My dear ‘grandfather clock’
My grandfather clock was too large for the shelf/ So it stood ninety years on the floor/ It was taller by half than the old man himself/ Though it weighed not a pennyweight more/ This is how the familiar Johnny Cash song “My Grandfather Clock” begins. You may wonder what this song has to do with my grandfather, Eardley de Silva, but it has a special significance to the relationship my sister Dinusha and I had with him.
Almost twenty years ago when Aththa underwent heart surgery, part of the procedure involved replacing his Mitral valve with a prosthetic valve to strengthen his heart and aid blood flow. This valve made his heart beat with an audible metallic tick akin to the quiet ticking of a wrist watch or wall clock. You could hear Aththa ticking when he walked toward you and it was most discernible when he stood next to you. And sometimes, if everything was still, we could hear him “ticking” even from an adjacent room. Aththa’s ticking heart intrigued us and as young children, Dinusha and I affectionately called him our “grandfather clock.” He embraced this endearment and would ask us to monitor his ticking. He’d want to know if it was louder or faster than usual. He would ask us: “Can you hear me ticking?” It saddens me that this familiar ticking is no longer a part of our surroundings.
But, as I reflect on the kind of life Aththa lived, I can easily identify the ways he has influenced my own life and thought. I know my mother, sister, uncle, and cousins can attest to this as well. There are so many great experiences and lessons with Aththa that I could relay, and yet what stands out to me are some of his strongest qualities. Even as young children, he encouraged us to have integrity, to be hardworking and dedicated but not be overworked, to nurture our talents and give everything our best effort, to be responsible, and to treat others with respect and kindness.
It wasn’t just his character that left an impression on us. We were also strongly influenced by his interests. Aththa’s love of music is something that passed down the generations. Though not all of us turned out to be musical prodigies like my uncle Neranjan, a deep appreciation for the creative and transformative potential of musical expression is something he urged us all to recognise. He played music in the living room almost every day. As a child, I remember going through Aththa’s record collection and I often organised his CDs. From Mozart and Bach to the Three Tenors, to Boney M and The Beatles, to choral arrangements of hymns and gospel music including Amy Grant’s rendition of “Thy Word,” (which was one of his favourites), and Broadway musicals, instrumentals and even some pop music (he was a big fan of Celine Dion), I remember being in awe of the expanse of his musical tastes. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else with this kind of enthusiasm for such a diversity of genres! He talked a lot about music and even listened to my Mariah Carey CDs!
Aththa’s support and faithful attendance at his children’s and grandchildren’s musical performances encouraged us to pursue these interests further. He took great pride in our achievements and routinely bragged about us to his colleagues and friends!
Reading was another one of his interests. Aththa was an avid reader and had a vast collection of mystery books. His favourite was the Agatha Christie crime novel series. As a young girl, I used to borrow copies of these books from the Ladies’ College library and when I was done reading a book, sometimes Aththa would also read it. This gave us a lot to talk about – the plot, the writing strategy, what was effec- tive and what wasn’t. When I was a little older, Aththa let me raid his collection of Christie novels. This was a treat because he owned some of the original editions of these books.
His love of reading was also tied to his love of history. I first learned about the two World Wars through anecdotes that Aththa shared. He explained the global scale of their social and political effects and helped us wrap our little minds around this mass atrocity. Nazi Germany and the Holocaust were particularly fascinating to him. I remember watching at least two documentaries about the Nuremberg Trials with Aththa.
And then, at various points in time, he and Athamma took us to Kandy, Anuradhapura, Polonnaruwa, Dambulla, and Galle so we could experience the richness of local history in tangible ways. I was the designated “navigator” on these trips, talking to him and keeping him awake while Athamma and Dinusha slept in the back. My memory of these trips are so visceral and a great reminder of his generosity and love. Aththa was an important father figure to Dinusha and me and these adventures greatly complemented our school-based learning.
He also had a great sense of humour. Aththa inspired in me an enjoyment of satire through British comedy. As teenagers, he introduced us to some popular British TV shows like “Mind Your Language,” “Yes, Prime Minister,” “Allo Allo,” and “Fawlty Towers.” Now as an adult, I still watch “Yes, Prime Minister” and I’m constantly reminded of my dear “grandfather clock.”
But of all the wonderful and vivid memories I have of Aththa, the most significant one has to do with my son. April 21st was Aththa’s birthday. My son, Tesla, was also born on April 21st. He arrived three weeks before the due date, although there was no indication at any prior point that he would be an April baby. When Aththa heard the news of Tesla’s birth, he was ecstatic and I’ll never forget what he said: “This is the best birthday present I have ever received!” Little did I know at that time that Aththa’s joyful words foreshadowed the special bond my son would go on to have with his doting “Grandpa GG.”
Aththa took great pride in being a greatgrandfather and made concerted efforts to play an active role in Tesla’s life. My son is blessed to have known “Grandpa GG” in these formative years of his life. I pray he grows to be as wonderful a man as Aththa was. It pains me to think that my world is now empty of Aththa’s active presence, but I know he is in a better place. And I know he will provide the spiritual guidance I need to move through life.
Even though his spirit has left this earthly realm, his life is indeed something to celebrate. I pray that as we grieve his passing, we also find solace in how great a life Aththa led and how much he imparted to us all.
I give thanks for the fullness and richness of his life. I give thanks for the life he created with my grandmother and for the sacrifices he made. I give thanks for the experiences he exposed us to and the constant guidance he offered. I give thanks for his enduring wisdom when adversity befell us. I give thanks for his unconditional love.
Dearest Aththa, our beloved “grandfather clock,” we are better people because of everything you were. May we uphold your legacy! May you rest in peace!
I met Kanthi just once; for coffee and a chat, just a few weeks ago. She smiled through immense pain, and talked about her love for art and her chosen faith. She was wheelchair bound and ailing.
Her caregivers, Monica and Neville, took her in 35 years ago. She was absorbed into the family of seven and treated as one of their own; she gained five new siblings, and a new pair of caring "parents". Time passed.
I had a mere brush with Kanthi's life, but it touched me deeply and is probably one of those sad/sweet memories that will linger forever. Some lives are hard to forget. In general, people tend to complain about just about everything - the weather, food, relationships and petty differences - but here was a woman who had transformed immense misfortune into a blessing, providing a blueprint for those in trouble. Kanthi's life was rich with stories of hope, faith, perseverance, courage, and above all of a quality rare and precious: unconditional love.
The Kanthi I met smiled sweetly. Her face was a little swollen and her body misshapen. She could hardly move - not even her head - without feeling the searing pain of arthritis everywhere. Even powerful painkillers could not suppress her agony. The painkillers had terrible side effects. She could not even hold a pen in her fingers, and yet she held paint brushes in a pincer grip of bent middle and ring fingers of one hand - the only hand she could use - to copy perfectly images from books onto cards that she would sell to friends. She found solace in her faith, and would call a single number from the telephone directory daily to share her good news. Trapped in a vortex of pain, she discovered a talent for art and immersed herself in it. Her face showed love, and not suffering. In this world of imperfect lives, she elevated her troubles to inspiring perfection. In that all too brief meeting, we talked about a mutual passion - painting just for art's sake.
Kanthi died on July 14. Her pain is over. Those fortunate to have met her will remember her as a blessing and reminder of the preciousness of the human spirit and its capacity to cope and rise even above the most trying circumstances. Now that Kanthi has completed a difficult life with noble spirit, may she know peace of body and mind.