The Tapestry of John Seeya’s Garden

A rhythm of village life in the sixties

Denzil Jayasinghe

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Asthe morning sun climbed higher, the village came to life with a symphony of sounds as comforting as a familiar blanket. The deep rumble of bullock carts filled the air, a rhythmic beat that was the heartbeat of the village. Through the leafy curtain, one could catch sight of the carts’ procession, a fleeting glimpse into the bustling world beyond.

In the heart of John Seeya’s Garden, a boy swung leisurely back and forth on a swing attached to a breadfruit tree. The surrounding tall and majestic trees stood in quiet vigil, their leaves whispering tales of old. This garden, situated close to the house, offered more than just a serene nook — it was a sanctuary of tranquillity against the backdrop of life’s perpetual hum.

The street outside was a vibrant tapestry of life. Children darted about, their laughter a joyful symphony in the wind. Men in pants and shirts and some in vests and sarongs pedalled their bicycles with determined strides, and women, draped in modesty, radiated a quiet strength. Elderly women strolled with a leisurely grace as if time bowed to their will. The street, pulsating with energy, was a living canvas of daily existence.

The day unfolded like a beloved melody, evoking memories of simpler times and treasured moments.

Occasionally, a cart heaped with the day’s harvest and a young boy atop would trundle by. It painted a scene of life’s perpetual motion, set against the backdrop of an elderly man’s leisurely pace, his cane tapping a steady tempo on the ground, an umbrella his constant shadow.

Above, birds sketched patterns in the sky, their flight a ballet of liberty and elegance. From the garden swing, eyes followed their ascent into the endless azure. Clutching the swing’s ropes, the swinger felt like they were strumming a personal anthem.

Each sway was a musical note, rising and falling with the comforting creak of the rope — reminiscent of the static hum from an old song. The air was a tapestry of cool and warm threads, weaving a rhythm akin to a slow dance tune. The swinger moved with uninhibited joy, each arc building upon the last.

On the veranda, John Seeya watched over the scene, his cigar a faint glow against the dimming daylight. Beside him, his wife, Rosa Nanda, sat, her lips stained with the mark of betel — a tradition as enduring as the rhythmic sway of the swing.

Midday brought a surge of anticipation as an elephant majestically arrived at John Seeya’s expansive property, ready to haul heavy logs. The neighbourhood children swarmed to the front yard, eager to witness the spectacle. The colossal beast, guided by a mahout, toiled diligently, shifting logs with precision. The mahout’s commands, though foreign to human ears, were understood by the elephant. Rosa Nanda led the women in observation while John Seeya’s eldest grandson, Ashley, gathered and controlled the children, all watching from a respectful distance.

The women burst into soft giggles, exchanging knowing glances. An elderly grandmother commented that the large animal appeared to have five legs, causing the children to glance at the women in confusion, not grasping the joke.

John Seeya stayed on his veranda, undisturbed by the commotion. The children, supervised by the elders, observed the remarkable sight: a large, slow-moving animal with an unusual appearance hefting massive logs onto a bullock cart.

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Sri Lanka