Meditations on Baila
Someone, no one in particular though, has just informed me that the Burgher
chap next door has died fornicating. Now under normal circumstances this is
not a piece of information I would care to hear, but that's the whole point,
the Royal Thomian is not normal. Thank God. The News item I just mentioned
was disguised in the form of baila, which an integral part of Sri Lankan
life, more so the Royal Thomian.
I have though and thought, and thought again about a definition for Baila
and never been completely satisfied. The best way to describe it would be "a
random selection of the rawest filth, designed to convey the most
meaningless and bizarre ideas which must occasionally rhyme. Often
hilarious, but always offensive." How else would you describe the diverse
antics employed by Thambi in coupling with his seven wives with paradoxical
physical attributes. Also one must not forget the host of objects that found
their way up Brother Peter's rectum when he was relieving himself in a
corner of the garden. A leech, a finger, a garden tool, a shovel, a
bulldozer and a hospital nurse - if my memory serves me right. But enough of
that I'm sure we've all heard the one about the man from Madras and his
brazen testicles and what all the girls in Derbyshire wanted to see when I
say upon a rock. All commonplace in the wonderful world of baila.
For three days - if both teams can play that is - the SSC grounds
metamorphosises into something into something out of €well€out of. Jim
Carrey and Stephen King. It's an experience that cannot be described; it has
to be felt. Where else would you find a person you thought was a pillar of
society putting his drunken arm around you and saying "Machan, how?" Where
else would you find a 6' 8" guy walking around the grounds - in shorts mind
you - carrying a Carlsberg table umbrella to shelter his bald head. Where
else would a terrified bunch of Prefects learn that when this selfsame 6' 8"
chap was in College he "Fucking cheered a fucking lot more than you fuckers
are cheering now you fucking idiots." Can't we see the scoreboard we were
asked? We nodded vigorously. "Two hundred and sixty nine fucking runs for 2
fucking wickets". We agreed vehemently. "Where's the fucking noise from this
fucking Boy's Tent?" We didn't know. "Make a fucking noise you fuckers.
Cheer!" We made a fucking noise. All's well at the Roy Tho, being abused by
well-meaning giants is all in a day's work.
This brings me to another abnormality of the Roy Tho - the women. Why are
they there? To watch cricket - I think not. All bedecked in their finery or
stripped down to nothingness (it's the heat, you see) there they are craving
for attention. What do they think this is a bloody beauty contest? But women
are a prerequisite for the match, otherwise we might have to watch cricket
the whole day. Balls to that.
" Get the buggers off the field!" the prefects are ordered. Little do the
authorities know the prefects are the nihilists who sent the buggers on the
field in the first place. Heheheh. Pitch invasions, distracting, unwanted,
the bane of KT Francis' life - but oh ! So much fun. But next time try not
to flick the umpire's hat or pinch the Royal wicket keepers bum, or vice versa.
All in all three days of pure, unadulterated hedonism. The epitome of Sri
Lankan mentality - eat, drink and be merry. Do what you want, say what you
want, where what you want and you won't be anymore noticeable than the guy
sprawled on the floor next to you. Party on children of the faith !