Colombo Confessions is all about having a laugh. I've had the misfortune of associating with a wide cross-section of Colombo denizens. This column is a look at the lighter (sometimes) side of Lankans in the capital of Sri Lanka.
While everyone panics about the third wave, I think it’s important to talk about Colombo’s other third wave – the wave of frustration that resides in Colombo 7. Actually, that’s not entirely true; it resides in the whole of Colombo, including Colombo 5. Just like a bunch of cows penned inside a farm, the great cows of Colombo sashayed for joy and ran amok in the Hill Country enjoying the horse races. No doubt the cows really did look like cows next to the horses (albeit wearing imitations of yesterday’s haute couture). Quite like the horses at the stables, these cows ran wild and free, more often than not with someone else’s ageing stallion on their arm. This is the Colombo that we know of today. All I can do is cringe into my coffee, and try to trim my love handles.
As I traipsed along my balcony today like a unicorn with arthritis in a vintage Velona jungi from my teens, I saw the streets looking as empty as my wallet (not a pleasant sight, my darlings). While my next-door neighbour has had his minions wash all his (six?) cars including his prized Prado, I can’t help but think of all Colombo’s other resident mudalali idiots. The one next door considers himself a VIP, which in our context usually means a through and through rogue living off illicit commissions and foreign deals. He’s planted an araliya tree next to his house and is one of those firm believers in worshipping at the temple to absolve him and his family of all their sins, to continue sinning, and then repeat the cycle. How easy it is to believe all these myths when they subscribe to your own narrative.
Let’s put the brakes on the wanna-be mudaliyar’s Prado for a moment though and cast our thoughts on the innumerable Teslas and Mercs that visit my humble abode when their occupants visit to play a game of bridge. Tsk tsk. Despite the supposed class of these hoi polloi, dear Colombite, I must say that none of them seem to be potty trained. Table manners too seem to be a memo missed for I find that they also struggle to put food into their mouth without some parts of a chicken bouche hanging from their liver-spotted lips. And these, of course, are people who have “grown up eating caviar and smoked oysters”.
On my nasty days, I’m tempted ever so much to lace their tea with laxatives, but then I think of their lack of potty training and remember that they’ll probably end up wrecking my potty before getting back into their Teslas and Mercs to be whisked away to their favourite doctor who they harass for everything from an upset stomach to their latest botox fix. (And yes, our ones do get botox. It’s just a shame it doesn’t do anything to make them look less ridiculous).
Yes, bridge night is always a treat. From the second they invade to the second they depart. And judging by their raucous laughter and “scintillating” conversation, it certainly does seem that their husbands or wives have married beneath them. Some of them are true delights. One horrendous tramp inches in every week and polishes the fridge of even the butter.
Ever since I can remember, the truth of the matter is that we have been living with our third wave all along thus far. It’s called Colombo’s rich. The dysfunction and entitlement they feel and lay on others should be classified a human rights violation. It actually is considered as such in some countries. Obnoxiously dressed and with an infinitely skewed moral compass, there’s nothing normal about these folks. What is even more despicable is the atrocious manner in which they treat others who are below them on the social and economic scale. Colombo’s rich have never had to adapt to the new normal. They’ve been living it all along. It’s all about the bling, the surname, which school you went to, which bank you are a priority customer at (there are wrong answers, make no mistake), the casual name dropping, the “hora” deals and, of course, the “hora” wives. This is and has always been the new normal of Colombo.
(Rohitha Perera is a writer, blogger, and content marketer from Colombo, Sri Lanka. He used to be an editor at a lifestyle magazine, and now works in the IT industry)
The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication.
While everyone panics about the third wave, I think it’s important to talk about Colombo’s other third wave – the wave of frustration that resides in Colombo 7. Actually, that’s not entirely true; it resides in the whole of Colombo, including Colombo 5. Just like a bunch of cows penned inside a farm, the great cows of Colombo sashayed for joy and ran amok in the Hill Country enjoying the horse races. No doubt the cows really did look like cows next to the horses (albeit wearing imitations of yesterday’s haute couture). Quite like the horses at the stables, these cows ran wild and free, more often than not with someone else’s ageing stallion on their arm. This is the Colombo that we know of today. All I can do is cringe into my coffee, and try to trim my love handles.
As I traipsed along my balcony today like a unicorn with arthritis in a vintage Velona jungi from my teens, I saw the streets looking as empty as my wallet (not a pleasant sight, my darlings). While my next-door neighbour has had his minions wash all his (six?) cars including his prized Prado, I can’t help but think of all Colombo’s other resident mudalali idiots. The one next door considers himself a VIP, which in our context usually means a through and through rogue living off illicit commissions and foreign deals. He’s planted an araliya tree next to his house and is one of those firm believers in worshipping at the temple to absolve him and his family of all their sins, to continue sinning, and then repeat the cycle. How easy it is to believe all these myths when they subscribe to your own narrative.
Let’s put the brakes on the wanna-be mudaliyar’s Prado for a moment though and cast our thoughts on the innumerable Teslas and Mercs that visit my humble abode when their occupants visit to play a game of bridge. Tsk tsk. Despite the supposed class of these hoi polloi, dear Colombite, I must say that none of them seem to be potty trained. Table manners too seem to be a memo missed for I find that they also struggle to put food into their mouth without some parts of a chicken bouche hanging from their liver-spotted lips. And these, of course, are people who have “grown up eating caviar and smoked oysters”.
On my nasty days, I’m tempted ever so much to lace their tea with laxatives, but then I think of their lack of potty training and remember that they’ll probably end up wrecking my potty before getting back into their Teslas and Mercs to be whisked away to their favourite doctor who they harass for everything from an upset stomach to their latest botox fix. (And yes, our ones do get botox. It’s just a shame it doesn’t do anything to make them look less ridiculous).
Yes, bridge night is always a treat. From the second they invade to the second they depart. And judging by their raucous laughter and “scintillating” conversation, it certainly does seem that their husbands or wives have married beneath them. Some of them are true delights. One horrendous tramp inches in every week and polishes the fridge of even the butter.
Ever since I can remember, the truth of the matter is that we have been living with our third wave all along thus far. It’s called Colombo’s rich. The dysfunction and entitlement they feel and lay on others should be classified a human rights violation. It actually is considered as such in some countries. Obnoxiously dressed and with an infinitely skewed moral compass, there’s nothing normal about these folks. What is even more despicable is the atrocious manner in which they treat others who are below them on the social and economic scale. Colombo’s rich have never had to adapt to the new normal. They’ve been living it all along. It’s all about the bling, the surname, which school you went to, which bank you are a priority customer at (there are wrong answers, make no mistake), the casual name dropping, the “hora” deals and, of course, the “hora” wives. This is and has always been the new normal of Colombo.
(Rohitha Perera is a writer, blogger, and content marketer from Colombo, Sri Lanka. He used to be an editor at a lifestyle magazine, and now works in the IT industry)
The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication.