Thistles in the Wind: An Autobiography

By Nalini de Sielvie

With a vivid description of early childhood in Sri Lanka, the Lotus Island, and then migrating to Australia in 1972, Nalini's journey is a captivating story of fortitude in the pursuit of her dreams. Her indomitable spirit, faith, and resilience in the face of adversity and loss is truly inspiring, as the rich tapestry of her life is interwoven with optimism and determination to succeed in a new country.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Nov 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781728380391

Nalini de Sielvie

Nalini was born in Nuwara Eliya, Sri Lanka. On leaving school she worked at an advertising agency in Colombo, and qualified as a journalist at the Ceylon College of Journalism in 1970. Nalini married Conrad de Sielvie that same year, and they immigrated to Australia in February 1972. Their first son was born in Melbourne in August 1972 and their second son in August 1973. During the next few years Nalini wrote continuously, and also qualified as a commercial artist in 1982. She entered several literary competitions held by local newspapers, magazines and Writers World in Queensland, and won many literary awards. Her winning stories and poems were published in newspapers and anthologies by Writer’s World Queensland. Nalini was included in the 1995 edition of ‘Who’s Who of Australian Writers.’ She worked for the Commonwealth Government from 1986 to 2005, and is currently a member of the Society of Women Writers Victoria, Australian Writers Guild, Writers Victoria, and Peninsula Arts Society. Nalini is past President of Authors Australia Inc, and also holds a diploma in screen writing from the Australian College of Journalism. Nalini teaches piano at a primary school, and her many hobbies include oil and pastel painting, handicrafts, music, classic movies, quiz shows, reading, especially historical novels and biographies. Website:www.nalinidesielvie.com

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© 2018 Nalini de Sielvie. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/12/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9756-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8039-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

About the Author

Introduction

Lotus Isle

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Southern Stars

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

About the Author

Nalini de Sielvie has published eight books to date (fiction, short stories and poems).

Nalini came to Australia with her husband in 1972, and has two sons. She holds diplomas in journalism, scriptwriting, commercial art and pianoforte, and worked for the Commonwealth Government from 1986 to 2005 before changing direction. Currently she teaches piano at a local primary school besides painting and writing.

Writers World Queensland, and other publications have published Nalini’s award-winning short stories, articles and poems in several anthologies. She also contributes articles, poems, and stories to various magazines and local newspapers. Her stories and poems appeared in a recently published anthology, Wild Poppies and in the Society of Women Writers Victoria anthology, Climb the Mountain.

In 1995, Nalini was included in Who’s Who of Australian Writers and is a current member of the Society of Women Writers, Writers Victoria, Australian Writers Guild, Peninsula Arts Society, and was president of Authors Australia Inc. (independent publishers).

website: www.nalinidesielvie.com

Introduction

Until we are fully grown

We seldom think of childhood,

like thistles in the wind has blown.

All that’s dear swept away for good.

Nor all regrets, our tears and pain,

Make the thistle whole again.

This is exactly how I think of my childhood when we were like one, whole thistle nestled in the comfort of our family home, until the inexorable rushing winds of life scattered us far and wide, like thistles in the wind. I have delved into the deepest recesses of my mind to gather myriads of memories that stand out like sign posts along the road of life I travelled with my loved ones.

I started writing down my recollections sometime in 1987, because I wanted to record events as accurately as possible before the onslaught of time and age dimmed or distorted my memories. In writing a memoir, although one has to be as objective as possible, my perceptions of a situation and events may differ from another’s point of view. And in adhering strictly to factual events, it is not my intention to confess another’s sins, offend or disparage any person living or dead. But I dislike sugar-coated memoirs, when truth is caramelised, and dipped in the treacle of imaginary bliss, recalling non-existent happy times.

Like most people who write their story, I want to set the record straight, and review my life accordingly. Writing an honest account of my life, and sharing my experiences, has given me a sense of liberation, and proves that the human spirit sometimes can and will overcome any adversity.

Although this autobiography was written particularly with my two sons and my family in mind, it is also a nostalgic attempt to retrace steps along a path that can only be travelled in memory now. It is a record of yesteryears with all its joys, sorrows, disappointments, and triumphs. Some events shine like stars in the velvet night, illuminate my mind, and bring a smile or a tear as I remember my dear ones to whom I dedicate this work. Memories sustain us in our autumn years, lighting up the road ahead, and easing the burden of life’s arduous journey. So I begin my travels down memory lane to when it all started.

PART 1

Lotus Isle

Chapter 1

My parents seldom spoke about their past, but when I was old enough, I coaxed my father to tell me how he met my mother. And usually, after a couple of drinks of arrack, he was quite obliging. But my mother was a reticent person who did not like to dwell on their early days, no matter how much I tried to glean information.

Even today, my father’s slurred words echo in my mind. Granny was frothing mad when they brought us back home, and she yelled at your poor mother, trembling in fear, ‘You will have to get married immediately! No doubt about that! God only knows what you have been up to!’ Carmen, you were such a pretty young girl, and I loved you very much, so I was prepared to marry you even though you were only fourteen and I was nineteen.

I heard the rest of their story from my mother’s sister, Aunty Rita, who was one year younger than her. She told me how Granny had stood threateningly over the young lovers and demolished them with her dreaded tongue-lashings. My parents hardly dared to say anything in their defence. My father just stood there looking sheepish and red-faced with embarrassment, while my mother wept copious tears. So their married life began full of old-fashioned drama and passion in true Shakespearean style.

My father was slender, of average height, and with ruddy-face. He was a very handsome young man. And my mother was petite and slim with long, wavy, brown hair, eyes to match, and full lips. They were a good-looking couple in their youth and for as long as I can remember. We called our father Thathie and our mother Ammie.

He was a popular young man, and all his friends and colleagues called him Raja. Thathie, whose full name was Jayasena Bandara Bowathage Rajapakse, was born to Bowatha Rajapakse Mudiyanselage Punchi Bandara and Sapugolla Ratnayake Mudiyanselage Anulawathi Kumarihamy, on 21 August 1926.

