Cousins are the first besties we have, provided of course they are roughly around the same age. Sibling rivalry there is and I suppose in a culture where parallel cousins are considered siblings there could be rivalries among cousins too. Again, provided they are roughly the same age. They may develop into abiding rancour or worse, in the case of siblings or cousins, parallel or cross, but there’s some truth in blood being thicker than water when it comes to crises and moments of truth.
Siblings can become estranged for a variety of reasons. Sometimes people want their children to share their antipathies when this happens. They might insist that they ‘cancel off’ the particular aunt or uncle and the relevant cousins too. This also happens. Then again, there are cousins who will not let the quarrels of their respective parents sully their relationships with one another.
In general, cousins are cool. When they brush off fallout from the suspicions and quarrels of parents, aunts and uncles, they are supercool, really. They take care of the aunts and uncles regardless of whatever tensions exist among those aunts and uncles. They even laugh about it. And they treat each other’s children as if they were their own, rejoicing in their achievements and helping out with a word or deed if they get into some kind of trouble.
That’s what makes a clan. The sensitivity. The empathy. The humour, mostly. And I feel it gets better as one grows older. I see it among my cousins and how my parents relate to their cousins, even though they are all very old and some of them are not exactly firm of mind.
I recently learned that the late Siri Gunasinghe, the well known academic, poet, Sanskritist, art historian and filmmaker generally considered as the key figure in the development of modern Sinhala free verse had once reflected on the importance of keeping in touch with former lovers. He had apparently said that as one grows older they offer the comforts of knowing. There’s affection and caring without all the pitfalls common to young, passionate and romantic love.
It’s the same with cousins. They just know you. They know the blemishes and scars, they are forgiving and most importantly they focus on what’s best in an individual.
Most of all they remember a shared childhood. And things that may have appeared a tad mean at the time all of a sudden become hilarious. Here’s an example.
It happened just after the television arrived. My grandmother would have been close to 70 at the time. She was fascinated by this new piece of technology. One day, while watching tv, she asked my cousin, who would have been around 10 years old or younger, ‘Puthe, now these people in the television, can they see us?’
‘Achchiamma, can you see me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I can see you too. That’s how it is. We see them and they see us.’
She may have been humouring him when she accepted this revelation to be the truth. She had expressed some surprise. My cousin, who just cannot resist an opportunity to conjure wild and hilarious stories, moved in.
‘Do you know that Ruvani Akki has eloped with some man?’
‘Well, what do you know Achchiamma…aren’t you even aware that Malinda Aiya is running the country with the power of the gun?’
It sounds even more hilarious in the original Sinhala: ‘Achchiamma danne naedda malinda aiya thuvakku balayen rata paalanaya karanava kiyala?’
‘Aney…kohoma hitiya lamaida neda?’ (Oh dear! They were so different as children!).
So
we share such stories again and again and find relief from the trials
and tribulations of parenthood, work and, simply, living, and partly for
the entertainment of our children and our respective parents.
Crazy.
Crazy cousins. You know they will not judge you. ‘That’s how he/she
is,’ we tell ourselves when they slip, fall, are bruised and battered,
bruise and batter one way or another. And we just love them to death.
Regardless.
Crazy cousins. Besties for life.
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a
column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day,
Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]
Other articles in this series:
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
0 comments:
Post a Comment