Short story

A 'friend' reminisces...

by K.K.S. Perera

The valance boards are dilapidated- the corroded and discoloured metal gutters are blocked with fallen old tiles from the edge of the roof. The ancestral house remains mistreated over the years; perhaps he was too sick to look into such details.

Densely grown vegetation, foliage and undergrowth on either side of the court-yard and the unpruned hedges created a weird appearance to the one time pleasingly landscaped lawns.

Being hesitant to follow the crowd, I looked around to see if any known people were around. fortunately, only unfamiliar faces could be seen. I involuntarily turned back the column that holds the gate and the name 'Samaragaught', yet stands; nostalgia takes me down memory lane over four decades.

The house next door was an old one too, but it's no more there; in its place two newly built houses have come up; a German Shepherd pet stuck out its head through the railings, sniffed and growled at us.

The old house 'Pearlton', he once spoke of, was named by the owners after their only child, Pearl, the convent student who was not so attractive. Youth of the area nicknamed her 'Pearl of the .... lane'; in their younger days, she was deeply concerned about him.

The school teacher mother, a widow, believed they descended from an aristocratic background, was in the habit of summoning the girl in her loud coarse manner, 'Dhottey, what are you doing there, will you come inside', whenever she saw my friend Samare or his brother passing their house: Pearlton, people say, was actually owned by her uncle; the father connived with a disreputable lawyer and made a fake deed to alter the ownership.

As we moved further down..., two doors, 'Oh, its Sunil isn't it; if I recollect his name?' But naturally he failed to recognise me; cannot blame him, even if I saw him elsewhere the same result. I wanted to say hello to him, his mother was the midwife who was responsible my friend's and his siblings deliveries; her services were always free; kind woman she was. We moved closer to the junction.

The old structure that housed the tea boutique and the grocery store had been partly demolished.

I eavesdropped, to a conversation, the older of the two men who strolled just behind me-he was telling the other, that the retailer and owner, Simeon Mudalli, the stingiest man lived in the area, who ran the grocery had written it in the name of his older son, to dodge a tax assessment, ultimately had to face a hostile response when the son had refused to return it or share the property with his only sibling, leading to old Simeon falling sick and dying of heart failure a few month later.

The son too had followed the father after a couple of years of suffering from a stroke. 'How desirous people can be?' I was thinking to myself.

Mysterious ailment

The wattle and daub shanty of Misilin Akka gone as well; she was famously called 'Reuter', for she spends the day carrying tales and gossiping from one affluent house to the other collecting whatever in cash and kind that she can carry home-her only daughter Seetha taught Samare and his sisters English and arithmetic when they were in lower school, but she died prematurely from a mysterious ailment.

Sujatha and Nalini, Samare's sisters, who attended the funeral animated how Jinasena, who was engaged to her, broke down hysterically at her funeral.

Two months later he married Kamala, a friend of Seetha whom he met at her seventh-day alms-giving. 'What a letdown?, ... , only a couple of months ...'. I slowed down a bit and allowed the men to pass looking for someone from the area to talk to; yes, this one, a middle-aged bearded man wearing a green and black striped sarong and a white banyan, a faint idea of familiarity, I spoke to him.

"Loku-unnehe", I addressed him in the most respected manner, "This area has changed a lot, but your face is somewhat familiar, I am back here after decades".

"Yes of course the days are gone not only the environment, the residents new and old; and everything has changed". And with an inquisitive look asks, "Mahatthaya, from where are you?"

"Well, I was born and bred in the same place, just a mile away," I wanted to tell him that I am not an outsider, "...but we moved out some 30-40 years ago. We used to frequent this area then."

Incident

As we were passing the cross roads and turned right, the two storied 'Gemunu Building', which housed the famous Royal Bakery and other shops, I remember how Samare and I come here during our cramming sessions for examinations to buy bread and salmon.

"By the way do you remember the incident; the murder 50 years ago of that gangster, ...Gajja or someone, who became a nuisance to everybody, ... and how the Royal bakery worker attacked him with a huge piece of firewood used in baking bread", I posed for a while, "it happened right here, I was a schoolboy then.

I think he had the habit of going there daily to collect his 'Santhosam' for his usual quota of illicit stuff- people who celebrated the criminal's death included his relatives as well, such a menace he was, nobody came forward to give evidence I understand?"

The stranger did not respond, I turned back to look at him to draw his attention; but he snubbed my gesture.

"Do you remember the vedamahattaya who practised here?" I asked him pointing at the old house adjoining Gemunu Building on the same side.

