As told by Bala Malli

Amma and  Prasanna Aiya were just about to leave for Colombo early morning, when Thatha still in bed shouted  “Wait, wait I have a letter for Chulie.”  Prasanna  Aiya puffing on his  cigarette raring to go rolled his eyes upwards.  Amma grumbling, but ever indulgent went to collect the letter muttering under her breath ” Don’t know what he writes to the daughters, never shows me.”

“Read it quickly and see if you need to buy anything for him and whether we need to take it back,” said Amma handing the letter to Podi Akka,  in Nugegoda.

 The letter was scrawled on the back of a photocopy of an article.  Thatha was always making photocopies of his favourite articles, posting them to friends or the akka’s and his bed was usually littered with papers and books. He read a lot.  Poetry, western mostly, which he liked to quote, and books on Buddhism and philospohy – Krishnamurthi being a favourite at that time.  He once advised Podi Akka to do a “Desai” — drink your own pee first thing in the morning to stay healthy, like a former Indian Prime Minister.

Thatha could and did write anything and everything to Podi Akka that came to his head — in Sinhalese and English — no censoring.  This particular one was a gem.  The letter purportedly written by Amma in her teens to an agony columist of the Sunday Observer said:

 Dear Aruni

 I am the eldest daughter in our family, unblemished as the lotus flower I was named after and was brought up by my maternal grandmother in a Walauwa in Panadura. While on a pilgrimage to the shrine in the jungle, we stopped at a house of a relative of mine in Hikkaduwa.  There I met this handsome young man at the doorway to his house and he  served us tea.  He reappeared as we finished bathing in the river before going to the shrine, and he made us marmite soup with just a touch of lime.  On the way back he sat with my brother Sepal in our bus. Now he visits our school on the pretext of visiting his aunt who is the Principal of the school.  The problem is that my friends call him “Redda” for wearing national dress and I hear his mother will veto a proposal.  What should I do?

 Aruni’s reply (written of course by Thatha):

Get him to wear western dress and hope his mother will die soon, you are sure to be a winner.

And they tied the knot nearly 3 years after the first memorable meeting in 1941.  Amma did turn out to be the predicted winner but couldn’t get Thatha to wear western dress on the wedding day.  The wedding took place in the ample and beautiful gardens of the Dissanayake Waluwa in Pandura on June 8th 1944.  Amma was 21 going on 22 and Thatha was 25 at the time of marriage – I guess Hikkaduwe Achchi didn’t veto the proposal in the end,  but the fact that Amma was brought up by her maternal grandmother  — a strcit disciplinarian, stood her in good stead with an autocratic and exacting mother-in-law.  And I think it did help that Amma was an excellent cook bringing wth her all the culinary skills the Waluwa folks were famous for.

Although Thatha would refer jokingly to Amma as “my (n)ever loving” wife in letters to Poddi Akka, they were together for 58 years.  When he lay sick and bedridden it was only Amma’s cooking he wanted . He would chase Podi akka away from his bedside saying she can’t chant pirith with the same intonation and lilting tone as Amma.  Thatha was lucky — Amma was chanting  pirith by his bedside when he took his last breath on August 31, 2002.  For Thatha his Manel was eternally sweet  – Manel Suwandamaya. …

Hikkaduwa Achchi died on January 19, 1948 after a sudden acute attack of asthma.  Amma is probably the only one who still remembers the death anniversary of her mother-in-law and gives a “dane” in memory of her.

In the photo from Left to write:  Flower girl Nimal Podi Amma — Amma’s cousin from Panadura ; bridesmaid Podi Amma Irangani ( Amma’s only sister fondly called Poddi by the two akka’s); page boy Senaka - the boy genius, the youngest son of Loku Thatha and Loku Amma died tragically never realising his full potential; Amma  wearing no veil as most brides did then and now (even Buddhists) in keeping with Thatha’s national dress; Bestman Honda Mama Thatha’s lifelong best friend - Professor M.B. Ariyapala lived 90+ years and died after Thatha; Bridesmaid Enid Kudamma Thatha’s cousin and Bala Achchi’s daughter now deceased; and flower girl Punya Akka ( eldest daughter of Albert Hong Kong Mahappa and Naela Mahamma).

