Chirping sounds of birds filtered through the open window grills. The soothing sound of a koel bird intercepted the repetitive chirps — a calming playlist first thing in the morning.
Then the sounds of the family radio of holy sermons, the Buddhist Pali Gatha, followed by Catholic preaching. A dose of religion before the start of the day was mandatory. Being good and virtuous was baked into children’s DNA.
This is how my day started in a quiet village, some ten kilometres north of the capital of Colombo, in Sri Lanka, where I am from and raised. It was a great way to start the day in tune with nature.
Where I grew up was a small commune where loosely erected fences marked the properties. Everything belonged to everyone. The land, fruit trees and shared playgrounds in the collective. No barricades. Open social connections. It was the polar opposite of modern-day gated villas. It was a mini-state with socialist democracy. Kids grew up not knowing barriers and classes. Sparse fences were there to cross and creep through. Collaboration with and respect for each other was ingrained.
Kids going to city schools mingled with the kids from the village schools, not knowing the stark differences in society and education standards.
The story of Mudiyansegewatta was written centuries ago. Everybody was related to everybody. Two, three, four and five generations ago. Everybody was a son, a daughter, an uncle, an aunty, a grandfather, and a grandmother. One could never escape the relationships. You belonged to everyone. You were common property.
Everybody smiled at each other. Everyone told stories. Grandmothers, grandfathers, grandaunts, granduncles. Stories of generations ago.
Everyone walked on ancestral land, passed down by generations before us. Extending respect to neighbours, relatives and everyone on the street, fellow uncles, aunties and fellow brothers and sisters.
On the gravel road linking the commune’s homes, the kids were heading to school. Fathers and uncles, some wearing pants and some wearing white sarongs, were heading to work on foot or their bicycles. Grandfathers and grandmothers assembled in their front verandas. Grandfathers cleared their throats for the whole neighbourhood to hear. They virtually growled. Standing near the gravel road, Grandmothers chatted with the boys and girls walking past. Grandfathers, with their grey beards, smoked black cigars. Grandmothers combed their grey hairs in public in full view of the neighbourhood. Mothers swept the gardens with garden brooms. Lives lived only and on display.
A few grandfathers wearing coats and grandmothers with white veils walked to the church for daily mass. They did not bother with mundane tasks like sweeping or smoking, instead choosing to invest in their life beyond death.
At the church, the bell rang multiple times to let the neighbours know that mass would start. It was a bell designed to remind everyone that the church was the cornerstone of this small village.
A passing tricycle that delivered bread to the households went by. The delivery man, wearing khaki pants and a vest, was a household figure, bringing bread and tasty pastries from a bakery in Colombo. A bullock cart with a man without a vest passed by, delivering firewood to the neighbourhood.
Before I was born, my destiny was set in my neighbourhood. I was Lewis’s grandson, Thomas’s son, Susan’s son, Barbara’s grandson, and so and so’s someone. It was a life lived with our hearts, eyes, and ears in the neighbourhood. I belonged to everyone. I was a shared property. Everyone had a say in my well-being.
Everyone had a right to ask me where I was heading. What are you studying? What grade are you now? Did you pass the exam? Oh my! Have you not grown so quickly? Then the comments. You are tall. You have grown up. You look like your mother. Oh, you look like your father. You got your grandfather’s smile. Everyone felt free to ask and comment. I was a homegrown product for community review. Everyone was. It was where boys and girls learned the art of active listening with ears wide open. It was where everyone learned to smile bright and wide.
These are memories of my street, growing up as a boy, inshrined with a legacy. They are narratives of a world gone by. They have become chapters in my life story, my descendants’ stories. In 2022, it is their legacy from centuries ago in Sri Lanka, some eight thousand kilometres away from Australia, where my story is penned.
Cyril Stanley A story of gratitude — Denzil recalls a friend who looked out for him in his budding years in Sri Lanka Denzil Jayasinghe 11 min read · Aug 27, 2022 1 Give us a bit of background on how you met Cyril. It was the seventies in the sleepy village of Dalugama , my ancestral hometown, some ten kilometres from Colombo. With their flared bell bottoms and Afro-style hair, it was easy to notice Cyril and his younger brother Edward. I’d bump into the duo in the neighbourhood as I walked home after a day at college. A casual hello greeting turned into a conversation and an evolving friendship with the duo at an age when making friends was effortless. However, it was Cyril who reached out to me first. What did the brothers look like? C yril was a younger version of Smokey Robinson and his brother, Edward, a junior Lionel Richie but darker. Both had curly hair, grown long, copying the Afro-American idols of the seventies. Smokey Robinson, Cyril Stanley lookalike Where did they
My experiences of rebellions How waves of violence in Sri Lanka broke a young man’s heart Warning — Distressing scenes described in this story. A YOUTH INSURRECTION DURING MY BOYHOOD 1971 — There was a strong student and youth socialist movement styled on the “Che Guevara” clique. Many poor, unemployed and underprivileged young people joined this movement. My two elder cousins, my father’s brother’s children, Sisira and Marie, were also in this rebel group. In their home. They replaced Jesus’s picture with that of Mao Zedong and Che Guevara. Both of them, teenagers, boldly spoke about a future socialist society. A society in which everyone was equal in Sri Lanka. Young as I was, it was a bit gibberish to me. In April 1971, the movement turned violent. The insurrection began when the rebels started attacking police stations. The Sri Lankan government responded by deploying armed forces with brutal force. Rebels cut power lines and blocked roads with trees in the countryside. Schools wer
Arya Sinhala This story is about the significance of this costume in my family and its cultural relevance. My father wore shirts and pants as any English-educated Sri Lankan male did back in the day. Everybody gave their children English names. I am named Denzil Bernard. A few years after I was born, in the 1950s, Sri Lanka was trying to assert its ethnic identity, a decade after it gained independence from Great Britain. A new prime minister, espousing an ethnocentric identity, came into power. Emulating Indian leaders’ post-independence direction, he gave up his Western attire, despite his Oxford education and wore the national dress, Arya Sinhala. Arya is an ethnic and cultural designation to which the Sinhala race makes claims. The cultural transformation started in my family. My sister, born four years after me, was named Rekha Flora. She had an ethnic name and a Western name. Occasionally my father donned the national dress. My father’s elder brother ultimately gave up his West
4 min read·Dec 22, 2022
Comments
Post a Comment