We called our grandfather Mutha and our grandmother Athamma. Mutha’s father’s name was Bowatte Rajapakse, and Mutha’s mother was Seela Udurawalla. Nothing more was known about Mutha’s parents except their names and that they had three boys and two girls.

Athamma’s father was R.M. Apuhamy (I do not know what the initials stood for), and her mother’s name was Leela Ratnayake. Athamma was the eighth child in a family of six girls and four boys. Her father was a registrar of births, deaths, and marriages and spoke four languages: Sinhalese, English, Sanskrit and Pali. He was well-versed in Ayurvedic medicine too. When the first sub-post office opened in their home town, R.M. Apuhamy applied for the post and was successful in obtaining a job.

When Thathie reached his nineteenth year, Mutha encouraged him to join the Ceylon Government Railway. At that time, it was every Ceylonese parent’s ambition to get his or her sons into public service so they could retire with a good pension in their old age, and this ambition is still alive in some parents to this day. Mutha and Athamma had cherished fond hopes of their son contracting a brilliant marriage with a respectable Sinhalese girl who would bring a huge dowry and replenish their empty coffers.

Thathie was a well-educated and highly intelligent young man who had been educated in one of the best Catholic colleges in Ceylon. He was well-versed in Latin and English literature, and once he was accepted as a junior officer in the railway on 22 December 1943, he was deemed a most eligible bachelor.

Thathie journeyed to Nuwara Eliya, a quaint, picturesque town known as Little England because of several English-style cottages and mansions that European settlers had built there. And its cool, misty climate was reminiscent of the British Isles. The town was a popular holiday resort. Visitors stayed in the sprawling colonial-style Grand Hotel with its lush, green, and manicured lawns and gardens.

A fairly large race course attracted punters from all over the island; social clubs, botanical gardens close by, and a large natural lake for fishing on the outskirts of town were some of the main attractions. Thathie commenced his first job away from his home and soon made friends with another railway employee, Robert Daniels, who soon invited him to lodge at his house.

Grandpa Robert was in his mid-thirties or so and married to Granny, whose name was Primrose Abigail (nee Webster). Her family called her Bubsy. Granny’s father, Walter Walker Webster was a Scotsman. He and his brothers had sailed over from Britain to help build the infrastructure of the island. He had also worked for the Ceylon Government Railway as a design technician. Her mother, Mina Ruston, was of Portuguese descent and came from Goa in India.

Granny was born in 1913, as fourth in a family of twelve siblings. Grandpa and she had met in Kadugannawa quite by chance when she was sixteen. He had courted her without delay (so Granny told me), and they were soon married at Christ Church, Kadugannawa. They had five children over the next few years. The eldest, Abigail Beda Carmen, was born on 9 February 1930, and then came Yolanda (we called her Rita), Anthony, Malcolm, and Marie.

Grandpa was a field patrol linesman responsible for checking rail tracks. He spent most of his time shunting along the tracks in a little wagon together with a couple of assistant linesmen. My mother, Carmen, was barely fourteen when Thathie first appeared on her doorstep as a boarder. And it was inevitable that a handsome young man and a very pretty young girl, who were thrown in each other’s company constantly, should end up falling desperately in love with each other, even though they were keenly aware of overwhelming social barriers that existed between them because of their different backgrounds.

Thathie hailed from a Buddhist Kandyan Sinhalese family, and Ammie was a Catholic Burgher whose mother was as strict as one of the puritanical pilgrims who had embarked on the Mayflower and sailed to America centuries ago. Granny ruled the roost with an iron will (and hand) right from the beginning of her married life. She was as fair-complexioned as a European with light-brown eyes and wavy hair, and she had a wide mouth and broad nose. She stood less than five feet tall, and with age, she grew plump and stumpy.

I suppose she must have been an attractive girl, but all I can remember is a bad-tempered, nagging old woman who actually frothed at the mouth whenever she was angry. Granny was a formidable character who was not to be thwarted in any way by anyone at any time, but as she grew older, she mellowed somewhat and became as harmless as a toothless tigress. No one took her tantrums seriously then, but in her heyday, no man, woman, child, or servant escaped this virago’s temper.

If she was in one of her tempestuous moods, everyone stayed out of her way as much as possible, especially Grandpa, who bore the brunt of her bad temper with philosophical indifference and stoicism. Granny did not show much warmth or fondness for us when we were young, but she mellowed and thawed a little in later years and we basked in her tepid affection.

She valued education above all things in her life, except perhaps a passion for gold jewellery, and ensured that all her children were well-educated in private Catholic schools. She loved music and singing too and even played the harmonica; she had invested in a piano very early in their marriage.

A fervent, almost fanatical Catholic, she endeavoured to instill the fear of God into all her children from their young age. Granny mispronounced some words, which we found quite amusing when we were older. Like, mortigage for mortgage, charaty for charity, and once she told me that, "Conscience is the universe of the heart." I tried to interpret that saying for a long time, but it still does not make any sense to me.

Grandpa was of average height, lanky and loose-limbed. He was not too particular about his appearance; from the time I remember, he was carelessly dressed in a crumpled shirt and baggy trousers. He had a few teeth left but never wore dentures so his speech was a bit thick and sloppy and he chewed food with gums. Mild-mannered and peace-loving, he lived in fear of his overbearing wife whose tongue damaged a person’s ego more effectively than any physical pain a cat-o’-nine-tails whip could have incurred.

Going back to my parents’ romance, before long, Carmen and Raja were so deeply in love that they decided to elope and get married, because to marry with their parents’ consent and blessing was just wishful thinking. So they escaped Granny’s strict supervision for a few days and indulged in a romantic interlude. But unfortunately for the young couple, Granny and Grandpa were hot on their heels and dragged them home in utter disgrace. Then they faced a dilemma.

Thathie was not their choice of a husband for Carmen, but they could not allow him to disgrace their daughter by taking advantage of her and getting away without facing consequences. They were truly in a predicament. To relieve her anger, Granny beat Ammie unmercifully, reproaching her twelve hours a day for bringing shame and scandal to the family besides ruining herself irrevocably.

