A Rock, A Castle, A Friend

by Richa Bhattarai (United States of America)

Making a local connection Sri Lanka

I must go there, my heart said. I must. A rock shaped like a lion, and on top of it, a castle fabled to be that of Ravana, the mighty king of Lanka. I had just arrived in Colombo, and was still getting used to men (and rarely, women) staring as I passed by. Some were friendly peeks trying to ascertain whether I was a fellow countrywoman, others were more pointed, lascivious, discomforting. From this humid and gorgeous capital city, I ached to travel to the ruins of Sigiriya, but did not know how. A private car was too expensive, group tours seemed unheard of. I decided on a six-hour train ride. The evening before my sojourn, I texted Madhu, my only friend in the country, “Do you think it is safe for me to travel alone to Sigiriya?” “No, I wouldn’t advise it,” she wrote back instantly – this girl who had trekked around the UK by herself did not want me traipsing around her home. I did not listen to her, of course. The lure was too strong. At a little past six the next morning, I found myself hanging on to one of the metal rails inside the train, already regretting my sojourn. My backpack was too heavy, the train too crowded, and the journey too long. Until a friendly face invited me to another compartment. “Come,” she said in a mix of English, Sinhala and sign, “come and sit beside us.” Her motley group made space for me, and I squeezed into a tiny corner. And then they tried to feed me: lentil balls brushed with chili flakes, crispy shrimps wading in raw onions, and rice flour patties steamed with jaggery in thick green leaves. Curly-haired women enquired after my husband, and teenagers asked me, curious, “But why are you travelling alone?” A question echoed by the tour guide, Gayan, whom I had called beforehand. After I gave him my train schedule, he asked, delicately, “You are coming with your husband, madam?” “No, Gayan,” I responded. “Alone, madam?” A slight pause, that sense of disbelief. As the train screeched to a halt, I peered out of the nearly opaque windows. What was I doing here, so far away from everything and everyone I knew? I caught sight of Gayan standing by a car – for a moment, I wanted to return instead of stepping down and meeting this tall stranger. But then he caught my eye, and on his lips began a smile that reached right up to his eyes. Never have I felt so welcomed. “It will take us an hour to get to Sigiriya,” he explained, “There will be a jungle, wild animals, and a pond. Don’t be scared, madam.” Had he seen the fear that had made me hesitant and wary? We did, indeed, pass through a verdant forest with the trees whistling a melodious tune. The pond was in fact a huge lake that simmered to the horizon. And right on the road, just as we were about to reach the tiny village I was to spend my night in, we met a magnificent-shelled turtle. As Gayan gently carried him to a field nearby, I stepped out and smelled the air – a green, earthy, lemony fragrance. That fragrance remained with me as I clambered up the rock that hot, humid afternoon. It was a strenuous climb, and on top was a fairyland. I sat there amongst ancient swimming pools and king’s courts, marveling at the architecture of yore, the artistry that had pulled me to this place from hundreds of thousands of miles away. The next morning, I looked down upon this palace once more as we climbed another rock in front of it. Pidurangala, which is not as well-known, but no less beautiful. Reluctant to let me venture out alone at dawn, Gayan had insisted on coming along with his two little nephews. On top of that rock, as the sky painted itself rose and teal and azure, we lay back and talked – for hours and hours. And that is how I will always remember Sri Lanka – the rock I scaled, the palace I craved, and the friend I cherished.