Being ‘Thaththi’

“If I said that I loved you,
If I said that I need you,
If I said that I want you,
What would you do?”

My daughter ‘Masha’ sings in tune with the young lady singing on the radio, her twin sister ‘Shasha’ looks at her with a grin on her face, I smile to myself as I look at them. At five-and-a-half years, I am sure Masha does not really comprehend the meaning of the words of the song in the context of which they were written, but as I look at her, my mind races back to 2000.

The month is December, and I am standing with sweaty palms and anxiously beating heart, as my wife is wheeled away into the delivery room of the hospital. My mind is in a whirl, and I do not know if I should sit down, stand or walk. So I do all of the above alternatively. She looks at me and smiles; as always she is a lot more composed than I.

My brother-in-law, a doctor, comes by and grabs my shoulder to reassure me that everything will be fine. I am glad that he will be at her side during the operation. Our mothers smile reassuringly at me, but I can see the strain etched into their faces.

My wife is about to give birth to twins by Caesarian section. We found out that we were going to be parents to twins only seven months into our pregnancy.

Questions shoot through my brain. Did we take enough nourishment for both babies? Will they be normal? How will my wife stand up to the surgery? I shake my head to dispel these foreboding images and thoughts that whirl endlessly through it. Luckily we have an excellent surgeon who will be in charge of the operation.

My mind goes back a few years. It had not been an easy time for us. Both of us love kids, and we longed for a child of our own for several years. I remember the long days we prayed for a child, the long nights when we both cried and wondered why we had not been blessed so far. We tried all sorts of medical procedures; we had the experts who told us conceiving a child was ‘impossible’ for us.

Then one glorious day a lab report proclaims the pregnancy test is ‘weakly positive’. I don’t think either of us saw the word ‘weakly’ at all. We were so ecstatic at seeing the ‘positive’, after endless treks to the lab and coming back heart-broken and disappointed.

“Putha, putha,” I hear someone calling me from far away, and I realise that it is my mother. “Are you okay?” I realise that my mind has been far away. I assure my mother that I am fine.

I look at the clock. It is 6.55 in the morning. Suddenly an inner door of the theatre opens. My brother-in-law comes up to the outer door in his theatre clothes and looks at me with a broad smile. “Ayya, you have two beautiful girls, and Akka is doing fine” he says. To me those words mean the world. Within a few minutes a nurse brings my precious daughters out of the theatre, and hands them over to my wife’s mother, who is herself a nursing sister at the hospital. I see her wide smile of relief and joy, as she shows the girls to us. I see my mother wiping the tears that stream unabashedly down her face.

That day in December 2000, life came full circle for us. All the years of heartache, all the endless days of despair, of disappointment were gone. At 6.49 and 6.50 that beautiful December morning, God blessed us with two precious gifts, for which we had longed for so long.

The days and months race by. I watch as my tiny children grow. We keep a very watchful eye on them, as they were both underweight at birth. Each night we took it in alternate turns to stay up and watch these two tiny creatures. Sleep was a luxury that was easily put aside (it still is sometimes). We moved out of the house where we lived in close proximity to Colombo to the suburbs, to where the mosquitoes do not outnumber humans 2000 to one, and where the air is a lot cleaner, and we have pure fresh water from our own well.

During the past five-and-a-half years I have watched as our tiny morsels of life have grown to become two beautiful young girls, with a penchant for Barbie and Winx club dolls. They have now got to learn to share and care for their younger brother ‘Shav’, who we were blessed with much to our surprise and delight when we did not expect to have any more joy bestowed upon us.

I look at my son and my two daughters, and as I do so, I feel pleasure and pain at the same time.

The pleasure derived from all the little acts of love that we as a family have shown each other over the past years. The pleasure in seeing their eyes light up when they see me and their mother coming back from work. The pleasure in the kisses and hugs and the little endearments they shower on us. 

