The last night

Memories of a young man on his last night in his home country with his parents

In the darkness, I stripped and pulled a bucket of fresh water. My arm was still sore from the nurse’s needle earlier. I drank half of the metal bucket, as I always did before the bath. As I was gulping the freshwater, my head inside the bucket, it dawned that this was my last night at home. The last time bathing at the water well. The last time in darkness, under cover of shrubs, in the nude. It is the last time drinking water from the metal bucket (බෙලෙක් බාල්දිය), the daily ritual at the well. I would be thousands of kilometres away tomorrow night in another country. Far from home, far from this water that cleansed and nourished me for the last fifteen-odd years.

Like every night, I pulled ten buckets of water, pouring it over my head. I soaped with the red Lifebuoy bar, rinsing my body hard. I soaped again, uncertain what tomorrow could hold, not knowing when my next bath would be. I washed the soap buds with another ten buckets of cold water. I felt fresh when I got into my striped cotton sarong, which felt crisp, recently washed by my mother. My arm was hurting more, and after that effort pulling buckets from the bottom of the well, water ten meters deep.

You may wonder why this fascination with numbers. I was always a KPI man, ten buckets before soaping and ten after, even as a child.

I walked back to our home in darkness. My sister and brother were fast asleep in their room. My father was getting organised for tomorrow. My mother was in the kitchen. After a tiring day, I walked into my room, exhausted but fresh, ready to knock out.

In the room, my things were everywhere. Clothes were spread over on the wooden rack, and shoes and sandals were thrown on the ground. My dark blue crimplene suit, my attire for tomorrow, was staring at me. My journal, a rosary, a brand-new shiny passport, the air ticket and the vaccination documents were scattered on the tiny desk. The blue Ford suitcase, a relic from my school boarding days, was in the corner of the room. I had never been so disorganised as in the last few days. The room was a mess. For the first time, I did not feel distressed about being disorganised. There were bigger priorities, to be ready to leave the country at short notice rather than tidying my room.

After a long day all over the city to the vaccination centre and the travel agency in the scorching heat, I did not want to do anything else. My arm was hurting on the spot, where the nurse nearly broke her needle while administering the vaccine for malaria and typhoid. She was an angry woman, complaining that I had bony arms and that I was too thin. I tried to forget how rude she was. I felt tired. Ignoring the mess in the room, I jumped into bed.

A neighbour’s dog barked. I peeped from the window through its metal grills. There was nobody. It was pitch dark outside. A cold breeze of air flowed through the open window. I could hear the faint voices coming from the kitchen. That was my mother and grandaunt in the middle of their cooking. An aroma from the kitchen filtered through my window, food preparations for tomorrow, my big day leaving Sri Lanka.

I felt the smell of my bed sheets and pillow, my companions at night. I put the Sony transistor radio on, tuning to a Hindi music channel. Kishore Kumar was singing in the background, on low volume. I planned to give the radio, my regular companion before I fell asleep, to my kid brother. My arm was still hurting; perhaps I should not have pulled twenty buckets of water. ‘What was I thinking?’

I looked at the walls in my bedroom. The pop posters of Santana, Bay City Rollers and Elton John. ‘Should I pull them out before I leave? Who will occupy this room tomorrow? My brother and sister were too young to have a room. ‘What secrets would I leave behind? What about my diaries which have too many intimate entries?’ I checked under the mattress. ‘Are there any Playboy centrefolds hidden under the bed?’ I looked at the grill on top of my posters. The grilled letters L J cemented in the vent were staring at me. My grandfather’s initials; Lewis Jayawardane. This was his room when he was working as a young school principal. He spent his last days in this room when my mother nursed him. I saw my grandfather agonising in pain in this very room when I was five. I thought about him, the little memories of him I have retained.

As I remained lying down, trying to fall asleep, my father came in, opening the frosted glass door. Normally he came in after I fell asleep to put my radio off and cover me in case my sarong had gone south. I immediately got up and sat on the bed. Sitting on the chair next to my desk, my father said that my departure did not come to him as a surprise. I mustered courage and asked him what would happen after I had gone. My father switched his seat, sat on my bed, held me by my bare shoulder and said, "You will do well, Denzil, my son. Look after your mother, your sister and brother. Always”. He emphasised Always.

The gravity of what he said was beyond me. But there was this sinking feeling in my diaphragm. I felt hollow in his bare touch. I felt the roughness of his palm, nothing like mine, mine soft, thin and long fingers. From his grip, my arm hurt more. But I did not tell him that. I loved his touch on the eve of my leaving. The back of my eyes was tickling.

