From Moonshine to Whiskey and Beer

From Moonshine to Whiskey and Beer

I moved to Boralessa, my ancestral village, in 1977. Many villagers – who made a living as masons, carpenters, workers in tile factories and brick kilns – supplemented their income by brewing pot arrack. The main ingredient, coconut toddy, was readily available and so was the demand.  Pot arrack was a cottage industry: the males did the brewing and the women sold it from home.

Some of my immediate neighbors were brewers, the small time mudalali across the road being the main supplier for the area. In the evenings, a steady clientele of regulars could be seen going into his house. As the evening drew on, drunks, mainly middle aged men, would be staggering down the road, some singing bawdy songs and others picking quarrels with anyone around, using the foulest language.

Cleary, the making and selling of pot arrack was illegal. So, why didn’t the police crackdown? The MP for the area, who also happened to be a cabinet minister, had requested the police to go easy on the pot arrack dealers. Those who indulged in the business were not well off and it provided an essential supplementary income to “feed their families”, never mind the damage done to the consumers’ health and family harmony. Anyhow, not to be put off, the police also went around to the dealers every month collecting their cut!

Distribution

When the supply exceeded local demand, the brewers found a ready market in nearby Negombo and further afield in Colombo and the suburbs. Transport was through two modes, train and car. In those days, I was teaching at Kelaniya University and took the “office train” to work. Boralessa has a tiny railway station, manned by an agent (not a station master), with no security whatsoever. Men with four-gallon plastic containers filled with pot arrack would be hiding in the bushes around the station, and, as the train was pulling off, make a mad dash and scramble on to the train. The containers would be quickly hidden in the toilets or under seats. Although this was a daily spectacle witnessed by hundreds of passengers, not once did I see a raid by railway security, the police, or excise officers.

Transport by car was more spectacular. The chosen model was the sleek Austin Cambridge A50, vintage 1950s, perhaps the fastest and most maneuverable car in those days of tight import restrictions. Cars loaded with pot arrack would set off for Colombo, both day and night. The natural boundary between the north western province, where Boralessa is located, and the western province, where Colombo is, happens to be the Ma Oya river, crossed by the legendary Kochchikade bridge. 

Once the cars carrying pot arrack crossed the bridge, they were under a new jurisdiction and at the mercy of the police. Avoiding the main road on which a number of police stations were located, the drivers took circuitous back roads, but the police did their best to stop the cars. So it was a cat and mouse game - roadblocks, checkpoints, ambushes, gunfire, and high speed chases, the stuff of thriller movies. One of these drivers, I’ll call him Primus, recently told me of being fired on when he sped past the police. He is still alive to tell the tale, about 90 now.

Dankotuwa, a nearby town that was surrounded by large coconut plantations (providing coconut toddy, the essential ingredient for pot arrack), also supplied the brew to the Colombo area. The best of the liquor, on par or even better than the legitimate variety, whether from Boralessa or Dankotuwa, was known as “Dankotuwa Special”. Many local musicians in those days were heavy drinkers, and a top musician told me not long ago that whenever he managed to get a bottle of the coveted “Dankotuwa Special”, he would get together with another well-known musician to enjoy the treat.

From pot arrack to kasippu

In the 1980s, due to various reasons, the supply of coconut toddy declined, but the demand for illicit liquor prevailed. Ever creative, villagers found a new way to continue with production. Instead of toddy, they began to use sugar dissolved in water, with generous doses of added yeast, to produce alcohol. This was kasippu.

The 1980s were a turning point for Boralessa because large number of villagers began to travel to Italy, both illegally and legally, in search of work. Because the “Italians” had brought more prosperity to the villagers, the local MP, took a hands-off approach to the illicit trade; the police were given a free rein and could arrest and prosecute illegal brewers.

In the manufacture of kasippu, the fermentation process would take place in large, rusty barrels over a few days, and the barrels had to be hidden from the police. The village had enough hiding places – coconut groves, a weed-choked irrigation tank, long abandoned paddy fields, culverts, thickly wooded area - for the purpose. The bottom of my property has a pond surrounded by overgrown shrubs, and one day I found two barrels there. After I spoke with the prime suspect, the barrels disappeared.

