My Sad Song

By Herbert Amarasinghe

Its better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, the wise old saying had been on my mind over the years. So finally, I lit the candle by writing my biography.

The book tells all about a boy born to a middle-class rural family in the British colonial Ceylon. Living in an era of strict cultural taboos and ancient practices his young life was utterly intricate. Torn from the bosom of his family, he departs from his cozy village-home to a faraway school to suffer under sadistic teachers. In a miserable boardinghouse he struggles with nasty bullyboys and battles along with constant homesickness. The family tragedies worsen his misery drowning him in grief and, hence, confusion. Later recovering and developing a great vision of life, takes him out of misery to a successful university career.

To begin a new twist of fate, he leaves his motherland to spend a quiet family life in New Zealand. Then his family disappointments take him across the Tasman to Australia. Living here for over a few decades he becomes a helpless victim of numerous adverse life events forcing him to a solitary single life. Now he finds his way to survive the loneliness through his profound determination engaged in generosity. Later when he expedites a romance overseas, the surrounding enemies ruin it resulting in the tragic loss of his great lover, leaving him in deep sorrow. In dismay, with a failed mission overseas, and now aimless, he returns to Australia. Grieving silently and living a low profile, suddenly his health deteriorates leaving a little ray of hope of life. Eventually, he recovers slowly and agonizingly bringing his life back to solitude again.

This is a vivid story written true to his memories in sequel and full of haunting childhood, fomenting adolescence, ghosts of numerous failures and finding ways to survive the great losses, disappointments and loneliness through his determination. Also, interestingly the writer relates his times to important events took place in the outer world during these periods; a kind of a historical account. This is a dramatic life journey of a mans own purpose and meaning of battling along. So, those readers who seek a variety would find this book full of interesting episodes, cultural background and differences in the light of the Westerners eyes. Finally, its a unique presentation and not the norm in traditional book stores.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479764877

Herbert Amarasinghe

Originating from Ceylon (now Sri Lanka), graduated and worked for a brief period until married and migrated to New Zealand. Worked in NZ for a few years and then moved to Australia for furthering my education at post graduate level. Since then I worked over many years in the public and private sector. Also I bought up a family of two sons. My recent medical condition forced me to early retirement. Now I am battling along with my sicknesses spending my time very quietly. However not wasting my valuable time, I completed writing my biography and now writing couple of books for future publication. Working for the university, I published a technical book on water weeds, a joint venture with my superior/ university professor.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Herbert Amarasinghe 502851-AMAR

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4797-6486-0

ISBN: eBook 978-1-4797-6487-7

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-800-618-969

www.xlibris.com.au

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My Sad Song

Herbert Amarasinghe

For all my ever loved and departed family members

And for my two sons Anouk and Ayesh

My own wise saying:

It’s better to honor a living human than to praise a dead.

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Prosperity of the generous man never fails, but in reality mine has.

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Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1    Father’s death

Chapter 2    The Birth and Early Childhood in the Village

Chapter 3   Boyhood and Primary Schooling

Chapter 4    Enthralling Stories…Oral History

Chapter 5   Life in Kandy

Chapter 6    Colombo life, up to University entry

Chapter 7   University Life and Leaving Sri Lanka

Chapter 8    Life in New Zealand

Chapter 9   Living in Australia: Randwick and Bathurst, up to 1990

Chapter 10   Living in Australia: Carlingford from 1990 to 1997

Chapter 11   Single Again

Chapter 12   Living Overseas: India and Sri Lanka, 2003-7

Chapter 13   Back in Australia, 2007…

Epilogue

Glossary

Photographs

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Introduction

Who am I? I am neither a great adventurer nor a celebrity, a great sportsman, a famous writer, a prominent figure or a politician. I am just a citizen, an ordinary good citizen, whose citizenship had changed once from my birth-place Ceylon to a land at the far end of the world in the Pacific, New Zealand; and then to the vast continental land mass, Australia. As a result I have always been a natural foreigner in every country I thrive in. I am what I identify a very sentimental soft human, believing in tenderness and generosity.

My whole life has been a big gamble; a helpless victim of adverse life events and hence have been struggling with my roller coasting journey of life. Roller coasting? Yes! It climbs to a peak and then suddenly drops to a trough. And my life full of haunting childhood memories, fomenting adolescence, ghosts of numerous failures and then finding ways to survive the great losses, failures, disappointments and loneliness through my determination. There are a few incidents leading to certain secret sorrows that have inflicted my soul resulting in deep invisible wounds, that I doubt would ever heal.

When I wished to join the junior cricket team, slipped my luck for not having the right gear for the game...an optimism of childhood lost. Soccer games played during the wet season of the year only caused havoc when I fell on the wet and muddy ground while kicking the ball, the ball stayed still and stubborn. I was not game enough was the response. My parents wished medical science for their only son, seeing blood made me sick, so that too, was out of the question for me. When intended to study in England, the promised ₤ 5 never reached the registration office, missing my studies in England.

