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Tussle for Independence

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Sunday shot story

(Excerpted from Saris and Grapefruit, an anthology of short stories by Rukmini Attygalle)


My daughter Kumi felt that she had been tied to my apron strings for far too long. She felt grown up and considered herself to be on the verge of stepping into adulthood. She thought that we, her family, were holding her back, by limiting her independence. She was all of ten years old, although in my mind, it was not so long ago she had two missing front teeth!

We were living in London at the time and Kumi and her friend Nilmini were the only two Sri Lankan children in her class. They had obviously discussed the matter of their independence (apparently a common grievance) – or rather, the lack of it – and, decided to take up the issue with their respective mothers. One night, when Kumi and I were clearing the kitchen after the evening meal (every member of the family had to do certain chores, and it was Kumi’s turn in the kitchen), she broached the subject.

“Amma,” she said trying to sound formal – she hardly ever called me Amma, preferring to call me by some silly meaningless words she coined. “Why does everyone in my family treat me as though I was a small child?”

I knew from the tone of her voice that this was no simple question but a precursor to an emotionally charged argument.

“Do we?” I asked in feigned surprise. “I didn’t realise we did…” “Do you know that Nilmini and I are the only two girls in our class who are not allowed to travel by bus alone?”

“But there is no need for you to travel alone by bus,” I argued. “Your Your father drops you and your sister at school by car, on his way to work, and, after school, the two of you come back together by bus. So, the question of travelling alone does not really arise.” I was of course dodging the issue!

“Oh yes, it does! What about when Akka is ill and she doesn’t go to school? You always make arrangements for me to be picked up by Nilmini’s father or you take time off from work to collect me from school and then we both come home by bus! You don’t, think that I am capable of travelling by bus by myself.” Her voice quivered and I knew that tears were around the corner.

Realising I was in a tight spot I tried to extricate myself as gracefully as I could.

“Well, I suppose with you being the youngest in the family, I didn’t quite realize that you are growing up fast and, can do things for yourself.”

“It’s not just you! It is everybody! Akka always insists on holding my hand when we cross the road as though I am an idiot. My schoolmates cross the road by themselves. Every year a policeman comes to our school to teach us the ‘Green Cross Code’. I know it by heart! I know exactly what I should do and should not do when crossing the road. But what’s the use! I am never allowed to put it into practice. If I refuse to hold Akka’s hand, she grabs my arm so hard it hurts! She is such a Bossy Boots.”

Tears were slowly trickling down and I knew that the flood gates would soon open.

The Akka was eight years her senior and took her childminding responsibilities very seriously.

“I will tell Akka that there really is no need to hold your hand when crossing the road together. I think she is doing it through habit and not because she thinks that you are not capable of crossing by yourself.” I was trying to make an excuse for the sister.

“It’s not just Akka … Aiya as well …!” Flood gates had opened. The tears were now gushing freely.

This was the first time I had heard a complaint against the brother, as he was her favourite person, her ideal in the whole wide world; and generally, he could do no wrong.

Between sobs she told me that the previous week, her brother had insisted that he was not going to take her to the sweet shop up the road unless she put on her boots and coat. He had said that it was too cold outside, yet, he himself had gone out in his ordinary shoes and his denim jacket.

I explained to her that he was concerned about her health as she was prone to colds and coughs and suffered very badly with tonsillitis every time she went down with a cold. That he was only trying to protect her and was not ‘just being bossy’.

She seemed reasonably appeased but, continued to cry and wouldn’t drop the subject.

“All I know is that if you lot don’t let me do things for myself, I’ll never learn to be independent…” she said wiping her tears and blowing her nose into a piece of kitchen paper, “I am going to end up being retarded.” Her voice squeaked and turned into a sob.

“Retarded?” I exclaimed surprised.

“Yes. You know … people who can’t do things for themselves…”

She was going through the stage of using ‘big words’ and although she was quite good at using new words in the appropriate context most of the time, she did miss the target once in a while.

“No,” I said quite definitely. “You will never be retarded. You won’t need to worry yourself on that score!” I had to suppress a smile.

What I wanted to say was, “Your problem my girl, is that you are too sharp for your own good and if you don’t look out, you will cut yourself!” but of course I didn’t say it. Such comments were not really appropriate in this scenario. I helped her wipe her tears, gave her a hug and a kiss and promised to speak to the rest of the family about her problem.

