Contentment

Sitting in my porch I watched the children run and scream in delight as they played a very animated version of tag. On Saturdays the kids spend the day at my place, and those are the best hours of my life that I ever so religiously look forward to.


I wake up as early as my age allows me to, to bake some goodies for the kids. And every single morning the kids would fly into my arms and I’ll tell you that there’s no better feeling than that.


I remember when I was that young. Those were the good old days when going from one place of the house to another didn’t take hours or make my joints ache as if they’d fall off any moment. Physical pain back then was temporary, much unlike now. Once, when I was in my mid-teens, during a netball match it started raining; however, the coach gave no indication of stopping the match, so on we went. But being the clumsy oaf that I am, I slipped and fell and somehow went and struck my knee on the concrete base of the post. I heard a crack (maybe it was thunder), and felt a blinding flash of pain. I looked down to see the bone protruding hideously and there was blood all over. And I fell back into the mud in a dead faint. My husband laughed so hard when he heard this that he cried for a good while, guessing that it was the thought of me falling in the mud that was so funny. And I laughed along, in the comfort of his company. 


A decade later, I looked at my reflection in the mirror, dressed in a wedding gown as Amma (my mother) stood beside me. It was my wedding day and the butterflies just never went away. Everyone was excited and I was over the moon. I remember Amma crying as I left that day. I so wish that she were here today, with me, watching the children at play. She just loved kids and I’m sure that she would’ve been on cloud nine.


I remember the accident as vividly as it happened about fifteen years ago. It still and always will make me shiver. We were driving back home after picking Duwa (my daughter) up from one of her workshops. It was a lazy Sunday afternoon and there weren’t many people on the road and as we drove along Marine Drive a vehicle came speeding towards us from nowhere and I involuntarily turned in my seat, putting my left hand over on my husband’s arm and desperately groping around the backseat for Duwa with my right. In a fraction of a second there was a deafening bang and our car was sent flying towards the railway tracks nearby, bits of glass flying everywhere. My hand reached out towards her, but found nothing. It happened all so quickly but I remember everything, down to the minutest detail, at least I believe I do. The other car stopped around the place where it hit us, the front bashed in. We were lying on our side and I kept on drifting in and out of consciousness, hearing a din of agitated human voices, me trying to reach for Duwa, but never finding her.


I woke up in hospital a while later and I only saw my husband lying next to me. Duwa was not there. Adrenaline and panic coursed through my veins. I tried and I tried to get up from the hospital bed, but I couldn’t move any of my limbs, not even a finger. A nurse noticing my struggle came running towards me and said, “Your daughter is safe. The doctors are taking care of her.” She was safe. Relief flooded through me, but a nagging voice at the back of my mind asked me, “Is she really safe?”


The few days my husband and I stayed at the hospital, I only was aware of her safety and nothing more. I knew not why she wasn’t with us, or why they never answered my questions about her, until I was discharged. I found out that she was in surgery. A piece of glass had gone through her head and I never knew if she’d make it out alive. It’s interesting how you can feel emotional pain turn into physical when you feel that you’re losing someone you love. After one whole month of pain, praying, sleepless nights and the constant feeling of impending doom, she came back. We cried, we rejoiced, we laughed. She was back.


A few years later, there was Duwa’s graduation, one of my proudest and happiest moments. The memory of her beaming as she walked towards us in her flowing black cloak will always stay etched in my mind. Although doctors said she will never be the same again, she thankfully made a thorough recovery and proved that she was well enough to be responsible for her own life. Going back home that day, we stopped at her favourite take-away to get some doughnuts for her, knowing how much she loved them. 


“Aththamma! Look!” shouted Chuti Putha in an excited frenzy, waking me up from my reminiscence. Slowly and carefully I got out of my chair and made my way towards the children. They were huddled looking intently at the ground. The closer I got, a little caterpillar crawling its way over the lawn became clearer. “Is it a worm?” questioned Loku Putha. 

“It is a type of worm. Be careful not to touch it. It makes you itch,” I replied. The oldest gasped. “Malli touched it!”

“No, I didn’t!” he protested indignantly, his brow furrowing.

“Yes, you did.”

Laughing at the bickering of the kids, I said, “Stop it kids. Shall we play ball?”

“Yes, Aththamma!” said Chuti Putha. 

“Ball!” squealed the littlest. I didn’t like playing ball as much as before because now it just plain painful. I watched Loku Putha come running down from the house to the lawn carrying their favourite blue ball. “Aththamma catch!” he shouted as he hurled the ball towards me. Slightly bending down, I managed to grab the ball right on time and gently passed it to the littlest one. After a while, it was beginning to go over my limit of physical exertion. I tried excusing myself, but pitying their pleas I agreed to play for another five minutes. When that was over, I eased back into my comfortable seat.


Back in the day, I was a quite a sporty person and somehow managed to strike a decent balance between play and work. I have to say that I’m glad I did, because I believe I set a pretty good example for my daughter and her children, and consider it one of my achievements in life. I wouldn’t call my attitude towards this condescending — I had my faults. But seeing them living happy lives, is all I need.


It is an absolute pleasure and a privilege to still be able to cook and care for them when they’re adults, you know. When they grow older they start growing their roots elsewhere, but I’m grateful their roots aren’t too far away, so that they’d be able to drop in every now and then to save me from my loneliness. I sighed in contentment as I finished recollecting my roller-coaster of a journey called life, watching the children play, knowing that their rides have just started. 



This is written in Sri Lankan context. "Aththamma" means grandmother in Sinhala, which is the native language of Sri Lanka. Hope you enjoyed reading my story :).


Word Meanings

Amma - mother

Aththamma - grandmother

Duwa - daughter 

Chuti Putha - young son

Loku Putha - older son

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