Fifteen years ago, on November 18, 1994 to be precise, my father passed away. To those who knew him, his death was indeed sudden. He was hearty and healthy, although recovering from his second heart attack. For me, his death was both sudden and shocking.
When my father survived his second heart attack, just a month before his death, I thought things would be fine. I thought he would be there to see me finish my schooling, get my first job, see me enjoy a successful career and get married and have children.
All these hopes vanished when his two close friends broke the news to me, his only child.
As I pen this tribute, 15 years later, I do not feel that Dada passed away that long ago. It seems like last year. I refuse to believe in my heart that he is "gone" and that I will not see him again for as long as I live. I make myself believe that he has gone away temporarily and that I will see him again, some day. It is as if he is gone to another country and we will soon see each other. That is how I console myself.
I often think about how things would have been if he was still alive. Would he be happy with my achievements? Would he advise me on my career and life decisions? Would he be happy with the choices I have made, the decisions I have taken? These are questions I ask myself when I think of my father.
My father was a gentleman. I believe anyone who associated with him in his 58 years with us would agree with me on this point. I never ever heard him talk ill of anyone, nor did I ever hear him raise his voice in an argument.
He was God-fearing. He instilled in me very early in my life that no matter what happened, to have the utmost faith in God. He would say, "Tell the truth and shame the devil", showing me the importance of being truthful under all circumstances.
He taught me patience and good manners and groomed me to be a lady in society. "Sorry", "excuse me", "please" are words he was very keen to hear me use, as a girl. These simple but powerful words have helped me forge good and strong relationships with friends and colleagues over the years.
He encouraged me to read and would buy me books and write witty comments in them. One comment was, "Read and get fat!" This was a reference to my being a skinny teenager. He took great pride in my artistic ability, often saying I had inherited my talent from his mother (my grandmother, Laura Marian Abeyesundere). He showered me with drawing materials, even going so far as to ask friends overseas to send me oil paints. This was at a time when oil paints were not freely available in Sri Lanka.
My father never forced me to do anything. He left me to make my own choices. He made sure I knew the value of a sound education. He would walk me to school every morning, and keep waving to me until I disappeared into the school building.
This was our daily ritual, which we continued daily for 16 years. It sadly ended when I switched schools for my Advanced Levels and started taking public transportation.
I am sorry I did not inherit my father's outstanding singing ability. He mesmerised audiences with his vocal performances, from his schooldays at St Aloysius College, Galle, to his years at Lake House newspapers. He even sang out loud at home and entertained our neighbours!
He took pride in whatever he did, paying close attention to detail. He did everything with dedication and enthusiasm, whether he was writing a review of a concert or writing publicity material for his school's Old Boys' Association. He was also actively involved in church matters, while finding time to chair the parent-teacher committee of my school, St. Lawrence's.
My father was not a rich man in the sense of having worldly possessions, but he was rich in heart. He possessed a kindness, a genuineness, a love and a warmth that he gave of freely to whoever came his way.
I miss him greatly, even after 15 years. And I know I will miss him even more in the years to come.
Aruni Abeyesundere
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