My mother with her eldest son, Arjuna |
Today, as I write, it is morning on the 17th day
of November in the year 2010. I am in
receipt of a text message that took me back to the early 1970s: ‘It is the
17th (of) November once again and it was a special ritual for me
every year to give a call to that very special teacher we had and wish her
Happy Birthday! This year, like last year, there is a sense of emptiness about
the day. Instead I have remembered her in prayer and thanked God for all the
wonderful memories of her. I also prayed for all of you and your families. God
bless you and give you special strength today.’
And about 10-15 years later |
On the way to the year 1976, I stopped for a bit in the late
eighties. It was, looking back, an
unnecessary argument. My mother was
berating me about something. Apparently,
a batchmate at Peradeniya had complained to her that I was in the habit of asking
for money from ‘people’ and not returning.
The truth was that I had borrowed hundred rupees from this individual
and had not paid it back. The other part
of the story was that lots of others had borrowed much more from me and not
returned. I never kept track.
‘I gave you three shirts when you entered campus. Where are
they?’ she asked. I could not
answer. People borrow shirts and they
end up owning them. That happens a lot. I didn’t know whose shirts I was
wearing half the time. She was mad
because she didn’t want to hear ill about her children.
‘You don’t love us!’ she accused.
I tried to explain to her in a clumsy kind of way that all
parents of all friends were like mother and father to me, all friends were
brothers and sisters, all children mine.
She gave me a withering and contemptuous look and went back to sweeping
the garden with that extra bit of purpose marking disagreement and dismissal.
Today I know such claims are nothing more than easy
rhetoric; innocent, yes, but nothing more than youthful indulgence. Today I know that there are children and
children, mothers and mothers, siblings and brothers.
Let me go to the year 1976.
My mother was in charge of the Royal College Dramatic Society
(Dramsoc). I remember long nights of
rehearsals at the ‘Little Theatre’. I remember ‘Black Comedy’ by Peter Shaffer
which was produced by Dramsoc in 1973 along with a short play called
‘Electronic Explosion’. This was
followed by Agatha Christie’s ‘Mouse Trap’, ‘Ah! Wilderness’ by Eugene O’Neill
and ‘All my sons’ by Arthur Miller. There
were also excerpts from Julius Caesar and Othello for the Shakespeare Drama
Competition.
She dragged us to rehearsals. ‘Dragged’ is wrong. We were very small but liked running around
and watching the big aiyas moving around the stage. It was essentially a gang of players. Each
year a different play and different roles.
Same players. Same supporting
cast. Those who had left school would come to help. Gerard Raymond, Nilar, Ranil Abeysekera,
Chris and Arjuna Parakrama, Ravi Algama, Arjun Mahendran and Dion Schoorman are
names I associate with that time. I
remember someone writing on my mother’s copy of the souvenir commemorating the
last of the four plays mentioned above, ‘Madam, we are all your sons!’
It was like that.
There was no ‘sibling rivalry’ that I felt. They were all my brothers. They didn’t take my mother from me at
all. Not for one moment. They gave her an opportunity to be who she
wanted to be: energetic, fun-loving, motherly, strict and warm.
One batch was special though. The batch that left Royal in 1977, i.e. who
did the A/Ls for the first time in April 1976.
Niraj De Mel was Head Prefect I think.
Those who studied English and Greek and Roman Civilization, the subjects
my mother taught, were of course closer to her than the others. They came home
all the time. While at school and years later too. Dion, who sent me the text message a short
while ago, took up residence for a year and was my room-mate. That was in 1978 I think. Shanmugavadivel Ranjithan, ‘Chippie’ to us,
also stayed for a year after the July 1983 riots. Arjuna Parakrama was a ‘Loku Aiya’ in ways
that did not require residence as criteria.
They were all our brothers. They
were all my mother’s sons.
Last July, when my mother was in the Intensive Care Unit of
the Cardiology Unit, for observation more than anything else, courtesy the
kindness of Dr. Ruwan Ekanayake I believe (whose child she had taught), Arjuna
visited her thrice a day with food. She loved to be pampered. He was there at
her side, feeding her breakfast, lunch and dinner although she could manage it
herself. He was her favourite student
and among those who studied literature from her by far the most
accomplished. A son, certainly and one
of the eka pun sanda kind.
I am convinced that she didn’t know all her sons. A few
months before she died a batchmate at Royal I hadn’t seen in over 20 years told
me, ‘I am where I am because of your mother; I was a hosteller and my parents
didn’t have money to support me. Madam
(that’s how everyone addressed her) got someone to give me a scholarship.
Please tell her how grateful I am.’
I didn’t get a chance.
Slipped my mind. She would
forgive me, I am sure.
There was always room for another. That was her way.
She left quite a number of sons and daughters orphaned but
had made sure we had one another for consolation.
malindasenevi@gmail.com
3 comments:
එක පුන්සඳක් නොවුනත් මවට කවදාවත්
පුර පුන් සඳක් අනුනට ඔබ සැමදාමත්
නිහඩ ලෙසින් මව තුටු වුනත් සැමදාමත්
තේරුම් ගත නොහෙන වෙනසක් ඇත කවදාවත්
Malinda, thank you for sharing, your mum was our mum too in so many ways, she was always available to guide and advice, may shw achieve everlasting contentment
As your mother is a mum to me, Ramli. We have great conversations now and then!
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