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| Thanthirimale |
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| Sacred Bo Tree |
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| Cows in the morning |
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| The Three dogs |
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| Ananda |
I am sad to leave this morning, cutting short my stay, plans undone; but it is a calculated guess I am taking that there is going to be a lockdown imposed on nearby areas very soon, if not on the whole peninsular. For how long will depend on the spread.
If so, my exit options will be nonexistent, as I have to drive through Mannar to reach mainland over the bridge.
Until very late, I had been out on the atolls, the connectivity had been sporadic and as usual, had ignored calls and messages.
Once the news came through about Mannar at my usual Data Spot on the lounge balcony in the evening, it was too late to attempt an uncertain 8 to 9 hour journey in the dark through increasing checkpoints, elephants and jungle stretches.
I had succumbed to a restless sleep.
Now, as I await packed sandwiches requested for the long journey back since I do not want to risk stopping anywhere; for the final time I take in Adam’s Bridge in the morning light.
It is beautiful.
The water lies like a sheet around the dunes and islets from one side. And from the far side waves crash against, then gently flow through numerous channels to join the calm.
Flocks of birds rest on the flats, and some take off.
There is a speck of a boat with a speck of a man alongside, wading hip deep in the water, searching for something.
I wonder whether I know him.
Cattle that strayed yesterday evening on to the dunes full of beach vegetation (a few watched me in the night like ghosts, the moon illuminating their coats against the glowing white sand in this surreal landscape, as I sat on my terrace) have come to graze near the waters of the Bay of Bengal that should recede in an hour or so, turning the area into flat mud plains with rivulets of water; and the birds will start picking through them and feasting, soon.
The apprehension I feel for the drive ahead, the scramble to pack yesterday evening, the desperate need to get out in case of curfew, the explanations ready at checkpoints for possible no entries, are Nothing like the millions that have taken place at both ends of this bridge, since at least from 7000 years ago.
Mine is of no significance: a walk in the park, compared to people from various lands, faiths and tribes, who have crossed this coral reef and its ever changing, dancing sand strip for many a reason.
They have travelled to and fro, for peace and war, fortune and poverty, refuge and invasion. Trade and exploration. Fleeing home, to find home.
These shifting sands and floating stones have felt the weight of their joy and despair. Hope and desperation. Might and resolve.
Lanka extends her arm out elegantly.
Up to the 15th century, the reefs and dunes were an unbroken pearl chain of sorts until a fierce storm destroyed it.
Scientific and Archaeological work done state that the sand beneath is 4000 years old compared to some of the great turret like submerged rocks over it, which is over 7000 years.
What is inferred is that the stones were brought in and placed from another location, suggesting a human hand at its construction.
Then the story of Rama Sethu (Rama’s bridge) of Ramayana fame where the Vanara tribe (Monkey Army) of Hanuman built the bridge, can be imagined.
The romance of it has never been lost over the ages.
According to Islamic tradition, Adam fell from heaven to Garden of Eden (Sri Lanka), and Sri Pada (Adam’s Peak) is where his foot print is. Adam’s Bridge is the path he took to reach mainland Asia.
For the past two days, my conversations were only with a few shy men on the beach and one tall, imposing girl whose cold demeanor was impenetrable as steel armour.
But just when they were softening and I was finding my footing on a steadier dune, a pandemic has decided that I too should leave.
Just like they did, at various points in their lives.
____________________
Few days ago:
The Cricket match the staff plays in the car park is in full swing, and I am hoping that the vehicle is safe from any whizzing balls.
There is only one vehicle, and I am the only guest in this place.
It is just the way I like it.
When I registered, it was Anat who checked me in.
Though she smiled and was very courteous, I immediately sense the coldness and the distrust underneath.
Understandably so. A war that has spanned over three decades cannot be forgotten or forgiven easily by both sides.
I am determined to penetrate through it, and during the next two days, am gentle but politely indifferent, that demands Her to be curious about what I am up to.
I am a local woman alone, travelling for months. A strange phenomenon.
From other parts or not.
Anat lives in a small plot of land given to her parents by their church, when they returned to Sri Lanka hugging the bridge by boat in 1995.
“Large boat,” Anat says, “but much smaller than a ship.”
This is what her brother remembers at 5 years of age.
Anat was born here.
Her family has fled the ethnic war, by land and by water over and along the sand dunes of Adam’s Bridge.
They had lived in a camp in Tamil Nadu, both her brothers were born there and it was a harsh life.
The decision to return to Sri Lanka was a desperate one. They needed to be in a home of their own, however rough it was, and over the waters it was hell.
Once they returned, St. Lawrence Catholic church promised each family, 20 perches.
The year she was born the church blessed them with it.
And now she is 22 years old, younger than my daughter.
Anat’s family survives on fishing but like most of our children, her generation is travelling out to find work. She has studied well in Hotel Management, with work experience in Colombo and now back in Mannar.
I am curious about the perilous journey to and from India, in the times of war. When I ask her about the possibility of talking to her mother, she thinks for a while and agrees. But her mother will need a translator and it has to be on a day Anat is free.
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The two men I meet one morning have laid nets out there, and are taking a break walking about. That’s what they say and they are very shy, scratching heads and digging holes in the sand with their toes.
