Appreciations
View(s):Halima Cader
Like her hero Elvis, she will always be our rock star
My Great Aunty Halima was born on July 2, 1931 at what is now the Galle Fort Hotel, an 18th Century Dutch mansion in the coastal city of Galle.
She made her entrance into the illustrious Macan Marker family of gem merchants, the jewel in the crown. Yet with her arrival, came her mother’s departure and till the day she died she refused to celebrate her birthday in sweet mourning and remembrance of the mother she never knew.
She immediately came under the guardianship of my grandmother Sithy Kadheeja who herself at the tender age of 13 was dealing with the shock of her mother’s loss.
Aunty Halima to my mother and her sisters was not only an aunt but a big sister, role model and an integral part of our nuclear family based at Villa Stamboul, Colpetty.
She married her one true love, my Uncle Razik Cader, he was the total polar opposite of her and they balanced each other out in perfect harmony.
When she passed away on January 3, she took with her the spirit of a time and the energy of a generation that created the myths and fictions that have inspired us all and provided invaluable lessons on how to live life to the fullest.
Her contemporary take on life, incredible energy and heart, firm convictions and strong opinions were not to be contravened!
This was a lady who lived 50 years of her life with chronic diabetes, injecting herself with insulin every morning without a moment’s complaint.
She was a fervent believer in the power of positive thinking and swore blind that a diet of half a chicken and several raw eggs every day as a child, gave her the strength of an ox and the ability to live happily and uninhibited with diabetes for 50 years.
No new discovery in medical science or specialist doctor could convince her that there was any reason for concern. She would nonchalantly pour all the contents of a jug of sugar syrup on her bread pudding and proceed directly after for her regular blood test, not blinking an eye when the doctor hit the roof at the off the scale traces of sugar in her blood.
After 50 years of diabetes – she celebrated her golden diabetic anniversary by holding a sweet party with all her favourite desserts surrounded by fellow sweet lovers.
This was my Aunty Halima’s salute to life and the example she gave that nothing in life is insurmountable. A lady who showed us, that one could live happily wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve and find a universe waiting to cocoon you with love.
Mindful of her loss at birth, she dedicated her life to the Balapokana orphanage serving as treasurer for 28 years and doing everything within her power to give those children like her, born without parents, the best opportunities despite their unfortunate start in life.
She was a committed and sincere person, whose dedication to charity and shouldering of responsibilities were exemplary. She kept busy all her life and rubbed off her enthusiasm and zest for life on all those who surrounded her.
In her sunset years, I got to know my Aunty Halima even better. Whilst working at the Red Cross in Darley Road, I would pop round for lunch once a week and catch up on the week’s news.
These are my most treasured times with her. Even whilst in her late 70s then, she insisted on preparing the food herself and would be busy round the kitchen getting all the dishes ready.
Some of the best lunches I ever had! I waited with bated breath for her to offer the speciality of the house – her world famous home-made chocolate ice-cream to round off our sumptuous lunches.
Belly full and re-energized, I would kiss her a fond farewell, amusingly glance over at the signed picture of Elvis in the middle of her family photos and leave with a skip in my step for work.
Aunty Halima like Elvis was a hopeless romantic and in the words of the king – ‘She lived each day, as if it were her last. It was written in the stars and her destiny was cast’.
I know that although she may have physically passed, I will carry the treasured memories of her wisdom, passion and youthfulness. The lifeline of energy that she embodied will live on in all those she touched.
Her independent thinking, courage, stubbornness and innate progressive mindedness is a testament to the fact that age is no barrier or reason for restraint and that we are who we choose and want to be.
She taught us how to embrace life, to engage with it, to challenge it and to accept it in all its many guises. Her legacy of love, acceptance and the importance of being honest and being yourself are priceless.
Like her hero Elvis, she will remain a rock star and legend in our family, someone we loved ‘tenderly and truly’.
