He always spent more time looking out for others than for himself. Ever since he entered our family at the age of 12, when I was still a carbon atom floating in the upper troposphere, he became more than a brother to my two aunts and my father. He became the caretaker to my grandparents; he worked harder than anyone I have ever known. He was exceptionally close to my father and once he died most of that loyalty and love was transferred to me.
My favourite memory of him is the Kandos chocolates he used to bring in the front pocket of the national dress he always wore when visiting. He is probably the single greatest reason why to this day I would choose Kandos over La Maison any day. There is also that family legend of how at the tender age of six, while accompanying Uncle C on one of his deep sea fishing expeditions in Trinco, I had hidden terrified in the folds of his sarong as a storm lashed our little boat. Underneath his gruff, abrupt exterior was a heart so full of concern for those close to him that it had to be experienced to be believed.
My own relationship with him was convoluted. I think he actually had an easier time dealing with me as a kid rather than a young adult. Back in the day we spent more time together, he would walk me back from my grandparent’s place after math tuition. We would discuss politics and the foolishness of the current leaders as the crows cawed their way home and dusk fell on Anderson Road. He always looked out for me when I was a kid, so many of those old photographs have him in the background, carefully keeping watch over me and my sister as we splashed in a rock pool or ate out of the trooper on the side of the road.
When I moved to England and later out here to the US we lost touch. Our main point of contact was my very infrequent phone calls to the ‘other’ grandparents where we mutually inquired about each other. On my trips to Sri Lanka I was too preoccupied with all the distractions of short visits, the partying, the friends and the girls. I never spent time with him as I used to. When the knock on my door in the early, grey light came and the news was delivered all I could think was that I never said goodbye. This last time, when I left I was in emotional turmoil but it was no excuse. I can’t believe I simply forgot, saying goodbye to him was such a tradition, it was such a given. All I can think of is that I didn’t this time. I can’t even mourn, it’s too far away, I can’t be crippled by grief, and I can’t feel too much this far from home. I will grieve for you later, when the time is right and the place is where I can remember you for who you were and what you mean to me.
But I am so sorry I could not say goodbye. So goodbye Piya mamma, your fate was to care for others above yourself and none of us really deserved you. May you attain Nibbana.