The romance I expedite with great hope and enthusiasm leaves me with nothing but golden memories and abundance of tears. Wherever I begin a new venture, it ends in a disaster. Not that I do anything wrong, it just happens. I believe that’s what is the karma; the law of cause and effect.

When I analyze the cause of some specific failures, it is very clear to me now that by respecting and following the opinion of the females had given me many downfalls. However, of all the past memories of my journey of life, the romance with Mayuri stands out like a lighthouse in a thick fog.

Then on the other hand, despite all the failures, I have contributed a great deal to the needy people in many parts of the world. Feeding and also educating, costing them absolutely nothing. Mentally and physically handicapped children, who never left their remote villages, enjoyed visiting glamorous places and religious centers, enthralling them. Many destitute families enjoy a roof above their heads; I was entirely responsible for their gains. The needy peasants in frozen Himalayas wrapped with warm woolen clothing, creating permanent cozy settings. The eternal resting places of cold hard floors transformed to comfortable beds for numerous families.

Empty book shelves of village libraries gently filled with modern-day material, raising the literacy skills of villagers. The children desperately abandoned studies for lack of funds, continued their studies successfully. Those who had nothing more than rags to cover their nudity in dusty African continent exposed their bodies with pride in sophisticated and colorful garment. Ghostly incomplete places of worship gradually transformed into true divine centers, gladly with generous funds. Outstretched hands calling out, filled with cash gradually transforming the so called dirt-poor to poor…not dirt poor anymore.

Simply, I think I have done my part within my capacity and available resources. I have played a fair and reasonable role silently…very silently…not in front of cameras but often behind the scene. Neither my name nor my whereabouts mentioned in most of those generous ventures.

I lived in a period of ancient cultural practices, wrapped in inherited cultural taboos, astrology, exorcism, seance, voodooism and spiritualism making everyday life extremely difficult during that era. I faced a world full of faith healers, witch-doctors and black magicians. The superstition and cultural taboos of the era we followed were beyond anybody’s belief. In the light of Western science these beliefs seem foolish, yet they follow these even today in my country of origin. The reason is that we are all products of our upbringing...I behaved and reacted facing incredible situations during my entire long journey of life... the way we had been brought up.

Here, my own true story I have written true to my memories. I have so much to say or write in sequel and sometimes it’s difficult to explain certain cultural expressions in the English language. Nevertheless, I tried my best to portray them in my own line of vision. I do not wish to hurt anyone’s feelings through my portrayals and like to be true to my memories, my experience and my own feelings. Many of the people I recall in my book no longer exist. Unfortunately and to my dismay a few pages went missing in my memoirs, as many valuable documents and vivid family mementoes disappeared when the house in the village left with the caretakers in the late 1970s.

The ancient wise saying, It’s better to light a candle than to curse the darkness, had been on my mind all those years. So, at last, I am lighting the candle by writing my long journey of life. The complication of my throat in the mid-1990s struck me as important, for me to leave behind an account of my life with urgency. Then again, I had the great fear in the back of my mind. We fervently believe in the genetic tendency of handing down the good and bad events from parents to children. My dad, who wrote his memoirs, never ever completed it as he had a stroke paralyzing his right arm and then death followed a few years later. I had the fear that it would be the same in my life too, especially when I developed complications in my own health.

Death is a natural phenomenon, yet it had afflicted my family more than most of the families I came across. I ask myself the question very often, why does it come so frequently in our family? I lost my father and sister in the space of three months and always thought that nature had been very unkind to my family. My mother, I thought had been born with an evil star in her life to handle bereavements one after another like funeral undertakers. Not only my family members, I also experienced death of my favorite entertainers too. For instance, the American singer with a great angelic voice; Karen Carpenter and then the most beautiful Indian film star; Madhubala, both my favorites, who died very young in their thirties. I really grieved for their early deaths too.

Sometimes I wonder if I should have written about my Continental European tour and my brief wanderings with Mayuri in detail, put into three separate books. However, I have summarized those two episodes and presented them here only in a nutshell.

When I was in the throes of writing this book, unbelievably, tears generously fell onto my keyboard when it came to every sad departure of my beloved family members.

Note to the Reader

The names, places and other identifying details have been changed throughout to protect the privacy of the individuals concerned.

Disappointing me, in the process of editing, numerous sentences had been changed from active to passive voice, disrupting the smooth flow of narration.

I express my endless gratitude and thanks to those who made the long journey with me. My dear readers, now the long tale has been told, so I hope you enjoy.

My gratitude goes to my publishers Xlibris with special thanks to Michael, Diana and Victoria who helped me immensely in lighting my candle.

