Lewis and Denzil
Lewis and Denzil
Memories of a grandfather
When I was three years old, I flew in an aeroplane with my parents and Lewis, my pappa, and my maternal grandfather. It was a domestic flight to the Gal Oya in eastern Sri Lanka. Pappa sat beside me on the Air Ceylon flight, helping to seat me on the window seat. He put the small seat belt on me and helped me to put on my cotton earplugs. During the flight, he showed me the ground below, a breathtaking sight for a toddler. I felt like a bird flying up in the air in his presence.
We stayed in a government bungalow in the middle of a jungle for a few days at Gal Oya. Then, during a safari to see wild elephants, I sat on my grandfather’s lap, enjoying bumpy rides in a rickety lorry.
Back at home, my pappa lived in his own home, some six kilometres away. He visited us regularly, travelling in a hired black Hillman Minx car with my mother’s only sister Catherine and a driver.
Pappa dressed elegantly in light tweed clothes, jackets and a hat. Whenever he spoke, it was with authority, a legacy from his career as a school principal. He had an aura about him. It was natural for him to command respect genuinely. He was bilingual and proficient in both English and Sinhala.
I must have been unique to him. Pappa often took me back to his home on his return trips in his car.
It was a joy to visit pappa’s home in the middle of a vast garden. A small boy’s paradise. At the entrance to the large property were three shops pappa had rented out. The driveway to his house was laid back, over one hundred meters long. On both sides of the driveway were many flowerpots and tropical plants. Butterflies and dragonflies roamed everywhere. The huge garden was full of natural wonder and awe.
There was a deep well in the middle of the land made of kabuk stones.
Pappa owned another large property at the bottom of his house. At the centre of that property was a two-storey house built by pappa. He had rented this large house to a businessman.
Parked in front of pappa’s home was a buggy cart. It had two wooden wheels drawn by a bull. In the cart were passenger seats and space for a driver in the front. Pappa used the cart to travel in the far neighbourhood.
Some days, pappa walked to his relative's homes, holding my hand. As we walked, he explained the neighbourhood and who lived where. It was gobbledygook to me; too early to understand relationships and locations, but I pretended to listen to him.
Pappa was extremely religious, a die-hard Catholic. Every evening, reciting the family rosary was a ritual in his home. As a toddler, I was bored with this repetitive routine that took me away from my play and fun time. Back at home, I was allowed to sit on the prayer mat while adults prayed to kneel down. Repeating that habit, I sat on his home prayer mat. Pappa got angry and shouted at me to kneel. Stunned at this outburst, I started to cry. Fortunately, my aunty came to my rescue, comforting me to lessen my shock. Pappa was a strict disciplinarian, a legacy from his teaching days in education and character building. He was a no-nonsense man.
When I was about four, my pappa presented me with a wind-up duck. He sat with me on the verandah, on the ground and showed me how to wind the duck. When the duck started moving over the floor, he got up smiling, breaking into a popular children’s song. He watched me play with my newfound toy and clapped with joy. I felt ecstatic with my new toy, gifted by pappa.
In pappa’s home, a large cabinet filled with books was in the study room. It was huge and tall. It had glass cabinet doors and was a spectacular early childhood visual impression, a marvel for a small boy. It was the prelude to my lifelong love of books, a story you could read another time.
When I was four, I was operated on for an inguinal hernia at the Lady Ridgeway children’s hospital in Colombo. Pappa visited me twice at the hospital while I was recuperating. I loved his visits, his cheering me up with his fancy stories. He carried me on the return trip home from the hospital with my parents.
Back home, a few months later, pappa presented me with a wind-up duck. He sat with me on the verandah, on the ground and showed me how to wind the duck. When the duck started moving all over the floor, he got up smiling, breaking into a popular children’s song. He watched me play with my newfound toy and clapped with joy. I felt ecstatic with my new toy, gifted by pappa.
Pappa’s health deteriorated when I was around five. He became increasingly sick, requiring frequent hospitalisation. My mother visited him regularly at the hospital, taking soups and food. My mother visited him frequently, charged and recuperating at his home. Pappa’s two daughters, my mother and only aunty, Catherine, who nursed pappa, looking after him tirelessly. Mother’s elder brother, Christie, was absent, working as a teacher in a remote village. Both sisters, young as they were ceaselessly devoted to their father. Also helping was Jeramius, pappa’s nephew, whom Pappa had adopted as a young boy when Jeramius was orphaned at the sudden death of his father, Lewis’s younger brother.
As pappa’s health worsened, my mother brought him to our home, where Pappa occupied the front room. I regularly went to his bedside to chat with him. He was careful not to show his pain to me, although he was seriously sick, sometimes yelling in pain. I was too young to understand the realities of old age and disease. He could not move out of his room and used bedpans. My mother did not hesitate to clean his dirty pans religiously. She was lovingly duty-bound to her father and took great care of him. All this while caring for my little infant, who was less than one year old.
Pappa returned to his own home in the last stages of his life. At this point, pappa was regularly in and out of the hospital.
There were times when my mother left me at home with my father and Kadayamma, my paternal grandmother taking my little sister with her to live with pappa and to nurse him.
My sister, the young toddler she was, had drunk kerosene oil mistaking it for water at pappa’s home. She had drunk only a tiny quantity when my mother was busy with her father. Fortunately, it did not cause a major health issue for my sister. This incident caused great distress for my mother. She narrated it as expressing her desperation and difficulties coping with her father’s sickness. She felt inadequate that she could not look after her father or little kids. But I know she did her best at the time as a loving daughter.
A few short days later, on the 22nd of March, 1961, my pappa passed away. It broke my mother’s heart. My pappa was seventy, my mother twenty-seven.
More stories about my pappa, Lewis
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