Not all barrels were properly sealed, so passing lizards, rats, snakes and other creepy crawlies would fall in. To improve the “kick”, ammonia fertilizer, rusty barbed wire, and anything handy was added. Kasippu, unlike pot arrack, is very much a poison brew.

A grocery store not far from my house probably sold tons of sugar every week. This could be estimated from the lorry loads of sugar that were unloaded there. It also showed how much illicit liquor was brewed in the village.

The Italian sojourn brought prosperity and some villagers developed a taste for whiskey. The dealer across the road, who had given up his illicit trade because he now had two sons in Italy, once boasted to me that he now drank only “whishkey”.

Effects on the Lifestyle

A large number of villagers, both young and the elderly, consumed kasippu. I now realize that many, who worked as masons and carpenters, were alcoholics and this caused problems well beyond the immediate households.

Sundays were reserved for heavy drinking, which meant that, being severely hungover, nobody turned up for work on Mondays. A head carpenter I knew, who built roofs (backbreaking work under a blazing sun), who had a small team of assistants, dreaded Tuesdays because getting his men to turn-up for work took all morning. First, Anthony would call them, and they dutifully promised to turn-up at the worksite. But, often, they didn’t. Then, Anthony would have to go around to their homes in a hired tuk, pleading and coaxing the men to join him. This was repeated weekly and the Anthony was fed up, till the pandemic hit and put an end to house construction. 

Kasippu also affected family harmony because the men were habitually drunk, broke, and in poor health, leaving the womenfolk to keep the home fires burning. Domestic abuse was common. I know of broken homes where the women had fled, unable to bear their misery.

Beer

About ten years ago, a liquor store opened in Boralessa. Hard liquor was too expensive for most locals but beer sales exceeded expectations. The consumers were mainly young men, who had not developed a taste for the hard stuff. Perhaps, they had also seen the scourge that kasippu caused, even within their families, and spurned the stuff. Most evenings, they would converge on the beer shop and hang out for hours, even sitting on the railway tracks.

Boralessa had come a long way from the days of pot arrack. People still drank, some copiusly, but I no longer see anyone staggering down the quiet Kiragara Road that runs along my property, singing bawdy songs. Most of the heavy drinkers have passed away, and the younger generations, bolstered by cash infusions from abroad, have become “respectable”. But I do miss the old Boralessa, where moonshine was king and daredevil drivers played cat and mouse games with the police.

 Adventures in Academia 2: Asleep at The Oral Defense

About a week after I returned to Hong Kong upon delivering a keynote address at a joint China-US conference in Beijing, a new doctoral student from Mainland China walked into my office. When I asked Ming if he had attended the Beijing conference, which incidentally had been held at his university, he said no. Puzzled - who would avoid an international conference that came to one’s doorstep - I asked why. He mumbled an excuse, and I left it at that.

At the English department, doctoral students are paid a stipend. In return, they are affiliated to a professor each semester, and required to do a teaching assistantship (TA) as well as a research assistantship (RA). This involved attending and assisting with course lectures, teaching two small tutorial sections, and helping with the professor’s research. During his first semester, Ming was assigned to me.

Once, I asked him to photocopy 30 handouts to be distributed to students at the next lecture. Ming turned up, but without the handouts. When asked, he mumbled something incomprehensible, avoiding eye contact. When this happened twice more, I stopped asking him to do any more tasks. I also received complaints from students about his sloppy handling of the two tutorial sections. So, at the end of the semester, I asked the departmental secretary not to assign Ming to me again.

With other professors, too, Ming’s behavior did not change. After a few semesters, none wanted him. Hence, while his doctoral classmates performed their TA and RA duties, while conducting their own research and writing their theses, Ming had a free ride. To this day, I am not sure if he was incompetent, plain lazy, or an ace con artist who had found an easy way out.

A doctoral student needs four professors on his/her dissertation committee: the thesis supervisor, two committee members, and an external examiner. One day, Ming waked into my office and invited me to be a member on his committee. I inquired about his research topic, and on hearing that it related to memory mapping in vocabulary acquisition, a topic about which I knew nothing, I politely turned him down.

