The Drummer

There was just something about him. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but it was there and it captivated her.

She’d read his words, laughed with him, giggled with him and rolled her eyes at with him. She had sat down at her computer, in a bad mood, angry at the world; in a sad mood, with tears leaking out from under half closed eyes; in a groggy mood, heavy with sleep, her coffee clutched in her hands, and as soon she started reading, she’d start laughing. Every time. Every time.

He wrote about everything. Love, life, his kids, his music, his books, his love for Sri Lanka, poo… His depth of knowledge on this last subject was astonishing. A hand would fly to her mouth in scandalized shock at the intimate details he would divulge about that particular topic and without fail, a stifled guffaw would explode from behind the hand clamped to her lips and her friend sitting next to her at work would smile knowingly.

“Ah, she’s reading RD”.

A furtive look around for patrolling bosses and, if the coast was clear, her friend would scoot over and read with her.

She’d never met this man, but she wanted to. She wondered what it would be like…

…To walk into Barefoot café or another one of his favourite haunts around Colombo, and see him sitting there, at a table, casually dressed, with that good-looking-in-an-old-man-kind-of-way drummer-like look about him.

Her pace would quicken and so would her heartbeat. What would she say?

Hi, most probably. But then what? She frantically searches for the right words – something that would make her seem cool, calm and sophisticated instead of a blathering stalker fan. All she can think of is “OMG you’re blog is like, so TOTALLY COOL and it TOTALLY makes me like, LOL”. God. She can’t say that. That would be like, so totally embarrassing.

As she imagines the scenario, she can almost feel her own faltering footsteps. Each one taking her closer to him.

“Hi” she would blurt, colouring instantly, as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

He’d hear her voice, recognize it somehow, and get up. Turn around in one swift, graceful movement – the kind only Lankan Drummers who live in London can accomplish with such a degree of finesse…

…Stun her with that adorable British accent and say…

“Hi Gyppo”

…and everything would be right with the world.

*     *     *

RD, thank you for every single time you’ve made me laugh with your incredible writing and correspondence. It’s been great getting to know you and your unique brand of Brit/Lankan wit. Excuse this rather awkward tribute to you but it was the best I could do on short notice!

Please keep writing. There are days when some of us depend on you for smiles :)

Happy 3rd Blog Anniversary!

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The real truth is, I probably don't want to be too happy or content. Because, then what? I actually like the quest, the search. That's the fun. The more lost you are, the more you have to look forward to. What do you know? I'm having a great time and I don't even know it. - Ally McBeal

5 thoughts on “The Drummer”

  1. ” Please keep writing. There are days when some of us depend on you for smiles :)”


    I agree with our Gypsy girl … :)

  2. Z & TMS – :) <- That’s an RD-induced smile right there!

    RD – Yup. I think so. And you deserve it :)

  3. Awwwww This is so sweet Gyppo :)

    Indeed Happy 3rd Anniversary, we all depend on his daily dosage of wit. Heres to RD :)


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