I arrive on holiday at the Colombo airport with my family. It is I, your potato farmer. In my last post I told you about my trial, you might remember. Mine is a complex family: “Look my darling, your children and my children are playing with our children”.
We often have quarrels about our respective ancestry, me very proud of my heritage, thinking it far superior to hers, she thinking exactly the same about hers: its uniqueness, cultural values and religious beliefs. She thinks my belief system is foreign, and often smacks my kids. I too deliver equally unfair blows at hers. An effective trigger for our family quarrels is the cake we serve at tea. She — accusing my kids of gobbling up the big slices; me — accusing her of baking them to the taste of hers, so mine won’t get a fair chance to enjoy a slice.
At the airport we go through immigration, customs, Dialog SIM purchase and hire a taxi. A smooth passage it was – polite officials, friendly faces and smiling porters all around. Something cyber-propagandists did not prepare us for – we were supposed to have been stopped, shown video clips of gangs outside Her Majesty’s parliament: “This one looks a bit like you, Mr Balding head, Payasam belly?”
Just outside the air-conditioned arrival hall, having inhaled a deep puff of air coming from the direction of Negambo, she begins her characteristic nag: “in a couple of years, the kids will be grown up, lets buy a flat and come back here, it is very nice, no”.
Short time-constants such emotional ideas have. An hour later, on the approach to Borella, traffic was heavy; dust and toxic exhaust fumes were unbearable. “Couldn’t you have got an air-conditioned taxi?” she asked, “I am not coming back to this place.”
Near Ja-Ela, we drive past several rambutan vendors. “MalvanE Rambutan”, she shouts, “let’s get some, long time since I had one of those”. “Wait till we get home first, we can buy some in the market later”, I say.
The taxi driver stops at the next rambutan vendor. “mE hontha rambuttan, Sir”, he volunteers information. He understands the Sri Lankan middle class family tensions well. The man may have the wallet in his pocket, but it is the woman’s satisfaction that the tip is proportional to!
Just past Borella, we drive on Dr N.M.Perera Mawatha. NM was the stalwart leftist who later joined Mrs B’s government. Their election slogan still rings in my ears: “apE amma heta enava, haal sEru theka thenava”. That slogan brought about a landslide victory. Such sophisticated electorate we have. Remember similar low standards seven years later, hailed for three decades as the separatist mandate?
I remember this particular road from previous visits. There is a railway crossing. To the left along the track are slums. People living in extreme poverty; a meter away from high speed trains, with a square meter of asbestos or tin sheet for protection from the elements. They live their whole lives there, and I have taken no notice. Adaptive behavior it is. Why do these slums look so ghastly today? Is it because recent weeks I have been thinking a lot about my life in the tent – a meter from barbed wire fence and a square meter of canvas to protect me from the elements? There is something funny about data and my hypocritical perceptions of it, no?
WHO tells us that, all over the world, 300 women die in pregnancy related complications every day. Does it get reported much? Do we take notice? Imagine we put 300 pregnant women in a jumbo jet and crash the plane. Every newspaper will report it, no? All of us would be quite upset, no? What exactly disturbs us? The six hundred lives, or just the plane?
We arrive at Battaramulla. Since we have no hope of potato farming again, we want to explore poultry. The essence of good capitalism: when in trouble, diversify. We have observed that kukul mas and kOLi muddai sell well in the local market. We hold a family discussion on how to set about our poultry venture.
“Discussion”, did I say? It was yet another family quarrel. Family split in two teams: Hers, supporting chicken, and mine, supporting eggs. Our kids chose to play silent majority.
My “eggers” pointed out the evils of chicken. Remember SARS, which killed a thousand people in three days? – it came from chicken, we argued.
Her team’s argument against eggs was focused on salmonella contamination in eggs. “That is very harmful”, they said, “Remember the British minister Eggwina Curry and her affair with Prime Minister John Major?” they mocked.
As usual, our arguments were about the evils of the anthropologist’s Other. We go deep into our chicken and egg debate: repetitive and never ending.
Preoccupied with evils of the other, we were incapable of taking note of the good in front of us: Chikken kothu and egg hoppers, just bought at the fantastic fast food outlet in Battaramulla, going cold.
“injErungO appa”, I hear her shout, “mE minihaata pissu”. I have had enough with this woman, I tell myself: the dominating FemiNazi attitude. She too must be tired of the male chauvinist pig in me. I need a solution, and I need it now. In the best interest of the children: mine, hers and ours.
“Lets buy Flat #13 on Pansala Para”, I suggest. “It has two bedrooms: one for me and one for you, but the flat will be owned in both our names. Our children are allowed to play in both.”
“You can keep the chicken in your room, make local decisions about what to feed them, when and how to kill them, and optimal ways of packaging them. I won’t interfere on how you do these, with my MCP attitude you despise so much.”
“Similarly, I will keep eggs in my room, maintain them at the optimum temperature, treat them against salmonella infection and package them neatly. You let me specialize in egg production, without nagging and interfering from your hegemonic FN standpoint, which has driven me nuts in the past.”
“On Sundays, we will go hand in hand to Battaramulla market, carrying our chicken and our eggs; kukul mas and kOLi muddai sell well there, as we both know.”
She knows it makes perfect sense, but is still uneasy about the whole idea. Flat #13, if you have forgotten, was built by a meddling neighbor of whom she is deeply suspicious — and rightly so. There might still be ghosts in there, she fears.
What the hell? The last thing we want to do now is to miss the great business opportunity of selling kukul mas and kOLi muddai at the Battaramulla pola. Effective poultry farming will bring good economic prospects for the children: mine, hers and ours.
We better get on with the purchase of Flat #13, Pansala Para.