It was the 26th of February 2021. Appa had passed away three months ago –on 27th November 2020 and only now was I returning home. I was returning to a ‘Sri Lanka’, a ‘Batticaloa’, a ‘Home’ where Appa was no more. My motherland was fatherless to me. After a long and expensive flight of ten and a half hours, taking off from Heathrow, London, the captain finally announced his landing preparations, confirming that we would soon reach Katunayake, Colombo. The time was just beyond Lankan noon. The window blinds pulled down by the cabin crew last night, shortly after the dinner, had to be lifted now. Those blinds had remained an obstacle to my view from the window seat throughout this long flight. I did not dare to lift it open, flush the Middle-Eastern and South-Asian dry daylight into the cabin of masked passengers and disturb their peace-seeking slumber in the sky. All of the passengers on board with me probably had personal and emotional reasons to fly during this pandemic. Most likel...