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My own wise saying:

It’s better to honor a living human than to praise a dead.

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Chapter 1

Father’s death

Living in the cool and misty hill capital, Kandy, of the tropical island Ceylon, I longed for that unkind year of 1962 to disappear from my young life. Having this sense of urge, I busied myself with my school activities in the third term. One sunny day in September, having a parcel from home, my grandpa visited me at the boardinghouse. When opened with great pleasure, I found the usual comforting letter from my mother and a little package from my sister Lettitia. It truly surprised me as she should have been at her school hostel at this time of the year. I thought perhaps, she had come home for the weekend and took the opportunity to send me a little gift.

After seeing me at the boardinghouse, grandpa went to the city, visiting friends, relatives or a temple perhaps. Routinely, I went to school to satiate the sadistic teachers who lingered with their open rough palms, rock-hard knuckles and always carried canes.

Afternoon, like any other afternoon, I returned from school, had my lunch, went upstairs and changed to casuals from my school uniforms. As usual I relaxed in bed and began to read a book. While reading the book, a sudden thought came to my mind that grandpa might be here any minute.

The day was 13th September and about 3:30 pm, I heard a loud voice from downstairs:

Herbert…Herbert…Herbert…

Instantly, I dropped the book on the bed and ran down the rugged timber steps expecting my grandpa at the doorsteps. Tom, a senior resident of the boarding house hurried towards me and handed an open sheet of paper uttering, a telegram for you. Telegram is an emergency; panic ran along every vein in my body. I took the open telegram in hand and read it through quickly -

‘Father is seriously ill, come home immediately —Mother.’

I felt as though I had swallowed a brick. My heart began to pound. Having the telegram in hand, in panic I ran upstairs like a lightening and flung on a better pair of shorts and a shirt. While getting dressed numerous thoughts occurred to me but one thought hit me strongly that I must find my grandpa immediately. I shoved the telegram in my pocket and left looking for grandpa.

Initially, I thought of catching a bus or a taxi to Kandy city, but later decided to walk. I might miss grandpa as he could be traveling from the city. I began to walk…a brisk walk, peering at every vehicle passing, looking in every bus-stop, shops, practically everywhere. While walking I thought to myself, how we could go home, my usual train leaves at 3:10 pm, it has already left Kandy.

When I reached the city, a short distance from the Kandy Lake there I noticed a solitary figure at a distant. He was moving towards me and looked more like grandpa from his movements. A beacon of hope appeared in an ocean of hopelessness. As I got closer, it was grandpa. When I saw him relief flooded my body and I slowed to a stumbling walk. The panting of my brisk walk or rather jogging turned to a long sigh of relief. I thanked the Lord for miraculously meeting him in time.

As I got closer he greeted me with a smile. I have no recollection of my return greetings; however, I instantly took the telegram out of my pocket and handed it to grandpa, uttering ‘I received this just now.’ He glanced at it briefly; still panting I watched his face. In his late seventies, grandpa’s mature face instantly transformed to a heavy worried grim look. His eyebrows raised and then with a sigh of relief, he slipped the telegram into his pocket.

Back in the boardinghouse, I hurriedly packed whatever clothes I needed for the trip in my overnight bag. We went home by bus and then by car. In the bus, sitting beside grandpa, I looked at his face; he was in deep thoughts, realizing the major task ahead of him. Unlike on other trips we didn’t exchange many words. Every other journey heading home was full of excitement and anticipation however this trip was marked by dread, anxiety and sorrow.

Many memories flooded back to my mind. The vivid one strangely enough was the astrologer’s comments on my horoscope- Your father will depart before your adolescence. The question I asked myself, has he really departed? The telegram was always used in an emergency. In our culture, in that era, death only whispered, perhaps my mother couldn’t say ‘Father died come home immediately.’ I corrected myself.

I stared blankly ahead in my own personal fog. Now my mind had its own sanctuary and the whole world in front of me to think. The precious memories of my life with my farther from the very beginning, continuously flowed to my mind.

At my reading ceremony how he came up with his camera…trotting through the bush holding his finger and looking for colorful wild birds… his tolerance when I sat with him covering his news paper… standing behind his recliner and reading over his shoulders… when paralyzed, massaging his toes and fingers when he stayed like a vegetable…charity donations to patients at the local hospital…exciting train journey together visiting his mother and how he wept the night of her funeral…how he enthralled when he appeared for the family portrait three weeks ago…and many more.

Gazing out of the window, into the pitch darkness, I thought the bus moved sluggishly through the misty hills down the winding road of the hill country. The mountains looked like big black humps and the feeling of lateness urged me to hurry. When I looked at my grandpa, deep thoughts had entrapped him too.

