Wher do al the flowers go?

By Randima Attygalle

Why should all the flowers in the world wither away like the mist? Why not try at least to prolong their freshness, colour and of course, all what flowers mean to you? Husband and wife team Sonali and Ananda Jayasuriya have exercised their creative potential in introducing a new perspective in horticulture and floral arrangements. Take a ride down Highlevel Road and near Cargills Food City in Kirillapone, you will find 'F`leur'.Certainly you are no more in Colombo. You cannot but wonder whether you are in Holland-the land of tulips, Australia or Lake Side in the British Isles. You are surrounded by exotic flowers in the little boutique 'F`leur.' The only difference is they have not been picked from the garden of Sonali and Ananda. Whereever the flowers are from, they have been able to give flowers a 'longer' life, in clay pots and wooden structures, through the magical touch of preservatives. Asked why she started such an unusual venture, Sonali replied, "I like flowers, no matter whether they are fresh or preserved. But the idea of making arrangements with dyed flowers really hit me when I actually saw them in many foreign countries, where I travelled with my husband." Being a daughter of a horticulturist,Sonali was exposed to this field at a very tender age. Ananda explained that they import flowers, dyed in fruit colourings mainly from Holland and Australia. They also bring down a wide range of 'Bancaseia' and wheat leaves from Australia in addition to ferns, statice and daisies from Holland. So why not roses loved by many? Apart from the exorbitant prices of roses, the rules and regulations of the Department of Agriculture in Sri Lanka as regards certain varieties of flowers like roses, make them difficult to bring down. Ananda holds the view that local flowers too can be used in this trade if the right technology is readily available in Sri Lanka as well. He feels it is a pity Sri Lanka being an island full of flowers in full bloom throughout the year, has so far not being successful in preserving them. The couple appreciate the assistance given by the Department of Agriculture in guiding them. "I noticed that we Sri Lankans adhere too much to fresh flower decorations. It is time this attitude is changed," says Sonali.

Gifts of pity

By Aditha Dissanayake

A single shot was heard piercing the silent cloak of night. I stumbled to my feet and looked around. No one stirred. An old woman mumbled something in her sleep. The man at the far corner snored steadily. No! No one stirred! Not even the three dogs outside. In the past such a shot would have been the cause of gossip for years to come. Not anymore. Not after the terrorists came and hot on their trail the army. As life in one school building, among a hundred unknown uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters became tolerable, I got used to living with the sound of mortar bombs and "johnny battas". But never would I get used to the sound of a single gun shot. Three months ago it was such a shot that took away from me the one precious person I had left in the whole world - my father.

As tears started to make snail tracks down my cheeks, I realized that life had started to seep into the place which a moment ago seemed as quiet as a playground after the end of a cricket match. I hurried to wash myself before the water ran out and then prepared to wait for the army truck which would bring us breakfast or lunch, depending on the time it would reach the camp. A small boy wandered past me with all of his five fingers in his mouth, towards an older group of boys who were beginning to play cricket. I removed my sarong, donned a pair of shorts and decided to join them. I am fifteen and I know that they look up to me and would willingly do anything I suggest. But this morning our stomaches were empty and tempers short. The game stopped long before it really started.

I looked around for my aunt wondering if she would have a piece of bread left over from yesterday. Not seeing her or any of the other women folk around, I realized that they would have gone to the river close by to wash the clothes and bathe the kids. It was then that I heard someone moaning. In the far side of the classroom among bundles of clothes I could detect a head glistening with silver hair. I stooped and peered into the face and realized that it was the old woman who kept me awake at night with her grumbling. She was shaking from head to foot and did not answer me when I gently asked her what was wrong. I sent a kid to the stream to fetch her daughter and sat down to wait.

The women arrived in single file and took charge. It was decided that the old woman had a fever. A bed was made for her on the cement floor with a blanket borrowed from one friend and a pillow from another. In spite of the care lavished on her, before the clock struck twelve in the morning, the seventy- year old woman passed away on the floor of a refugee camp - a woman who had lived in her own house for the past fifty years and who had longed to die in the same house.

When the food finally arrived I didn't really feel like eating, but forced myself to gobble it down knowing I would feel hungry later on, if I did not do so. In the afternoon I took some of my text books out and decided to study, but was disturbed by the sound of a vehicle and the shouts of the kids. I hurried outside to find a group of visitors from Colombo, distributing parcels of food and clothing. I watched how men and women who had once walked with their heads held high, now stretched their arms humbly to gather a packet of biscuits or a shirt somebody in the city had decided to cast away.

I turned my head and looked away towards the jungle that surrounds our school. These people had taken a tremendous risk by coming here from Colombo. This being the festive season they were in the mood for giving and sharing. But I was proud and I resented the woman who walked towards me with a slab of chocolate in her hand. "This is for you" she said in Sinhalese. From the way she pronounced the words I realized that they were alien to her tongue even though she looked like a Sinhalese. Why did she pretend she could not speak Sinhala? But in spite of myself I took the chocolate from her and put it in my shirt pocket. The gifts were sent by the girls of a leading school in Colombo she said and asked me what I thought of them. I swallowed the answer that had been in my mind ever since the first car load of donations had arrived at the camp, and scowled at the ground in front of me instead. The lady chatted with me a bit longer and left, eager to get back to Colombo and to the warmth of her home no doubt.

The rest of the evening was spent in discussing about the behaviour of the visitors, in examining the clothes and in relishing the sweets. Now it is getting dark. Soon everybody will find their allotted places and fall asleep. I will miss the old woman's grumbling tonight.

How I wish people will not come to see us with food they can easily spare and clothes they no longer need. Our parents had given us presents out of love. Strangers give us presents out of pity. It always hurts to be pitied.

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