(Tribute to Sybil Wettasinghe on her 94th birth remembrance)
By Randima Attygalle
Once upon time there lived at No 4 Dias Place, Pepiliyana a wonder child. With her silvery locks and her twinkle in the eye, she would put Goldilocks to shame. Even at 92 this ‘Wonder Crystal’ was mischievous…
To me, Sybil Wettasinghe was much more than Sri Lanka’s most celebrated children’s illustrator and story-teller. She was my bosom buddy, my counsellor, one of my best critics. And she was the prophetess as her name would translate in Greek mythology.
A role model
‘Aunty Sybil’ to me, Sybil Wettasinghe was a trailblazing woman of an era which did not know of modern day clichés as ‘breaking the glass ceiling’, ‘gender equality’ or ‘inclusivity at workplace’. Paradoxically, she remains one of the most modern and progressive role model of a woman. Cutting her teeth in journalism at a time when professional women scribes were just a handful, Sybil Wettasinghe (de Silva before marriage) turned tables with her inimitable ‘talking pictures’ and her scores of books which keep girdling the globe even today, translated into many languages.
A woman of classical journalism
Each time I would clamber the feet of stairs and maneuver the little wooden gate, leading to her cosy little nest, my heart would give a skip. She would wait on top of the step with her arms open to enfold me. I would simply dissolve into her, oblivious to the world outside, drawing strength from a slight frame of an ironed-will. She performed her ‘Sybilistic’ ritual reserved for me; she would kiss me thrice on each cheek. Aunty Sybil and I would take our customary seats- she in her rocking chair and I, sometimes on the little sofa or at her feet. I would soon take wings with her magic wand, ready to be transported to another existence.
“Once a journalist, always a journalist,” she would say gleefully, taking me along the corridors of Times of Ceylon, peeping to the editorials replete with white coats, type writers and wired-telephones. I would be sitting at fashion shows at the old Galle Face; of parasols and opulent evening gowns. Draped in exquisite saris which would flatter the curves, she would take me to the finest artists of post-independence…Next I would be tapping to the beats of Harlem Blackbirds and would finish a long day with a sweetmeat and a cup of tea served from the editorial’s tea service of the old Lake House…
Returning to the trappings of modern journalism would bore me for a long time thereafter…
If only her table could talk
Two years after her demise as I would climb the same steps to with a heavy heart to meet her daughter and my friend Kusala who now occupies her mother’s dwellings, my treasured memories with Aunty Sybil would flash before my eyes. Her rocking chair is now occupied by her beloved ‘Squeaky’ the toy pig and a rag doll denoting the spirit of a child she sustained until the end; the very spirit she urged all of us to keep ablaze. While keeping her memory alive, spaces and some of her memorabilia have altered. Our weathered old table at which the best in the both of us would emerge, where the years between us were bridged and our unique friendship was cemented over the years was no more. It was best that way I would tell Kusala as the absence of it would lessen my longing for her….
“If only this table could talk,” she would say chuckling. The trials and tribulations of a mother and a career woman, her measure of hurt and betrayal and so much more would be unlocked at it over a cup of ginger tea and hakuru. I was the fortunate soul to have savoured the kiribath and lunu miris she herself prepared and served me so lovingly. She would be a busy little body piling my plate.
An unpretentious celebrity
Gracefully dressed at home in her specially sewn gowns or in her osariya in public, Aunty Sybil retained her feminine charm throughout. Be it journalism, book-illustration or batik design- the multiple roles she juggled, Aunty Sybil inspired countless Sri Lankan young women to walk with a head held high, yet retaining elegance and identity.
With just her little konde tied neatly and with her modest wedding band which her journalist-husband Dharmapala Wettasinghe decorated her with long years ago, Aunty Sybil stole any show, true to the real stardom, the worth of which has lost its glamour today despite all loudness. An unpretentious celebrity that she was, she inspired me to be nothing but unapologetically myself just as she was. She would trail my journalism with delight and cheer me to greater heights. “Be your best friend and kiss your reflection in the mirror everyday puthe” she would tell in her beautifully modulated story-teller’s voice that sustained its youthfulness and vitality even at 92.
Green skies and blue trees
Long years ago when my daughter was merely an infant of six months I walked into her home for a newspaper interview- my first with her, with no inkling that this would be the beginning of a treasured friendship. She would gift my daughter Samadhee- her first gift of a book ‘Child in Me’. Over the years, Samadhee’s collection of Aunty Sybil’s books would grow, a permanent corner dedicated to the great writer. She would laugh aloud when I once confided in her that young Samadhee would draw ‘green skies’ and ‘blue trees’ much to the chagrin of one of her teachers! “I would simply love green skies, blue trees and square-shaped cats,” Aunty Sybil would giggle adding that they were an index to rich imagination in a child.
Bonding over village roots
Aunty Sybil had a magnetic effect on me in many ways. She was a mirror on which I would see my reflection. Our passion for words, rustic existence and ability to laugh at our own selves for our own follies and to interpret a comedy of errors in many imposters who crossed our paths was further fuelled by our deep love for our village roots. I was in a trance watching her recollect her Gintota childhood, reliving my own childhood with athamma and atha in our ancestral home in Madapatha surrounded by village matriarchs and other colourful characters.
I could easily relate to her habarala kola, dum messa, vee atuwa, konda-kevum making and much more. We were both believers that the secret of our imagination as writers stemmed from a rich and a carefree childhood nurtured by the rich value system and ethos of a village.
Aunty Sybil was very much informed of so called ‘trends’- be it art, technology or otherwise. She was smart enough to bend them to be her slave and not to become their master. She set the example of becoming a trendsetter without ever going behind the bandwagon. She had no labels; she was Sybil and Sybil alone. Her fiercely independent mind caught my imagination. She was her own master, a queen who would adjust her crown and do whatever that had to be done.
As you would often reflect, you and I had met before in our samsaric journey and forgive me my darling Aunty Sybil, I cannot afford to wish you nibbana still, for I need to meet you one more time my ‘Wonder Crystal’…