Meditations on Baila by Sophist 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 !
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