There is a legend in Sri Lanka about Devanampiyatissa, an ancient king who ruled half the island from his capital on the south coast called Kirinda, now a small fishing village.
He was considered a fair ruler until, one day, suspecting a monk's involvement in an intrigue between his queen and brother, he murdered the cleric by throwing him into a cauldron of burning oil. The gods, angered by this act of despotism, raised a giant wave and flooded his kingdom. Devanampiyatissa was forced to repent and, begging forgiveness, offered up his youngest daughter to the ocean.
You hear the story a lot these days, as the country attempts to get back on its feet after the December 26 tsunami. The disaster killed 31,000 people, and left more than a million of the country's 20 million people homeless. But it also deeply shocked a nation more used to dealing with tragedies caused by human folly.
Of course, few believe the tsunami was divine retribution against an errant leader. But in a country where a placid, largely Buddhist exterior masks a seething mass of contradictions and political feuds, that explanation has found some takers.
The emergency relief effort that followed the tsunami was largely a success. Food, water and medical treatment went to most survivors who needed them. Families are receiving 5,000 rupees ($390) a month in state aid.
A week travelling along the coast showed that in some areas people have not received all they need; other parts are flooded with help. But that was probably inevitable, given the scale of what officials had to cope with in a traditionally centralised, bureaucratic state.