Henry Jayasena Column:

More about London and how I delivered a parcel

THEATRE: Mr. Munasinghe is not the only lonely and disgruntled Ceylonese I met in London. I met another lady - let’s call her Mrs. De Silva. Actually I did not meet her in a subway or in the street. I was sent to meet her and deliver a parcel. Veterans at Lake House and older newspaper men elsewhere too, I am sure will remember a rather colourful man called Elmo Goonaratne.

I think he was one of the ‘distinguished career’ persons who was awarded with a special award at a Sarasaviya Festival quite recently. Elmo came to London on some journalistic assignment or perhaps for some training course at the time I was in London in 1965.

Being good pals he contacted me immediately and we met for a ‘night out’. That meant a free dinner at some friend’s place a ‘night seeing’ tour of some of the tourist attractions of London and lastly (and most importantly) a visit to a Strip Show Soho!.

I had never seen a strip show before although I had roamed the Soho area quite a bit and even patronised some of the ‘dirty’ book stalls. The normal pattern for ‘kodu’ visitors as their last item for the night was to see as many strip shows as possible by jumping from one to the other.Actually all those strip joints in Soho were situated cheek by jowl to each other. So it was not difficult.

Suddenly, after about the third show, we realised that it is the same set of girls who performed in every joint. We even caught some of them hurrying along the street from one assignment to another! That cooled us pretty soon and we called off the strip show thing even before half way. We had a round of ‘bitters’ at one of the Soho pubs and called it a day - or rather called it a night!.

It was Elmo Goonaratne who entrusted me with a parcel to be delivered at some address in some unknown corner of London. Elmo’s visit was short. He entrusted the parcel to me with strict instructions that I should deliver it personally and went off either back home or to some other destination.

And so, the very next Saturday I set off on my ‘mission parcel’ after a great deal of combing the London maps to locate the Godforsaken place. Finally I boarded a bus going out of the Central City and travelled a long distance before I reached the particular lane of the given address.

The lane was more or less deserted (I forget the name now) and all the front doors and even windows of all the houses were closed shut. The absolute silence was pierced with a lone dog’s barking now and then and a cat or two making their presence felt by high pitched mewing. The place looked eerie - rather like a scene from Sherlock Holmes.

Mission

The house that I was looking for was locked too and all the windows upstairs were closed. I cursed myself for not getting the telephone number from Elmo and for not calling the house before I set out on my mission. I kept ringing the doorbell hoping against hope that someone will be there. After about one and a half eons, I heard a window being creaked open and a voice ‘Who is there....?’ I stepped back from the doorway and looked up.

If it was not daylight I would have run for dear life at what I saw. It was like an apparition in broad daylight. The face that peeped out of the half open up stair window was that of a woman - her silver grey hair disheveled all over her face and a pair of wide open eyes trying to make out the intruder below. “Are you Mrs. de Silva.....?” I shouted at the top of my voice.

Somehow I got the feeling that she was stone deaf too. “Yes, I am” said the raspy voice and added “Who are you? What do you want?” “I am a man from Ceylon, Mrs. de Silva, I have brought a parcel for you from a friend. Mr. Elmo Gooneratne....!” I shouted once again. By now I was feeling like leaving the parcel at the doorstep and fleeing from this ghostly scene.

Silence

“Wait....” said the voice. “I will come downstairs and open the door. I don’t know who wants to send a parcel for me....” Then the window was closed and after about another eon and a half I heard slipper steps coming down the stairs. The front door opened in and the lady appeared at the doorway.

The poor thing was wafer thin. Stress and loneliness were written all over her face. The hair was still dishevelled. It looked as if he peering eyes were the only things alive in that woe begone face.

“Please sit down,” she said finally after perusing me for a while and sat herself down too in one of the chairs facing me. She wore a rather faded housecoat with a collar - just like the ones some of the suburban women wore back home.

All my fears of a ghost disappeared as I looked at this woman with her large sad eyes which must have been one of her attractions when she was young, and her shrivelled tiny frame.

“This is the parcel that Mr. Gooneratne wanted me to deliver to you,” I said breaking the silence and placing the wrapped parcel on a side stool. Mrs. de Silva heaved a deep sigh. “What parcels for me, my child,” she said at long last, not even looking at the parcel.

“What I need is a ticket to get back home. This must have been sent by one of my relatives. I remember a neighbour by the name of Gooneratne.” What could I say? I had taken enough trouble to come here and deliver this parcel to her. She would not even look at it.

What could I say? Something was very wrong here. “Why do you speak of getting back home, Mrs. de Silva, are you unhappy here?” I managed to ask. I could hardly think of anything else to say.

