When does a child first begin to remember? by Kumar
Gunewardene
Why do
certain things remain embedded in one’s memory, and others are forgotten? Rather
than pitch into these shadowy depths, I choose to amuse myself; by writing
about what I remember of my childhood. (The photo is one of me in early childhood)
ALICE
My first memory begins at
the age of about four, a good looking chubby child with long curly hair,
walking around the village temple, holding onto my equally chubby maid Alice.A
monk comes up to us and says ‘give us this boy, he will make a fine priest. She
hugs me tightly and yells “no I will never give our Podi Ralahamy (little chief)
to you or anyone else”. We hurry back home, she clutching me firmly.
Alice is a girl of about
eighteen years who loves me and my brother as if we were her own. She is dark-skinned and buxom with a friendly face, always smiling. Alice is not her real name.
Our mother would change their rustic names to ones she could pronounce easily.
She came to us from our father’s village Baddegama with Loku Thatha (father’s
elder brother). He was Loku Ralahamy, the big chief; hence her pet name, Little
Chief for me. Her domain was the curry kitchen, but she somehow would find time
to play with us. We loved to run around her, like the ragged rascals we were.
She would make feeble attempts to catch us, always failing by inches. Whenever
mother was away, she would feed us tidbits, cautioning us not breathe a word.
From time to time she
would have fainting spells which were thought to be hysterical. Once when she
fell on our doorstep, my brother admonished her, “Alice aren’t you ashamed of yourself,
there are men here“. She woke up immediately, perhaps because she was in awe of
him or more likely she regained consciousness when she lay flat. Now I realise
there may have been a physical basis; as they were getting more frequent her
father took her back to the village to subject her to an exorcism; it was a
common belief that devils would enter the bodies of young women, and the only
cure was an all-night devil dancing ceremony.
She would bathe us at the
well, which was very deep, and right at the back of our extensive yard; it was
a focal point of our lives then; we did not have running water. She would draw,
buckets of deliciously cool water and pour them over us, soap all over and
finally wipe us dry. We loved this ritual.
We always had cousins
from our village, staying with us. All of us would bathe together at the well.
Sometimes the girls would ask me to rub soap on their backs and I would
experience a faint tingle of pleasure, possibly the earliest awakening of sexuality.
Once when in indulging in horseplay in the kitchen I backed onto a young aunt
and felt the same. I still remember the softness of her body.
An amusing incident which
I would rather forget happened at the well. As a pre-teenager, I was desirous of building up my
forearms and shoulders and would draw heavy buckets of water from the well. I
was assisted by a young maid, Irene, who would have been very pretty except for
her slightly uneven teeth. When I had brought up the bucket to the mouth of the
well she would lift and pour it into the storage tank. Once, unfortunately, the
half sarong I was wearing slipped down revealing all. Just at that moment, our
laundrywoman Ella came by and she threatened “haha little master, this is
what you two are up to. I will tell madam” We were petrified, Irene more than
me but luckily Ella didn’t carry out her threat. Irene a lissome teenager from
an adjoining village was very fond of me and mother may have noticed. She was
primarily the cook but would bring me my cup of tea in the afternoons. I would
ask her to stay until I finished my tea. I had seen her sleeping on a reed mat
on the floor at night and had felt a pang of pity. I surreptitiously would
check whether she got a share of the delicacies we had. But Mother was very
evenhanded in such matters. Ella, tall and lean with a full head of grey hair
and aquiline nose was our laundrywoman from time immemorial and Mother had
great faith in her for her efficiency and probity. There was no doubt in our
minds as to whom she would believe.
JANE
Alice’s understudy was
Jane, a mischievous brat of about eleven years. Mother shaved her head on arrival,
presumably on account of head lice. I remember her as a supreme storyteller.
Whenever I was confined to bed with a minor illness she would sit on the floor
and in her soft child’s voice go on till I fell asleep. My favourite was our
pilgrimage to the sacred cities, Anuradhapura and Polonnaruwa and the Island
hermitage Seruwavila. She remembered every detail, and I would relive the
entire journey each time she related it, perhaps embellishing occasionally.
Around this time there
was a series of burglaries in our neighbourhood committed by one individual
Kara. We escaped as father was a good friend of one of the village elders; no
one could override his jurisdiction. One day Jane ran to mother shouting ma’am
I saw Kara in the village. Mother shushed her and kept her indoors for a few days,
fearing for her safety.
