The aftermath — the next month

Days after my father’s death

Our family home is an open home. It is full of people, pouring in night and day. Neighbours. Relatives from both sides of the family. Co-workers of my father. They share their stories and interactions with him. I listen and grasp what a good man he has been to them. In a busy household, I do not feel alone.

I miss my four children, eight thousand kilometres away in Sydney. Do they know that their father’s life has been turned upside down? My youngsters are yet to understand the ways of the world. I type a long letter to them on my laptop. I don’t know where to start. I should not make them sad with my sorrow. Tears swell at the corners of my eyes, thinking of them and my father: three generations, me in the middle. I am the man in the middle, their link to him. I feel nostalgic.

My mother gets up early in the morning. She dresses in a dark-coloured saree. She attends mass at the local church. I accompany her every day with my brother. After mass, the three of us visit my father’s grave. My mother kneels by the gravesite and prays. She lays fresh flowers picked from our garden. She lights candles bought from the church’s shop. I can see tears in her eyes. My mother finds solace in her faith. This is sombre and heart-wrenching.

Every night, neighbours and close relatives gather at our home to pray. — prayers in front of my father’s photo with candles on its side. I look at his photo. I cannot believe he is gone.

Everybody continues to talk of my father, the things he did for them, kind acts. I listen to them, paying attention. He has touched many lives. I feel immensely grateful to be his son. It dawns on me that this is a huge legacy to carry on. I ponder.

An almsgiving is scheduled on the seventh day of my father’s death. Everybody joins in cooking a huge meal. Neighbours, friends, and relatives. Rice, meats, and vegetables in large pots. Our home is a busy one. Everyone is everywhere, cooking and chatting. In this great commune, I do not feel alone. On the contrary, I enjoy this experience of community spirit in my old country.

The family hall turns into a vast open eatery on the almsgiving day. Mats are laid on the ground. About a dozen impoverished women and men are served first. Then kids and other women. Helpers serve meats and vegetables. They shuffle back and forth from the open kitchen at the back of the house. People come streaming for a meal. The entire neighbourhood is at our home. Food nearly runs out. Yet, everyone is served, thanks to the helpers’ unique distribution skills. We feed the whole neighbourhood.

I open my wallet and give my rupees to each of the needy women and men. They are old men and women. They are so poor that it breaks my heart. Their clothes are dirty. The majority do not have teeth. I talk to them. Some tell me that they do not have a home to live in. Some sleep on the streets. I speak to them sitting on the ground, at their eye level. They assume that this is their lot. Poverty has eaten into them, destroying their souls. They do not look at me directly, possibly out of respect, or they think I am superior to them. What a fallacy! They pack food to take away, for they do not know when and where their next meal will come. I do not stop there. I pick some of my father’s shirts and sarongs and donate them to the men. I feel distressed about the systemic poverty in my old country.

An impoverished young woman comes late with her small children. I talk to her, sitting on the ground. She says that her husband is crippled. He was a coconut plucker, and that was his livelihood. He fell off a coconut tree while working. Now, he is bedridden and needs care. Her school-age children do not go to school. She relies on handouts to feed her children and her sick husband. I feel utterly distressed listening to her story. My mother collects all the food she can get, dry food and used clothes and give them to the woman. I open my wallet and part with some money. I feel helpless, listening to her. My old country cannot look after its poor, the hungry and the dispossessed. I am angry at the institutionalised injustice.

The next day, I accompany my mother and brother to an old people’s home for the destitute in Colombo. It is run by Christian nuns of Mother Theresa’s order. We take dry foods, rice, tinned and dry fish and dhal and gift them to the home. I am shocked to see these poor homeless men and women. Nobody cares for them except the kind nuns. I enjoy chatting with the nuns. My mother makes a lump sum cash donation to the institute. She is trying hard to find solace in her grief by helping the helpless. I am happy for her. Meanwhile, I am trying to find the meaning of life.

After twenty-five years, this is I spend extended time with my brother. He was thirteen when I left Sri Lanka for good. Now as two adults, this is an excellent opportunity to bond. We agreed to look after our mother just like our father did. We discuss mother’s living logistics when we leave to return to our families in Australia and Canada.

When my kid brother speaks, I hear my father’s voice. I don’t tell my brother that, cherishing my father’s voice through him.

We go through my father’s estate documents, journals and records. They have been kept meticulously. Deeds and bank records. There is nothing to do with my parents’ properties, for they had been gifted to the children when we were young. The bank accounts are in joint names between him and my mother. They need to be transferred to my mother. I also must convert my father’s pension into a widow’s pension for her.

We go through my father’s possessions. My brother takes his wedding ring. I take his silver waist chain that belonged to his father. I will give that to my son, a relic spanning four generations. I pick his Parker pen, a fountain pen I admired as a kid. My father’s Citizen watch, which I bought for him twenty-five years ago, goes to my brother.

I head to the Department of Pensions in Colombo to transfer my father’s pension. Going into a government office in Sri Lanka is like going to another planet. The government workers have no idea about citizen service. Hiding behind counters, they do not know how to smile. They find the vaguest excuse to send people who come for service astray. I am shocked at how they treat people. Their desks are full of brown paper files, gathering dust. Efficiency is foreign to them. I push them hard. I ask to see their bosses persisting in my mission to sort out my mother’s pension. When they attend to me, they ask for documents over documents. I am shocked when they want to keep my father’s original death certificate. I ask them to make a photocopy of the original. They say the worker who makes photocopies is away. I cannot believe that they employ someone to make photocopies instead of doing it themselves. Opening their barriers, I walk to the photocopier, intending to make a copy myself. They come after me as if I was a criminal. I do not give in. I do not take no for an answer. They squander my time. Sri Lankan public servants are hard-wired to waste their citizens’ time.

I head to the banks with my mother and brother to close her accounts. These simple banking transactions cannot be done over the counter. We are forced to see the bank managers for action. Finally, after wasting many hours, accounts are closed. I am appalled to see how inefficient banking systems and processes are. Everything is designed to deflect and chase customers away.

Well, those things are beyond my control. I wonder how my father put up with these things.

My kid brother and I spend another four weeks with our mother, grieving, sorting everything and helping her to settle back.

Back in Sydney, after one month, I go to therapy. I come to accept my loss. Losing my father became a game-changer for me. His death prompts me to think hard that my time here is limited. I think of my limited time with my father, who was generous to unleash a boy-man to the outside world. I vow to be an even better father to my four children, cherishing them every day and raising them well.

Postscript:- It took eight more months for the Department of Pensions to transfer my father’s pension to my mother; that’s how inefficient they are. My mother was lucky that she had access to other financial resources. I shudder to think of the other widowers and widows in Sri Lanka who are not so fortunate.

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In respect of the dispossessed in Sri Lanka, copying these images is prohibited. They are published here to highlight the marginalised in my old country.