A boy’s experiences of a Catholic festival in the mid-sixties in a village in Sri Lanka.
Toy van and a fountain pen
Soon after the festive mass, I thronged with the crowds, peeping into the stalls along the main road leading to our church. Temporary stalls full of toys, snacks, drinks, and household items were on either side of the road. My only interest was to secure a toy van from one of the makeshift stalls. The best toy van I could get with my money, a five rupee note deeply secured in my short pant pockets.
Everyone was trying to move ahead, kids and adults. The village fair came to my hometown once a year. They wanted to enjoy every minute of it, moving slowly. Massive crowds everywhere. Peeking and creeping through the rd business for a ten-year-old. Determined I was, I kept on my mission to find my dream toy. I had waited for this day for a few months. I dreamt of my van every night, imagining its shape and colours. I peeped into a few stalls, jostling among the crowds.
My money, the coveted five rupees, was a big sum back in the day. I sacrificed my mid-school snacks to save for my van. This was my only chance. I could not let this opportunity pass by.
I found my way to every toy stall along the tight passage. Finally, I found my fancy toy, a bright red and yellow van. The vendor wanted six rupees for it — a bit of haggling. The vendor took pity on me and agreed to take my hard-earned five rupee note in exchange. Tucked my newly acquired prized possession under my shoulder, I headed back towards the church. The crowd movement was still slow. It took me a while to pass the church compound and return home.
In my home street, free of crowds, something was odd. I had a strange unusual feeling in my chest. I eyeballed, looking down at my shirt. A shiny black fountain pen was hanging in my pocket from its clip. It was a Pilot pen, a mystery. How did it get there? Did somebody put it in my pocket, I wondered. In the throng of busy crowds, did it get entangled in me?
Pilot pens were expensive and only used by adults. No kid was allowed to use them. Primary school kids were allowed only a cheap Cial pen at rupees two and fifty cents. This Pilot pen was at least three times that. Cial was for kids, and Pilot was for adults. None of my school friends had a Pilot pen. What was I to do with this unforeseen treasure?
A dilemma now! I was confused. Surely, this pen did not belong to me. Nobody could push a pen into my pocket without my noticing it. It must have fallen from an adult’s pocket and luckily landed in my shirt pocket as I pushed through the crowds. Walking home, I felt guilty that I had a pen that did not belong to me. At the same time, I felt happy and stoked to have a Pilot pen. Part of me was in seventh heaven, at my unplanned fortune.
Should I return the pen to the church? To the priest or the mission house? What about the Christian commandment, thou shall not steal? Was I, a thief now? A pick-pocket? Will I go to hell? These guilty thoughts crossed my mind. There was no way I could find the original owner. There were no lost and found systems. I bravely decided to keep the pen. It was going to be mine. Fortune had found me. I felt bloody lucky. Park the faith and its doctrine somewhere else!
I had a toy van and now a Pilot pen, which no friend had. I was excited. With this miracle, I started my love affair with the church fair, the great annual event.
The village carnival coincided with the church’s saint’s birthday. It was the biggest birthday party in our home village, the event of the year. It came just thirty days after Christmas. As a ten-year-old, the unintended gift of an expensive pen and my toy van sealed my fascination and obsession with the local church feast.
The church feast was full of events, fun and celebrations.
Preparations
Leading up to the church feast was a lot of preparation. Ten days before the church feast, a flagpole with supporting ropes decked with multi-coloured flags was erected to much fanfare from the village folks. Milk rice was served to the Catholic devotees after the erection ceremony.
In the next few days, the surrounding area next to the church and its adjoining sports ground was prepared to host the village carnival. When I walked home from school, passing the church, the busy preparations for the carnival were underway, stoking a child’s excitement about things to come. Hardworking crews were busy bees assembling kits for the merry-go-round, Ferris wheel and pit of death. Colourful wooden horses, decks, large wheels and huge wooden panels were strewn in the middle of the sports ground. It looked like a construction site. Anticipation of the fiesta in a few days to come was killing young village boys like me.
No party was complete without new clothes. My father took me to his tailor, Carolis. The cigar-smoking tailor measured my collar, waist, chest and torso. A week later, my father brought two shirts and two pairs of short pants, freshly stitched and crispy new. He got me a new pair of DIs, a prominent brand of shoes from P. G. Martins, a shoe shop in Colombo.
After the flagpole erection, a novena ceremony was held in the church every night. Village folks attended these Catholic rituals at seven in the evening without fail.
A few days before the feast, our relatives from both sides would descend on our home. They came ready to stay over for a few days. Kudamma, my mother’s aunt from my mother’s hometown, also landed at our home. Kudamma came with two of her youngest children, a boy and a girl, Francis and Agnes.
Soon after arrival, Kudamma took complete control of our kitchen, relieving my mother and grandmother of the festive chores at home.
