By Nalaka Devendra
When I see, hear and read about the racial and religious hatred spewed by politicians, the uninformed and those with hidden agendas, I often wonder whether I have been suddenly transported to an alternate reality. This is certainly not the reality in which I grew up. That much is painfully obvious!
I grew up in a society (and a country) where our friends were friends. Their religion or ethnicity did not matter. Nor was it a concern. Thanks to my parents, I grew up with uncles, aunts and their children who were Christians, Roman Catholics, Hindus, followers of Islam and Buddhists. They were Malays, Moors, Burghers, Tamils and Sinhalese. Those friendships still remain – strong, even after half a century.
The only time our friends’ ethnicity and religions came into focus was, during various festivals and observances they followed. And that too, only because of the yummy food we got, when we visited them, during those events!
Among our closest friends, were a Malay family and a Hindu family with whom we often went on holidays. As a result, we were always invited to their homes during important festivals and we got to eat yummy food which was served, specific to their customs. As much as we looked forward to the Sinhala New Year, we also looked forward (eagerly) to Ramadan, Divali and Christmas! My paternal grandmother was a Burgher. So Christmas was a big family celebration.
When we lived in Trincomalee, in the Naval Dockyard, there was a Hindu Kovil right across the road from the house in which we lived. The kovil was located below road-level and there were a flight of steps to go down to the kovil. As kids, my sister and I would sit on those steps and watch the pooja. And when the pooja was over, they served Payasam, (a sweet rice), to the devotees. Most of those who attended the pooja were our family friends. On their way out of the kovil, they would give us (two street urchins) some of the Payasam. We shamelessly ate it, seated on those steps! To this day, I love eating Payasam, when I get the chance.
Ramadan was, to us, a full-day event at our Malay friend’s home. My father and his brother had been in University with two Malay brothers. So it was to one of their homes that we descended, at Ramadan. Their children, their extended families (and their children) were our friends and still remain so. While the adults sat on the front lawn and chatted, we kids played all types of games in the very large garden they had. They also had the entire collection of Tintin & Asterix comics: ideal reading, after a heavy meal of Biriyani and Saatay. It was with these two families that we went on holiday, most often.
One of my father’s closest friends (also a Naval Officer) was from Jaffna. He and his wife did not have any children. My sister and I were treated like their de facto children. My sister was their favourite. Both of them could cook very well and it was at their home that we learnt to love South Indian food. Needless to say, I still love it! When my parents had to go to Colombo, it was this couple who baby sat us, in their house. One day, they served us a very tasty dish, which I ate with great gusto. When my parents came back, I told them that we ate chicken prepared in a wonderful way and asked my mother to make it, the same way.
After comparing notes with the lady of the house, we found out that it was not chicken but cuttlefish! As it turned out, my father hated cuttlefish (and the smell of it) and that was the reason we had been denied of this wonderful delicacy. Since that day, we too made cuttlefish at home, but it was never served at the table. We would go to the kitchen and serve it and come to the table. To this day, I love cuttlefish. I even ate it raw, in a Japanese restaurant, during my travels.
Christmas was a great family get together for us. Every year, my father’s siblings and their children met for Christmas, hosted by my grandmother. As we lived far apart, this was one occasion when all eleven cousins met. On Christmas Eve, we decorated the tree, and those who lived far away stayed together. We never did get much sleep. When the great day dawned upon us, we were unstoppable. We played and we fought, we laughed and we cried. Christmas lunch was a treat – something we only got once a year. There were no restrictions. Ham, Mustard, Yellow Rice, etc. For tea, we had breudher with jam and butter. There was nothing left over! My grandmother lived with us in Dehiwela. So Christmas was at our house (more often than not). Due to space restrictions we the kids slept on the floor.
The day ended with all of us seated around the tree (which had all the gifts under it). There was a Santa (at times it was my grandmother, at times a family retainer) and when he called our name, we went up, got our gift and kissed grandma. We celebrated Christmas in that fashion until 1984. She passed away in mid-1985. Even today, I still buy ham, mustard and breudher during Christmas.
Having a Burgher Christian grandmother had other perks for me. I would drop her in church on Sunday morning and pick her up, after the service. I also used to accompany her for various church events like Watch Night Service and Christmas Carols. Apart from being a dutiful grandson, I had an ulterior motive. I got to meet and get to know lots of girls. Who says good deeds go unrewarded!
Sinhala New Year was celebrated in Galle, at my maternal grand parents’ house. It was a traditional celebration complete with all the yummy food. My grandmother was a great cook and she went all out, during this time of the year. As the eldest born grandson, I was spoilt rotten! Apart from my mother’s elder sister, all her other siblings were either in university or still in school.
So I had many aunts & uncles who kept my sister and me occupied. Apart from the “first meal” served on an over laden table, the highlight was the “ganu-denu”: a traditional activity where people exchanged token amounts of money with each other. As kids, we received lots of new paper money and shiny new coins – always wrapped in a betel leaf. By the time the New Year holidays came to an end, our stomachs and our pockets were full.
I used to play tennis. As a teenager, I used to (with friends) take part in various regional tournaments in different parts of the country. But I always made sure that I got back to Galle, the day before New Year, in April. Often I would take a combination of buses and trains from different parts of the country to make sure I got to my ancestral home on time for the festivities & the feast.
All in all, I consider myself (and all those who grew up in that era) lucky. Thanks to our parents and the society of that time, we experienced life without any prejudice towards our friends, their race or religion. As students, we often ate at a South-Indian restaurant, before heading for sport practice or tuition classes. Our main concern at that time was, whether to eat the rice-flour dosai or the wheat-flour dosai. One was more expensive than the other and our resources were extremely limited.
Sadly, even some of those who grew up with me, seem to have forgotten the era in which we grew up and allowed interested parties to cloud their free will & judgment. Instead of being broadminded and tolerant, they have become creatures of bitterness and voices to promote racial & religious hatred.
I am trapped in this alternate reality and desperately trying to escape it, back to my own reality. Thus far, I have not been successful.
(This article was first published in The Island, Sri Lanka).
The writer is as an IT consultant based in Colombo. You may contact him at nalakadevendra@gmail.com
