Of perali ali

by Namini Wijedasa

There is something uniquely wondrous about watching a religious pageant from a cross-legged position on the ground, your bottom unenthusiastically absorbing the heat of the tarred road and your mind conjuring up horrifying images of an elephant urinating abundantly in your direction.
There is also something wildly exhilarating (in retrospect) about running for your dear life, offspring tucked under your armpit and one sandal given up for lost, when a couple of those endearing majestic mammals decide to throw a tantrum just inches from your nose.
My three-year-old daughter had never witnessed a perahera. We chose to introduce the child to one by chaperoning her to the glorious annual Navam perahera conducted in Colombo last Sunday by the Gangaramaya temple. Like most children her age, she loves elephants. A hundred of them parading before her very eyes — decked in glittering clothing, to boot — would be like Santa Claus dropping in again.

Sri Lankan culture

After circling several times, we inched the car into a parking spot and set off on foot to the temple. We did not have passes. We hadn’t bothered to try for any since the inspiration to rub our daughter’s nose in a morsel of Sri Lankan culture had struck us belatedly on Sunday afternoon. We did, however, have a single-minded and bloodthirsty intention to scrounge a spot near the temple entrance so that we could watch the start of the perahera and leave no sooner it ended.
We shoved our way rudely through the crowd, treading on toes and resolutely ignoring those people that clicked their tongues annoyingly at us while icy stares bounced off our shoulders like rubber balls (hey, when in Rome...). We were soon beaming with glee at the sheer luck of having found an inch of space near the temple wall to wiggle into. My husband opted to stand at the back while I plonked my posterior cheerfully onto the road and pulled my daughter into my arms. We were ready for the show.
The kasa karayas, of course, led the way with the flag-bearers and torch-bearers following. The dancers soon pounded into view and we watched enchanted as the familiar rhythm took over our minds and souls. Colours and lights mingled; music and voices melded in harmony; pride crept in at the streams of tourists watching the pageant in marvel. The mood was uplifting, happy and serene... but for a few foreigners who sprung irreverently into the path of the perahera in aid of flash photography. It was later claimed that the light from their cameras agitated the elephants but I couldn’t be sure.

The elephants

Soon, the elephants lumbered into view and our daughter was as excited as she could be. She had never seen elephants in clothes before and was fascinated by the detail that even their ears were covered in glittering garb. She stared at the enormous feet, pointed at the large fingernails and imitated the sway of their trunks with her arms while emitting a series of high-pitched squeals which she insisted was the sound they made. It was all good. And the elephants didn’t pee.
More than half the perahera had passed (I think) when some dancers ahead of us fell back urgently. Those seated on the ground struggled laboriously to their feet - not easy from our uncomfortable, sandwiched positions - and peered curiously at the scene in front of us. A huge elephant dressed in red was swaying agitatedly near the temple gate. Something had set him off and his minder was struggling to calm him down. The chief priest of the Gangaramaya temple was also seen trying to soothe the nerves of the irritated pachyderm. I didn’t see it, but I was later told that the monk led the elephant away so that the procession could resume.
We sat back down again and the perahera went on. My daughter made a big show of cowering behind her hands whenever the devil dancers came by and at one time even played dead, lying limp in my hands with her eyes closed (apparently) in terror. I saw some foreigners on the opposite side pointing at her pityingly and throwing me dirty looks, as if I had dragged the poor child there to subject her to mental trauma. Such melodrama over a few jovial devils dancing their heads off to some really merry music!
Then, the crowds came tearing towards our lane again (we were on the street to the left of the temple). This time, there was more urgency in their moves and it was not just the dancers who were fleeing. Men and women were bolting with their children in tow. Seated wedged and cross-legged as I was, my daughter in my lap and my posterior placed firmly on my leather sandals so as to cut out some of the heat from the road, I just could not get up.
While I was floundering uselessly to find my feet — and to shove them into my sandals — people ran helter-skelter around me. I could see an elephant draped in white hurrying angrily in our direction. Shouts filled the air. I still could not rise. My mind was rapidly surging with horrifying images of the elephant towering over us. During one insane second, I even wondered whether the end would be so messy that they would have to mop us off the ground.

Panic

Suddenly, my husband leapt in from behind and dragged our daughter out of my hands. I finally stood up but could only put on one of my sandals. Leaving the other behind, I ran after my daughter-toting husband. There was utter panic. Since the incident happened near the VIP pavilion, polished English mingled with shrieks of “mehe wareng yako ikmanata”.
Meanwhile, other elephants were also herded urgently into the lane by their keepers. I wasn’t certain now which elephant we were running from but I sure as heck didn’t want to get left behind. The police directed people into the temple through a side gate. We waited there a few moments till it seemed calmer outside. And as the excitement died down and people started peering over the temple wall, I was obsessed by one thought: Get That Sandal. I could see it in the distance, begging forlornly for me to retrieve it before another maniacal elephant did it in.
My husband looked at me as if a bolt had come unscrewed during our run. Nevertheless, he agreed to sneak back to the scene of crime through another gate and we managed to get my sandal back.
The culprit elephant was now near the main entrance and was still moving agitatedly but people were standing around watching it while those participating in the procession were waiting for the pageant to resume.
My husband was emboldened enough by this scene to suggest that we take a shortcut to the car past the rump of the raging elephant (this being the man who thought I was mad to go back for my sandal). While we were contemplating whether this proposal was even remotely feasible — after all, it was a long distance to the car through any other route — waves of terrified people started pelting towards us again, for a third time. What... had another one gone berserk? What the devil was wrong with the elephants that day?
We hooked it again with our thoroughly confused daughter and didn’t return. I was rambling about how I will never again watch another perahera from ground level while my husband was quietly wondering whether I would ever shut up. (He didn’t say so but I knew that was what he was thinking).
When we reached the car, we were panting but were also strangely elated by the shots of adrenalin we had just received. My daughter was happy - mostly because she didn’t quite understand what had transpired — and we were all comfortably tired. Strictly in hindsight, it had been great fun. I might even do it again.
Nobody was injured but I was told that the white-garbed elephant had become angry enough to try and attack the chief priest. It was eventually tranquilised before being carted away. The pageant resumed thereafter.
I don’t think the situation had been as serious as we felt at the time. Elephants do get irritated during processions and who could blame them? The important thing is that the correct measures were taken to control the situation. The elephant minders stuck with their charges even when they became uncontrollable. Many, including the chief priest and other monks, put themselves at risk for the sake of public security. And there’s nothing to laugh about there.

Pix by Frank de Zoysa