The Wedding and the Waking:

Denzil Jayasinghe

4 min read

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2 days ago

A Tapestry of Mabima, 1968–1972

Itwas the year 1968, and the village of Mabima was stirred awake – not by wind or rain, but by the rustle of silk, the clink of wedding plates, and the footsteps of relatives arriving one by one like homing birds. Mabima Seeya’s second daughter, Susan – who shared a name with my own mother – was to be married, and for a time, all the hills around our ancestral home seemed to lean in to listen.

Preparations took on a life of their own. The scent of sweets and freshly ground spices drifted from the kitchen, wrapping itself around guava trees, veranda railings, and children’s laughter. In the old house, one could hear the broom’s soft scrape, the chime of borrowed crockery, and the calls of aunts and cousins in every room.

Mabima Seeya moved about in his white drill suit – at other times, in a crisp white sarong – with the quiet authority of a man who had watched over many seasons, but knew this one was special. He wasn’t just arranging a wedding. He was holding together a tapestry of kinship, a family empire, threading it with care so nothing frayed.

On the day before the wedding, we made our way to Mabima. The sun was kind, casting long shadows across the red earth and the half-built hearths of outdoor cooking fires. The house was already full – relatives in corners sipping tea, cousins running about with sweet buns in hand. That afternoon, Reginold arrived. He was Susan’s bridegroom, young but composed, carrying a folded saree, wrapped in brown paper in his hands the way one might carry a newborn – gently, reverently.

He was from Eldeniya, my maternal grandfather’s village. I remember thinking how right it seemed, as if a circle was closing quietly. When Reginold spoke, sitting in the verandah, his voice mingled with our own, and there was no unease in the room. That, too, felt like a blessing.

I would come to know Reginold and Susan better in the years that followed. They had a daughter soon after their wedding, and during the church feast in Mabima, I saw the little one held close by her mother. A second daughter came not long after. My father grew fond of Reginold – two quiet men who spoke like old friends – and while they sat under the coconut trees talking, I played nearby, the village around me like a lullaby that never ended.

Sometimes, I’d spot Regi Uncle at the bus stand on my way to school, dressed in his usual light blue shirt and white trousers – though in memory, they seem more cream than white, softened perhaps by the morning light. He’d give a curt nod, maybe say a word or two. There was something immovable about him, like the old jak tree that stood at the edge of our garden – deep-rooted, unshaken. He rarely said much, but when he did, you listened.

Then one day, in 1972, the message came. Reginold had died. There was no warning. My parents left for Mabima in haste. I was old enough to go with them to the funeral.

In the quiet funeral house of Sapugaskanda, Reginold’s sudden death at 32 was officially blamed on a heart attack. But in the surrounding village, old superstitions quickly took over – many believed the cause was the west-facing front door, said to invite death. As family members mourned, some clung to familiar beliefs, turning away from science and reason in favour of tradition and folklore, finding comfort in old explanations even amidst profound grief.

The burial was to be at Eldeniya, where his roots lay.

But what I remember most, and perhaps always will, is Aunty Susan at the burial ground. As the men lowered the coffin, she fell to her knees, her cries piercing the stillness. She clutched the casket and pleaded with Reginold to return – to open his eyes, to look after her and their two little girls.

Candles burned around her like silent witnesses. Mabima Seeya stood quietly, wiping his eyes. Achchie beside him, grief in her folded hands. Ethel Aunty held the children close – two little girls, wide-eyed, not quite knowing what had been taken from them.

In time, the village would return to its usual rhythm. The curry leaves would rustle again. A new season would come. But that day remains with me still, a quiet place in memory, lit by the flickering of funeral candles and the sound of a woman’s cry echoing through the trees.