This outburst did however make me wonder whether we were being over-protective of Kumi. I knew that some children of her age, did actually travel to school and back alone by themselves. Perhaps it was time that she was allowed to try out her wings. At any rate we had to make her feel that she was capable of doing certain things in order not to undermine her self-confidence.

On the spur of the moment I said, “How about you taking a bus ride to Streatham High Street on Saturday, all by yourself?” The High Street was not very far away, being seven bus stops from where we lived.

Kumi’s face immediately lit up. Her big round eyes got bigger. Her face widened with a grin that spread from ear to ear. “Can I really?” she said overcome with excitement.

“Yes,” I said, “I think it’s a good idea – don’t you?”

“It’s a great idea!” she beamed. Tears and complaints all forgotten; she ran to give the good news to the rest of the family.

Kumi was usually the last to get up on a Saturday morning, especially when it was cold. But that Saturday she was up at the crack of dawn – or so it seemed to me – when she tiptoed into our room and shook me gently by my shoulder.

“It’s Saturday today,” she whispered, not wanting to disturb her father. “Shall I start getting ready?”

“It’s far too early and it must be freezing outside,” I said. “In any case the High Street must be deserted at this time. People don’t start getting out till about nine o’clock on a Saturday. Go back to bed and I’ll wake you at the proper time.”

Although she returned to her bed, I knew she was too excited to go back to sleep.

It so happened that, on that particular Saturday, the others were also busy with one thing or another. My husband had to inspect a worksite; my elder daughter had to visit the library; and my son had football practice. So when I finally got out of bed, I went into Kumi’s room and told her that since there was no rush for her, to let the others finish their showers and once they were out of the way she could get ready for her ‘journey’. I think she was a little disappointed that the others would not be present to witness her stepping out into ‘adulthood’.

By half past nine Kumi was washed and dressed and breakfasted and ready for her big adventure. The bus fare to the High Street was 20 pence one way. So, I gave Kumi fifty pence for the fare and another fifty for her to buy herself some sweets — to complete her treat. I also gave her the front door key saying that she had better take it in case I went out before she returned (of course I had no intention of doing anything of the sort!) Kum] beamed with a sense of importance and responsibility. She had complained on an earlier occasion that she was the “odd one out” who did not have a front door key! She put the money and the key carefully into her purse and put it in her coat pocket, and with a cheeky smile said, “I won’t lose the key like the way you do!”

Losing my key was something that happened to me quite regularly so much so that it had become a family joke. I decided to ignore her comment and kissed her goodbye; and watched her spindly legs and knobby knees go down the incline towards the bus stop.

I started my cleaning chores, but my mind was on the bus. I could picture Kumi scrambling up the steps to the upper deck for that was where she liked to sit. I could almost see her little hands gripping the chrome bar of the seat in front of her; her eyes taking in every sight around her. She was an extremely observant child. So, I was confident that, unlike me who often sat in the bus lost in thought, she would not be over carried beyond her destination.

The day after Kumi’s outburst, I had telephoned my friend Sujatha — Nilmini’s mother — and told her about it. Nilmini too had made a huge fuss and complained bitterly that, “Sri Lankan parents are uneccesarily hard on their children.” So, when I told her that I was letting Kumi go to Streatham by herself on Saturday, she too thought it a good idea and decided to let Nilmini do the same. But of course, we did not tell our daughters that their friend was also doing the same trip.

All the while I was dusting and cleaning, my mind travelled with Kumi. I saw her get out of the bus at the stop near Woolworths, her favourite shop. I saw her heading to the sweet counter, looking at the different sweets, wondering what she should buy. Chocolate mice was one of her favourite sweets. She also liked toffees wrapped in shiny coloured paper. Of course, she could never resist Milky Way or Turkish Delight. I wondered what she would decide on eventually. 50p for sweets was quite a lot in those days and she could get a few varieties.

Then I visualised her mooching around the shop looking at the toys and games and then slowly coming out of the shop. She would have to cross the road to get to the bus stop on the other side. I knew she would walk up to the zebra crossing. I hoped the ‘Lollipop Lady’ (a traffic warden who helps children and the aged, to cross roads) would be on duty that day. I saw her cross the road safely and walk to the bus stop. She would be waiting for the bus impatiently. The 159 bus trundles along and she gets in and manages to find a seat. “Now she will be back soon,” I said to myself and continued my house cleaning.

About half an hour later Sujatha telephoned. “What time did Kumi leave?” she asked.

“About a quarter to ten.”

