Monsoon Tears: An Origin Story

When I go back home, it takes some time for me to find my voice.

(I think I lost it
in between baggage claims,
in the lines between elocution
class and empire)

Sometimes my words come out accented; I sound less Sinhalese every time I go back. My cousins, all younger than me, laugh loudly every time I mess up. “Aiyo!” They cry. “What do you learn at your fancy schmancy university if you can’t even say this properly?” Their innocence sounds a little like naiveté. I want to tell them that in my now-world, there is a table, and at that table there’s cake and jobs and college degrees and a life so different to the one I knew twisting papaya stems by my father’s house, but to get a seat at the table, I need to sound less like them and more like the white men we see when we switch on our TV screens. I want to tell them that in my now-world of resumes and lecture theatres, the whiter I sound, the better I am heard. I want to tell them that I have made myself a home out of expectations and escape an ocean away, and in this home, there is no space for monsoon tears, or Sinhala, or them. There is only English and the overwhelming weight of some nebulous notion of success that I am afraid has me playing the rules of a game that goes far beyond me.

My mouth makes a home out of English
(and privilege and pastiche)
but my tongue trips at the doorway
caught in the threshold between home and not-quite;
clings to the curvature of truth,
of homeland, of origin—
the liminality of where I am
and where I started from.

කට බොරු කියතත් දිව බොරු කියන්නෙ නැහැ
(The tongue does not lie
though the mouth may try.)

I want to tell them all this, but of course, I do not have the words to do so in Sinhala. I want to tell them that sometimes, my tongue betrays me, switching up my ws and my vs in English. There is a saying in Sinhala that goes “the tongue does not lie, though the mouth may”. My mouth lies, hiding behind words in a language that was never mine to begin with, but my tongue trips, unwilling to relinquish the curvature of Sinhala, of homeland, of origins. My tongue clings with the obstinance of the faithful to the language I ran away from, a searing, nagging reminder that there is as much colour in my once-upon-a-time of monsoon tears and too sweet tea on sunny verandah as there is in my now-world of resumes and lecture theatres, and English and privilege. I may have turned towards English, but despite my best efforts, my tongue catches me, reminds me where I have come from, where I must return to.


My parents have both always apologised for what they call their “broken English”. They speak two languages fluently: the thunderous timbre of Tamil and the cascading cadences of Sinhala roll off their tongues like water, but English scalds them, each word bubbling out of their throats like a secret they are not privy to. I want to tell them — Amma, Thaththa — your English is not broken. There is power in the alchemy of your words, the way that three tongues support each other, one swooping in to fill the silence left by another. Sometimes, we are faced with the impossibility of a word that has no English approximation, like කහට, the bitterness of tea when the leaves are left too long to steep, or සැර, stern and spicy both at once, depending on how it is used. Perhaps these words are too intrinsically tied to culture, to growing up barefoot in muddy paddy fields in white-walled houses that weep in the monsoons, that they cannot be captured by English.

And perhaps that is okay.

English alone is not enough to capture the scent of tea sipped in silence on sunny verandah, or the fire and the spice of බුලත් as betel leaves mark my tongue red and do not leave, even after I have washed it away. Perhaps in growing up bilingual, in the constant state of switching between tongues, in the trip of my tongue in the liminality between Sinhala and English, there is the possibility of a (re)turn to two worlds, two tongues, both a part of me, neither one that I am willing to give up.


sin and saffron robes: three weeks in Bangkok

Bangkok in the rain smells like cigarette smoke and wet earth. It is a city that I do not have the words to describe – not in English, anyway. If I did have to pick a descriptor, it would be alive. Bangkok is alive – in the constant thunderous growl of the motorbike taxis; in the soft clink of plastic spoon against ceramic bowl, the pregnant pause as the uncle bends his head to slurp the last of his noodles from the street stall; in the smell of the pork as it fries over grills on either side of the road, at any time of the day. Bangkok is a city that breathes life, excitement, possibility. It is a city that is meant to be experienced with every sense you possess.

I won’t lie. I came into Bangkok with some preconceived notions. I had pictured for myself the Bangkok that Hollywood pushes – the city of saints and sinners, hedonism at every turn, drugs, sex and debauchery ruling the streets. And that is a part of Bangkok. I walk home past Patpong, the notorious red light district, every day. I’ve had men push cards against my face as I walk away, saying “ping pong show?” and “beer for 100 baht” in the same breath, women and beer both equally and easily commodified here. I’ve spent blurry nights in bars that do not shut down till the sun comes up. I’ve walked the length of the famously infamous Khao San Road, huffing laughing gas out of party balloons like every other backpacker there, and in one night met travellers from Shanghai to Sweden and talked about everything from the Bundesliga to the sex trade. Bangkok is a great place to party, but if that were all it was, all it is seen to be, then it would be doing this incredible, exciting city an unbearable injustice.