Finally, when we reached the village it was almost midnight. At the gate I could see the whole area flooded with light. It gave me some indication of the situation, clearing all the doubts brooding on me up to this moment. That’s how I saw my house when my grandma died. The car rumbled through the gravel and came to a halt at the porch.

We both got off the car and entered the house. Many people were there, some relaxed in chairs and others milling around vigilantly. Paying the usual traditional respect to my grandpa, everyone got on to their feet and welcomed us with a mixture of a yawn and a smile. Some village peasants waggled their heads politely.

I directly staggered inside and entered the lounge, when my mother joined me. Then my two elder sisters, managed to work through their nests of tangled hair from sleep, made their way to the lounge to join me. Their eyes I noticed were red and puffy with weeping during the day. Seeing me triggered their grief and they wept noisily. The shrill lament echoed breaking the quietness of the night. Then we stood there consoling each other for a while. A strange hush prevailed so everyone then spoke in undertones. My sisters went back to their rooms and my mother went for refreshments, realizing that we were desperate for some after a long journey from Kandy.

Sadly, I stood motionless for a long while, gazing at the body but shed no tears.

In the middle of the open casket, there lies silently the inert body of my father, in a pin-striped brown suit, a lamp lit above his head and a semicircle of flower wreaths at his feet. Life on earth is full of uncertainty. Being born to life on earth is only a traumatic experience that meant dying to another form of existence. His spirit has drifted away to an unknown destination in the astral world. In this strange and unkind world, there is no happiness, there are only happy moments. The person, merely three weeks ago, appeared for a family portrait, now gone forever leaving a sepia photograph. The bond between me and my father, now and will be forever severed in silence…

I thought silently.

Then I left the lounge, swung open the door and entered the main room. My two younger sisters, Matilda and Sriya sleeping curled up into crooks on one bed. The two elder sisters, Patricia and Lettitia sitting across the bed, crouched against the wall expecting my company, churning inside them the incident and longing to tell the sad tale of the day. My mother joined us with refreshments and began the story. Their voices sank to a whisper, rather they hissed the story. I understood from them that around mid-morning, while walking in the front garden with my sisters, he had a heart attack. He crumbled falling on one side, while my two sisters held him, he died in their arms.

For the next few days, quietness prevailed. From time to time that quietness broke when close friends and relatives visited and wept with our family members.

Then at the end of three days from his death a large gathering of white-clad people appeared at our house. Finally, the friends and relatives said good-bye by bowing to him in the traditional manner. Some paid respect by clasping their hands together at their chests.

In the warm mid-afternoon a tropical breeze softly wafted through the canopy of trees disturbing the quietness. Next moment, amidst the wailing, the casket carrying the body of my father left the lounge. Then through the porch down to the compound and out through the gate to the path leading to his cremation at a corner of the village.

The mortal remains of my father placed solemnly on the snow-white pyre. Two white-clad male relatives circled around the pyre three times with a lit-torch pointing backward in hand. And at the end of the traditional circling, they set fire at the two ends of the pyre. Instantly the fire began to roar towards the center. Then the serene whiteness of the pyre turned to sooty black and it went ablaze. Within a moment it turned to one single ball of fire. Then there began the crackling and belching smoke and a flurry of black streamers, leaving the rest to Mother Nature.

The tears streaming down the faces of onlookers vanished instantly with the heat of the fierce flame. The crowds gradually dissipated from the scene, so, for the last time we said good bye to our father.

The funeral night was the final stage of my grief and acceptance. Sleep eluded me. Late in the night the mumbling voices of people and the shuffling of many feet quieted now. In the silence of the house, I could hear the grandfather clock endlessly ticking away the minutes. A kind of sad acceptance for the reality of what life had brought to me. My love for him brought great joy, he should rest eternally in peace, but with my endless pain would I be the same again? At this moment tears that I had never shed during the funeral service began to flow and I wept bitterly.

Silently in bed, the thought of the astrological prediction came back to me: Your father will depart before your adolescence. The prediction made many years ago proved true and accurate, I thought. Again what could I do? I had to live my own life no matter what’s predicted astrologically. They guide one as probabilities only; it doesn’t mean one can be free from them or far from them.

The next day, when I visited the cemetery, in a corner leaning heavenwards in the gloomy ghostly manner I could see the charred remains of my father’s funeral pyre. The man who possessed authority, knowledge, dignity, power and a great wealth of experience in life had incinerated down to an inert mass of calcified relics. The relics we gathered and placed in a well-carved brass urn and taken to his ultimate resting-place for everlasting happiness of the living relatives.

On the seventh day of his death, a traditional alms giving was organized to give merits to the departed. Mid-morning large number of beggars in rags appeared at the back of our house. They sat hiding from the beastly hot sun by resting under the shade of trees. Many snuggled-toothed women with little snotty children on hips and old haggard ones with shabby hair and some with walking sticks and many more appeared. Waiting impatiently for their turn, they made loud noise talking amongst them.

