Scarlet Ribbons for her hair By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

Scarlet Ribbons for her hair
By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

On a dank Christmas day in England, as the stiff winter winds howl and the rain splatters the windows, I sit by the warmth of a real fire.  I look back on my life, trying to recreate that atmosphere of the tropical Christmases I enjoyed as a child. My thoughts crossed the vast oceans to reach my childhood home. The thrill and romance of childhood Christmases are steeped in nostalgia. Christmas is a magical time for children the world over. I have many childhood memories of Christmases at our ancestral home in Kegalle, where the Amerasekera clan gathered. Eating, drinking, and merry-making were the norm. For us children, receiving our presents from Santa was the best thing that happened during Christmas. I do recall with such clarity my letters to Santa and those fervent prayers to God that my wish will be granted.

There is a song that is played during this festive season about a girl’s prayer for a beautiful and charming gift. It is a special gift that would make her look prettier and more glamorous. The popular ballad was written in 1949 by Evelyn Danzig with lyrics by Jack Segal.  Reportedly, this is a fictional story, and the music was composed in 15 minutes. The song was first released by Jo Stafford in 1949. I well remember her face from the bubble gum pictures I had all those years ago. Many recorded this song, including Jim Reeves and Roy Orbison. But in Ceylon, it was the Harry Belafonte version that became a smash hit in 1956. The song is a soulful ballad called ‘Scarlet Ribbons’. It is a simple tale of miracle and faith with a happy ending. This indeed plucks at the heartstrings to evoke a strong feeling of love and sympathy. Belafonte’s performance, featuring a simple guitar accompaniment, captures the mood of the moment perfectly. His rendition is critically lauded for its sensitive, tender vocal delivery, showcasing his ability to handle ballads with intimate emotional depth. The song is frequently highlighted for its soothing quality and remains a highly rated, beloved classic in his repertoire.

I peeked in to say good-night

When I heard my child in prayer

"And for me, some scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for my hair"

All our stores were closed and shuttered

All the streets were dark and bare

In our town, no scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

Through the night my heart was aching

Just before the dawn was breaking

In our town, no scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

I peeked in and on her bed

In gay profusion lying there

Lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

If I live to be a hundred

I will never know from where

Came those lovely scarlet ribbons

Scarlet ribbons for her hair

Prayer is a universal phenomenon. It is a practice as old as history itself and spans almost all regions and religions.  Prayer is a method for communicating with the divine, expressing devotion, or seeking help. For some, prayer is making a rapport with God. For others, prayer means cultivating compassion, wisdom, and inner peace. Hence, it becomes a form of meditation and mindfulness.

My father worked for the government. Every 4 years, we had the enormous task of uprooting ourselves and moving to a new location, the so-called “Transfers”. To give my education some stability I started schooling in Nugegoda staying with my grandparents. We lived opposite the Anglican Church of SS Mary and John. Around the corner from us was St John’s School. For me it was an idyllic life. My grandparents loved me so dearly that I could get off with a lot of mischief. It was my weekly routine to attend Sunday school. There we learnt lots of children’s hymns. The teachers were ever so kind and taught us how to pray. They asked us to bring our hands together and be friends with God.  While thanking God we could ask his help and make requests.

When I was 9 years old, I was sent to boarding school. This being a Methodist School Christian worship included prayers every morning at assembly. In the boarding, we had a small Chapel for evening prayers. On the wall behind the lectern was a lovely painting by the German painter Albrecht Dürer of the Praying Hands. There is a poignant story about this painting. I was in the junior dormitory, and it was our nightly ritual to pray kneeling by our bedside before the lights were turned off. I prayed for my parents’ well-being. There were times when I prayed that Wesley beat Royal College at cricket at the next weekend. It was a frivolous request, and sadly, we were comprehensively beaten. Once I had forgotten to memorise a couple of poems for the next day, I prayed the teacher would not turn up to take the class.  I know not if that was the power of prayer, and surely enough, he did not turn up.  As a child, I did find prayer comforting and felt it was so wonderful to have an all-powerful person to guide and help me.

The song is frequently associated with Christmas, but its message of wonder and care is often timeless. Although the old adage suggests every story has a moral, this is not strictly true. Personally, for me, it is a simple story that depicts an amazing childhood moment, a kid’s innocence and the depth of parental love. As an octogenarian, I still pray and get enormous comfort from it. The focus of my prayers is now different from when I was a child. It is now more a form of meditation and mindfulness. Prayer can reduce stress, anxiety, and negative emotions. This indeed makes me feel calm and at peace.

I am deeply grateful for my Christian upbringing. I would like to extend my sincere thanks to my parents, grandparents, and the school for instilling in me the ability to distinguish right from wrong and for guiding me to lead a principled life. I am also profoundly appreciative of what I have learned from Buddhism, which has greatly contributed to my sense of inner peace and understanding of the world. While I have not always lived up to these values, I remain guided by my conscience, which continues to serve as my moral compass in striving to do what is right.