Before long, James, his thesis supervisor, came to me, and, as a favor to him, asked if I would oblige. Apparently, Ming’s past sins were catching up on him: no one wanted to be on his committee. After some cajoling, I agreed, telling James that I would not read the entire thesis. He said “OK”; all he needed were four warm bodies at the oral defense. (At the English department, only the committee members are allowed to attend an oral defense.)

About two weeks before the scheduled date for the defense, Ming handed me a tome, his thesis, more than 400 pages of dry, pedantic writing. I was bored reading just the first chapter. But, I would be expected to ask at least one question at the defense. So, after reading the first and last chapters, I formulated a question that would give the impression that I had carefully read the entire thesis!

The oral defense was scheduled for an afternoon, just after the lunch hour. We met at a conference room. The external examiner, Rupert, was from a smaller, liberal arts university in Hong Kong. Besides me, another professor, Janet, served as a committee member.

James, the thesis supervisor, suffered from sleep apnea, and his night sleep being often interrupted, tended to fall asleep at meetings. I, too, was missing my afternoon nap.

Ming began his defense with an oral presentation, droning on in his mumbling voice. True to form, James, who sat nearest to Ming at the long conference table, was soon fast asleep, with his head resting on an outstretched arm. I was sleepy, too, but, with a superhuman effort, managed to stay awake.

When Ming’s presentation ended, James woke up, and asked a few questions. The committee members were next in line, and I made the fatal mistake of telling Janet that she could go ahead with her questions. I was startled when she asked almost the exact question that I had come prepared with, leaving me high and dry. While Ming mumbled his answer, I quickly glanced through the thesis and came up with a new question. The day was saved. Rupert, the external examiner, who had come well prepared, wound up the defense with his questions.

But, there was more to come. At that time, the ranking of universities was a hot topic in Hong Kong. Being a small liberal arts institution, with little emphasis on research, Rupert’s university was ranked last in some polls. This stung, and Rupert came to his university’s defense by writing a letter to the local newspaper, criticizing the rankings. But, what matters here is how he concluded the letter: “This year I acted as external examiner of a PhD at, according to the poll, one of the most prestigious universities in Hong Kong. One internal member of the examinations board fell asleep during the student’s presentation and another, to judge from his question, apparently had not read the thesis …”

Guilty as charged!

Italian Exodus and its Consequences

 Italian Exodus and its Consequences

My village, Boralessa, is only 40 km from Colombo. Starting with my paternal grandmother, our family has resided at Boralessa for well over a century. My modest ancestral property, “Pondside,” was previously owned by my grandmother, an uncle, and an aunt. It has been mine for nearly fifty years. Most probably, I’ll be the last Braine to live there.

About 95% Sinhala Catholic, the villagers used to be masons, carpenters, sawyers, and workers in tile factories and brick kilns. Over the years, as the population grew, the large coconut plantations that surrounded the village were divided and sub-divided for distribution among landless villagers. Gradually, these plots have been reduced to only 10 perches.

The “Italians”

About forty years ago, looking for work, villagers began to travel to Italy, first illegally (on jam-packed, rickety fishing trawlers, and later with forged passports), then by legal means through family connections. Almost every household now has a parent, a child, or a relative living and working in Italy. Most work as carers for the elderly, shop assistants, farmhands, and in logistics. Many have gained citizenship there. Routinely, they would visit Boralessa for events like the annual church feast. They stood out for their flashy clothes and lavish spending and were referred to as Ithali karayo, or Italians.

As they accumulated wealth, these expats needed to show off to the villagers tangible evidence of their good fortune. So, they began to build houses, not just ordinary homes, but extravagant multistoried structures with gabled roofs, parapet walls, and massive gates. The construction would stretch over several years. First, a plot of land was bought. On the next visit, a parapet wall was built, along with the massive, elaborate gate, referred to as an “Italian gate”, that signified the owner’s affiliation to Italy. Building the foundation was the next step, followed by the walls and the roof. I have observed the entire construction taking seven years or more.

Usually, the elderly parents of the owners would reside in the backroom of the house. Cash, and gift boxes containing chocolates, pasta and other Italian items, would be sent regularly to these people. They may have missed their children but were well taken care of. The annual visits of the relatives from Italy was a time to celebrate and enjoyed by all.

