Maha ovita (My Grandfather’s Vegetable Plot )
A SHORT STORY
By Dr. Siri Galhenage
As I stood at the edge of a strip of mangroves that separated the dry land [goda] from the wet [mada], the vast expanse of the paddy field rolled out in front of me. The embankment of the Boralu Wewa, the lake that fed the crops of many generations of my ancestors, could be seen in the horizon. The paddy, except for a nearby abandoned patch, was pregnant with grain ready for harvest. A cool breeze swept across the field, making a golden ripple, bringing some relief from the oppressive humidity. Few women chuckled as they bathed in a nearby well hedged by bamboo trees. One of them washed her clothes by striking them on a rock face, sending an echo across the field. Two kids ran along a niyara in an abortive attempt at getting their kite airborne.
Behind me was a neglected plot of land, nearly an acre in extent, which stretched between the mangrove and the gravel path. The path snaked through the village towards the ancient Buddhist temple of Royal patronage. The dagoba and the bell tower of the temple loomed over a growth of coconut palms that surrounded the sacred site like a group of devotees. I remember, my father saying, that the legendary poet of the ‘Colombo era’, who wrote ‘To an Unborn Child’, once lived somewhere beyond the temple.
The neglected plot of land was the vegetable patch of my grandfather. We used to call it the Maha Owita. No vegetables have been grown here for several years. A few feral vines of pumpkin had braved the invasion of an army of weeds. A horde of mimosa amongst them, with their flowery helmets, spread across the field like an occupying force. Their thorny weaponry was hostile towards me, oblivious of my inheritance to the property. A dilapidated mud-brick hut stood at the centre of the Owita. In it a few broken pots, strewn around an abandoned wood fire, appeared like museum artefacts. In a shallow well beside the hut, tadpoles swam vigorously in the murky water lashing their tails. A young frog, after a brief exploration of the land, leapt back into the water in glee. A lone egret dipped its beak into the water in search of its morning meal.
Temple bells chimed. The tapping of the drums and the initial testing of the flute heralded a procession of monks preparing to attend an almsgiving. Measured movement of yellow robes could be seen through the coconut palms.
My brother was awaiting the arrival of Abaran Appu. No relative of ours, we called him Abaran Aiya as a gesture of respect and endearment; aiya in Sinhala meaning elder brother. An elderly figure appeared at the kadulla, a ramshackle gate with wooden poles, an entry point to the Owita from the gravel path. He wore a new sarong, with a tartan design, tied to his waist with a silver chain. His arms were strong despite his advanced age. His deeply pigmented body carried a profuse growth of grey hair, mainly over his chest, barely covered with a white vest, and a towel thrown over his right shoulder. He cautiously climbed over the kadulla, with some assistance from my brother.
As I approached Abaran Aiya, he greeted me with a broad smile. As a respectful gesture he removed the towel from his shoulder while tilting his body slightly to the right. I reciprocated with a verbal greeting of ayubowan, holding both his hands with mine, and with a feeling of gratitude and warmth. An archetypal ‘wise old man’, he certainly was – a figure, symbolic of my past.
“Your brother sent word that you have arrived, and would like to visit the Owita. I know that you come home from time to time, but I never get a chance to meet you. I last saw you at your mother’s funeral, but you were too busy. Your brother, of course, I meet often at the village temple.”
“I am too old now – almost ninety.” Abaran Aiya looked much younger than his years. Then he went on to talk about hi various ailments, which I thought were age-related. I lent a sympathetic ear. “There must be a lot of new medicines for these sicknesses in those countries,” he said. I nodded. “You must come back to your own country. We could do with more doctors.”
After a pause Abaran Aiya started chatting again. Looking around the Owita, he said, “It breaks my heart to see this place neglected. Until a few years ago, I grew vegetables in this patch. It is too hard for me now. My sons are not interested in working in the field; they don’t like getting their hands dirty; they prefer to do an office job in the city. Until recently, I managed to get Sugathan, my brother-in-law to do the paddy field; he too is getting old. And you can’t find reliable people these days.” My brother nodded in approval.
Abaran Aiya continued. “I am worried that squatters may occupy this place, and you will have a hard time evicting them; there is hardly any vacant land left around here”.
My brother joined in the conversation at this stage.”Yes, you can’t find good vacant land around here now; one pays an exorbitant amount for a perch, especially after the University was built; it is round the corner from here. Look at the number of new houses that has come up in the neighbourhood. It used to be bushland; all those beautiful trees around here are gone.”
There was a brief pause in our conversation as the procession of monks passed by gracefully along the gravel path. Abaran Aiya whispered in my brother’s ear that the monks were attending a customary almsgiving for a village elder who passed away three months ago. They both knew who he was. I felt like an alien.