"Yes, good man he passed away 30-35 years ago after reaching 90; the second son was taught the traditional family practice, but he vanished from the area after being caught red-handed by the men at the junction, when he was up to some mischief with a woman patient".

"How bad these men are?" I said.

Road accident

"Criminals!, Father was a well-known social worker, never charged a fee for his services; the son snubbed 'Podi-veda' came back with a wealthy divorced woman after many years and lived here lending money at 'Gini poliyata', until one day a borrower stabbed him to death".

I drew his attention to my school friend Tissa, the house on the opposite side and told him that he passed away at the young age of 34, when he met with a road accident, "he was a proctor who practised at the Magistrate's courts..., and do you know him? Thorough gentleman he was."

"Of course, why not, Pieris mahattaya even appeared for my brother whenever they found some stolen goods in his cycle shed," the man claimed proudly, "so he is your friend, Sir to tell you, once my mother went to his office to pay him Rs. 50: he threw the money back, saying if you have money go and hire an advocate", the poor fellow laments, "their life is short because this cruel world is not the place for them."

"So your brother is a bad man. Where do you stay?"

"Just behind the cemetery, I will show you the exact place in a little while" obviously, he knows, the people and the area like the palm of his hand.

We turned left and proceeded along the shady path that leads to our destination. A signboard indicates, 'No vehicles permitted- except the funeral Car'

"We have to walk another 300 metres," he said. This man surely will know a lot more about my old friend Samare, especially his last 20 years or so, the years I lost touch with him.

"Yes I know, but tell me why you attend his funeral? Is it that he was a resident in the area, or did you know him personally? " I asked.

Jealous

"You don't trust these fellows Sir, they are jealous, I was so close to him and loyal to him. Truly, not for my personal gain," says the stranger, who moved a little to a side and stopped inviting me to do so; "and since his mother died he lived a real bachelor's life, you cannot say these thing after going inside." My friend, Samare, according to this stranger, died an alcohol and drug addict.

"He lost everything he possessed, coconut land in Chilaw, the house was mortgaged to a Mudadlai, one day he came with a gang and threw him out."

That's bad who was that miserly Mudalali, he cannot do that."

"But he did, the last few months he lived like a beggar at the temple. His two sisters, married and migrated. The head priest appealed to the Mudalali and got his consent to take the body to his ancestral house; that was his last request. We collected money for the final rights"

As we walked he pointed at most of the monuments and memorials erected on either side of the walkway leading to the crematorium, enlightening me of who's who lies there. He stopped at one fairly old structure covered with overgrown shrub; unlike the neatly kept surroundings... he stood gazing at the name written on the concrete slab.

"There lies who?" I asked.

Eye witnesses

"The eye witnesses as you said did not come forward. The assailant got away after killing my father with one blow on the head with that heavy piece of firewood..., sir, it is your 'Gajja', who sleeps here in his grave."

"Your father...?" I apologised profusely for my previous observations.

"No, he deserves the treatment, but my worry is that our relatives who dodged the inquest; thus preventing us from seizing a good compensation package from the bakery owner."

'Look at this fellow, the son who talks...' how ungrateful he is, I was thinking, "All right loku-unnehe, tell me your name,"

"They call me Eedin"

"Eedin, so tell me, this gentleman was not married?"

He poused for a moment, looked annoyed..., "all this happened after his wife..., Sir, people say she was a beautiful woman, but a bad character who ran away with one of his friends; yet people talk about the ugly incident, they say, this had happened about 25 years ago." Saying so the stranger started walking again.

Anxious, worried and distressed, I stopped him, "Look here, do...do you know... who that friend was...?"

"Friend? Sir, you think a friend will do such a paraya thing?" He raised one end of his sarong and wiped off his sweat. "That woman must be living somewhere with that ungrateful man called a friend; they will not die that easily only good people die early in life."

"Eedin..., I think... I must get back before the fall of dusk, ...cannot wait for the cremation", I pulled out a hundred-rupee note and palmed it in his hand saying, "keep this", and hurried out of the haunting habitation of the lifeless, contemplating on how to convey the saga to her, who is impatiently waiting, musing over the past and to know how he died... I am already disillusioned, confused and utterly shamed; mustn't wound her and make her feel guilty as well. Eedin's unforgiving words mixed with the ghostly noise springing from the leaves and branches disturbed by the breeze that blew across the cemetery's lofty tree-tops, yet haunting in my earholes.

'...That woman must be living somewhere with that ungrateful man... a friend?'

Forgive us,... my dear Samare, for we are just humans!

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All names are fictitious