Thathie did not escape lightly either, as Grandpa chastised him soundly with many a physical blow. As my grandparents conceded that they faced a hopeless situation, all parties finally agreed to a marriage between the young couple. Granny’s one concern was that Carmen would have a baby out of wedlock and disgrace them further.

Both my grandfathers were docile, gentle-mannered men who lived in complete awe of their termagant wives, while my grandmothers were very strict, sharp-tongued, and haughty women. When my parents’ marriage took place, Thathie told me that his parents sent him a bottle of poison and a black flag with a message. From this day onwards, you are dead to us, and it would have been better if you took this poison and killed yourself. So deep was their animosity. And on the day of their marriage on 15 May 1945, Thathie said it had been more like a funeral than a wedding house.

And so, Ammie and Thathie began married life in the most unpleasant atmosphere imaginable as they were compelled to live with Granny and Grandpa because they had no where else to go. Granny constantly nagged Ammie about the terrible evil she had brought on them all, and that she had thrown away her young life by giving up school and music. Granny’s invariable complaint was, I bought you a piano as well, and see how ungrateful you are to throw away all that! It was an endless litany of accusations and the young couple had no choice but to put up with this misery and nagging until they could afford a place of their own.

Fortunately, a few months after their marriage a railway bungalow fell vacant (it was a large three-bedroom house but was referred to as a bungalow in the Colonial manner). Thathie and Ammie moved into this house speedily, which was not very far from Granny’s place. It was a hard grind at the beginning but they survived. Ammie gave birth to their first daughter, Nilanthi, on 18 August 1946.

Coincidentally, Granny had given birth to her youngest daughter, Rosemarie, on 5 July 1946. This closeness in birth dates influenced Nilanthi and us very much, as Rosemarie was more like a sister than an aunt.

My parents rarely spoke about how they survived those first years, but Ammie mentioned that after Nilanthi’s birth, Mutha and Athamma gradually reconciled. Ammie knew however that Athamma never fully accepted her and always referred to her as Lansiya (Burgher).

Before Nilanthi’s birth Thathie had travelled to his parents’ home carrying an olive branch and had not returned home for weeks. Ammie was desperate, wondering if his parents had used a charm on him. This was something most people believed in then and still do. Some Ceylonese used all sorts of so-called magic charms to get what they wanted.

Many tales abound of hapless victims falling ill, getting killed, or falling in and out of love, as the case may be - all attributed to evil charms. Ammie lived in fear, until one day Thathie breezed along as if nothing had happened. He gave no explanations either.

To comprehend the bitter opposition to their marriage one must have a general idea of what Ceylon, or Sri Lanka as it is called today, was like in the early twentieth century.

Ceylon is a tiny island shaped like a teardrop at the southernmost tip of India but is independent of its large neighbour. Three different nations colonised the island from 1505 onwards. First, the Portuguese, then Dutch, and finally under British rule at the time Thathie was born. Several races inhabit Ceylon, including Muslims, Tamils, Europeans, Malays, Indians and people from various other parts of the world.

As Ceylon had been under three different foreign powers, it was inevitable that another race of Europeans descended from mixed marriages should emerge, namely the Burghers. Any person with a smidgeon of European blood was referred to as a Burgher.

Most of the Burghers were mainly of Portuguese, Dutch or British origins, and they were happy-go-lucky amiable sort of people who loved to enjoy life to the fullest. All races lived comfortably and amicably except that in the early part of the twentieth century, mixed marriages were seldom or never tolerated between Sinhalese and Burghers, Tamils and Sinhalese or Muslims with any other race besides their own.

It was acceptable for a Muslim to marry three wives, but most non-Muslim women did not find this situation tolerable, to say the least. A few unions took place though when lovers from different races married in the teeth of parental opposition. Family and friends however ostracized them for the rest of their lives.

Socially, the Burghers were the most extroverted people and led a merry life, dancing and partying without a care in the world. Sinhalese people looked askance at their way of life and in good-natured ridicule conned an apt phrase. Burgher buggers became beggars by buying brandy bottles.

The Burghers had a reputation for being very fond of alcoholic beverages, in direct contrast to Sinhalese, Muslims and Tamils who were mostly ascetic teetotallers according to individual religious precepts.

The Burghers retorted in kind by ridiculing Sinhalese peoples’ fondness for oil cakes (kavun). Sinhalaya modaya, kavun kanda, yodhaya. Much of its punch is lost in translation, but the gist of it is that a Sinhalese is a fool, but has a gigantic appetite for oil cakes. Mutual banter and good-natured ridicule without malice was quite common among different races then.

After several years of negotiation, without bloodshed or civil war, Ceylon finally gained independence from Britain on 4 February 1948. D.S Senanayake became the first Prime Minister of independent Ceylon.

It was the worst turn of events when racial hatred and bloodshed resulted during the early 1980s. The tense political situation between the Government and Tamil Tigers who demanded a separate homeland in the north of the Island, ended in civil war.

Sinhalese and Tamils had lived harmoniously for centuries with intermittent spurts of war between India and Ceylon in ancient times. But the enormity of the racial tension and civil war that lasted more than twenty five years till early 2005 or so, was one of the saddest periods in the history of that resplendent island.

This brief outline of existing conditions indicates the social background at the time of my parents’ marriage. In a nutshell, it was acceptable to socialise with Sinhalese, Tamils and Burghers, but when it came to inter-marrying, that was definitely taboo. Thathie’s parents ranked high in the social structure. Proud, aristocratic people, who claimed to be noble and had royal blood in their lineage. They belonged to the best Kandyan families and were proud of their heritage. Although caste structure still exists among some Sinhalese, today’s generation is not as class-conscious, and barriers within the social structure are not as insurmountable.

