No! that’s not my brother!

Being mistaken for my mum’s brother

I want to start by saying that my mother was twenty-one years old when she had me. She married my father at twenty and had me three days after she turned twenty-one.

My mother was, give or take, twenty years older than me according to the laws of physics and ageing. When I was a pre and early adolescent, this age gap became a highlight strangely. This is that story.

Being the eldest of two other siblings, I had some serious family responsibilities. My father was posted to a remote town in Sri Lanka for his job when I was ten years old. Ours was an extended family with two grandmothers who lived in our home. Running a large household was a big business in a village in Sri Lanka in the sixties. I became the man of the house by stealth, albeit at ten years of age. I helped my mother with many things.

On weekends, I accompanied my mother shopping, helping her carry the shopping bags. We went to the markets and clothing stores together. I was her travel companion in a male-dominated country — probably her guard.

A bizarre thing happened. Strangers and some shopkeepers started identifying me as my mother’s younger brother. The first time it happened was when my father was in the hospital for a hernia operation. The hospital nurse who guided my mother through his ward to my father’s bed asked me to ‘follow your sister’. It was an innocent mistake on the part of the nurse, but I shrugged it off as any preadolescent would.

Then suddenly, some shopkeepers would tell my mother that her younger brother was tall and I looked like her. My mother was beautiful, and it was a compliment that I did not mind. My mother politely but slightly sternly would tell them that I was her son. I enjoyed this newfound ‘stardom’. I felt proud that I looked older than I thought I was. Any comparisons to my mother were warmly welcome. The twenty-year age gap played a significant part in this misreading of age.

I helped my mother with many household chores. Back then, we did not have water taps or an integrated bathroom. Occasionally, I bathed my younger sister and brother at the well. Water for home use was pulled from a water well on our large property. I carried water in two hefty buckets to the kitchen for cooking and drinking. I watered my mother's vast collection of flower plants . We had domestic aides, but there was so much work at home. All hands were needed, and I played my part. I felt great helping around the house, like an adult with responsibilities.

Getting ready to go out was a ritual for my mother. That was what respectable ladies did back in the day. Saree-wearing was the norm. Cleanliness was paramount to my mother. First, she had a bath at the well. Then she allowed her long hair to hang down rather than being tied up so that it would dry fast. Then, she selected a saree from her large collection of sarees and a matching blouse. She draped the saree methodically around her. A typical saree had six yards of length. It was an art to drape it around. She checked herself against the mirror against the large dressing table to ensure that the back and front of the saree were consistent in length. If a section was not in line, she called me to pull the affected section of the saree gently down and align the hem. Then she wore her gold bangles and chain, a lady's watch that my father had gifted her when I was born. She would don a pair of leather sandals on her feet. Then she was ready.

This whole dress-up process took about thirty minutes. My mother could never be rushed to dress, even if she was running late. It was a ritual that had no limit on time. it was quality at all costs. My mother never wore makeup. Everything about her was natural.

As a young adolescent, when I walked down the street with my mother, men stopped and stared at her. As a pre-adolescent, I was not mature enough to understand why men would stop on the street staring at her. Instead, I was gobsmacked by their gazing looks. These things did not faze my mother. She carried on regardless. She was a no-nonsense lady who ignored those stares and did her business. She probably was not even aware of the attention these roving men paid her from how she carried on.

As I got older, I shopped alone for the family. My mother gave me ten rupees and a list of things I had to buy. I visited the shops, fish stalls, vegetable stores, and groceries with her list. I learnt the art of negotiating prices for vegetables. I took the paddy bags to the mill to turn them into the rice. I was always on my bicycle with a huge bag of groceries on its handle. Some shopkeepers continued to ask me where my elder sister was or whether I came alone, probably as a conversation breaker. They'd probably choose to forget, although I repeatedly told them she was not my sister. Visual impressions last longer than facts.

The number of sister-brother assumptions peaked in my teenage years. I took it in my stride.

Whatever it was way back then, my mother was still my mother, dearly beloved. She never treated me as a brother. I could never escape her stark self-discipline, something that has withstood time inside me. Even now, no task fazes me. I’d be onto anything I must do, irrespective of the effort and time it would take. As I became more independent in my late teenage years, my relationship with my mother was put to serious challenges. But that is a story for another day.

With my first ever pay, at age eighteen, I bought my mother a saree as a gift. I paid three-quarters of my first pay to get her that saree. I bought twenty-five sarees, matching blouse materials for her and a watch on my return to Sri Lanka from Dubai three years later. It was an expensive purchase and of quality not found in Sri Lanka. But my beloved and beautiful mother deserved the very best I could afford.

It is great to be born to a stunning tall mother. My father’s best friend told me my mother was the most beautiful girl in her hometown when my father courted her. He does not fail to repeat this fact to me every time I chat with him.

It is a blessing to be not aware of your beauty. You take it in your stride. It is your normal. You do not know any better; that’s what my beautiful mother was; beautiful on the outside and inside. My lesson from her is that beauty is implied and not forced on. I am glad that my children today have that natural attribute. It has been passed on.

Where are my characters today?

My beloved mother, Mary Susan Jayawardane, passed away peacefully in 2012. Some shopkeepers who continue working in their family business in their old age in Sri Lanka still remember me as the lanky lad who accompanied my mother in grocery shopping. My first-ever gift of a saree is now preserved by one of my daughters as a tribute to the great heritage she has inherited.

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