“Nilmini left a little earlier. Don’t you think they should be back by now?”

Sujatha was one to get alarmed at the slightest provocation. It was just gone eleven.

“They have probably bumped into each other at Woolworths and are wandering around the shop together.” I said to calm her down. But I must admit I was getting a little worried too.

“Yes,” said Sujatha “let’s give them another half hour, before panicking.”

I agreed. But I found myself running to the porch every few minutes to see whether Kumi was walking up the hill.

About twenty minutes later, to my great relief, I saw the pair of skinny legs with knobby knees trudging up, and quickly went indoors, shut the door, switched on the television and slumped on to the sofa. Minutes later I heard the key turn in the keyhole and the door open. I heard the zip of her coat being pulled down, and a rustling sound of paper.

“I’m back!” shouted a very cheery voice. “And guess what I bought?” she exclaimed bursting into the room. She had something behind her back.

“Chocolate mice?”

“Wrong.”

“Turkish?”

“Wrong again.”

“Milky Way?”

“Wrong, wrong. Give up?”

“Yes,” I said.

She took what she was concealing behind her and held it out to me. “It is for you,” she proudly exclaimed.

I was mighty surprised. It was a beautiful orange Tiger Lily! I knew that she would have spent all her money on this flower. “What a beautiful flower!” I said, taking it from her. “Thank

Y’ you so much. It’s so sweet of you to have brought it for me. Did you not buy any sweets then?” I asked, giving her a hug. “No,” she said, “I didn’t feel like any,” and shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s the nicest present I have ever received,” I said.

What Kumi did not realise was that she had given me a flower that would never fade; for it is still fresh in my memory and reminds me of the day it was presented to me with stick-like outstretched arms, a beaming face and a wide grin. It was also the day she turned adult! At least to her way of reckoning.

“And guess who I bumped into,” she nonchalantly remarked, pretending it was of no significance.

“Who?

“Nilmini!”

“Really?” I said, “What a coincidence!”

(The writer and her family lived for many years in England while her children were small and later relocated to Sri Lanka)



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Features

The Division Bell Mystery

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Tales of Mystery and Suspense 3

The murder, in a private dining room in the house, is of a financier with whom the government was negotiating a loan. When this seemed difficult the Minister of Home Affairs agreed to lead discussions, since he had known Mr Oissel the financier when they were young. Hence the private dinner, but when the Minister stepped out for a vote, Oissel was shot just as the Division Bell rang.

The Brahms and Simon detective novels, the first of which I wrote about last week, were amongst several books by the pair that Robert Scoble gave me when I was in Australia towards the end of last year. Amongst them was another thriller of a very different sort, though that too was written and set between the wars.

Called The Division Bell Mystery, it was set in the House of Commons, the first such book I believe, and was by Ellen Wilkinson, a Labour MP who became Minister of Education in Attlee’s government after the war, having served previously as Parliamentary Private Secretary to several ministers. Her hero Robert West is also a PPS, but a conservative, and his Minister, of Home Affairs, is an old style aristocrat, not much loved by the less orthodox Prime Minister, who nevertheless needs his support on many occasions.

The murder, in a private dining room in the house, is of a financier with whom the government was negotiating a loan. When this seemed difficult the Minister of Home Affairs agreed to lead discussions, since he had known Mr Oissel the financier when they were young. Hence the private dinner, but when the Minister stepped out for a vote, Oissel was shot just as the Division Bell rang.

West was just outside the door when the shot was heard, and when he opened it saw only the dead body with a revolver beside it. The assumption that this was suicide was however challenged by Oissel’s grand-daughter Annette, who was his heir, on the grounds that he would never have killed himself. But her view was given greater credence by the Inspector put in charge of the case who said there were no burn marks on the body which would have been the case had Oissel fired the pistol himself.

Matters are complicated by the fact that Oissel’s flat had been burgled while he was at dinner, and Jenks the policeman allocated to him, who had served the Home Secretary and seemed more acceptable to Oissel than someone from the Security Service, had been killed. Matters get even more complicated when Annette says her grand-father’s notebook in which he wrote his secrets in cipher was missing.

That was found in Jenks’ pocket, and then a photographer came to West to say he had been asked by Jenks to photograph this. More worryingly for West, he finds in the Home Secretary’s drawer a few pages from the notebook with what appears to be an interpretation of the cipher.

Ellen

Overwhelmed by all this he confides in a recently created peer who knows all about the business world, who insists that they leave the house party at which they had met over dinner and discuss the matter with the Prime Minister who promptly summons the Home Secretary.