He said that last week was unreal. I listened. Yes, he was right.

I managed to swing a passport in under ten days after dealing with many bureaucratic dramas designed to stop youngsters like me on the rails. I quit my job, breaching a contract, knowing my father would pay a huge penalty for breaking the legal agreement during my apprenticeship. I had virtually emptied the savings account he opened when I was a kid. I did not think much of the financial liabilities I was leaving behind, which my father agreed to pick up. My mind was set on leaving, not the mess I had created for my father.

The back of my eyes was heavy; a few tears were swelling. But I was brave not to show it. I did not want to make it any harder for my father. I knew ten years ago that he had cried bitterly after dropping me off for the first time at the boarding school. My father was my stoic powerhouse.

After my father left the room, I could not sleep. I was turning on my bed, listening to the radio. If my father had stayed in my room a bit longer, I would have sobbed; biting my tongue was how I forced myself to think of other things, crazy things, anything to get my mind off what I was about to do to my family.

I thought of my friends that I was leaving behind. Many friends to leave behind, some very dear to me. Some friends who’d willingly give up their lives for me. All those trips all over Sri Lanka, music shows, carnivals, rendezvous with occasional girlfriends. Friends who’d fight to defend me. ‘Will I miss them? Of course, I will. Am I making the right decision?’

I thought of my close friends who’d come over and sleep on this very bed, sharing the sheet and pillow as if it were their bed. All those friends who borrowed my clothes whenever they had a party to go to. Friends who borrowed my money. I thought of the things I leave behind. My scooter, with the number plate 5ශ්‍රි8197, in shining green, an unusual colour for a Lambretta scooter. ‘Will I miss it?’ I asked myself. ‘I will buy a shiny VW Golf instead’. That was my consolation thought.

As I was falling asleep. My mother walked into the room. 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, 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 as a toddler. I am sorry if I have been too hard on you”. My mother did not take her hand from my head, her fingers stroking 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. 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.

After my mother left the room, I felt empty. I rivetted. I pivoted. Despite my ongoing conflicts with her, I did not know what hit me, that encounter with my mother, the strong character I knew. She had my back whenever I needed it. I promised myself that I would never hurt her ever again. It was like a grand reconciliation. Everything forgiven. I felt sad. Sad, but she gave me hope.

I thought of all those crazy things I did in my late teen years, defying her. Going out often, being rude to her, not coming home in time for dinner, smoking, getting drunk with friends, not tidying my room the way she liked, and getting broke.

My mother always lent me money when I was broke, knowing I’d be broke again the next month. She was my bank in my short adult life in Sri Lanka. She stayed up until I returned home later at night. I did not think how much I had inconvenienced her. How much have I distressed her when I did not come home after some night outs with my friends? When I turned up the next morning, I did not understand her anger and fury. I thought of how she cared for my friends when they came to sleep over as if they were her children.

It was a hot night, nothing like I had experienced before. I kept the window open, trying to fall asleep. I was thinking of my father, mother, sister and brother, whom I would leave behind the next day. I rolled on the bed, the radio still on. Late into the night, the Indian music channel played sad melodies by Mohamed Rafi. I fell asleep, knowing it was time to pay back — my payback to my parents.

I left Sri Lanka, leaving my parents’ caring nest. My father was 49; my mother was 42 when they unleashed me. My siblings were teenagers, my sister was 17, and my kid brother was 13.

Postscript

History repeats itself. Some twenty-five years later, when my eldest left home after turning eighteen to attend Uni, I felt that emptiness again. My diaphragm was hallowing out that night, just like it did when my father touched me on the eve of my leaving home. My daughter did not travel far, not 3000 kilometres away to a land nobody in my family had set foot on, but only 300 kilometres away to Bathurst from home in Sydney. I understood a parent’s pain in letting go of their children, particularly the eldest, the hardest thing to do as a parent. I vividly understood my parents’ heartbreak in letting me go and their wisdom in setting me free.

When my eldest left for Washington DC for a stint at 21 and when my second took a career break to backpack South America for a year, when my third child left for Uni, also 300 kilometres away and when my youngest travelled to the US alone on holiday at 16 and a year later, relocated to the south coast in Sydney to her Uni at 17, it was my parents’ example and grit that stood by me.

I learnt the art of empowering the next generation from my parents.

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Images and artwork belong to Denzil Jayasinghe