Faintly visible in the wedding photo — left hand side the hood of the Waluwa bullock drawn carriage and on the right corner Thatha’s Renault car. The original photo in our house was lost with the tsunami.  This was the photo that was with the Bestman Honda Mama, which Neela Nanda passed on to Amma.

Photographs©Chulie Kirtisinghe de Silva

I had started writing this on the 13 May my father’s birthday, thought I’d finish it for Father’s day but couldn’t do it either.  So many years down the line,  I still can’t write about him without crying, without being choked by a myriad of memories. 

But I have a 3rd generation of Kirtisinghe’s watching this blog, so I need to finish this and get this out today.

Annemarie in Melbourne asked why did the brothers K change their names — I think it was with the wave of Sinhala nationalism and because of their maternal Uncle P.de S. Kularatne’s influence.  Bennie took the name Bhasura meaning lion and became the lion — Sinha of the Kirtisinghes’.

Nirmal  (My cousin Hemal’s son, and No.4  K,  Richie’s grandson) had found the blog by accident  and wrote: 

“I remember Bennie Seeya being a great story teller, and a very interesting person at any given time (I think most of the original Kirtisinghes were, though I have not met four of them). Vinnie Seeya was one of my favourites too, and had a mind as sharp as a knife even in his later years. “

So here is one more…  

Today far away from Hikkaduwa in an alien land, I wake up in a strange room and think of Thatha.  13  May  was the day Thatha was born in 1918 – the second son to be born in the Siri Niwasa house at Hikkaduwa.  In all his letters to me he used to sign off as BK or Father B.

As a father he embodied the Sinhala  term “pithru snehaya” — a  love  father gives  a child– he was an incurable romantic  sensitive, totally a social bod in that for him what mattered most was family,  friends, our friends, villagers, tourists he met  – well in short everyone he came across mattered to him. 

The Siri Niwas house was an open house 24/7.  No one who came in left without some refreshments.   Mostly it was an invitation to stay for lunch or dinner.  And many were the ones who trooped in for sea baths and stayed to have a fresh young coconut  “thambili” water — plucked straight from the trees he had planted.  

There were stories to be told,  laughter to be shared, and plenty of sharp caustic  witty  comments.  He was in today’s terms a “wyswyg” character.  Sometimes the comments  were far too sharp and his foot in the mouth comments hit sensitive spots and we had angry relatives.  He was probably too laid back for this day and age.  Certainly he  was not the best in managing finances  and never had enough in his bank but his life was rich with love — the love he gave generously was repaid by many with dividends.

 After the tsunami, in Amma’s birawa almirah (Which had earlier belonged to Hikkaduwa Achchi) this note with instructions for Thatha’s funeral was found. Thatha had repeatedly mentioned all this  to me but I didn’t know such a note existed. 

If I get bumped off (no regrets) don’t take the ‘body’ home.  Keep it at CBO Florists (Kalubowila) and ‘fire off’ at Galkissa as early as possible.

 Inform the eye donation society and give the cornea ( the consent papers are at Hkd iron safe left drawer).

 Get the cheapest paraphernalia and only Bougainvillea Flowers. No music & no carpets. No “sokaspraksha” (obituary)

Only family members to handle

 BK (signed) 19.12.77

Did we follow his instructions? No we didn’t and there were  no Bougainvillea Flowers.  Not out of disrespect.  I wanted to –but others, true to village traditions howled with protests. “If we cremate him  like that the villagers will think we were too stingy to feed them,” said Amma. 

So we had the biggest funeral I’ve ever seen in my life.  For 3 days we hired a cook and turned the Poseidon Diving Station next door  to a large dining room.   And we catered on average for 350 people, breakfast, lunch and dinner.  For 3 days and nights people came and went and we scrambled to buy food, work out menus, make tea and coffee. 

