Giraya

The Walauwe, the old manor house, waits in silence. Is it awaiting death with courage? Why must anyone need courage to face death? Surely death is but another change and are we not accustomed to that in life as well? The walauwe may be pulled down, brick by brick, and then it will rise again with new bricks and new tiles. It will live again under a new name, a new coat of paint and a new way of life. Already blue-prints for the new house are spread on the dining table by the new mistress of the house. She must have had the plans ready a long time ago; perhaps a year ago, when my story begins.

Yes, a house retains its personality only so long as its inmates live within its walls. When they die, or run away, the house must change. If it is not pulled down, it must at least assume a second personality. It must be reborn. Like a human being a house must die before taking life again. The old ebony furniture will be sold as valuable antiques and the yellowed lace curtains pulled down. The old walauwe will die, but the house will live on. To fear death then must be a foolish thing. And yet there are those who cling to the old life and old ways as a frightened, reluctant babe clings to its mother's womb at birth. Ah, birth and death could be hard moments!

The Giraya, the arecanut-slicer, lies motionless, its steel damascened legs spread wide open, its hands clasped in perpetual worship. 1 Slicer for astringent nut from a type of palm-tree, used for betel-chewing; also used as a weapon by exorcists. Its face is stern, contemptuous with straight nose and firm chin. Its knot of hair is low at the nape of the neck. The blacksmith who created it must have had a certain woman in mind. Why did he make a giraya in the shape of a woman? The body has a beautiful bird design worked upon it. It is truly a work of art. Yet it should not lie immobile merely to please the eyes. The blade which grips the arecanut and cuts it now lies as motionless as the face.

The betel leaf which plays a manifold role in our lives should, at the approach of a New Year, become a symbol of peace and goodwill. Once fresh and green from the vine in the courtyard they now lie shrivelled like bitter old women upon the betel tray, along with the cardamoms, cloves, and the white chunam in the killotaya, the silver circular box, gleaming richly ornate and attractive in the moonlight filtering in through the iron bars of the window. 2 Substance derived from limestone or equivalents to add flavour in betel-chewing. The betel wallet, the hambiliya, with the bunch of silver household keys attached to it once jingled when she walked. Now they too lie as still as the giraya, the arecanut-slicer. Dare I touch any one of them? What would the daughter of the walauwe say? At the thought of her my heart begins to pound. Here is the large bag that was her mother's – the betel bag in which she used to carry everything she required for a chew of betel, whenever she went on inspection tours of the estate; the betel leaves in a box, the wallet, the chunam box and the giraya.

The moonlight touches its rich, proud but faded embroidery, sprawled over the cloth like dead spiders. The moonlight also touches the tassels that pull its wide mouth together. But it cannot reach the womb, the inside of the bag, lined in soft, white silk like the underskirt she used to wear. Everything about her was white and soft and expensive, even the underskirts trimmed with lace made by the devoted Lucia Hamy. I could almost see her now, seated over there by her mistress's bed, on the low hard stool permitted her, working on the pillow lace. The bobbins of thread would swing back and forth turning out a ribbon of lace, fine and white, like a web.

Beneath the table on which the giraya and its companions lie, stands the padikkama, the brass spittoon, its mouth a dark hungry hole. I shudder as I look away. But the gleam of the giraya draws my eyes again. What strange power it has over me! And yet what further power could it have, lying there still and cold as its dead mistress upon her bed. Need I take its hard unyielding body into my hands again? Do I want to take it, now that Lal, my husband, is no longer here?

A tremor goes through me. It begins in my neck and goes down to my toes. The giraya's hands are clasped like hers in death. But across its cold hard neck there is no soft white chiffon scarf to hide the grotesque scars of death. How strange it is that it had to be the hands of faithful Lucia Hamy that put an end to the power of the giraya in this house. She who had nurtured and waited upon it like a devoted slave, throughout the many years; she who used to tenderly rub a little eau-de-cologne with a piece of cotton wool, whenever a mosquito dared sting the soft flesh of her mistress.

No, I no longer need to touch the giraya. It has no further power to break the new evil hanging over me. Maybe I should hire a kattadiya, an exorcist, and in his hands the giraya might be endowed with new power;

My poor child lies in innocent sleep in his cot in my room. Ah my son! Because of you, how I have changed! And yet you lie asleep unmindful of me and the whole world. You are not concerned with the future, only the present. You leave the future trustingly in my hands. Soon you will wake and cry because you are hungry, and I will have to answer that need too. You are childhood itself, innocent, hopeful, content; Yes, I was like you once, so long ago that it seems another life. But now I am an adult and a mother, some one who must worry and struggle, regardless of what is right or wrong. A mother must forget herself and think of her child.

Yes, my son, there are only three of us left in the house today. You, your father's sister Manel and I. But soon, tomorrow perhaps, there will be a fourth. But it will not be your father, my son, oh no. He has run away, deserted us in our time of need. Tomorrow there will be another man in the house.