SAMUEL
Alice and Jane were
followed by Harriet and Samuel, a hardy young boy from Matara noted for tough
street smart youths. He was our constant companion and playmate as well as our
attendant. Harriet was pleasant but a bit distant, or maybe we were still
pining for Alice. He would always be around us like a shadow and join us in our
cricket matches mainly as a fielder. When given a chance to bat his joy knew no
bounds, but it would be short-lived as he would get out soon.
Samuel followed us to the
rice paddies where we caught small fish with pillowcases. They would be offloaded to bottles filled with water from the rice fields sprinkled with moss
and weeds; they did not survive long. This was not approved by mother and she
soon put a stop to it.
Samuel was so protective
of us, even ignoring his own safety; he tried to save me from a vicious
snarling bitch by lifting me off the ground and twirling but to no avail. She
bit me on my left calf and I carry the scar to this day. We had gone to our
doctor for our three monthly worm treatment (a white mixture) and as the doctor
hadn’t arrived we decided to go to the beach. Disastrously we passed this animal
who had just given birth to a litter. I'm not sure why she picked on me. Samuel
was more upset and scared than me but had the wound stitched and got me back
home safely. Father was furious and had the animal destroyed and checked for
rabies. I was sad as she had only acted on some misplaced instinct and felt
even unhappy for the pups who had lost their mother. Father’s only concern was
me; I escaped a painful course of injections around the belly button as the
animal was free of rabies. I told him how valiantly Samuel had tried to save me and he was let off.
AKURU KIYAWEEMA (FIRST READING OF LETTERS)
The traditional ceremony
of the first reading of letters occurred around this time. This was considered
very important for a child as it could augur high educational achievements in
the future. At a time determined by our astrologer, Father sat me on his lap,
read the first letter of the Sinhala alphabet (A/Ah) and then guided me. He
then got me to copy the letter on a slate board. Mostly this rite was performed
by a venerable monk; but Father was the appropriate person for me and brother
on account of his love, intelligence, and erudition. As befitting such an
important ceremony, there were relatives, milk rice and sweetmeats and
chanting of pirith in the background.
NKRW
Mother bought a calf and
named “him” NKRW after me. N was for Nikape our village. This was to keep the
grass in our yard trimmed; a virtual lawnmower. I recall the poor animal, on
all fours being branded by a hot iron rod. It turned out that it was a “her “
when she became pregnant. She was very boisterous and tore even the stoutest
ropes and run away. Our houseboys must have cursed her, as they sometimes spent
hours chasing after her. But I loved feeding her bananas, stroking her forehead
all the while. She never butted either me or my brother when we took jak leaves
and bundles of grass or water to her. My mother said many a time that her
boisterousness was due to her being named after me.!!! She provided us with
fresh milk for a while. Eventually, maintaining two animals was too much and
she was given away. She must have felt some sadness too as she tossed her head
and looked at both of us before being led away.
As siblings, we were very
close but did have our flare-ups. He would never punch me but instead pull my
ears. I never punched him too; once I did hit a cousin in the midriff and he
became very breathless for a while. My martial tendencies were suppressed for some
time after that even though he didn’t complain to the elders. Mother shouted at
brother many times saying I don’t want a son of mine to be called a long-eared lout. She wasn’t
aware of the Sinhala royal dynasty the Lambakarnas so-called because of their long
ear lobes.
PETS
At such times I wished
for a sister who would intervene with wisdom and authority. Mother wanted a
daughter too, but father was secretly pleased that there were no more children.
As a compromise, we had pets. Pat was my brother’s adored one. He was a large
dog with a pure white fluffy coat and a bushy tail. Gentle and playful, he
would, when unleashed follow brother around for hours. Suddenly he became
listless and was discovered to have ascites (A belly swollen with fluid). Father
got a vet, who laid him flat on a table in the garden, anaesthetised and then
drained two buckets of fluid. That was too much for his tired body and he never
woke up. Brother was inconsolable and wept for days, shouting repeatedly, that
man killed my Pat. Our boys solemnly buried him in the backyard. We did not
watch it.
My brother had an
extraordinary rapport with all our four-legged friends. I too had it but to a
lesser extent. We had a fierce black cat only brother and mother could get
near. He would snarl at all others, but would allow the brother to prick him with
pins!! He claimed they were injections to cure him of hitherto unknown
diseases. Pat’s death put us off pets for a while. Father got a white bull terrier
to console us, but we never really got along and he was given away.
