A Boy’s Experience with a lionhearted family and how he survived a Hailstorm of Stones
Inmiddle adolescence, I started loving my independence. Friends and social networks outside my family were getting a lot of attention. My best mate was Ajit Martin from the same class. Ajit and I had similar interests and were always looking out for new adventures. Ajit’s enthusiasm and get-go were infectious. All that a friend can ask for, Ajit, was that for me, in an age when one always wanted to hang out with your best mate.
During school holidays and occasional weekends, I convinced my parents to allow me to stay at Ajit’s home. I took the long ride of forty kilometres, combining multi-mode transport, buses and trains, interchanging at Colombo central station to get there. Not many kids my age did that on their own.
Ajit’s home was always full of action and bravado; no teenager could resist hanging out with Ajit and his siblings, sister Shanti and the two brothers, both tweens. I was welcome in their home as one of their own. It was my second home in my teen years. They were joyous times any teenager could ask for, out to discover the world.
Ajit’s mother, Irene, lived in the hills in Sri Lanka, working in a hospital as a matron, a kind of chief of staff. Irene’s sister Kitty and their grandfather, father to Irene and Kitty, old and feeble, lived at Ajit’s home. Aunty Kitty's sole purpose in life was to look after her nephews and niece with loving care and attention. That attention, she extended to me, their regular boy visitor.
Ajit’s father, Uncle Jeff, was the most buoyant of adults I had met. He was the stark opposite of my father, who was calm and measured in contrast. Jeff was outspoken and did not hesitate to say what he felt. He had a distinct English accent when he spoke, unusual for a Sri Lankan. He did not look Lankan but rather like a European with a fair complexion. He had English ancestry, hailing from a British grandfather. Hence the surname Martin. My bestie’s name was Ajit Eustace Martin, quite an English name. Ajit was the only name that had a semblance of an Asian origin.
Ajit and his siblings were light-coloured; his sister, Shanti, did not look Lankan. His two younger brothers, Rohan and Marius, looked like copies of their big brother, miniature versions of Ajit. Like Ajit, they, too, were full of zest with a happy-go-lucky attitude. Shanti was the only girl in the family. She, too, did not hesitate to say what she felt. Shanti had a slight accent, coupled with a husky voice, and sounded different to Lankan girls. She cut her hair short and perfected the art of standing up to her confident brothers. Gender was not an issue for Shanti, an early gender equaliser champion on the island of Sri Lanka.
Helping Aunty Kitty with household chores was Menika, a maid, a young girl in her late teen years. She was very dark, dark like coal. She had been uprooted from the hills country to work as a maid in the Martin household. Menika was at everyone’s beck and call, and she willingly obliged at service.
Now, imagine me in my own home with just two siblings, a sister four years younger and a brother eight years younger, from a relatively quiet and considered family. We were a loving family, and I deeply cared for my siblings. But the excitement the Martins provided was out of this world. Martin siblings were a year or two apart in age. With permanent smiles on their faces, they were out to explore the world. The Martin household was always on the go, and there was no dull moment in their lives. Whether it was Uncle Jeff or the Martin siblings, they could do anything, not thinking of the consequences.
It was so much more fun being with the Martins, in stark contrast to my day-to-day life back at home. Something a young kid, out to uncover everything around him, could get mesmerised with. Coupled with my caring relationship with Ajit, no wonder I loved hanging out at the Martin household.
My father was a huge planner and an organiser. He had monthly finances, a journal with debits and credits and a balance sheet. Uncle Jeff, though a banker, was a man on the go. He acted first and thought later. The first time I visited them, their house was partly demolished. They lived with a part of the house in the open air and had no proper toilet.
Why the house was left partly demolished explains how Jeff operated. When Jeff’s bank approved a loan to rebuild their home, the first thing he did was order the demolition of the house before organising builders. The builders took time to start their work. The house was partly renovated, part old and partly demolished. When I visited them, part of the roof was missing. Many rooms were laid bare. Some furniture was covered. There was a temporary toilet with no door. Water was supplied by a tube well which was operated by hand. It was like a bombed-out house in a refugee camp.
Kids have a way of adjusting to any situation and having fun. I did not care for these little inconveniences; perhaps it was these stark differences that I was attracted to.
When I visited the Martins, I did not visit them for comfort. I visited them for their company and the joy of being with them. Irrespective of conveniences or surroundings, I made do with them, sleeping on the ground, in rooms with broken roofs with the three boys, and planning tomorrow’s adventures.
Lying down and giggling for leisure and relaxation before we fell asleep was much fun. Ajit and I narrated unbelievable scary stories hoping to scare the two younger guns, Rohan and Marius. Marius would always question our fake stories but believed them. Rohan was the smart one, skinny but smart for his age. Marius was the street-smart kid. I loved them like two younger brothers.
Despite accommodation logistics, the Martins ate well. There was plenty of food on the table, in abundance. Jeff would tell us that we were growing boys and needed to eat plenty. Butter, cheese, meats, and fish were served in quantity. Aunty Kitty, assisted by Menika, their maid, was always in the kitchen, the whole time cooking various dishes to keep the young Martins fed and strong. With the hormone-induced appetites of the elder two, Ajit and I gulped the bulk of the servings, leaving little for the younger Martins.
