Notes

I am 18 years old. My gaze fixates on the fiery red veins of the city through the arch shaped window. I watch the light surge through the concrete jungle as it consumes the surrounding night sky. Anticipation begins to accumulate as the plane descends. I have arrived.
* * *
Eight hours remaining. The final stretch. I look up in gratitude as the trolley stocked with a hand selected assortment of both traditional and western food embarks on its journey down the aisle to satisfy the famished passengers alongside myself. The aromas of childhood linger in the air reminding me of the assorted sweets my friends and I consumed back at the Sri-Lankan food festivals in Sydney. Our parents forced us to attend. We had no choice. I subtly peek over the worn airline leather seat and count the queue of passengers to be served before the cart finally reaches me.

"traditional or western?" the flight attendant requests dutifully. I reply with "western" as I impatiently yank down the plastic tray hinged to the seat in front. The strong smell of traditional food makes me reminisce back to the days of childhood, to the Roselea Community Centre annual food festival. This is where Nikhil and I first experienced the adrenaline pumping through our veins after successfully acquiring sweets from the stall counter without getting caught. Laughing, our 12 year old selves would count the loot and gamble it off against each other in an intense game of poker. I distinctly remember watching in jealousy as Nikhil would always win and eat them in a slow, teasing manner in front of me.

As the years passed by, I stopped attending the festivities. I was 16, allured by the seduction of Western influence and would rather have take away at a fast food outlet with 'mates' than traditional food back home with family. The festival excitement seemed so distant, almost unfamiliar.

Back to reality, inspecting the range of food compartments in front of me, gravy oozes over thick wedges saturated in a layer of fat and oil accompanied by dry speckles of cous cous and a pale, flaccid looking piece of meat. I hesitate.. The spices of mid-western Sri-Lanka waft through my nose. I promptly change my decision and select the traditional food.

My parents used to smile whenever I asked them for money to spend at the festivals. They knew I was going to squander it on sweets and other unhealthy alternatives, but they still handed me a 5 dollar note which I wave in front of Nikhil as if it were a prized possession. He cheered as we raced to the candy corner craving the sugary tastes of "kayvum, kohkees and dhodhol". I couldn't help but grin cheekily as we devoured them.

Turbulence jolts the water in the cup holder. A lady brushed past my seat. She was dressed in a saree decorated with hand-sewn patters of swirls and other decorations that danced across the fabric. Her arms were painted with floral and linear insignia traced meticulously from the dye of Egyptian plants. Each brush stroke collaborating to create an adventure from her past. A meaningful collage of culture. Her bracelets clatter as she finds her seat.

My heart drops. My mother used to wear sarees similar to that. She only ever wore them when there was a cultural festival or on a special occasion. Last time she wore one was when she was trying to convince me to go with her to one of the events. Reflection evokes suppressed memories of childhood, ties to culture and bonds with friends. I flick through the brochures and articles in the document wallet and circle the temples, festivals and markets. I decide to explore culture. This time without the will of my parents.

Trepidation ignites within me as the blur of the city lights focus into visions. The plane descends into the country of my birth. Home.