They came from far the long lost relatives, friends’ friends who had all enjoyed the  hospitality of Uncle Bennie.  There  were the old and feeble ones, escorted and propped up and aided but yet wanted to pay their respects.  Some were the ones he had given money regularly from his pension.  Amma only then realised why he never had much money in his pension.

Once he shared his cognac with a fisherman, one who was used to the sharp illicit brew “Kassippu” for his daily tot.  He probably found the cognac very mild to taste and had polished most of the bottle.  He never made it home but was found by his family curled up and sleeping at the  railway station.   The question of course in Hikkaduwa was what exactly did Mr. Bennie give him to drink.

Then there was Liyanage, the son of a school teacher parents who had not done much with his life.  But he was at our house as soon as he heard of  Thatha’s death and when we handed his body to the undertakers he stayed at the funeral parlour keeping an eye on the body. 

View of the sea through the cinnamon stick fence, Siriniwasa, Hikkaduwa.

Photo© Chulie de Silva

Liyanage sat with me on the back verandah steps on the floor after the funeral. Emotionally I was spent.  I sat staring out at the inky night,  and the tears  were not far behind.  The roar of  the waves was gentle  but didn’t soothe me as it normally did.  Liyanage broke the silence and said he wished he had a gun to give him a gun salute at the crematorium.   Memories of  the number of times of Father B had advised him to tread the straight and narrow path  was still fresh in his mind.  and he told me how this advise had helped him.  Pointing to the top of the coconut trees he said  “he told me that when the crests of the trees are as high as the roof of the house, I’ll be gone.”  Sure enough the top leaves were as high as the roof  on that day. 

The First Generation of Kirtisinghe’s in front of Siri Niwasa 

As told by Bala Malli

 Thatha says this photo was taken when his Loku Aiya our Loku Thatha  came home.  He had apparently cut frogs and studied them in London and got a Masters degree and later became the Professor of Zoology at the Colombo University.

 In this photo he is in the back row in the middle with his welcome garland of flowers.  Seeya looks quite happy and proud and Achchi looks as if she is already plotting to get a suitable wife for the London educated son. Loku Thatha looks sad as if he has left his heart behind in London. I don’t know how true it is but according to Thatha he wanted to marry an English girl and Achchi wouldn’t have none of that. Everyone had a lot of respect for Loku Thatha and after achchi’s death, he was the undisputed head of the Kirtisinghe clan. 

On the end of the back row to the left is Richie/Richard who changed name to Rathnasara. He is the no 4 son  and looks quite dashing in national dress. He gave it up for an army uniform when he joined as a doctor.  He  kept a good library and had a photo of him in uniform looking really spiffy in  uniform. During his army days, Richie Mahappa loved to go dancing and he would relate to Podi Akka how after a night of dancing he would go to sleep partly dressed so he won’t be late for next day’s army roll call.  When Podi Akka asked him why he didn’t go dancing after he got married he let out a loud cackle - and said “with your mahamma? No, not even thinkable!! Poor man, marriage must have taken all the fun out of his life but then again I might be wrong he lived the longest out of the 7.

Next to him is Albert, the second born, and the only one who didn’t take a Sinhala name. Albert was the first adventurer who changed careers and dumped what must have been a boring dead end job as an Inspector of Schools and went to Hong Kong to manage and run the Windsor jewellery shop.

Next to Loku Thatha is Punchi Mahappa , no 3 son and Thatha’s much loved Bala Aiya. Lionel took Haripriya as his Sinhala name.  ( Haripriya Kathawa/story will follow later on) .  He was  a Botany graduate and worked in the dictionary office and he used to say SWRD - Banda was a friend of his.  Podi Akka says when she went to Colombo Uni, Punchi Mahppa was known as the “Hat and Umbrella man” because when he came to the Uni to visit his pal Prof. B.L.T. de Silva, He would get out of the car with his hat on and then open and umbrella too to protect himself against the sun.  He was dead scared of falling sick.

