From Colombo to Ancient Kingdoms

Tracing stillness, stories, and self through ruins, railways, and slow travel

Sri Lanka greeted me with the kind of humidity that clings to your skin like a second layer. I stepped out of Bandaranaike International Airport and into Colombo’s gentle chaos—tuk-tuks zipping past in flashes of colour, vendors calling out from roadside stalls, and the scent of spiced tea curling through the air. This wasn’t my first time in South Asia, but something about Sri Lanka’s capital felt different—less frantic, more lyrical.

I didn’t linger long in Colombo. A quick wander through the Pettah markets and a fish curry that set my mouth on fire were enough to whet my appetite for what lay beyond the city. My real journey was northbound, into the heart of the island, where ruins whispered stories older than most empires and landscapes rolled out like pages of an epic.

The train from Colombo to Anuradhapura was a journey I’d heard about, but nothing prepared me for the ride itself. Sri Lanka’s trains are wonderfully unpretentious—gritty, open-windowed, and slow in the best possible way. I found myself hanging out of the doorway, wind in my face, as emerald rice paddies flickered past, broken up by coconut palms and the occasional water buffalo. A local family offered me jackfruit wrapped in banana leaves, and for a while, I just listened as they talked and laughed, not understanding a word but fully part of the moment.

Anuradhapura arrived not with the flash of a modern city but with the stillness of something sacred. As I walked barefoot across the ancient stone pathways, I could feel time slow around me. The Sri Maha Bodhi tree—over two thousand years old and grown from a cutting of the original tree under which the Buddha attained enlightenment—was surrounded by quiet reverence. I watched as families brought lotus flowers and whispered prayers, their faces lit by soft candlelight.

There’s a particular peace in Anuradhapura, one that stays with you long after you leave. Maybe it was the scale of the dagobas, massive and white against the sky, or maybe it was the thought that people had walked this same ground for millennia. That kind of continuity is rare and grounding.

From there, I travelled to Sigiriya—a journey that felt like flipping the page in an ancient storybook. The first glimpse of the rock fortress rising out of the jungle was surreal. It’s easy to see why King Kasyapa chose it as his stronghold. Part citadel, part art gallery, Sigiriya is pure theatre. The climb up, especially in the heat, is not for the faint-hearted, but every step was a lesson in awe. Halfway up, I found myself face-to-face with the famous frescoes—ethereal maidens painted in vibrant colour, their expressions serene, almost alive. No one’s quite sure who they were or why they were painted. The mystery adds to the magic.

At the summit, I stood where kings once stood, overlooking an ancient city carved into symmetry below. I wasn’t just looking at a view; I was looking at a vision of ambition, artistry, and a deep connection to the land. It’s the kind of moment that makes you feel small in the best way possible.

Sri Lanka shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. It made me a more curious traveller, a more patient writer, and reminded me that the most profound experiences often come from the quietest places.

There’s something about moving through a country by train, by foot, by instinct. The slow rhythm allowed me to see things I might have missed if I were rushing: a monk sweeping fallen frangipani petals near a stupa at dawn, the way schoolchildren in crisp white uniforms smiled shyly from station platforms, or how locals leaned into conversations with the ease of old friends, even with strangers.

I learned to embrace discomfort—sticky heat, long journeys, not always knowing where I was going—because it’s in those in-between moments that the stories live. I used to think being a good traveller meant ticking off landmarks and moving fast. But Sri Lanka taught me the power of staying still, of listening, and of letting a place show itself in its own time.

As a writer, this journey gave me language for stillness. It reminded me that not every story needs to be dramatic to be meaningful. Sometimes, a fleeting glance, a crumbling stone wall, or the sound of temple bells at sunset can say everything.

Looking back, I see this trip not just as a visit to a beautiful place, but as a turning point. It quietly altered the way I navigate the world. It made me less interested in collecting passport stamps and more interested in collecting presence, depth, and understanding.

In this series, each trip marks a step in the evolution of how I see, how I write, and how I travel. And Sri Lanka—ancient, soulful, slow-burning Sri Lanka—was a gentle reminder that sometimes, the most transformative journeys don’t shout. They whisper.

And it’s up to us to listen.