A Whisper from Grandpa’s Ageless Sanctuary

2 min read

Ashort walk from the noise of the main road, my grandfather’s house waited — patient, unchanging. Sixty-five years had passed, but the house stood as it always had, its walls holding the quiet of another time. Once, there had been open fields around it, and next door, pineapple plantations stretched far in Bandarawatta, their sharp leaves glinting under the sun. And there, at number 635, his life remained — small, certain, complete.

The verandah stretched forward, its sloping roof supported by thick pillars. Three arched windows lined the side, their curves soft in the afternoon light. Against the wall inside, an almirah stood heavy with books, their spines cracked with age, their pages holding words no one read anymore.

At the centre of the verandah, a teapoy, its surface covered in stiff white cloth, held a brass bowl resting on three elephants — their trunks raised as if in silent celebration. Armchairs, worn smooth by years of use, sat close together, their cushions sagging slightly.

Inside, the living room was dominated by a great ebony table — built for my mother’s wedding feast. It had carried the weight of food, laughter, the clatter of plates — all of it now just a memory pressed into its dark wood. On the walls, satin rabbits and ducks had been stitched with care, their beads catching the light. A mother hen with her cotton chicks sat frozen in time, their threads still bright.

Behind it all, the two-storey bungalow rose, its arches framing the sky. Its grounds were dotted with coconut trees that swayed in the breeze. The driveway curled around the property, wide enough for cars that rarely came.

Beside the main road, three shops belonged to my grandfather. Two were rented out; the third was given freely to his nephew and niece, Vincent and Mary, who lived there without paying a rupee. The owner of one shop drove a Hilman — a fact noted, remembered, but never discussed. Grandpa occasionally rented the Hillman when he went out, the car’s engine coughing to life like a reluctant old servant.

Time had moved on, but in that house — no, in that world — the air still carried the past, thick with things left unspoken.

Had my mother learned to sew those satin animals from her mother? I liked to think so. The rabbits, the ducks, and the hen with her brood must have come from my grandmother’s hands, each stitch a small, steady act of love.