Abaran Aiya had grown vegetables in this owita for nearly four decades, leasing the property from my family for a meagre fee. He sold his produce at the village fair held on Sundays. I remember, when my parents were alive, he brought in a sackful of vegetables, from time to time, as a gesture of goodwill. It often contained okra, snake beans, aubergines, bitter gourd, snake gourd, pumpkins and a variety of yams, which my mother received with delight. She shared the produce with friends and family.
My family had owned this land since the mid-nineteenth century. Being the elder sibling, my brother had been delegated the task of looking after family property and documents since the death of my parents.
Over many generations my people have toiled this land to sustain themselves. Since the death of my grandfather in1926, the Maha Owita was neglected for several years, before Abaran Aiya, the son of one of his loyal assistants was allowed to cultivate this land by my father.
My grandparents died long before my parents married. But over the years, I have developed a mental image of their persona through bits of information picked up from family elders and have put them together as a jigsaw. The most reliable informant would have been my father, but he passed away before I developed a keen interest in my ancestors. Since I emigrated in 1972 my interest in my progenitors grew.
When I left my motherland, I took this landscape with me. The village occupied my mental domain and my ancestors continued to dwell in it. I watched them plough this field, sow seeds, harvest their paddy, grow vegetables in the Owita. I listened to their folk songs. I followed them to the village temple, saw them offer ‘new rice’ [aluth bath] to the monks, and listened to the sermons by the head monk. I joined them during their festivities, and shared their hardship and their grief, and admired their resilience in overcoming them. They gave me strength and solace during difficult times.
I imagined sitting on the niyara [embankment] watching my grandfather toil in the field from dawn to dusk, his feet immersed in mud. Wearing a loin cloth [amude], his youthful body covered in sweat, glistened in the midday sun. Washing his hands and feet at the shallow well in the Owita, he would find shelter in the nearby hut at noon, awaiting his youthful wife [my grandmother] who brought him his ambula [lunch]. He watched with affection, the vibrant young woman, dressed in cloth and jacket [redda hette], hurry across the paddy field carrying the basket of food. They sat down to share a meal of rice and vegetables, chatting to each other about the weather, family matters and the happenings in the village.
On this day in the month of Vesak in 1896 she had a twinkle in her eye. She whispered in his ear that she was pregnant. They wished for a son as their first child and were full of innocent dreams. “I don’t want him to toil all day in the mud as I do”, said my grandfather. “I prefer him to have an education in English and work for the sudda [white man] in Colombo. Their first child – my father – did live up to their expectations. I remember my father wearing a white suit with tie and waistcoat going to work in the hot and humid capital city!
My ‘dreaming’ was interrupted by my brother. “There is no point in hanging on to this property; let’s sell it”, he said. I could read a sense of sadness in Abaran Aiya’s face, beneath his nod of approval. My brother and I had joint inheritance to the Maha Owita. I once entertained the thought of returning home in my retirement, of building a small house on my section of the property, growing vegetables, and leading a quiet life! My brother was always sceptical about it. “This is no longer the village it was”, he said, with a sense of nostalgia. “We hardly know the people who live around here. I hear, some youngsters occupy the hut at night”. And, Abaran Aiya joined in: “even some of the so-called educated people dump their rubbish here”. Pointing to the rubbish heap at the edge of the Owita, he added, “this place has now become a breeding ground for mosquitoes; they don’t seem to listen to an old man like me”.
“As I have discussed with you”, said my brother, “there is an interested party prepared to buy the land, and he is willing to offer a good price. I hear he is looking for a block of land to build a hostel for University students. This is an ideal site for accommodation for students of the newly built University, a walking distance away from here”.
“A hostel for students? Not a bad idea”, I thought. Once again, my imagination ran riot. Many young men and women would arrive here, their bags packed with hope for their future, as I did when I arrived in Peradeniya many decades ago. Seeds of knowledge will be sown on this fertile land. Creative thought, literary analysis, political debate and psychological insights will sprout. Time will be spent on reflection; there will be deadlines for assignments. Exams…bloody exams! Success and failure; joy and despair; frustration; rebellion; alcohol binges on weekends and love and betrayal! Most would harvest the life skills and knowledge, and would carry them into their future. A few, sadly, may wither away like a failed crop.
After a lengthy conversation, my brother and I helped Abaran Aiya to cross the kadulla, perhaps for the last time. We watched him stagger along the gravel path carrying a sackful of our heritage with him, which, he will, sadly, take to his grave.
The procession of monks seems to have reached its destination; the sound of drums was heard no more. The monks will continue to traverse this path, and one day, in the near future, will reach the home of Abaran Aiya, who would have been fit for the throne, washed of his mud.
[sirigalhenage@gmail.com]
