A passing remark from a parent about a road trip to Jaffna got me asking nosy questions. It had happened sometime in the sixties. When every thing was black and white (now tinged yellow).
A long bouncy meander from Trinco. Apparently there were dramatics about getting the ancient chariot onto ferries. Strong sunlight and something about sand dunes. The strongest memories: gracious, polite people (sweet was the word used). A quiet clean city with delicious food and time to savour it.
Then the memory bubble popped and I braced for the inevitable. A few years ago it would have been some sort of venomous curse at the politicians (of now and then). For their greedy stupidity that wrecked everything. This time it was a just a tired sigh and a muttered “kiyala va-duck nae” (translates roughly as “no point in talking about it”). I felt lucky to not know the country lost in this war.