Short story:

A rags-to-riches saga

by Rupa Wijesinghe

Sampath could never forget the day his mother passed away. He was Luvisa's only child, his father having died when he was seven years. He remembers his mother telling him, that the village astrologer had told his father to name him Sampath, because some day he would be an asset to the village.

They were poor, living in a hut put up on a land bordering Sethan Mudalali's coconut estate, which also belonged to him. For this, Luvisa had to work hard, sweeping his garden, husking coconuts, weaving cadjans and doing odd jobs for which she received a mere pittance.

With this money and a few rupees she managed to earn by working for others, she saw to Sampath's needs.

He too worked after school, and helped his mother to make both ends meet. They just managed to carry on, after Appuhamy's death.

Sampath always resented the manner in which Sethan treated the poor in the village, including his mother. His pomposity and arrogance were beyond the limit. He had to be addressed as Sethan Mudalali, and woe begone to those who forgot the word ‘Mudalali’, be they young or old.

Rations

The evening that Luvisa fell ill suddenly, there was no money in the house, for what they earned the previous day was spent on a few rations. Luvisa was running a very high temperature, and was shivering.

Lying on the ramshackle bed, covering herself with an old thread-borne sheet, she was groaning. “Putha, rub my feet down with that little oil in the bottle. I'll be OK by morning.” The little bottle of oil was empty, a few remaining drops dried up and stuck at the bottom.

Perhaps two paracetamol may help, and a few cubes of ice, put on a towel and placed on her head may bring the fever down, Sampath thought.

They had no “ice-cap”, and he had seen this being done when his teacher, Palitha's mother, had fever, before she was taken to hospital.

He ran to Sethan's and knocked on the door. The door with a heavy shiny lock, opened with a bang. “Oh! It's you.”

“Sethan Mudalali, my mother is very ill. She is shivering with high fever. Can you give me a few cubes of ice. I've brought a jug. Please, Sethan Mudalali.”

“What, you scoundrel – ice from my fridge? How dare you? Go and beg in the street.” He cleared his throat with a loud sound, and spat out. “I tell you, get out before I....” Sampath saw him move forward with his hand up. He ran back, like an animal wounded by a gunshot. His mother was yet groaning and shivering.

He knocked at the door of his Loku Amma who was as poor as they were. She lived a short distance away.

She hurriedly walked back with him, bringing a small bottle of balm she had got from the village dispensary. She gently applied it on Luvisa's forehead and rubbed her legs down. “We'll somehow take her to the Vedamahatthya tomorrow. She has high fever. I'll come early morning with Loku Thaththa.”

Bottle lamp

It was getting dark. Sampath lit the small kerosene bottle lamp.

He could see the lights burning brightly in Sethan's house. How can he be so cruel? He hated him. Sampath sat on a bench by his mother's bed, placing his head on the edge of the hard coir mattress given by his teacher's mother.

Amma is a little better, he thought, as the groaning was less. He fell asleep for awhile, and when he woke up and opened his eyes, his mother's hand was touching his shoulder.

He moved it gently. It fell back limp and lifeless. Her face, so serene and beautiful, was turned towards him. Her eyes were closed. He knew she had passed away.

Sampath's grief knew no bounds. With the help of Loku Amma, villagers and friends, her body was laid to rest in the plot of land allocated for burials.

His friends Tikiri and Pancha had picked the flowers from the Araliya tree and handed them over to Sampath, in the same basket Luvisa took to the temple. He placed it on the mound of earth, with heart-rending cries of Amma.

Sampath could no longer live in the village, and he did not want to. He had no one to care for, and no one to care for him. He detested Sethan's arrogance and pomposity, especially towards the poor. He decided to go in search of a job. He was an adult now. Loku Amma was sad, and so were his friends.

He met Palitha, his teacher.
“Sir, I'm leaving the village for a job.”
“Where to?”

“I saw a notice, pasted on the wall over there, asking for a helper in a canteen. I'll try my luck.”

“You are a good boy. Luck will be with you, but be cautious. Here, take this hundred rupees. Though I'm sad, I know Sethan will kick you out of the hut if you continue staying on his land. Everyone knows his cruel, dominant ways.”

Sampath left the village where he was born, with a few items of clothing, not forgetting his mother's identity card, which had a photograph of hers. His heart bled with sorrow.

Untimely death

He was on the bus, seated near a window, the gentle breeze playing against his face. He thought of his precious mother, her untimely death, of how he was chased away like a mad dog by that horrible Sethan, the humiliation his mother underwent with Sethan's vile accusations of her having stolen a coconut that had fallen under the trees.

He had an estate with so many coconut trees, but yet, he got Amma to keep the coconut where it had been. He should experience hunger, and know what poverty is. I wish I could teach him a lesson. No, Amma used to tell me that hatred does not cease by hatred, and anger should be conquered with patience.

She was such a good woman. How can I forget the way he chased me, when I went to ask for ice. I'll try, he thought, for Amma's sake. He remembered how his mother used to trek to the temple, carrying a basket of Araliya flowers. She loved Araliya flowers.

Employment

Sampath woke from his reverie when the bus conductor loudly announced that this was the last stop. He showed the conductor the address which he had written down.

“It's just over there, near that Araliya tree.”

He got off the bus, with the parcel in his hand. A thousand thoughts flashed across his mind. Will the owner be like Sethan and treat him in the same manner? He consoled himself. No, my mother will be a guiding angel to me.

