My finest hour

****

by B.J. Perera

The two earliest persons I remember outside my immediate family circle and servants are nicknamed, Roba and Jora- Robert and George, before they became fallen angels. Fallen though they were, they were the idols of my childhood and the role models of my future. These two gentlemen; if you could call them such, hailed from two of the oldest and most respected families of Maggona.

They were students of the Holy Cross College Kalutara and had a bright future before them. They were always the first or second in the class with the third, a far cry behind them.

Coming from a long line of village leaders, they were the house captains of their respective college houses. Bright was the future that lay before them and high were the hopes their families and relations had for them. But this was not to be. We are, as we are made and nothing can stay the 'wheel of destiny'.

Early in life they became votaries of Bacchus, the Greek God of Drunkards. Maggona was a toddy producing village and may a future doctor, engineer and lawyer etc. had withered in the vine because of this accurse drink.

One day the Chemistry teacher while teaching about acids told the class that acid could be made from toddy and could be used as a substitute for acetic acid used in the manufacture of rubber.

This was during the Second World War and acetic acid was in short supply. Though the teacher had not asked for it the two boys brought a bottle of toddy to carry out the experiment.

This came to the ears of the class teacher who promptly reported the matter to the principal who expelled them from school. Unfortunately the chemistry teacher was absent on that particular day. Had he been present his evidence would have saved the boys from expulsion.

Their dismissed from school created an emotional shock. They had brought the toddy in good faith and they could not understand why they had been expelled. They decided to stop schooling. Their fathers who had been toddy contractors were both dead by then and their mothers continued with the businesses.

The sons decided to help their mothers in the toddy contracts. Their hopes of becoming doctors had disappeared into thin air and no one could draw them out of the despair and depression that had gripped them. They sought to drown their sorrows in the very thing that had caused that sorrow, toddy. In a few years they became fully-fledged drunkards shunned by their friends and relations.

In the early years of the last century there had been an anti-beef campaign organised by the fishing community of Maggona. A special song had been composed to give moral strength to the campaign which soon fizzled out. However the song survived being adopted by the drunkards of the village.

Its plaintive notes and mournful tune lent itself to the expression of the mood and feelings of the drunkard during the hangover. Here are the first four lines in English:

The cow's lament

All through the seasons my milk you drink,

And like a mother are nurtured by me.

When I grow old and run dry

Oh! Why do you kill and eat my flesh

In the evenings when the effect of their morning drinks wear out Roba and Jora come in to the town singing the "Cow's lament" Listening to their song was a feast to the ear and a soothing balm to the soul.

The words of the song were accompanied by appropriate gestures which added more to the poignancy of the song. I had often listened and practised not only the song but also the staggering and gestures that accompanied it when it was sung by my heroes.

One day my father sent me on an errand some distance from our house along Galle Road. Those days there was so little traffic on the road that it was quite safe for a child to walk along it.

On my way back I saw ahead of me, my supermen Jora and Roba singing soulfully the 'Cow's lament'. Oh! What a chance it was to be among 'the greats' of my childhood, a chance I would not have dreamt of in my wildest dreams.

With boundless joy I joined my demigods on the middle of the road. They were sober enough to ask me to get off the road and their company. Then seeing that only physical force could make me leave the stage they with deference to my father walked a few yards behind me.

People who saw me, the son of one of the most respected men in the village, were scandalised to see me in such undistinguished company. With urgent gestures they urged me to get off the road. But I was in no mood to step out of the limelight which nature had so kindly thrown round me. This was the fulfilment of my childhood hopes and aspirations.

A motely crowd of boys joined the procession. They too were singing staggering and gesturing. The little procession neared the town where my house stood. When we came within sight of my house I increased the volume of my voice and exaggerated my gestures to impress my family and neighbours.

My mother who was inside the house, heard the familiar voices of Jora and Roba lamenting in two discordant voices, man's ingratitude to old cows. Today there was another voice, the voice of a child, singing with more volume than tune.

How much that voice resembled her son's she thought. Then as the singers came closer there was no doubt that the voice was mine. With the rest of the household she stationed herself at the gate to give me a warm welcome.

I saw my family at the gate waiting to applaud the hero coming home, I thought. Then I saw the ominous expression on my mother's face. That was the expression that accompanied the frequent chastisement I received at her hands.

As I passed our gate she darted towards me and pulled me by the ear into our garden. I was outraged. Is this what I was getting for bringing fame and glory to the family I thought. "You have destroyed the reputation of the family. How can your sisters step onto the road and face the world" she asked trembling with anger.

I did not know how to reply. Where I had expected praise and appreciation I was dragged ignominiously from the road, shaken by the ear and given a few hard slaps, all in front of the crowd that I had just triumphantly led.

When my father returned home my mother and sisters lost no time in reporting the episode to him. They fervently hoped that I would get a good thrashing. That, he had never done before. My father and I were cast in the same mould and he, not only understood but also enjoyed all my failings and foibles.

When the narrative ended with, how I was pulled out of the road my father burst out laughing. I was not present at the narrative. I was hiding in the kitchen where my most loyal allies were, my father requested that I be brought before him. He asked me to sing the 'Cow's lament.'

This I did with all the staggering and gestures. All the while my mother stared daggers at father and the son. Her final comment was "One day he will become a drunkard because of you." My father had long given up giving credence to her prophecies.

People say that mothers understand their children better than fathers do. May be. But not mine.

*****

Dear readers,

Please be patient and do not be discouraged if the publication of your poems in the Passionate Pen column is delayed. Remember, patience is one of the best virtues in a poet.

Most poems we received were rejected because they were too long. Please make an effort to limit your poems to less than thirty lines and the short stories to around 1,500 words.

Due to a huge backlog of entries and since the Passionate Pen's priority being readers and the contributors we have decided to dedicate this week's entire page to the 'Amateur short Story' and the 'Amateur Poems'.

Sajitha Prematunge