Where the causeway straddles the river there is a great kumbuk tree spreading its wholesome shade over sandy banks and, where its huge octopus roots clutch the earth, the waters collect in a clear waist-deep pool.
The water in that pool, kept cool by the massive raised roots and dark shadows of the kumbuk, enticed shoals of little fish which nipped and tickled us as we splashed about. With a deep breath down into the water we dipped our heads and up again, spraying showers of droplets and gasping out air.
After a long dip we laid ourselves out on the golden sand of the river bed, head against a rock, letting the shallow flowing water run over our bodies, cooling, cleansing, soaking, refreshing, forgetting the world at large; the Deduru Oya held us in its spell. Only when hunger impelled us would we leave the water and picnic on a dry bank.
We lounged around listening to the dry leaves set a-rustle by the warm breeze and the gentle coo of the wood pigeon tenderly wooing its would-be mate. We picked kappetiya leaves for our chilli pepper gardens and karapincha leaves for curries.
The sands beyond dazzled under clear blue skies and we sat entranced by the constantly shifting filigree tracery of sunlight filtering through the canopy of leaves above. Or just revelled in a pastoral idyll, listening to the tinkling call of bee-eaters, the lively expressions of the irrepressible Tailor Bird, and the ventriloquism of the Coppersmith Barbet. On occasion, we were startled by the blue flash from the wings of an Indian Roller.
Ah, what lazy, hazy days!
But with the monsoon the picture of sweet innocence was transformed. The Deduru in spate roars and rampages down to the sea moving sand by the kiloton, keeling over trees, and carrying even the occasional boulder. One kumbuk tree was trunk-deep in water, enveloped by frightful currents, its great branches swept over by a shrieking wind. Inevitably, then came quiescence, post-monsoon, exposing tree bark brutally ripped off and hanging in tatters. Plantain trees were strung on its branches like crucified men. Soon, they too shrivelled in the noonday heat until their remains dropped into the water and were swept away.
The sun returned with its healing touch, repairing the damage of the deluge. It greened the wooded banks again and the kumbuk regained its majesty and smooth beauty. The water lost its fury and resumed the gentle voyage to the ocean. Clarity returned, the grit having sunk to the bottom, and the liquid chuckled over rocks and fresh sand. The pool at the foot of the majestic kumbuk tree was as enchanting as ever.
Kamala Gunasekera is compiling a memoir of her time spent in rural Sri Lanka.
courtesy of A.C (Chuli) Yapa