Transition

Two months ago, only a few days into this job, I was re-acquainted with one of the pharmacy's regular customers. While doing a part-time last year, he was first introduced to me by the dispensary assistant then, who thought we had shared something in common-- Sri Lanka.

By the looks of him, yeah, one could not deny he or part of him is from there. But during our earlier conversations, he seemed to have avoided any association with the said country, claiming to be a hybrid of some other nationalities and clearly defying that giveaway accent. Bev, a long-time friend of his, said that his seeming denial may be a front of some sort or maybe an emotional defense mechanism due to past issues unbeknownst to us. I was to discover later that he had lived the bitter and war-torn days of what he still, and fondly, refers to as Ceylon.

His subsequent visits to the pharmacy (basically for repeats of his and his wife's prescriptions) and my never-ending reminiscence of the 'good' face of Sri Lanka eventually led him to keep ajar what, I imagine, was once a closed door. Over time, the confidence must have also grown with the familiarity for each other, that sometimes he was airing that bit of 'arrogance' you commonly hear from a grandfather when he proudly speaks of past accomplishments. It makes my smile wider to realise he still had Sri Lanka-- or Ceylon-- in him.

Last week, I made reprints of photos of some of the breathtaking sites I've been to in Sri Lanka. Bundled up, I wrote on the envelop, "Still reminiscing Ceylon..."

And this morning, he came to the pharmacy to see me, but not for his scripts. It was a quick visit with an obvious struggle to keep his welling eyes from pouring. He was already preparing his retreat, while handing an envelop to me with shaking hands. I didn't know what was in it but said thanks anyway. He wanted me to open it and probably see the surprise in my face. But it did more than just that.

Whatever they were that forced him out of his home country-- and probably the positive remembrances of it-- only brought out the fine poet in him. His words are as poetic as the beauty of Sri Lanka, and here I share his...

Transition

The silent mountains, Oh! so high
Where only hawks and eagles are seen to fly
Drifting buoyant upon an upward draft
Like tiny specks on a silken blue scarf.

In the valley below in a clear moving streamAn occasional fish surfaces to catch a sunlight beamOnly to be picked away in an intrepid sweeping diveBy an ever watchful hawk so observant and virile.

In the city cars rush by with squealing brakes
Leaving occasional crashes in their wake.
Trams with continuous rattle rolling on and on,
Planes roaring up into the sky-- outward bound.

In the suburbs as an accompaniment to these dreadful sounds
Monstrous buildings mushroom up to deface the good earth around.
Parklands succumb to box-like buildings hugging each other
Like mosses in a damp garden plot clinging tightly together.

Life moves on with never a moment's thought,
Unconscious, uncaring of a world so overwrought
Such drastic change from a quiet pristine, beautiful world
To this our boisterous, deranged frenzied modern whirl.

- Clive Felsinger