was mine following the uncle-nephew protocol.
“No no. EXTRA bed. You promised.”

Total incomprehension. Then I discovered there was no toilet paper.

“ No toilet paper!!?”
“Finished.”
“Finished?”
“Finished.”

Checking the tea coffee supplies, I found they had not provided any milk.

“No milk? Morning tea – we need milk.”
“Milk?”
“Milk – milk for coffee tea.”
“Coffee, tea,” he responded pointing at the tray with tea bags and instant coffee but no milk.

Somehow, with great persistence we managed to communicate the extra bed issue to our man. A folding bed that looked like it’s been rescued from a junkyard was promptly provided. Raju was not impressed and a nimbus cloud settled on his face as he settled in his hammock, sorry bed.

With the help of a translation app we eventually overcame the language issues and the man returned with one roll of toilet paper and a small packet of milk (kiri). Then he gave us a phone number and said,

“Call madam.”

Madam reassured us that the bed would be replaced the next day.

The next morning, after breakfast, we drove to the Mihintale Buddhist temple complex where we hired a guide. The place was made famous by Emperor Ashoka’s son Mahinda who was brought up in the Buddhist faith and had attained the status of an Arhat or enlightened monk. He is supposed to have arrived in Sri Lanka around 250 BC and converted the king and his 40,000 subjects to Buddhism – every missionary’s dream.

Those of weak knees need not visit this place but it’s worth each of the 1000 odd steps one has to climb to reach the various places of interest within the complex. The intricate channels conducting water from Naga Potuna (Snake pond) to lower levels, the refectory where thousands of monks were fed, the present day monks – just young boys – learning the Buddhist dhamma (dharma or moral duty), the tablets inscribed in the Brahmi script and later in medieval Sinhala with details such as the remuneration to be paid for every job role ranging from dancer to keeper of relics and the living code of monks, the 60 odd stupas encasing their remains, and the dagobas, are all delightful markers of history one must not miss.

Many firsts are claimed and authenticated in the archaeology museum including the first ever requirement for an accounting system for businesses and the first hospital in the world. At Mihintale temple we witnessed another first – a cat and a deer who seemed to get along like a house on fire. We saw elderly ladies with walkers painfully negotiating the treacherous granite steps just to visit the cave where the prince turned monk slept for 48 years. Faith, as they say, moves mountains.

I was intrigued by the number of common words in Sinhala, possibly a derivative of the liturgic language Pali, and Indian languages. I must refresh my knowledge on Pali and its connection with Sanskrit, the mother of most Indian languages. I wondered if there exists an app that could list common words from languages.

We returned to our accommodation, but not before picking up a few cans of beer at an Anuradhapura wine shop which didn’t stock wine. Raju’s bed was replaced with a sturdy one and peacocks called out as dusk set in. And it didn’t rain on day 4. Things are looking up, the cyclone has hopefully moved on. The frog from day 1 and 2 seems to have followed us and is now living behind the bathroom mirror.

Day 3: Jaffna to Anuradhapura

I spoke too soon yesterday about the well drained roads. But I guess there’s a limit to how much water the land is capable of handling. The road to Anuradhapura between Kilinochi and Vavuniya was flooded – they said there could be a metre of water – stranding us for nearly 5 hours. I didn’t imagine a whole chapter would have to be devoted to the journey. Rescued from the floods, as we were speeding towards Anuradhapura, I remember the events that transpired in the five hours we struggled to get across.

Some 30 km south of Killinochi, a long line of vehicles parked to the side of the road didn’t augur well for us. We quickly realised our day was going to be long and the short distance remaining to our final destination suddenly seemed much longer. Tractors with attached trailers were doing brisk business ferrying vehicles across. The decision for us was simple: we agreed to pay what it took to be taken across. We were captive customers.

So, we found a tractor and trailer and with several people shouting directions at the hapless driver, he drove the car precariously up two narrow ramps on to the trailer. But the car’s rear wheels did not clear the ramp. Maybe reverse on to the trailer, someone suggested. Lots of shouting and hoo haa later, scraped car bottom and defeated shakes of heads, we realised our car was indeed too long. We tried two more trailers but with the same result. (I must carry a tape measure the next time.) A long trailer was the only feasible option. There was none around at the time.

