Myfascination with packing lists started when I was young. Eventually, it became a life-long habit, a kind of addiction.
When I enrolled at the Christian brothers’ formative school at eleven, a packing list was given to my parents.
2 School shorts
2 School shirts, white
2 Baniyans, aka vests
4 Pairs of white socks
1 Sarong
2 Casual shirts
2 Casual shorts
2 Handkerchiefs
1 Toothbrush
1 Comb
1 Bedsheet
2 Pillowcases
1 Pair of black shoes
1 Pair of canvas sports shoes
My parents went into fast gear to assemble the packing list. My father started from the bottom of the list, the shoes. He took me by bus to Colombo to P G Martins, a shoemaker. We came out of that shoe store with DS-branded black and Shinwa-branded canvas shoes. Also bought was a Ford suitcase, in shiny sky-blue colour. Mother bought vests and socks from Velona, a garment outlet run by one of our relations, Aunty Helen. A trip to a tailor was next in the cards with my father on his bicycle. Carolis, the family tailor, a big made man wearing a white sarong and a vest with a thick moustache, measured my waist, wrists, and torso, writing my body measurements in pencil in a book. Mother started to stitch the rest at home on her Singer sewing machine. She was at the machine every spare minute, stitching and changing threads, sometimes late into the night, under a kerosene lamp. In no time, she came out with casual shirts and shorts, a striped sarong, handkerchiefs, a bedsheet and pillowcases. The whole Christmas holidays were taken by this ritual, the ritual of preparations, stitching, visiting the tailor for fit-ons and shopping. That must have been an expensive affair in Rupees and time for my parents. Going into the boarding school for the first time, my suitcase was full of fresh clothes and gear.
When my garments returned from the laundry man at the end of the week, I’d mark them against my master list. Things were hard back then; one could not afford to lose an item. When I lost a brand-new vest in the sea, when I tried to wash off sea sand, I was devastated. I paid 3 for it, and it took me a long time to get over my loss. I hated the sea for swallowing my brand-new vest, aka baniyan as locals called it. When I returned home for the school holidays, I’d mark my garments against the master list to avoid missing anything.
The affair with lists continued for four years before turning sixteen, when I returned home for good. But the habit of lists continued with me. Whenever I went away on weekend trips with my friends, I wrote a list of everything I carried in my journal. The list included not only my garments but things like a bottle of perfume, a diary, pens, and other paraphernalia a young boy needs, like a hairbrush to tidy his curly hair.
When I left home as a young man to go to Dubai, the habit of lists came in handy. Everything was marked against a checklist. Nothing was missed — no last-minute panicking. Everything was in order, and I was hunky-dory.
I have packing lists for everything. A list to travel within Australia, another list for travelling overseas, and a special list when I travel to Sri Lanka. Now, my lists are no longer scribbled by hand. They are on my phone. They now include chargers, phones, AirPods, iPad, cameras and other tech gear. It even includes a final reminder to do an online check-in.
It pays to be organised and ready. A handy lifelong habit that I love.
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 ...
Doctor Doctor Memories of medical care in my early years As a toddler, I contracted whooping cough, a deadly disease of that time. My mother went through a lot of anxiety until I got better. She was so pleased with the doctor who treated me that he became our family doctor. As a two-year-old, I don’t remember a thing about that trying time. It must have shaken my mother so much; she thought my survival was a miracle. She never failed to remind me of that fact growing up. At four years, I was operated on for hydrocele at Lady Ridgeway Children’s Hospital in Colombo. During my entire stay, my mother stayed with me at the hospital, sleeping nearby. I have great memories in the hospital, caring nurses and frequent visits from my grandfather, Lewis . I loved his visits, his fancy stories sitting on my bed. When the hospital discharged me after four days, my grandfather carried me to his car. Back home, I was not allowed to wear pants until I healed. That was embarrassing. The discharge...
3 min read·Nov 6, 2022
Comments
Post a Comment