A couple of years later a
pup was abandoned on our doorstep. Hearing her pitiful cries, mother took her
in and fed it milk and small pieces of bread soaked with milk. She was named
Dingy and became our most beloved pet ever. She must have had a subconscious
memory of her past and would always follow the mother and sleep on the floor beside
her bed. This was in contrast to her daughter Beauty (so named by brother), who
jumped uninvited to our beds and would
be difficult to dislodge. We loved both mother and daughter equally and they, in
turn, loved us in no small measure. Their joyous barking and tail wagging when
we returned home would thaw our weariness, and give us a second wind. An aunt
once saw Beauty sleeping at my feet, and Tikiri the cat sleeping on my pillow
with me. She chased them away; but when they were certain that the ogre had
gone, stealthily crept back.
I remember well the day
Dingi passed away. She had been ailing for some time, and mother nursed her
propped up on cushions in our sitting room. She carefully fed her milk, water
and medications with a teaspoon. That morning when I was leaving for work, she
slowly lifted her head; I patted her and she lay back. When I returned home,
she was gone.
Beauty’s son Sandy the first,
was a terror, unlike his mother and grandmother. However, he must have inherited
some of their genes, because he was lovable at times. Our current crossbred
pup is named Sandy the second.
My favourite cats were
the twins Tikiri and Sokiri, the latter being exceptionally alluring. I would
wake up early to study, but they would jump up on my desk and parade up and
down till I fed them. They delighted in bread with a generous layer of butter
and marmite but would eat it only when cut into little squares. I could resume
studies uninterrupted only after that. Sadly Sokiri was knocked down by a car
and died instantly. From then on Tikiri became my constant companion. Whenever
he saw me seated, he would settle on my lap purring softly all the time. Thus
he would listen to all my programs and cricket commentaries on our vintage HMV
radio, totally relaxed and comfortable. Personalities like John Arlott, Brian
Johnston, Alan McGilvray and Johnny Moyes, made cricket come alive, even
without pictures. Though matches were played thousands of miles away, in venues
we could only imagine, I was glued to the radio with Tikiri ensconced on my
lap.
VILLAGE SOJOURN
Walking on the rice
paddies was such fun. The soft breezes would caress and cool one’s body and the
lush greenery was easy on the eye. There were birds twittering all the while;
squirrels would dart in and out of trees and some days butterflies of all
colours and sizes fluttered aimlessly.
I particularly recall
walking on the banks of rice fields in Baddegama with a beloved cousin Sumana
Akka (elder sister).She would walk in front and would hum folk songs softly. She
was tall, dark-skinned, bespectacled and always wore sari. Her best feature was
her face which diffused a gentle kindness. When the going was rough, she would
fall behind us and halt if we were tired and get a villager to pick a young coconut.
It was fascinating to watch them shaving off the husk with a cleaver and open
up a hole big enough for us to drink the freshwater. Her mother, (my father’s
cousin), her brother and she lived in a large bungalow atop a hill on a tea
plantation Weihena in a village
adjoining Baddegama. There was a well maintained large garden with shade and
fruit trees, giant ferns and flowering shrubs and we would spend many joyous
hours playing on our own. Her mother had arranged a devil dancing ceremony
(thovil) to cure the father of late-onset asthma which was not responding to
western medicines. The asthma finally disappeared only after he stopped smoking, cigarettes and then a pipe. His excuse was the cold climate of the hill
country where he was stationed. We did like the fragrance of the pipe
tobacco.In1956, the Buddha Jayanthi year, before we went to India on a
pilgrimage he forsook both alcohol and smoking. Sometime later he would resume
having a nightcap but never again smoke. The second sibling Willie Aiya (elder brother)
ran the plantation. In the evenings, after a few drinks, he would keep to
himself. He was a tall good looking man, boisterous at times, who would brook no
nonsense from his workers or the villagers. When he found time for us he was
mild and affectionate and would drive us to town and buy ice cream. It was a
great shock to us when he died young presumably drowned. There were dark
rumours which swelled our agony, but these were never confirmed.
There were two other
siblings Sena and Ananda. They all respected father and were very fond of us. Sena
and Willie were physically similar (tall and light-skinned ) but poles apart in
style and disposition; Sena westernised and polished, Willie a rough diamond, but
both captivating in their own way. Sumana and Ananda were tall, dark-skinned
, gentle, kind and considerate. They were like our own flesh and blood.
Little things could keep
us amused for hours. The older male domestics would get us to squat on the
heavy brushes which they dragged up and down to polish the red cement floors. Our
weight would help to bring out the shine of the Cardinal polish which would
have been applied about an hour previously.
