Boys will be boys. A son of a doctor plays with his domestic on the rooftop adjacent to my apartment block as a monsoon storm clouds gather. Lalmatia, Dhaka, Bangladesh. June 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

To be exact, the story of course commenced a tad before the start of 2011, when I turned away from a comfortable life and settled myself in Dhaka to work for Drik and for what I called my “rickshaw” life. I had termed 2011, as embracing the unusual, the innovative – even the disruptive.

A labourer on May Day. Dhaka, 1 May 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

2011 will be remembered by me and notched as the year of Laxmi – not only because I had the good fortune to see the advent of a granddaughter named Laxmi Elin but because its been a year full of riches – no, not the monetary kind of wealth and prosperity that Goddess Laxmi is supposed to endow one with – but the more precious riches of family reunions, seeing Tara grow up,  strengthened friendships – both the old ones as well as the freshness of new friendships that working for Drik has brought me.

My friend and colleague Adnan Wahid dancing at the opening rally of the Chobi Mela International Festival of Photography , Dhaka, Bangladesh, January 2011. Photograph©K M Asad

So at the end of this year it’s cheers to Ranil and Aileen for the gift of Laxmi Elin and the thoughtful way of naming her bringing both maternal and paternal grandma’s into the picture.

It is also cheers to Shahidul and my new found friends at Drik and Pathshala for making this year an eventful one. They’ve tolerated my incessant cry of “Chole jabbo Sri Lanka” (am going back to Sri Lanka), nursed me though the drama of losing my brand new laptop, got me the much needed work visa and made room for me introducing me to their rich world of photography.

There was no better way to start the year than to dunk myself into the world of images.  There was plenty — more than 400 at the Chobi Mela international festival of photography VI (CM VI) organized by Drik –  29 print exhibitions, 31 digital presentations, evening dialogues and discussions and artists from 30 countries.

From the Chobi Mela Exhibition "My City of Unheard Prayers" by another new friend Sayed Asif Mahmud ( Bangladesh).

I had been working from September 2010 with  Reza and Mosafa at the Chobi Mela Secretariat. As the festival day approached it was all hands on deck, and many joined creating and contributing to an amazing spectacular unbelievable gala event that lasted for two weeks. I marveled silently how this comparatively small org could pull off such an international event. See video by Jeremiah Foo.

‘The success of this festival is because of you. The practitioners who have walked the walk, and the audience who have nurtured and supported this crazy dream. It is a dream we will dream together, and triumph we shall” Shahidul Alam. Photograph©D M Shibly

For me 2011 was a year of learning – no, not that much about photography but about myself and coping with the disruptive.  Often I was intimidated to take my camera out amid the abundant wealth of talent. Few instances I did it was mostly street photography.

In Dhaka much happens on the streets. I had thought the rally at Chobi Mela was unique but I soon learned that Bangladeshis didn’t need much persuasion to air their problems on the streets. Hartals still happen here frequently and bring the country to a virtual halt. May day outing was one, where people poured out on to the streets all dressed in red – producing armbands and headbands must be a lucrative business.

May day activists -- the young and the old have time to stop and smile for me. Dhaka, Bangladesh, May 1, 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

Life and energy naturally overflow onto the streets in a city that is bursting at the seams.  The traffic is notorious.

A girl tries to sell roses to me while I sit caged inside a three wheeler (CNG) in clogged traffic. Dhaka Bangladesh, 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

Amid the incessant horning, the rickshaw wallas swear and argue as they weave in an out, narrowly missing a car, a bus and even the baton weaving traffic police.  I’ve long since learned to balance myself on the ridiculously narrow sloping seat, stopped praying and trust I’ll reach my destination limbs intact. The guard at the apartment block shows off his few English phrases and it is no matter for him that the rickshaw walla will not understand English, he happily hailed a rickshaw for me this morning calling out “Come, come quickly.” Many a morning I have a familiar rickshaw walla waiting outside my apartment building.  He too ignores my Bangla and greets me with a quirky smile and says “Good Morning” in English.

The tea kiosks and the surrounding pavements are the common man’s smoking club.  Office workers regularly gather outside for “char kabo,” a gossip and a moan with the popular smoke.  Streets are the home for many, the poor children’s playground, their work place where they try to eke a living. On my way to classes at Pathshala one morning in April it was fun to see the streets kids, playful without a care in the world, strip naked, climb a tree and jump into the green murky waters of a Dhaka lake making it their own swimming pool.