Then at about 11am, twelve serene Buddhist monks arrived. Shaven headed, in saffron robes they gracefully sat in lotus position crouched against the lounge wall on specially arranged satin cushions. Their hands clasped in their laps, fingers inter-twined and played a major role giving merits to the departed. The family members, relatives and the friends took part in serving the monks with the specially prepared food.

When things quieted, after spending ten days or so with my family, I had to return to the boardinghouse to continue my studies. I did not want to leave home. Again, how could I upset the already chaotic family matters? So, I decided to go back to Kandy. On my return trip my mind was full of mixed feeling of grievance and the usual home-sickness.

On my return trip to Kandy, my family members escorted me to the local railway station and I said goodbye very emotionally. When the train began to crawl, in my blurred vision I could see my mother and two younger sisters keeping pace with the train by walking along the platform. Then the train gained speed and I lost sight of them.

At the junction station I changed trains and so sat on a slatted bench. With my little bag by my side, I waited for the Kandy express. Ignoring the noisy caw caw of the crows around me, I watched, with my blurred vision, the steam engine preparing for the tiring journey uphill.

The sweating, coal-dusted firemen filled water tanks from a giant hose and shoveled coal into the fire-box giving more fuel for the trip. Belching clouds of black smoke from a giant funnel and hissing steam ejecting all around the engine. They engaged in checking their gauges causing a hustle and bustle with their preparations.

When my express train arrived I picked up my bag and boarded the train. Selecting a window seat, very quietly spun my childhood dreams for two hours or so. Ignoring the dust and fingerprints, with my nose pressed against the shutter, I gazed out of the window in deep thoughts.

After a moment the second engine was attached to the back of the train giving us a big jerk and readied for the tiring journey uphill. When snaking through the winding hills I could see the front engine dragging a row of carriages lazily and massive clouds of smoke continuously bursting. Peering to the back I could see the other engine chugging along, pushing. Passing through the long tunnels people react by coughing and occasionally sneezing when the cabin saturated with smoke and cinder.

Now uphill, the outside view was so glamorous with hazy air and a light fog descending from the tropical lush mountains. The terraced rice-paddies visible on the hills extend right down to the deep valleys below. As we climbed further the cool air brought with it the thought of hot tea and coffee. This time a cabin steward in a brass tagged coat, marvelously balancing a tray full of tea, coffee and snacks, passed through the narrow corridor.

Farther and farther uphill the train sped and the vegetation changed remarkably. Now I arrived in the middle of misty mountains which now seemed to be more dissolute than ever. My thoughts of the experience and events of the last few days made me really depressed. Too young and timid, and not in the least prepared for my ordeal of such a journey.

On my return to the boarding house I felt lethargic, homesick and depressed, and tears flowed down my cheeks generously. With time things came to a constant routine, the schooling, homework and other activities.

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Chapter 2

The Birth and Early Childhood in the Village

Originating from a middle-class family, both my maternal grandpa and great-grandpa served as government officials under the British colonial ruling. However, the grandpa I remembered during my childhood retired from his government service.

My paternal grandpa, also of middle-class origin, was involved in his business ventures. I did not remember him as he died soon after my birth. But I could remember my father, the only surviving male in a family of four. During my father’s service with the Ceylon Government Railways, as a staff officer under the British colonial ruling, he had served in various locations in Ceylon.

I heard from my mother that during this period majority of the men dressed in flapping sarongs and other traditional loose clothing even in a popular place like Gampaha. However with my father’s position he had to wear a three-piece suit to work, despite the tropical climate! I wondered how uncomfortable in the heat and humidity of the low country. Even for the short stroll to the railway station to catch a train to work, he would select back alleys due to his shyness. He did not want to be so prominent among the crowds in sarongs.

My mother was the only child to my maternal grandparents. She never worked, as most of the mothers of that era. Given a reasonable education and fulfilling my grandparents wish she stayed home. It was the case with women during this period in Ceylon. My mother then married and appeased her five children: my two elder sisters, Patricia and Lettitia two younger sisters Matilda and Sriya and of course me. Basically she became a parody of a 1950s wife and an ever busy mother of the era.

My parents didn’t have children for many years, which was very unusual in that era, especially before the Pill and further in our culture. So the worried grandparents thought about doing rituals for fertility. Later on when my father was in service at the ancient city, Anuradhapura, my eldest sister Patricia was born. Then my other elder sister Lettitia followed.

Later they moved and were now residing at Gampaha, my paternal home town. They were happy with two young daughters and passionately longed for the arrival of the third child. A common home-birth of the era occurred and luckily a boy. Great happiness came over everyone in both our families and very specially pleased with the arrival of a boy after two girls in a row. The enthralled paternal grandma, Johanna, ran all over the house calling…. yes…it’s a boy…it’s a boy. I wonder what the neighbors felt seeing an elderly lady yelling and running around the house at the odd hour of 2 am.

