Master Tissera
A boy meets a socialist in the neighbourhood
When I turned ten, my father was posted to a remote town. I became the man of the house by stealth, albeit at ten years of age. Being the eldest of two other siblings, I had some serious family responsibilities. I helped my mother with many things.
I shopped alone for the family. With that came a high degree of independence from a young age. I learnt to interact with adults at ease, whether it was our friendly neighbours or shopkeepers. Now, this is the thing, the entire neighbourhood was related to our family going back multiple generations. Everyone claimed relationships and thrived in a community, knowing everybody had their back. With my free-range attitude, I became a natural in our neighbourhood. Everyone knew me, whose son I was, whose grandson I was and the whole pedigree.
Now comes Master Vincent Tissera, the main character of this story. He lived six houses from our home. A white vest and a striped sarong were his casual attire. His curly grey hair, brushed with coconut oil, was combed to the back. Everyone called him Master Tissera. Master was the dignified salutation, not simple Tissera, Master, the adjective, for Vincent Tissera was a career teacher before his retirement.
Master Tissera was respected in the neighbourhood, where anyone in the teaching profession was considered a sort of deity. To top it up, his wife was also a teacher. She was also my mother’s relative aunt from three generations ago. By marriage, Master Tissera was my granduncle. So, he had my back and chatted with me as if I was his grandson. Master Tissera and his wife Annie had no grandchildren nor children of their own.
While on my daily rounds, I bumped into Master Tissera on the street. He would stop to engage me in conversations, often lasting more than a few minutes. Him being an ex-teacher, the discussions were about my studies, and he would ask curly questions to check my knowledge. As a school principal's grandson, he paid special attention to me, elevating my status. He figured out my interest in books and invited me to come to his house and help myself with his books. He said that he had plenty. That was bait enough for me to take his offer up.
Not soon after that, I took it up his offer. Walking into Master Tissera’s home was a huge surprise. Books and magazines were scattered everywhere, in his dining and living rooms. The front room was a huge book library, used as a mini office. A wooden desk with pens and pencils was at the centre. Mini cupboards filled to the brim with books at every corner dominated his front room. This was a huge windfall for me, the emerging young book addict.
He was generous to let me borrow his books. So I started a daily habit of visiting his home to browse and borrow his books. Soon, I was reading many books way above my age bracket. For the ten-year-old me, his home became my neighbourhood book library.
I had cleared my grandfather’s book collection at home, so this was my next bonanza from heaven.
Master Tissera was not one to converse in useless chatter. While browsing his books, he engaged me in conversations on serious social and humanistic matters. Now, Master Tissera was a socialist and a communist. Soon, I’d find listening to his social justice lessons. He diligently explained the evils of American capitalism, Western domination, and extreme poverty in poorer countries. He explained the Bolshevik and Chinese revolutions in Russia, China, and Fidel Castro’s revolution in Cuba.
Suddenly, I was reading socialist books by authors Bertrand Russell and Karl Marx, way above my pay grade and reading age. Many of their writing was gobbledygook, but I read them out of curiosity — at least parts of them.
I borrowed magazines from Russia and China that were published in Sinhala, අද චිනය (China today) and සෝවියට් සංගමය (Soviet Union). I became familiar with the havoc Americans and Europeans have created in the rest of the world in their pursuit of world power. Unrest in Vietnam against America was brewing. I became aware of the starvation in Africa, and parts of Asia, particularly in the poorer states of India, where people were dying of lack of food. In the meantime, Americans were dumping their excess stocks of wheat in the sea so they could maintain high global prices for their produce. I developed a disdain for American policies and their global expansion.
From a young age, I had been weaned on the left-of-centre politics at home. My affinity with anyone in underdog status intensified with Master Tissera’s influence. He jump-started my interest in social justice.
I am unsure of this, but I don’t think Master Tissera believed in religion. Challenging the Catholic faith was taboo, a no-go area in our families. Master Tissera was careful not to disrupt a young mind, brought up on the die-hard, multi-generational Catholic faith that was part of our ingrained family’s social fabric.
It was not only Master Tissera that influenced me. His wife, Annie, was an art teacher in a nearby Catholic school — a gentle, short, saree-wearing lady who tied her greying hair to the back. Annie always spoke about my grandparents with a nostalgic, permanent smile. She and her younger sister, Juliana, lived with my grandparents as young girls. Annie made tea for me, offering me biscuits while I was rummaging through Master Tissera’s collection.
Mrs Annie Tissera had many colourful pens and art materials at her disposal. She generously parted with them, allowing me to borrow them. I used them intensively in my spare time and during school holidays, drawing sketches on every piece of paper found at home. Landscapes, houses, trees, animals, and people became my subjects in my creative craft. I probably ran through at least three sets of Annie Tissera’s crayons.
Master Tissera was my early socialist coach, aided by his wife, Annie Tissera.
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Images and artwork belong to Denzil Jayasinghe