Mutha was born in December 1888, and Athamma on 7 February 1904. Daisy was Thathie’s elder sister, and he had three younger brothers, Wije, Wimala, and Chanda. Mutha lived on a tea-estate up-country. All the villagers loved him as he was a placid old gentleman with a dry sense of humour. When I was a child, he still wore calf-length breeches, and floral-patterned satin waistcoats. He had a light-olive complexion, large, dark, eyes, aquiline nose, thin lips and shoulder-length silver-grey hair. He was slim, of medium height, with strong noble features, and was a very kind, gentle-natured man.

Mutha always chewed contemplatively on a smelly, black cigar even when it was not lit up. Athamma was a tall, fair-complexioned woman of dignified bearing. She had a long narrow nose, thin lips, high cheekbones and small dark eyes. Her features were sharp, but her tongue was even sharper, and lashed out scathingly whenever she was displeased. Her family and menials shuddered before the full onslaught of her temper.

Athamma was kind and loving towards us children and was never harsh. She was a bitterly-disillusioned woman though. When I was older, I found out she had every reason to be so because of what she had endured during the early years of her marriage. She married Mutha at a very young age, and although she belonged to a wealthy, ancient, and highly-respected Kandyan family, Athamma was not very educated. She had attended junior school only, and could read and write Sinhalese but not English. Mutha on the other hand was an educated man who had studied under the Colonial system, and was a medical dispenser.

A marriage-broker arranged their union as was customary. Athamma was considered to be a very good matrimonial catch, as she had an enormous dowry, consisting of paddy fields, land, small tea-estates, money, and jewellery. The innocent young bride was unaware of how her husband handled her affairs and her dowry until it dwindled away. It was too late then to salvage anything.

Mutha had a secret passion for gambling. I still find it hard to believe when I remember his kind, gentle mien and wise eyes. He did not drink or indulge in any other vices (as far as the family knew), except gambling. He had persuaded Athamma to sign over her dowry gradually. They lost everything except the house in which they lived in and a few surrounding acres. When she was older and wiser and understood the enormity of Mutha’s gambling debts, she shut herself up like a clam. She seethed in icy rage and embarked on a bitter feud with Mutha that lasted to the end.

Their lives lacked sweetness and forgiveness and they lived like strangers, only speaking to each other when absolutely necessary. Athamma did not even pretend to be slightly polite, as she was caustic and venomous whenever she addressed Mutha. She referred to him as Naki Hora (old thief). He ignored her insults and angry silences completely, never retorting in kind and kept his peace, always a gentleman, even in disgrace and ruin.

They had five children. Daisy, the eldest, was duly married off to a postmaster who lived in the cool, hilly town of Haputale. Her husband, Ulwita, was from a respected and rich Kandyan family too, and it was hoped she would be tolerably happy with him. I gazed with fascination at a photograph taken on their wedding day. He wore ceremonial costume of a Kandyan chieftain and a tri-cornered, be-jewelled head-dress.

She was draped in a traditional Kandyan ‘osaria’ style of sari, and adorned with heirloom jewellery, delicate silver head-dress, heavy gold bracelets, chains, and bangles. To my awed childish eyes, Ulwita and Daisy looked very impressive.

Daisy was of medium height, very slim, with large, dark eyes, narrow nose, small mouth, and long black hair to her waist. She was a pretty, gentle-mannered girl; quiet, well-spoken and well-educated in a Catholic school. She resembled Thathie closely and was just as fair-complexioned. Everyone in our family called her Daisy Akka (sister), as Thathie and her younger brothers addressed her.

During this time domestic help was very cheap, so Ammie employed a servant girl to help with the baby. Ammie had to learn house-keeping very quickly at her age. I think she did an extremely good job, because she always maintained a well-organized, tidy home. Thathie, as was obligatory for all good railwaymen, was very fond of arrack (an alcoholic drink brewed from coconut flowers). He had a rollicking time with his many friends, partying the days away and some long nights too while on duty.

It was his inherent nature to be generous, hospitable, and very kind to all. Gradually, Grandpa reconciled to their marriage and became one of Thathie’s drinking buddies. Thathie was a popular young man with the railway families.

Ammie had five children over the next decade. Nihal was born on 15 May 1948, Shirani on 8 June 1950, and I arrived on 23 February 1952. A few years later, Nelune was born on 25 February.

A cherished memory and one of my earliest recollections is that of Mutha’s and Athamma’s house in the village of Paranagama, close to Welimada. It was a large, rambling, blue-stone house, with a delightful garden full of multi-coloured gerbera, bountiful fruit trees and shrubberies.

As children, it was the greatest adventure to climb up a narrow, creaking staircase to a gloomy little attic and rummage around where Athamma stored pumpkins, grains, rice, melons, and other edibles. Down below on the ground floor, Mutha converted one bedroom into a medical dispensary. An iron-framed, single bed stood in a corner, as they slept in separate rooms. In this room were over-laden shelves with large, glass bottles full of rainbow-coloured fluids that fascinated me. I gazed at swirling, luminous, red, green, amber, and blue liquids shining like sparkling jewels.

Mutha, with a grave, solicitous expression on his benign face, placed a stethoscope on the chest of an anxious patient, and then prescribed a dose or two of the colourful liquids. No matter what their ailment was, he administered a dose of his colourful decoctions. He was by no means a quack. In fact, all the people regarded him very highly, because he cured their aches, pains, and all their ailments very quickly (and no one died under his care), he joked.

In later years, when we were young adults, Mutha, with a glint of amusement shining in his eyes, admitted that some of his medicines contained only crushed aspirin, with which he treated some hypochondriacal patients. Mutha’s grateful patients always brought him gifts of betel leaves, rice, a bottle of arrack, and other tokens of gratitude. Mutha had retired a couple of years ago, and only kept his dispensary open to while away time and prevent the onslaught of boredom.

We spent some of our school holidays with Athamma and Mutha, and they were unfailingly kind, because they thought their eldest son’s children were very special. On such occasions Athamma ambled down to the bottom of the sloping garden while we trailed behind her. She picked large mushrooms and cooked them so deliciously that they tasted just like curried eggs.

