By: Rachel Cramer

The monsoon rain let up and she put on her running shoes. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she probably had an hour before the Sri Lanka sunset. She unlocked the front gate and stepped onto the narrow street with a seven-syllable name: Sri Jay-war-den-a-pu-ra. After two arm swings and a quick hip stretch, she began running through the corridor of locked gates, cement walls topped with broken glass and open channels of storm water. The water was foamy, occasionally green and often filled with trash. After a year, she still had to keep her gag reflex in check.

She passed a group of Muslim boys dressed in white tunics and curved around shops selling newspapers, eggs, and packets of shampoo. The deep-fried wade and pol roti had sold out hours before as passersby stopped for an afternoon snack. As the road began its incline, Buddhist banners with red, yellow, and blue stripes appeared while the sound of chanting monks reverberated through the streets. She ran alongside the temple’s white wall and glanced at the dome-shaped shrine as the recorded chanting pulsed with her accelerating heartbeat. The sound faded, and she replaced it with her own chant: Sri Jay-war-den-a-pu-ra . . . Sri Jay-war-den-a-pu-ra . . .

Sri Jaywardenapura ended and Kotte Road began, as did the smell of diesel, an obstacle course of tuk tuks, trucks, and buses. Walled residences and little corner shops were replaced with stores selling tile, plumbing parts and lighting fixtures. People stared. Men on motorcycles shouted, whistled, catcalled–baggy clothes didn’t make a difference. She kept her gaze ahead and her face expressionless. At the next intersection, she turned left and retreated into the calm residential area once again.

The light became softer and seemed to smooth the harsh edges of broken glass. On a weekday, the road would have been filled with rush-hour cars and motorcycles, inching forward every thirty seconds, belching exhaust. But she knew it would be quiet on a Sunday evening, and she knew where she wanted to be for the sunset.

She licked the salt from her upper lip and turned onto the gravel path that led to the rice paddies. The sound of traffic was replaced with the steady beat of rubber sole hitting crushed rock, her breath, and the rustle of rice stalks from a soft breeze. A few long-legged birds stepped with care through the water, pulling up each foot and pinching the toes together before spreading them out to take another step. She wasn’t the only one watching the elegant, slow dance. Giant monitor lizards observed from the banks, their dark grey skin camouflaged by the vegetation while their forked tongues flicked the air. She quickened her pace.

The path curved around to the other side of the rice paddies, and she paused again to watch the sun disappear behind new high-rise apartments. The golden light turned pink, soaking everything in a rosy hue. She had never lived in a place where the air could be orange between rainstorms and pink before sunset. The sky and the surface of the rice paddies became a water colorist’s canvas. Streaks of brilliant color moved, mixed, and transformed until, almost reluctantly, they followed the sun behind the horizon. Ombre shades of blue filled their space, and above the rice paddies, stars began to find their places. It was time to go home.