It was a pleasure to burn. A pleasure, abnegation denied, that I can only fulfill in isolation. This misery business, misunderstood by all but my scorch marks, the tell-tale sign of my Judas kiss; a devotion to myself.
The days, as they should, revolve around Buddha. Morning’s meditation, a cool reflection of the surrounding jungle; lush green canopy left by God in the care of our unwilling hands. The flora and fauna depend on us, while we reflect only on who created them.
Thoughts surrounding them, instead of my lessons, another of my sins.
I remember the day this started, when my mother sent me off in search of safety from the Tamil rebels attacking our village. The native Sri Lankan wilds around us involuntarily playing chameleon; changing their pigments to match the flames. Sharing the colour among each other, I stood in stagnant awe in the center of the main village path, watching the blaze slither down a vine coming to an end near my feet. All sense of my surroundings dulled, as if I’m hearing and feeling through water, all I see is the fire. As if being molded by a snake charmer, I beheld the gold heat take up every leaf blade on its way to me. My mother’s screams of warning could not reach me through my curiosity, if it weren’t for the monks, I would only be additional ash on the jungle floor. My last memory before the monastery; vine and skin connecting, and before terror could escape my mouth, the vibrant saffron robes wrapping around my frail body, mixing with the warmer orange of the flames and darkness overtook me.
Nearly ten years later, nightmares disease daydreams, and my burns still haunt me. Though a welcome haunting; as if I’d be less a person without the memory breathing down my neck and following the tendrils of my scars. The only way to bring my mother back to me, my seven year old memory of her through the flames, the last one I have left, is to relive it.
I always volunteer to light the candles around the shrines. No one takes notice. When I leave the marble hall to blow out the match without distraction, no one notices.
Life before the monastery is taught to be forgotten, so no one looks at my scars, no one will notice additions.
I find my way to a back hall overlooking untouched jungle; what home looked like before the ruin. This is where the memory comes back smoothest, the closest I feel to her. Carefully I take back the swishing fabric at my feet, pull it up to my knees so I can see the worst of the marks.