They abstained from meat as Buddhists, and I relished the way Athamma prepared vegetables in varied delicious recipes. The old kitchen was quaint and cosy with an open fireplace, and a large, blackened, iron kettle that was always on the boil. The waist-high hatch door leading to the compound was just right for passers-by to lean on and pass the time of day with Athamma while she cooked or grumbled at some clumsy menial who happened to help her then.

She puffed and huffed into the smoky fireplace, or blew through a black, tubular iron rod called a bataliya, muttering dark curses and oaths if the green wood did not catch immediately. We sat on rickety wooden stools and watched her prepare the meal. This was the warmest place in the entire sparsely furnished, cold house.

Whenever I became moody or threw a tantrum as a child, Thathie said, On the night you were born, on our way to hospital, the car stalled and stopped near the dark, brooding lake. Although we made it to the hospital, you arrived on a stormy tempestuous night. That’s why you are like the stormy weather. When I was in my teens and withdrew into my own private sphere, he said, You are inscrutable like the sphinx. I did not agree, but I admit I was always quite reserved.

Ammie told us Thathie was intoxicated even while she was in labour in hospital, and he hardly knew when the babies were born, as he was too busy flirting with the pretty nurses. She was quite jealous of Thathie, because women found him attractive, and he too delighted in their flirtatious attentions. Thathie, however, was the best of fathers and loved us deeply. He would do anything to please us.

Ammie upbraided him in chagrin sometimes, "I am the mother, but you act as if you had the children all by yourself and I had nothing to do with it because you always say, ‘My children’ when you refer to them." Thathie showed how much he loved and cared for us by his never-failing support, and was inordinately proud of our achievements.

Ammie took good care of us as children although she was such a young mother. She fed us wholesome meals, clothed us beautifully, and rigorously maintained our good health, as she dosed us with the most bitter and disgusting worm treatments. I marvel at the fact that being such an innocent girl emotionally, she took on the role of mother and wife with such ease and success.

A dreaded memory was when Ammie insisted that she wormed us with a dose of nauseating stuff called Antipa and castor oil. Starved of solid foods for a whole day, we sat around like wilted, rag dolls, white-lipped and lethargic until we were fed rice porridge at lunch-time and then starved again till dinner-time.

This was a three-monthly ritual, and we dreaded this treatment more than any other punishment Ammie could have meted out. Perhaps it would be a good idea to introduce this childhood ordeal today, seeing that nothing daunts the modern child anymore. I am positive that a good dose of Antipa and castor oil would subdue the most incorrigible child.

Chapter 2

Thathie was transferred to Bandarawela in 1954, where Nelune was born later. When Nilanthi was a few months old, Ammie engaged Menika, who was about seven or eight years old at the time, to help around the house and mind the babies. Menika came from a village close to Ragalla, and Athamma had found her for Ammie. Menika means gem in Sinhalese, and that is what she proved to be over the next twenty years or so that she lived with us as a beloved member of our family.

My first recollections are of that house in Bandarawela; a large, weather-board house painted white, with an over-grown, sprawling, garden surrounding it. The house had four large bedrooms, spacious living and dining areas. A long, open passage and flight of steps connected the main house to the kitchen, bathroom, store-room and pantry. Shrubberies sprouted on both sides of this open corridor covered with a corrugated tin roof. When it poured down heavily, the rain whipped furiously as we ran up and down this narrow passageway.

The bathroom was a large, cemented area outside where Menika filled bath tubs to bathe us in, as it was convenient to boil kettles of water in the near-by kitchen. We did not have running hot water, and as the climate in Bandarawela was quite temperate, we had hot water baths only when the weather was icy. Usually we bathed in cold water drawn from the cement tank.

A high wall enclosed one side of the house and gave us complete privacy. The front faced a side street, and it was a constant source of amusement to watch pedestrians trail along. A very high retaining wall rose at the back of the house where railway lines ran overhead. The whole house vibrated each time a train shunted and chugged away.

Railway authorities feared the house was built in a most unsuitable place. Earth tremors, which occurred regularly during the wet season, could weaken the retaining wall and bury our house underneath. I was vaguely aware of adult conversation about such fears. These concerns however, had no power to throw me into dejection, or affect my enjoyment of life. It was enough that my parents worried about such details, while I lived in a wonderland. Nothing much bothered or hindered me in the pursuit of childish pleasures.

Ammie kept an immaculately clean, comfortable home, and fed us amply. I still marvel that Ammie adjusted so well, and was such an excellent house-keeper, wife and mother. She cut her long, curly, brown hair short and wore a sari instead of dresses.

She was very attractive, with a good sense of fashion and colour co-ordination, and dressed beautifully whenever she went out. At home, she wore a housecoat, which was a long gown buttoned at the front. Ammie sewed these housecoats in bright, floral patterns, and was always dressed neatly. She was a perfect hostess too when her many friends visited.

Menika was a teenager when I was about six, and was just like a second mother or older sister. Sadly however, when Ammie and Thathie left Nuwara Eliya, they lost touch with her parents. She was virtually an orphan now, as none of her family visited. One of my most poignant memories is of Menika crying her eyes out almost every evening, as she sat in the kitchen and lamented loudly. "Oh where is my mother? I want to see my parents! I want to go home to my family!"

She was inconsolable for some time while I looked on wide-eyed and helpless at her anguish. Then just as suddenly, like a ray of sunshine bursting through after a sudden shower, she dried her tears and got on with the business of cooking dinner, determined to brush aside her grief and desolation. How she had such fortitude to bear her sorrow and concentrate on the work at hand is beyond me, as she was just a naive, uneducated young girl.

Although Ammie promised to make enquiries, she was unable to trace Menika’s family. When I was older, I wondered if Ammie feared that if Menika left us, she would not return. Menika had become indispensable to Ammie and to the whole family. She was Ammie’s second-in-command, an efficient cook and housemaid too. It would be impossible for her to manage our household without Menika’s capable assistance.