There is a belief among us that the period between the death of a year and the birth of another should be observed in idleness. Until the sun travels to its new position of power in the sky it will be an unpropitious period. Yes, you do well to sleep then. I am so weary too but I dare not sleep. I can only watch and wait and yes, I can read over the diary I have kept of the dying year.

I turn its pages. I have not made entries daily. There have been days when I have waited like today, and watched and hoped. I have been afraid as I am afraid now. Now I am afraid of the birth of a New Year. I cling to the Old Year as it struggles with its death pangs. Even though the dying year has been an unpleasant one, I cling to it. This then must be what we fear in death. The unknown new life. When we have gone from this life, whither shall we fly? Without a clear vision where could we go? If we knew, we would feel no fear.

My mind brings up a picture from my past. As a child I had gone on a long, weary journey to Adam's Peak. 3 Site of pilgrimage in Sri Lanka's Central Highlands, with footprint-shaped imprint claimed as Buddha's by Buddhists, Shiva's by Hindus, Adam's by Muslims and St. Thomas's by Christians; a.k.a. Sri Prada. Seated in a hired car my eyes were on each hill as it loomed at the turn of the road. Bigger and bigger they seemed to grow, each seeming like a giant wearing a devil's mask with protruding eyeballs and hanging red tongues. Child that I was, I wished the car to halt, but on and on it went, twisting and turning while each mile brought us closer and closer to fearful devils. I closed my eyes and when I opened them I cowered, expecting to see the most terrifying creatures of all. But instead there was nothing but another stretch of grey road. I relaxed and laughed. The devils were a thing of the past then. And suddenly my laughter ceased. A new, unknown hill loomed larger than ever before me;

And now as I read my diary the face of Manel appears larger than the rest. How could this be? The once pale lips seem to have lost their trembling uncertainty. They are not like the thin hard lips of Adelaine, my mother-in.-law.

BAK (April) 13th

On Bak 13th, twelve months ago, the rusty iron gates of the walauwe opened slowly. Throughout the year the gates remained closed and padlocked by old Loku, the gardener. Anyone who wished to come in or go out had to call out to old Loku to open them. It is not easy to call old Loku. I do not yet know whether he is slightly deaf or it is a peculiarity of his nature not to come when called. He will come when you are least expecting him, silently as a ghost.

From my position near the door leading out into the open verandah I can see the procession of people in bright New Year clothes, carrying children and trays of sweet-meats and milk-rice and fruits, coming up the drive to the walauwe steps. Even the barking of the two Alsatians, confined to their kennels, seems to blend with the joyous drumming in the village beyond the estate.

My mother-in-law sits erect upon her ebony throne in the verandah. The chair having been brought out for the occasion from the dark drawing room within, is richly carved and upholstered in a faded, red brocade.

Before her is a table of immense beauty. It stands upon a single rounded leg but its circular surface is an opened flower whose petals are of Ceylon's best timbers. A petal of teak next to a petal of mahogany, then a nadun strip and a dark, burning ebony. 4 Highly prized orange-brown wood used for furniture, etc.; from tree endemic to the wet zone of Sri Lanka. Between each petal runs a delicate line of ivory. Upon this table lies the betel tray, the bulath heppuwa, with the cardamoms and cloves, chunam and tobacco. The uncut arecanut and the giraya lie on top. Each guest will cut his or her own arecanut the way he or she wishes, into fine fragrant slices or hard small pieces. This is the only time of the year when the giraya will be handled by anyone other than old Lucia Hamy. She is not happy about this. She hovers about the betel tray like a jealous mother over a new-born child.

The villagers come ever closer, gathering round the circular lawn ornamented with a bird bath of chipped marble, a stone seat covered with fungus and a few rose bushes struggling bravely against overpowering weeds. They come up steps flanked by cement pots with drooping ferns and begonias on to the cool old-fashioned tiled verandah, each in turn, to greet the lady of the walauwe.

My in-laws still hold a prominent place in the village as one of the oldest but now dying, aristocratic families. As my mother-in-law greets her visitors, my husband, Lal, and his sister, Manel, spring dutifully to their places on either side of her.
She is a small-made woman, my mother-in-law. Dainty and fair of skin with finely set features over delicate bone. The lips are thin and pale, the eyes dark brown and set in hollowed shadows, the eyebrows faint above them. She wears a pale grey cotton saree. The folds are gathered and held over the left shoulder with an amethyst brooch. In her tiny ears are amethyst earrings and she wears a bracelet of the same stone. Her jacket is of grey, old, imported lace. The sleeves are puffed and there is lace at the neck. She never wears any colour except grey or white. She has said that she would mourn her children's father's death until her own. And so, though the colour for the New Year is red, she wears her cloth of grey, so steadfast is she in her duty. Her hair, at the age of sixty-four is only faintly streaked with silver, and her teeth are small and firm and even. She reads her sermon book without glasses. In her knot of hair set low at the nape of the neck is thrust a jewelled hair ornament. She wears no make-up save for a dusting of pale pink powder and a dab of eau-de-cologne. I can imagine her faithful handservant Lucia Hamy patting on the powder with a large long handled puff in the private places of her body…