We shopped, played, and roamed the neighbourhood and the beaches together. With no bathroom, we had no place to shower in privacy while the demolished house awaited a rebuild. Some friendly neighbours in Bethany Road, where the Martins lived, gave us access to their bathrooms to shower and clean up after a busy day of play and fun. A bathroom was a luxury we could not pass by. The four boys locked the neighbour’s bathroom, stripped, showered and soaped, removing the muck they had accumulated from their neighbourhood's dusty streets of Moratuwella.
At Ajit’s home, it was a logistical nightmare with no doors to the only toilet. The boys took turns guarding the toilet in the mornings when another was using it. It was so much fun being young, disorganised, and adjusting on the go.
Jeff was unlike ordinary men in Sri Lanka. He was direct and had trouble speaking Sinhala, the local language. He could speak well and fast English. Coupled with his accent, many Sri Lankans could not understand him. Combine that with his direct approach to any matter with a no-nonsense attitude, a problem for his immediate neighbours.
Sri Lankans are nosy in general and love to gossip. Men and women alike. They initiate minor conflicts and thrive on them. It was natural for straight-thinking Jeff to have disagreements with his prying neighbours. Probably the nosy neighbours did not know what to do with a left-field character like Jeff.
Nobody could dare to fight with Jeff. He challenged some to fight him, but nobody among the scary locals took up the challenge. In his heyday, he had beaten a few in the neighbourhood. He had smashed one in front of the local police station. Jeff had an unflinching reputation; everyone feared him. But neighbours found a creative and sneaky way to get back at him.
After a long day of fun and games and a hearty meal, the boys slept in a large bed in one of the rooms. In the middle of the night, a huge bang came from the roof. The boys woke up to the cracking noise above them on the roof. The sound was from pelted stones the errand neighbours were throwing at the roof. With houses all around the Martins’ home in utter darkness, it was impossible to pinpoint exactly where the stones were coming from. The culprit was a gutless neighbour who could not face Jeff, hiding under the darkness of night.
Scared, we covered our heads with sheets, hoping no stone would fall on us four through the partly open roof. Through the sheets, we were on guard, looking at the roof, whispering among the boys. Meanwhile, Uncle Jeff would yell in English, in stark expletives, the only way he could speak when provoked. With Jeff’s strong accent, it was like Captain Haddock yelling ‘Blistering barnacles’ at the pirates trying to hijack his ship in a Tin Tin comic. The neighbours never understood the profanities that angry Jeff was giving them, in plenty, loud and quick succession. “Bloody Yakos, rascals, come and challenge me on the street, you mongrels, gutless bastards” — colourful exclamations.
Two different worlds collided on that night in the skies of Moratuwa, Ajit’s hometown.
This happened a few more times. One could never predict when the next hailstorm of stones would descend above us. But over time, we took it in our stride. It was nothing four young boys could not deal with. We knew the drill. It was hilarious and exciting, part fun, part scary.
That was the closest thing I had experienced to an aerial strike.
Uncle Jeff was not one to take these things lying down. He figured out where the stones were coming from. And then, he organised a return blitz on the offending household, shelling them with a hail of stones. The three Martin boys eagerly helped their brave father in that return shelling. A bunch of daring child soldiers! Amazing fearless! I wish I had been there to witness the return strikes. That’s why I call them the incredible Martins — five of them, Jeff, Ajit, Shanti, Rohan and Marius. Shanti included, although I doubt she had anything to do with the boys on that return strike. She was the calming voice among the smiling dare-devils.
Uncle Jeff was my fearless hero.
Some five decades later, I think of the maverick Uncle Jeff, who dared to fight a system in the only way he could and knew. He was a rare character; Sri Lanka had produced — first and only larrikin in my old country in my short life there. I was lucky to know Jeff as a young boy. I still can hear his accent and recall how he called me “Putha”, meaning son in Lankan. Bravo! Jeffrey Martin, my badass uncle.
Where is Jeff today?
Uncle Jeff lived up to ninety-seven and passed away in October 2022.
Uncle Jeff is on the right with his son, Ajit, my best friend in my teen years. The photo was taken 45 years after that memorable night of hailstorms.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Demons and Devotion: A Family’s Pilgrimage Denzil Jayasinghe · “Demons and Devotion: A Pilgrimage to Tewatta” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe about a family’s pilgrimage to a holy site in Sri Lanka. The story follows Denzil, the eldest son, as he reluctantly accompanies his devout parents on this journey to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Although initially sceptical, Denzil reflects on his childhood faith and his family's hardships. However, the pilgrimage turns unexpectedly when an encounter with a priest who claims a demon possesses Denzil creates tension and leaves him angry. T he air hung heavy with a solemnity that felt out of place for a silver wedding anniversary. Denzil’s father, whose pronouncements held the weight of scripture, declared, “We are going on a special trip to the holy place of Our Lady at Tewatta. This day, showing God’s blessings, will be a private event for our family.” On a recent arrival for a two-week holiday in Sri Lanka...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
Comments
Post a Comment