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Unusual souvenirs unlimited stories- Part 1

I was wondering which tag to write this story under, it actually doesn't fit under any…I am here to tell the story of those curious objects that keep lying at some corner of your backpack for years and make a sudden appearance bringing back all those hundreds of stories. I'm talking about those little things which were never intended to be souvenirs or memories but end up becoming archives of past. Bus tickets, tourist maps, museum entrance tickets, print outs of tour plan, stones so on and on…. Each piece has its own story to tell.

Today I was clearing my cupboard and in the process relived those several travels, those unexplored walks, those wonderful stories…

The cover photo and the visiting card, that talks about an interesting encounter in Galle. I was walking around the town, totally immersed in those old houses, the colorful shops, bustling tourists. I was then crossed two old men talking on the street, one of them stopped me and offered me some tea and invited me to his house. I was quite skeptical to accept his invitation, after all I was in an unknown place wandering alone, but he insisted and I walked into his drawing room. It was an old European styled house and we sat on wooden chairs. He then began recounting his story "I started very small, but with perseverance I have become so big. I export gem stones, one needs to be very careful when one buys gem stones. There are mines nearby but there are also several similar looking non precious stones available, one needs to be careful while choosing, if you have time I can teach you how to identify the stones. I have helped several people to set up businesses, they all start small in their own friends and family circles…." Though I was quite pleased by his manner of talking I was not interested in his pitch, I told him I was getting delayed and my friends were waiting and headed back to the Galle fort. As I recounted the story to my friend who was sitting by the beach, she said she wanted to know about stones. I along with another friend obliged to go with her, inspite of not having any interest in stones. The old man was pleased to have us back, he then showed her several different varieties of stones and educated her in the ways to identify the original. After going through the entire session, I was hopeful she would buy something from him for all his effort but she had no such intention and we left saying we had to look for a hotel for the night stay. He then handed over his card, in case we would want to get in touch or suggest someone else…

Here it stands, his card and the knowledge on stones…both making a nice little story

The second one is the entrance ticket to Anuradhapura, the ancient city with several buddhas, the place where the infamous massacre took place. The place with several stupas and ruins…the place of the moonstone. As I was watching the moonstone, it reminded me of the detective story Moonstone which I had read in school…the same place where I met an Australian doctor who was on a three month holiday to Lanka. That is when I promised myself I will do that sometime…

The third one is the most interesting of all. We were on a post dinner walk in Kandy when we saw a stupa by the road and went in. That is where we got talking to a friendly monk who could speak broken English. I have visited India, I have been to Assam for a Buddhist festival, he said trying to make a connect. It is funny how nation becomes the first point to search for similarity. I like Hindi songs he said, breaking into a song from 1970s movie. I was quite awestruck by his impeccable accent and his voice…why talk about nations when music has no such boundaries. He then wrote down his address and phone number and asked us to write to him… Years after the day, I still have the address but the letter is yet to be written.


Profile photo of Yamini Krishna C

This part I'm sure keeps changing by the minute. For now I have a day job for financial needs. Indulge in Art, travel, reading, writing and walking for the major part of life. I walkas I cross the puddles of mudI walkas I cross the fallen branches of the treeI walk through the landscapesI walk through timeI walklike a ghost who walkstouched by all that she seesyet untouched by themAs they pass through hersplitting her into piecesand she pieces herself togetheras she walks

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