Dance of Freedom and Desire

By Shashi de Soysa

This is a story of an immigrant, a woman who migrates from Sri Lanka to the United States in search of freedom from societal constraints. She travels across the world with a six year old daughter in pursuit of further education. The narrative outlines the challenges she faces as she adjusts to her new life, raising her daughter as a single parent and learning to play the multiple roles of parent, student and breadwinner. She learns to balance the pursuit of freedom with her desire for love, family, friendship and career, a balancing act she describes as a dance of freedom and desire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 19, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499074079

Book preview

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Prologue

THE EBB AND FLOW IN THE JOURNEY OF MY LIFE

My friend Adsila and I are on vacation in Negril. After a very pleasant dinner, we wandered down to the beach. A full moon illuminated the beach, and we watched the tide come in and recede, drawn by the gravitational pull of the moon. We watched the reflection of the moon sway according to the rhythm of the waves crashing on the silvery sand. The phenomenon had a mesmerizing effect. I felt I was being pulled into waves breaking with greater force every few minutes. Digging my toes into the sand, I reflected on the similarity between the ebb and flow of the tides and the ebb and flow of my own life’s journey. That was the moment when I decided to write this book as a record of my life’s journey.

Beginning to write, I recalled the famous quote from William Shakespeare’s As You Like It: "All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages." I thought that my story could also be divided into several different parts, wherein the first may be like the ocean, sometimes choppy, sometimes calm; some images would be faded whereas others would stand out vividly.

Part I of the story takes place in Sri Lanka and is about the freedom of childhood and growing up. It is about a carefree spirit going through school, experiencing a young love and a loss. Growing up with a pain, I focus on studies and go to university and law school. There is excitement in doing well at law school and becoming one of the first women in the Attorney General’s department. The rest of part I is turmoil and confusion in an unhappy marriage. Bright lights in this phase are the birth of my daughter Saraswathi and the unending support of my family and friends. At the end of part I, I prepare to stretch my wings in search of a new life.

Part II of the story is set in America, where I play the difficult role of a new immigrant, a divorced single mother bringing up a child in a foreign land while pursuing intellectual freedom. I crumble under the pressures of trying to manage the multiple roles and return to Sri Lanka. I feel humbled, coping with a sense of failure I am not accustomed to. I recover from that state with the support of my family and return to America with a renewed determination to achieve my goals. Family and friends support me in bringing up my daughter, and I feel a sense of achievement seeing her grow up to be a responsible and accomplished young woman. After two advanced degrees and a series of satisfying assignments, my life and work are now intimately entangled. Part II also provides some highlights of my career. Mainly experiences in the field, some memories are entertaining while others portray some level of danger and risk of assignments. (Most experiences are in Africa while some incidents are assignments in India.)

Part III describes my move to Tanzania on a long-term assignment for the World Bank. My professional career peaks during this time, and I meet my soul mate. In this part, I describe my newfound love, which I believe to be my true love; however, the feelings of ecstasy turn into agony after a few years.

In Part IV, I return home with a heavy heart, feeling lost in my familiar old office, and distanced myself from my family. I decide to make a change. I believe that a change of scene will help. The setting changes to East Asia, and I am the new kid on the block, working hard to make a salient contribution to the marine and coastal program in East Asia and the Pacific. The fast pace of work keeps me busy, but at the end of a year, after some accomplishments, the pace of work tapers off. I realize that I am still adrift. Special events in this part are the weddings of my daughter and niece and, most importantly, the birth of my granddaughter and grandniece, filling my heart with love and tenderness.

Part V and concluding section demonstrate the changes I make in my life. I travel a lot both for work and pleasure, enjoying new experiences. I find satisfaction in volunteer work. I do some reflection and some meditation. I slowly learn to balance my conflicting desires for freedom and security, love and independence. I find greater appreciation of my past while recognizing the importance to live in and treasure the present moment.