Everyone believed the birth of a boy would fulfill everyone’s requisite. But all the excitement gave way to disappointment after a week or so of my birth when they visited the family astrologer. I was born with a weapon against my father. The horoscope chart revealed that before my adolescence my father would definitely depart! Despite the astrological predictions everything went on normally in our lives.

I have no recollection of my birth place Gampaha, a city about fifteen miles from the capital Colombo. My recollections began in the country town Mirigama, fifteen miles from Gampaha at my mother’s birth place surrounded by traditions and values of her people. It became my home since we moved soon after my birth and my childhood began here at my maternal house.

The Mirigama area was purely agricultural in the 1950s. Throughout the entire area one could see acres and acres of tall coconut palms fringed with lush green rice paddies and occasional patches of rubber crops. Majority of the local residents engaged in either rice cultivation or coconut plantations.

The town I remember, one long street with two rows of about hundred solid brick and tiled old shops on either side without a footpath or pavement. Ignoring the bicycles, bullock carts and motor vehicles everyone walked on streets under black umbrellas. At one end of the town stood the railway station, the police station, the post office and the markets. The three-way junction in the middle of the town attracted everyone. An old sacred Bo tree, a type of fig, took pride in the middle of the junction and was dangerously inhabited by noisy crows in their roosting time at dusk.

The level-crossing of the double railway line was secured with a heavy timber gate. The gatekeeper perched in a little cabin by the gate. By hammering a small length of rail hanging on a post he gave a warning tinkle to the traffic and the pedestrians. The two cinemas at the extreme ends of the town were filled with colorfully-dressed people every evening. The hospital, half a mile from town, caused inconvenience to all the sick while the families visited the sick.

Mirigama had some historical interest in 1864, the very early period of the British colonial times of the country. The British rulers had completed the first railway line from Colombo to Ambepussa. This has some significance in the country’s history. The first train to Ambepussa, a distance of 33 miles, began its historic journey then.

The people during this period, possibly my great grandparents too, had come to see this unusual giant mobile machine, chugging along belching black fumes and hissing steam which they had never seen before. The first tunnel on the Main Line which is 275 ft long is seen soon after passing the Mirigama town. The tunnels and overhanging rocks on the incline stand as lasting monuments to the genius of the British colonial overlords.

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Our village was half a mile from the Mirigama town. And our property was completely isolated from the rest of the village securing with a tall barbed-wire fence.

Maternal grandpa’s house was vast, his pride and joy. The great white house, I remember, nestled in a silent-army of tall coconut palms and sheltered snuggling among shady tropical trees. My young and energetic grandpa had completed the construction of the house in 1910. He had built walls with astonishing thickness, with rubble, a thick plaster coating over and white-washed giving a serene appearance.

The heavily pillared noble verandah at the front gave a remarkable appearance. The timber latticework at the porch thickly covered with well-trimmed vines greeted everyone. The ten-roomed two-story house had a timber top floor and the carved timber handrail and balustrade on the timber stairs helped us climb safely. The ornamental parts of house-fittings very skillfully finished and polished giving the interior of the house a glamorous look.

He had sourced the timber from our own properties and well tempered to last for generations. Every timber structure was created skillfully and turned giving it a glamorous look. Giant columns standing on cement floors, high ceilings and a double-tiled roof withstood the tropical heat and gave an extra coolness to the unique piece of architecture. Overall, an air of serenity and peace existed where we lived.

The furniture with elaborately carved teak, ebony, mahogany and satinwood gave the house a grandeur look. Luxuriously cushioned in bright red, skillfully turned in designs, these vast ebony sofas gave a majestic look that stood out in a corner of the lounge. The most memorable piece of furniture was our cradle or rocking cot. Standing on two heavy pillars, heavily-carved masterpiece of the era, we occupied when infants. It was handed down from my elder sister to the youngest in the family serving a long period, silently listening to our maids’ cradle songs and lullabies.

During my childhood I remember workers came so often, beads of sweat flowing down their skinny bear-bodies doing a marvelous job of sanding and lacquering. They gave every piece of furniture a luster, which I watched perched on my colorful tricycle. However, they left the house with an odor of beeswax for a few days.

Many portraits of our departed maternal and paternal ancestors stood silently, either mounted in carved wooden frames or hung on walls in appropriation, took pride in every corner of the house. Wild sambor or deer heads with giant horns directing upwards and their fearful eyes wide open stayed silently hung on walls. The pictures of men with flowing moustaches in dark velvet coats with gold-brocaded designs looked as if they were telling the history of the British colonial times. Many portraits of women in saris, thick black hair in glamorous styles and in glittering gold stood by the loved ones.