-Razmi Farook Saleem
| With her catch phrase ‘come or go Chicago’, she lived life to the full My cousin, who was born 84 years ago, never celebrated her birthday as she couldn’t forget that she lost her mother on that day. She grew up with her over zealously caring elder sister, siblings, her father and extended family. She was literally “force fed” nutritious food, the menu consisting of six eggs a day! The regime included a nanny. Nanny stuck to the rules and saw that every morsel was eaten. Going out to play in the evenings was strictly forbidden, to prevent catching a cold. No playing outdoors meant not knowing friends or cousins. Unsurprisingly, Halima grew up to be a rebel and an activist; a person with a lot of stamina, strength, and a love for the orphaned. Although formally a student of Bishop’s College, she was at heart a vociferous and passionate Thomian. She married Razik Cader, a mature and understanding person, who was able to love and guide her capricious personality. Her love and concern for the orphaned was immeasurable. She joined the Ceylon Moor Ladies’ Union as a member and worked tirelessly as its treasurer for 30 years. She was an impeccable accountant – money was banked like a prayer on the right day. Her priorities were such that the duties concerning the orphans at the Union took precedence over all other things. Her compassion extended to all members of the Union, her friends and relatives. She was always present when the need arose – you heard of some problem and there she was bringing gifts, inquiring after the individual concerned, helping in any way possible. Her delicate respiratory health and teetering sugar levels were things she brushed aside with a catch phrase she became notorious for, “Come or go, Chicago,” while simultaneously enjoying her much-loved iced coffee – usually three glasses on the trot! She celebrated 50 years of having had diabetes by throwing a party that featured an all-sweet buffet. The “main thing in life is – not to worry” she would say; but at the same time she must have looked after herself, or was her life proof that Allah does indeed work miracles? Latterly she was more homebound than ever before – she would only visit the sick and spent much of her time in prayer and recitation. When she entered the hospital for the final time, she went with the knowledge that she wasn’t coming back. True to her belief, she passed away peacefully as her close cousins and friends recited special prayers for her. Inna lilahi inna ilaihi raajioon. May Allah give her family Muayyad, Mazreth, Muneefa, Muayyad, Muhannad, Mariyah and her beloved grandchildren, solace. She lived a full life, loved by all who knew her. May Allah grant her Jannathul Firdous. Aameen. -A loving cousin |
K.N. Choksy
To a boss who left an indelible mark in all our lives
It is with much sadness we recall the passing away of Mr. K.N. Choksy, P.C. on February 5, last year, a few days short of his 82nd birthday.
Many things have been written about this legal luminary turned gentleman-politician who will go down in the annals of Sri Lankan history as a rare gem, the likes of whom it is hard to come by in this day and age, but we would like to reminisce a bit about the time, though relatively short that we had the good fortune to work under “Sir”, which left an indelible mark in all our lives.
Although we had worked for different bosses before and even after leaving his services, whenever we spoke of “Sir” in that almost reverential tone, we knew whom we were referring to.
So that fateful day last February when we heard that “Sir” had passed away a sense of loss as if on hearing the death of a beloved family member engulfed us, and made it especially sad as some of us were planning to visit him on his birthday.
When we were first taken to Sir’s presence by his SAS for allocation of duties, we were literally shaking as although some of us were new to the Ministry, we had worked before, but it was the first time we were to work for a politician and a prominent Cabinet Minister at that.
To say we were surprised at the reception we got would be to say the least as without giving us the expected “grilling” of our work experience etc., Sir calmly allocated our work stations and looked up with a disarming smile and asked if we were okay with that.
All his staff used to look forward to that endearing smile with which he used to greet us when he entered office, unfailingly bidding good morning and goodbye on his way out.
His recollection of names and faces put the younger staff to shame and from day one he made it a practice to call each and every person by name which put everyone at ease.
By treating all staff equally, Sir set an example of uniting those who worked for him, irrespective of the positions they held, which made the ambience of the office one to be envied by all.
Though we had no prior experience in a legal background, Sir’s knowledge of quoting every Legal Act or the constitution with minute accuracy of referring the page, paragraph etc. was mind-blowing.
His methodical way of working, as well as the little acts of kindness he brought into each day’s work, be it a gruelling dictating of a marathon Budget speech or preparing to deliver a parliamentary speech, brought out his humane qualities as well.
He made it a point to inquire from the relevant authority if transport was available to the staff working late, checking if appropriate meals were provided etc. even to the drivers who were on late duty calls.
We can hardly recall an instant when he lost his composure, even in an instance where his loyalty to the motherland was questioned by way of some remark of his Sinhala-speaking ability, Sir just thought it fitting to reply in Sinhala as proof of it in his inimitably dignified way.
