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.
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 ...
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High school Blues A Diary of Despair Denzil Jayasinghe · T his diary is a waste of time. I don’t see the point of writing down my thoughts when they are so obvious. I wouldn’t say I like this school. I hate these people. They are all bigger and stronger than me. They make fun of me for being skinny and smart. They think they are better than me because they can play cricket and rugby and throw punches. They are wrong. In the boarding school, it is even worse. I must share the dormitory with giants who snore like a tractor there. They take up all the space and leave me with a tiny corner. Some eat my food and steal my money. Some call me names and try to drown me while swimming when they feel like it. That is the worst thing that ever happened to me. I wish I could escape from this hell. I wish I could go back to my home, where I was happy and free and had my own room and my things. Where I had friends who liked me for who I was. Where I had teachers who knew me. But I can’t. I am ...
3 min read·Apr 23
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