Our driver took instructions from his employer and decided to try a route that circumvented the flooded section on the main road. The thought did occur to me that had the new route been clear, there would surely have been a scramble in that direction. However, not wanting to dampen hopes, I kept my thought to myself. Logic and elementary physics didn’t play much of a role in the desperate scramble to get away.

We drove along a muddy track into deep jungle and I quickly connected the dots. This was exactly the area where the Tamil Tigers had hidden during the civil war. We were deep in the forests extending from Killinochi to Vavuniya. I was told by someone in the ‘know’ that the forests didn’t exist anymore. But how wrong he was! He obviously had only travelled along the main roads and never had to navigate around a flooded patch.

Serendipity, what else! I rejoiced internally that I got to experience a bit of the jungle where some decades ago the tigers had indulged in guerrilla warfare. Externally, I maintained a worried expression. Frankly, I didn’t care when I reached my destination. Our current adventure was sufficiently stimulating.

We soon discovered a stranded truck ahead of us. The flooding was worse in the direction we were heading. Turning around, we headed for the main road. And then the car made a loud scraping noise. A protective shield under the car had partially detached itself. Over the next half hour the driver tried to fix it. Finally he laid on the ground and deftly manoeuvred the cover back in place with a stick. Meanwhile, I scanned the jungle for wild elephants and the ghosts of Tigers. We were soon back on the main road, hungry and exhausted. The line of desperate vehicles grew longer, rain came down heavier and water levels rose further.

We were impressed by the calm and disciplined behaviour of the stranded drivers and their passengers despite their travails. They walked around discussing the matter at hand in a mixture of Sinhala and Tamil. No raised voices, no queue jumping, no fighting, just stoic acceptance of the situation and a lot of hopeful upward glances for any signs of the rain letting up. Man lives by hope, as they say.

Children and some compassionate adults rescued stranded fish from the road and deposited them back in the water. Most people smiled!

Then out of nowhere came a tractor with a long trailer and offered to take us across for 5000 Lankan rupees – some £14! As we crossed, the thought occurred to me that whatever we understand about global warming and the disasters waiting for us around the corner, whatever we may say about the drowning planet that our grandchildren would inherit, however much we empathise with the loss of homes and livelihood of those at the cold front, the true impact of global warming genuinely comes home only when it actually happens to us. Like the gradual creeping in of the symptoms of a chronic desease, it comes ever so slowly, but come it surely does.

The rain was relentless, non-stop, as if it were a permanent state of weather. Yet, the roads remained well drained allowing us to continue our discovery unhindered. We were the only tourists probably because of the rain but also because Jaffna is not on the average tourist’s itinerary. I am surprised it is not, considering its history, both recent and distant.

The Nallur Kandaswamy Kovil, originally built in 982 AD, destroyed by the Portuguese Taliban, sorry colonialists, and rebuilt in 1732, was our first stop. I went there not to pray to Murugan son of Siva, but because it was the site where Thileepan, a Tamil Tiger fasted to death for the Tamil cause. There’s no shrine to him, at least none that found its place in the annals of the tourism department. Everyone in Jaffna wants to forget the civil war, and that can only be a good thing.

Shorts were not permitted inside the temple and neither were upper body garments. One had to cover the knees and bare the chest (this is a restriction only for men, so don’t get excited – the lascivious amongst you – this is a temple to God not a nudist beach). Fortunately, a shop outside lent vethis (a type of sarong) to the devout free of charge. I draped it over my shorts and played the part. Smearing my body with holy ash, I emulated the devotees who milled around chanting Oom and folding hands in complete supplication to the gods. Even though I had lost my faith as a child, I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience a sense of wellbeing inside the temple, perhaps vicariously, but experience something I did, however briefly.

We headed to Point Perdro, Sri Lanka’s northernmost point. The rain and wind lashed and howled turning umbrellas inside out and defeating the waterproof guarantee of my shoes. The sea raged on, roaring and frothing as if not wishing to be outdone by the the rain. In compensation, we had the whole place to ourselves and enjoyed, rather perversely, not having to vie with tourists for selfies at vantage points. Point Pedro was ours alone. And I did experience that sense of awe and reverence once again, this time by the overwhelming power of nature on display.