Pandemic and Bankruptcy

Even before the pandemic arrived, this smooth arrangement ceased to function at some houses. The elderly parents or relatives who had been caretakers began to die off, mainly of old age. The pandemic, which caused travel restrictions, only exacerbated the problem. Boralessa’s population being depleted due to so many villagers being abroad, there simply was no one to take care and maintain these houses. That’s when I began to notice a marked shift in their appearance.

The front yards became overgrown with weeds and the once pristine outer walls began to show streaks of black mold, sure signs of a neglected house. The gate may be firmly padlocked but the iron frames showed signs of rust. Roof tiles, also moldy, showed damage from falling coconuts or coconut fronds. No lights came on at night.

Annual visits by “Italians” became irregular or stopped altogether. Travel, with broods of children or grandchildren, had become expensive. Instead of building and maintaining houses in Boralessa, they began to purchase property in Italy. A neighbor, after more than 30 years in Italy, bought a house in Italy only last year.

I live in Kiragara Road, which begins at Boralessa junction and runs through the village for a few kilometers. Within a 200-meter radius of my house are four abandoned structures, as seen in the photographs below. If I walk down the road for about a kilometer, I can count at least ten more abandoned houses.

The first house below was built about six years ago. Two storied, built along sleek modern lines sans multiple gables, the house was visited by the owner’s family only once. Behind the iron and concrete fence, the front yard is covered in weeds.

The second photo is what could be termed a shophouse, with accommodation for the owner on the upper floor. Built for a tailoring business about five years ago, it attracted a good clientele for about two years before the pandemic hit. When business declined, the seamstress who ran it returned to Italy, perhaps permanently.

Another multistoried house, enclosed by a tall fence, is better maintained because the owner’s relatives live nearby. He has not returned in more than five years, and, though built at great cost, the house has never been occupied.

Finally, one of the neighborhood boutiques (sillara kade), which had operated for as long as I have been in the village, closed when the family went abroad. It is very unlikely that it will open again.

Consequences

The pandemic and the bankruptcy that came on its heels hit Boralessa hard. The “Italians” stopped visiting and less money began to circulate in the village. Building construction stopped, throwing masons and carpenters out of work. Rata yanda (go abroad) was the response.

Italy was the prime target because relatives and friends there could help one to find work and settle down, even if one had entered illegally. Romania began recruiting workers in Sri Lanka, and, apparently, the route from Romania to Italy could be easily traversed. Amazingly, tiny Malta (120 sq. miles; 550,000 population) also became a draw because the route to Italy was only a ferry ride. So many Sri Lankans were applying for visas to Malta that an honorary consulate was opened in Colombo.

Let me cite two instances of neighbors emigrating recently. One, to escape her abusive husband, went to Romania as a seamstress, although she had never stitched anything in her life. She took her grown daughter with her. Within three months, she had entered Italy, illegally.

Sriyani, my caretake at “Pondside,” whose husband died of covid three years ago, has a 23-year-old son. I found him work at a nearby electronics factory, but the Rs. 35,000/ monthly salary did not attract him. The young man had also been bitten with the rata yanawa fever, and, after a year of trying, he managed to obtain a visa to Malta, paying a Sri Lankan there Euro 5000 and wiping out the family’s savings. He left for Malta three weeks ago, and his mother had to remit another Euro 500 after he landed. She is heavily in debt now. Lakshman’s job is to assemble pantry cupboards at salary of Euro 1000 per month, minus rent, health insurance, travel, and other miscellaneous expenses. He has not started work yet due to ill health.

The consequences of this exodus on the village have been drastic. Working age men, and to some extent women, are in short supply. Skilled craftsmen – electricians, plumbers, welders, mechanics – are impossible to find. A pall of gloom seems to hang over the village. While at Pondside, I love to watch the world go by, sitting on my verandah with a direct view of Kiragara Road. Once busy – with schoolchildren and office workers (on their way to the railway station) in the morning, housewives walking or riding to the market later on, idle young men roaring by on their motorbikes, the tuk tuks, occasional car or lorry – the road traffic has diminished greatly. Instead of three chuun paan men, only one plied Kiragara Road now. Most customers were gone.

Boralessa has changed, and it may be a microcosm of what is happening to other villages and towns in Sri Lanka.