Menika was a short, sturdy, and pleasant-faced woman, with long, black hair tied in a konde (bun). Her small, dark eyes sparkled intelligently, and her round face, with a snub nose and wide, friendly mouth was never morose or unpleasant. She was clean as freshly washed linen, and always wore a sarong with a floral blouse.

Village women wore cloth and jacket, and domestic help in some houses then were not allowed to wear sandals inside the house. It was a sign of respect, as it was deemed the poor servants were socially inferior to their employers. These attitudes and behaviour now are well and truly out the door. I am pleased that they are treated equally and with respect today.

Menika showered us with warmth and love, and being deprived of her own family she took us to her heart. We woke up to the sound of her gentle tap on the bedroom door, as she brought in steaming cups of tea, and always served with a bright smile. She often said she would be quite happy and content to live with us always, if only she could visit her family now and then. It was such a little thing to ask, but cruel fate did not grant Menika’s dearest wish for many years to come.

Her love was evident in so many little ways, and she was an excellent cook. She could turn out culinary delights that had to be tasted to be believed. Such imagination and improvisation was truly amazing in a simple, young servant girl. Menika turned a plain dish of mashed potato and boiled cabbage into something special; the mash was shaped like chicks, with black peppercorns for eyes and tips of red peppers for beaks. The large cabbage arranged around the torso of a doll, represented a Victorian lady in a layered gown. I was always rapt with her marvellous creations. Even as a child, I thought she was a marvellous cook. In retrospect, I am convinced she was the best cook I have known, next to Ammie of course, because she trained Menika.

If I just close my eyes now, I can almost savour Menika’s culinary delicacies redolent in the large, cosy kitchen. She was clever not only in the kitchen but in the garden as well, as she had a green thumb. The kitchen garden flourished under her care and bore some excellent vegetables and greens of many varieties.

She could sew neatly, and impressed us when she turned out her own version of a home-made brassiere that she called a bodice. Menika kept the house spotless as well. These talents will indicate what a priceless young woman Menika was, and how important she was in our household. Although she was illiterate, she composed little songs and verses, or stories to amuse us during long, lazy afternoons when Ammie had forty winks, and we children trailed behind Menika, begging to be amused.

She had an endless store of droll stories and songs (heaven knows where she got the inspiration), and as she cuddled one of us on her lap, she kept us riveted with anecdotes until it was time for afternoon tea. The fireplace was cleaned out and new wood kindled to boil water in the soot-blackened iron kettle. The huge iron kettle was one of Athamma’s wedding presents to Ammie and Thathie, and was an heirloom. That kettle remained in their possession for as long as I can remember.

While the water boiled, Menika asked what sweetmeat we would like on that particular day, as afternoon tea was always special, with various sweetmeats, cakes or biscuits, served with a cup of tea. As we all clamoured for our favourite sweetmeat, she chose one (which I am sure she had decided on beforehand), and started pounding flour, sesame seeds and jaggery, to make some delectable thallagulli (sesame seed balls).

She laughed and joked as she got tea ready, and by that time we were so famished we really did not care what she had prepared. Ammie woke up just in time to partake of the tea Menika laid out on the table. We rushed around Ammie to get her attention, as we prattled on about our childish concerns and adventures.

Nelune, the new baby, was everyone’s little darling. Menika cuddled her on her lap and sang lullabies. I tagged along behind her to the large expanse of garden where she grew cabbages, tomatoes, beans and leafy greens. We played hide-and-seek, and had several adventures in the vegetable patch, slashing and destroying tomatoes and cabbages, as children are wont to do when they are chasing imaginary villains.

Nilanthi and Nihal were the liveliest pair imaginable, and embroiled in many scrapes. One day, when they were about ten and twelve years old, they perched too close to the fireplace. In the midst of a heated argument, Nilanthi pushed Nihal so hard that he fell right into the burning fire. He was badly burned right down his thighs and legs. Nilanthi was properly chastised, as Ammie and Thathie were frantic with worry because Nihal had narrowly escaped death.

Nilanthi was blossoming into a pretty young girl. She was of medium height, slender, and had a very fair complexion, dark brown eyes and dark hair cascading almost to her knees. She wore her hair in long braids, which came in very handy for Nihal to grab hold of whenever he chased her around the house and garden, threatening to cut off her hair with a large pair of scissors. We laughed hysterically at their pranks and thought Nihal was the funniest boy alive.

He was the greatest tease I have ever known. Although it was never malicious, he delighted in tormenting and teasing Nilanthi more than any of us. He was a robust, handsome, fair-complexioned boy, and looked more Anglo-Saxon, with ruddy face, curly, brown hair and brown eyes. Shirani was a quiet little girl, with an indomitable spirit and determined nature, with olive-skin, black hair and eyes. I too am olive-skinned with dark brown eyes and hair.

As a child, I was so skinny and weak that Ammie massaged me with olive oil and kept me on a mat in the sun. I am not sure what this daily oil bath was supposed to do, but they believed it would make my bones strong and healthy. Nilanthi teased Shirani mercilessly because she rose to the bait easily. She called her disparaging names and made Shirani cry often. Nilanthi called me a skeleton, ghost, and stick. Nelune was a cute, rosy-complexioned baby, with dark brown eyes and brown hair, and none of us ever teased her.

I did not have to endure as much as Shirani, who resented all the name-calling. But as I was growing up, Nilanthi and Nihal baited me unmercifully, and very often I burst into angry tears in sheer frustration. In spite of all the teasing and sibling squabbles, five of us shared a special bond and loved each other dearly.

The garden abounded with trees, shrubs and flowers, with profuse areas of Lady Lace (Queen Anne Lace), red carnations, and multi-coloured geraniums in hanging baskets. The red carnations bring to mind a family ghost story that I must relate by and by. One particular tree that we called the Nikka tree (Menika’s name for it), had a long, low branch that was our pretend horse.

We indulged in many hours of fun, swinging high and low on that over-burdened branch (all of us on it at times). But one day, the sorely tried branch came crashing down with a mighty groan, and we tumbled down one on top of the other. Thathie was very angry of course for damaging the tree. I am unsure though if he was concerned about the tree, or more frightened that one of us could have sustained a nasty injury. We soon picked ourselves up, laughing in spite of our bruises. We were very much alive and well, with hardly a scratch. But that was the end of our rides, and we never had another mount as sturdy and faithful as that Nikka branch.

