Nipuni Ranaweera (Sri Lanka/New Zealand) is an academic in the Department of Language Studies at the Open University of Sri Lanka and a lawyer. Her research interests revolve around Gender, Migrant Literature, Social Media and Poetry. Her first book “Take me in small doses” was shortlisted for the state literary award in Sri Lanka in 2022. She is a doctoral student of English and Creative writing at the Massey University, New Zealand.

 

English

 

 

WAITING FOR AN EMBASSY DOOR TO OPEN

 

For a May morning, the day was unnaturally bleak-

The wind from the Galle face- green was like a harpy unleashed

tearing at our clothes, whipping our hair into tangles that slapped

wetly against cheeks angled upwards in expectation,

even as the Embassy-doors remained firmly closed,

like the faces of the local guards stately in American buckles and belts.

(you see, we didn’t have any business coming early)

The ocean kept rolling upon itself, mocking them, mocking us.

Faces lighting up with disproportionate joy, a group of young wannabe students

shift as the door opens a crack.

Like a curt but efficient dog, the guard monosyllabically

barks “Why?”

Used to creaking chairs being pulled out,

to cups clinking softly as teaspoons sing against delicate china,

we turn defensive, and with perverse desire to stand apart from the

queue of desperate young hope, flash out our invites.

They let us loiter a little more, and dignity and clothing astray,

we march in towards the body- check passage.

There are sleek chairs but we are not asked to sit, yet.

outside, the students wait a little longer, and the

ocean jeers at us all,

coiling around in its own waves of mirth.

Come, let me admit you,

no questions asked,

let me take you in, enfold you.

 

 

 

THINGS ALWAYS BEGIN IN KITCHENS

 

I would visualize myself going across steel corridors

blocked on either side by sleek metal bars, hissing machines-

masked officials stamping documents and feet

silver conveyor belts conveying things

with bleak anonymity.

But that’s never how it happens.

Things always start in a kitchen,

amma gentling, the stove knob so that

the curries are there but not there

ensuring that I would eat well without

 the evidence of it reeking on to my clothes.

Bottles glistening with steam open for

the pickles or sweets simmering on the stove.

Father dusting suitcases, brother pulling the scales from under the bed.

Then the things that cannot be packed-

 like two figures huddling on the bed, fists tightly furled

 

against the possibility of parting,

A man going for a long walk with desolate eyes

unblinking with resignation.

On arrival again, hot tea warmed by an old friend’s hands

her two children peeking from behind,

like stubborn memories, capped and muffled.

“I hope you don’t mind sitting in the kitchen” -

scents unloading, gasps at bright folds of

exotic fabric unfolding

Sinhala books for the kids,

safety nets for me

from the cold still city I have come to,

that I am yet to press against, with the frayed familiarity

that I would, to a lover’s back.

Not at all, I say

Things always begin in kitchens.