Longing for Home by Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

Longing for Home by Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

"Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!"

by John Howard Payne (1823)

Deep within each of us is a longing for home. Soon after I arrived in the UK in the early 1970’s, I experienced the gnawing pain of homesickness. After several months, the grief, sadness and distress of homesickness gradually waned and disappeared. I was left with an occasional yearning to return to my roots either physically or mentally.  The latter being just a daydream or a nocturnal dream in my sleep. Longing for home, or homesickness, is a universal and wistful yearning for a familiar place we belong. Homesickness is defined as a feeling of longing for one's home during a period of absence from it. If there is no anxiety or unhappiness it is not a sickness. It is just a longing for home which is a normal phenomenon. Perhaps it is a feeling common to all emigres living in exile. They all have the freedom to return home if they so wish.

I retired from an active professional life many years ago. I now live amidst the hustle and bustle of London. I love life and where I live. I remain ever thankful for the gift of my family. Longing for home is a natural emotion that descends occasionally out of the blue.  The passion and the desire are to recall and remember people and places of the country where one was born. There comes a certain compulsion to reminisce those nostalgic memories of my parents, the extended family and the many images of the country and growing up. After having lived abroad for over half a century, I have learnt to deal with homesickness.

When homesickness pulls on my heartstrings, I take to the luxury of my rocking chair and turn to music that has sustained me through the peaks and troughs of life. There is a vast collection of Sri Lankan music now available on Apple music, Spotify and YouTube. Listening to the likes of Sunil Santha and C.T Fernando transports me closer to home. The composition “Returning Home” by John Barry, played on the clarinet by Emma Johnson, is so very expressive and evocative. The title and tone reflect a certain tenderness and a universal feeling of returning, longing, and revisiting the past.

My mother, with her Kandyan ancestry, lived and schooled in Kandy. My parents were married at St Paul’s Church and I was born in that great city in the hills. Despite its loveliness and the salubrious climate, I never had the good fortune to live there. But over the years, I have enjoyed many visits to Kandy. The mere thought of the scenic lake in the heart of the city and the spiritual atmosphere of the Temple of the Tooth brings peace to my soul.  The serene grandeur of the surrounding mountains that pay homage to this beautiful city provide a tranquil escape from the modern world. There is often a passionate desire and a craving to return to my place of birth.

There are times my mind takes me to our ancestral home in Kegalle. Ashley Hall was built like an English Manor House. This was where our entire clan of Amerasekeras gathered for family occasions. There were many lavish parties at Ashley Hall. The fun and laughter of my extended family still echo in my mind and will continue to linger for many years to come. 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 generosity, love and affection of my uncle and aunt who lived there will always remain a wonderful memory.

I began schooling in the late 1940’s and stayed with my grandparents in Nugegoda.  This is the house that was most precious to me as a child. It was a quiet dignified house opposite the Anglican Church of SS Mary & John. The landscape was green and its beauty touched us with grace. The mornings were magical as the light glowed on the green leaves and the dew on the grass shone so brightly. With the passage of years the soul of the house died with my grandparents. In the new millennium the house was sold and finally razed to the ground to become a car park. The house of my childhood only exists in a secure corner of my memory but its every room tells a story and every picture and piece of furniture is laden with memories. I do visit the house in my dreams. Although many who lived there are no more, I can still picture them with their traits and mannerisms.

There are times I wish to return to my school where I spent my formative years. I was a boarder. Being there day and night those memories of my life are deeply etched in my memory. The school has had its ups and downs but have survived the rigors of time. The boarding sadly does not exist anymore. Despite the years, friends I made there remain close to me today.  I love to walk its long corridors and visit the classrooms. Although much has changed in the landscape and the buildings, I still see it as it was during my years of the 1950’s.

The faculty of medicine in Colombo was where I learnt my trade and made many friends for life. Its lively common room and canteen and the many lecture theatres were home to me for 5 long years. I recall the stress and strain and the anxiety of examinations, but its agony and torment left me many years ago. The wards and the long corridors of the General Hospital Colombo were so much a part of my life that I still think and remember those happy years.

It is the people that make a country. They bring cultural richness, create traditions, and establish the nation's identity. Working at the General Hospital in Kurunegala I came across the people of the Wanni. Despite their poverty and harsh lives their humility, kindness and generosity have been a beacon to me. I still remember the tears, smiles and all the human emotions in between, of those who were my patients. I do hope the passage of years and the efforts of successive governments have made their lives better and easier.

Food is one of the most powerful triggers for memory making it a primary way people remember home and significant life moments. Sri Lankan cuisine is well known the world over, but my memory is of the wonderful food cooked at home by my mother. The cooked young Jak fruit called “polos ambula” is the one that comes easily to mind. When I am in a Sri Lankan restaurant in London the smell and taste of food transports me across the vast oceans and swathes of land to where I was born and to my beloved mother.

It was in 1960 that the French chanteuse, Edith Piaf sang “Non, je ne regrette rien” (No regrets). She did so with so much passion and feeling. But regrets, sadly, are just a part of life. The few regrets I have do surface from time to time, but the years have mellowed them to be just another memory. I am happy I have made a good life for myself in the country of my choice. The country where I was born and its many images of its people and places will continue to remain an important part of me.