Selling With Out Selling Out

An Early Lesson in How Not to sell 

When I was a kid, back in middle school, our school assemblies would occasionally have a guest speaker, often from a charity, whipping up support for a sponsored spell, stuffing a matchbox (that was a real thing), or running around the playground ten times. We were given a sheet of paper and an envelope. The paper to collect names and addresses and our pledged sponsorships, and the envelope to collect the funds when we had completed the task.

In the lead-up to the event, we were expected to trudge local streets knocking on doors, and drumming up support for our sponsored endeavours. There was no email back then, no online fundraising; just pen, paper, and our sponsors’ word they’d pay up when we went back to make good on the pledges.

I Discovered I Was No Salesperson 

I entered the sponsored spell. I think I was about seven. Like any good Tamil kid, I came top of the class for the spelling. But, I only raised 50p. And that was from my dad.

I couldn’t bear walking door to door down my street telling people that I was in a sponsored spell, and could they sponsor me. I couldn’t go out there and sell. Not like Evelyn, who lived on the next road, and on the first day she got her sponsor sheet racked up six pounds’ worth of sponsored pledges.

I’m not a natural salesperson. It doesn’t come easy, I don’t have the gift of the gab. Selling is the thing I like to avoid doing.

Belief in the Cause 

But for the Sri Lankan Culture Collective, I’ve had to get over myself and sell tickets for a comedy and music night, a wine and spice pairing evening, a supper club, and a hopper-making masterclass.

Late one night, after the dinner was cooked, dirty dishes packed into the dishwasher, kids, and husband were up in bed, I pulled out a ring light that was packed in a cupboard, set up my phone, and with some notes scribbled on some paper, spoke to you about the festival.

I had never done this before, but with the thought of having to sell almost a hundred tickets for five events, I knew I couldn’t hide behind the camera. 

What helped me make the shift was belief and believing that the Sri Lankan Culture Collective was doing something amazing.

I co-founded the Sri Lankan Culture Collective Boutique Festival with Rosh Olivelle, Thana Sivasambu, and Krish Puwanarajah. We are four women, with jobs, side hustles, some of us have kids, yet we have a collective dream to share our culture, heritage, and stories about the Sri Lankan diaspora and all the creative talent it holds.

And it was that vision that has resonated with so many people. And not just Sri Lankans.

The Birth of a Festival 

In 2024, we were awarded a microgrant to put on this festival, which took place over a day in Battersea, with a hopper-making workshop, sari draping, talks, and then the comedy and music night. It was a full day running from 8 am to 11 pm (nearer to midnight), we fed, draped, and made people laugh.

And, this year, we are doing it all over again.

This time, with five events, kicking off with the comedy and music evening at the Battersea Arts Centre. An evening of high-energy comedy and avant-garde sounds, two wine and spice pairing evenings, a supper club, and then ending the festival with the hopper-making masterclass. A skill every Sri Lankan needs to have under their belt.

A Story That’s Becoming a Movement

What’s been amazing is that you’ve listened to our story, it resonated, and our tickets have sold.

Our belief is about more than putting on just a festival.

Because once the comedians and musicians have left the stage, the wine glasses have been packed away and we’ve swept the crumbs off the floor, we want people to have felt, and understood modern Sri Lankan culture and identity that runs deep within our community and we want you to be a part of it.

Tickets are on sale here.