Heavily-carved brassware, vases, elephants or other ornaments, too, majestically took their place silently in every corner of the house. Densely-carved ebony figures of snakes, elephants and monkeys, glistening in the morning sun, stood like real animals. The most vivid item was a pair of giant natural elephant tusks mounted on well-carved heavy ebony base that stood under the arches of the lounge.

A portrait of the Royal couple, Queen Elizabeth in her glittering crown and the Duke of Edinborough in braided military uniform standing together took a prominent place in the house. A trailing British colonialism and faithful royalists, I thought.

In addition to our main crop of coconut plantations, grandpa had carefully nurtured various other trees devoting major part of his young life. He had grown a true orchard of all kinds of tropical trees: juicy guavas, tropical mango varieties, sweet bananas, rows of willow tropical mangoosteen, abundance of jackfruit, bread fruit, fragrant pawpaw or papaya groves, star fruit, pomegranate, colorful rambutan, sweet rose apples, seasonal cashew nuts, spicy tamarind and many more. Tropical passion fruit vines tangled around stakes, in full blossom and smiling eternally to the bright sun above. These vines were always heavily loaded with bright-yellow juicy fruits to please our palate. Very often village urchins visited the orchards for picking and nibbling on juicy fruits.

Many aromatic herbs and spices of medicinal value thrived there too. These plants became very useful during that era as herbal or Ayurvedic medicines of ancient Indian origin were more popularly accepted than Western medicine. Further out in the property he had grown trees for future harvesting of timber: teak, ebony, mahogany and satinwood.

In the front yard grandpa had a well maintained collection of flowers. Richly fringed by the native flowering shrubs mingled with tropical garden flowers. The fragrant frangipani blossomed in various colors, well trimmed bushes of tropical Ixora and hibiscus, dazzling bougainvilleas and intoxicating jasmine well tended in timber supports, semi-circular flower beds of ground orchids, anthuriums, ferns and more exotic varieties from the cool high country. The emerald lawns edged with coconut palms and their trunks were covered in a variety of rare orchids.

All the vegetation around imparted an extra coolness to everyone by shading the house from the unforgiving sun. The visitor’s comments on the well-maintained lush beauty of our garden always pleased grandpa and his face brightened when commented.

Our house was vast, but we had many residents; my own family, my maternal grandparents and few more additions. My grandpa’s bachelor brother, my grand-uncle, Don, lived with us too. With his advanced age, he found it difficult to manage a house of his own. We accommodated him in a room and my mother took sole care of him. Also, we had a few house-maids of our own and a night-watchman. During this era a whole family generation after generation served their employer-family. Their sole dependence and hopes rested on selected well-to-do families.

As a little toddler I darted about in the kitchen area while my mother carried a hot tea pot. Once I jumped and grabbed her legs and then she lost her balance and fell. Somehow she managed to keep the tea pot away from me, burning her own leg. Many years later, she told me about this incident showing me a big scar on her leg.

The first memory I could recall was of my grandpa with my younger sister; baby Matilda, in his arms. I played a ‘bear game’ of acting like a bear in the bottom cage of a timber cupboard, ‘whatnot’. When grandpa put his finger to the wire-mesh, my pretended biting excited my baby sister, who giggled away in the careful arms of grandpa.

My mother had specifically employed a maid, Alice, to look after me. I couldn’t remember her when she took care of me. However, she paid a visit when I was about five years or so. Alice was a short, very energetic young woman, always with a wide smile on her face and had long black, loose hair. She wore a very colorful sari when she visited and I didn’t know who she was. Putting her arm around my skinny waist she held me closer to her. ‘Little master,’ she asked with a wide smile on her face, ‘do you know how much poo and pee I have washed on you?’ Paralyzed with shyness, I jumped from her grip, ran out of her sight and hid among the bushes in the yard for a long while.

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Yes, in the yard and beyond. Then outside the house and surroundings we had more interesting happenings with the bird population. Everyone disliked the ever-greedy scavengers, the noisy crows with sharp eyes, jet-black shiny plumage and their ferocious habits. They rose even before sunrise, caw cawing until the sunset and during their active day becoming a nuisance to the innocent birds in the area.

The common brown mynah birds frequented everywhere, picking their worms with their yellow beaks and always quarrelsome; scuffles arising for unknown reasons. Common friendly sparrows would seasonally build their nests carrying debris and stealing our fabric waste or anything soft into their secluded homes in our barn.

Then a variety of beautiful birds lived in the serenity of our orchards. The flame-red woodpecker did a marvelous job of digging into a tree trunk and left for the other birds to dwell one day. The bright-green parakeets and bright-red parrots would dig their sharp curved-beaks to steal a delicious papaya or a juicy mango. Ever happy tiny black and white robins sang songs so often entertaining us. They usually appear in pairs, by seeing them singly we believed it would bring us sorrow.

