The night before

The night before

Jeeps, vans and buses were sent around collecting as much riff raff as possible. Taverns cleaned out. If you had just walked to the road for a smoke, unceremoniously bundled in. All taken to the near by party offices or well-wishers homes and plied with kassiya and gal. Betel, soosthies and cigarettes handed out on the traditional buluth atha trays. Shouts of 'Jayawewa', the lighting of firecrackers reverberating through Sri Lanka. Occasionally the night lit up in brilliance from flares fired by serviceman.

The armed forces with their peckers up roam in droves. The Police hapless watch on or set about silently in deeds dictated by their current masters, those now in Government. CTB buses under armed guard move around with ballot boxes and staff who’ll man the polling booth. Thunderous shuddering machines of steel shells. The grim reaper at their wheel, half drunk, half asleep.

The innocent cover in their mats and beds. Sighing in relief in the sanctuary of their homes.

The teacher in Kegalle gets up nervously for his toilet needs. His wife shifts restlessly. On his way back to bed the teacher quickly checks again the kitchen cupboard. Two bottles of DCSL old reserve and two packs of gold leaf, all wrapped safely in newspaper. Two packs of Keells kirata mirisata meatballs in the old rusted Sisil fridge. A butter cake, pack of sugar and island coffee on a buluth seppuwa on a tin plate filled in water to keep ants off. All set and ready to watch elections results the night after with his brother in law and uncle.

The Tamil lawyer staying at the Hilton Residence turns restlessly. Neither the young East European hooker nor the stiff shots of blue label he had before bed failing to sedate him. His family will join him in the afternoon, long after hotel staff cleans out his philandering at night. He has booked into until the end of the weekend, so any trouble he is safe in his paid for sanctuary.

Only the advertising executives sleep the untroubled sleep of the wicked. Tomorrow for them will be just another working day. Only the studio boys and the Sinhala creative will take the leave due for them to vote. For the ad exes who wins or loses is not an issue. Life in Colombo forever the same, who ever they do not vote for. They will work late, the females leaving early in their white vans, the males will all eventually stagger off to watch the election results and party late into night at the international creative directors home. For the foreigner, this is just another day. Even if there is curfew the hardier ad exes will still make it to work the next day. Life goes on in Colombo.

In the midst of this dark late January night works two groups of efficient and bold people. Two groups vastly different in nature. But both equally trained. The Special Forces the darkness their much loved lover use the night to move into key positions all around the capital securing all vantage points of significance to ensure the country runs smoothly after. The blackguards move in and out of their shadow, already stuffing the boxes of importance, the keys to earth’s heaven, the Paradise Isle.

For whom the grim reaper shall come is in everyone’s mind, but the result a foregone conclusion other than the utopia in the minds of some.