Another ritual we enjoyed
was being fed at mealtimes. Mother and the great aunt who lived next door were
our picks. The rice and curries would be rolled into soft small balls and
inserted into our mouths. Between mouthfuls, greataunt would relate stories
which would include our misdeeds. One day I had knocked down a full bucket of
water. Annoyed, she threatened to report this to father when he returned from
work. I had said innocently but Achchi (granny)
the water would have dried up by then. Laughter overcame her anger. Every
month on her pension day she would bring chocolates for both of us. I had said “Achchi
I’m going to kill you”. “Why son, don’t
you love me anymore”. “No, I do love you; but when you die you will go to
heaven and send us chocolates every day”. She was very perceptive and told, me
out of the blue one day, “puthe you are a very good boy and will give away even
the plate of rice, you are eating, but you must get a clever and devoted wife”.
I have wondered about this ever since.
MISCHIEF
I must have been an imp
as a child. Then, perhaps, I expended all my mischief at home; at school, I was
always regarded as quiet and well behaved.
One alarming incident I
recall is the scrotal injury. I loved to climb the frames of the front doors. One
of them had a protruding nail which tore into the scrotal skin. Mother held me
on her lap and pressed firmly the tear which was bleeding profusely. Our aunts
were crying but mother remained calm and implored Annie a young neighbour to
bring some medicinal oil from the village temple. It was a moonless night and
the road which had no street lights was pitch black, but Annie sprinted like
the wind and came back almost instantly. The bleeding stopped as soon as the
oil was applied.
Another time I was swinging
on the guava tree next to our well. I slipped and crashed my head on the
concrete column. Fortunately, the only consequence was a big lump on my
forehead. Father immediately got the tree chopped off. Then I sat on a patch of
tar and could not be dislodged. Mother had a daunting task trying to release me
rubbing coconut oil on my bottom. No wonder she had to beat me occasionally!
MOTHER AND ME
Sometimes, the line
between a story heard in childhood and an actual memory is blurred. But
sometimes it is sharp and well defined.
I was born at the
midnight hour on the 15th of June 1942; the middle day of the middle month. My
mother accompanied by two aunts had been sent to Elpitiya for confinement and
delivery. The hospital chief was a cousin. One of his sons became a renowned
professor of physiology and was a teacher of mine at Medical School. Colombo
was under siege by the Japanese. We had a bunker in our house but father did
not consider, either the house or the bomb shelter safe enough. Mother had
wished for a girl and to make-believe, she did not cut my curls for several
years. I do look like a girl in those baby photos. During pregnancy, her cravings
were for local foods, jak, breadfruit, bananas and mangoes. The aunts laughed
“this time you are getting a good Sinhala child”. In her previous pregnancy, she
had craved for western foods; her friends teased that the child she was
carrying was the reincarnation of a dead British soldier. He had many health
issues in infancy; all gut-related and was a difficult child to feed. I, on the other hand, was a placid child and not a fussy feeder. I would grasp the feeding
bottle and drink the milk quickly. But someone had to be around, when about
to finish; otherwise, the bottle would be hurled out!!
OUR VILLAGE
Another focal point in
our lives was the village temple. The Bellanwila Raja Maha Viharaya was a
serene sanctuary during our childhood; there was only a sprinkling of devotees
from the surrounding villages even on festival days. We would visit on poya
days for religious observances and at weekends to learn Sinhala and Buddhism. The
chief monk Rev Weboda Sanghararatane was a man for the times; saintly and
learned, with a benevolence born from piety. I recall him travelling by bullock
cart past our house and whenever he saw us would wave gaily.
It has all changed now. Bellanwila
RajaMaha Viharaya is a National centre to which people flock from all over the
Island. The transformation began with Rev Bellanwila Somaratana, a dynamic
leader whose ambition was to restore the old glory. Reputedly, one of the
thirty-two saplings that sprang from the sacred Bodhi tree in Anuradhapura was
planted here in the third century BC. Thus it had Royal patronage. However, particularly during the Portuguese era, it was abandoned and rediscovered in
peculiar circumstances. An adventurous monk Thengodagera Hamuduruwo was travelling
by boat in the nearby canal when he heard drums beating nearby and on
inspection came across the Bodhi tree.
The first of the
ambitious building projects of Rev Somaratane was the magnificent Budu Medura, the shrine house. The foundation stone was laid by Mr D.S.Senanayake. I was
next to him and gazed in wonder at this boulder of a man, yet with the kindest
of smiles. The shrine house is in the style of Polonnaruwa architecture and is
dominated by the eighteen cubits (twenty-seven foot) standing and reclining
Buddhas. There is a seated Buddha too flanked by his two chief disciples
Sariputta and Moggalana; also a sculpture of the future Buddha Maitreya. The
murals in the inner walls by Somabandu Vidyapapthy is in the tradition of the
ancient Buddhist temple murals and depicts the Buddha’s life, the story of King
Asoka and history of Buddhism in Sri Lanka. The environs of the Bodhi tree is
considered so sacred that any child who stands in its shade is reputed never to
fail.
