Kandy, Sri Lanka
I woke up with the sun. The morning haze shrouded the hills, blocking the colors of the sunrise. As the sun broke the horizon, at the base of the hills, unseen by my eyes, the haze slowly started drifting away. I decided to take a walk, away from town, into the hills. I wanted to reach the top of a hill to see what remained of the sunrise, the power of the sun scaring away the last of the haze.
Mothers and fathers were walking their children to school. A smile and a greeting sent waves of happiness through the faces of the locals I passed. The sound of flowing water got stronger. Alas, at the end of the road, a waterfall, quickly flowing down the hill into a stream. I took the paved stairway along the water a short distance until it ended in the stream. I passed a small house. An elderly woman had exited the house and was standing by the entrance. I smiled and greeted her “good morning”. In return, I was greeted the same. A stern face tensed certain muscles to create an image of contentment and appreciation.
A woman brushed her teeth outside her house upside the waterfall. We looked at each other wondering what the other must be thinking. I waved. She waved. It is enough.
Walking back down the road, I reached a staircase. A short distance later I arrived at a temple. Buddha sat behind the fogged glass. Small flowers had been offered on green leaves. Vibrant colors. Peaceful. A small striped squirrel ran along a tree branch. A blue and black bird, a kingfisher, rested on the rooftop. An old man appeared. I believe I must go to leave him in peace. But he began to speak in broken English. A temple, he says. It’s Buddha. We began to chat, using simple English, letting the silence between our questions sink in. He told me he used to be a runner. He went to New Zealand to race in 1950. He is happy. He invited me to his house, and I followed him, continuing up the flight of stairs past the temple. I am impressed by his stamina, the ease with which he climbs the stairs. A body well practiced. Fit even in old age. He walked with his hands clasped behind his back, his back hunched, and yet he appeared to glide up the stairs.
We reached his house. Removing our shoes, he invited me inside. A girl, his granddaughter, was doing her hair. Her mother was helping. It’s almost time for school. I greeted them and took my seat on the couch. The grandmother sat across from me. They spoke in Singha, and I smiled.
Vincent and his wife have been married for 50 years. They are 75 and 73, respectively. They have three daughters. One lives with them. Nayana has two children – a 9 year old daughter whom she just took to school and a 15 year old son who is staying home sick. He woke up and stood at the corner of the doorway, half hiding. Only Vincent speaks decent English. His daughter and grandson know minimal words. We sat, sometimes speaking, sometimes in silence.
Vincent stood and left the room. He momentarily returned with a package. An Australian man also visited his home. Later, he mailed the photos he took. Photos of Vincent and his family, the landscape, the hills, even a few pictures of the Australian’s family – his daughter’s wedding. “He came here,” Vicent repeats, visibly proud.
I took a sip of my milk tea. I’ll take a photo before I leave and I’ll mail it to them also, I think to myself. I’ll include a picture of my family as well. I’ll return their kindness.
We’re a poor family, she says. Poultry is expensive. We usually just eat rice with vegetables. We have lived in this house for 32 years. We are from Kandy. This place is called Nagasstenna. For poor people.
Vincent and I are left alone. I commented on a wood hanging of three elephants, trying to ask if he had seen the elephants. Instead, he asked if I wanted it. His daughter enters a side room and returns with a small poster of an elephant. For you, Vincent says. It’s a political advertisement. 2013. Candidate 32. It is written in Singha and I cannot understand. I thank them profusely. Nayana brings a bag and gingerly places the poster inside.
We entered the kitchen. The grandmother is cutting green vegetables for their lunch. The mother is preparing milk tea for her son. He took the mug and sipped slowly, leaning against the stone stove.
Come. I followed Vincent out the side door. There is an open bedroom. He scurried to the next door, opening it with a smile across his face. This is my room. This is my room, he repeats. He chuckles. The upstairs is not finished. Barefoot and outside, a back courtyard. We stepped over slightly muddy ground. I’m cautious not to get my feet too dirty. I didn’t wish to track dirt into their clean house. Vincent opened a gate. I stepped around it and followed his agile feet up a flight of stairs. There is a balcony. We stood, looking out over the hills. We could not see the waterfall. The bright, hot sun beat down on our faces. It’s a hot day, he says. I felt the burning power of the sun on my skin. We didn’t stay long. We took it all in, admiring how our morning paths brought us together as we glanced down at the temple where we met.
There’s one more room. Nayana gave me her slippers. We crossed the courtyard. Inside, there was a Christmas tree. Vincent is proud. Next month is Christmas, and her birthday, he says looking fondly at his daughter. A Christmas baby.
I wiped my feet on the mat, trying to remove any grains that remained before re-entering the kitchen. A photo album was brought out, spurred by my admiring Nayana’s wedding photo I passed her husband in the street. He greeted me ‘good morning’ I am reminded. He was in the army, now on pension. She is proud. They are happy. She was a beautiful bride. He is serious, wearing his army uniform. His brow is furrowed, his mouth closed. In his tuxedo, he smiles. There is a gap between his front teeth. He looks down lovingly at his new wife, his left hand resting on her shoulder. She looks up at him. Her eyes glisten. They are in love.
The moments passed slowly and yet too quickly. It was time for me to go. When you come again, you come here. You remember the way. Yes, I will mail you the pictures. Thank you. You come again, you stay here. You are always welcome. God bless you. And God bless you as well. Thank you. Stuti.
I gave Vincent a friendship bracelet I had in my bag. He gave it to his grandson who examined it. The color matches his shirt. Thank you. No, thank you.
Vincent escorted me down the hill, back to my hotel. Today, they are happy. We are happy, he says. Today, I am also happy. What an incredible and unexpected experience.
At the Temple
Vincent and his family
Me with Vincent and his family
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