Reflections on birth

An octogenarian reflecting on birth would seem strange and amazing to many for he is closer to death than birth. Besides in an age of fading memory where even familiar place names and names of friends and associates are sometimes forgotten on and off how could an octogenarian recollect his birth? It is a case of his imagination running wild, you would say. Nevertheless, old men are good story tellers and there may be a grain of truth in their reflections.

 

Actually, I should have reflected on birth long ago when it was not so distant. I wonder why I did not record it live. Perhaps live recordings were not heard of those days. What I could still distinctly remember is that I was mesmerized by my entry into the world of light after living in an internal dark watery compartment. Though I cannot recollect it myself my mother had told me that I had made a huge cry as I was dragged into this world. Unfortunately, the only persons who witnessed that exuberant expression – my mother and maternal grandmother are all dead now. In those olden days there were no sophisticated labour rooms and teams of nurses and midwives. Fortunately for me my maternal grandmother was an expert midwife.

 

I do not know how she learned the craft but I know she was in big demand in her village and in the village Igrewup. A deeply religious lady she knew most of the Jataka tales by heart. She was equally versed in Sinhala classical poetry. I still remember the fascinating tales she told us. She, however, had one vice. She was a heavy smoker of Jaffna black cigars, always of the best quality. She used to get them from clients who made use of her services as midwife.

 

In the idyllic environment to which I was born people led very simple lives. Their main occupation was farming which gave them plenty of free time. Some indulged in part time occupations in between the seasons. Such were the cinnamon peelers. Contraceptives were either not known or not wanted then when every additional birth was taken as a blessing, a gift of God or nature. Hence the huge demand for my grandmother's services.

 

Child birth was an occasion of joy not only for the family. The news would spread like wildfire. When the news of a child birth was heard there was the customary question – Is it a sarong or a camboy? That was the way of ascertaining the gender of the newborn. Camboys are already out of vogue and sarongs may follow suit. It would be impossible to ask the question in a discreet manner when the asexual or heterosexual pyjamas become the vogue. Usually an unending stream of visitors would come to see the newborn and inquire into the health of the mother and the child. I was also so privileged.

 

My escape from darkness to light was not so smooth. My mother immediately went into fits or what was commonly known as sanniya.If not for the expert medical attention of our family native physician she would have been paralyzed for life. He was a jeevakain a real sense. My mother often used to recall with gratitude the excellent nursing she received from my father during seven months in which she was suffering. Thanks to the medical and nursing skills she escaped with only a fractured finger, which remained a patent mark of my birth, though it was not on me.

 

I was lucky unlike my father whose mother sacrificed her life in giving birth to him. It is a sad reflection of the state of health services in colonial Ceylon (as Sri Lanka was known then for the convenience of the colonialists) when maternal deaths at child birth were not rare.

 

It took me some time to get used to my new environment. At first I kept my eyes closed for most of the time while occasionally opening them and rolling the cute pupils of my eyes to see whether mother was around and when my next feeding would be. In the first few weeks I did not understand that man does not live by bread alone. For me it seemed that I lived for two things only – my mother's warmth and milk, the nectar of life. As my mother was sick I had to be content with the milk of foreign cows packaged in powdered form by Lactogen. My mother took pride in saying that I even won the prestigious title of 'Lactogen baby'. Then what was prestigious was foreign brand powdered milk instead of breast milk. There was no United Nations or the WHO to decree and the multinational powdered milk producers had a field day.

 

I was not born in a mansion. My parents had by then leased a small mud-plastered house on high ground as their original abode was in a flood-prone area. In comparison to the rest of the dwellings in the village it was modestly comfortable. That was what I felt then. As for me the comforts were more. Most of the time I spent in a cot, quite spacious by modern standards, that was built by my father. He was a master carpenter and all furniture in our house until we grew up were made by him. If I remember correct he used to make coffins free of charge whenever a villager died. Though not rich he had a liking for social service. When the Second World War broke out and food was scarce he was one of the few pioneers who came forward to set up a cooperative in the village. An ardent nationalist he was a regular reader of SinhalaBalaya,a  nationalistnewspaperof  histime.

 

I was born on June 14, 1938, almost a year before the Second World War broke out. It was six O' Clock in the afternoon when my birth was announced. The sun was diving into the deep blue waters of the vast Indian Ocean and the birds were going to their nests for a rest before pitch darkness engulfed the entire village. 

 

I do not know whether the timing was auspicious or not and I did not care. Certainly, not then and not even now. My father too never believed in astrology and other occult sciences. He used to play the fool with believers just like a teenaged youth. I remember how he used to bury a bundle of  Ratmal, eggsandyellowcolouredthreads just outside of his step-mother's doorstep for her to tread on when she steps out. She would think it is a kodiwina against her and let out a foul cry upon which my father used to have a belly-full laugh. While our grandmother would tell tales of demons and nether world spirits roaming at night my father was a pragmatist who never believed them. If either me or my sister showed any fear of darkness he would immediately put us out and close the door and my mother used to let us in after pleading on our behalf.

 

It must be said that I was born a subject of the mighty British Empire but beyond this fact I had nothing to do with the imperial crown. To the Emperor I was a non-entity. To me the Emperor was a non-entity. So, the indifference was mutual. I think it was George the VI who was at the helm at the time of my birth. I came to recognize him from the embossed picture of his face in small change coins with the imposing title King and Emperor of India written on the circular edge. Though I could not have had any feeling of animosity towards the empire at that time, I inherited the anti-imperialist nationalist traits of my father. Even now I detest the breed of emperors, kings and queens. I know they are a dying breed and am happy.

 

Both my father and mother had Christian first names – David and                Helen (Pronounced Ellen in the vernacular) - though they were Buddhists. Taking names from the coloniser's nomenclature was a fad at the time of their birth. However, by the time of my birth there was a nationalist renaissance due to the pioneering work of Anagarika Dharmapala and others. Hence my parents decided to give national first names to their children though in the Southern province where they lived colonial names were still not out of vogue. The surname of Portugeese origin, however, remained and remains till now. 

 

I was not born a rebel though most of my life I remained a rebel of a sort. In my childhood I was a conformist by indifference. It was orthodoxy that bred me till I began to question what was happening around me. It was in my teens that I began to rebel. It was a perfectly natural development. When I retrace the ideological development of myself I am happy to have followed a natural cause of evolution from the position of an innocent bystander to a nationalist, a socialist and finally to a Marxist.

 

My birthday is a happy coincidence. I was born on the day that is exactly ten years after the birth of Ernesto Che Guevara whom I adore as the greatest humanist of the 20thCentury.

 

It is much more fashionable to reflect on death – maranasmruti- than on birth. Both philosophers and religious leaders have dealt with it exhaustively. Not for a layman like me to challenge them. Yet I owe you a word of explanation for choosing birth over death. As for me I see both birth and death as existing in unity. One begets the other. There is no death without birth. Nor is there birth which is not destined to face death. They are like two poles of a magnet, inseparable. Death destroys what birth engenders. In the words of the philosopher birth and death exist in unity and in constant struggle to beat each other. Unity and struggle of opposites, they say. Hence, what harm in reflecting on birth. It is the same as reflecting on death.