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.” |