BY RANDIMA ATTYGALLE
May 19th this year was a momentous day watching Attygalle cousins from Madapatha welcoming the little new comers to Philip Attygalle Maha Vidyalaya- the school founded more than a century ago by their great grandfather James Attygalle and developed by his son Weda Mudliyar Philip Attygalle. I watched thaththa passionately committed to the cause. I helped him in the little way I could ‘back stage’. The least I could do for a large cause.
Keeping the lamp of learning burning- new comers’ welcome
ceremony recently held at Philip Attygalle Vidyalaya
I looked beyond that day, to a century back when the great physician James Attygalle of Madapatha Weda Walauwwa– my great great grandfather built a small school with a large vision and gifted it to his ancestral village- Madapatha. This seat of learning flourished under the benevolence of his son. His better half- the gracious matriarch of the village- thaththa’s beloved achchi and my great grandmother kept the lamp of learning burning. She was widowed at a young age. With six boisterous sons and a daughter, she single-handedly administered a large estate and the school. Until the school was gifted to the government, achchi bore all expenses of the school including the salaries of the staff. My grandfather (atha) Dharmasena Attygalle was her second son. Needless to say, achchi lives in all her children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.
Thatha welcoming a little one to the Primary school of Philip Attygalle Maha Vidyalaya
To me, my atha was a window to his parents and a great lineage before them- a family with large hearts. An ancestry which walked the talk and set an example for generations of Attygalle’s to emulate. Atha, just as his ancestors, lived the Buddha’s words, ‘no man ever became poor by giving.’ Atha and his forefather before him, personified the biblical teaching, ‘that the right hand need not know what the left hand did’. Atha gave the Philip Attygalle Vidyalaya a much-needed facelift. The modest school his grandfather built more than a century ago boasts of even A/L classes today. Atha realised a school ground for the institution- the very premises which bore his pyre around which thousands flocked with teary eyes to bid him their last good byes.
Atha the romantic at the Taj Mahal
As the MP for Kesbewa on the UNP ticket, atha initiated many visionary projects. Dharmasena Attygalle Balika Vidyalaya in Kesbewa is an enduring monument to his commitment to children and education. When SOS Children’s Villages’ international representatives visited him in the early 1980s to discuss the setting up Sri Lankan operations, atha wasted no time in acquiring a lush rubber land for the cause. Todate SOS Children’s Village remains a cause close to our hearts. My mother continues to patronise it and in my professional capacity, I continue to stand by it.
Thanks to atha, malli and I grew up amidst whiffs of ayurvedic concoctions atha prepared. Weniwelgeta, kohomba,rathmal were added to our daily baths as children. A descendant of eminent Attygalle physicians of Madapatha Weda Walauwa-atha not only inherited the physician gene, but he professionally honed it at the Ayuveda school. As the Minister of Indigenous Medicine, he laboured to uplift our ancient tradition of healing. Even todate the pungency of Buddharaja Kalkaya and the heavenly fragrance of jasmines, with which atha stuffed our baby pillows are enduring scents I associate him with.
I’m flanked by atha and athamma, my ‘time capsule’ which stands on my desk
Grandfathers are traditionally not motifs of open affection. My atha on the contrary was full of cuddles and kisses. Malli and I would snuggle against him in his giant four-poster bed. He would virtually inhale us deeply and we would dissolve into him. His love for children was all encompassing. He cared deeply for his nephews and nieces, the less privileged children of anyone who came within his orbit. No man, woman or child even if turned up at ungodly hours of the day ever left his home without a hearty meal. His love for people was his hallmark.
Atha was a man of uncommon enterprise. He enabled malli and I a wild childhood of tree-climbing, stained clothes and stray dogs seeking refuge fired by bizarreness of abilin pissa, pissu-misi, kannadi achchi and more. He would stage the most impulsive acts; the bombai-motai seller who came from neighbouring Atalugama, better known as nana was transformed into a biriyani-specialist to no avail! The lunatic missi or pissu misi was urged to give a dance recital in our front garden and a life-sized puppet of a drunkard which a puppeteer buddy of his produced, was installed in our garage by atha for no special reason! These uncanny acts gave him constant amusement.