Morning swim in a Dhaka lake. Bangladesh. April 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

In a year full of happenings at Drik, I had met several charming, very talented photographers.  The most recent meeting with David Burnett the iconic photographer in Dhaka is still the defining event of 2011.

Drik Gallery II held David Burnett’s exhibition “44 Days – Iran and the Remaking of the World" at Chobi Mela VI. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

I had seen this exhibition and also read and heard before about his work, but to listen to David himself was a totally different experience.  Dressed in a faded blue T-shirt, early in December this year, he held the audience spell bounded bringing the events around images come alive – from his photos in Vietnam, to what he thought was a botched up photo of president John F. Kennedy taken as a young rookie photographer. We travelled with him to Iran to catch Ayatollah Khoumeni drinking tea; to other Presidents in jet planes during election campaigns and heard how he captured the anguish on the face of Mary Decker at the 1984 L.A. Olympics and to describe many more defining moment images. He had spoken about his work photographing the refugees as they streamed into India during the 1971 war at the launching of the book and video of the “Birth pangs of a nation.” As a result of seeing so many children sick and dying among the refugees, David said he himself became a more sensitive father, in a way that his wife and daughter couldn’t understand.

But the best memories I have is how comfortable and at ease he was among the people on the streets celebrating Bangladesh’s national day on the 16 Dec.  “ Can I say Jai Bangla now?” he asked seated on a wall smoking a cigar with Bangladeshis .

David Burnett has a smoke in Dhaka. Bangladesh 16 December, 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

Out on the streets people recognized him as the VIP and wanted to be photographed with him or photograph him. Often it was even difficult to get close enough to focus.  I clicked away as I saw him borrowing a lighter from an astounded rickshaw walla.  He not only lit his long cigar but also quite naturally leaned forward and lit the cigarette of the rickshaw walla quite oblivious to the amusement of the others watching him.

David Burnett lights a cigarette for a rickshaw driver. Dhaka, Bangladesh. 16 Dec. 2011. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

So what will 2012 bring – will I still be riding rickshaws? Sit in the same office and dream of my avocado tree and squirrels in the garden? Still wrestle with the same problems?  Be up against the same challenges?  Hard to say but I’ll certainly be wishing for Goddess Laxmi to be around with all her special charms and superior spiritual feminine energy.   And I need to see the baby Laxmi that has entered our family.

Happy New Year — Live your dream, love what you do.

Siriniwasa. Hikkaduwa 2011. Photograph© Chulie de Silva

Today when I spoke to my younger brother Pradeep, there is a very positive lilt to his voice.  They are out shopping for the almsgiving for the seventh death anniversary and the first to be held at Siriniwasa in his memory. Like last year, it pains me to be in Dhaka.  But in my minds eye I can picture the event, the extended family, Rev.  Tilaka will give his sermon and praise my mother and remember the dialogues on Buddhism that he had with my  father.  The photos and memories from the past are potent potions to ease  the loneliness of being far away from the family centre.

Prasanna in sunglasses and I in happier times with cousin Athula, and friends at the old rest house, Hikkaduwa. Photograph©Aruna Kirtisinghe. Hikkaduwa circa 1963.

It is impossible to count the number of people who had trickled in and out of the house over this last century, to enjoy the sea, listen to my father’s yarns or call as relatives did unannounced in the good old days. Tea was served, fresh young coconuts were plucked from the trees to quench the thirst, an extra pot of rice was put on the hearth and my mother would somehow dish out a scrumptious meal. For us children, the sea was always our private pool.

Wallowing in shallow water Prasanna wearing goggles with cousins Aruna, Athula, Anoma, Hemal, my sister Yasoja and I. Photograph by Benny Kirtisinghe

Some days, we will all troop off to have a picnic at the family estate.  For that we had to cross a small river on a catamaran. We had to park the jeep in the village, trek across a cinnamon estate to get to the river bank.  Once there we kids will cup our hands and holler “Hoooo” to the boatman. In old Sri Lanka a “hoowa” (the yelling shout) was a measure of the distance — i.e. if someone was close by  one would say he is only one “Hoowak” away — or ” Hoowak dura.”

