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I had left for Jordan the day after my father’s 93rd birthday, on June 27th. He had had a party as usual, and all the reception rooms downstairs, the dining room and the rectangular verandah in front, and the large drawing room with its extensions, the round verandah giving on to the garden and the smaller room behind where the piano stands, were all full. But numbers were fewer than in previous years and, though as usual my father enjoyed himself, he had not been as determined as in previous years that no one should be left out, that all friends and relations should be invited.

He seemed to enjoy cutting the cake and I have a lovely picture of him just afterwards, with his three children around him and his oldest friend, C Mylvaganam, who was just a few hours older, seen dimly in the background. We also had the usual ritual of opening presents afterwards, which I remembered too from my grandmother’s birthdays, the last one in 1993 her 93rd.

I sensed that this birthday would also be my father’s last, though I continued to think, or perhaps to hope, that he would live longer than his mother-in-law had done. She had died on his birthday in 1994, a little over six months after her birthday, so I thought that my father would be with us until Christmas and beyond.

He had been diagnosed with prostate cancer, but the doctor had told us that there was no point in any intervention, it was a very slow moving disease, and old age was likely to do for my father before the cancer did. It had got worse earlier that year, but there still seemed no reason to worry overmuch. But after I got back from Jordan I had to take him for several tests, and it was clear that his condition was worsening. After the last test I showed a specialist, recommended when the enormously kind Dr Malalasekera, who had dealt initially with the prostate problem, thought this now necessary, it was clear that nothing more could be done. I was simply tasked then with trying to ensure that he did not worry. Fortunately we could at any stage call on the old family GP, Vimala Navaratnam, the most thoughtful and practical of doctors.

I was still out much of the time, travelling to the North and East for Reconciliation meetings at Divisional Secretariats, in Parliament for various committees, and at my cottage over weekends. This was not a problem for my father still continued interested in his principal pursuits in these last few years, cricket and Hindi films. He also still read, though not as much as he had done when he would sit upright at his desk in the lounge. Now he spent all day in his room, in his armchair, though he did still make the effort to come to the dining room for meals. But he had at last accepted the need for a wheelchair, and I had my coffee alone in the lounge until he was ready to emerge for breakfast. Read the rest of this entry »


img_5858The third country I visited in June 2014, in that period of quietude when nothing was moving in Sri Lanka except for an increasing sense of decline, was Jordan. I did not count it as a new country, for I had stayed overnight there in a hotel, when I was traveling to Turkey early in 1989 to join the SS Universe, for the University of Pittsburgh Semester at Sea programme. It was for a long interport stint, to cover the whole of Asia as it were, even though the ship was not coming to Sri Lanka. So I was able in that year to visit the pyramids of Egypt for the first time, and in India Tanjore and also Kerala. I also swam off Cape Comorin, and lost my spectacles in the waves, which meant I had to make do with contact lenses for Trivandrum and Cochin and the long train ride back to Chennai, where I had a spare set on board the ship.

It had proved very difficult to get a flight to Turkey. I had set off for Thailand, from where I was to fly back after finally disembarking in Penang, and in Bangkok I had got the Turkish visa without difficulty. But the airlines going to Istanbul were very wary of a Sri Lankan passport. Even the Romanians, and that in the days of Ceausescu too, would not allow me even to transit in their capital. The embassy staff in Bangkok obviously thought their regulations silly, and agreed that it was hardly likely I wanted to stay in Bucharest (this was the year in which Ceaucescu was finally overthrown), but they would not budge. Finally the Jordanians did give me a ticket, and provided me with a hotel for the overnight layover, but they took away my passport at the airport and ensured that I did not stray.

In Turkey I was able to explore to my heart’s content, taking advantage of their fantastic network of buses that enabled me to get to Ankara and even to Trabzon, a place I have always thought of as magical, ever since reading Rose Macaulay’s wonderful novel, The Towers of Trebizond (which begins with perhaps the maddest opening line in English literature, “Take my camel, dear”, said my Aunt Dot, as she climbed down from this animal on her return from High Mass.’) The city lived up to expectations, with its fantastic monastery up in the snow covered mountains, and so did the rock houses of Cappadocia and its extraordinary underground city. I went too to the remote East, the Kurdish area which proved more peaceful than I had thought, and Antakya in the south, the old Antioch, tropical weather even in January and wonderful mosaics. Read the rest of this entry »

Rajiva Wijesinha

May 2019
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