Those early days were full of never-ending fun, laugher and games. It seems to me like all I ever did was play all day, eat and sleep, get up early and play again until night time. Perhaps that is what most children do before beginning the rigours of school life. Many friends, relatives and acquaintances dropped in regularly. Some of them stayed for very long periods, because in Ceylon, a guest was treated like a God. And cynical witticisms such as, guests and fish smell after three days never applied to any of our guests. Oh no, on the contrary, it was a pleasure and a privilege to entertain, and accommodate them even at the expense of one’s own family.

To ensure the guests were comfortable, well-fed and happy, they were served the best food. No matter how much food there was in the pantry, Ammie said. Keep those patties and cutlets for the visitors. Mind you, I thought this was grossly unfair, and I disliked the thought of all the very best food being kept for visitors. This goes to show how well Ammie and Thathie treated our guests. So they stayed on and on, and nobody even asked them when they were leaving.

It is amazing when I think about it now, that some of those people were never employed in their lives and spent whole months at our place or another relative’s house. And then in twelve months it was time for another visit again. Still, it was such good fun when the house was full of visitors, and we laughed and played more enthusiastically than ever.

In the evenings, Thathie had a merry time with his friends, while Ammie and Menika prepared hot, spicy, fried beef or porkies, a piquant pork sausage, and other nibbles to keep the men from getting too drunk on an empty stomach. They referred to these nibbles as bites, and they sang, danced and drank a great deal of arrack. It was their entertainment for the day, and many of the gutsy old songs I recall are Thathie’s renditions of Pistol Packing Mama and She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain (each verse getting more bawdy and riotous), until we children were sent packing to bed, while the adults carried on their revelries.

Our table was always laden with superb dishes of spicy meats, curried vegetables, and ghee or yellow rice. I can almost savour the curried pathola (gourd), stuffed with minced meat, that nobody cooked just the way Menika did. She rose at dawn to prepare an elaborate breakfast of string hoppers or hoppers (rice flour pancakes), milk rice, curries and sambals. No wonder our guests lingered, as Menika’s cooking was well worth their sojourn.

My parents were so hospitable and generous, that our house was open not only to friends and relatives but to practically anyone who needed a place to stay, no matter from what walk of life they came. Once, a tall, thin, quietly spoken, middle-aged man arrived. He respectfully asked Thathie if he could have a room to store vegetables in, which he sold at the market daily.

He was a farmer from Thathie’s village, and Mutha had sent him, knowing he would be treated well. We had a large, empty store-room that Thathie allowed him to use. He stacked loads of fresh vegetables there and set out to market daily to sell his produce. We called him Elolu Karaya (vegetable man). I think he lasted a few months and then returned to his village, as he did not make as much money as he had anticipated.

I vividly recall a strange character, Weerappu, a wrinkled, old, Tamil woman. She was slightly deranged, so everyone said, and she sought asylum in our house whenever the town people chased her away. She was harmless enough, but had a terrible temper when roused, and gave vent to a stream of curses and abuse. I feared this dreadful apparition of a dark-skinned, skeletal old hag, draped in a smelly, tattered sari that hardly covered bony limbs and her bare, wrinkled breasts.

Weerappu’s lips were cracked and stained red with constant betel-chewing, and her dirty, straggly, matted grey hair really stank. She lit a fire in our garden on chilly days and stood over it, and rasped hoarsely in a cackling voice, I’m warming my backside. I do not recall when she disappeared from our lives, but cruel adults and children sometimes threw stones at the mad woman. She ran screaming in fear, as she sought refuge in our house. Menika told us some nasty people must have been driven her away as we never saw her again.

Our house was situated beside the road that led to the town. We sat on the fence sometimes to watch one of the many processions go by. Some days it was a funeral, a wedding, or a religious procession, which afforded us plenty of amusement and unholy merriment (there was no television then).

One day, as we watched a wedding procession, the various expressions of some people threw us into a fit of giggles. Nihal roared with laughter, and I followed suit. Unfortunately, one of the party took exception to our rude behaviour and banged on our front door to complain. Nihal and I, fearing we were in trouble, dreaded Thathie’s anger. We ran and hid behind the kitchen door. But he soon found us and smacked Nihal. You started this mischief! And then a clout on my head. That’s for following his bad example! We were properly chastised, and our high spirits quickly subdued. It was seldom Thathie smacked us, or lost his temper, but when he did, we dreaded the consequences.

One chilly evening, when I was about six years or so, Menika was bathing me in a tub of warm water. She emptied the suds and poured a kettle of boiling water into the tub. Before she added cold water, she suddenly ran off on an errand because she had remembered something. There I stood on the cold, cement floor, naked and shivering, teeth chattering. The steaming hot water looked very inviting. I dipped my right foot into the scalding water, and next minute, my agonised screams rent the air. Menika ran back to find me hopping around in pain, as I had quickly removed my foot from the tub. She was very upset and remorseful as I wailed and moaned.

Ammie scolded her severely for her carelessness, which upset Menika even more, and very soon she was in tears too. Malcolm, Ammie’s younger brother, who was staying with us, as he was on school holidays, rushed to the local shop to get some ointment.

Malcolm was a tall, lanky, pleasant-faced young man, with slightly protruding front teeth. He had an endless supply of jokes, and was always good-humoured and kind. He was very close, and spent most of his holidays with our family. While he went off on his errand, Ammie and Menika applied home remedies, such as cold, tea leaves, and butter to ease my scalded foot, but nothing relieved my pain that night, and I still shudder to think of it.

I tried to sleep until I was taken to hospital in the morning, and vividly recall painful days that followed. I hobbled around on one foot, with the other heavily bandaged. That was lesson number one; never ever put my foot in boiling water; literally never, but figuratively, yes, many times.