Keerimalai was the next stop. A ‘bottomless well of fresh water springs’, it is the place which cures ailments if you immerse yourself in the pristine water right next to the sea. On our way there, we saw a crocodile on the road. It had strayed out of the river and was captured by the villagers. It lay there defeated while a crowd gathered in front of our eyes. People, all instant reporters, spread the news with their phones. Tuktuks, multicoloured umbrellas and toddlers firmly deposited on parents’ shoulders jostled with each other to catch a glimpse of the poor creature. I resisted an urge to pat the helpless animal and whisper some comforting words. The last thing I wished for was a selfie with a tethered crocodile. It must have sensed my empathy for it blinked and moved its tail in response.

Kankesanturai port was our original destination in Jaffna district when we planned to travel here from India by ferry. However, the monsoon season put an end to those plans. We reached there eventually by road. The rain stopped briefly as we were finishing lunch. It was as if the gods had relented a bit for our benefit. We could actually go outside without raincoats and look across Palk Strait in the direction of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu, India.

We continued to Dambakola Patuna where a sapling of the bodhi tree beneath which Siddhartha Gautama achieved enlightenment to become the Buddha, was brought from India in 250 BCE. Theri Sanghamita, the sister of the bodhisattva who introduced Theravada Buddhism to Sri Lanka, transported the sapling in a boat or so the posters informed me and to reinforce it there was a model of the boat floating about in the area. Just standing near the tree, to partake the sheer spiritual and historical significance, I felt immensely privileged.

Our final stop was Jaffna Fort, built by the invading Portuguese stolen by the invading Dutch and stolen again by the invading British. It was handed back to the Sri Lankans in 1948. Despite all the invasions, the fort has bravely withstood the ravages of pillage, plunder and civil war. In that sense it has served a purpose and borne silent witness to centuries of colonial crime.

We were glad to be back in our dry accommodation but not before picking up a couple of beers which we drank to the background music of Hindustani classical music by Kumara Gandharva overlaid by the incessant croaking of frogs. The music we could switch off but not the frogs which kept up the din until dawn. It sounded like they were chanting Muruga Muruga Muruga or was it just my guilt manifesting itself for pretending to be a believer amongst those of true faith?

We arrived at Jaffna airport in a turbo propelled plane from Chennai. The northeast monsoon had set in and a cyclonic storm was in play. A row of airport staff welcomed us with colourful umbrellas and we passed from the shelter of one umbrella to the next until we got into the bus. The immigration officer could not reconcile my newly grown beard with the clean shaven look in the passport. He glanced repeatedly from my face to my passport and back at my face until I began to feel dizzy. After establishing that I hadn’t come to settle down in Sri Lanka on a permanent basis, he let me through.

I had purchased an eSIM that allowed data usage. In theory I could call our driver but in practice, I had to walk around outside the airport among the small cluster of taxis until I spotted a driver who looked as anxious as me scanning the faces for his Indian British customer.

The drive to our accommodation was eventless until our car stopped dead in the middle of the road. From the rear seat, I asked the driver why he had stopped.

“Mutton!” he said.

Craning my neck, I saw a black and white goat in the middle of the road. If he stayed there long enough, the distinction between goat and mutton would only be academic.

Yesterday, I removed the portrait of Gandhi from my wall and hung it upside down. The black and white photograph was purchased in Lima, Peru, some 25 years ago when I roamed the world as a marine engineer. There is an inscription in Spanish at the bottom of the portrait. It translates to, “The truth must manifest in our words, thoughts and actions”. The implication of upturning the portrait on the wall has turned my life upside down too. Why am I being so dramatic?

Growing up in India, I basked in the God like aura of this great man. He was beyond politics, almost every Indian town has a road named after him, a Gandhi statue is the standard adornment to public squares, and one cannot escape the ubiquitous Gandhi portrait with his trademark glasses smiling beatifically from the walls of every government building. Such is the esteem he is held in that we never mentioned his name without the honorific ‘Mahatma’ or the respectful suffix ‘ji’. It was either Mahatma Gandhi or Gandhiji for us, never Gandhi on its own. When I was 15 years old, my father offered me 100 rupees to read Gandhi’s autobiography, ‘The Story of My Experiments with Truth’. I don’t remember much of it. However, the fundamental beauty of the concepts of truth and ahimsa (non-violence) remained with me. Gandhi was my idol and I strived all my life to follow his principles. 

