I rarely reblog, if ever. But this is done with a once lost but new found “metta” in my heart. From Chulie de Silva on the sanctity of a death ritual – pansakula.
The narrow road from Pinkande to Katudampe was shiny black newly tarred, clearly marked on the edges with white unbroken lines.On either side we passed lush green paddy fields, houses surrounded by small garden plots with coconut, mango, banana and fruit trees. A solitary young Buddhist priest walked briskly, the bright orange of his robes, matching the setting sun that burned brightly beyond the fringe of trees. This was quintessentially rural Lanka at its best. We were mostly silent on the way to the Sri Sunandaramaya Temple at Katudampe in Dodanduwa. On the seat with me was a small clay pot with a white cloth over it. This was my mother’s ashes — all that remained of a once vibrant, energetic, mother.
The river by the temple was silent. Nothing moved. The silence had an aura of its own as if it paid homage to the nearby temple.
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