Diplomatic graduate and peeping tom

At Home

By Ransiri Menike Silva

Having taken ‘Shorta’ off my list, I was faced with another problem, whom should I write about next? I decided it would be Ranjini who had had a brief spat with him and had been already mentioned. When I first entered this particular ‘home’ she had been a resident for some years, along with ‘Kotugoda Amma’; ‘Morris Mahaththaya’; an internationally recognised journalist whose Colombo-Chetty name could not be rolled round the worker’s tongue; the Vyrakkara couple and a retired doctor with a gossipy wife.

The three of us, I, Ranjini and Shorta, dined together on the ground floor at the small dining table, serving one another, having interesting chats mainly about our backgrounds, with the regular whirr of ‘choppers’, at the Ratmalana airport, for background music. This was how I became aware of Ranjini’s family name, which happened to be the same as mine, and it took me back to our schooldays. We had studied at the same school but never met, though aware of each other, as we had followed different streams of study.

More connections were soon uncovered; her brother and mine were friends while our respective grand-nephews had studied together at the same school. So the first time my brother visited me I introduced her to him and we had an entertaining time together.

Ranjini was pleasant and good-looking, but unlike me, who had terminated my education rather early, she had entered university and graduated with honours. This enabled her to lead an active professional life, the last position of which, prior to retirement, was in the Diplomatic Service.

That had given her ample opportunity to travel around the world. I was thrilled, here was a companion right up my alley. Surprisingly I never found out whether she was a spinster, a divorcee or a childless widow, for such trivialities were meaningless in our relationship. In the evenings the two of us would sit in the garden together, watching the passing scene, making private comments on those passing our gate. One, I still remember clearly, was an acrobatic motorcyclist practising at deserted hours. He would race up and suddenly lift the front wheel off the road and speed along on the rear wheel for a short distance before levelling off again. We always looked forward to this free Circus show. I would ask her about the different countries she had worked in and the lives led by their ‘native’ population. That had interested her as well, particularly the lifestyle practised in remote places like Kenya.

Then I had to be hospitalised and was away for a fairly long time. On my return I found a subtle change in Ranjini, who displayed signs of the onset of dementia. She could not remember me. She collected rubbish, bits of firewood, food items for cooking, scraps of oddities which she stored under her bed. As her mind deteriorated rapidly her relatives decided that she should live with them.

I felt regret at the parting when I realised that I no longer meant anything to her. But I will always remember Ranjini, my beloved friend, companion and educator who gifted me so much knowledge.

An old baila from my childhood sprang to my mind as I, sort of, encountered Mrs. H at ‘Home number 1’.

“Peeping through the window darling

What will people say?

If you want to marry me darling

Come the proper way….”

She was my immediate neighbour to the left and I found, as I became an accepted member of the troop, that she was more curious than a monkey. She must have been some sort of military man in a previous birth, I surmised, for she was endowed with expert strategic tactics.

She placed a chair near her door which was only very slightly ajar, giving her an overall view of what was going on outside, while not permitting other eyes to get even a glimpse of her room. She was also extremely suspicious of others. While the rest of us shared some special sweet among ourselves she never did so in like manner. She would accept her share of course, but was wary of consuming it unless its identity, like a fruit or biscuit, was firmly established. Once in a jubilant mood I created in my little kitchenette (all main meals were provided for us) a very special dessert. I heard that she had secretly summoned the maid to order her to check what it was, as well as sample a bit of it. Only then had she tucked into it.

Only the maid was permitted to enter her room for cleaning and collecting her laundry. But one day she fell ill in the night and was unable to get out of bed to switch on the light or call for help. I heard her muffled groans through our common wall and raised the alarm. We found her in pain, vomiting blood, which had stained the sheets. She was hospitalised immediately for diagnosis and treatment and her relatives took over from there. That was when we ‘broke into’ her room, examining all her belongings and peeping into every nook and cranny. What a glorious time we had! Her sudden illness unnerved her son, for she was quite elderly and he decided that she would have to live with him thereafter.

On the appointed date and time she dressed herself up in a lovely saree with hair done up, so different from her usual shabby attire, and when the vehicle drove up we stood at our respective doorways as she walked from one to the other, in a farewell parade. And what a dramatic farewell it was! There she was, weeping, kissing and hugging, even the males! All of whom she had disliked intensely, about which she made no bones.

She loudly swore that she was devastated by the decision made, not by her but her son, promising to return to us (her sworn enemies), as early as possible. Her copious tears that defiled our faces were instantly wiped off by her victims.

The son stood with the car door open, shuffling his feet in frustration as the drama unfolded. When the curtain finally fell we walked up to the gate behind the car, then let out a loud triumphant cheer! We were finally free of her odious presence, we certainly would ‘not’ allow her back in, ever!