Mrs Houseful

At Home

By Ransiri Menike Silva

When Vinitha left us to join another ‘home’ in Colombo, her room did not remain vacant for long. Mrs Housefull moved in, lock, stock and barrel. She bore a high-class Burgher name which the ‘low-class’ Sinhalese in the complex could neither understand nor pronounce. To their unevolved ears, it sounded like Mrs ‘Housefull’ and so she was forever Mrs Housefull to all of them.

She was dark in complexion, a ‘black Burgher’ I told myself, but then those were of Portuguese and not Dutch descent. Here was a puzzle for me to solve. The noisy bunch that accompanied her, when she was being officially inducted, bore all the hallmarks of authentic Burgherhood, and I looked forward to some jolly sessions ahead whenever they visited her. Gradually her story unfolded.

Moving freely with all alike, she laughed a lot, spoke frankly and good-naturedly. There was no doubt about her Burgher ancestry. She enjoyed relating her life story to us, but that revealed the surprising fact that she was not Burgher but Sinhalese; her complexion was proof of it. It came out in fits and starts and it was a most interesting saga.

She had been a slim schoolgirl, not the short, overweight and short-haired dumpling we were familiar with, sporting two long be-ribboned plaits that swung enticingly as she walked.  The English medium school she attended was some distance away, in a well-known town. The only form of public transport available at the time was the train which she boarded on school days. Being a railway town it had an important station where many young Burgher boys were employed in a variety of fields. One young chap was attracted to this pretty schoolgirl many years his junior and began to court her. Thrilled to no end by her very first admirer’s attention she began to respond, resulting in a romance.

The young man became nervous. There were other young male colleagues. Surely such an attractive girl would not remain unnoticed for long and would attract others’ attention. She may find another more suited to her taste. The situation was unstable. Making a quick decision he proposed to her. She accepted. They decided to marry in secret and so they eloped one morning on her way to school. As she was still in her school uniform he removed her school tie to prevent being discovered, before walking into the office of the Registrar of Marriages. One look at the would-be bride confirmed his suspicion that this was a couple who had eloped. Explaining that this was not possible as she was underage, he dismissed them.

Unused to making major decisions in life she looked to him for guidance. He was mature and sort of ‘fatherly’ towards her. He knew that she could not tackle life on her own and without hesitation took her home to his family. They accepted this new addition to their clan. Asked no questions, and began training her in their way of life. Religion had never made any impact on her and she readily absorbed Roman Catholicism, giving her a sound footing in life.

As she already spoke fluent English, language presented no barrier. Being a student, she never previously bothered about housework, and now began her training in housewifery. She learnt to knit; measure, cut and sew; wash and air laundry; cook, and most importantly, to make something out of nothing instead of throwing things away. The most lively of these activities, however, was learning the facts of life first-hand, which resulted in her contributing to the family nursery regularly. At last, she had an identity of her own, was a respected elder and belonged to a family.

She mastered life’s skills to become a professional of sorts. She earned by tailoring; created her own dishes and marketed them; learned to ride a bicycle and drive. Not saddled with traditional cookery, she produced ‘mojus’ and lamprais which the ignorant Sinhalese still write and pronounce as ‘Lump rice’. She was introduced to bacon, ham, salt beef, ‘ogurulang’ and a variety of cakes. Christmas was especially exciting. There was Xmas cake, love cake, date bars, eclairs, ‘bolo fiado’, Yule logs, Breudher and, best of all, a glittering Christmas tree with Santa Claus.

She became an excellent housewife. Her house was neat and tidy with vases and paper flowers. She was quite resourceful. For example, window draperies were disciplined by inserting them through empty cigarette cartons covered with material that matched the door curtains, which were firmly grounded using sand-filled hems.

Frayed towels became door-mats, torn curtains got a new lease of life as dusters and dishcloths. Her expert darning on bed sheets and tablecloths were camouflaged with versatile appliques and hemmed bits of remnants served snotty dribbling noses.

Nobody cried; everyone was jolly. Life was taken on the bump, with hardly anything to complain about. There was song, dance and laughter. Life was excellent in a Burgher household. They grew old together and her beloved husband, many years senior, passed away. But she was not left alone or helpless. There was a large family to grieve along with her. She was not isolated. The children, now adults, moved out one by one and she decided to move into another kind of ‘home’ and became a member of another extended family. And so she came to us to brighten up our lives.

The year was drawing to a close and Mrs Housefull was away with her family as was her usual practice at this time of the year. She would be playing Santa to the entire brood. I would not be there when she returned with our share of Xmas cake, as she unfailingly did each year. But I would always be thankful to her for refreshing my memory of my childhood, when this season was choc-a-bloc with bits and pieces of Christmas fare, glittering decorations, shrieks of delight while watching fireworks, the deafening thunderclap of green and red Chinese crackers, and the wail of sirens and blaring horns on New Year’s night. All of which we had experienced and enjoyed from my mother’s side of the family, now long lost but never forgotten. Thank you Mrs Housefull for helping me re-live those precious moments.