Desperately Seeking Christmas....

It's Christmas, but it doesn't feel like Christmas. Yes, I do hear carols in the malls; I see red, green, and gold tinsel wind around shelves, stairs, hang from ceilings; clementines, black grapes, red seedless, white seedless adorn the fruit stands; tables groan with fruitcake; Christmas trees guard shop entrances. But why don't I feel it?

Smashing!

I heard about the violent thunderstorms of Sri Lanka, how lightning kind of follow you around. Wow! Last night was extraordinary. My heart was in my mouth, as was often said. Blasting from all corners, rainwater gushing out of spaces between doors and floors, streaming out of unsealed openings between roof tiles and wooden beams of the ceiling, drenching layers upon layers of old newspapers. I noticed a smiling Obama.

The dogs were prancing about in the foyer, grateful for dry cover. They crunched lazily on Pedigree. Really, I was scaredy-scared. Fiery things erupted by the kitchen, eyeball-busting lightning danced in our front and back gardens. The lights flickered, the TV faltered.

But floating above all these banging, spluttering, frying, blazing, shattering, crashing, thundering din, were the amplified singsong, chanting voices of Buddhist monks, praying peacefully in a nearby temple, unmindful of the torment and tribulation outside.

We survived the night's torrent, but the morning brought more heavy rain.

This monsoon reigns.

The Road to Galle 1

The shiny top of a white van slides into view. He is right on schedule. The early morning sky looks promising, a bit overcast, but more blue than grey. My 16-year-old selects a back seat, the better for reclining and lounging and connecting to her music. My husband sits behind the driver, and I plop down beside him. I have an excellent view of the road ahead and its sideshows.

The van snakes its way through the narrow, potholed mawathas, then powers down the main road. It is just 6:30 in the morning, on a Sunday, but Pannipitiya is definitely wide awake. I sense the van lurch right; a three-wheeler flies by. I muffle a shriek, as I watch two fully-packed red buses hurtle towards us. I brace myself for that tyre-screeching-neck-breaking-leg-cutting-ear-splitting impact, but I hear only the faint mooing of a solitary brown cow, taking a break from her scavenging. I remember God.

My eyes go wild, as zigzagging Bajajs squeeze past our vehicle. Our driver weaves calmly through all that chaos and I find myself looking out the window, starting to relax. I notice riceless paddy fields next to busy green grocers. I spy white birds perching and feasting on the back of a water buffalo in the wallow. The van veers right again, and we take leave of Pannipitiya, to join Talawatugoda.

A Bus Ride to Remember

Set in Madrid:

I put on my best flowered blouse and torero (we call a capri a torero). My aunt is already summoning me, Are you ready? We need to go, the bus is waiting. Okay, okay, I'm coming. The almost overcrowded bus is roaring its impatience by our very own stairs, imagine that, by our very own stairs, but the driver is still smiling amiably. The passengers eagerly await for the additions, Auntie, Mum and me. We slip into our seats reserved by the bus driver, while the unseated passengers look on piqued. It pays to be a cousin of the bus driver.

The green bus meanders through the concrete streets of my little hometown. We stop by the market. There's a rush of legs and rubber-clad feet and the bus is surrounded on all sides by determined faces. Hawkers shout out their fare: Baskets of boiled ripe plantains; tempting rice cakes - bibingka, puto, sayungsong; fried crispy flatcakes with treacle toppings; soft, thick, yellow margarine and sugar-smothered-melt-in-the-mouth-waffles; dinabok, mounds of a mixture of mashed boiled green plaintains, freshly-scraped young coconut meat and brown sugar; balls of pinipig flakes, caramelised strips of young coconut meat and brown sugar; roasted peanuts inside paper cones; fluffly cotton candy; and lots, lots more of goodies a six-year old can feast her greedy eyes on.

Arms extend out of the windows, heads peer, cash is exchanged for bundles of food. My aunt, always the boy scout (she is a boy scout master), calls out to some hawkers with their first names. This strategy always gets her the best of the best rice cakes, the best of the best of any thing. Mother also selects her share of goodies, buys some packets from her cousin. Of course, blood is thicker than water, right? Right.

And since blood is thicker than water, I get to choose first: the most-scrumptious looking dinabok, the most-sweet smelling banana, the coldest Coke, the softest, most buttery waffle, the most-treacle covered flatcake. I eat in silence, savouring each morsel, letting bits melt in my mouth, sipping my ice-cold Coca-Cola, as slow as slow can get.

Batman Down

I wrestle with the sliding metal gate. It opens noisily. Stella comes out of the door that leads to the driveway. Is the bat okay? No, they murdered him. What? Oh, my God!What to do? What to do? Stella's face crumples in agony.

I open the balled kitchen cloth. Bat seems asleep. But in this sleep, there is no waking up. I caress his forehead. I notice it's now soft and hollow to the touch, as if something has been scooped out of his tiny head. He smells of antibiotic. Some of the caked white powder is visible under the skin of his furry chest.

I remember how the large needle pierced his right side, and liquid antibiotic oozed out of his body. The needle must have punctured the skin on the left side of his chest. The assistant vet just uttered, Ooppss! It came out! What to do?

I remember holding my breath, realising the futility of the moment, watching the head vet, who has now taken over, searching for some fluttering, for some minuscule indication of life. You mean he's dead? I ask, already knowing the answer. Yes, he's dead, there's no more heartbeat, he says pensively. He keeps on with his stethoscope for another minute.