Kudamma made many a local sweetmeat in the kitchen ahead of the fiesta: crispy golden kokiss, kevum, aluwa, and dodol.
The first bite of Kudamma’s produce was mine to be sampled, my privilege. I sat on a kitchen stool and watched her at work.
While these labour-intensive kitchen tasks were going on, Kudamma continued to beam a permanent inviting smile. She was a multi-tasker, out to please her niece, my mum and me, her little grand nephew. She felt it was her duty to my mother.
I spent much time with Francis and Agnes, Kudamma’s children. They were my age, despite being my uncle and aunty. We played in the garden and hung out in the church after the novenas.
Some of the visiting granduncles and aunties gave me money, often unknown to my mother, who was hell-bent on not spoiling me. I carefully saved the extra coins for the church fair to spend with Francis and Agnes.
Festive eve and the church feast
On the eve before the festive Sunday, Vespers, a gala ceremony, was held in the church. The church was fully decked, with flowers and colourful lights. The service was in Latin, the ancient language of Romans that nobody in Sri Lanka understood except the participating Catholic priests and the local bishop. Latin hymns were sung in their glory by the dutiful choir. The faithful flock listened to this regalia in the hope of obtaining a few mercies from their local saint, St. Francis De Sales, a scholar from France who became a bishop in Geneva.
The carnival started straight after the church ceremony. Music blared from the loudspeakers. Every fair stall was up for business. Merry-go-round was in full swing with galloping wooden horses to the sound of music. A band of three men played a lively genre of calypso music with their trumpets, piano accordions and drums, standing in the middle section of the merry-go-round. Kids and adults rolled around, up and down, circling the musicians in the centre. The Ferris wheel started to take passengers up in the air into the sky above. The wall of death roared with daredevil motorbike riders. Every youngster wanted to see the daring stuntmen who defied gravity and risked serious injury. Imagine the riders; they did not even have helmets back in the day.
It was a long, long night, close to midnight. Exhausted from a grand night of partying in the village, everybody returned home for a restful but quick nightcap.
On the next day, the feast day, several masses were in the church. Folks not only from the immediate surroundings but also from the outer villages attended the festive masses as if it was some duty. Local Catholics were die-hard devotees and were into these age-old rituals. After mass, most of the visitors called on their relatives living in our home village, who were parishioners of our church.
Festive lunch
Back at home after the Sunday festive mass, I hovered around the kitchen. I loved being in the kitchen, watching Kudamma’s busy activity, and speaking and listening to her. She loved my presence. One of her specialties was an ambul-thiyal. She made an exquisite jackfruit curry for the vegan visitors, using tender jackfruits from our garden. It was as good as any beef curry. All these were in addition to the meat and vegetable curries Kudamma made effortlessly. She also made a pickle to go with the rice, a must-side dish for Lankans.
Kids played games while the male adults were chatting and exchanging family news.
Mid-afternoon, it was time for food for all in a lumpsum setting. Lunch was always a late lunch. With a heavy brunch, everyone ate late. When food was served, a bottle of arrack, the local brew, exchanged hands among male adults. Every male adult enjoyed a single shot before their meal.
The village as a whole came to life
Now a bit more of the homes, church fair and carnival.
Unlike today, no party invitations were sent. It was taken for granted that all close relatives and friends were welcome in our homes on the feast day. It was an open invitation.
In the entire village, homes were re-painted in readiness for the feast. Massive meals were cooked in every home. Everyone bought new clothes. Christmas and New Year celebrations paled compared to the Church feast.
In the village, the church festival attracted vendors who sold sweets, snacks, toys and other wares. Clay pots were a major attraction. The biggest sale of cooking pots north of the capital was held in my home village, coinciding with the church festival, lasting weeks. The enterprising vendors were the first to arrive at the fair and the last to leave.
Vendors sold Achcharu, pickled fruits mixed with chillies and sweetened with sugar, on the side of the road. Made with pineapple, mangoes and other tropical fruits, it was a tempting delight serving youngsters at five cents a serving. Achcharu was served in green leaves, leaving no environmental pollution. Another bunch of enterprising matriarch women sold aluwa, a fragrantly spiced, nutty sweetmeat. it was a feast for youngsters, an eatery bazaar specially made for them.
Entry ticket to the Merry-go-round Go Round, Wall of Death and the Giant Wheel was twenty-five cents each. Fifteen cents for kids. These three amusements were the most exciting rides for the young in our village. This was a once-a-year opportunity not to be missed.
That was the beauty of our local church feast back in the sixties and seventies in tropical Sri Lanka among a tiny Catholic community.
The sequel of this story
Growing up, as a teenager, I took a deeper interest in the village fair and carnival activities. That coming-of-age, pubescent youth story is for another day.
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