The Esala perahera
commenced in 1947 was also a creation of Rev BS. This has become one of the
major cultural pageants of Sri Lanka; the main feature is the week-long processions
culminating in the magnificent Randoli perahera. I recall Mr Dudley Senanayake,
the then prime minister placing the casket with Buddha relics on the
beautifully caparisoned Tusker and with Rev Somaratana walking solemnly
alongside. Those days our leaders moved freely with their people.
We had a vantage view as
our front garden was about six feet above street level. But we had to step on
high chairs as there were hordes of relatives and friends crowding us. One year
there was an elephant stampede, more a people stampede. One beast had trampled
on cigarette butts and wriggled in pain causing people to panic. Luckily there
were no major casualties, apart from fainting females and screaming children.
Across the narrow sealed
road opposite our house, was the village smithy. The land sloped down to the
paddy fields, which were cultivated then. The blacksmith was a wizened middle-aged man, the exact opposite of Longfellows’s, village blacksmith;” a mighty
man with the large sinewy hands; with the muscles of his brawny arms, strong as
iron bands”. But our man had the bellows, the flaming forge and the burning
sparks. We used to watch fascinated as he swung his heavy sledge at the anvil. But
he did have a sinister aspect too; when drunk on illicit hooch he would come
out with the most colourful profanities and mother would haul us back to the house promptly.
There was a well at the
bottom of the Smithy garden, where the water table was at ground level. When
tired of drawing water from our well we went down to this and bathe usually in
the mornings; the smith was asleep after the nightly binge. His grandchildren
who were our age did not join us but did smile shyly from afar.
Harvest time was fascinating;
reaping was done manually with sickles, and the grain was then placed on the
kamatha, the threshing floor; water buffaloes were driven round the kamatha to
separate the grain from the chaff. All this was accompanied by the singing of the
most melodious songs usually by women. Their sounds were clearly heard in our
house about a quarter of a mile away. The final step was winnowing with a
kulla, again by women. The landowner, a neighbour, regularly sent us a bag of
paddy.
Sometimes when the
monsoon rains were heavy, the paddy fields would flood and look like a vast
reservoir. All this is but a fading memory now, as the fields are filled and
houses built, for the rapidly growing populace. In our time, there were only
six houses on the upper side of the road; the lower side had a rubber estate
and paddy lands. There was a scrub jungle area with a clearing nearby, where we
played cricket; but this was with an older cousin Chulla and his friends, as we
were too scared to go on our own. Chulla was the eldest son of my Father’s
elder sister and was a pampered boy, many years older than us. He was boarded
at our house to attend a leading Catholic school and pick up city refinements. He
would smoke but caution us against the habit. He would also get back on an
aunt who had slighted him by ringing her front doorbell and running away
before anyone turned up. Once again he advised us against similar antics. We
didn’t have the proper equipment for cricket and would use a ‘kaduru ball’ a
poisonous fruit called the forbidden fruit, and a bat fashioned from a coconut
frond.
From time to time Gypsies
(Ahikuntikayas) and “Rodiya” people would pitch camp (gubbeyama) in this land
making it a no go area on our own. They would go from house to house begging or
reading palms or singing songs. Rodiyas had a more interesting history. They
were descended from royalty; the daughter of King Parakramabahu, Ratnavalli
banished for cannibalism. Periodically they would get infusions of royal and noble blood for treason and other serious misdeeds, hence the beauty
and stateliness of their women who found their way into western pictorial
anthologies. They were not allowed to wear upper garments until the early twentieth
century. Mother would mostly get rid of them at the gate by sending a maid with
rice or cash. But whenever I saw them, I was baffled why they were treated
differently and why I wasn’t given an opportunity to savour their songs or
music.
Manual labour was the
norm those days. Enthralled we would watch men drenched in sweat digging with
mammoties (garden hoes) and pickaxes, in our hilly backyard and load them to
ox carts. Father’s sibling Titus had bought a marshy land nearby, to build a
house and had to have it filled. They would toil endlessly even on the hottest
days except for meal breaks. An unexpected perk was the extension of our makeshift
cricket pitch.
The carefree childhood
was drawing to a close. More of this hereafter.
