Whispers in Kochchikade
Whispers in Kochchikade:
A Ceylonese Boy’s Question of Faith
Inthe sweltering heat of a Ceylonese afternoon in 1966, Susan approached the small shop near the Kochchikade Church in Colombo. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint aroma of cinnamon from the nearby market.
“Five candles, please,” Susan said to the shopkeeper, her sari clinging to her skin in the humidity. “One for each member of my family.”
After paying twenty-five cents for the lot, she entered the crowded church, joining the crowd of devotees slowly inching towards St. Anthony’s altar. The ceiling fans whirred overhead, their rhythmic sound a counterpoint to the murmured prayers.
The sight before her was mesmerising. Hundreds of candles blazed in flat metal trays, their collective light casting a warm, orange glow across the sanctuary. Around the trays lay a tapestry of offerings: coins of various denominations, some wrapped in cloth — a visual representation of the hopes and prayers of Ceylon’s diverse populace.
Susan watched as the intense heat caused the candles to melt, their wax pooling in the tray. She took out her five candles and lit them together, then gently blew them out. Following local custom, she repeated this process five times — once for herself, once for her husband Thomas, and once for each of their three children.
After the fifth repetition, with all five candles burning steadily, Susan searched for a place to affix them to the metal tray. Finding space amidst the sea of flickering flames was challenging. Finally, she spotted a small clearing where a few candles had nearly burned out.
As she carefully placed her candles, Susan closed her eyes and silently prayed.
Susan made her way through the crowd towards the statue of St. Anthony. The revered figure stood before her, draped in opulent gold-embroidered fabrics that seemed to shimmer in the flickering candlelight. Precious stones and gold chains adorned the statue, their facets catching and reflecting the warm glow. The abundance of decorations made the saint’s figure appear disproportionately larger than its head.
“Look, Denzil,” Susan whispered to her eldest son, who clung tightly to her arm to avoid getting lost in the sea of worshippers. “Do you see Baby Jesus on St. Anthony’s left arm? See how much he loved Jesus.” She gestured towards the infant figure nestled in the crook of the saint’s arm.
Denzil nodded, his eyes wide with wonder. “The statue shows how St. Anthony loved Jesus,” Susan continued, her voice filled with reverence.
The boy fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in concentration. Then, hesitantly, he asked, “But Amma, how did Jesus, who lived 2000 years ago, come to St. Anthony’s arm as a baby when St. Anthony lived much later?”
Susan, taken aback by her son’s perceptive question, struggled to find an answer. Instead, she gently squeezed his hand and said, “Some things are beyond our understanding, Putha. That’s why we call them miracles.”
Pushing the challenging question aside, Susan bowed her head and joined her hands in prayer. Her thoughts turned to her husband, Thomas, who had recently undergone a hernia operation. She silently wished for his swift recovery and continued good health in the church’s dim, incense-filled air, surrounded by her fellow congregants’ fervent prayers.
As mother and son stood there, Tamil and Sinhala prayers mingled in the air, a reminder of the complex tapestry of cultures that made up their island nation. The Kochchikade church, with its blend of colonial architecture and local decorative elements, seemed to embody the essence of Ceylon in 1966 — a country caught between tradition and modernity, grappling with its religious and cultural identity in the post-colonial era.
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