I was a page boy.
The year was 1958, and Ceylon, a land usually draped in the emerald caress of palm trees and the sapphire shimmer of the sea, was instead cloaked in an unsettling gloom. Whispers of violence and ethnic tensions hung heavy in the air, like the scent of overripe mangoes after a storm. I was but a three-year-old page boy then, my world a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that swirled around the sturdy legs of my grandmother, Kadayamma.
Kadayamma, unlike the flamboyant butterflies flitting through the gossip circles, was a woman of quiet elegance. Her simple white Redda and Hatta, the traditional Sinhalese attire, held the grace of a swan, and her silver Kondakoora hairpin, gifted by her late husband, glittered like a constellation trapped in her neatly coiled hair. But even her serene eyes couldn’t shield me from the tremors that shook our island home.
One day, hushed tones and worried glances painted Kadayamma’s face as she spoke of horrors unfolding on the streets. People were being consumed by flames, she said, tossed into barrels of boiling tar in a frenzy of ethnic madness. The riots, sparked in May, had turned Ceylon’s vibrant tapestry into a canvas of fear and anguish.
Amidst this turmoil, a beacon of light shone through in the form of Samare Uncie, my father’s cousin and Kadayamma’s nephew. Tall and handsome, with a booming laugh that could chase away the darkest shadows, he was a breath of fresh air in our suffocating reality. His visits were like melodies played on a forgotten lute, bringing back forgotten rhythms of joy.
Then came the wedding of Aunty Juliet, my godmother and a schoolteacher, in December. The festivities were a welcome distraction, a chance to swirl in the joyous chaos of music and laughter. The hired Morris Minor, a symbol of progress in our fast-changing world, carried us to Alawwa, a town nestled near Kadayamma’s roots.
My Uncle Mahappa, with his disarming humor and infectious warmth, was the star of the show. He cuddled me on his lap in the Morris Minor, his jokes and stories painting a kaleidoscope of colors on the journey. Unlike my father, clad in his starched suit and tie, Mahappa was the embodiment of Ceylon’s soul, draped in a white national dress that flowed like the very essence of the land.
As I drifted off to sleep on his lap, the rhythmic thrum of the car lulled me into a world where the only flames were those dancing merrily in the wedding lamps, and the only screams were those of jubilant celebration. But even in the depths of sleep, I knew that the shadows still lurked, waiting to pounce. Yet, amidst the fear, there were flickers of hope, tiny flames ignited by the love and laughter of family, reminding me that even in the darkest nights, dawn always came.
The Morris Minor hummed along the dusty road, its emerald gleam battling the relentless sun that beat down on Ceylon. Mahappa, my father’s elder brother, sat on the passenger seat, his hands resting comfortably on my lap. I, a wide-eyed three-year-old, was his captive audience, enthralled by the stories that tumbled out of his lips like ripe mangoes from a laden tree.
Mahappa was a paradox, a man woven from contradictions. His laughter boomed like the ocean waves crashing against the shores of Hendala, my grandfather’s village, yet his eyes held the quiet wisdom of the ancient banyan trees that dotted the landscape. He wore his white Sinhala garb with an effortless grace, a stark contrast to my father’s starched suit and tie, symbolising the new, Westernised Ceylon.
But beneath the surface, we were bound by an invisible thread, a shared love for the island that birthed us. As Mahappa regaled me with tales of mischievous monkeys and cunning foxes, the miles slipped away, the car morphing into a magic carpet ferrying us across the tapestry of our homeland.
The wedding in Alawwa was a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours and joyous chaos. Kadayanma, my grandmother of quiet strength, her silver hair adorned with a glint of moonlight, bustled about, her smile radiating the warmth of the afternoon sun. Aunty Juliet, my godmother, a schoolteacher with eyes that held the sparkle of a thousand fireflies, danced with a youthful abandon that belied her years.
And me, the little page boy, clad in a white silk shirt and pants, I strutted beside the bride and groom, my chest puffed with pride. The hired Morris Minor, a symbol of progress in our changing world, was our chariot, carrying us to a wedding and a celebration of life itself.
But even amidst the revelry, the shadow of the impending ethnic tensions loomed large, a silent storm brewing on the horizon. Whispers of violence and fear clung to the air like the scent of overripe mangoes after a storm. Yet, at that moment, surrounded by love and laughter, the darkness seemed to recede, pushed back by the indomitable spirit of my family.
As the car hummed back home, carrying the echoes of laughter and the warmth of shared joy, I knew Ceylon’s journey, like the Morris Minor’s, would be filled with bumps and detours. But as long as we held onto the stories, the laughter, and the love that bound us together, we would navigate any storm, emerging stronger and more united on the other side.
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