At the very apex of Wattala House, accessed through a small spiral, iron staircase, is a small room with many windows. When we were desigining Wattala house together, we had meant it to be a loft room where you could close the rest of the world away with a trap door, and survey the land around the house. It looks interesting as you approach the house. Creates a long, narrow swathe of white wall from roof to ground, smudged now here and there with the green of mould. Long windows, all round. Art-deco minaret. An atheist’s steeple. Silent pulpit where sermons can waft into the head.
Like many a random childhood dream, it didn't exactly work out. The electrician didn't put in a connection for a fan (I remember him now, large and rotund, unruly hair and hirsute body like a somewhat gormless bear). I never did use it to hang out. Maybe it was too small a room to do anything with. Now it is the Colombo version of Hatton's Lata Pata (junk) room full of odds and ends and bits of things that don't fit anywhere else Disassembled pieces of double beds. Now that I think of it, they're the skeleton's of trees like bits of people, that survive over millenia. Bones. If I was there now, would the air smell different up there, if one stayed long enough? Would birds come in and nest in the lattice-work above the windows if I didn’t make too much noise?
I wonder what I could do with the place. Fit in a table and a bean bag? Watch the back yard, watch who walks up and down Singha road. Watch uncle Bandula get drunk and start shouting at people on the road or at imaginary enemies. Run my hands over the smooth ridges of the closed trapdoor, enjoy being away from the world, like when I’m wearing earphones.
Like many a random childhood dream, it didn't exactly work out. The electrician didn't put in a connection for a fan (I remember him now, large and rotund, unruly hair and hirsute body like a somewhat gormless bear). I never did use it to hang out. Maybe it was too small a room to do anything with. Now it is the Colombo version of Hatton's Lata Pata (junk) room full of odds and ends and bits of things that don't fit anywhere else Disassembled pieces of double beds. Now that I think of it, they're the skeleton's of trees like bits of people, that survive over millenia. Bones. If I was there now, would the air smell different up there, if one stayed long enough? Would birds come in and nest in the lattice-work above the windows if I didn’t make too much noise?
I wonder what I could do with the place. Fit in a table and a bean bag? Watch the back yard, watch who walks up and down Singha road. Watch uncle Bandula get drunk and start shouting at people on the road or at imaginary enemies. Run my hands over the smooth ridges of the closed trapdoor, enjoy being away from the world, like when I’m wearing earphones.
Perhaps someday far off a child of mine
will explore, in the loft room, now that I am too old
too set in the matrix of adulthood
for play
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