I too am beach combing, I say; taking pictures of garbage washed ashore.
I show them my shots.
They are very impressed with the one with a pretty Bollywood actress printed on a bottle.
“Best,” they say, both with their thumbs up.
I ask them about the fishing.
It is not an easy conversation due to my lack of Tamil, but they can manage enough Sinhala and we all resort to some great sign language.
They had seen a Dugong last week in the water. I am told it is rare. To figure out the word Dugong, we all go through a fun linguistic ride.
One says “Oora” at one point and points to the sea. It proceeds from there.
The older man tells me these seas have a very special quality. Rare species of flora and fish. According to him the waters that form a river of currant underneath, circle three oceans and pass through here. And it brings in nutrients and organisms that are not found anywhere.
His father told him that.
I ask him whether his father still fish.
“No” he says awkwardly. “He was killed”
I hate to ask the next question.
I ask them if they are on this beach often.
I am hoping I get to talk to them again.
They nod, smiling slightly.
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The soldier in the lookout tower surrounded by small shrubs and trees about 300 meters away from the water, watch me through his binoculars, as I gingerly walk on the beach or in the shallows from different directions, each day.
Many times I am tempted to approach the post over the dunes from the back and say hello, but dare not. I am scared of the dogs the hotel staff has warned me about or being shot at.
There are two guards 24/7, watching the bridge and the seas for comings and goings.
Every morning I see fishing boats racing back home, and navy patrols far away in the Gulf of Mannar.
Suddenly I see a platoon of Navy soldiers in training with their officers on the beach. They are in the area I want to explore today.
There are dogs amidst them. Little dots, running about.
It is too far but I can make out some of them crouching and moving in pairs.
The coast is rife with smuggling.
I change my mind and walk the Bay side. Towards the first island.
As I cross the first sand dune, suddenly I am aware of three dogs racing at me.
The sea water flows over the sand making a shallow river and I walk to the middle. The dogs are still coming at me, and I stand still. I turn to the tower and slightly make out the shadow of the guard watching me and the dogs.
The first one splashes through reaching me in the middle of the water; I smile nervously and speak softly. He sniffs and is on the edge, but at one point I manage to gently stroke his head. That relaxes him and the tail wags. The rest follow and I give them the same treatment. They are strays. Not Navy dogs.
The sand can get very loose even in shallow water and in the deeper pools the mud can claw at your feet. The dogs lead me safely to where they think I want to go.
We are in a small island with shrubs and a sea eagle swoop and circle the water.
Far away I see some fisherman approaching a bigger island. Tiny figures, dark against the sun.
The colours respond to the changing light and it is paradise.
I walk to a place shielded by some shrubs, high enough the guard cannot see me through his binoculars from mainland.
I strip and get in. The dogs laze about, guarding my clothes.
I am unaware that tomorrow morning, I will be leaving this place.
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Now:
One must always take photographs as and when, without planning to capture them later on the return.
I am on a one lane dusty track, with the road being carpeted. The traffic does not let me stop at any of the beautiful sites I am driving through. And on the good stretch of the road, there are too many Covid check points that have sprung up and I don’t feel like stopping as I have no idea how many more I have to brave or what situation awaits me in Colombo.
Google Lady has directed me to the fastest route home, though several times she gives me a ½ hour short option that I know is not possible as the route through Wilpattu is under repair with Eluvamkulam unpassable.
I am frustrated that I will not be taking the Oyagama road back, through Thanthirimale; the road I enjoyed immensely, getting to Talaimannar from Puttalam.
It is no wonder, the area boasts of 81 wewas, or man-made lakes. Every stretch of the road was either over a bund or passing a bund, with long isolated stretches of jungle and chenas. Elephants dotted far away on both sides in some stretches.
And when I passed Thanthirimale ancient temple, of course I had to stop at the cost of photographing the beauty from Madawachchiya to Mannar later on in the day. I had got to Talaimannar very late after my unscheduled stop.
When the sacred Bo Tree was brought in from India, through the Port of DambakolaPatuna near Mannar, on the way to Anuradhapura, Thiwakka Bamunugama the chief of a village received the procession and king Devanam Piyatissa, and provided shelter for the first night of the journey.
Later the King named the beautiful site, Thiwakka Bamunugama and a Temple was commissioned with the First shoot from the main sapling being planted.
The temple ground extends across 250 acres. It is known for its 3rd century BCE stone inscriptions and prehistoric writings, caves, rock carvings, ruins of monastic residences, meditation chambers, a library and the Sacred Bodhi tree. It is situated in the most beautiful setting, embraced by lakes and waterways.
The arrival of the Sacred Bo Tree in Sri Lanka, routed Buddhism firmly in the country as well as establishing the Female order.
The present day name Thanthirimale is connected to the Saliya-AsokaMala love story during the Dutugemunu era. The king forgave the fleeing couple and presented a gold necklace in the shape of the Thanthiri butterfly, which is buried on site.
Thanthiri-Malei. Butterfly-chain.
As I walk with Ananda- a guide I met in the temple museum, he shows me the caves with pre historic writings, presumed to be between at least 4000 to 5000 years old.
We are both wondering where these people initially came from.
This island of crossroads.
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