And one last driver

(Excerpted from Life Can Be A Frolic by Goolbai Gunasekara)

Having writted about the drivers of my classmates on two occasions I cannot allow the peculiarities of our own ‘charioteer’ to go untold for he was, like all of his breed, an exceptional servant of those times.

We did not properly appreciate our help-karayas of yore. Our maids were all extensions of our mothers as far as getting us to keep clothes clean, rooms neat etc. and drivers were CIA agents. What linked the Nona Mahattaya to the driver’s affections defied comprehension.

Affection is the wrong word. Loyalty was the trait mothers enjoyed from their drivers. A driver was the caretaker of the car, which he kept in prime condition – washing it daily and dusting the insides – which was necessary since no cars were air-conditioned during my school days. Ergo the seats etc. got extremely dusty. Car carpets likewise.

Picking up kids from school was not a favourite pastime with our driver. Usually, parents made us cycle to school. School was just a hoo-kiyana (shouting) distance from our homes, so cars were saved for better purposes. Kids brought sand and dust into his gleaming car and he did not enjoy our father saying, “Did you not wash the car this morning Weerasuriya?” So he was not keen on driving us hither and thither.

Weerasuriya was a dignified, oldish man and had he been put into a western suit, would have made quite a distinguished looking gentleman. The trouble was that he thought he already was a gentleman and tolerated no criticism whatsoever. No one in our household would have dreamt of shortening his name to Weera as was common among servants then. Except my father, that is.

His conversations with my father bear repetition. “Now Weera, I do not like fast driving.”

“So, (icily) say when did I drive fast Mahattaya?” He does not like my father who, being a traveling lecturer, only spends four to six months a year in Colombo and upsets Weearasuriya’s routine no end. Father sees no reason to pander to preferences and insists on using his abbreviated name at all times and my sire is rarely placatory.

“I am just reminding you Weera. You know my nerves are all gone with two daughters in the house worrying me the whole day.”

“As if I can’t remember from December what you told me.” (It is now June of the next year.)

Weerasuriya was a dignified, oldish man and had he been put into a western suit, would have made quite a distinguished looking gentleman. The trouble was that he thought he already was a gentleman and tolerated no criticism whatsoever. No one in our household would have dreamt of shortening his name to Weera as was common among servants then. Except my father, that is.

“So Madam, I am telling you that Baba (me) took half an hour to come from the ballet class.”
(My mother knows the ballet class contains only girls, so she tells him not to worry.) Weerasuriya is not finished.
“Madam does not know there are BOYS coming now. They are doing funny shaking dances.” (Our classes under Timmy Ingleton had graduated to Modern Dance. We were actually learning the Rumba for our next riveting public recital.)

“How do you know Weerasuriya?”

“Madam I am quietly going near the window and looking. Aiyo, I am shy to watch. Our baba is unnecessarily holding hands and other things with boys.”
(Mother interprets all this correctly. She pacifies him).

“Never mind Weerasuriya. I will call her teacher tomorrow to find out what is happening.”

Mother sends me on my bicycle for my next class and she continues to do so till Timmy’s concert is over and I have danced the Modern Finale in fine style. Weerasuriya is spared the sight of me wiggling happily at rehearsals during the next few weeks.

But Weerasuriya and my sister Su’s relationship is perhaps the most interesting of all. On principle he objects to her even using the car.

“Baby, take your feet off the seat anney.“

“Baby, wipe your feet outside on the ground. All the mud is inside now.”

“Baby I will tell Nona Mahataya you are eating sweets in the car.” (My sister was not allowed sugar.)
But Su likes our distinguished looking driver. “Please don’t tell Weerasuriya. I won’t do it again.”

He likes her too. “Only this time I am not telling. Next time I am saying.”

“You are sweet Weerasuriya.” “Don’t chaatufy (sweet talk) me baby.”

“Of course not, Weerasuriya. Have a piece of my chocolate.”

And so life with drivers flowed on. They stayed forever and ever. They went on leave once a month and did not even insist on that. They were part of the household. Weerasuriya drove the car to the Galle Face Hotel when I married blowing his nose mightily all the way.

“Aiyo Baba,

” he wept.

“I’m not leaving the country you know,” I told him comfortingly. There was no answer.
Was he hoping I would!

(This article is excerpted from Goolbai Gunasekara’s last published book now available at all leading booksellers)