Bangkok to me is the quiet calm of the city as it wakes up at 5 a.m, the monks in their saffron robes emerging from the temples for their morning alms. Bangkok is the brief heart-stopping terror of having a rat run over my feet on my way back home after work, the poetry of bodies pushed up against each other, no room to move, on the BTS towards Siam at rush hour. Bangkok is the half Nepali/half Burmese bartender with the impossible jawline and the penchant towards neon singlets who tells me he doesn’t drink and hugs me before he bills me for my drinks. Bangkok is the aunty on the side of my road who gives me a smile with my change as I sit and eat fried rice next to her, neither of us speaking.

I’ve never been in a city that makes me feel so alive. ขอขอบคุณ, for everything, Bangkok.

immaculate misconceptions: Singapore, “a fine city”.

There is no one way to describe Mustafa, a place that to me, has come to be synonymous with Little India, and somehow, with Singapore. The monolithic structure squats beside Syed Alwi Road, all green tinted glass and steel, a steady crowd funneling in, out, in, out, in again through its open maw, breathing out sporadic bursts of air conditioning every time the sliding doors opened. Opposite, beyond an inexplicably empty field stands the Farrer Park MRT, and a smattering of uniformly sleek malls and hotels, utterly indistinguishable from one another in their sameness- the kind of eerie, manicured conformity I had come to expect out of Singapore’s urban cityscape. But not Mustafa; the building is almost artistic in its profound ugliness. At the very least, it elicits a sort of wide eyed wonder as one takes in its daedalian design, the organised chaos that seems to just go on and on.

I sit directly outside the goliath, nursing a cup of ginger chai overlooking the street. I sip my tea the way my father taught me- head bowed, slurping in the too sweet liquid in between my front teeth, catching the spice at the back of my throat. All around me, conversations ebb and flow, surrounding me completely in a babel of voices. I catch bits of words I recognise- urdusinhalatamilhindi weaving in and out of each other until I am completely overwhelmed.

From one of those little phone shops across the street, so ubiquitous in Little India, tinny music blasts out. I vaguely recall the tune. As I sit there, the lyrics come to me and almost unconsciously, my lips form the words to the song- a Sonu Nigam track from a long forgotten Bollywood movie. This was a landscape I knew, from Sunday morning sing alongs with my grandmother’s old radio and nonsensical Hindi movies watched furtively when my father wasn’t home, and a place I did not know at all.

A bus boy slams trays against a large plastic bin; the thud of stainless steel on plastic is an effortless tabla- th, th, th, over and over again. The rhythmic clink of cutlery calls to me like the bells on a dancer’s ankle. The hot oil fries fresh pani puri with a sharp sigh; the sibilance of it lingers in the low ceiling of the tiny outdoor cafe. There is music in the wind and outside my skin sings in the heat of the midday sun.

If I look up, the towering skyscrapers beyond Serangoon Road loom imperiously. There are signs for a new boutique hotel and spa, clinically chic. Next to me, three sweating, swearing Germans persevere, red faced, through their fish head curry. Opposite, a Chinese couple hauls two handfuls of the famous zip tied white plastic bags bearing the words “Mustafa Super Centre”, while a little boy tags behind them, happily lapping away at a kulfi stick. An Indian woman walks past me, a strand of yellow flowers braided into her thick, dark hair. I glimpse the strong, stark line of a tattoo peeking out from the neckline of her pink shalwar kameez. I like knowing that first appearances hide more than they reveal.

Mustafa is in itself a microcosm of Singapore. I have been sitting here for thirty minutes and already I have seen countless shades of skin, heard the lilt of more languages than I can count. Judging by the enthusiastic, sweaty straggles of Europeans flooding into the building, Mustafa is also a tourist hotspot, drawing in the crowds with the mystique of its labyrinthine interior and the endless possibilities that reside within it. Around me there are signs advertising plane tickets to Mumbai, discounted bio-oil and lamb kebabs- and that’s all just within a 100 metre radius. In a way, it is not far removed from its cousins on Orchard Street, that other beacon of mass consumerism, reminding us with its flashing lights and tastefully muted showrooms that capitalism is, lest we forget, alive and well. But unlike Orchard Street, Mustafa remains adamantly uncategorisable. Is it a supermarket? A department store? Or is it, as it so ambiguously claims, a “supercentre”? During my brief foray into its cryptic depths, I saw the usual-  sportswear, fresh fruit and vegetables, stacks and stacks of Yakult and Maggi Mee. But if you look a little harder, hidden on the top shelves, in the back corners, in all the places we sometimes forget to look- vials of herbal medicine, stuffed Merlions, “snail scrub face masks”, spices in every colour the subcontinent has to offer. It is a melange of the exotic and the exciting, with the unexpected at every turn, not unlike the city it resides in.