The life and death of a recluse

 

Que Sera Sera

My memories go back 60+ years, when, as a 7-year old, I lived with my parents and two siblings in a provincial town. My sister had just been born. My father was unemployed and we relied on my mother’s meager salary to see us through. To make ends meet, mother even stitched all our clothes.

My school was more than a mile from home, and I trudged to school and back, crossing a railway line and walking along a busy road. Most students rode bicycles, and hundreds would be cycling along the road each morning. I passed the houses of three classmates on my way to school. One, who lived barely 500-yards from school, was driven there every day in a Hillman. I don’t remember ever being offered a ride.

We lived in a small rented house. Tiny veranda, sitting room, two bedrooms, and a small kitchen. No electricity or running water. An outhouse for a toilet, and water drawn from a well shared with a number of other houses.

My father tried to make some money by breeding German Shepherds and raising turkeys to be sold at Christmas time. But, a rabid dog bit the mother dog, so she and her puppies had to be destroyed. Unable to shoot his own dog, my father requested a policeman to do the job.  Adding to his woes, all the turkeys were stolen one night. Those were hard times.

Our landlady, Mrs. Ferdinando, lived nearby, and she had a teenage daughter. Every afternoon, they would listen to “Housewives’ Choice”, a request program on Radio Ceylon. On Sundays, it was “Sunday Choice”. Because their radio was turned-on at a high volume, we enjoyed Hank Locklin, Dean Martin, Jim Reeves, Hank Snow, Eddie Arnold, Harry Belafonte and other popular singers from home. Doris Day’s Que sera was the hottest single, and we heard it a number of times every day.

Roy and I also spent a lot of time in the large, lovely house in front of ours, where the Kuruppu family - parents, a son and a daughter, resided.

We were poor and they were well off. They had electricity, even a fridge! Mrs. Kuruppu was a kind person, and her children, Dilip and Malki, were welcoming to Roy and me. Dilip was a year older to me, and Malki two years younger. Dilip was considered very intelligent, literally a walking encyclopedia, and spent most of his time with books. He brooded, seemed shy, and perhaps had poor social skills. His parents had bought him many toys to distract him from books, and my favorite was a beautiful Hornby train set, “Made in England”, the Rolls Royce of toy trains. It had a green wind-up engine, wagons, stations, signals, bridges, and lengthy, winding tracks.

Especially during the month-long school holidays in April, August, and December, Roy and I spent hours at the Kuruppu home. We played mostly with Dilip’s toys, especially the train set, while he watched. We also chased butterflies in the lovely, spacious garden, breaking off the golden pupae and collecting them in jam jars.

Malki’s personality was the opposite of Dilip’s. She was cheerful and mischievous. Being closer to Roy in age, they played together often. She was proud of her school work, and showed me the gold stars on her report card. Today, my granddaughter Nelum reminds me of the Malki I knew.

Mrs. Kuruppu played the piano, and also taught music and elocution. So, their house was filled with music all the time. She liked us, and we often enjoyed the delicious cakes she baked and the wonderful desserts she made. I am sure we often had meals at their place.

About two years later, we moved to another house closer to the school that brother Roy and I attended, and to my mother’s place of work. A few years later, Dilip also joined the school, but he was very much the shy loner, and we never spoke again. Years later, I came to know that Dilip had become a lawyer. When I drove past their former home, I saw that it had become the office of a finance company. I did wonder what had happened to the Kuruppu family but did not follow up.

Malki – 60 years later

The year was 2017. Upon her return to Sri Lanka from the States, my sister Beaula volunteered to cut hair at charitable homes. One day, after a visit to a home, she was talking about a lonely woman who did not socialize with others, and who appeared to be from a well-off family. She mentioned the woman’s name, Malki, and I knew at once that this was our old friend.

About two weeks later, Beaula and I visited the Berkshire Home, a lovely, old bungalow away from town, where Malki resides. The residents live in a cheerful, caring environment, all placed there due to being mentally or physically handicapped.

My sister had already mentioned to her that George and Roy were her brothers, and Malki recognized me at once.

