Plus

Plus

Living with the pain
Kumudini Hettiarachchi goes in search of Asitha, whose tear-streaked face, last year, launched a sea of sympathy worldwide
Outwardly, their needs are being looked after, thanks to the immense generosity of a benefactor who has been helping them throughout. Looking closely, however, one finds a family – father, daughter and son -- rent apart and shattered.

The son’s face launched a sea of sympathy a year ago, when more than 100 newspapers worldwide splashed it across their front pages. It was Asitha Rukshan Fernando’s tear-streaked face at the funeral of his mother, a victim of the tsunami, that became the symbol of the devastation that engulfed this region on December 26, 2004. It was the face which said it all in one image encompassing the tears, the heartbreak and the anguish.

For The Sunday Times, which traced Asitha in Koralawella, Moratuwa and wrote his story on February 13, 2005, there was a ray of hope amidst the rubble and the agony. People rushed to help the family and even after the initial aid fatigue, what we found when we revisited Asitha last week was that there is one benefactor who continues to support the family. This benefactor, who is insistent that her identity be kept a secret, has arranged with the nuns of Caritas Convent who have been of immense support to Asitha’s family, to pay their rent and also provide dry rations month in, month out. This same benefactor is into negotiations with the owner of a house, to buy a permanent home for Asitha and his family, at a cost of Rs. 900,000.

But what of Asitha, his father Ivan and his mentally-handicapped sister Ruwinika who have had to face life without their mother and wife?
What we found was a boy of 10 running wild, a teenage girl lost in her own world and a 45-year-old man struggling to cope, laden not only with the burden of running a young family, working, cooking and looking after their needs but also missing his life’s partner and finding solace in kasippu.

When The Sunday Times revisited Asitha, the family had moved to a new home. Earlier they were living in a tiny home adjacent to their Loku Amma’s house. That’s where we went. Another relative of Asitha then began the search for the boy, taking us through the shanties of Koralawella, asking neighbours whether they had seen “Ivan’s koluwa”. Yes, they had seen him in the morning playing “teek bola” (marbles) with the neighbourhood waifs but he was gone, we were told.

The relative then agreed to show us Asitha’s new home on Dhammatilleke Mawatha, an alleyway off the Parana Para. As we approach the road, we see three urchins roaming the streets and there is Asitha. “Yes, I have been playing from morning,” he admits sheepishly and leads us to their humble home. Bunty, Ruwinika’s pet name, is also home but Thaththa is on the beach, attempting to earn a few rupees del edala (drawing in a fishing net). Word spreads like fire in this community and soon Ivan appears on the doorstep in his long shorts, soaking wet and covered with sand.

“I came to cook their meal for the afternoon,” he says explaining that Bunty does not know how to prepare the kankung for cooking. What had the two children had for their breakfast? “I gave them Rs. 50 to get two vegetable rotti from the boutique,” says Ivan. Along with Ivan comes the whiff of kasippu and when questioned he says: Hithe amaruwata bonawa. Eth kochchara biwwath lamaiwa bala gannawa. Sahodarayo innawa eth ekekwath enne ne. (I drink due to pain of mind. However much I drink I look after the children. I have brothers but they don’t come.)

He earns about Rs. 150 when he helps draw in the nets but when the seas are rough, during warakang, there is no money. He is also embroiled in other problems – he has quarrelled with his eldest daughter and all of his wife Ranjani’s relatives. That was another reason he had to move from his earlier home. “We did not get the Rs. 2,500, the 5,000 or anything. I threatened to knife the Grama Sevaka and now there is a case against me in the court for obstructing the duties of a government official. It comes up again on January 11.”

How about Asitha’s schooling? “Horai eskole yanna,” says Ivan explaining that he is playing truant. “One day I thrashed him when I heard that he was playing marbles and the Sisters (nuns) came rushing here to save him. Gahanna gaththoth dennatama gahanawa,” he says repentantly adding that he hit both the son and the daughter.

Kottakin gahuwe, says Asitha. (He hit us with a stick). There has been no repeat since then. Asitha has been pleading with his father to allow him to work at a saw mill close by to earn in his eyes the princely sum of about Rs. 10-15 a day. But Ivan is adamant. “He has to study. The sawdust gives you chest problems and you cannot breathe,” he says.

While talking to us, Ivan walks into their tiny but clean kitchen to show Bunty how to break the kankung. We follow too and ask what else they would be having for lunch. Ivan opens an enamel pan and indicates that there is a little dhal leftover from yesterday. That, the kankung and rice would be their lunch. “We have all the dry rations -- rice, dried fish, salmon (tinned fish), red onions and big onions. There is also a coconut. But today I have to get back to the beach and won’t be able to cook much,” he says.

Just then Ivan’s mother walks in. She has been their bedrock in all the months of loneliness and sorrow. “Beela beela Ranjanita katha karanawa,” says Merlyn Peiris, 60, who helps in the cooking and also rearing of the children along with Ranjani’s relatives. “Ivan is not a bad fellow. He looks after the children.”

While we are chatting to her, we hear a whispering between Ivan and Asitha and question both, only to find out that Asitha has asked his father for money to rush out and buy a beema bothale (soft drink) for us. We urge them not to do that and accompany Ivan to his workplace -- the beach where about eight men including small children are drawing in the net. He begins his job, shouting out the ambawa – coaxing, urging and encouraging the men to pull the net more strongly, without giving in to weariness.

Our hearts ache as Ivan tells us he is wondering how to fulfil his duty – that of giving alms on the first death anniversary of his Ranjani. We tentatively ask him whether any other woman has come into his life in the past year of loneliness. He does not get angry but says simply there are women he could bring home but he has his children to think about.

“Ranjani came to me in my dreams just once. She was in her purple dress and asked me, ‘Oya mokkada karanne. Beela kegahanawa.’(What are you doing? Why are you drinking and shouting?) He then pleads with her to cook a meal for him and the two children. But she only says, ‘mama yanawa’,” he sighs, getting back to work.

Back to Plus