Part I

Chapter 1

FREEDOM AND SECURITY OF CHILDHOOD

I am five years old and seated on the floor under a table laden with food. I am wearing a puffy pink dress, with pink socks and pink shoes. I think I must look like a pink marshmallow. We are attending a family wedding. There are too many people, and the conversation and the band seem very loud. I don’t like my dress. I feel uncomfortable and bored. I load my plate with cake, mini sandwiches, and kewum—sweet cakes made with syrup from Kithul palm—and keep it under the table. After looking around, I crawl under the tablecloth. I sit there quietly eating my food, thinking what a good idea I had to hide under the table. And then I hear my father’s voice. He is making a speech, wishing the couple. He is standing very close to the table. I can see his polished shoes from under the table. And then he says something about his two daughters. I can see one of them. I’m sure the other one must be hiding somewhere. I think he must be guessing that I might be hiding. I listen quietly. After a couple of minutes, I hear applause. He must have finished his speech. Suddenly, my father reaches under the table to pick me up, sticky fingers and all.

This image remains vivid in my mind: the pink of the dress, the sweetness of the chocolate in my mouth, and the embarrassment of being lifted up in my father’s arms knowing that I had cake and syrup on my face and dress. While some of my childhood memories are my own, others are tales told by my parents or my sister. In this phase, most memories are sweet, fun, and carefree. I was the younger of two children, doted on by my parents and loved by my sister. Sweet memories of sitting on my mother’s lap, her warmth and the fragrance of Eau de Cologne as I lay my head on her shoulder, the voice of my father singing or chanting Buddhist stanzas, the rich taste of yoghurt and treacle (a thick syrup from the Kithul palms), the sweetness of rambutan fruit, and riding my tricycle up and down the verandah of our house are some of my very early memories. They are special memories conveying a sense of freedom within a circle of love.

My mother often described how I had been but thirty minutes old when my sister Vandana (almost six years old) had approached my crib and offered me some jambu fruit, asking me to eat it. She had been waiting eagerly to see the new baby and was probably disappointed that the much anticipated new arrival could only lie in the crib and sleep or cry. My mother said that she had been concerned and inquired about the red band on my forehead left by forceps used to pull me out. I was born in a private hospital in the city of Galle in Sri Lanka, an island country in the Indian Ocean.

My sister Vandana was a beautiful child, widely acknowledged as very fair. I was at least a couple of shades darker than her, which made some relatives describe me as dark, but pretty. Sri Lankans traditionally value fairer skin, especially in women. Ancient poets described beautiful maidens as having a complexion of ran thambili, which literally translates to orange gold.

<**>

I have been told that when I was a baby, my father used to rock me in his arms, sometimes swinging me high. Watching him do that, Vandana had picked me up one day and had tried to do the same. After a couple of swings, she accidentally sent me flying onto a pile of sand in the garden. Though startled, I was not hurt. When I was a little over one year old, my mother had placed me in my crib and had gone to the armoire to get something. In that minute, I had climbed onto a small pillow and, leaning down, landed on my head. I had survived the fall with no apparent injury.

<**>

We lived in Dodanduwa, which is the village my father came from. I remember a big house with a big garden and many coconut and king coconut trees. Besides the four of us, two grandmothers lived with us: my mother’s aunt and my father’s mother. They were quite active, engaged in cooking and lace and crochet making. My mother’s aunt was very accomplished in all of the above. We lived there until I was five years old.

My memories of the village about eight miles from the city of Galle are mostly of picturesque beaches, a lagoon, a harbor with many fishing boats, a beautiful temple, and a little island which also had a temple. I remember being taken to the beach where I would paddle in the gentle waves holding my mother’s hand. I also remember going to a big temple located high up on a hill with what seemed like hundreds of steps. It was possible to drive around to the back of the temple so I did not have to climb all those steps. This temple called Shailabimbaramaya is an ancient and important site containing valuable murals in its image house. My memories are of sitting in the sand outside the image house, playing and drawing in the sand with my finger while my father had discussions with the priest. I learned later that my father was one of the main supporters of the temple and an advocate and supporter for the establishment of Buddhist schools along the coast in an effort to preserve the religion and culture during colonization and, soon after, independence from the British. I do remember that everyone who met him addressed him respectfully and if I was introduced talked to me very kindly.

I also remember going with my father by boat to the Buddhist forest monastery at Polgasduwa, which is also called Dodanduwa Island. I enjoyed the boat ride and going through forested areas on the island and looking at birds. I also remember that there were foreign monks residing in the monastery. I learned later that this monastery had been founded by a monk from Wiesbaden, Germany, ordained as Ven. Nyanathiloka, who had become famous in the East and the West.