We talked. Or, I asked and she answered, looking away and never meeting my eyes. She had been brought to the Home about ten years earlier, after her mother passed away. Other than an occasional visit by a cousin, she had no visits from relatives. Malki had attended prestigious girls schools. Later, she had taught music and elocution, like her mother. Her father had died more than twenty years ago, and her mother in 2006. She had not seen her brother Dilip since coming to the Home.

Although some visitors to the Home knew off the Kuruppu family, and had even studied music or elocution from Mrs. Kuruppu or Malki herself, the manager of the Home told me that no one appeared to be interested in her family, least of all about Dilip.

 

Later, I learned that Malki was on psychiatric medication. Her teeth are in bad shape, but there were no other outward signs of poor health. Malki is well liked at the Home, because, at the slightest invitation, she would sit at the battered upright piano and play favorites songs from the 60s and 70s. At my request, she played Que sera sera, but I could barely recognize the tune.

When I asked to see a photo of her family, Malki told me she had none. I was saddened because, for ten years at the Home, she didn’t even have a photo of her family to remember them and find some comfort. I thought she would be very lonely, and decided to meet Dilip and get a photo. When asked, Malki gave me his address, repeating it mechanically.

Dilip – After 60 years

Dilip still lived in the old neighborhood, at a house not far from where the Kuruppu family had resided in the 1950s. Knowing his mental background, I didn’t expect to see him living in comfort. But, not in my wildest dreams did I anticipate the neglect and squalor I encountered.

The house, almost at the end of a quiet, narrow lane, was large but run down. I stood near his padlocked gate and yelled “DILIP”. An apparition emerged, a withered, bent old man in a filthy, strung-up sarong, staring bleakly out at me through dirty spectacles. The specks of white on the bony chest, which I first assumed was paint, turned out to be spilled grains of rice. I thought it was a servant, but I barely opened my mouth again before the man said “George Braine”. It was Dilip, and he had recognized me after 60 years.

I was in shock, but managed to carry on a short conversation with him. He clearly remembered our childhood days, even the name of the dog that had to be put down (“Rani”). He knew that my brother Roy had passed away. I told him that I had seen Malki, and he quickly said that she was sent to the Home because she had a breakdown. He had never visited her. I asked him how he spent his time, and asked him if I could bring some reading material. When I mentioned The New Yorker magazine, he perked-up, talking about Harold Ross and Tina Brown, former editors of the magazine, and also James Thurber and a few other cartoonists and writers.

He did not unlock the gate for me, saying that someone had threatened him, and a burglar who had tried to break-in.

A few days later, I returned to the Berkshire Home, photographed Malki, and videoed her at the piano.

Later, I visited Dilip, armed with a pile of old New Yorker magazines and some snacks. This time, he quickly unlocked the gate for me, and I walked into a dark, damp, filthy hovel, the scattered furniture coated with grime, the entire floor and even the beds piled with garbage. One room was littered with empty 2-liter Coca Cola bottles. Another, with mounds of old books and papers piled high on the bed and the floor. The electricity had been cut off, and the roof leaked. The two toilets were horrors. Dilip’s life seemed straight out of a dark Gothic novel.

We sat and talked. His only income is Rs. 14,000/ per month, from a bank deposit. He said he had life interest ownership of the house, and that it would belong to a female cousin upon his demise. (This is the cousin who had taken Malki to Berkshire Home.) “What about Malki?” I asked, and Dilip then said she had co-ownership of the house. He talked briefly about his life as a lawyer. (I don’t think he ever argued a case, and perhaps only handled paperwork.) He talked about the time Malki became unbalanced, saying it was when she was told, wrongly, in the 1960s, that her father had passed away. He also mentioned a drunkard uncle. I got the feeling that Dilip had been swindled out of a large amount of money, apparently by a woman.

I showed him the video of Malki playing the piano, and asked him if he would like to visit her, or even move to Berkshire Home.  He emphatically declined, claiming that he was a loner and preferred his “gay, bachelor” life. I detected a high degree of resentment towards Malki. He occasionally attended church (not true, as I learned later). When I offered to bring someone to clean-up the house, he said “No, No” and claimed that he cleaned the house himself. Not true; it has not been cleaned in years. As for meals, his lunch was supplied by a neighbor, he said.

With the doors and windows firmly closed, the air was fetid, and I began to feel nauseous and wanted to leave. But Dilip was eager to chat, so I stayed a while longer.

