Assoon as I enter Kadayamma’s room, I can tell from her breathing that she’s asleep. It’s weird, but even though I know she’s been lying on the bed the whole time, I feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.
The sunlight streaming through the window illuminates the room. I can see the passion fruit vines outside through the window’s grills. Before Kadayamma fell ill, I helped her to water the vine every week.
The vine shakes in the same pattern whenever the wind blows through the window, blowing the curtain. I sit on my bed, gazing at Kadayamma, holding my breath. She’s sound asleep, unaware that her grandson is in the same room. The room is silent.
On Kadayamma’s bedside are medicine bottles, tablets, and a glass of water. It’s my mother who takes care of Kadayamma’s illness. Lately, Kadayamma has been getting sick. I’m not used to this. I don’t understand why older people get sick so often. Kadayamma got ill a few months ago, but after a week, she got better and resumed her usual routine. I hope she recovers soon.
I think Kadayamma will pass away soon and won’t be here anymore.
Perhaps I’ll die with her. Whenever I walk past the church, I feel a creaking pain in my chest. Maybe I have a hole in my heart. Maybe I, too, will die soon. Perhaps we’ll both go to heaven, then? Maybe God will punish me and not take me to heaven.
I try to push these thoughts away, but they always come back, especially at night when I hear Kadayamma cough.
I notice her pillow and the mat. Kadayamma weaved that mat. I helped her to pick the jute from the paddy field. I can see her bedpan. My mother empties it first thing in the morning before I get up. I’ve never seen Kadayamma use it. Maybe she does it secretly when I’m fast asleep.
I close my eyes for a moment. Kadayamma is sleeping peacefully as if I’m not even there. Does she know that I’m watching her? Now, she’s making slight breathing noises. I heard my parents discussing that Kadayamma has a bad heart, and it’s hard for her to breathe.
The Kadayamma who is sleeping, and the Kadayamma who will pass away soon. Are they the same Kadayamma?
I remember a photo in my parents’ album of Kadayamma carrying me as a toddler. I’m only wearing a waistband. Everyone can see my butt. Kadayamma wasn’t as skinny and was much healthier back then. She is smiling in that photo. I hope we can go back to those times.
Is it the same Kadayamma who used to pick me up from school, make rice balls to eat, wash my bottom when I pooped, and comfort me whenever my mother punished me? Is it the same Kadayamma who would sit next to me and listen to me talk when my mother is furious with me?
I feel guilty for taking twenty rupees from her jewellery box. Does she know that I took some of her money? I hope not. I was broke and desperately needed the money. I hope she doesn’t think her grandson is a thief. I am sorry Kadayamma. When I start working, I will put the twenty Rupees back. No
Kadayamma’s white jacket is folded and kept ready. Did my mother prepare it in case Kadayamma needs to see the doctor? Where is her silver hairpin with semi-precious stones? I want to keep it in case she passes away before me.
And now, as she sleeps, I wonder if she will be the same Kadayamma when she wakes up. If Kadayamma leaves us, where will she go? The weight in my chest grows heavier at the thought. I wish to die with her or before her. But she is still here, and I shouldn’t think such thoughts. I pray for her recovery and promise to do everything she asks of me. I will never be rude to her again.
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
3 min read·Apr 23
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