My father taught at a private Catholic boys’ school in Galle. Vandana attended the neighboring girls’ school called Sacred Heart Convent. At the time, this school was the best in the district of Galle, with excellent facilities and teachers, including many Irish and Belgian nuns. I had insisted that I should go to school same as Vandana. I could already read and write and do arithmetic, which I did with my mother using colored chalk on a slate slab. But my parents decided that I was too young to go to school in the city. So I was enrolled in the village school in front of our house. Every morning, my mother and I would also get into the car along with my father and sister as they left for the city, and we would get dropped off at the gate of my school. Going in the car with my sister gave me a sense of going to a school that was far away.

<**>

When I was five years old, we moved to the city of Galle. I got my wish to attend the same school as Vandana. I was admitted to the second grade at the Sacred Heart Convent. Most of the other students in my grade were a couple of years older than me. I did not find any of my classes difficult, but emotionally, I was not nearly as mature as my classmates, who found this out rather quickly and would tease me whenever they could. I would burst into tears at the slightest provocation.

One day my teacher asked, Why are you crying? Are you ill?

I nodded and said, Yes.

What is wrong?

I have a headache.

Shall I send you to the Sick Room, or shall I ask your sister to take you home?

I want to go home.

The teacher sent for Vandana, who was in a higher grade, asking her to get a permission slip to take me home. She got the slip and came to my class and took me home. She recalls that when she arrived in my class, I was still crying, tears streaking my face. On the way home, however, I skipped along and told Vandana, I didn’t really have a headache. The children were bullying me. The second or third time this happened, the teacher sent me to the Sick Room where the nurse put me to bed in a darkened room to cure my headache. That experience cured me of my imaginary headaches.

<**>

During weekends, we often went to visit my maternal grandparents, whose house was adjacent to the sea. The house was built in the Dutch style, with columns and intricate lattice work over each window and on the trim below the roof. There were many columns on the verandah and it was a great place to play hide-and-seek. There was a large garden at the back, reaching down to the beach. In the evenings, we would go to the beach, paddle in the warm water, and watch the outrigger canoes land their catch in huge mounds on the beach. The fish would glisten like silver in the lamplight, flying into the air and dropping down. It was a fascinating sight. My grandfather would buy a large quantity of fish, most of which would be cooked for dinner that same night. My grandmother would be very busy on such nights giving instructions to the cook on preparing the fish. My grandfather liked to have each type of fish prepared differently and to enjoy the sight of a large spread of cuisine on the table. He did not much care for vegetables but loved eating variety of fish and freshly-grated coconut. Vandana and I were not interested in such feasts of fish. Instead, we waited eagerly for the main meal to finish so that our grandmother could bring her excellent selection of delicious traditional sweets. She kept these sweets in a special cupboard, which had many shelves for the different plates.

<**>

Sometimes my father took Vandana and me along when he visited one of his good friends. On these occasions, we had biscuits and tea and then went to the garden to play. After a while, we would become bored and go up to our father telling him, Let’s go home. He would agree but would continue to talk to his friend as he loved these intellectual conversations on literature, history, or politics. One time, we took turns asking him to leave, but he remained engrossed in his debate. Vandana finally said, Let’s just go home on our own. I agreed. I usually agreed when she made a suggestion, thinking she knew best. Neither of us had any idea of the distance to home. We walked to the top of the main road and started walking in what we thought was the general direction of our home, Vandana holding my hand tightly. I felt a bit nervous as dusk was falling, and the road was not well lit. I had sand inside my sandals, and my feet chafed as we walked. I did not complain. After walking for about twenty minutes, Vandana said, I am not sure if we are going in the right direction. There was a big house with a frangipani tree on the right side of the road, and we did not see that.

I was tired, my feet were hurting, and I felt like crying but just held Vandana’s hand tight. Our driver fortunately had seen us exit the gate and had told my father. He had become frantic with worry and had immediately driven out in search of us. After driving for a while toward our house, he had become very anxious. On a hunch, they turned around and drove in the opposite direction. We were really exhausted and relieved to see him. We could see the relief on his face as he got down from the car. On the way home, he scolded Vandana for running away and taking me with her. When we reached home and told the story, my mother scolded both my father and sister. Since no one scolded me, I just thought of it as a nice adventure.

