Mygrandma, Kadayamma, had been unwell for some time. I was worried about her, and I told my friends in my inner circle that she was not doing well. But they didn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation. For them, grandparents getting sick and passing away was a normal part of life. But I couldn’t accept that Kadayamma could be gone soon.
One day, she got worse, and the local priest visited her and gave her the last rites. I was scared and sad, but miraculously, Kadayamma survived that scare. However, my worries didn’t go away, and I always thought about her. I even wondered why old people had to get sick and couldn’t be healthy like me.
But fate had something else in store for me. I was heading to Colombo by bus when something told me to return home. So, interrupting the journey and forgoing the bus fare, I got off the bus and returned home. And it was a good thing I did. Half an hour after my return, Kadayamma’s health took a turn for the worse. The time was around six in the evening.
My father, mother, and our helpful neighbours William and Mary were with Kadayamma in the room I shared with her. I wanted to join them, but my father asked me to stay outside the bedroom. But I wanted to be there with her, so I stayed near the door, peering over.
I could hear Kadayamma cry in pain and my mother and Mary praying. William asked me to get a glass of water, which I immediately fetched from the kitchen. Gradually, Kadayamma’s wailing slowed down and became very faint. All this while, I watched this, nonplussed, near the door. I listened to her breathing sounds as she breathed her last.
I was so lost in what was happening; I was helpless. I did not know where my sister and brother were.
My father decided that Kadayamma’s funeral would be simple. She would be buried the next day, a Sunday. Superstitious Sri Lankans did not bury their dead on Sundays. He also said that his mother would not be embalmed, and her body would be returned to her maker without blemish.
My father left home on his bicycle to telegraph the relatives and arrange funereal logistics.
The undertakers came in, dressed up Kadayamma and put her in a coffin. The wooden coffin was brought into the hall, a huge cross placed behind her and candles on either side. Kadayamma was dressed in a white kebaya-style blouse and a cloth with black and white polka dots. A rosary was wrapped in her palms. Her coffin was a simple one, just like her life was.
Decorating the streets for Kadayamma’s funeral procession was the responsibility on my young shoulders. As the family’s eldest child, I knew it was my chance to honour her memory in the best way possible. I felt the task’s weight as soon as I took it on.
With less than 24 hours before the burial, time was running out. I reached out to my friends for help. Cyril, Edward, Suneth, Nelum, Mahinda, Leonard, Merrill, Shirley, and Nimal answered my call immediately, showing up at my doorstep within minutes, ready to lend a hand. They could see the sorrow in my eyes and knew I needed their support to get through this difficult time.
As we began our work into the night, I felt mixed emotions. I was grateful for the help of my friends. Their company comforted me and reminded me I was not alone in my grief.
My daring friends climbed the coconut trees and plucked young palm leaves. Then, they made Origami styled decorations by hand from ivory-coloured tender leaves.
The origami-styled decor made by my friends adorned my grandma’s final journey.
We worked tirelessly throughout the night, hanging decorations on both sides of the street leading to the church and the cemetery. The air was thick with sadness and exhaustion, but we persevered. As we worked, memories of Kadayamma rushed through my mind. I remembered her gentle smile and kind eyes and knew I had to make this final journey a beautiful tribute to her life.
My friends stayed by my side until the early morning hours, giving me the strength to carry on. Then, as the sun rose, we finally finished our work. Looking at the decorated street, I felt a sense of pride and sadness. This was the last thing I could do for Kadayamma, and I wanted it to be perfect.
The next day, relatives came to pay their last respects. I was busy with the funereal logistics, helping my father and mother, and playing my role as the eldest son in our family.
I had no time to grieve for her; probably, adrenaline kept me going until then. But my loss hit me hard when her coffin was lowered into her final resting place in the local church cemetery. I realised that I would never see her again. I was struggling to hold back my tears and gave up.
I was heartbroken that I would never see my Kadayamma again. All kinds of memories of Kadayamma were in flashback; memories of her care for me as a toddler and how she took me to school every day when I was in junior school. So here I was, a teenager, on Sunday, 27th October 1974, trying to hold onto my memories of my favourite grandmother, who was part of my life from infancy.
Boys were supposed not to cry, but did I care? No, I had lost my Kadayamma, the only grandmother who understood me. My world had come apart.
Seeing my plight, my friend Cyril held me by my shoulders. He put me on his bicycle saddle and rode me home while holding me. I cried on our way home, on his bicycle, listening to his soothing words.
Kadayamma in 1968, aged 73; This is her last remaining photograph
Following Kadayamma’s funeral, our home was filled with relatives. Among them were Kadayamma’s two surviving brothers, my father’s only brother, their respective families, children and neighbourhood folks. We gathered for a simple meal consisting of plain rice, sambar, dry fish, and pumpkin.
Rather than adhering to the customary practice of holding all-night vigils for seven days, my parents chose to forgo such superstitions. After the meal, my father boldly closed all the doors and windows in our home, challenging this age-old tradition. Despite sleeping in the very same room where Kadayamma had passed away, I did not feel any unease. I slept well to compensate for staying up the previous night.
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