Every town is a hometown, all people are kin*

All people can be inspectors:

those who betrayed,

those who murdered,

those who incited to murder,

idle spectators,

those whose blood boiled in their veins,

those who were silent witnesses.

All places can be inspected:

canals caked with blood,

torture chambers devoid of humanity,

pitiless refugee camps.

All things may be renovated:

ruined buildings,

burnt-down hutments,

bullet-pierced windows.

At all times, homage may be paid:

after life has gone,

after the grass has grown over

burial mounds.

Any language may be spoken:

the English of the Gazettes,

the Hindi of the rulers,

Chinese, dripping poison,

Sinhala, drunk with hatred,

high Tamil, stripped naked.

A carpet may be spread for anyone:

spread for the Buddha bathed in blood,

and also for the weaver

of the same blood-stained carpet.

Anyone may do anything

for every town is a hometown,

all people are kin.

*The title repeats, with great irony, one of the best-known lines from Puranaanuuru (c. 2nd century AD): ‘Yaadum ure, yaavarum kelir.’