<**>

My mother ensured that our meals were balanced, our clothes were always washed and pressed, and our school books were neatly covered with brown paper. She had help in the house, but certain things such as the preparation of tea for my father, she would attend to herself. My father often could not find certain things he needed, and my mother had to find them for him. My father was very specific about his meals, his clothes, and his library. My sister and I were sometimes bored with having to eat the same menu of fish and vegetables and rice or chicken and vegetables and rice. But this was the menu our father wished to have, and our mother told us that we needed to learn to enjoy a balanced meal like our father. She was a conventional wife for my father—ensuring that his clothes were freshly laundered, shoes polished, tie matching pocket handkerchief, and lunch money laid out. She also managed the finances of the household. My father was the dreamer and only saw the big picture. He was also gullible, to an extent, and saw no evil in anyone. He left all household and financial matters to my mother. My mother ensured that the little steps were in place to accomplish his big picture.

<**>

My mother’s sister Emma, whom I called Punchi Amma (small mother), lived by the sea in the house next to my maternal grandparents. When I was about five years old, Vandana got the measles. My parents brought me to the home of Punchi Amma so that I will not catch the virus. I loved Punchi Amma, who looked like my mother. I remember being bathed in a big tub with warm water and then being carried into the bedroom wrapped in a soft towel. She would then dry me and sprinkle baby powder on me. I remember eating stringhoppers with gravy and hard-boiled egg. Stringhoppers are like little nests made out of rice flour noodles, steamed on small bamboo trays.

<**>

My father belonged to the Old Boys’ Club of Matara College, which he attended during high school. Every year, this club organized a trip for the members and their families. One time we travelled by train to Jaffna, the capital city in the northern province of Sri Lanka. This was long before the start of hostilities between the Sri Lankan military and the Liberation Tamil Tigers of Eelam, and our visit was both enjoyable and peaceful. The journey took an entire day. We had brought our lunch of rice and assorted curries wrapped in individual packets, and after eating, everyone had a nap leaning on each other’s shoulders. In Jaffna, the principal of the Chundikuli Girls College provided us with accommodation and breakfast. In Jaffna, most people are vegetarian; and we were happy to eat potato curry, okra curry, cashew curry, and mallun (chopped leafy vegetable mixed with coconut and onion). We visited many interesting sites including hot springs, the ancient Jaffna Fort, and many temples.

We went on other trips with members of this club, once to Anuradhapura (capital of the North Central Province, founded in tenth century BC) and to Polonnaruwa (a kingdom established during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries BC). We camped on the banks of the Parakrama Samudra, a magnificent reservoir built by King Parakramabahu. I remember being woken at dawn to the sound of raindrops on the canvas of our tent. I lay there listening to the sound for a few minutes before falling asleep again. I was too small to fully enjoy the colors of the sunrise on that trip; but I remember standing on the bank, many years later, trying to photograph the fleeting colors.

I did not fully appreciate the preparations that were required for these trips. My mother planned and supervised the shopping and preparation of various sweets and cutlets (deep-fried balls made of fish, potatoes, and onions) for our snacks, and rice and different curries for lunch and dinner for the day of travel. We usually traveled in a bus specially chartered for the trip. Preparing meals at the camp was no simple task. Even while camping, Sri Lankans needed to have all their curries, fish, chicken, and rice. While the children played, and the women swapped stories, the men took charge of the cooking. My father entertained the cooks with stories and later picked up a drum and sang old songs. After enjoying a delicious dinner, everyone joined in a sing-song, usually of old Sinhalese folk songs. A couple of people had guitars and drums. Vandana and I knew very few of these songs, but my father could sing well and knew all the words of the older songs.

<**>

Vandana and I loved each other, but we fought a lot when we were at home. She loved to tease me. "Your house came last in the Sports Meet. Did you cry?" And I would immediately get very upset and run after her, trying to trip her up. I was never able to catch up with her and would sometimes cry. My sister teased some more. Cry, baby, cry, cry.

In our school, students were placed in houses following the British system; and there was competition