“Child, I was brought here by deceit. I never wanted to come. My son wrote to me to say that his wife was expecting her first baby - my first grandchild. I felt very happy. They had been childless for a long time. I came only because of the story about the child. When I came here I found it was a lie. They concocted all kinds of stories. They wanted me here to keep house, clean and cook for them. They are never at home. I am left here all alone. It has been more than five years now.”

“But surely aunty, you must be having some opportunities to get about? Visiting your son’s friends etc? At least on a weekend?” For the past five year or so, this woman must have changed a lot. She must have been a good looking woman.

She tried to tie her unkempt hair into a knot but failed every time because of the abundance of so much wavy silver grey hair, which may not have had the touch of a comb or a brush for days. Her face was lined with the stain of the years. There was a permanent twitch at one corner of her mouth, just below a dimple which must have been very pretty when her face was fuller and more relaxed.

Temple

“No, son, they don’t take me anywhere. They don’t take me even to the temple. My son was not like that when he was with me. All that has changed now. Their one concern is to make money. I don’t know what they do with their ugly money. All I know is that I am imprisoned here, doing all their work and that my life is rotting away....” She sighed a deep sigh.

“I am sorry to have to say all these things to you, son. I have no one to talk to. I was worried that you will also run away as soon as you see me...” The poor thing tried to smile and that was a sad, sad, but beautiful smile. I saw my mother’s face through her.

My mother had the same, sad smile too, as the years went by. This woman had just called me ‘son’. My mother and I had been parted when I was a very little child. I could not recall her calling me ‘son’ when I was very young.

I only remembered her calling me ‘Ukkung’. This woman was calling me ‘son’. I felt very sorry for her. I felt like giving her address to the Police and making a complaint about the cruelty of her son and daughter-in-law.

Demented person

“You must be mad!” said an inner voice within me. “What do you know about those people? How do you know this woman is speaking the truth?” “Couldn’t she be a demented person?” No, she could not be. I was sure about that.

“Why don’t you complain Aunty? Why don’t you tell them that you want to get back? You can phone the Police and tell them that you are being held here without your consent?” I burst out in my chagrin. The lady looked at me with her large, kind eyes.

“How can I complain to the police against my own son? How can I do that, son? Even if someone else does they will say that I am mad and that they keep me here for my own safety...” She wiped her eyes with a corner of her housecoat collar and looked down, at her tiny wrinkled feet. I felt like crying.

“Aunty, why can’t you write a letter to someone back home and ask for help?” I asked in exasperation. She took a deep sigh and was silent for a long time.

“I don’t have anybody back home. My husband died sometime back. I only have a brother who occupies my house now. These people send him money and gifts. I believe he too prefers me to be here. I don’t get even a letter here. The postman never calls here. They get their letters to their work places. I am truly and firmly imprisoned here.”

She took a deep breath and leaned forward towards me. “Son, do me a favour. I have a letter upstairs. It is to one of my closest friends. Perhaps she will do something to help me. I have no way of getting it posted. Will you please take it along and post it for me?”

“I certainly will.” I assured her. “In fact I will be getting back home in a month or so. If you want I could even go meet your friend and explain matters,” I said. “No, don’t do that. If these people find out, I will have hell to pay. You just post my letter, my son.”

And she got up and climbed the stairs. She came down in a few minutes, her hair somehow tamed and twisted into a bun, her face looking much better. She handed over the letter to me and offered me a one pound note for the postage. I did not take the money.

“Don’t worry, I will stamp it and post this letter today itself.” “Are you sure you don’t want me to meet your friend and explain matters?” I asked her again. No, she did not want that and with a sad heart I left her standing there and went away.

Thought of the week

I have got a gift of a book of poems from the author herself - Jegatheeswari Nagendran. She has enclosed a little poem and a very touching letter for me along with the book. I have read most of Jegatheeswari’s poems in her collection titled ‘Rainfalls.... The Sunrises’ and found them fascinating, compelling and sometimes funny.

Says she - “All this was hand written. No typewriter or computer... Eventually a kind friend computer printed my poems to be given to the publisher...” She adds - “Carl Muller wrote a gracious and witty review.”

Dear lady, I am no critic - I am only a peddler of words. But I find your poetry soulful, compassionate and full of the indomitable human spirit. I find that spirit in many of your poems like ‘Mountain Road’, ‘The Weaver’s Art’ and ‘The Abandoned Home’.

Jegatheeswari’s little dig at the English language in ‘Oh, English Spelling’ is rib tickling. She dedicated her book to ‘My Parents, Siblings, my Husband, my six Children and their Spouses’. That should speak volumes about the writer as a person - a loving woman of our times.

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