He would indulge malli with dingy cars and guns, his infectious laugh in perfect harmony with the resonance of the battle field he staged in our backyard. Malli setting fire to dara maduwa, laboriously stocked by Menna achchi and smashing empty glass bottles filled with sand (malli’s hand-made grenades!) only made atha laugh even louder. He would let me bathe teddy bears in a basin right in the middle of the sitting room to the dismay of Wilson and Sriyani! He would generously let me soak the ebony elephant in water and scrub it in the wee hours of the night! Atha was mischievous and his wit was unmatched.
Atha was a man of boundless energy and speed. Be it a temporary shelter for an unfortunate soul, a gala party or an impulsive road trip, atha would action his thoughts speedily. He was romantic, charismatic and stylish. Be it his trademark crisp white national, full suit or a just a sarong, atha could turn heads at any time. His beautiful smile and infectious laugh would tantalise many. Atha was refined in taste. The exquisite laces, silks and linen he picked for athamma and amma, the children’s clothes and accessories he brought us from his travels abroad were an index to his sophisticated taste. Many of the heirlooms which now adorn my own home were carefully picked by atha; every line and curve personifying his own aesthetic sense. It is his own working desk which I came to own, one of my most treasured possessions. It is from him that I first learnt the beauty of minimalism; that ‘less is more’.
The time I spent in Islamabad, Pakistan with atha when he was in the diplomatic service remains one of the most treasured childhood memories of mine. I would have been about 4 years, but I vividly recollect visiting the Murray Market, Mohamed Ali Jinah’s memorial, riding white horses in Peshawar and doll-shopping in Karachchi with him. The pink doll with black curls and the letter ‘A’ on her chest, he which bought for me on one of these excursions sat on my wardrobe for many years even into my adulthood. The line of dolls, each with a letter in the English alphabet amused me. To my dismay there was no doll with ‘R’ and atha picked the one with ‘A’ with a smile. The crawling baby who would cry ‘mama mama’, the furry Koala Bear, ‘Volkswagen kids car’ and the white fluffy toy dog were my prized baby gifts.
Our visits to the family estate in Chilaw with atha were always memorable. He would take a bevy of his chums; for him more the merrier it was. The crab-picking at the Chilaw market, mango plucking on the estate and relishing chocolates all by myself snuggled in the ‘spring bed’ were made even more delicious experiences thanks to atha.
Atha was a revolutionary to the last letter and he passed on the gene to me; to stand for justice and not to compromise principles at any cost. Years later as I would navigate the trappings of the adult world, the Bohemian journalistic life with a penchant for all things and people rustic, my formative years with atha would ignite in me. I could relate to the eccentricities of a different vintage, bask in the beauty of the simple sights and souls just as atha could have. I ‘learnt to walk with kings yet not lose the common touch’ just as atha would.
I would adjust my crown often remembering whose only granddaughter I am…
As I watch my daughter Samadhee, blessed to be indulging in her atha- (my father ) and reliving her ‘loku atha’ makes up for the years I was not fortunate enough to spend with mine. Nevertheless, atha has been with me in spirit at every turn, at every milestone watching over me from the beautiful photograph which stands on my desk. The photograph where I’m flanked by atha and athamma, wallowed in sunlight pouring into our sitting room is my perpetual time tablet to a fairy-tale existence.
Today, many years later, I still feel you on every leaf, a flower and a pebble in my childhood home spent with you. In the rustle of the wind that caresses the coconut grove I still hear you. In your four-poster, you could still summon ‘jasmine-dreams’ of my childhood for me.
My atha: my short-lived fairy-tale and my perpetual concoction of healing…
A man of charisma, wit and style