Malki’s photos were on the wall, and Dilip allowed me to borrow them to be copied and given to Malki. He found a leaflet of a memorial service that had been conducted for Mrs. Kuruppu, and autographed it for me, recalling “fond memories of those halcyon days in 1957”. I left with a mental list of items for Dilip when I next visited.

On the way out, I met a neighbor, who had lived there for more than twenty years. They remembered the time when Mrs. Kuruppu, Dilip, and Malki lived together in the house. With Mrs. Kuruppu’s passing, the life they knew was gone. Malki was taken away to the Home, and Dilip became a recluse. The neighbor told me that some people had tried to take him away, there had been much shouting, but he had refused to be moved.

I drove straight to the Methodist Church in town (the Kuruppus were Methodists). I spoke at length with the pastor, showing him the photos of Dilip’s house, explaining his plight, and urging the church to intervene. A few days later, I drove the pastor to Dilip’s house, and asked if the church could help in cleaning up the place and help in other ways, too. The pastor turned my request down, saying that his congregation consisted mainly of elderly men and women who were unable to perform any physical labor.

I then approached two of the Lions Clubs in town, but they did not respond. I wondered if the Kuruppu family had a dark past that the townspeople were familiar with, and I wasn’t. I had been away from Sri Lanka for more than 30 years, and upon my return, resided more than ten kilometers from the town where Dilip lived.

 

 

Keeping an eye

The first step was to rid the house - of four bedrooms, two toilets, a spacious sitting room, and a kitchen - of all that accumulated filth. I brought two workers, with rakes, hoes and baskets. Wearing face masks and gloves, they worked till late afternoon, clearing the accumulated Coca Cola empties, the books and papers, the old mattress ,pillows, and bed sheets. Without electricity in the house, they worked in semi-darkness. We realized that the tiled floor was caked in filth, which had to be scraped off. We piled all that filth in the garden and made a huge bonfire.

I had brought a new mattress, sheets, pillows, and a sarong and T-shirts for Dilip. When cleaning the house, we realized that the water service came only up to a tap in the garden, and Dilip collected a trickle for toilet use. Obviously, he had not washed or bathed in years.

Unable to persuade Dilip to move, or to get the church and the Lions Clubs to help him, and his adamant refusal to leave the house, I realized all I could do was visit him with food and reading material. And, for the next two years, whenever I was in Sri Lanka, that’s what I did.

He would first wolf down all the pastries I brought, and then we would chat, seated on rickety chairs on the dilapidated veranda, the only place with some light. He was pleased with the newspapers, magazines, and books I had brought. He wanted me to order some law books, some from the UK, so that he could begin a magnum opus on the legal system in Sri Lanka. A pipe dream. I also noticed that the interior of the house, which we had cleaned only a couple of months ago, was back to its filthy state.

I left Sri Lanka in late 2019, and could not return for two years due to the covid pandemic. Dilip did not have a phone, so I could not call while I was away. When I went to Dilip’s house December 2021 and yelled his name as usual, no one came to the door. The few houses on his lane were all quiet, the people hunkered down because covid was still spreading.

Back in Sri Lanka in February this year, I again stopped by Dilip’s place, only to see that his house had been completely razed. Not a brick was standing. A neighbor, who had moved there recently, had heard that the man who lived in the house had passed away.

How did Dilip die? Was he alone? Who discovered him? After how many days? In that dark, fetid house, the nights would have been dreadful. The covid lockdowns would have worsened his isolation. But, at last, he was at peace.

An old friend, a gentle, soft spoken doctor, had died alone in the USA, and was discovered after seven days when the police broke down her door. A retired professor in Hong Kong, a former colleague, was found days after he passed away, alone in his apartment. So, Dilip’s passing resonated.

The Kuruppus had been an old, respected family for generations. A road in town is named after the family. Dilip’s father had been a civil servant, with a degree from a top British university. Dilip’s plight, and to a lesser extent that of Malki’s, two children lovingly brought up by doting parents, is indeed a tragedy.

"Que será, será
Whatever will be, will be
The future's not ours to see
Que será, será
What will be, will be"

(Note: Names of people and places have been changed.)

GEORGE BRAINE