I drain my cup and get up to leave. There is a flower seller right by one of Mustafa’s many entrances; the sickly sweet smell of jasmine crushed underfoot lingers in the air. I walk past the building, and stop, right before I cross the road to get to the MRT station. Grimy neon letters spell out “Mustafa”; its doors open and spit out yet another mass of shoppers. I wonder what I’ll find the next time I come around. Maybe the thrill is in not knowing: like tattoo peeking out from under silk covered skin, like an unexpected trouvaille in dusty bottom corner, like cumin scented alleyways in a city so otherwise immaculate.

Home and Not-Quite

Kuala Lumpur is a city that does not stay still. For days I wandered the streets alone, my skin singing with the heat and the grit of a city so unaccustomed to rules that cars drive recklessly on the pavements and stoic pedestrians meander carefree among the traffic. The wind carried with it the sickly sweet scent of shisha and with it the promise of escape, a brief foray into heady weightlessness, temporary flight from the sweltering heat and noise. It is a city that is easy to get lost in.

I was excited to be traveling alone. There is a certain allure to self-imposed exile, a freedom that both liberates and terrifies. In Andre Aciman’s words, an exile is “not just someone who has lost his home; it is someone who can’t find another, who can’t think of another” — a truth that I was to find out, backpacked and on foot on the precarious streets of Kuala Lumpur. I walked through dusty alleys and towering air-conditioned malls, and at every turn, I couldn’t help but think of Colombo, the home I left two years ago. I felt Colombo everywhere: the smell of the roasted chestnuts lingering on my hair as I walked through ChinaTown became the scent of oil frying fresh papadam in my aunt’s kitchen, the taste of teh tarik from the stall next to my hostel brought back sunny smiles and too-sweet tea drunk on Sunday mornings at home. There I was, in a city that made my skin sing, and all I could think of was the home that I ran away from. There is pain here, in remembering what I chose to run away from, and at the same time, there is the unencumbered promise of mornings that taste like chestnuts and shisha— the promise of knowing how much you have before you. And in the space between the two, there is the loneliness of the self-imposed exile. And so, there I was, wearing my loneliness like a backpack, wandering the streets of Kuala Lumpur, caught between the home I left and the endless horizons of cities far from mine that I run towards.


The hostel that was to be my home for the next few days is in Bukit Bintang, tucked away in a little corner, hidden inside a side street, sandwiched between a noodle shop and a little garage as if it too did not know its place in the world. It took me two hours to find it, and when I did, I walked in, dripping sweat, Kuala Lumpur’s relentless afternoon sun radiating heat off of my bare shoulders.

Inside, I am greeted by the receptionist. He asks for my passport to check me in and as I hand it over, his face splits open into the biggest smile I have ever seen, as he looks at the gold-etched letters, spelling out the words ‘Democratic Socialist Republic of Sri Lanka’.

“My name Francis,” he starts. “I am also Sri Lankan. You from Jaffna?” he asks. His smile is disarming.

He asks me if I speak Tamil. “No, I’m Sinhalese. Thamil peseda ille” I tell him, in the little Tamil that I do speak. I don’t understand Tamil. Not “I can’t understand Tamil”, but that I don’t, that I made a conscious choice to run away from what I knew and turn instead towards English, a language that was never my own, but seemed to me to be the key to escape from everything I thought I wanted to leave behind. English fit itself easily in my mouth. In English, words like virginity, daughter and tradition are just that — words. I do not know how to tell this stranger with skin like mine that English did not come with the weight of expectation masquerading as duty, it did not weigh down my mind the way Tamil did. In English, the lines between gender and obligation and home are blurred. In English, I found escape from what was expected of me, and so I let the foreignness seep into me, holding on to its spiky consonants and gaping vowels as if they would help me run away from home.

