Variety
 

An unsaid story

This is a true story which happened about forty years ago in a rural village in Okkampitiya in the Moneragala district.

The scorching sun directed its slanting rays on to the earth on that hot afternoon. Samanmalee by keeping her two books inclined on her forehead covered the rays of the sun from falling on her head, while leaving the school with her friends.

The children in their white uniforms were like hungry white cranes. Being barefoot, they felt the earth heating up. They trod on the footpath among the green paddy fields. It was ‘Maha Kannaya’ as the golden paddy reeds tilted towards the earth just like Samanmalee’s two plaits of hair.

Samanmalee hurried back home when she remembered the duties she had to perform at home by waving to her friends. But Kanthi yelled and called her back. “Samanmalee, will you join us in the evening at Ran Banda Mudalali’s land to pluck mangoes?”

Samanmalee was silent for a moment. So Kanthi shouted again, with a sudden scream, “Oh! Don’t be afraid. Manike Hamu won’t blame us. Even Ran Banda Mudalali is no more to chase us away. Even his ghost won’t haunt us”. This made everybody giggle at Samanmalee who nodded silently and turned back to go home.

On the way, she met Manike Hamu, the wife of Ran Banda Mudalali,who had passed away earlier had owned the largest property in the village-two cattle, a grocery shop and acres of land in Okkampitiya. Villagers even gossiped that they even possessed a plot of land in Moneragala.

Seeing the little Samanmalee coming on her way, Manike Hamu started chattering in her rough voice in a high pitch voice as usual; “Ye! You’re back so soon! Where’s your father today? Remind him to pay the remaining debts. Has he gone to do the chena cultivation on our land?”

“Yes!”

Samanmalee replied with shame. The old woman understood her. “Poor motherless girl! What can you do, I know”

Within an hour, she entered the garden pushing back the two bamboo sticks laid across the fence aside. She felt some relief under the shady trees.

While stepping towards the little hut, she looked at the right corner of the garden and noticed the faded flowers that were scattered for the warm breeze. It was her mother’s grave. She had died two years ago.

Pushing the wooden door of the wattle and daub home, she went in, her feet felt cool when she rested them on the cold floor made of clay. Then she had a ‘roti’ she had prepared in the morning, and commenced her usual household chores murmuring a song to herself to erase the laze and loneliness.

It was a mild evening when she went to the lake. When dusk was creeping in slowly, she arrived home with a bunch of flowers in her hands.

In a trice, she approached her mother’s grave when her father also joined her. Together they removed the old flowers and kept fresh flowers.

Next she put on the kerosene oil lamp to read books when her father went to prepare the dinner, a meagre meal.

Now she was fond of going to school. They had a mellow class teacher in the school, teaching students with a good understanding. Since Samanmalee’s mother’s death, shewanted to study and do well. It did not take long for the teacher to identify her submissive character.

This newly appointed teacher felt content that he was of service in this poor school in a rustic village.

During this week were wet days. But the rain never ceased until Poya day. On Poya day, early in the morning, even before the sun shone, when the moon was like a milky plate still in the sky, Samanmalee took a glimpse of the scenery of the white pagoda gleaming, while walking towards the lake. It was the ‘Dematamal Vihara temple’.

The following day, the new teacher stepped into Samanmalee’s class. He was devoted towards his new ‘pack’. As usual, books were piled in his hands, right on top was Samanmalee’s book.

In a short while he read Samanmalee’s last-written essay and appreciated her work. But to his consternation he found that she was absent.

“Where’s she today?” the teacher asked.
“Sir, she is missing since yesterday” answered one of the children.
And everyone was stunned to hear what had happened to Samanmalee.
The next day an eerie silence overcame the entire There was a sense of loss and despair.
“Salamander had passed away”. The news spread like wild fire.

As soon as the teacher heard this news, he paid a visit to Samanmalee’s house to attend the funeral. He went with another teacher. They had a long way to go and were extremely tired of the long journey.

At last they reached Salamander’s little home. About ten people had gathered outside the house. The little house was not even enough to keep Samanmalee’s coffin.

During the next few minutes, the teachers noticed a man wailing . He was weeping like a helpless child. He was with a white moustache, directing his wrinkled hand towards the corpse.

This was Samanmalee’s father.

The teachers were sad and the went near the coffin to pay their last respect. Tears welled in their eyes and they could not control their emotions, because they could not imagine what a miserablel life she would have led.

Alas! The little girl was not wrapped with a woollen or velvet cloth, but was in her school uniform, still like a school girl.

The unpolished coffin was made with the cheapest wood. The villagers had built a hut to keep the coffin outside her little home.

A teacher then asked Samanmalee’s father the cause of her sudden demise.

The father in a sad voice said, “Sir, she was such a determined child and had a lot of courage.

“Death snuffed out her young life” he said.After a short pause,he said “My daughter goes to the lake everyday to pluck flowers. What she does then is she sells them to pilgrims at the “Dematamal Vihara”.

“She fulfils her educational needs with her earnings by selling these flowers. She also gives money for my expenses as well.”

After another pause,he said “As it was Poya day, she had gone as usual to pluck flowers in the lake. As it was raining early in the morning, the water level in the lake had risen and she was not aware. She fell into the water and drowned”“O! My daughter and wife!” the father wailed.

“What have I to live for now ?”

Leaving the little home, the heart-broken teacher took a turn to go back when the flowers were fading,carrying the fragrance away.

Ashani Erandika Jayasundara
2011 O/L (English Medium)
Royal National College,
Moneragala.