Colombo Confessions is all about having a laugh. I’ve had the misfortune of associating with a wide cross-section of Colombo denizens. This column is a look at the lighter (sometimes) side of Lankans in the capital of Sri Lanka.
I was gyrating this morning to Doja Cat’s new track Kiss Me More and was pleasantly surprised to see a gorgeous Asian male gyrating in the video as well. I wish I was SZA. I could’ve owned that outfit better. You should know, dear Colombite, that I have a serious issue with multiculturalism. I do have to state that yes, it is overrated. I have the curse of being related to half the rogues in Colombo and they come from all ethnicities and religions. Trust me, these buggers transcend all boundaries to embody all that’s bad in the world. I should know; I’m a bad egg, too. Multiculturalism is such an overrated concept. The only reason it is such a big deal on the world stage at this point in time is because of rampant racism that has become the new global pandemic. But I’m not complaining, Just like the token Black guy from flicks back in the day, we now have Asians making their way onto the silver screen. And that just means more eye candy for me. Hurrah!
I’m digressing as usual. Whoever said that I’m a good writer, needs their neurons checked. The main reason I hate being born into a multi-religious family is the effect it has on my waist size. The Christmas pudding of 2020 has segued to the kokis and kiribath of 2021. Of course, our dear wannabe socialites have gone all out doing the godey thing to fit in and gone traipsing outstation with their designer reddey and hatey. The event de rigueur this year was the horse races in Nuwara Eliya (although there was not a reddey or hatey in sight at those races, those were all strictly saved for the day before). Just a lot of face paint and “fascinating” fascinators worthy of that famous Shangri-La birthday party. And not a mask in sight now that I think of it. Haiyo corona.
That said, there have been the godey few who stayed in Colombo and decided to have their (apparently) charming soirées. Not that anyone cared. “Hari rasai, hari rasai,” they murmured to the rest of their fellow viragos while digging into their piles of pudding and suffering from verbal piles.
Sweetness seems to be a thing they crave with their usual desire for an insulin shot or two. Just in case, you are one of those diabetic aunties reading this, take a chill pill. But, if you are one of my sad and hideous relatives: This really is for you. All things said, Avurudu this year was great. There were not a lot of masks to be seen in Colombo gatherings either. It was good to lock lips with absolute strangers in Colombo and its beautiful suburbs as if there was no corona in sight.
I’m straining to elicit more sarcasm today, but I just can’t. The good doctor at a fantastic hospital last week told me not to strain too hard since I myself suffer from the curse of piles. So, I’m done with food, for the moment, and I’m even more done with Colombo. I’ll leave you with a thought on the normal Avurudu kama mesey. In terms of being useless, I think kokis takes the cake. Crispy and breaking into brilliant tasteless pieces, this pathetic part of the menu is quite like our wannabe socialites: Nothing on the inside and falls apart with just one bite. Don’t be a kokis, darling; be a mung kavum instead.
(Rohitha Perera is a writer, blogger, and content marketer from Colombo, Sri Lanka. He used to be an editor at a lifestyle magazine, and now works in the IT industry)
The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication.