He always gave the same courtesy and promptness in replying to any query be it from an international organisation or a simple villager.
Much will be said about this legal luminary in years to come too, but it would be remiss of us to leave out a major factor of his life from the little we saw during our tenure under Sir – the strong bond he shared with his wife and children, which he never flaunted amidst his official duties; his family members rarely visited office.
Another rare quality we noticed was that although Mrs. Choksy always accompanied Sir on his official visits abroad, Sir would discreetly bring in a cheque drawn on his wife’s personal a/c and send it to the Accountant to pay for her travel.
What more can be said of a gentleman politician of the rarest kind? His family’s loss will be felt by us and all those who knew him for years to come.
Farewell Sir, it was an honour and a pleasure to have known you!
-Naflana, Geethika and Anoja
L. Asoka Devendra
Memories and emotions of days gone by
“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
…Sunward I’ve climbed…”
Asoka aiya’s death is another milestone on the road away from my childhood. I remember and value him, and now write of him for what he was to me when I was a child.
Of course I knew him as an adult, too, and we were even fellow-teachers at Ananda, once upon a time: but it is the older memories and emotions that mean much more now.
Our fathers were brothers; they were both schoolmasters (that most honourable of professions); both wore national dress, and both were working in Kandy in the 1930s and 1940s.
My father taught at Dharmaraja and we lived at Cross Street: Uncle taught at Trinity and lived in Asgiriya. We were, naturally, the closest of cousins – geographically, at least – till we all eventually moved away from Kandy.
It was a lovely walk from Cross Street to Asgiriya, across the railway line below the Meeramakkam mosque, up a steep road, past the “weeping willow” trees skirting Trinity College grounds, through the Asigiriya Avase, along a footpath which hugged the hillside to their house full of raucous, welcoming cousins – three boys and three girls. Among them, Asoka was the eldest but, strangely enough, also the closest in the long run: I don’t know why.
Times changed and we had to leave Kandy, for Nawalapitiya, Ratnapura and finally Colombo. They moved, too, to Hikkaduwa, Walala and Nugawela. And both our fathers became Principals of Central Schools.
The years of wandering were during the worst years of World War II when visiting friends and kinfolk in distant areas was not easy. So we were physically separated till about 1946, when we caught up with Asoka and Gunapala (now about-to-be undergraduates) at our lovely village home in Ratnapura.
I don’t know how it happened but, suddenly, ….they were there! Maybe Asoka came with our Uncle Edward, maybe he came more than once, maybe the brothers came together: I can’t remember.
All that remains in my 12-13 year childhood memories is of how glad we were that they had come, what fun it was to have them around and how we could now look forward to more reunions.
I have a clear memory of them, and us, singing out loud the songs of Sunil Shantha and Ananda Samarakone, sending the sweet, or reedy, voices over the vel yaya which began just beyond our garden. For these were “singing cousins” and, though we could sing, we were not in their class.
The hoped-for reunions started soon after when a marriage was arranged for our young Aunty Lakshmi and the whole Devendra clan converged on Hikkaduwa.
It was a glorious reunion when cousins from all over the country met and got to know each other once again. Some, we had never seen – they were so small! The Devendra brothers were busy arguing and disagreeing, as they usually did, while we sat back, enjoyed the show, and got re-acquainted.
Asoka was the leader of the junior pack (many years later we dubbed him the “Junior Patriarch”, or “J.P.” for short) and it was then that we came to know of him as, not merely a singer, but a musician as well.
He sat himself down on a mat on the sandy garden, covered his feet with his sarong and began to pluck the strings of his sitar.
The music he made was sweet, and he was backed up, on the tabla by Gunapala. Physically, the brothers seemed to embody their instruments: Asoka, thin, pale, very much the pre-Raphaelite aesthete and Gunapala, darker, muscular, robust, very much the master of his drums.
Asoka crooned the melodies, Gunapala belted-out the bailas. We all joined in, learning the words (some of them, anyway) some loud, some tuneful and in any key we could manage. It was glorious: Hikkaduwa was our Shantiniketan!
Not long after, we left Ratnapura for Colombo and, with Asoka and Gunapala – now undergraduates proper – also there, it was an unusual (and dull) week-end when they did not “drop in” at our house in Torrington Avenue.