The pleasure when they say “Ammi and Thaththi, we love you”. The pleasure from seeing them grow and acquire preferences. The pleasure in seeing the same delight, even if we buy them a very expensive toy or a chocolate for five rupees, when that is all we can afford. The immense sense of pride I feel when I see my daughters dressing up for school in the morning (grade one has been such an adventure for them).

The pain comes from the knowledge that I have sometimes been unable to comprehend the fact that my family is the most precious and invaluable gift in life. The pain that comes from being unable to understand that material wealth fades into oblivion in the face of true love, and the bond that exists between parents and children, and within the framework of a solid family. The pain for having wasted a few years of my life, and theirs, in search of worldly treasures, which have sadly left me none the richer, but definitely a lot wiser.

I thank God that I was able to see that my family and my children are the most important things I can get in my life, before I had wasted even more time.

I think of what George Moore said, “A man travels the world in search of what he needs, and returns home to find it.” It is so, so true. I have been there and realised that on my own accord. We may be facing the hardest time yet in our lives, but with the love of our family to raise us above all the trials and tribulations, we will pull through. We will prevail.

I worry every day that I may not be able to provide them with all that they need. Then my children remind me that what they need is US. They need their mother and father. To them everything else is secondary. As Masha, Shasha and Shav remind us everyday,“We love you and need you, so please don’t grow old or go away.”

I look at Masha again as she continues to sing, tossing her head in tune. She has now been joined by her sister, and my son is clapping his hands with his customarily huge grin on his face.

I realize now that to them the most important role I can play in their lives is “being Thaththi”.

( This article appeared in the Sunday Times - Plus features section on Sunday June 11, 2006 -  http://sundaytimes.lk/060611/plus/Features.html )

Tales From Thalpawila - 3

Hoda Mama !

“Bada mahaththayo”

“Bada mahaththayo”

That is how he greets me as he comes home everyday from work. My uncle who I call “Hoda Mama”.

He works at the Education Dept in Matara. He leaves my Grandma’s home in Thalpawila early each day and goes to work carrying a bag made of leather. The bag holds his lunch packet which my grandma packs for him each morning before he leaves home. It also has his assortment of cigars or “suruttu” and his pipe and tin of tobacco.

Hoda mama is not a big made man, in fact he is probably the smallest in size from all my mother’s brothers. But for me he is the biggest in stature for the amazing love and compassion he shows.

Each day in the evening I gaze at the road waiting for him to turn the corner to my grandma’s house. He walks along the road that borders the land before turning into the path that leads up to the house. Each day he brings me something good to eat.

His bag is a treasure trove for me, and from it appear all kind of goodies. Chocolates, Toffees, Lollipops and all kinds of sweets, and on some days he brings a delicious roll made of egg and savoury filling.

He calls me “Bada mahaththayo”, meaning the gentleman with the big stomach, but he is mostly responsible for it! And I love him all the more for it.

He loves to sit in his easy chair and smoke a cigar or his pipe. He buys the most foul smelling Jaffna cigars and loves to puff on them while turning the edge round and round in his mouth while the tip glows a bright red.

The pipe he smokes is a wonder to behold. He fills it from the top with tobacco he takes from a round tin. This tobacco smells really good as he says it is imported from England.  He stuffs a bit of tobacco into the mouth of the pipe then uses a small stick to push the tobacco down the pipe, after he does this a few times he taps the pipe and once he is satisfied he lights a match and holds it to the mouth of the pipe and puffs on it till the tobacco lights up and smoke puffs out of his mouth in a steady stream. Once he gets it going he can keep puffing on it for a few hours till it is really dark and my grandma calls him in for dinner. He then turns the pipe over and taps out the tobacco and cleans the pipe before putting it back into his bag. He repeats the same ritual each time and I never get tired of watching him.

“Hoda mama”, never gets angry. He has an immense capacity to tolerate people. He is very soft spoken and always does everything at his own pace however fast the world around him moves.

