5 The Abandoned School
After a while someone who had heard of my working in the House of Compassion offered me a free room, that was conveniently close to my work. I now live on a major road, which is the first part of a run between two big cities and is, consequently, very polluted with lorries and buses belching out fumes all day from engines long in need of repair. My room, however, is situated on the fourth plot back from the road, and all the noise and confusion are soon left behind.
The room is part of a school complex which is now largely in disuse. Outside there is a small untidy verandah and a courtyard with papaya, banana, and coconut trees. I often sit here, sometimes for hours on end, just being quiet, observant. Especially at dawn and dusk many wondrous creatures hop, dance, and fly through this small square: babblers noisily hunting in packs, overturning dead leaves in their search for prey; tiny tailor birds; sunbirds in pairs savouring nectar; an unusual barbet, bright green, seen only once; drongos sitting on the telephone wires, occasionally swooping on insects flying below; large coucals clumsily hopping from branch to branch in an elm tree; a pair of brilliant black and gold orioles. I’ve even seen a kingfisher here, though there’s nowhere to fish; and of course, there’s the ubiquitous crow, last to bed, and first to rise. I also have a nest of magpie-robins nearby who strike up their beautiful song at the same time each morning – you could set your watch by them, they’re certainly as accurate as my neighbour’s cuckoo clock, and far more so than the local watchman who strikes the last five bells of the night at 5.15!
My garden of delights is bordered on the far side by man. The first sign of his presence is a sheer 42ft wall crowned with broken glass, atop of which a pair of squirrels or a stealthy cat will pick their way, ignorant of their intrusion. Beyond the wall stand two large houses belonging to that most vulnerable of species, the Sri Lankan middle class. Along a ledge in front of the first house prowls a German shepherd dog, who is kept as the second line of defence. The only thing that keeps him from his rounds is the overflow from the water-tower, which drips down onto the path. We are in the middle of a drought here in Sri Lanka, but that doesn’t stop our friends from being conspicuous in their consumption, every day the irritating pitter-patter can be heard as the careless ones slumber. In the evenings the sound of a grand piano can be heard as someone tinkles out sentimental arrangements of western songs. The second house is even more fortress like than the first, with an additional electric wire fence, and sheer concrete block walls. On the upper floor is a concrete balcony that must command a fine view of the nearby hills and the surrounding countryside, but only once have I seen a men step out onto the balcony, a visitor to the fort, I think, he looked round, and turning, called to someone inside “Will you come and see?” but there was no reply.
That these two homes in their search for security have isolated themselves in a most brutal way is easily visible, but are not our own psychological walls just as violent, holding the world at bay, an attempt to make us invulnerable? Only those may enter our world whom we are sure will not hurt us or rob us of something precious like our tightly held – and false – notions of ourselves. But our defence mechanisms prove equally as erratic as a glass fence straddled by a cat, or a dog who gives up his rounds rather than get wet. Meanwhile we lock out unwonted guests, those who make us uncomfortable, or whose lives demand more than we are willing to give. We so deaden ourselves with security that the truth of things no longer penetrates our souls. But with all this comfort, all this control, all this security, are we any more alive, or able to give birth? Or has this search for security been bought at the cost of our lives?