 Vinnie ( Vincent changed to Vidyasara) is our favourite  Vinnie Mahappa who went on to become a Physics graduate and the Vice Principal at Ananda College where he was known as Kiththa.  He loved radios aand music and was very well read and a very gentle man at home.  But apparently he had a different reputation at Ananda.  In an oft repeated tale, he had once caught Ranjit Aiya (MWRN De Silva a.k.a  known as Dryya) cutting classes and had told  him to go home and pluck coconuts without wasting Ranjit aiya’s parents money.

 Our Thatha is sitting in front of Seeya and Bertie Bappa is seated in front of Achchi. This must be the last photograph of Seeya.  Thatha and Bertie Bappa were in School at Dharmaraja  College in Kandy when Seeya died. But the newspaper obituary notice only mentioned the 5 elder sons and didn’t carry the names of the last two.  So the boys in the Boarding had teased Thatha and Bappa saying they were adopted and couldn’t make any claims as nephews of the Principal of the school P.de S. Kularatne, who was Achchi’s younger brother - our Punchi Seeya.

 Bertie Bappa also became a very successful GP in Moratuwa but unlike the others he changed his name and took another English name Cyril.  However, he was known all his life as Bertie.  He became the wealthiest out of the 7 brothers. Podi Akka christened him Sir Bertie… but then that is another story.

 Next: Coming Soon — 7 Wives for 7 Brothers

Boys fishing@ Dodanduwa

© Chulie de Silva

Now, this story “Yesterday is another country” has many sides. And I suspect there are many other stories attached to all those sides. And those stories also have many sides.  Are you with me still? That’s a lot of sides to muse about and lots of tracks to wander off as you read the stories. Plus, of course this is a story about a story of the man who wrote it.  Confused?  You won’t be if you read it.

Yesterday is certainly another country that some of us yearn for with a gnawing ulcerating pain at the pit of our stomachs. It’s a life left behind that we try to hang on to through the slender threads of our writings.  Our writings are more a justification to ourselves, of what we are, what we did or didn’t do, what moved us and who left indelible marks in our lives.  In doing so do we bridge that generation gap?  Devendra here, is really a master craftsmen throwing words together like a chef does with condiments  to present to us a mixed platter delicately flavoured at times, strong and spicy at another time.  

To me this at first glance was a disjointed set of stories culled from a life lived with exemplary values.  Not the usual biography.  Certainly not at all a problem as I could read it not from front to back but as I pleased. The journey in the sequence he had arranged begins with the “hat,”  followed by “he is a good boy.”  I am riveted to the book by the time I get to the ”Family pot of gold”.   My heart is heavy as I meander around the paths at Pera campus in a poignant stillborn love affair so typical of that era.– I suspect won’t make any sense to teenagers or undergrads now.   We meet his relatives, friends and the unexpected Raven in Hawai — all the time touching raw spots in our conscience.  I wander around the ancient Kandyan kingdom learning about myths that I didn’t know existed. Suffer with Wimal through the pain of being not loved and abandoned and unexpectedly  enjoy a an interesting Internet encounter.

 As side stories go,  I put the book down to recall  the last conversation I had with the Venerable Dodanduwe Dharmasena who called me one day to ask for  help to safeguard the Kumarakande library - “be a true daughter of Hikkaduwa and the South” he said.  Alas! never achieved that status as  I never got around to doing anything for the library — not because I didn’t want to but because I let other family issues dominate my life .  Mingled with this guilt are memories of  happier times at Dodanduwa — how we as kids held our noses as an aunt  who loved the smelly preserved “jadi” fish  rummaged around  giant jars in Dodanduwa.

 There are more side stories to unearth. I call another aunt to check whether she knew the whereabouts of a teacher Miss Dantanarayana who taught me at  “Sri Sumangala Girls’ School” in Panadura.  Here I draw a blank.

