Celebrate puberty, why not love?
Lal Medawattegedara
I can vividly recall a silvery glow on Ramya's face, when she asked me softly whether I would attend her daughter's 'big girl' party. I couldn't help noticing how Ramya, who was boisterous and noisy by default, has suddenly transformed herself to a calm and composed being. An inevitable biological change in her daughter has had cumulative effects on Ramya's psyche. So why shouldn't such powerful biological changes be celebrated culturally? After all isn't culture intimately linked to the human psyche? These were the arguments with which I tried to justify my tacit acceptance of Ramya's invite, because I always abhorred 'big girl' parties.

Ramya was by no means an affluent person. But her generosity was certainly not poor at her daughter's party. Ramya's house was small and she had creatively overcome that problem by setting up an asbestos hut which spanned the length and breadth of her small garden and that of the next door neighbour. One corner of the hut featured a choice buffet of traditional Sri Lanka food, catered by a famous caterer. Most of our office colleagues who came straight after work happily indulged in lengthy gastronomic journeys much to the delight of our host whose happiness suddenly became directly proportional to the amount of food we ate. (I got to know later that Ramya had taken a company loan to host this party.)

Ramya introduced to us her daughter, Samanmali. She was an adoring miniature version of her mother, the only difference being that Samanmali wore reams of gold whose collective glow made her even more conspicuous. The girl was all smiles and managed to maintain the intensity of that smile as she was introduced to each of her mother's colleagues.
As the party progressed into the late hours the effects of alcohol began to make their presence felt, especially among my colleagues. Very soon ties were loosened, shoes were flung out, and everyone surrendered their shyness and reservations to the relentless rhythms of the Gypsies. Excess was the order of the day as Ramya's husband lost consciousness and had to be carried into the house.

Three years after this party, I attended Samanmali's funeral in the same house. The same asbestos hut, spanning both gardens, accommodated the mourners. The circumstances of her death were not known immediately and began to trickle down only in bits and pieces. The final version which I obtained from reliable sources went as follows: Samanmali had had a secret love affair with a boy and was the subject of ruthless verbal and physical assault by her mother; the girl had subsequently consumed rat poison.

There was a vociferous guilty sentence passed on Ramya from all quarters of the office.