The noisy grey-feathered babblers in a large flock of 20 or 30 did the job of nibbling and picking food. Our dogs hated them and chased them to a nearby tree. Perched on a low branch in anger the babblers would continue their babbling while the dogs retreated in satisfaction.

A quiet visitor was the coucal, a giant bird with a heavy brown body, shiny black neck and sharp beak. Always searched for snails digging into our flower beds or wherever snails thrive. Once picked one, flew to a low branch and had a delicious snack quietly. The grayish innocent dove sitting calmly atop a tree cooing for a mate, until and always answered by another from a nearby tree.

Of all the birds around us gracula or the golden oriole became the unforgettable for its most talented exquisite singing. It looked like a lustrous brown mynah bird but for a golden crest on the nape of the neck. Sitting atop a tree it sang songs beautifully. No other bird could match the singing of gracula but then it appeared seasonally.

All the fun in the world of aviary instantly disappeared when sharp-eyed giant eagles visited us. They would come after a tender bird in a nest or an innocent little kitten. Secretly diving down and gripping live animals with strong claws that could tear to pieces and enjoy a big meal of fresh meat.

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The frequent visitors were not limited to animals. Our house was popular among the villagers as well, so often they visited for little favors. A heavily sweating woman, a little child on her hip or a toddler trotting by her clinging to the mother’s clothes and thumb in mouth, would enter through the back gate. They would come in the kitchen area to see my mother or grandma. My mother disliked it when I played with the child as she believed they carried germs with never-ending phlegm running down their nose.

In their lowest voice or hissing they would ask for trivial favors. They would ask for a coconut, a measure of rice or a lump of sugar. Sometimes, ask for a glamorous summer dress for a child when needed to attend a special event. Occasionally, they would also ask for few rupees when they ran out of their shopping or traveling expenses.

Ignorance of mild sicknesses ended up in dangers. A woman would run across the village hysterically calling for help. Her long black hair flying in the air, with a child in her arms who is in danger of a convulsive fit. Through the back gate, they appear at our doorstep for immediate help. With our instant remedy sick children survived. Sometimes, some peasants cried on a low stool in the kitchen with a dry sorrow. With their faces in their hands, their black long-hair streaming down their face, sobbing when things went really wrong in their lives. Some others visited for advice on issues which they couldn’t handle themselves. Occasionally, a distressed woman would visit us for our opinion or advice.

All the visitors always left with relief, with my mother’s or grandma’s kind heart and generous gestures. When in the kitchen I would see them so often, sometimes would even stop and listen to their lengthy tales. When one visited, they would perch on a low stool in the kitchen area. My grandma would offer her a little tray of betel recipe.

A light smile on her sweaty face she shows her gratitude. Smoothing her dress carefully she would then begin with the betel tray. She would choose a piece of betel nut first and then pops it in her mouth. Next she takes a betel leaf in hand and tips the ends off gently and rubs a pinch of lime on the leaf carefully and then pops it in the mouth. She would pause for a moment to look around the kitchen. Then she would carefully select a pinch of tobacco and pops that too in the mouth. Now she would chew the entire cud for a moment into a red mass. When her lips turned red, then she would begin her chatting.

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With the tropical weather we often had the opportunity of outdoor activities, didn’t matter whether it was day or night. Here in the village there was no electricity for a mile or so. So we had no choice but to live with Nature. The good earth with its unlimited availability, we had all the room in the world to scream, run, ride and play. The unpolluted air pleased us, with a cool breeze or a soft wind. The sky above us extending for limitless views with vividly-shaped clouds and the scarlet setting sun or the gibbous rising moon. The falling crystal rain-drops soothed our bodies. Numerous wild creatures and the flora they inhabited gave us nothing but unlimited pleasures.

I would often play with my two elder sisters; Patricia and Lettitia. The most pleasant time for us to be on the front porch steps was when the unforgiving sun had already sunk behind the coconut palms. Sitting in a row with my sisters with our little chins resting on our palms we talked softly about the simplest things in the world. We had the company of our cute little puppies darting about at our feet or a kitten snuggled in our lap.

In the tropics darkness approaches instantly and with that the fear brought to mind of the villagers. So, at dusk we would see a woman rushing home, carrying a bundle of brushwood on her head, before becoming too dark.

We watched the sky at twilight, slow movements of birds in flocks and V-shaped flights in groups retiring to their homes. At the end of their day they fly to a far roosting place in the forest or in pairs to a low branch in a nearby tree. The flying foxes or bats flying lazily just begin their night activity breaking their day-rest on treetops by hanging their mouse-looking heads downwards.

For the slow-sailing clouds we chose our own words to describe their shapes.