He is very well read and loves to read the newspapers or listen to the radio. On some days he goes for a walk along the village road and I tag along behind. He visits “Raamahera mama’s” house once in a while. This is an uncle who is friends with him.

He picks ripe “biling” from the tree near our well and gives them to me to eat. This is one of the most sour fruits on earth and even when ripe it makes your saliva run in buckets. He loves it and I try to do my best to develop the same taste but fail each time.

He walks through all life’s travails and pitfalls with the same ease and at the same pace that he takes life’s successes.

He teaches the value of tolerance and perseverance and of loving and caring.

He is always there when you need him and when you feel lonely.

He is the “Madduma putha” of my Grandma or the son born in the middle of all the children.

He is known as “Maddu uncle” to my cousins but to me he will always be my “Hoda mama”.

Tales From Thalpawila - 2

Embul Thiyal for England !

“Podi puthata yawanna embul thiyal tikak hadanna oney”

I hear my grandma talking to my uncle as he sits in his easy chair or “haansi putuwa” in the verandah one evening.

My mother had 05 brothers, who were known by different names relating to their ages , I have a “Loku mama” a “Punchi Mama’ a “Podi Mama” and a “Hinni mama” ( those of you from the south will know punchi, podi and hinni all mean small, so I basically had three small uncles!) but the one I liked best was “Hoda mama” (Hoda means good and he was the epitome of goodness).

My grandma was talking to “Hoda mama” as he used to live with my grandma in the village to look after her. “Podi mama” lived in England and he was rarely seen by us.

So whenever someone from Sri Lanka went to England it was customary to send Sri Lankan food and sweets to your loved ones through those going to that country. Looking back I am sure this must have been an extremely arduous task but those entrusted with the task I remember bore it with great patience.

“Heta mama maalu karayagen balayek aragena embul thiyal karala gannam”.

“Embul thiyal” or dry, black, fish curry is made from Tuna fish (balaya) and no one makes it quite like the people from the south of Sri Lanka. My grandma is an expert and I love to watch her making this very tasty dish.

The next day I am up earlier than usual and sitting on the steps of the verandah to await the arrival of the fish seller who brings a selection of huge tuna fish for my grandmother’s inspection. She inspects each one carefully and selects a fish that is almost as tall as me.

The fish seller cuts the fish according to my grandma’s directions, “Oka embul thiyal walata hariyanna loku keli walata kapanna.” She asks the fish seller to cut the fish into big pieces. “Hodai Iskole hamniey”, he says and proceeds to do as instructed.

Huge clay pots are brought out from the kitchen and the pieces are put into them as they are cut. The fish head is cut and put into a separate pot and I know that this will be turned into a delicious curry for lunch. (If you have not eaten the Matara fish head curry you are missing something.)

After the fish is thoroughly washed and cleaned the ritual of preparing the fish starts.

I watch as my grandma takes big balls of spices she has prepared beforehand and mixes them into the pots. There are black balls of “Goraka” , gleaming red balls of fresh ground chillies, small yellow balls of turmeric and numerous others spices and condiments which are essential to give the “embul thiyal” the aroma and taste that makes it so distinctive.

The fish is coated with the different spices and condiments and then the pots are put on the hearth. In our house we have three hearths. Two made from clay and one made by keeping three large stones in a orderly manner. The fish is cooked in pots kept on the two clay hearths and the process takes quite some time as the fish has to first cook properly and then it has to simmer on the hearth under low heat, till most if not all, of the wetness evaporates and the fish curry is dry and free of moisture to enable it to be packed for its long journey to England.

My grandma sits near the hearths and keeps an eye on the cooking to make sure it is perfect.

I sit on a small chair and watch as she adjusts the flames in the hearth by either putting in or pulling out bits of firewood or coconut husk.

The smell of the embul thiyal as it cooks makes me feel very hungry. I long to open the lid of the pot and look inside but my grandma would not be very pleased with me if I did that, so I quickly decide against doing that.

