Lewis is no more
It was evening. The sun had set. I sat near my father, chatting with him, with glee. My mother was quiet, in a corner away from us. She was working alone on the sewing machine. So innocent and curious as I was as a six-year-old, I asked my father why my mother would not join us.
Father took his time to answer me. Then, he suggested I reach out to my mother and ask her to join us. Taking on that child’s mission, I ran to my mother and stood near the sewing machine. I asked her to join us. She did not look at me and continued to sew, not answering my invitation to join. It was strange for her to ignore me. I kept prodding while she was trying to cover her face. Finally, I got closer to her, hoping to evoke a positive reaction.
Close up to her now; I now saw my mother’s face from the light of the oil lamp. Tears were flowing down her cheeks. I was stunned. Feeling dejected and sad, I returned to my father, telling him that my mother was in tears.
Father listened to me, holding me up close. Then, he said that my mother was going to be okay soon.
The previous fortnight was a terrible week for our family. It was full of confusion and activity.
It started when one morning when my father woke me up. He sat on my bed, held my hand, and told me that my pappa, my mother’s father, had passed away. I did not understand what it meant as a six-year-old. I imagined that my pappa had gone somewhere new.
Kadayamma, my paternal grandmother, took me to pappa’s home the next day. Everything was different in his home. The long passageway to pappa’s home was decorated with black flags. There was a large crowd in front of his house. So many people dressed in white or black gathered inside and outside pappa’s home. I felt weird. I hung onto Kadayamma’s hand and entered pappa’s home. Everything was different in the house. There were heaps of flowers everywhere. I smelt an odd scent of flowers combined with burning candles.
Pappa was lying among a vast array of flowers in an open box covered with white silk cloth. He was not moving, lying still. He wore a white suit. His hands and fingers covered in white gloves were crossed. A rosary of prayer beads was wrapped in his fingers. A large crucifix and two candle stands were behind his head.
Then I saw my mother standing next to pappa. She was wearing black. She did not come to me. Instead, she was crying, holding pappa’s hand. Next to her was my aunty Catherine, her only sister was also crying.
I could not bear to see my beloved mother crying. I did not want her to cry. I wanted it to stop. My world was upside down. I was in a strange world in my own pappa’s home. I came here to spend weekends with him. I was not sure what I was seeing. I fell apart at this bizarre change in pappa’s home and my beloved mother’s state.
Unable to figure out this unusual dilemma, I started crying; my mother, my anchor, did not come to me for the y life. I felt alone and lost in a world; I could not comprehend. Finally, Kadayamma rushed to my rescue, holding my hand and took me out of pappa’s home leading me into his garden.
Outside and among the vast crowd assembled in pappa’s large garden, I could not take the image of my mother crying out of my mind. Why would my mother cry when pappa was sleeping? Visitors were now looking at me; I was helpless and confused. I could not stop crying.
_________________________________________________________________
Manchanayake Jayawardane Mudalige Don Lewis Jayawardane was born on 15.5.1890 and died on 22.3.1961, aged seventy.
My maternal grandfather was the only grandfather I knew. So, as a six-year-old, it was my first experience with death.
It was a privilege to be Lewis’s grandson, the only grandson he knew and held.
_________________________________________________________________
Pappa’s house was busy the next few days with relatives, friends, and neighbours filling up. Wearing sombre colours, they visited at all hours of the day. Pappa’s body was kept in an open casket in the middle of the house. People stayed up awake through the night, taking turns to sleep. Men stayed in tents outside in the garden. Throughout the day and night, prayers were offered at pappa’s home. Rosaries, hymns and all those Catholic ceremonies, everyone prayed kneeling. Some shared memories and anecdotes of pappa. Occasionally one broke into tears. The story of how Pappa died was told repeatedly to each visitor.
My father was super busy taking a leadership role at the funeral. His mother, Kadayamma, looked after my little sister, leaving her son to take charge of the funereal logistics and my mother to grieve for her father.
On the final day, before the body was taken to the church and cemetery, priests and nuns visited pappa’s home for prayers. Then, Pappa’s loyal assistants carried his coffin to the family church on their shoulders from his home. The church was full of relatives, villagers, and colleagues.
The burial service was heartbreaking, watching my mother and aunty in tears as the coffin was lowered to the ground. His gravesite was covered in many wreaths of flowers. Everyone stayed at the gravesite until sunset, praying and lighting candles.
Friends and relatives continued visiting Pappa’s home over the next few days. Anna, one of the two of my pappa’s sisters who lived far away, could not arrive in time for the funeral services. She turned up the next day at pappa’s home. She veiled her cries, recalling how pappa educated her and found her a job as a teacher when she was young. Anna bawled out for a while.
My mother and aunty visited pappa’s gravesite every afternoon for the next few days. They prayed by the gravesite, lighting candles till sunset.
Prayer ceremonies, reciting rosaries and singing of sombre hymns continued at pappa’s home every evening.
On the seventh day anniversary of the pappa’s death, an alms-giving ceremony was held. It was an offering of food made in his name to his relatives and close friends. Also invited were the poor, who were treated to a tasty meal.
Soon after that, I returned home with my father and Kadayamma. My mother returned with my little sister a few days after we returned home. This was when my mother did not say much and was quiet. She was by herself, grieving for her father. My mother was twenty-seven years old at the time. Life must have been hard on her, with two little kids and a husband to care for. The loss of a dear father who sacrificed for his children and endured many hardships as a single parent must have been weighing heavily on my mother.
As a six-year-old, I understood, in my way, the vast impact my pappa, my only grandfather, had on many people, his family and the community. My pappa was the only grandfather I knew. My other grandfather, my father’s father, died when my father was a fifteen-year-old teenager.
The enormity of what had happened in my family was not lost on me despite my age.
Related stories:-
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe
