Sacrifice

After a few days in the back seat of a car on Sri Lanka’s dusty, rib-rattling roads, I was ready to seek divine protection. The idea wasn’t mine. It was Daya’s. He was the driver I had hired to take my wife and me on a three-day tour of his tropical island. First stop after leaving the capital city of Colombo were the white-hot beaches to the south, just a few degrees from the equator. Then we drove north for relief into the cool central highlands around the cities of Nuwara Eliya and Kandy, where Ceylon tea was grown. From there Daya drove us down to the dry northern plains to see the fortress atop a massive fist of stone known as Lion’s Rock, and on to the ancient city of Anuradhapura, a cradle of Lankan civilization.

Not infrequently along the way, elephants tugging logs or other heavy items across the road slowed our progress. Meanwhile, Daya’s lively narrative, delivered in a rich colonial English,  bounced like his little sedan between official tourist soundtrack and personal commentary. He knew everything about Sri Lanka, and seemed to know everyone who lived there, too. At one point he decided that we should see the making of sambal, the fiery condiment eaten everywhere and on just about everything in Sri Lanka. Without further ado, he stopped the car in front of a modest bungalow and led us around to the side. There a woman in a sari squatted in front of a concave slab of rock. She never acknowledged us in any way — possibly because Daya stopped there so frequently with passengers — as she pounded chili peppers and salt into a red and orange lava that looked potent enough to melt her stone age tools.

We were heading back to Colombo when Daya suggested another stop, this one at a temple. It was home to a god who looked after drivers and travelers. Whenever he was near it, he said, he liked to pay homage and ask for protection. The fact that he was a Buddhist and the temple was Hindu could not have been less important. “It’s the same God, Sir,” he said to me matter-of-factly, “just a different dwelling.” He apologized to my wife for the fact that she would not be permitted into the temple precincts, promising to take her to a lovely pottery shop afterwards that was on our route.

The gods must be hungry: Hindu temple on the road to Colombo, Sri Lanka

We proceeded south along the coast road, windows rolled all the way down. The air that rushed in was hot but it felt good just the same. On occasion we caught glimpses of the blue water of the Gulf of Mannar through breaks in the roadside vegetation. At length Daya brought the car to a halt next to a stone wall. Here, in a tranquil courtyard filled with shade trees, was the temple. On its roof cavorted a mass of brightly painted, elaborately carved figures of gods and goddesses, animals and ornaments. Disney could not have created anything more colorful or animated. “Please come, Sir,” Daya said, holding the car door open.

At a break in the wall that served as the entrance to the courtyard, an old man sat by a cart with a thatched roof. He was selling coconuts. Swiftly stopping my hand as I reached for rupees, Daya purchased two and handed one to me. “This way, Sir,” he directed, his outstretched arm pointing towards what looked like an empty fountain. As we drew closer it turned out to be a square pit with a stone floor surrounded on all sides by a low wall. Scattered everywhere within the pit were pieces of coconut shell.

Daya explained the ritual: I was to grasp the coconut in both hands, raise it over my head and then hurl it into the pit with enough force to break it open. At that point, the large black birds that could be seen sitting in the trees, creatures sacred to the temple, might come and eat the coconut meat as physical manifestations of the gods. “Please, Sir,” Daya said, “go ahead,” giving me the honor of the first sacrifice.

I approached the wall, leaving enough room to get a good step or two. I held the coconut in my hands as Daya had instructed, keeping my arms loose, and I looked for a spot in the pit that was free of debris where I could aim my throw. I glanced at Daya and he nodded: yes, any time you are ready. I took a deep breath, bent my legs athletically, took a step towards the wall, eyes on my spot. I raised the coconut above my head and hurled it with all the strength I could muster. It hit the stone with a loud, clean crack and broke into pieces. The birds shrieked, applauding, I thought, in their shady grove.

Some nuts are tough to crack -- but that's okay.

Daya’s turn now. Calmly he raised the coconut above his head and threw it into the pit. Instead of breaking open, it bounced off the stone with a hollow thock and rolled, just making it to the far wall. Up to now the visit to the temple had been a lark, but at this point I was a little worried. I was embarrassed, too, to have done better than my host. This whole business was his idea, not mine. Now what? I wondered if Daya were ashamed.

Without any evidence of concern, Daya stepped over the wall. He walked across the debris-strewn pit, sweeping shards to the side with his feet, picked up his coconut and returned to his starting point. All the while I thought a lightning bolt might strike him down. There’s a place in the Old Testament, after all, where Yahweh turns two priests into piles of ash for performing a sloppy ritual.

Daya smiled at me and wagged his head enigmatically from side to side, as people do all over the Indian subcontinent. Now he raised the coconut again. He closed his eyes and mumbled something — a prayer for success, I supposed. Then he threw his offering into the pit again. This time it broke open. He stood silently as the birds descended, as if on a single black wing, to peck at the fresh white meat.

“Thank you, Sir,” Daya said. He held out his hand to shake mine. “Congratulations. You did very well indeed.” I returned the compliment as best I could, but the truth nagged at me: Daya had not done well; he had needed two throws. I walked silently next to him for a few paces. “Daya,” I finally asked, “does it matter if the coconut doesn’t break the first time?”

The author with the driver Daya, who knew his way around.

He looked at me and smiled. “Why would it matter?” he asked.

“Well, you know,” I said: “to show you’re worthy.”

Daya stopped and considered. “Oh Yes, I see,” he said. “What I believe, Sir, is that the gods don’t expect a man to succeed every time. Only another god could do that, anyway. What makes the gods love us,” he said with a sweep of his hand in the direction of the teeming rooftop pantheon, “is that we keep trying to get it right. It’s the effort, Sir, not only the result, you see.” He gave me another smile and a wag of his head. “Now hurry, Sir: we mustn’t keep your wife waiting any longer.”

The last time I saw Daya was when we climbed out of his car at the entrance to the old Galle Face hotel in Colombo. I wanted to stay in touch with him: at my request he wrote his very long Singhalese name on a piece of paper for me, but I lost it. If there is a god of travellers, I hope that deity blessed Daya and protected him. I’ve known for a long time that the journey I took with Daya was my blessing: a lesson from a humble man about the right way to feed a god.