Left to right standing Aunt Phoebe, cousin Punya and my mother, while Prasanna, Cousins Anoma, Hemal and Neomal, my sister Yasoja and I with the boatman in the rear. Photograph probably by Dr. Bertie Kirtisinghe

On 13 March this year I had a mail from a Dr. Bernd Hontschik  who left a comment on the blog I had written about Prasanna on the 3^rd year anniversary of the tsunami.

Dr. Bernd Hontschik in the garden at Siriniwasa in 1979. Photograph© Dr. Bernd Hontschik

Dear Chuli,
 in november 1978 and 1979 I was a guest in the house of your parents Manel and Benny for many weeks. Both visits were the most sunshiniest times of my life. Both visits I shared many hours with your brother Prasanna. Once I travelled through the whole island with him as my chauffeur. I am very very sad that I must read now that he was a victim of the 2004 tsunami. I will never forget your parent’s house, Manel’s meals served on the veranda, and the tiny garden house, which was my home at that time. And I will never forget Prassana. All the best for you, sent from Frankfurt in Germany, and please put a candle from me and Prasanna’s German friends onto the grave of him, if possible.
 Bernd.

The garden cottage at Siriniwasa, that collapsed during tsuanmi killing Prasanna. Hikkaduwa, 1979. Photograph©Bernd Hontschik

Prasanna with his beloved Audi and Tom and Julia. Sri Lanka, 1979. Photograph©Bernd Hontschik

Thank you Bernd for the good memories and here’s to lighting some virtual candles to remember Prasanna, Chrishanta and many others who died on the 7th anniversary of the tsunami.

Candles at Madhu Church, Sri Lanka. March 2010. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

2005:  Ashes of thoughts what the tsunami took away

2006:  A look back twenty four moons after the tsunami

2007:  Tsunami 3 years on: Remembering Prasanna Kirtisinghe

2008: How Blue was my sea at Hikkaduwa 

2009: Tsunami 5+: the longest day, the darkest night, memories that linger 

2010: Tsunami musings in Dhaka

Then it was always summer. ... Photograph copyright Aruna Kirtisinghe.

The memories of the summers in Hikkaduwa can be only rebooted and read from a forgotten hard drive  – of sea baths, walks early morning with the high tide washed silky soft sand oozing through your toes; long chats sitting on catamarans; fishing in rock pools in the burning hot sun; plopping and killing the deadly jelly fish on the sand with sticks; walking at low tide hanging on to cousins to the big reef; watching at sunset the fishermen pushing their boats out to sea; cricket in the back garden and even doing geometry on the beach.

Then there were the long arguments and discussions on every topic –politics, religion, arranged marriages, and the voicing of doubts about what the future had in store for us — would we be happy, have enough money to travel; would we be rich enough to have shoes to match the dresses; would we marry out of caste and religion, —   the list went on. Accompanying us gyrating Elvis crooned Love me tender, It’s now or never; we wrote  love letters in the sand with Pat Boone, and star gazed trying as Perry Como did to catch a falling star. We loved itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini –  but bikinis were strictly taboo in the Kirtisinghe clan—room was made for the single piece swimsuits by the English ladies who married uncles, but jeans and shorts were out.  We’d sit on coconut tree trunks that had fallen across the beach as if in worship to the mighty sea and dream… about love and careers, marriage and children … Scrawled across the journal in my ungainly handwriting was the poem.  I hadn’t noted the author’s name, but I still remember coming across it — one summer at Hikkaduwa.

Then it was always summer, so it seemed,

As each day slipped to night

Softly the grasses stirred as if they dreamed,

And such a light

Lay in the noonday hour

As never was before

And will be nevermore:

And love was sweeter then, a flower

But now unfolding, holding

All the promise in its cup:

Then was the heart aware of every door

That opened on to beauty, where

Uncounted bluebirds soared upon the air:

That was the time when life was one long song

And we the singers, then…

They were the years when

We and the world were young.

Note:

This is my 110 blog post, posted on 11.11.11 @ 11.11 pm.

The decaying painting is supposed to depict Mahadana Sitano and wife in western dress enjoying music. The integration of western modes of dress to eastern Buddhist visual story telling of the Jataka stories is a notable feature of the Kataluwa paintings. Kataluwa Sri Lanka, September 2011. Photograph © Chulie de Silva.

To get to Kataluwa we turned left near the 83^rd mile post on the Southern coat road, crossed a railway line on to a village road and lumbered into a deserted temple grounds. Monkeys roamed on the roof tops, a pack of stray dogs followed the chief priest, playfully tearing his robes.

