Memories: By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera
Memory, all
alone in the moonlight
I can smile of the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again
- From the popular
musical CATS by Andrew Lloyd-Webber -
As an only child, I have always been a
dreamer. I enjoyed my own company. Retirement gave me the luxury of free time
to think, reflect and delve into the archives of my memory. When I need
solitude, solace and sanctuary my rocking chair has become my silent companion.
The chair must have some magic to bring peace to my soul. There are times I
reflect lazily on the twists and turns of my life, and there were many. It is a
perfect posture to meditate, ruminate and cogitate. I am partial to a glass of wine
to help lubricate my thoughts.
Memories of Sri Lanka where I grew up are
always with me. What stands out is my deep and lasting gratitude to my country
for giving me the education at school and University. I couldn’t have had a
better education anywhere else in the world. It is some comfort and consolation
that I worked as a doctor for 7 years in Sri Lanka.
My mind often returns to our ancestral
home in Kegalle. My earliest recollection of this remarkable abode is of the
late 1940’s. Ashley Hall, as it was called, was built on the side of a hill and
was akin to an English Manor House. This dignified house was hidden away from
the road by a tall well-trimmed Hibiscus hedge. There was a lovely, manicured
lawn in front. The elegant rose garden evoked a sense of romance, beauty, and
serenity. Even now whenever I smell roses it takes me back to those happy
times. The lounge was beautifully carpeted and had a couple of chandeliers and
a grand piano. It was a standard ritual to gather round the radio in the
evenings. Amidst the hiss and the crackle, we listened to the Ashes cricket via
the BBC World Service. There was a His Masters Voice (HMV) winding gramophone which
played 78 RPM vinyl records. That was a symbol of affluence in those days. I
have always considered Ashley Hall as my spiritual and ancestral home.
After moving to England, it was not until 1988
when I revisited Ashley Hall again. With the passage of years, the older folk
had passed away. The young owners had moved away to the metropolis. Ashley Hall was rented to a Government
Department. It was sad to see the house and garden in such decline. The turf
had been dug up and the roses were gone. As I stepped into the house, there was
an all-pervading eerie silence. It broke my heart to see the dereliction. The
caretaker took us round. It was all too much for me. I told the man I spent my
childhood there. He seemed to know the past too. The caretaker has seen
apparitions in the house and hears music and voices at night. They all say that
of old houses. Many yesterdays of my youth are buried in Ashley Hall.
As a teenager I was an avid reader of the
Doctor series of books authored by Richard Gordon. He glamorised the lives of
young doctors beyond measure. The story was focused on the trials of medical students
at St Swithin’s hospital, London, taught by the egocentric and irascible chief
surgeon Sir Lancelot Spratt. As I look back, although ‘Doctor in the House’ was
a part comedy, there were many similarities to our lives at medical school. It
is hard to quantify how much of this flashy and enchanting depiction of a
doctor’s life influenced me to take up medicine as a career.
The University Entrance examination for
entry into medicine was one of the toughest of all tests. I like to think only
the very best cleared the hurdle and those who were successful were the crème
de la crème!!
My life changed forever as I entered the
Faculty of Medicine in Colombo. Much of 1962 remains a haze. I recall with
great nostalgia that life then was a dream. It was hard to handle the adulation
and keep my feet on the ground. I developed a sinister arrogance and an assured
sense of entitlement. I dreamed of living happily ever after. But life always
has ways to bring us back to reality!! The rest as they say is history.
Ours was the golden age of medical education
in Sri Lanka. The General Hospital Colombo (GHC) with its iconic long
corridors was our workshop where we learnt our trade. I feel greatly privileged to have been
taught by some remarkable teachers. It was indeed a hard grind. The tough life
gave us self-reliance, confidence, grit and determination. The great heights
our batch-mates have reached in almost every sphere of medicine reflect on the
quality of teaching we received.
Those were our formative years, and we were
all in it together. The common room was the social hub of the faculty. It was also
our retreat and shelter from the storms of faculty life. I still remember with
nostalgia the booze, the baila and the bawdy songs at those parties in the Men’s
Common Room. Our sojourn in the faculty ended with the final year trip. After
being wined and dined most lavishly by medics we returned to Colombo with
croaky voices and sore heads. Those wonderful few days of merrymaking will
never be forgotten. In 1967 came our great dispersal. We started our internships
that went as swiftly as a hurricane. We then began the enormous task of
building our careers.
Politically the country was in turmoil. “Go
West young man” was the mantra that appealed to many. The country’s sagging
economy did not give us much faith or hope. One of the greatest triumphs in
life is to pursue one's dreams. Many dispersed far and wide in search of work
and opportunity. Those who left the country entered the Darwinian struggle of
survival of the fittest.
I was one of the few in our batch that didn’t
want to leave Sri Lanka. My aim was to be a DMO far away from the big city. The
Department of Health in their wisdom, gave me a post in the Central Blood Bank,
Colombo. Although these were considered as dead-end jobs, its attraction was
the luxury of being in Colombo. This great institution then became the centre
of my universe. I accepted its quirks,
idiosyncrasies and oddities as a part of working life. Here, I was happy to be
close to my parents.
This was also a time of great turmoil in my
life. I recall with overwhelming sadness the personal problems that made me run
away from the country of my birth. For a time, I was a drifter and found solace
in the Health Department Sports Club. On evenings, there were many regulars who
joined me. We talked politics, philosophy, careers and a multitude of other
fascinating subjects. Those discussions were made immensely compelling by the
amber nectar. I did value their friendship.