The mind wanders off without any help remembering something I read about living today in an instant, just-add-water, push-a-button, microwaveable-in-under-three-minutes, zap-the-remote-control kind of a world now. Not everything about it is good. Realisation also dawns that the journey of life through the ethical conundrums and moral mazes is never an easy one.  Sadly we’ve lost our appreciation for essential natural processes that need to happen slowly. We look for ways to hurry them as farmers do ripening fruits with carbide and  we look for ways to depersonalise the injustices that we can see yet seemingly cannot influence.

But here is Devendra pushing us to look at these issues not forcefully but quietly stating in the typical non assuming, non boastful style of living that was extolled in years past  “Do not expect too much of this collection … you will find no words of wisdom, no messages, no moral…”  

 That I must dispute, although I wished many a times  there were some illustrations or the author had shared the photographs he spoke of. 

Thank you Sir, for this rich tapestry of stories.

Yesterday is Another Country

By Somasiri Devendra

ISBN 978-955-9419-28-0

Author Contact: somasiri@edisrilanka.com

“Please can you have a boring life this year,” said Mohini my friend, after she heard about the private bus that slammed into my car two days before Christmas. 

The question I often ask myself is: Where would I be if every action of mine was impeccable, that I had been right about absolutely everything and had never made a dubious choice in my life and lived a life as “Visakha” practising norms learned from childhood, religion etc…   Would I be happy now?  I doubt it. I would be bored and, worse, I would be boring!

Well, it has been dodgy living the past few years. If I took stock from 2004, there was the tsunami, followed by the  flash floods with my little suburban hut going under 2 feet of water in 2006.  Then there was the time that I nearly set my house on fire last year when a candle in a glass holder burst and set on fire my aromatherapy oils which was supposed to energize me!!

Life is certainly different after the divorce, not just having to cope with disasters on your own. … The really unexpected discovery was how close friends and to a lesser degree family reacted.  My father’s comment was extreme.  True to his nature he said,”You don’t need a divorce, you should get a knife and do a Bobbitt on him.”  .  My aunt was dumb struck and my sister-in-law, broke up into hysterical laughter. Didn’t earn Thatha much favour with my Amma too. She apparently moaned silently for the loss of her favourite son-in-law, but I think she secretly envies my independence. 

I soon discovered that invitations to dinners, lunches with friends were few and far between.  And when they did they made sure that I was seated among the old ladies - no loose  cannon among the men, no interesting conversations on the political goings on .  Conversation was often limited to backaches, cholestrol levels,  lack of good domestics to slave for you — and of course the inevitable gossip of the chattering classes. 

On one occasion, the portly society matron peered over the spectacles and asked “What’s your name again dearie?”  “Chulie.”   “Oh! Chulie who?”  Now I was in the midst of an upcountry Kandyan clan, and once I uttered “De Silva”  I am sure she began to wonder what caste I belonged to. We were interrupted by my hostess’s sister who summarized my life history by saying ” She was married to a nice man but is now divorced. ….” 

The dinner last week was slightly different but equally stigmatizing. In the company of ex-spouses’ school mates -the conversation commenced with how on the way to an important meeting before the dinner this couple were caught in a shower-all because the husband didn’t think the pair of shoes his wife was wearing matched her saree. He actually went in to a shop in the rain and brought her a pair to match as well as another pair she liked.

From such an orthodox Sri Lankan husband concerned about the image his wife projected, it was inevitable that the I would hear comments like “How could I go astray and divorce his friend?”  ”you couldn’t have found a better man,” “marriage is forever”  and the million dollar question ‘Would you like to get back together?”.   Ahhh… he had found a noble mission to accomplish among his Lion’s Club tasks.  So commenced the debate-”Why did you marry in the first place? - if he wanted the answer to be romantic love - he didn’t get it although yes that was so and there were all the ingredients - the sea, the beach, the swaying palms at Hikkaduwa.  

However, this straight-laced friend of my ex-spouse didn’t fall of the chair when I said the reason I married was for “Sex.”  I was no doubt trying to shock this man and stop him in his tracks.   If it did, he didn’t show it — except that he refilled his glass.  So we argued about  the pros and cons, weaving in and out between expected norms, unexpected and unaccepted behaviours like mine.

