By Aakash Karkare
It was day three in Sri Lanka. I had spent all my days so far in Ahangama, a coastal town near Galle. Most of my time until then had been spent overcoming travel fatigue, which wasn’t too significant (only two hours by plane from Mumbai and another two hours by train to the hotel) and getting accustomed to a somewhat different pace of life than I was used to back home. I had, however, with the air of a person who had spent far too long locked up inside my apartment during the ceaseless rain in July and trying to meet a few book deadlines, had already begun remarking to my girlfriend that this felt like “Paradise”.
For days I had not heard the shrill horns of passing cars, the endless cawing of crows, or the din of drilling and construction. On a walk in the poorly lit village roads, I was able to spot my first firefly in more than a decade, and look up at the sky to enjoy the sight of the stars unhindered by light pollution. Srilanka was an island much like my home but why did it feel so different? Why was there still so much nature around? Why was everything clean-er than in Mumbai? Like many outsiders I felt like I could spend the rest of my days here. Was this what an island paradise felt like?
Only one thing was not up to the mark. I had been unable to truly enjoy the delights offered by the local food. Fresh seafood is widely available in Mumbai but maybe, I thought, from reading countless food blogs, it would be more fresh here. I had enjoyed the fresh fruit and yoghurt breakfast the hotel offered as well as a meal by Nimal’s Kitchen, a hyper-local restaurant catering to tourists where meals had to be booked with a day’s notice. The former had been simple and refreshing while the latter had turned out disappointing.
On the third night, we decided to get on our bikes and drive through Srilanka until we came buzzing to a place with people. After driving for 15 minutes we realised we were no longer in Mumbai. All the places were shut. Dejected we turned around and that is when a most lovely smell hit our nostrils: batter frying in hot coconut oil. We turned around to see a man by a cart serving several customers. As we came closer, we saw he was frying hot vades in a mysterious way. He bent down and brought up a basket of freshly fried fish. In a plastic bag he mixed together boiled chickpeas, onions and various spices. Next to him was a wine shop. Food that went with alcohol had to be good, I thought to myself.
After getting a few Lion beers, my recommended drink of choice in Sri Lanka, we stopped off at the cart and got dal vade, a chickpea masala mixture, and fried fish communicating through a local translator because the vendor only spoke Sinhalese. On the ride back with the wind in my hair, and coconut trees swaying on either side, we bit into the salty crunchiness of the vade and each bite to my delight had plenty of curry leaves and crisp green chilli and all I could think was: life can’t get better than this.
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