Farewell mother
The essay was written a month after my mother’s death in April 2012.
My mother passed away peacefully in her sleep. It was unexpected, and her children were all over the world when it happened. My brother and I were on opposite corners of the globe. I live in Sydney, Australia, while he lives in Winnipeg, Canada. My sister, who lives in Sri Lanka, had fortunately visited her that morning.
Her death has allowed me to reflect on my relationship with her. I only spent 16 years of my life with her. I left Sri Lanka for Dubai at a young age, leaving my parents behind. I was not home for five years, between the ages of 12 and 16, while I was in a boarding school for young boys who aspire to become Christian brothers. In retrospect, I was under my mother’s care for only 20% of my life. But she made a terrific impact and a powerful influence on my life.
My mother not only took care of her family, but she also opened her home to a large extended family. My father’s mother, her elder brother, her younger sister, her mother, who was regularly brought in from a mental asylum, her paternal aunt, and her husband all lived with us. Taking care of her mother was difficult due to her mental condition. On top of that, we had three grandmothers and a granduncle in our home.
Despite all of that and the occasional chaos, our house was always filled with chatter and a sense of our heritage. Our childhood was filled with pride in our legacy and lineage, which inspired me to my destiny in the years to come.
My mother was naturally beautiful, tall and fair. She never wore makeup. Instead, she tied her long black hair elegantly. Her uncut hair, when untied, was long up to her knees. As a young boy, I could not understand why young men on the street would stare at my mother.
With my first ever pay, at the age of eighteen, I bought her a saree as a gift. I had to pay nearly three-quarters of my pay to get her that saree. She cherished it forever, which was in her possession until she died. Not only this saree, but she also had some of my baby clothes preserved in her wardrobe for decades.
As a youth, my relationship with my mother was complex; my mother found that her eldest son was too outgoing for her liking. As a result, I was not at home often and spent too much time out on the road and with my friends.
As a young kid, I dreamt of leaving Sri Lanka and exploring the world when I grew up. Fate would ensure that the dream would come true sooner than I thought. At age 21, when I got an unexpected opportunity to go to Dubai, where I had to leave in under ten days, I would have surprised my mother and father.
At that time in the seventies, going overseas was a privilege. In an era when there were no cheap phone calls and no internet, the parting was felt much more profound, unlike today when the world has become such a small place due to cheap flights and accessible technologies. But, at no time did they both discourage me from leaving them.
As I fell asleep the night before my flight, my mother entered my bedroom. I was too tired to get up. I remained lying in my bed. She sat on the ground near my head and pillow. She put her hand on my head. She was crying. I was dumb-struck. This was nothing like her; my mother was always the tough one, never the one to show her emotions. I could not figure out, head or tail, of these distressing emotions from my mother, whom I thought was the toughest character in our household, for that matter, on the planet. Breaking down, her eyelids red, “You are always special, my eldest, my firstborn; I was afraid that you’d die when you contracted whooping cough when you were a toddler. I am sorry if I have been too hard on you”. My mother did not take her hand out of my head, her fingers stroking through my hair; with tears, she was telling me how much she loved me, her little boy. It was such a surprise to me to see my mother like that. It was such a shock that I was physically incapable of grasping what was happening. I was too dumb to reciprocate and respond to her. Instead, I listened, taking it all in. She touched my face. It was one of those rare occasions of intimacy with my mother. It was the second time I saw her cry in front of me. The first time was when my grandpa died.
I left Sri Lanka for Dubai when I was young. I had to learn to look after myself, and I quickly matured. I became responsible and successful in my career in international banking, specialising in technology. I ensured my parents had everything they needed to live comfortably in their own space.
My sister got married, and my younger brother graduated. I got married and had four children. Sometime later, I left Dubai and settled in Australia, one of the best first-world countries. My brother settled in Canada, married, and had two children. My sister, who remained in Sri Lanka, had four children, but three of her children have migrated to Australia.
I only returned to Sri Lanka for short holidays. First, I visited as a young lad, later as a married man with many kids in tow, and finally, after my kids had grown up, as a mature son to look after my parents’ well-being.
Some 25 years after I left home, in 2002, my father passed away in Sri Lanka. His death was sudden, and after a short mourning period, my mother confidently took charge of her life. She oversaw our family estate, properties, rentals, finances, and other matters.
She was a widow for nearly ten years. Since my father’s death, I wanted to ensure my mother’s well-being without her anchor, my father. So I travelled to Sri Lanka yearly to spend time with her and assure her.
My mother did not like too much interference in her life, even from her children. She refused to have live-in help or maids and instead relied on visiting helpers. Nevertheless, she was determined and ran the family affairs diligently, sometimes surprising me with her independence.
During her later years, she depended on my sister, the students renting our second house on the same property, the domestic helpers, gardeners, and, more importantly, our neighbours. She felt safe in her home and neighbourhood. She would attend church and talk to the neighbours, albeit briefly. As a widow, she continued to maintain a close network of relatives from her and my father’s sides.
We have many relatives who are not in the same league as us on both sides of the family, and my mother never made a distinction of that difference throughout her life, just as my father did.
I am super neat and ultra-tidy because of her. I learned the art of housekeeping from her. I fold clothes and linen just like the way she taught me. These are a few of her skills and influences on my life, powerful impacts, nevertheless, not written here.
I am fortunate to be her son, her eldest son. It was a privilege, Mary Susan Jayawardane.
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Images and artwork belong to Denzil Jayasinghe.
The below version is curated by ChatGPT; The original story above:-
My mother’s passing was peaceful and in her sleep. It came as a shock to my siblings and me; we were scattered around the world. My younger brother was in Winnipeg, Canada, while I was in Sydney, Australia. Fortunately, my sister, who lived in Sri Lanka, had visited her that morning.
My mother's passing has allowed me to reflect on my relationship with her. Although I spent only 16 years with her, she profoundly impacted my life. Even though I was away from home for five years during my formative years, she left an indelible mark on me.
Growing up, our home was filled with a large extended family, including my grandmother, aunt, uncle, and mentally ill great-grandmother. Yet, despite the chaos, our house was always filled with laughter and a sense of heritage. My mother was crucial in nurturing our family and instilling pride in our legacy.
My mother was beautiful in every sense of the word. Tall and fair, she never needed makeup to enhance her natural beauty. Her long, black hair was always styled elegantly and reached her knees when untied. As a young boy, I remember men on the street staring at her in awe.
One of my earliest memories was using my first paycheck at 18 to buy her a saree. It was a hefty amount of my earnings, but she treasured it until the day she passed away. She also kept some of my baby clothes in her wardrobe for decades.
As a young man, my relationship with my mother was somewhat complicated. I was too outgoing for her taste and spent too much time on the road and with friends. However, when I left for Dubai at 21 to start a new life, my mother showed me the depth of her love. The night before my flight, she came to my bedside, tears streaming down her face, expressing her sadness at letting go of her eldest child. From that moment on, I promised myself o bring joy to my parents and leave behind my rebellious ways.
I matured quickly in Dubai, where I pursued a successful career in international banking, specialising in technology. I ensured my parents were comfortable and cared for, and my siblings also found success in their careers and families.
I never returned to Sri Lanka except for short visits, and after my father’s passing, I prioritised visiting my mother every year to ensure her well-being. Despite her desire for independence, I wanted to be there for her, but I respected her wishes and did not interfere in her life too much.
My mother was a widow for nearly ten years and ran the family affairs with determination and efficiency, relying on visiting helpers rather than live-in staff. She was a strong, independent woman until the day she passed away, and I am grateful for the time I had with her.
