Always a Song in Sri Lanka

As I said in a previous post, there is always a song in Sri Lanka. Most buses are equipped with three large speakers that sit on the luggage racks. Even at four in the morning you can hear the bus coming before you can see it. 

Inside the bus, the effect is something like a video game. The micro beat in every Sinhala ditty gives the whole experience a battle-like energy. You squirm your way between people. The slow cadence quickens its beat. When you see a seat open up, you dash. The chorus, in a swirl of soprano, begins its runs up the chord ladder. Two stops before you need off, you begin to wrestle your way to the nearest door. Heaven forbid you're stuck in a window seat! The key changes. The bus adds its own rapid swerves and jerking brakes. The beat speeds up and the cymbals crescendo. After all the squishing, pulling, and all-too-heated scramble, Pop! You are expelled from the bus like the infamous weasel. It zooms off again, the heavy bass trailing after.

Outside of buses, music is as abundant as the coconuts. Mrs. A, Podi, and I go to a nearby school for their concert one night. The students (and their costumes) are so lively even the music is live! The audience claps and shouts with the beat, especially when an older group does a big Bollywood-style finale. On another day, Podi and I visit Loku at her university. At her dormitory, the girls ask me if I like to sing. I tell them, I'll sing for you if you let me take a video of you singing for me. Then we sang for an hour. At the big temple in Kataragama, we see (and hear four) processions making their way through the crowds. The sounds of drums, dancers, and trumpets fill the air. One day as I'm walking to the beach, I hear guitar, drums, and singing coming out of a hut. 

Even nature joins in the symphony. Rivers crescendo over boulders and decrescendo into pools. The ocean crashes onto beaches, dragging the sand back into the sea in a long, drawn-out fermata. Cities themselves fill with honking horns, rain pattering on tin roofs, tuk tuk drivers zooming between larger vehicles, and, always, the radio. In fact, the quietest, most music-less places you will find in Sri Lanka are those where the most foreigners gather. This could be a matter of culture and/or privacy. But I personally find it rather bland. On the other hand, the quiet can be nice, too. Where would you draw the line?

I want to share a few of the songs that I now consider some of my favorites. First off is Ruwan Hettiarachchi's "Seetha Maruthe" and my personal favorite. Another artist I really enjoy is Kasun Kalhara. Here is his "Math Mal." These are just some slow ballads, but if you're interested, Youtube has a very large selection.