Everything changed for me with the murder of Geroge Floyd and the worldwide agitation that followed. I chanced upon an article on the BBC website, “Was Gandhi a racist?” The article was about a controversial new book[1] by two South African academicians of Indian ethnicity. Reading the book was equivalent to falling into a bottomless chasm. The edifices of my life came tumbling down, Gandhi’s antics in South Africa and his approach to race relations shocked and appalled me. His unrestrained contempt for the native African population left me reeling in disappointment. I had never, even remotely, suspected that Gandhi was a racist. Or was I being too harsh in my 21^st century judgement of the value systems of the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries? I hope to resolve this question here. But before that, let me quote below from the ‘South African Gandhi …’.

… both the English and the Indians spring from a common stock, called the Indo-Aryan … A general belief seems to prevail in the Colony that the Indians are little better, if at all, than savages or the Natives of Africa … the Indian is being dragged down to the position of a raw Kaffir.

The above was his attempt to establish the Indian’s Aryan connection in an open letter to the Natal parliament on 19 December 1893.

I could fill pages with similar quotes. I could write tomes about the slaughter of thousands of Zulus by the British and the atrocities committed by the colonial administration, so much so that even Churchill, who was notorious for his white supremacist views, remarked that the South African government was the hooligan of the Empire. However, I must not digress and will address the question at hand: Was Gandhi a racist? Has he a rightful place on my wall?

It is easy to judge the past through today’s prism. Homosexuality was considered abnormal until recently. Would I be right to criticise someone who lived in the 19^th century for their homophobic views? Perhaps not. However, my problem is not with the offensive words that Gandhi used or even his failed attempts to ingratiate himself with the colonialists to secure favoured status for Indians within the Empire. The suffering and disenfranchisement of 85% of the population of South Africa should have appealed to the better sense of a truly great soul, a Mahatma. Instead he dismissed them as sub-human and, for over two decades, never found common cause between the African and the Indian. He also held the indentured Indian labourer to be inferior (ibid “dumb and helpless”) to the more educated traders and other Indian professionals. Essentially, his interests were narrow in scope and his ambit was severely restricted by his prejudiced views. But then, we all evolve and change and I should give him a chance to redeem himself.

Now we examine Gandhi’s life post South Africa – from 1914 until his assassination by Hindu fundamentalists in 1948. Never once, neither in his autobiography nor in any of his prolific writings, did he display any contrition for his antipathy towards the native African. In his autobiography[2], he mentions the Zulu rebellion in passing, and nursing the wounded “ ‘uncivilized’ “ Zulus during the Anglo Zulu wars. I am indeed intrigued by the quotation marks around ‘uncivilized’, as if it was not his own view. A disingenuous Mahatma indeed!

The suffering of the native African was an aspect he never discussed. He did not for once collaborate with them or form a joint opposition to the horrendous crimes committed against both Indians and Africans by the Government of the Union of South Africa. Instead, he left South Africa after 21 years, having achieved a controversial ‘victory’ for the Indian community and secured their status as second-class citizens, marginally better than that of the native African. 

I am disappointed to no end that my hero has fallen off his pedestal. I will leave him upturned until (if) he redeems himself through other biographies I am yet to read. I learned from him that the Truth must manifest in my actions. To tell the truth, I’m mighty pissed off with him for now.

Some years ago, I was in Llandudno, North Wales, on an accident investigation. A ship had been washed ashore and broken up in the storm. All twenty crew were picked out of the icy water and airlifted to safety by the coastguard. They were Polish nationals and spoke very little English.

We hired a meeting room in a local hotel. Interviewing the traumatised crew, one by one, with the help of an interpreter was exhausting. After five interviews, I decided to get some fresh air. Walking around in the garden outside, I saw one of the crew members smoking a cigarette under a tree. He was the large able-bodied seaman (AB) with a walrus moustache, the second witness I had interviewed that morning. I distinctly remembered his moustache.

