I might have come across the name ‘Edelweiss’ and learned that it is the national flower of Switzerland sometime in my life, but thanks to the movie ‘Sound of Music’ and the song by that name (written by Oscar Hammerstein, Robert Spielberg and Richard Rodgers) I not only knew about it as a child but the name and the song are among my earliest memories.
In the beginning it was just another word, not even a name. Later my father told me it was a name and a flower. Goscinny and Uderzo, in ‘Asterix in Switzerland’ taught me that it is Switzerland’s national flower.
Here are some technical details for those who may be interested in such things:
Edelweiss (Leontopodium nivale) is a mountain typically found in altitudes between 5,000 and 10,000 feet above sea level. It has ‘yellow florets and white, spiky foliage that appears in a spiky star shape and is a member of the daisy family.’ The name is derived from the German words Edel (noble) and Weiss (white). Some call it Wollblume (wool flower) because of the fuzzy wool-like foliage. Apparently, and I learnt this just now, the Edelweiss ‘is not a flower but a set of between 500 and 1000 tiny florets groups in several hearts with white velvety leaves.’
Technicalities. Like the Swiss connection. I’m talking about Mirissa. I am in Mirissa. And there’s a Swiss connection here as well.
It’s a modest and yet comfortable and happy place. Clean and bright. Small, relatively, and white. And it is called Resort Edelweiss, so named by the original owner who apparently is a Swiss national. Off the main road at the end of Kalugalluwa Road, with a lovely seafront, a pool and excellent food, Resort Edelweiss has been a favourite place to visit for many years. I’ve always been treated well there and not only because it is owned by a school friend I’ve known for over half a century who prefers not to be mentioned.
P K Balanchandran, senior Indian journalist, friend and long time resident in this island of ours, like me and probably most who have spent time here, is highly appreciative. I didn’t know that ‘Bala’ knew of this place, but Thilini Sewwandi, Manager of Resort Edelweiss with almost eight years of experience in hotel management, aware that I write to newspapers asked me about him and showed me a picture. Yes, he was the same 'Bala,' our ‘Bala’. So I took a selfie with Sewwandi and sent it to him.
Bala’s comment on Edelweiss echoed what I knew of the place: ‘The staff at the resort, capably led by Sewwandi, have excellent PR skills. You must tell your pal to keep the resort going. They are doing a good job even when the market is down.’ He added in a subsequent message, ‘it is a pin kama in these hard times.’
On
this off-season occasion, Edelweiss was hosting a dozen men almost 60
years old who’ve known each other for more than 50 years, i.e. since
they were in the first grade or, in the case of a few of them, since
grade six. Reunion. Reminiscing. Music. Singing (and there were some
good voices too). Should have been enough. Edelweiss made it sweeter
with the excellent food and service. Courteous, friendly and, most
importantly, indulgent to a fault.
That’s how Sewwandi signatures the resort.
Sewwandi
lives in Weligama but Mirissa is also her home. Her homeland. She made
us feel that it now belongs to us as well. More importantly that we
belong to Mirissa. Our home now. Our homeland. Blessed. Blessed by
Edelweiss. The Edelweiss of Mirissa. That’s Sewwandi.
malindadocs@gmail.com
Other articles in this series:
The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga
The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down)
Every mountain, every rock, is sacred
Manufacturing passivity and obedience
Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited
In praise of courage, determination and insanity
The relative values of life and death
Poetry and poets will not be buried
Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990)
Sorrowing and delighting the world
Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi
Letters that cut and heal the heart
A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya
The soft rain of neighbourliness
Reflections on waves and markings
Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra
The right time, the right person
The silent equivalent of a thousand words
Crazy cousins are besties for life
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
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