Learning how to write ~ Malinda Words

[a tribute to Mrs Murin Weerabaddana]

First it was the gal-laella and gal-koora. Yes, this was ‘back in the day’. At some point there were numbers and letters cut from sandpaper which was pasted on cardboard to be traced with the finger, over and over again. Then paper and crayons (Homerun Pas). Then the walls with whatever could ‘decorate’.

Grade 1. Letters. Large ones. One on each page, neatly written by the class teacher. First it was the Sinhala equivalent of ‘R’, ‘ra’ followed by ’T’ (‘ta’). And then we could put them together. ‘Rayanna, tayanna, rata’. And that’s how ‘the nation’ first arrived. Well, after doing the ‘provinces-jigsaw’ in the Montessori, which gave a visual of the land we lived in and where are ancestors did.

So, gradually, we learned the alphabet. We learned to write. We were taught to express ourselves with words, spoken and written. We wrote essays, starting with ‘Myself’ and later, almost after every long holiday, ‘How I spent my holidays.’

That’s all ‘school’. Have to do things. Did those. Not very enthusiastically either. The years passed. Essay topics for end of term Sinhala and English exams got more serious. There were more have-to-learn things which were more or less learned and again not always enthusiastically. That ‘knowledge’ got incorporated into essays. Marks were given, eminently forgettable and inevitably forgotten.

The adolescent years were crazy, probably more so for parents and teachers. Confusion on my part, exasperation on theirs. We got over all that, parents, teachers and the adolescents. The rolling years are efficient in ironing out the kinks. The grades didn’t improve, in my case. Not until the OL year.

My father didn’t really venture beyond ‘you are a generation of non-readers…even when I was younger than you I had read more books that what the three of you together have read.’ My brother, sister and I would go silent. I can’t remember being amazed at what a voracious reader he must have been. I wasn’t ashamed about my relative ignorance. He chided, I let it pass.

My mother on the other hand was worried. ‘Be like your Aiya’ obviously hadn’t worked. And that’s how I met the lady who taught me to write. Mrs. Weerabaddana, ‘Aunty Murie’ to the children of all her friends, was also a teacher, like my mother. She taught Sinhala. They were good buddies. Aunty Murie had joined Royal College in 1965 (she retired in 1988, a coupe of years after my mother did) and was one of a handful of lady teachers when my mother joined the school in 1971. I believe Mrs Prema Liyanage and Mrs Concie Perera were also on the staff at the time.

Anyway, their friendship meant that I had to go for a ‘Sinhala Class.’ Not for very long. Maybe a couple of hours once a week for a few months. The class was in Thimbirigasyaya at Mrs Zerka Welikala’s house. Aunty Zerka was also on the same staff.

Aunty Murie must have taught me sandi, samaasa, nipaatha etc., sorted out the nana-lala bedaya and put me right on a lot of things. I can’t remember any of it. Not the terms anyway. What fascinated me was the way she taught me how to write essays.

It’s hard to explain. I would write something absolutely pedestrian and she would show me how it could be improved. She taught me that words can be used to paint, so to speak. In other words she unlocked the secret of words for me. All of a sudden I was able to see that words could do wonderful things and that their potential was limitless.

A few years later she would be my Sinhala teacher in more formal circumstances. She taught me Sinhala in the OL year. In class she seemed strict. A no-nonsense type of teacher. The students didn’t try any larks with her. They were quiet. They did their work. The sandi, samaasa, nipaatha etc must have remained long enough for me to perform well. She was happy. She would have been happy, anyway. She was always happy, at least when she interacted with her friends and their children.

Twenty three years in a single school means hundred of students would have benefited from her knowledge. Those involved in literary activities and debating, perhaps more than others for she was the Senior Vice President of Royal College Sinhala Literary Association and Teacher-in-Charge of the school's Sinhala debating team.

So yes, she could be strict but her happy face was always a moment away, one felt. She always had a smile for me. Even years later, long after she retired. Except the last time I saw her. She came for my mother’s funeral. She walked into the funeral parlor with her husband, who was, as always, impeccably dressed in white. She just couldn’t look at her friend. ‘I can’t see Indrani like that,’ she said, sat down on a chair outside and cried quietly.

Aunty Murie passed away a few days ago. She would have been in her mid-late eighties. I’ve written for her or rather for myself on her instructions, but this is the first time I’m writing of her. ‘To her,’ too, in a way. I can do this. I can do it because she taught me how to write.

03 December 2020

Learning how to write

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