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Short story:
Punchi Mama
Eroshani Nadika de Silva
All colours of green shaded the beautiful rubber estate hills,
surrounding the lime green paddy down below. Right in the centre is the
picturesque village of Bulathsinhala. It is a breathtaking view for
anyone who marvels at nature. We can find down to earth, simple, yet
vivid people within its vicinity.
It is the ancestral home of my mother and a chest full of sentiments
attached me to its beautiful and innocent environs. My story surrounds
punchi mama, who was the life of that village. He is known as Wilmot
Perera or rather Perra ayya to all, but is always to me punchi mama; a
farmer and a good one at that.
Just before dawn breaks you would smell a delicious dryfish devil;
its spicy aroma woke me up at times with a cough. It was punchi mama
making his breakfast as always. It was his habit to get up in the early
hours of the morning and make his dry fish devil and eat it with the
previous night’s leftover rice. This has become a routine for him and
Aunt Sheila would never fail to keep extra rice at dinner time.
 He
ate his breakfast and off he went on his bicycle through the paddyfields
to his little vegetable farm in the middle of his paddyfield. I cannot
imagine how he managed to ride his bicycle in the dark as he normally
leaves home before daybreak.
I would be up early in the morning before my cousins. I make my way
to the well and one can’t imagine how cold the water was in the early
hours of the morning. It was a nasty experience if you have to have a
shower with well water, but we had no choice at the time as water
heaters were a luxury item and never heard of in the area.
My first mission after a wash would be to run to Aunt Shelia’s
kitchen, before my cousins, to dig into the dry fish and rice. By the
time everyone was up punchi mama has gone to the paddyfields to check on
his paddy and the little vegetable farm which he has grown in the centre
of the paddyfield. It is in a lovely location and on that patch he had a
small hut roofed with dried cadjans, a bench inside and a high table
like structure to sleep on, made of wood with a mat over it.
His garden had all sorts of vegetables like long beans, okra,
pumpkin, tapioca, ash plantain, bittergourd, snakegourd, a variety of
herbs; you name it and he had it except for those that grew in a cooler
climate.
In the 1980s he even won the first place for the best farmer in the
district and was so proud of his achievement. His farming extended to
the huge area surrounding their ancestral home. Many varieties of fruits
and vegetables grew all around.
This was a full time job for him and he would harvest on weekly basis
just in time for open market day, Sunday.
The evening before Sunday my grandma, Aunt Sheila and punchi mama
would pack and tie all the harvest to be taken to the market the next
day.
The whole storage room was full of bags of different vegetables
already to be transported. On Sunday morning the whole stock would be
piled up into the tractor and punchi mama, grandma and Aunt Sheila would
take all the goods they can to the market. This was their main income at
the time.
I had gone once with my grandma to the market and I had such a
wonderful time selling the harvest. It was an experience you cannot
describe; one just has to experience it.
All good things have a negative side as well. The village had its
dark side or rather the arrack sellers, who made a living by supplying
locally brewed arrack to the hard working, and honest farmers. After
working all day punchi mama with his friends would go to the arrack
seller and would drink till he drops and would return home in an almost
unconscious state.
None of us came anywhere near him and those who did like my poor aunt
suffered the consequences. He never meant to harm anyone but he has no
control over himself when he is saturated with the local arrack. He and
his friends made it a routine to drink and come home at night.
This habit grew by the day. The group started their day with a sip of
it and ended the day the same way. If there was a funeral or wedding or
at harvest time they would all get together and drink till dawn. Finally
it reached a point where they drank daily. I always wondered how they
made this drink, and I asked around.
The answers I got were not very nice and I almost threw up hearing
all things that they put into it. How could people earn a living by
selling such a gross and poisonous drink? I was really amazed to hear
that local arrack was made of acid, dates, barb wire and don’t forget
the dirty tin barrel they boil the stuff in and of course all the
creatures falling into it during the process.
In August 2000 Punchy mama suddenly became ill and started vomiting
blood. We rushed him to the hospital. It was the worst news we ever
heard, punchi mama was diagnosed with serosis of the liver. The doctor
however said it was at a treatable stage but he must not consume alcohol
any more.
He followed all the instruction the doctor had given him but he still
experienced pain and would chat with his friends about it. One day
suddenly he went missing. We looked for him all over the place. Later
that evening he came home, drunk again. His friends had taken him to the
old spot to have a drink so that the pain would go away.
We couldn’t believe it; he could not stay away from the drink for
more than a month. We then discovered that his friends have been
supplying him with arrack and since he didn’t feel sick after taking it,
he had gone back to the old habit.
Within a few weeks his old condition returned and he was in a lot of
pain and we had to rush him to the hospital again and there was nothing
we could do for him. We had to watch him suffer. He was vomiting blood
and could not eat much.
That healthy and active man has become almost lifeless and fragile
and to our dismay he passed away in November the same year. He left
behind three children who were still under his wing and a hapless widow
who had no way of making ends meet, at the mercy of his relatives.
It was the biggest funeral procession I had ever seen as the whole
village was there along with people from neighbouring villages. As I
watched I could only think of how valuable he was to our little village
and what a loss it was to our family.
I could still remember the way he carried me on his shoulder, the way
he would take me on his bicycle to the paddyfield, the stories he told
about his adventures in the rubber hills.
He taught me how to harvest paddy and how to pluck vegetables
correctly without harming the plant. All this has now become memories. I
could still hear him whistling and walking around the house but he is
gone, he is no more.
Today after 10 years as I pass the cemetery I can see the fully grown
coconut trees planted on the spot where he was cremated. That was all
what remains of punchi mama. The little patch in the middle of the paddy
field has now become the home for all sorts of weeds and the space
around the house no longer has that variety. |
