Avurudu. Sinhala and Tamil New Year. Among many other things, this time used to be one of the few times of the year where I take over the kitchen. Usually my mother’s domain, I take it over during Avurudu to prepare the sweets, to make lunch or dinner, and everything in between. No matter how difficult or different things have been at home, there have always been a few staples: a new pot for boiling milk; preparing at least a couple of sweets for the table; getting yelled at for not wearing the ‘Avurudu clothes’ when the year dawns; going to the temple; visiting my grandmother. This year has been a little different.
It’s been a few hours since the Sinhala and Tamil New Year dawned. I, who would usually be bustling about the house preparing and getting things done, was on bed today watching an old movie. I realized the new year has dawned when my father popped into note the lack of crackers and terrified dogs. I unlock my phone to a flurry of messages. I do the cursory “esema wewa”.
This year, I don’t feel like wishing anyone a happy and prosperous new year. I can’t bring myself to type the words that wish for prosperity, nor can I bring myself to believe in the words. For me, Avurudu means something different, and I can’t channel that feeling this year. When Amma suggests making a few sweets at home, I think of the home businesses who depend on Avurudu for their annual income of sweets-making and object; when Amma suggests baking a cake for the table, I tell her we should conserve the supplies we have; when Amma wonders if we should boil milk, I note that it would be a waste of milk that we could consume instead. This year the deities, the planets, will understand, I say, that these are not the times to be doing these things. Besides, I remark, it’s not like we have kids at home. I hammer the final nail.
Since yesterday, all types of vendors have been walking the inner lanes of my suburban hometown. There were fruit sellers with plenty of bananas. There were also people selling new pots. There were people with coconut-frond cages for lighting lamps. There was a truck making rounds asking for anything we could spare, so some of the not-well-off families could have something resembling Avurudu.
I look at my socials, and my messages and marvel at the strength of the people to keep going even at times like this. It’s important to feel grounded, to hold onto traditions, and do something that feels normal. I can’t, though. It troubles me to celebrate Avurudu, a time that has communal associations, while under a curfew. It troubles me to welcome a new year under these conditions – I don’t think the year would feel very welcome, and I can’t bring myself to forget. I can’t bring myself to push our situation to the back of the mind.
So I type “Esema wewa” with enough conviction to not ring any alarm bells. I draft a message for the father to send to his friends. Even the temple has stopped broadcasting Rathna Sutra tonight. I did hear the koha several times this morning. It didn’t feel like Avurudu, though. It still doesn’t.
By the end of the Avurudu day, I would usually crash on bed exhausted after a long day of socializing, but content; there are some rituals and traditions I hold close. Today, though, I’m going to finish reading my murder mystery, do a final scroll on the news app to check the number of reported cases, and go to bed.
What did I do during the auspicious time for commencing work in 2020? I contemplated humanity, and tried to solve an imagined murder. What did you do?
Minoli Wijetunga 