Pilgrimage
A small house at the end of a long street. Once upon a time, the walk from the bus stop on the main road down that deserted stretch was a hot, shadeless trudge of melting tar and hard blue sky. The only reason to repeat this purgatory was the anticipation that waited in that house. The last time I passed that way, it was a few years ago in an air conditioned car and the trees lining the street had grown and made of it an elegant avenue. The blue house was white washed, like old ugly memories rendered clean by time.
A lonely beach with a memorial to an unknown German. The waters clean enough to paddle in. The sands dark and lit only by a sullen moon. In the far distance, ship lights winked and signalled. The Lankans are coming, we used to joke in the politically incorrect eighties. A famous church at one end and a broken bridge at the other. A beach to grow up on. If you walked far enough away from the city, you came up on turtle nests and the end of innocence. The turtles cried black tears as they laid their eggs. The coastline curved around so that the distant lighthouse sent a faint light arcing over the mothers as they ponderously made their way back to the water’s edge. No other light to disturb that lonely beach. Now the stadium lights blaze all through the night, many false lighthouses. The vendors are permanent now, they don’t sidle up to unsuspecting lovers anymore, with whispered offers of illicit temptations. The turtles still come though, compelled by their memories, bewildered by the day dawning in the middle of the night.
A beautiful lane hidden away behind the same beach. Where no one lived. Where street lights hardly ever worked and the dogs were friendly. A lane that kept dreams and secret desires safe. Important decisions were taken in that darkness. Kissing with or without spectacles was researched in great detail. Future daughters’ names were mulled over, rejected and agreed upon. The darkness helped make these decisions easy and full of promise. The lane spills over with light and laughter and life now. Celebrations through the night have chased away the dogs and the dreams don’t live there anymore. There are no daughters.
A graveyard.
A school ground. A palette of pink bougainvillea, green tennis courts, sparkling white colonial bungalows. The sounds of laughter and song bursting from 35 throats. Waltzing Matilda and Que sera sera and Colonel Bogey’s March thumped out on a rickety piano by the beloved resident eccentric. The secret places where teachers cried when students killed themselves. Now soul less, song less, a school without a heart. The trees are gone, the buildings too. Only the memories of music and love linger in the air.
A road along a river. A stairwell in the university library. A rain drenched park. Old buildings dreaming under stormy skies. An open air theatre inside a forest. A red museum.
I have made my pilgrimage to all these sacred places of my former self. I have prayed nowhere, asked for nothing, thanked no one. Only left my breath in each. Then I have turned around and returned to my home.