Thathie was generous with our weekly pocket money. As soon as Shirani, Nelune and I had twenty five cents each, we ran up to the little shop down the road, where they sold sweets, soft drinks, and various other items of dubious origins. These little shops were called boutiques. The term was loosely applied to any precarious structure, whether it was four posts covered with a thatched roof of coconut palms, or something more elaborate, like a mud-hut, or brick and timber construction. It all depended on how affluent the mudalalie (shop-keeper), happened to be.

It was a great deal of money for us in the late 1950s, and we eagerly bought three bottles of ginger beer, then ran home quickly to empty the contents down our thirsty throats. Whenever he asked what we purchased, Thathie could never understand why all three of us spent our pocket money on ginger beer, instead of buying various goodies and sharing them. But we liked ginger beer so well, that we preferred to enjoy a whole bottle each, even though we had no more pocket money left till the following week.

Another dubious-looking character, who was called Bookie, visited regularly. He was always equipped with a racing guide, so Thathie could indulge in a flutter now and then. I think Thathie was more astonished than anyone else, when one fine day, he actually won a substantial amount of money. Surprisingly (for Thathie that is), he decided to invest his winnings on an old Ford motor car.

He could not drive at all, and that was why we were so surprised. It was a shiny, black, second-hand Ford, and caused a great deal of excitement when it was driven up the driveway to our house. The car cost about a thousand rupees, and Thathie was inordinately proud of it. He announced that he would take the whole family to Kataragama (a holy place of worship), to fulfil a vow.

Chapter 3

Christmas was always the best holiday season. Ammie and Thathie asked us months ahead if there was any particular toy that we liked. I asked for the same item as far back as I can remember. A toy piano, as Thathie could not afford a real one. Invariably, each year I found a toy piano that was sometimes pink, white, blue or black. Ammie somehow included an extra toy, like a doll, or a tea set.

Those toy pianos lasted less than twelve months, because the notes would go dumb after a few frantic thumping sessions. I first learned to play Elvis Presley’s famous song, Wooden Heart on my toy piano when I was about six or seven years old. My parents were quite impressed with my musical aptitude at such an early age.

We accompanied Ammie to the big stores in Bandarawela, Cargill’s and Millers, who had wonderful window displays during Christmas. Magical winter or nativity scenes were colourfully displayed in the large windows. On one such occasion, I was especially entranced by a cheeky-looking mechanical monkey playing a drum, and a large, furry bear resplendent in Highland costume, clashing cymbals when its key was wound up. Such wonderful toys, but well beyond our budget, I knew. Ammie looked at me sternly and said. Put those toys back on the shelf Dolly, you know you can’t have them. My family called me Dolly since I was born, and the pet name stuck.

No amount of coaxing made Ammie include such fancy toys in her Christmas list however, and I had to be content with my modest gifts. I soon forgot those unattainable toys as we continued window-shopping and walked along busy, brightly decorated streets. We greeted happy, smiling people along the way, full of Christmas spirit and bubbling with good cheer.

I wonder if it was because I was a child then, but the Joie de vivre of those yesteryears can never be recaptured. Ammie’s shopping expedition at an end, we returned home laden with parcels and goodies, but not the Christmas presents, which were to be delivered later on. I never knew when they actually arrived, but Nilanthi would somehow find out where Ammie hid them, and whispered. Come, I’ll show you where the presents are hidden.

We trailed behind her cautiously, while she rummaged in closets and cupboards, and poked around any interesting-looking objects concealed in recesses. When she happened to discover the hidden treasures, she was triumphant. Excitement reaching fever pitch and frantically curious, I touched them excitedly, trying to guess what was inside each fascinating parcel. Ammie soon found out what Nilanthi was up to and scolded her for being so naughty.

Days before Christmas, cooking and baking aromas filled the house as Ammie and Menika chopped, sliced, and diced fruits and nuts for the delicious rich cake that was full of every single preserved fruit imaginable. It is an old Ceylonese recipe that I still use. We all helped with the stirring of this marvellous cake, not to mention licking spoons and bowls clean once Ammie poured the thick, fruity mixture into two or three large baking trays lined with layers of newspapers. Aluminium foil and baking paper were unheard of in our household then.

A large, portable oven was placed on top of the kerosene oil stove, and it took over three hours to bake the cakes. The corners were invariably burnt slightly, and we eagerly ate the crusts that Ammie trimmed. When the cake cooled, it was cut into generous squares and wrapped individually in red cellophane, then trimmed with gold or green ribbons around the little parcels. Our visitors were served these daintily decorated cakes. Ammie and Menika also cooked hundreds of patties, cutlets, coconut rock and milk toffees, besides several other traditional sweetmeats.

Thathie ensured we had a ten foot cypress tree that he requested someone to procure from a forest in Nanu Oya. A porter delivered the massive tree, trussed up with string to keep branches in place. Fragrant cypress perfumed the house for several days, and we always decorated the tree on Christmas Eve before we attended midnight Mass.

This ritualistic, midnight Mass was a sore trial. Although nights were cold, she would not let us wear coats or jumpers inside church. Ammie took great pains to sew beautiful frocks for us, and she did not want us to hide our pretty dresses under coats.

We removed our coats inside the church and handed them over to Menika. She requisitioned them until the time was right to wear them and be comfortable once more. We could cry and grumble as much as we wanted to, but Ammie’s word was law. Until all her friends admired and complimented her on her tailoring, we had to endure the chilly interior of the church.

Shirani, Nelune and I always had identical frocks, but Nilanthi’s were different as she was a teenager. Ammie bought bolts of material from a travelling Chinaman, as it was cheaper to buy in bulk. He carried his wares on a bicycle, and pedalled his way through streets and homes of every budget-conscious housewife, so we always had new clothes for Christmas and New Year.

The service finally ended after a couple of hours (those were the days of Latin Masses and three half-hour sermons in English, Sinhalese and Tamil), all delivered by the same priest. He felt obligated (I thought), to astound the congregation with his proficiency in all three languages.

Warmly rugged up afterwards once