Reflecting on that memorable debate on the whys and wherefore’s of marriages, I hunted for this article on “metal fatigue” so neatly presented in the Wikipedia.  Replacing Metal with marriage and a few other words ( I have kept the original links which are interestingly refreshing) we now have:

In life marriage fatigue is the progressive and localised structural damage that occurs when a marriage is subjected to cyclic loading. The maximum stress values are less than the ultimate tensile stress limit, and may be below the yield stress limit of the material.

• The process starts with dislocation movements ( like wife becoming too assertive, moving up in her career, empty nest syndrome, working apart in different countries) eventually forming persistent slip bands that nucleate short cracks.
• Fatigue is a stochastic process, often showing considerable scatter even in controlled environments.
• The greater the applied stress, the shorter the life.
• Fatigue life scatter tends to increase for longer fatigue lives.
• Damage is cumulative. Marriages do not recover when rested.
• Fatigue life is influenced by a variety of factors, such as age, in-laws, presence of oxidizing or inert friends and relations, residual stresses, contacts, etc.
• Some marriages (e.g., some needing to maintain status quo) exhibit a theoretical fatigue limit below which continued loading does not lead to failure.

We are human beings. We thrive on complication - and we love the illusion that change is always for the good. Divorce is a school of hard knocks, there are lunch breaks and vacations. The reason we all get time out from the suffering is so that we have some memory of greater happiness to torment us when we return to a state of discomfort. Nothing is difficult forever!!!

Tsunami Second Anniversary 26 December 2006

I was on my way to Prasanna’s almsgiving, when I saw these boats freshly painted and this boy and some of his friends fishing under the bridge.  I’ve passed this bridge many times since but has never seen the same number of boats.

Benny, my father was born no.6 in a family of seven boys in Hikkaduwa to Sellakapuge Pinto Hamy – a 4 foot something and some say a formidable lady, others like my Aunt Maya says she was a wonderful warm loving aunt who had a special place in her heart for Maya as she  didn’t have any daughters.  

Benny was the second son born in the house that was built by Pinto Hamy’s husband and my grandfather building contractor Kaluappuwa Hennidige Bastian.  Vinnie [Vincent] the no 5 in the family was the first born in the house and was Pinto Hamy’s favourite. He later went on to become the Vice Principal of Ananda College, now a leading Buddhist school whose seventh Principal was P.de S. Kularatne ( Aunt Maya’s father), Pinto Hamy’s younger brother.  

Bastian is credited with building many upcountry bungalows in tea estates and the Hatton Post Office. In 1911 he completed the house “Siri Niwasa.”   My father called it the “Garden on Sea,” and added many extensions.  He converted into a cottage the “outhouse” which in the good old days stored giant bundles of cinnamon quills waiting for the correct market price, coconuts and the cinnamon twigs used as fire wood for cooking.  Food cooked with cinnamon twigs had a wonderful aroma. As a child I used to love to pick a piece of clean charcoal straight from the hearth to brush my teeth and get them squeaky clean. 

The house that Bastian built was solid.  So solid that most of it withstood the 2004 Boxing Day tsunami. All the extensions that no.6 son Benny built including my room that had a panoramic view of the sea and the garden collapsed like a pack of cards in the tsunami.  Benny, my father was raconteur par excellence.  As children going to school from Panadura, my mother Manel’s hometown, we had to write a letter every week.  This practice was carried out most of my life and when I married and was in England, I received on average 3 letters week. One lament of my father’s in the periods I was in Sri Lanka was that I didn’t write as often when I was in the country. I had asked him once to start writing about Hikkaduwa.  It was never completed but many of his letters are with me and what I write here now are extracts from his letters. 

All good things start he says with love. He lived in this “wonderful and unique village by the sea in what was then the largest house on the sea front without realizing it.  “My father who built it was dead by 1933,” Benny says. He was schooling in Kandy at Dharmaraja College when his father died.  The obituary notice didn’t mention his name or the youngest brother Bertie’s name. “The school mates doubted whether the two brothers were adopted and had no direct claim to the Principal Mr. P. de S. Kularatne.   