We were bigger by then, my own brother, Tissa, was also a “fresher” at Thurstan Road, our young Uncle Edward had joined our household and it was the norm for friends and family to drop in unannounced and be made welcome.
That’s how it was, in all households. People stayed the night, too, and Asoka and Gunapala were regulars, much appreciated.
We just spread the mats and a tarpaulin and we all slept as soon as the singing stopped! Gunapala was the loudest singer, Asoka the sweetest: I remember his rendering of “Kokilayan-ge”, “Attanagalu Valapilla” and “Komala daetha nagala” with the couplet “kinkini nada denney – gee handa pathuranney…” seeming so much to fit him. Asoka also conquered our badminton court.
He never wore shorts or such unseemly attire: he was always in his capacious ”Oxford bags” from under which his highly polished toe-caps coyly peeked or in sarong which always modestly covered his feet!
I just don’t know how he played the game! He was King of the card table, too, and 304 was such an exciting game when played with him. He tried to teach me chess, but that required brains and I had none!
I failed him again – this time in maths. I never could understand it and, with the S.S.C. round the corner I was sent to learn it from him at Union Hostel ‘A’ Hall on Guildford Crescent.
There he was, seated on his armchair (feet modestly covered), a plank across the arms of his chair serving as his desk. He tried, I tried, to make sense of maths, but we only exasperated each other.
Fortunately, it was not yet a compulsory subject at the exam and I managed to pass that hurdle. It was during this period that he was a frequent visitor home.
Father, then in the Dept. of Archaeology, would take all sorts of people around the island to show them our heritage. It was a case of telepathy: we had only to propose a trip and fix a date and…..Asoka would show up at the house with a sarong and a tooth-brush and he would somehow find time, and a seat in someone’s car!
He was a wonderful and entertaining travelling companion and he was always welcome – not only for his singing, either.
He finished University and the next thing I remember is that he was teaching at Mahinda and lording it over the College Hostel.
I had finished the U.E., too, and was on holiday when I decided to join the Nalanda Vidyalaya (that was before it was downgraded to a mere “College”) Cricket XI on an “away” match against Mahinda. I was Asoka’s guest in that little cottage he shared with other masters and I saw how he had stamped his character and authority on everyone there.
With that ended my childhood but that is where my wife, Dayadari’s childhood memory of him as a teacher kicks in. Her father was the Vice Principal of Mahinda. But her maths was as good as mine.
For her good luck, the teachers at the hostel, going for a walk every evening would take a break at the “Veep’s” house for murukku.
Asoka decided to coach her in algebra and she came to love it, although geometry and trigonometry continued to elude her. She remembers, vividly, the polished shoe caps and his singing “Kataragamey” on the ramparts.
But it is here that I want to stop this rambling story. Of course, his greatest days were yet in the future, but all that is known to the many who are better equipped to talk about them.
Much good did he do for his fellow beings on earth. Much suffering did he, himself, undergo due to things done in earlier births: after all, even the Buddha could not escape karma.
He had to suffer loss and pain, much pain: but he did sow the seeds for a less pain-filled and more fruitful life beyond this. In his final few moments of painless-ness he may well have echoed John Gillespie Magee:
“Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth…Sunward I’ve climbed…”
…for he had already had glimpses of another light, brighter than a thousand suns.
May he attain that light soon.
-Somasiri Devendra
Peggy Ratnaike
She made us all feel at home
It is with profound sorrow that I write this on the death of my sister-in-law Peggy, who bore a terminal illness bravely and philosophically till the end.
She was married to my brother Senajith and was widowed many years ago and she brought up a daughter and two sons to be good human beings.
Though a native of Ireland, they settled down in the U.K. She visited Sri Lanka many times and appreciated the warm weather and Sri Lankan cuisine. She also became a popular figure among her husband’s people who were fond of her.
Her last wish was to visit her parents’ grave in Ireland and meet her cousins. Any relation or friend visiting the U.K., was invited to stay with her and she cooked Sri Lankan food especially Kiribath and also took them around to see places of interest.
She never forgot to send a dana to the temple on her husband’s death anniversary.
She leaves her son Dr. Nimal, daughter Shantha Romoutar and son Danesh and four grandchildren. Peggy, we miss you! By the meritorious acts performed, may you attain the bliss of nibbana!
-Ranjinie Chandraratne