The Astrologer’s Apprentice
“The Astrologer’s Apprentice” by Denzil Jayasinghe recounts the author’s childhood in 1970s Sri Lanka — the narrative centres around the Siriwardane family, the author’s neighbours, and their contrasting lifestyles. While the author enjoys a comfortable upbringing, the Siriwardanes live a modest life, relying on astrology for income and navigating financial constraints. Despite these differences, a bond forms between the families, exemplified by the author’s English lessons with Uncle Siriwardane and the Sunday ritual of lending newspapers. Through these interactions, the author highlights the resilience and quiet dignity of the Siriwardane family amidst their struggles.
In the hush of dawn in my neighbourhood in 1970, Uncle Siriwardane, a wisp of a man in a white banian and striped sarong, turned his face eastward. The day began with a soft murmur to the Buddha, the gentle flicker of a clay lamp, and the melodic squabbling of mynas as the first shy rays of sunlight kissed the sky; the children of Mudiyansegewatta Road pattered past, their hurried steps mimicking the impatient honking of school buses.
Aunty Siriwardane, her deep, rich brown, stood in stark contrast to her fair husband. A tell-tale stain of betel nut adorned his lips, a testament to a well-worn habit. Flecks of grey peppered his hair, whispering tales of time’s relentless march. His simple attire – a vest and sarong – spoke of a man who earned his keep by charting the stars and weaving tales of fate.
The Siriwardanes were a family of four: Pearly, the eldest, followed by Girly, Jayanthi, and their lone son, Lal, a year older than me. Their rented abode, nestled beside my house, was separated by only two doors. My grandaunt, childless except for an adopted daughter named Rita, would occasionally nudge my mother to keep a watchful eye on the Siriwardanes. The unspoken hope, a whispered promise that hung in the air – that this unclaimed land might someday find its way into our family’s grasp. My mother, ever respectful but practical, steered clear of such entanglements.
The Siriwardane land mirrored ours in length, stretching out in a parallel expanse. Their house, though smaller and lacking electricity, had a well at the back, a silent custodian of their daily routines. When the women of the household bathed, their colorful sarongs clinging to damp skin, it was a communal affair. Aunty Siriwardane, a woman with a fondness for leisurely chatter, would linger over her chores. While Uncle meticulously etched astrological charts and penned horoscopes for those inclined to believe, Aunty immersed herself in the rhythm of the day – cooking, bathing, and tending to the well.
Water flowed freely, much like the coconuts that adorned their sprawling garden. These moments were Aunty Siriwardane’s chance to engage my mother in conversation – a tapestry woven with local gossip, anecdotes, and the mundane details of life. Mother, ever gracious but cautious, navigated these exchanges with practised ease. There was a stark difference between our lives – private schools were a distant dream for the Siriwardane children, a privilege I held dear. When relatives came to visit, their plates and cutlery remained scarce. Resourceful as ever, Aunty Siriwardane wouldn’t hesitate to borrow from us – even chairs for the guests. My mother was always generous, even extending a helping hand through the occasional ten-rupee loan to ease their burden.
In the sun-soaked expanse of our front yard, the Siriwardane children revelled in their private universe. A chorus echoed as they darted between the coconut trees and the jasmine bushes. Jayanthi and Lal, the younger siblings, were always at the forefront of our youthful escapades, their bare feet leaving imprints in the warm earth. Pearly and Girly, the elder sisters, were more reserved, their maturity evident as they stayed indoors, dutifully assisting their mother with household chores.
Jayanthi, with her unruly hair and a spirit that defied societal norms, was our beacon of adventure. She would sneak into our world of boyish games, urging us toward gentler pursuits – hopscotch, skipping rope, and laughter that spilled freely like sunshine. Her eyes held secrets, and her laughter carried the weight of countless stories.
On poya days, when the full moon bathed the world in silver, the Siriwardane girls would venture beyond our yard. Armed with a little basket, they plucked frangipani and oleander flowers from the neighborhood gardens. It was an unspoken tradition, a quiet rebellion against the mundane. They carried their fragrant offerings to the temple, where the Buddha’s serene gaze welcomed their devotion. The act of plucking was done without specific permission, for it was believed that flowers for Buddha were a universal right – a language of reverence spoken by the heart.
The heart of the Siriwardane family, Uncle Siriwardane, became an integral part of my life. My fluency in English set me apart in our neighbourhood, where few adults, let alone kids, dared to dabble in the foreign tongue. The irony was delicious – an astrologer in a sarong, a weaver of cosmic tales, wielded English with an unexpected ease. Yet, he lacked a partner to converse with, someone to sharpen his skills.
Determined to hone my English, I began a linguistic dance with Uncle. Delighted by my initiative, he reciprocated with enthusiasm. His children, oblivious to our interactions, couldn’t tell if we spoke Greek or gibberish. I became the neighbourhood oddity, bridging the language gap with my neighbour.
Uncle would unfurl his intricate diagrams, tracing the celestial paths of planets, and inquire about my birth date and time. His motive was clear – to weave a complimentary horoscope, hoping I’d fall prey to the allure of this mystical Asian tradition of future gazing. But my mind, steeped in science, scoffed at such notions. I dismissed it all as mere fancy.
Undeterred, Uncle continued to sketch intricate symbols, weaving theories that danced beyond my grasp. He’d scrutinise my palm, predicting a future brimming with children. His beliefs, like distant constellations, remained a mystery to me.
On lazy Sunday afternoons, a familiar figure would appear at our fence. A Siriwardane child, usually Lal, would stand there, a picture of hopeful curiosity. Their request was always the same – a borrowed newspaper, a lifeline to the wider world beyond Mudiyansegewatta Road. The Siriwardanes, for all their resourcefulness, lived a threadbare existence. Astrology, their cosmic compass, charted a course through life’s uncertainties, but it couldn’t quite bridge the gap between wanting and having. Yet, despite their struggles, there was a quiet dignity about them, a resilience that mirrored the swaying coconut palms in their garden. And so, the borrowed newspapers became a Sunday ritual, a small act of kindness that stitched our two families a little closer together.
In 1970, the Siriwardanes were the only Buddhist catholic neighbourhood in the sleepy village of Dalugama, just ten kilometres from Colombo's CBD.