But the Home Secretary had gone to Scotland to launch a ship over the weekend, so the meeting could take place only on the morning of the Monday, when difficult questions were expected on the adjournment motion. He admits at the meeting that he had got Jenks to take the notebook, and also that he knew the code since it had been created by him and Oissel when they were young.

He thought he should resign, and even contemplated suicide, but the Prime Minister told him that that would be even worse for the government, and that he should go home to bed. The Prime Minister said that he himself would handle the question, which he did with aplomb, insisting that confidentiality was needed until the inquest. What had happened would be made clear then, he declared, leaving West and Inspector Blackit and Lord Dalbeattie what seemed the impossible task of solving the murder.

Dalbeattie had suggested that West ask a female Labour MP who was very fond of him to get what information she could from the staff. That there was some involvement there had become clear when West, going back late one night to collect a briefcase he had left in a dining room, found someone lurking in the dark in the corridor outside the private rooms. Room J, where the murder had happened, was meant to be guarded throughout by a policeman, but he had left the room having felt dizzy, and it seemed that his coffee had been drugged. West’s sudden appearance however had prevented anyone else getting into the room.

Dalbeattie decides to recreate the scene of the murder and has a dinner party in Room J on the Tuesday night, inviting West and Annette and the society hostess at whose house he had met, and also Patrick Kinnaird, an MP who was engaged to Annette, as well as the Permanent Secretary to the Home Ministry.

After coffee Inspector Blackit comes in with Grace, the Labour MP who had got the confidence of the staff, and a journalist who had also been helpful, and just as they say they think they are on the track the division bell rings. Grace jumps up and tells the Inspector that that provides the solution and they get a ladder, and sure enough find the revolver in the space where the bell is. Directed at the place where Oissel had sat, it had been primed to go off with the ringing of the bell. The waiter who had helped to set things up made clear who the murderer had been.

The reason for the murder and the confused motives of all those involved made for a fascinatingly intricate mix. But also impressive in the book were the descriptions of the isolation possible in the crowded premises of the house, the forceful characterization of the members – Grace based on the writer, the society hostess based on Nancy Astor, the first female MP – and the laid back nature of senior politicians which West realized had to change in the brave new world of high finance.

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The challenge of keeping value-based politics alive

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Anti-migrant protests in Durban, South Africa. BBC

The current outbreak of anti-immigrant protests in Durban, South Africa is bound to have taken many a subscriber to value-based politics or political idealism quite by surprise. After all, this is evidence that despite the historic accomplishments of nation-builders of the stature of the late President Nelson Mandela it cannot be taken for granted that identity politics, including racism in its worst forms, is no more in South Africa.

At the time of this writing details are scarce on the substantive root causes of the protests but it could very well be that economic grievances, particularly on the part of the majority community in South Africa, are contributing considerably to the disaffection. Shrinking employment and material prospects are likely to figure majorly among the factors igniting the unrest.

Fortunately, the local authorities in Durban are losing no time in calling for peaceful co-existence among the relevant communities and are pointing to the vital importance of stepping-up national integration processes. Apparently, immigrants in sizable numbers from neighbouring countries are present in Durban. However, international TV footage of the protests quoted some local authorities as saying that the majority of the immigrants in some centres that housed them were not illegal migrants and had the documents that entitle them to be in Durban.

In the Durban protests the world has fresh proof of the socially divisive consequences of the gathering globe-wide economic disaffection, touched off particularly by the continuing crisis in West Asia. Going ahead, the world would need to brace for increasing identity-based unrest of the kind it is just witnessing in South Africa.

Considering that the material lot of ordinary people everywhere could only aggravate progressively, with the US and Iran showing no signs of negotiating an end to their confrontation any time soon, it will be left to the more democratic and progressive sections of the world community to initiate positive measures collectively to bring a measure of relief to the discontented.

The swiftness with which such relief will be provided would depend crucially on the importance those sections taking up these undertakings attach to value-based politics as opposed to Realpolitik of power politics.

Going by these yardsticks, Italy could be considered to be moving in the right direction. Recently Italy came to the fore in initiating the collective named, ‘Rome Coalition for Food Security and Access to Fertilizer’, which has as one of its aims the swift provision of fertilizer to economically weak African countries.

