Accha House & Umma House Accha House and Umma House A Mixed Childhood in the Sri Lanka of not very long ago 2nd Edition: December 2016 © Asiff Hussein For My Parents For all those wonderful childhood years ISBN: 978-955-0028-46-7 Printed by: Printel (Pvt) Ltd 21/11, 4th Lane, Araliya Uyana, Depanama, Pannipitiya Printed & Published by: Neptune Publications (Pvt) Ltd 302,Published Pahalawela by: NeptuneRoad, Pelawatte, Publications Battaramulla, (Pvt) Ltd Sri Lanka 264/2B, Heenatikumbura Road, Battaramulla, Sri Lanka For My Parents For all those wonderful childhood years INTRODUCTION Once Upon A Time Twelve Thousand Days Ago…. So let me begin the story of my childhood lived thirty three years ago, give and take a few years. That’s not a very long time ago, but much has changed since those days when life was like a song, wild and carefree like a spirit in the wind, when even the sun so high above groomed the earth while playing peek-a-boo, for, to my naïve childish imagination the spot of warm sunlight peeping through some opening to light the dancing dust particles nearer the ground, seemed as if it were beaming them all up into that blazing lamp of the sky to consume in its fiery mirth. But methinks, woe betide the one who lets his past be cast to the realms of forgetfulness, for he is what he is because of what he was. Does not one, despite the tide of time, still live in the after-glow of one’s childhood? Change will come as the years roll on, but let not it take away one’s happy memories though the years fade its colours. I for one have experienced a lot of change, seeing that my childhood home, and my home away from home, are no more, nor the many mundane things I came to associate with them. The vast volumes of water that have quietly flowed from the picturesque Beira Lake close to that place we once called home, and home away from home, to the sea to its west, slowly but surely, imperceptible at first, but nevertheless moving on, best shows how such change takes place, taking away with the tide those things that once were, but which survive only in one’s reminiscences of those happy days aided perhaps by a picture or two or the shared recollections of like-minded kith and kin - An island of delight in a murky lake, a ship of peace in a stormy sea, a beacon of hope in a confused world. How indeed I long to relive those days, which come like a breath of spring on a cold winter’s night or a cooling breeze on a sultry midsummers’s noon. How many times have I drifted away on those balmy afternoon siestas between wakefulness 5 and slumber to those happy days, like a sweet dream occasioned by a lullaby, to wistfully savour every moment of it in spite of its ethereal nature, to wallow in and ensconce myself in an age I know will surely never come. It is to this strong feeling of nostalgia that keeps taking me back to memory lane again and again that this book owes its origins. Human memory, they say, is short, but mine is pretty long, going back to my days as a tiny tot of two years, for I can distinctly remember mother breastfeeding my baby brother in a little room we once stayed at in Kirulapone. Since the nursling was younger to me by one year, six months and fifteen days and mother did not suckle him for more than six months, I reckon that the incident took place at the latest two weeks after my second birthday. It is mainly using this faculty of mind that I have pieced together this book, to share with my readers a most fascinating childhood my siblings and I lived while growing up in the urban Sri Lanka of the late 1970s and early 1980s. Although there is a tendency to look back on one’s childhood with rose-tinted glasses, in our case it was more than that, which explains why we could never really outgrow those years. Firstly, ours was a mixed family with a Muslim father and a Sinhalese mother, both hailing from rather conservative backgrounds, but broad-minded in their outlook. Besides our mixed background, the hybrid vigour we inherited from the mixed union, still in its nascent phase, would have also played a part in shaping our young lives into a most exciting and unconventional one. Secondly, we were three brothers with a very small age gap between us. Two of us, Asgar and I were twins, separated by only twelve minutes, while our younger brother Altaf was no more than twenty months younger. Indeed, so close were we that we called one another by our first names and not by the senior/junior-based kinship terms used by all the major communities in this country. Thirdly, we lived as part of an extended family, among mother’s folk. Fourthly, many of our neighbours, as many as five families, were also our relatives on the maternal side, and fifthly, father’s family home where his 6 and slumber to those happy days, like a sweet dream occasioned parents and siblings lived, was a little more than a stone’s throw by a lullaby, to wistfully savour every moment of it in spite of away, a home away from home which we could visit at our its ethereal nature, to wallow in and ensconce myself in an age whim and fancy. I know will surely never come. It is to this strong feeling of The story of our childhood is therefore the story of two houses nostalgia that keeps taking me back to memory lane again and representing two different cultures, Accha House and Umma again that this book owes its origins. House, named after our maternal and paternal grandmothers Human memory, they say, is short, but mine is pretty long, respectively, which stood in old Colpetty, one no longer going back to my days as a tiny tot of two years, for I can standing, having been replaced by a green glass-facaded multi- distinctly remember mother breastfeeding my baby brother in a storeyed edifice, and the other fragmented, modified and little room we once stayed at in Kirulapone. Since the nursling transformed beyond recognition. The tide of the times has was younger to me by one year, six months and fifteen days and ensured that materially they are a thing of the past, though in my mother did not suckle him for more than six months, I reckon mind’e eye they are still very much alive. that the incident took place at the latest two weeks after my I have employed a free style so different from the structured second birthday. It is mainly using this faculty of mind that I prosaic style I am used to, but one which I believe can best have pieced together this book, to share with my readers a most capture the mood of a colourful childhood that experienced fascinating childhood my siblings and I lived while growing up variety in all its richness. The reader will find sentimental in the urban Sri Lanka of the late 1970s and early 1980s. reminiscences besides down to earth digressions, matter of fact Although there is a tendency to look back on one’s childhood explanations made in all seriousness alongside terser with rose-tinted glasses, in our case it was more than that, which observations made in lighter vein, prose interspersed by verse, explains why we could never really outgrow those years. all befitting the context of the narrative. Call it an experiment in Firstly, ours was a mixed family with a Muslim father and a writing if you will. Sinhalese mother, both hailing from rather conservative The reader will notice that I often use the plural form we and backgrounds, but broad-minded in their outlook. Besides our this he or she must bear in mind is not the Royal Plural, the mixed background, the hybrid vigour we inherited from the author having no pretensions of royalty. Rather it reflects the mixed union, still in its nascent phase, would have also played reality of our upbringing as three siblings closely bonded by a part in shaping our young lives into a most exciting and blood and an entire culture peculiar to ourselves, a result no unconventional one. Secondly, we were three brothers with a doubt of the larger environment in which we were brought up. very small age gap between us. Two of us, Asgar and I were As for place names, the street names used here are the older twins, separated by only twelve minutes, while our younger names we were used to as children, not the cumbersome names brother Altaf was no more than twenty months younger. Indeed, that replaced them. Though some of these street names had been so close were we that we called one another by our first names changed by the time we were kids, our parents and elders and not by the senior/junior-based kinship terms used by all the throughout our childhood used the older and simpler names in major communities in this country. Thirdly, we lived as part of preference to the long and often cacophonic ones that took their an extended family, among mother’s folk. Fourthly, many of our place. General’s Lake Road refers to the present Sir James Pieris neighbours, as many as five families, were also our relatives on Mawatha, Turret Road to Anagarika Dharmapala Mawatha, the maternal side, and fifthly, father’s family home where his Flower Road to Ernest De Silva Mawatha and Green Path to 7 Ananda Coomaraswamy Mawatha.