He stood at the entrance of the canteen. It was a small place, with a few square tables and chairs. An elderly well-built male with a very pleasant look came smiling towards him. “I assume you came in search of employment.” “Yes, Sir,” replied Sampath, very nervously.

“From where did you come?”
“From Merijjawila, Sir”.

He smiled. “You must be hungry and tired. First have something to eat.” Sampath was relieved, as he was quite different from Sethan.

After a few friendly questions, Sampath was taken in. He bent low and worshipped the owner. “Thank you so much, Sir.” “Don't call me Sir, I'm Piyasiri. Call me Mama.” Sampath worked diligently.

He swept the canteen and the garden, washed the plates and kept the place spick and span.

The cups, and glasses were spotlessly clean, and soon more people started coming. Sampath's pleasant looks cordiality, alacrity and cleanliness did the trick. Mama was thrilled. The daily order for bread had to be increased. Siyathu who did the cooking had to prepare a larger quantity of dhal and scrape more coconuts for the pol-sambol. Soon, another helper for the kitchen was engaged.

Business was flourishing and Sampath was well paid. Bus drivers made this place a stop-over for their meals. “Sampath, that adjacent land is also mine. We'll extend the canteen upto the Araliya tree, and name it “Araliya Sevana.”

Account
“Fine, Amma loved Araliya flowers.”

It was disclosed by Mama that his parents had died when he was very young. He was brought up by a Sinhala woman married to a foreigner, who were very good to him. “They gifted this land to me, before they migrated, and wanted me to start a business. I never got married, and some day, all this land and buildings will be yours. I only want you to care for me when I'm old. You must also get married, and have a family. You will never be alone then.”

You will never be alone Mama, till I live.”

Sampath was doing well. He had a fairly big account. Mama had purchased a three-wheeler for him. He had not forgotten his village. He went there for two days. Things had not changed much. There was electricity and water on taps by the road. There were a few more houses with tiled roofs. He got to know from his teacher that Sethan was now sick and almost bed-ridden.

He had sold the entire land where Sampath and his mother lived for a song to the postmaster, and the house and property he lives in now, mortgaged to spend on his wife who died of a mysterious illness and though he has to leave, he has no place to move to. The postmaster, Pieris, wants to resell the land to some one, as he is in dire financial difficulties.

According to Palitha, the land is fully worth the amount, but no one has a purpose to buy it.

Sampath contacted Pieris, and in due course he purchased the land as he had a vision – a dream to fulfil soon, with a little help from a social service organisation and the rest of the expenses solely borne Sampath, a home for elders in need of shelter and food, was being constructed, supervised by Palitha and the principal of the school Sampath attended.

Sampath too visited the village whenever he found time. All the villagers rallied round, shramadhana activities were in full swing, a gravel road was done up form the main road to the home and there stood a well-built construction, colour washed in cream, standing majestically against the blue sky and green trees.

On a Thursday, the little village was agog with activities from morning.

Banners and coloured streamers were put up, the village school band was getting ready for the great occasion, the little dancers were dressed up. With the burst of crackers, Sampath accompanied by the school principal, Grama Niladhari and a host of others, walked up the gravel road, The band and dance troupes were ahead of them. The bhikkhus from the temple were already in their seats, especially arranged for them. It was the ceremonial opening of the home.

Speeches were made, and in the chief incumbent speech, he spoke of Sampath's sterling qualities, inherited from his mother, Luvisa who was a noble woman. “Nobility does not mean riches. Not by acquiring wealth or being boastful, does one become noble, but by being gentle and helpful to all living beings.”

Speech

When Sampath rose to make his speech, there was loud applause. Dressed in a white national suit, tall fair and handsome, a very close resemblance to his mother, he spoke of his days in this little village, with Luvisa.

“We were poor and subjected to much humiliation which my beloved mother bore patiently. She would often tell me to suppress anger with patience, to be good to those who are bad, and to be truthful to liars.” He said that it was her sad untimely death due to poverty alone, that inspired him to build this home for the needy. He had begged fir a few cubes of ice to be kept on her forehead just before she died, but he was chased away.

“Sometimes major changes occur in the lives of people, passing from riches to rags, or from rags to riches. Whatever, you may think of me, this is the village of my birth, and I am still Sampath – Luvisa's son enriched by her good values. It is on this very land, there, in that corner, in a little hut that we lived, in abject poverty.

I'm so happy and proud that I built this home here, for elders who need a roof above their heads.” He said the home, for a start, has eight beds, a verandah for relaxation, a dining area, a kitchen, a ‘Budu Medura’ for religious observances and all other necessary facility, including a Frigidaire.

“Today happens to be the sixth year of my mother's demise, and with this merit, may she never meet with an untimely death due to poverty.” His voice broke, as he wiped away a tear. “I've named the home - “Luvisa Nivasaya”, which I have built with love and compassion”. Sampath was facing the front section of the Home.

“From here, I can see the enlarged photograph of my precious mother, hung up on the wall.

She seems to say – ‘Well done my son, and the Araliya tree, which on my request was not cut down, and which she loved so much, is in full bloom, adding beauty to this place.”

He wished all the inmates a happy future. There were eight. “I wish each and every one of you good health, contentment, peace of mind at the Luvisa Nivasaya where you could live in dignity.

I'm extremely proud and happy to think I've been an asset to the village of my birth, and happier am I, to know that the first inmate who requested admission here, and was granted it, was Sethan Mudalali. May the Noble Triple Gem bless you all.”