We talk of home, the war, cricket. He tells me his family was from Jaffna, but they fled during the war. I offer him broken fragments of the place we both call home, the place that we both left, fleeing two very different ghosts. He nods as I speak, painting him a picture of a home that he would never have known. I tell him of Passikuda and Nilaveli, both on the North Eastern coast of Sri Lanka, once inaccessible during the war and now a popular tourist destination, drawing in crowds of dreadlocked surfers and bare-chested men in flip flops and board shorts, smoking joints on their haunches on the streets that once – not so long ago – echoed with the sound of kafirs flying overhead. I want to tell him that sometimes I feel like a lone buoy lost in a sea of white, that I feel like a tourist in my own country.

I want to tell this stranger that all I share with him is a common homeland, one that we both left, fleeing very different ghosts: I was not driven out by war or the threat of death. Instead, I ran away, privileged enough to leave home just because I could, just because there was something better out there.

As I speak, I am painfully aware of how different we sound. His voice bounces with the curvature of English as a second language. Mine is rigid, polished, the curves under my tongue lost somewhere e in between elocution class and empire.  Thamil peseda ille I say, but what I mean is that I am sorry I have tried for so long and so hard to run away from brown, in the sterile smell of whitening cream, in the ivory towers of a university that makes me sound less like him every day. As I speak, I forget how much English has given me; suddenly, liberation looks a lot like occupation and I find myself yearning for home, forgetting that I was the one that ran away.

Francis hands me my room key. “It’s nice meeting you,” I say. I reach across the glass counter to shake his hand. As our hands met, I couldn’t help but realise how closely his skin mirrored mine. Quickly, I say goodbye, closing off the bridge we had just built, client and contractor once more.


The first time I remember running away, I was eight. I had been fighting with my mother. It was probably something trivial: a reprimand for sitting out too long in the sun — “Chi! Look at how dark your face has gotten. Why can’t you act more like a girl?” — or a quick smack on the side of my head for undoing the tight braids that my mother painstakingly plaited for me every night, hanging straight down the length of my back. I remember acutely the pain, the sharp sting of betrayal that hurt me a lot more than the one lash that my mother dealt out, the dull thud of my father’s brown belt on my skin. It wasn’t the physical pain that got to me– it was the fact that for that moment, my mother and I weren’t a team. We weren’t the secret-sharing, giggly, exclusive duo that my father so often laughed at. For that moment, I couldn’t connect to my mother. In her disgruntlement, I felt like a door had been closed on me, like I had been banished. And so, with all the self righteous rage of an eight year old, I packed my things into a small blue plastic bag, and set off into self-imposed exile, barefoot, eyes stinging with tears. My mother caught me by the arm right before I reached the gate, and yanked me back inside the house. I can’t remember what happened afterwards — this wasn’t the first time I had tried this, and it definitely would not be the last.

Ten years later, I boarded a flight with no return ticket. I kissed my mother goodbye at the airport, said that I would call her everyday. I cried, but I did not look back as I walked through the gates. I made the conscious decision to exile myself — from her, from home, from everything I had known. I was surprised at how easy it was. I wonder if it would have been harder had I thought that I could never go back again.


At the hostel, I find Francis hunched over a laptop screen, watching a rerun of an India vs. Sri Lanka cricket match.

“Dilshan’s game is off”, he informs me gravely, stroking his chin.

I nod, knowing precious little about Dilshan’s game. I left Francis punching the air as one of our batsmen hit a sixer, muttering obscenities under his breath at the Indian team. In this light he looked like any one of the Sri Lankan uncles I had grown up with, staring hungrily at the TV during cricket season, counting the number of runs, waiting with bated breath for the next sixer to come. There is a joke among Sri Lankans that we live in the past. Sri Lanka has only won one Cricket World Cup, twenty years ago. To this day, we relive the glory of that one day in 1996 where we jumped to our feet as one nation as Sri Lanka grabbed the coveted trophy right out of India’s hands. Since then, Sri Lankan cricket has grown in leaps and bounds — we are probably one of the strongest teams in the world, and in spite of that, we have never managed to win another World Cup since. And yet, every match, men like Francis hunch in front of TVs in crowded living rooms, hoping against hope that this year, against all odds, we will relive 1996.

It struck me, watching that little screen with Francis, that not one of the men on our team looked like him. Not one of the men on our cricket team was Tamil, a telling commentary on the post-war state of equality amongst the Sinhalese and Tamil people of my beautiful paradise lost. And yet, Francis cheered louder than I did when one of the Sri Lankans bowled over someone from the other team. Watching him, I felt guilt choke the back of my throat, like the curvature of words long forgotten. Here he was, exiled from a country that betrayed him for his surname and the language he spoke, and still as fiercely patriotic as if it was 1996. And here I stood, a foreigner in this country and my own, trying so hard to run away from everything that tied me to him, to the men in blue and gold on the screen in front of us, to the language that bound us both like hands clasped over glass counter, held firmly, a reminder that you never really leave home.