The qualifying examination
for physicians is the Membership of the Royal College of Physicians (MRCP). Holding
the part 1 of this examination for the first time in Colombo gave me the
impetus to study again. With great difficulty I buckled down to some hard study.
With my personal problems behind me I looked for a fresh start to my life and a
change of environment. I left Sri Lanka to complete my part 2 of the MRCP. I
was successful in the examination much sooner than I thought. This changed my
outlook and gave me a new life.
It was in 1960 that Edith
Piaf sang “Non, je ne regrette rien” (No regrets). She did so with so
much passion and feeling. But regrets, sadly, are a part of life. I still have
deep regrets for not being there for my parents in their time of need. I do miss my extended family in Sri
Lanka enormously and have paid a heavy price for my desire to live and work
abroad. I wasn’t present for the births, weddings and deaths of those most dear
to me. I am now a stranger to the new generation born during my absence. I feel
a foreigner in the country of my birth as Sri Lanka has moved forward in leaps
and bounds, despite the destructive forces of a long ethnic conflict and the endless
economic crises. Although I live happily in England, I have left my heart in
that beautiful island of my birth and the land of my fore-fathers.
Meanwhile in
London, I chose to become a Radiologist. After my arduous training I found a
job in a leafy suburb in rural Hertfordshire. My wife and I moved into a
brand-new house and we became its first occupants. We created a little
"Walawwa", far from the madding crowd. The backyard that was a muddy
patch was converted to a fine lawn. Elegant flowerbeds gave us colour all year
round. As the years rolled by, I spent many long summer evenings seated in the
garden sipping wine and allowing my thoughts to drift into those happy times of
my childhood.
Chiu was born
in Hong Kong and arrived in England before me to complete her training. It is
said marriages are made in heaven. Perhaps they are, but we live our lives on
this earth surrounded by disputes, disagreements and difficulties in amongst a
great deal of love, laughter and contentment. Chiu and I have managed to be
together for 49 years. Our cultures could not be more divergent. We spoke
different languages and ate different food. As is often said, marriage is a
compromise - and we both had to change, and we did. Our differences
strengthened our relationship. We have given life to our boys, bringing them up
the best way we knew. Our love for them made many of our differences melt away.
Chiu is a loving wife, mother, grandmother and friend to many - and much, much
more.
When Steve
and Andrew were babies, Chiu was a wonderful mother. She still is. The love,
care and attention, given at all times of the day and night, remain so fresh in
my mind. I remember the deep love that Chiu showed the boys when they were
babies - helpless, mewling, and puking in her arms. I still can feel the warmth
of those melodious Chinese lullabies Chiu sang to them, as they fell asleep.
Thinking about parenthood brings back a spectrum of emotions and a myriad of
memories. Although this happened only a couple of decades ago, it is like being
caught up in a reverie of times now long gone.
My
professional career and the children’s education took precedence. My wife gave
up her own career as a Nursing Sister to care for the kids. She ferried them to
school and back. Children’s activities usurped our time and energy. Both boys
worked hard to complete their education at Cambridge University. Their success
was our joy which we recall with great delight.
Chiu and I
have travelled the world together and been to every continent. Wherever we went
on holiday it was our ritual to bring back a memento. A collection of those
adorned the mantelpiece and the windowsills. Reading has been my joy since I
was a kid, a habit which has passed on to my offspring. The resultant
collection was a fine library. Computers have been my hobby. Apple Macs whirred
away deep into the night. Their detritus filled every corner of my study.
When the children left home we had an
empty nest. A
"Walawwa", however magical it may sound, is not the place for an
ageing couple in their retirement. Keeping such a place in good shape even with
help is tiring and time consuming. Moving to live in a smaller space is
euphemistically called downsizing. We took the hard decision to move into a
small apartment just enough for the two of us. It is often said moving house is
as traumatic as a divorce. I wouldn’t disagree. Downsizing helps to concentrate
one’s mind to what is important in life. Much of what we owned were given away
to charities. We come into this world with nothing, and we leave with nothing.
What happens in between is a journey and its memory evaporates into thin air as
it ends. After all the next move, will be our final rest.
London is a
place of fun, which we can still enjoy. Visits to the museums, galleries,
concerts and the theatre fills our time with joy. It is said if you are tired
of London you are tired of life - how very true. There is so much on offer.
It was more
through luck than judgment I found my nest for life. Living in an apartment
requires a different mindset. The block is a community, although not a close
one. Everyone is busy with their own lives. We hardly know our neighbours.
There are house rules - some written and others implied. There are also civic
and social responsibilities. We must respect others’ privacy while sharing the
space. Looking through the window at night, I see the geometrically arranged
lights of the surrounding blocks. This creates its own beauty. Each light
represents people with their own lives, joys and sorrows - all a part of the
rich tapestry of life.
Que Sera Sera
- Whatever will be will be. Since Doris Day sang this song in the Alfred
Hitchcock film of 1956 its poignant lyrics have stayed with me for its glaring
honesty of the uncertainties of life. I have often attributed this curious
twist of fate to the awesome force of destiny. This my narrative ends as I
started, reaching for my glass of wine to end my day dizzy and delightful.
