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Flute will keep him alive
By Kumudini Hettiarachchi
It's around 7 o'clock and the hustle and bustle of a workday has begun. Anxious parents are literally dragging bleary-eyed children to school. Office workers clutching their lunch packets are rushing to get a toehold on jam-packed buses. Teenagers are going in droves to tuition classes hoping to secure that elusive place at university they think will open up the world to them.

Suddenly, a haunting melody gently beats the raucous noises of a busy town. The notes of a flute waft in the air, hang for a moment and fade away, making the men, women and children pause, listen, relax a moment and then rush off again.

The flute man has taken up his position down Pietersz Place off the Kohuwela junction, just like he does every day to provide a breather to all who pass him by. The old Sinhala favourites bring peace at the start of another busy day.

Like an after-thought a black polythene bag is spread out on the ground before him and coins and notes are strewn on it. Almost all passers-by scrabble around in their bags or dip into their pockets to drop a coin or a note in appreciation.

W.A. Asoka Ranjith Perera, 39, has his permanent home in Uda Walawe, Embilipitiya but is now boarded with a friend at Pannipitiya and goes home but once a month.

"I haven't been doing this all my life. Since 2000, I have had no option but to earn some money through this way of life. I was working at the Sevenagala sugar factory as a temporary cane cutter," says Ranjith adding that he used to earn about Rs. 120 a day during the cane-cutting season.

But that life ended abruptly when the sugar factory was turned into a company. Ranjith along with many others lost their livelihood. Then he tried his hand at masonry, that too was difficult.

"Maathaka mama bata nalawa pibinna igena gaththa," he says pleading with us not to reveal his "job" as his daughter aged 11 and son aged 7 do not know what he is doing in Colombo. "My wife knows but my neighbours think I am doing a regular job here. If they find out, my children will not be able to face society." When he does go home on a rare weekend he gets involved in brick cutting to earn a few extra rupees to keep his family fed and clothed.

While in Colombo, he takes up his "station" on the gate-step of a resident down Pietersz Place around 7 and leaves by about 8.30 a.m. He spotted this ideal location when he was playing the flute on a bus and saw thousands of students crowding the top of the road.

After his morning's stint at Kohuwela he boards a bus and plays for the commuters while heading to his next station, which is a big supermarket or a fast-food outlet. His sustenance in the morning is a cup of plain tea, for he works extra hard to provide his children with books, bags and shoes. "My son needs a pair of black shoes," he says, giving a gap-toothed smile. He lost two of his front teeth in a small bus mishap, he says explaining that he was nodding off to sleep on the bus when it braked suddenly. "I was flung forward and banged my mouth on the top of the seat in front."

He talks of his childhood with regret, mentioning that his parents did not have much money. His father worked for a mahattaya in an usawiya. "Gedera sahenna prashna thibba," he says, citing his father’s job as a clerk to a lawyer and the lack of funds as being the reason he did not gain a proper education. "I do have some idam-kadam but cannot cultivate them because of the wathura prashna," he says.

On a "good day" he earns about Rs. 800 by playing the flute. As he asks a tuition student for the time and the stream of people using Pietersz Place thins out, he gently puts away his flute and gathers up the coins and notes. "Heta enavada," asks a woman and drops a 100-rupee note as Ranjith nods vigorously.

Off to another place to bring some solace to harried souls running a rat race most call life, Ranjith is satisfied with his lot. He is a man content.

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