Stella finds a stick and starts to dig the grave. It is shaded by a bush with beautiful tiny yellow flowers. I wrap the little fellow in coloured paper and mutter my goodbyes and prayers. Do bats go to heaven? I don't know. It's ready, Stella tells me. I lower him gently into his new home. Stella replaces the earth and I put pebbles on top of the mound. I break off a few woody branches of the flowering bush and make our offering.

Two days after, I discover bits of coloured paper strewn near the bat's grave.

Batman 2

I read somewhere that when a baby fruit bat loses grip and falls to the ground, the mother bat won't pick it up. Bats hunt for miles and miles, so if the baby unluckily slips,... This could be the case with this little one inside the red basket.

After four hours, I take a peek, turning the folds of the kitchen cloth so I can see the baby. It crrrrkkkkks. Hey, I say. Hungry? It opens its left eye. Want some juiceee? Here you go. He grabs the syringe from my hand. Look at you! I let out a soft laugh. The baby is ecstatic. The syringe is full of sweet apple juice, the natural kind, it says on its packaging.

Now stuffed, he expertly moves his head up, so he is facing the cloth. Something shoots out from his bottom, black, solid. Oh, toilet time, huh?

I wipe him clean. He gives off a sweet fruity smell. I let him hold on to my pointer. His fingers curl around mine. Now out of the basket, I get on with the business of checking for more parasites. I squash one black louse and drowns a tick. Finding nothing more, I put him back inside the basket, upside down. I leave him to sleep.

I feed him every four hours. I alternate dextrose and apple juice. According to a guide on taking care of baby flying foxes, the carer must not give orange juice to it. I don't know why; maybe too acidic and it may cause a tummy upset. I plan to start him on baby formula. Evening feeds are difficult. I could hardly get up, especially at two in the morning. But I persevere.

I notice that the baby has developed a crust on his right eye. My daughter says his eye looks red. Sometimes juice flows out of his mouth and travels down his right cheek, wetting the skin under his right eye. He needs to be seen by a vet. I get him ready. I wrap him in his kitchen cloth, making sure his nose can peer out for air. He opens his eyes every now and then, and crrrkkks. Let's go, I say to him.

I put the padlock around the hooks of the sliding metal gate and bat and I are off. Out on the main street, I hail a tuktuk. Bat and I start our trip to the vet's clinic.

I shouldn't have brought him there.

I should have gone back to PetsVCare.

Batman

As I am coming out of our main door, I see a beautiful black and white cat. Hey, Cat! I say. You strayed into our garden. Anything interesting today? The cat saunters away. That's the first a cat enters the property. I continue my way to the garage and voila! I find the reason for the cat's visit: A baby bat. Its fur is glossy, black with a white bib-like colouration below its neck. It is scaredy-scared. Oh my, I think. Too much watching of Animal Planet. I remember Steve Irwin and his gang - they throw some cloth over an animal that's being rescued. So I do the same. I run back to the kitchen and find a clean kitchen cloth. Back in the garage, I watch as the bat flaps its wings. It is perched on top of the ladder. Then it is off the ladder and swooshes by me, bangs against the low garden wall, and drops down to a flowering bush. It struggles, its wings caught in the tiny branches of the plant. So, I throw the cloth on top of its head and fish it out of the small gap of concrete and soil and branches. Steve, on one of Animal Planet's show, said that the cloth and darkness would calm an animal down. Since they can't see a thing.

I hold it up in front of me. To my untrained eye, it seems no bones are broken.The baby bat has very sharp fangs, very white fangs. He also makes creaking sounds, but does not move. He looks me in the eye. I know bats carry rabies, they are the rabies-carrier in Sri Lanka, but I put that thought aside. What should I do? I ask myself. If I let nature takes its course, it will mean he will be lunch fare of our neighbourhood cats. What to do? (A very common Sri Lankan expression)

I take it inside, still wrapped in the kitchen cloth. I see my red plastic laundry basket standing by the refrigerator. It is just right. I lower the bundle carefully into the basket. It creaks again, sharp animal creaks. I bound up the stairs, to our bedroom, change clothes, and bat and I are off. Off to the vet!

The trishaw bashes its way to Staples Street, a 30-minute ride on paved roads, some parts holey. The ride is jarring, the bat is creaking. After a few queries on direction, the trishaw stops in front of PetVCare, which is right next to Hilton Colombo. The vet takes one look and disappears into the part of the clinic where beds are set up. He comes back with a needleless plastic syringe. He says it's dextrose. The bat takes it happily in its mouth and begins to suckle. He is definitely parched, hungry, too, I think. Poor baby! The bat drinks his second dextrose syringe, as we watch fascinated. I notice the smiles on the faces of the humans milling around the basket.The vet says he does not have the facility needed for taking care of baby bats. He tells me to keep the bat for a few days, to let it go after a week or so.

Back at home, I log on to look for articles or tips on taking care of baby fruit bats. I find what I need. It means a lot of work, sleepless nights, but I decide to have a go on looking after the little one. I check the fridge for any fruit juice. Apple juice, just what I need. I peer into the basket, move the cloth around til the bat is hanging upside down. He settles for sleep.I remove the empty syringe from the bat's grip, then I put a small pillow over the basket opening.