After what seems an age, “aa, dan hari”, she says and it is finally time to take the pots off the hearth. Once they are off the fire they are left to cool before being packed into tins to be sent to “Podi mama”, all the way in England.

At the same time the fish head curry has been cooking on the stone hearth and it too is ready. My grandma serves red rice, fish head curry and pol sambol on to my plate for my lunch and hands it to me lovingly with a pat on my head.

As I sit down to eat the delicious food I wish “Podi mama” could taste the fish head curry too !

Tales From Thalpawila - 1

Sahayoge !

“Sahayoge aaaawaaaa”

“Sahayoge aaaawaaaa”

The cry erupts in the morning air and sends the birds flying. It also announces the arrival of a man on a foot bike with a big wooden box fitted at the back. The box has a cover made with a few wooden planks fitted together and has a weighing scale hung on the side and a huge knife stuck into a crevice in the box. The man himself is rather young and dressed in a sarong and a white banian and has a thick mop of hair falling over his forehead. His stentorian voice rings out across the village and brings the village folk out of their huts and houses to inspect his wares.

The year is 1972, I am 05 years old, and “Sahayoge” is a local fish seller who comes riding most days through my village, Thalpawila, in the deep innards of Matara.

I run out of my grandma’s house where I spent the early part of my childhood and look up the road. There is a slight hill at the top of the road and I see him come racing down and stop near the turn off to our house.

“Iskole Haminey, Malu oney?”, he shouts from the road calling out to my grandmother. My grandma is a School teacher and a principal long retired but everyone calls her “Isokle Haminey”.

Grandma comes out of the house and waves at “Sahayoge” asking him to come and show her the fish he has for sale.

In a flash the man is riding down the path that leads to the house and he alights grinning from ear to ear.

“Ada showk balayo tikkak thiyeyi, thawa gal malu, panno hemath inno.” The list of fish is rattled off as he talks non stop while showing off the fish in the box.

We had many fish sellers who used to come through our village, but to me “sahayoge” is fascinating. Where as the others come riding slowly and calling “maalo, maalo”, he always yells “sahayoge aaawaaa” and rides through the village on his bike at top speed. His loud voice can be heard for many a mile and villagers know he is coming long before they actually see him.

He always smiles at everyone he sees and never worries even if you buy from him or not.

He can make the fish in his box seem like works of art from the ocean. The way he holds each variety up and makes them dance in his hands, creates in my mind images of the fish swimming and leaping across the waves. His box has fish of many varieties, colors and sizes and they all seem eager to join in with “sahayoge” to please the customer.  The fish are from the mornings catch from “Gandara wella”, so they are really very fresh.

He throws back his unruly hair and grins at me as I peep over the edge of the box to look.

“Aa, baby mahaththayath aawada?” he calls me affectionately as he holds a huge black and silver fish by the tail.

Grandma selects a fish and “sahayoge”, weighs it using his scale and then takes the huge knife and a wooden board from the side of the fish box and as I watch with my mouth hung open he uses the massive weapon to cut and clean the fish with lightning speed, and puts the pieces into a clay pot which has been brought out. The discarded pieces are thrown to crows and a black and white cat which have been prowling around and they fall upon these with relish.

“Sahayoge”, washes his knife from the water in the bucket near our well and sticks it back into the crevice in his box , and back goes the wooden board with it and the lid is then firmly closed. 

“Aa, menna salli”, he pockets the money that my Grandma gives him and spins the bike around.

“Ehenan, Iskoley Haminey man yano”, he bows to my grandma, who smiles at him.

My grandma takes the pot filled with fish to the kitchen where I know she will make her delicious “Embul Thiyal” with it.

I watch as the bike reaches the top of the path and turns left onto the road that travels the length of our village and joins the main road.

As he flies down the road on his bike I hear him call out,

“Sahayoge aaaawaaaa”