Significantly in the first letter I got him to write about his Hikkaduwa memoirs he writes about the proud parents who came to sea bath with their children in a buggy cart drawn by a single bull.   The youngest a son was born to them after an interval of about 7 years after two sons and a daughter.  “The little boy of about one and a half years was afraid of the sea. He was put on the sand where the waves licked his feet.” He says the “vivacious mother whispered to him that he was an accident!”  The phrase had sounded novel to young Benny as he had “little learning.”  Much to my father’s amazement and chagrin this same imp after a quarter of a century came again to the beach and to Siriniwasa as a student of Botany and a scuba diver – there lies another story of love, wanderings, submerged activities and eventual partings… 

‘Yatha idam, tatha edam - Yatha etam tatha idam”

As this (living body is) -so that (dead one was)

As that (is), so this (will be)

Today I am in the house alone — the would have been grandmother with the would have been grandson.

I sit cross-legged in front of the five candles lit by Ranil the father in front of the ashes in a white box. and closes my eyes to watch that little face float over — forcing my imagination to open the eyes and see a smile.

As I sit and my thought wander I remember the story of Kisagotami … and search for the verse from the Light of Asia…

Kisagotami and the Buddha

A woman — dove-eyed, young, with tearful face

And lifted hands — saluted, bending low:

“Lord! thou art he”, she said, “who yesterday

Had pity on me in the fig-grove here,

Where I live lone and reared my child; but he

Straying amid the blossoms found a snake,

Which twined about his wrist, whilst he did laugh

And tease the quick forked tongue and opened mouth

Of that cold playmate. But, alas! ere long

He turned so pale and still, I could not think

Why he should cease to play, and let my breast

Fall from his lips. And one said, ‘He is sick

Of poison’; and another, ‘He will die.’

But I, who could not lose my precious boy,

Prayed of them physic, which might bring the light

Back to his eyes; it was so very small

That kiss-mark of the serpent, and I think

It could not hate him, gracious as he was,

Nor hurt him in his sport. And some one said,

‘There is a holy man upon the hill –

Lo! now he passeth in the yellow robe –

Ask of the Rishi if there be a cure

For that which ails thy son.’ Whereon I came

Trembling to thee, whose brow is like a god’s,

And wept and drew the face-cloth from my babe,

Praying thee tell what simples might be good.

And thou, great sir! didst spurn me not, but gaze

With gentle eyes and touch with patient hand;

Then draw the face-cloth back, saying to me,

‘Yea! little sister, there is that might heal

Thee first, and him, if thou couldst fetch the thing;

For they who seek physicians bring to them

What is ordained. Therefore, I pray thee, find

Black mustard seed, a tola; only mark

Thou take it not from any hand or house

Where father, mother, child, or slave hath died:

It shall be well if thou canst find such seed.’

Thus didst thou speak, my Lord!”

The Master smiled

Exceeding tenderly. “Yea! I spake thus,

Dear Kisagotami! But didst thou find

The seed?”

“I went, Lord, clasping to my breast

The babe, grown colder, asking at each hut –

Here in the jungle and towards the town –

‘I pray you, give me mustard, of your grace,

A tola — black’; and each who had it gave,

For all the poor are piteous to the poor;

But when I asked, ‘In my friend’s household here

Hath any peradventure ever died –

Husband or wife, or child, or slave?’ they said:

‘O Sister! what is this you ask? the dead

Are very many, and the living few!’

So with sad thanks I gave the mustard back,

And prayed of others; but the others said,

‘Here is the seed, but we have lost our slave!’

‘Here is the seed, but our good man is dead!’

‘Here is some seed, but he that sowed it died

Between the rain time and the harvesting!’

Ah, sir! I could not find a single house

Where there was mustard seed and none had died!

Therefore I left my child — who would not suck

Nor smile — beneath the wild vines by the stream,

To seek thy face and kiss thy feet, and pray

Where I might find this seed and find no death,

If now, indeed, my baby be not dead,

As I do fear, and as they said to me.”