In a recent statement Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation, Antonio Tajani, said that a principal aim of the project was to ensure that the farmers of Africa gained easy access to fertilizer, considering that food security is a growing concern among some of Africa’s economically vulnerable countries.

The statement went on to mention that some 30 countries hailing from the Mediterranean region, the Middle East, the Balkans as well as the FAO had been invited to join the coalition. The venture is far-seeing in that food security is main among the reasons for social discontent which in turn could degenerate into endemic political turmoil and bloodshed. Separatist violence and geographical fragmentation of countries wouldn’t be too far behind these developments, as Africa itself has often proved.

It is hoped that more G7 countries would take the cue from Italy and do what they could to ease the hardships of economically distressed countries, particularly of the global South. In these efforts they would need to break rank with the US, which is today brutally indifferent to the consequences of its policy of making ‘America First’, come what may.

Going by current developments, the Trump administration seems to be blithely oblivious to the wider, deleterious effects of its policy course in West Asia. Besides rendering Iran militarily and otherwise impotent nothing else seems to matter to Washington, as regards West Asia. This is policy short-sightedness of an extreme kind. After all, right now West Asia could be said to be sitting on the proverbial powder keg.

On the other hand, Iran is not giving the world the impression that it is doing anything constructive to get out of the policy straitjacket that it wove for itself decades ago. Rather than enter into a policy of ‘live and let live’ in relation to Israel in particular and initiate a process of reconciliation with the latter, it has chosen to operate within policy parameters that continue to damn Israel. This has put Israel always on the ‘defensive’ so to speak and prevented the opening up of space for meaningful dialogue.

That said, Israel is obliged to explore the possibilities of entering into a negotiatory process with the Arab-Islamic world that could lead to a de-escalation of tensions and bloodshed. It cannot continue to look at its neighbours through lenses that distort them as archetypal enemies who should be ‘wiped off completely from the face of the earth.’

In other words, the need is urgent for Realpolitik to give way to value-based politicks. Italy is beginning to prove that the latter approach could be pursued with some success. May be the EU and the UK could throw their weight behind these initiatives as well and establish that international politics could be refashioned on the basis of humane, civilized norms. The UN would need to be fully supportive of these moves and prove an organizational nucleus of the operations that follow.

In fact the time is ripe for people of conscience to collectively stand up on the side of peace and say ‘No’ to war and violence. Organizations such as the ICRC, the WHO and Medicines Sans Frontiers have already taken up this call. Referring to the widespread destruction of health facilities and their dehumanizing results these organizations have said, among other things, that ‘This is not a failure of the law. It is a failure of political will.’

True, ‘failure of political will’ among those powers that matter accounts for the runaway, uncontrollable nature of war and destruction in contemporary times, but more fundamentally it is a failure of the human conscience. It could very well be that the phenomenal levels to which violence and war have been unleashed today have had the effect of deadening consciences. This is a matter for urgent study and wide discussion.

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Vesak celebrations … with Cuteefly

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Perfect for celebrations, gifts, and meaningful occasions // Gift pack

I would describe Indunil Kaushalya Dissanayaka as innovative and creative, and she operates under the name of Cuteefly.

Indunil always comes up with something novel to celebrate special occasions, and she does it with candles … and that’s her profession.

She was in the spotlight when she created a happening scene, with candles, for Christmas, Sinhala and Tamil New Year, and Valentine’s Day.

As lanterns light up Sri Lanka for Vesak, the Colombo-based candle maker is quietly turning wax and wick into little pieces of the festival.

Candles reflecting Vesak themes

Her candles reflect Vesak themes – light, peace, remembrance, giving, etc., to enable you to fill your Vesak celebration with devotion and beauty.

Among her Vesak creations is a lotus-shaped soy candle, scented with sandalwood, lavender, etc., meant to burn during this Vesak Poya Day.

Indunil Kaushalya Dissanayaka: Customers
praise her for her creativity

These handcrafted Vesak candles are perfect for offering at the temple, she says.

What makes her creations so novel is that they come in different shapes, scents, themes, and all are handmade.

What’s more, her customers have heaped praise on her for her creativity.

According to Indunil, her creations are perfect as a thoughtful gift … to bring beauty, unity, and light into every moment.

Says Indunil: “Our beautifully handcrafted Unity candles are designed with premium detail and love, making them perfect for celebrations, gifts, and meaningful occasions.”

Cuteefly, says Indunil, is available online.

Readers could contact Indunil on 0778506066 for more details.

He Facebook Page is: Cuteefly.

Handmade with love

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