I was aware the ship owner was arranging a bus to repatriate them to Poland. Walking over, I made conversation,

“You go home tomorrow?”

“You what?” he looked puzzled. Language problem, I figured.

Poking him in the chest with my index finger, I spoke slow and clear.

“You,” I said pointing east (in the general direction of Poland), “go – home – HOME. Go home bus.”

I mimicked a bus driver driving a bus with its low-set steering wheel. Getting carried away with my charade and remembering an Indian state transport bus of the 70s, I squeezed an imaginary rubber horn with my right hand while continuing to steer deftly with my left.

“Pom Pom.”

He looked at me in bewilderment. It was as if he didn’t trust his eyes and his ears. PTSD, my well-honed sense of empathy advised me. I too would feel the same if my ship had broken up into pieces. I didn’t give up and for further clarity, used the double-shift gear stick to move up a gear or two. No comprehension- not yet.

Just then, a woman approached us. The ‘AB’ turned to her and said,

“See if you can help him, Lucy. He doesn’t speak much English and I haven’t the foggiest idea what he’s trying to tell me.”

And just as I was beginning to understand the situation, the real AB with the walrus moustache walked past us shouting at someone on his phone in Polish.

Cutting off one’s nose to spite one’s face is an expression that I think aptly describes the attitude of those who are happy about the loss of the Democrats. Yes, they deserved a bloody nose and I’m glad they have been defeated for pursuing their policy of blind support for the genocide in the Middle East. This may hardly be the reason why they lost though. The Americans indulging in their customary navel gazing voted against more local issues like inflation.

I tremble in fear at the prospect of another four years of Trump. I’m glad I’m not American. But it will impact all of us.

A Palestinian person I spoke to last week said,
“Trump will stop the war.”
I have no such hopes or rather I don’t think he will resolve the Palestinian issue in their favour. Remember what he did with Jerusalem? He might just gift the whole of Gaza to the Israelis. A drowning man should not look at a crocodile to save him. He may not drown but will be eaten.

Those of you who know me well also know that circumstances conspire against me often – just for a laugh, nothing sinister. I’m just watching these little episodes carefully. Their frequency hasn’t increased. If plotted on a temporal base, they should appear to be periodic events. Or so I console myself.

I was running late for a training course on understanding trauma. As it often happens to me, the final stretch of the road leading to my destination had some traffic issues. I reached at 1332 when the course was due to start at 1330. The parking lot was empty. Strange, it did occur to me. But I was already late and didn’t wait to ponder the reasons. The door to the venue was locked and no ringing of the bell or banging on the door produced any sign of life. Not a soul. A cemetery at midnight would be more lively (with all its resident souls). Whipping out my phone and finding the joining instructions, I discovered I was exactly one week too early.

On reaching home, I put my hand on my shirt pocket to retrieve my favourite pen. I, being a diligent student, always carry a notebook and pen to class. This pen is special, magical. I’m still trying to figure out how it works. It has red, blue and black selections plus a pencil. You hold the pen vertically, look at the colour you want and as if by telepathy, when you press down the button on top you get the colour you’re looking at! I bought it in George Town, Malaysia in 2023.

My pen was missing. Trauma. I pulled off my sweatshirt and discovered my pocket was missing as well. Thinking back .. while I was crawling in traffic, I had picked up the pen from the glovebox and put it in my pocket without remembering that the shirt I was wearing had no pocket. It stayed trapped between the pocketless shirt and sweatshirt until I got out and ran to the locked door of the training venue. It probably escaped as I was getting out of the car.

I didn’t have the heart to drive the 6 miles from home back to town but didn’t want to lose my pen either. Any other pen, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought. Come Monday it would be found and kept by some stranger. More trauma for me and the pen. This is when I realised I could delegate the job. My son was picking up my wife from the library in town that afternoon. They could easily swing by the training venue and look for it. This is what they did and found the pen lying forlorn and deserted in the lonely parking lot.

As the cliché goes, all is well that ends well. I have this strong feeling that it’s not going to end well for me in the final reckoning. But as long as I can remember enough to write a coherent story, I’m fine. Bring them on, I say, to the conspiring orchestrator of memory lapse events. The episodes that accompany them seem worth it, for now.