In class, I learned that the symbol of a key held special significance for Palestinians expelled from their homeland in 1948. The key symbolised their right to return — many Palestinians still held the keys to their ancestral homes, wherever in the world they were, holding tight on to the promise of their someday triumphant revenir into a home that would not let them stay. Leaving, then, is contingent on return. They left, keys in hand, in search of something — peace, safety, sanctuary — comforted with the promise of one day coming back, unlocking doors to the homes that they had lived in for so long. Reading this story, I had to wonder at the tragedy of it all. Do these keys still work? Can any of us ever really go back in the same way, once we have left? I wonder if Francis would recognise home, if home would recognise him, if he went back. Or would he encounter nothing but glorified tourist towns, with only the bullet holes in the palm trees to remind him of what once was, of what he left behind?

I wonder what it is about independence, about escape, that leaves us in this constant state of displacement— in the liminality between home and not quite? Between don’t look back and remember when? Like a little lost brown girl wandering a foreign country with a passport and loneliness tucked in her back pocket, free to come and go as she will but always looking back, always unsure, there is a bittersweet taste to this independence of ours — as soon as you think you’ve made it, you look back, remembering what you left behind more fondly than if you had stayed. This is the tragic loneliness of the self-imposed exile.  Now, when I think of Colombo, I think of sweet milky tea on Sunday mornings and not of whitening cream pushed into unwilling hands, or sharp words by well meaning aunts that come back to scar my reflection every time I look in a mirror. Perhaps it is not so different to watching men that look like you win a cricket match and cheer loudly, remembering home and not the way that home betrayed you. Nostalgia is kinder to memory than the truth — perhaps that is why we yearn to go back home, even after we have left.

Aciman said that an exile cannot even think of another home. What does that say about us, we self-imposed exiles, stuck in the liminality between home and not-quite? Do all exiles look like Francis, watching home on a tiny screen in a country an ocean away from the one that he was forced out of? What about me, who left because I wanted to, because I had the privilege to? Home did not betray me, not in the same way that it betrayed Francis. And yet, I still stood there, skin singing in the lilac light of a Kuala Lumpur sunset, yearning for Colombo.

Every time I have to board a flight back to Colombo, I feel a cold dread settling into the pit of my stomach, and it doesn’t leave until I am back on that plane, flying away from all the things that I have tried so hard and for so long to run away from. I don’t think that it is home that has changed — I think it is me. I feel like I have outgrown home; it fits like a too-tight dress, uncomfortable, sticking too close to your skin, making it hard to breathe, reminding me constantly that the only way to fix the problem is to find a new dress that fits better, or change myself until I can force myself to fit. I am not sure which is worse.

In the space between leaving and homecoming, in the line between loneliness and solitude, I hold in my hands the promise of return with the possibility of loss. It is a heartbreaking position to be in: the audacious, persistent hope that one day, some day, that dress will fit and the devastating possibility of it never being enough. So maybe it is that we can’t go home. We can, but not without changing some aspect of ourselves to fit into the memory of what we left behind. Maybe it is as easy as covering up a tattoo when you go back home to your conservative South Asian family. Maybe it is harder, lying about your girlfriend and changing the pronouns on all of your love poems to fit the mould you are expected to be. Maybe it is impossible — sometimes the keys we hold unlock doors that are now long gone. Sometimes home just won’t let us stay. 

Perhaps this is the hardest truth of all. Maybe exile is just a lie we tell ourselves, like “I will call you every day”, like “I’ll never forget you”, like “I’ll come back for you”. Maybe, like broken keys, the temporary state of exile is a lie we tell ourselves to make leaving easier. Maybe there is a reason we left in the first place. Perhaps Francis cheered louder than me when a team that looked nothing like him won, but it does not change the fact that our country betrayed him, not so long ago. And as for me — I still feel the sting of my mother’s betrayal all those years ago, the insistent pressure of whitening cream pressed into my palm, my own guilt, weighing heavy on my chest at my own inadequacy. I still taste the guilt as my tongue trips on the curvature of Tamil, on words that I knew so well as a child but it does not change the fact that English fits me like a well-worn dress, free from the weight of the expectations that Tamil brings with it. Maybe once we leave, we leave for good — and maybe, just maybe, that isn’t so bad after all.