“My sister! thou hast found,” the Master said,

“Searching for what none finds — that bitter balm

I had to give thee. He thou lovedst slept

Dead on thy bosom yesterday: today

Thou know’st the whole wide world weeps with thy woe:

The grief which all hearts share grows less for one.

Lo! I would pour my blood if it could stay

Thy tears and win the secret of that curse

Which makes sweet love our anguish, and which drives

O’er flowers and pastures to the sacrifice –

As these dumb beasts are driven — men their lords.

I seek that secret: bury thou thy child!”

from The Light of Asia, Book the Fifth by Sir Edwin Arnold

Though one should live a hundred years without perceiving the deathless state, yet better indeed is a single day to one who has perceived the deathless state

Dhammapada 114

It’s been a tough couple of days but Ranil and Aileen have had good courage and is being strong amidst the obvious sadness that follows.

Felix’s ashes were brought home today — not something we Buddhists do — but the young couple wanted to bring Felix home for awhile. We have said pirith, sprinkled the “pirith pang” that came all the way from Brisbane and five little candles burn keeping a vigil.

Saturday, the day after the funeral was “Cake and Comfort” day when about 25 or so close friends of the young couple turned up here at their home in Neutral Bay, Sydney

Most friends brought presents to cheer them up — lots of chocolate, which included plenty of chocolate cake, spa packs, and many goodies for Aileen. The good point was that they not only bought presents for Aileen but one guy came and left his bass guitar for Ranil to play and parctise.

So on Sunday morning I found them playing a duet — “I still call Australia home” with Aileen on the piano and Ranil on the bass guitar and singing. Yesterday we played Scrabble which Ranil won easily and then I had a photography lesson

This is not the first time that the clock has come a full circle and the tables have been turned where Ranil is my teacher. He was my teacher on holiday from Uni and introduced me to Wordperfect and programs. And like those times, it is not just teaching — I have set exercises to do. So we took photos of all flowers in the house.

So with friends, family and comfort and their hobbies and interests holding them — I think — hopefully they’ve turned the corner.

Puttã m’atthi dhanam m’atthi –Iti bãlo vihannati

Atta hi atano natthi – kuto puttã kutto dhanam

“These sons are mine, this wealth I hold”

The fool raves thus and comes to ruin;

When self itself owns not a “self”

Who are thy sons, what is thy wealth!

We had loved him much and mourned his loss long before we saw him today. – baby Felix de Silva. His parents thought the name meaning happy and fortunate was th apt name for their first born son . Swathed in white in a white coffin with three white roses he looked tiny. His little face was no bigger than my palm and was rosy pink, his eyes shut tight — a little bud that never opened.

In a little room in the Palm Chapel in the Sydney crematorium, the parents– Ranil and

Aileen and the closest family — the two mother’s in law, and one of Aileen’s sisters, Ivy gathered to say our last blessings even though his journey on earth never commenced. As there was no Theravada Buddhist priest, I read the pirith stanzas and did the best under the circumstances. Aileen’s mother had already conducted ceremonies in Kuala Lumpur keeping with the Confucian traditions.

We left the parents with the baby to say their last goodbye to find quite a large number of almost 50-60 from their workplaces and their dancing school outside the chapel including my other son.

The sermon was by an Australian converted to Mahayana Tibetan Buddhism – Stewart — who was present at their wedding too. Stewart cuts a calm peaceful but a colourful figure resplendent in a yellow sleeveless shirt, crimson robe and sports a huge tattoo on his right arm. His wide smile, the compassion and love for the parents was evident as he hugged them before delivering a calming and soothing sermon — easing much the tension we had felt throughout these last few days.

To close the ceremony, all of us emerged in to the sunny but sharply cold terrace of the chapel to watch Ranil and Aileen release a white pigeon – and to reflect on the impermanence of life…

“Uninvited he hither came,

And without leave departed hence;

E’en as he came, just so went he,

What ground is here for agony!