So the island’s largest wedding took place recently in the southern parts, amidst the presence of everyone who was someone either politically, personally, or socially connected to the family of the former President and his ex-beauty queen wife, to witness their youngest son take the hand of a fair maiden, by the edge of a pond.
By the vast coverage of the wedding, I must say that everything was very tasteful, simple, elegant and so very ethnic; the absolutely gorgeous bride wore a batik saree draped in Kandyan style, was adorned with the traditional jewellery, with immaculate makeup and coiffeur, arrived at the poruwa in a decorated bullock cart, and took her place demurely beside the dashingly handsome bridegroom.
Now, as most people with access to the internet would know, the couple have been in the spotlight for quite a few years, mainly because of the young gentleman’s genes, his interest and participation in sports, and his long and steady relationship with this girl, who first was seen as a commercial model. Neither of them really sought public attention, but got it anyway.
Now the Sri Lankan community flourish in an age old practice of storytelling – an art that comes down generations and is a part of our DNA. Our forefathers (and) all gathered around with interesting tales to spread, and this practice has only evolved, increased, and spread with the advent of technology and easy access to fast communication.
Much to the disadvantage of a young couple, minding their own business, going about their own lives, trying to enjoy the sparkles and excitement of romance and life together, these tales, like serpents with venom in their fangs, swiftly slithered into every sphere of media over the first few hours of the exquisite marriage ceremony, criticising every aspect of the wedding, the guests, the food, and the drinks in the form of memes, skits, and posts.
Why Sri Lanka? Why? Is the green-eyed monster in your DNA consuming your every thought and deed?
I wonder if these people pause to think of a greater punch back in the form of karma or retribution; I wonder if they now, in some way, regret that they did not live in the vicinity of the wedding house, so that they too would have been invited, like every household in the village, I wonder if they envied the 5,000 who partook of the celebration in dignity and joy and ordered fish biriyani from the Galle Caterers and washed it down with king coconut just to appease their greed.
Ah my people, my people, my heart wrenches out of my ribcage in sorrow about the things done in spite.
Having said that, the couple go merrily on their way, in their little world of hearts and rainbows, trying to ignore the snide remarks and jibes at them.
But knowing people as I do, these tales, as I said, go down generations and even the next line up of children will be given a brand new version of how Mount Kilimanjaro melted into the paddy fields of Beliatta, and there emerged from the mud, a vision in soap suds, a beautiful princess, who was swept away by the prince of the land, on his thirikkale or race cart, complete with two white bullocks.
I hope with all my heart the beautiful couple live happily ever after.
And I also hope that others of the land will take after them and organise weddings with simplicity.
Till the next time then.
