They are good people you know. Machan,
we used to play cricket together
next to colours of ripe lemon,
by unrest of acacias.
Rubbed blood of a leather ball
on colonial thighs,
for an in-swinging yorker.
Learnt the trigger of their alphabet,
more curls than ours,
ayanna, aayanna, aeyanna…
Sang shirtless
under a yellow-bellied sun.
On edge of our open lips
their lyrics,
a shared folk melody ––
surangani surangani
, suranganita malu genawaa,
maalu maalu malu…
Fell in love,
Surangani –– her pouted
lips –– a stranded honey gatherer.
Then how, that wake of night
began their unlit journeys
as told in dried leaves of history
           –– in death of Ellalan
To our beaten paths –– scarred,
lazy dogs and oil lamp huts
Snapped, the brittle branches
xylem, phloem
severed.
Cooed, ran jolly with reborn flags
           –– sworded lion's victory march
hacking every neck that did not bow
to their holy king.
Sunday night, they wash
the red shirts, fall
at Buddha's feet
arching scent of nil manel
mercy my lord, mercy,
make love to mistresses,
wives –– the fiend within.
Monday morning,
noosed with black ties –– left
at our doors
by hurry of Union Jack,
walk their sons, daughters to school
wipe off the Colombo dust,
kiss twice on melon cheeks, 
           machan, they too soon will be good people…