Greeting us right at the entrance was a British court of arms and a date which said 1886.

The fading court of arms at the entrance to the Kataluwa Temple main shrine room. Photograph © Chulie de Silva

Kataluwa temple paintings represents the Southern school and belong to the 19^th century although the temple is said to have existed from the 13^th century.  There are several interesting points in the temple paintings that one needs to do a serious study of it and not a flying visit as I did.  For instance the four walls of the temple are creations of artists of four different schools. The British Royal court of arms, Queen Victoria, and  Queen Mother are given prominence among the Eastern gods.

A portrait of the lovers in the Sandakinduru Jatakaya at the entrance to the main shrine room. In this story Buddha is killed by his chief adversary Devdutta, but restored to life by Sakra who was moved by the lamnetations of his wife. Jataka stories are episodes from the Buddha’s previous lives. Note cameo of Queen Victoria above both doors. Photograph © Chulie de Silva.

Kataluwa temple frescoe of wedding party with white horses showing the western influence Kataulwa, Sri Lanka. September, 2011.

Kataluwa temple frescoes showing damage due to leaky roofs and rain water seeping in. Kataulwa, Sri Lanka. September, 2011. Photograph © Chulie de Silva

Part of the Vessantara Jatakaya temple frescoe Kataluwa Temple. Kataluwa, Sri Lanka. September, 2011. Photograph © Chulie de Silva

Reclining Buddha Statue Kataluw Reclining Buddha Statue Kataluwa Temple. Kataluwa, Sri Lanka. September, 2011. Photograph © Chulie de Silva.

The Buddha watches mutely the decay around him. But there were no flowers at the altar, no villagers worshipping at his feet.  Two men clearing the over-grown garden said the villagers are in conflict with the chief priest and do not patronize the temple. Whatever the reason the days when the paintings were claimed as the finest examples of the Southern painting tradition are gone. If the roofs are not repaired, the damp walls restored we will soon lose these works of art.

A bull tethered outside my apartment block awaits sacrificial slaughter at Eid. Lalmatia, Dhaka, Bangladesh. 6 Nov. 2011 Copyright Chulie de Silva

“Oh! Look see how cute that goat is” said my friend as we bounced over dodgy roads in a rickshaw.  Yes, the goat was unusual black with speckled ears.   He and another goat were being led to their sacrificial alter.

Tonight I hear the plaintive bleating of a goat not too far away, piercing the stillness of the night. The bulls that cried out last night are quiet now.  I dread tomorrow morning when much as I try to shut it out, I will hear the thump on the wooden blocks as sacrifices are made. The look of pain and anguish in the eyes of the animals on death row will haunt me for a long time.

“Sabbe sankhara dukkhati – Yada pannaya passati

Atha nibbindati dukhe – Esa maggo visuddhiya.”

“All conditioned things are painful – when with wisdom this one realizes, then is one repelled by this misery; this is the path to purity.”  — The mirror of Dhamma by the venarables Narada Maha Thera and Kassapa Thera;  re-edited 1975 by The venerable Kassapa Thera.

See also:  Sacrificial appeasement of gods

Oil lamps at Devundara Sri Vishnu Maha Devalaya. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

I am always drawn to the flickering temple lamps.  Often lit in prayer, in remembrance, the fragrant oil spills over as much as love does long after the loved ones are gone.

Twilight at Galle Face. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

A flower blooms in monsoon rain. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

The flower says

Blessed am I

Blessed am I

Upon this earth…

The flower says

I was born from the dust

Kindly kindly

Let me forget it

Let me forget it

Let me forget.

Of dust inside me there is none

No dust at all inside me

The flower says.

The words are the first section of a song composed by Rabindranath Tagore for his dance drama Chandalika, the untouchable maid.  The drama was modeled on an ancient Buddhist legend describing how Ananda, – Gautams Buddha’s  disciple—asks  for water from a girl belonging to an indigenous tribe.

Sunset at Galle. Photograph©Chulie de Silva

The sun of the first day

Put the question

To the new manifestations of life -

Who are you?

There was no answer.

Years passed by

The last sun of the last day

Uttered the question on the shore of the western sea,

In the hush of the evening -

Who are you!

No answer came.

From “Last Writings” by Rabindranath Tagore.