Broken Dreams

Republished from my old blog due in a bout of homesickness :(

Summer vacations in my grandparents house in Sri Lanka were always fun. I remember being excited all through the road trip from my hometown to Trivandrum, where we would catch the flight to Colombo. The two months were action packed for my sister and me. Pampered by grandparents with trips to tea estates in hill country and picnics in fishing villages in the south. We were always close to tears when we had to fly back.
Growing up in a small town in Tamil Nadu, Colombo was the big city of wonders for me. I remember going back and proudly telling my second grade classmates that I rode an escalator. I out grew my fascination for the escalator but my fascination for Sri Lanka remains intact.
One thing I always noticed during my trips was the spirit of the people. For a country ridden with internal strife, they were a cheerful lot. Sometimes too cheerful, probably a cover for uncertainty and fear.
Two years back when I graduated, I flew over to see my grandmother. College was over, I was yet to join work. In short life was one big holiday. I spent a glorious two months there gallivanting around Sri Lanka with my gang of friends. The mood was also upbeat in the country. There was talk that the war would end soon. Immigrants and refugees were slowly coming back. There was subtle joy in the air where ever one went.
Last month, my grandmother passed away and I had to go to Colombo for her last rites. I reached the city close to midnight and even at that hour I noticed the stark differences in the city from my last trip. As a result of recent problems, security was beefed up. As my car snaked its way through the familiar tree lined avenues with Buddhist shrines, I noticed checkpoints at every corner. Over the course of the week, where ever I went I saw the same look in everybody's eyes. And I realized there was something worse that not having dreams- its called broken dreams.