Her motherly heart was large enough for all of us
LUCILLE ENID JAYATILAKA
‘As virtuous men pass mildly away, And whisper to their souls to go, Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
The breath goes now, and some say, No. . .’ -From A Valediction forbidding mourning - John Donne
In the manner of such virtuous men and women, my mother-in-law slipped out of life on February 1, as quietly and unobtrusively as she had lived it - so quietly in fact, that no one was quite sure of the exact moment when she exited this life. But the manner of her passing did not come as a great surprise to those who had known her, for she was never a person to ruffle the waters. Instead, she believed in the virtue of maintaining silence in the midst of controversy, opting rather to keep her opinions to herself than add another to the views being expressed. This is not to say that she had no opinion. On the contrary she was an intelligent, educated and well-read woman, who, until she fell ill in 2012, kept abreast of current events and maintained a keen interest in the doings of her fellow men.
Up until her 90th birthday, Amma had led an active and useful life. She had been mistress of her own home from her early twenties ever since she met and married her postmaster husband Francis Jayatilaka, who had previously served under her own father, himself a postmaster. It could not have been easy, especially as her seven children arrived fast and furiously one after another, to uproot herself and her large household in order to accompany her husband when he was transferred to different parts of the island, as was wont to happen in the old days. Her task was to be an efficient housewife, a nurturing mother as well as the mainstay and support of her husband, all rolled into one. She did it however in the manner of other such stalwart women of that era, whose contribution towards maintaining the stability of home and family were most often taken for granted. Her family however is only too conscious of and grateful for the role she played in their lives. She protected the boys to the extent she could from the wrath of their disciplinarian father whenever they did something they were forbidden to do (which by all accounts, was quite often); she was a good listener and trusted confidante to her children who could confide in her their childhood peccadilloes as well as the heartaches and pain that came their way as they matured; and she was their friend.
Amma’s life took a downward turn in 1965, when her husband Francis suffered a debilitating stroke. In consequence he took early retirement and the family relocated to Panadura, right next door to his brother’s home. Four months later however, he suffered a second and fatal stroke- and Amma was left a widow at the age of 44, with seven dependent children. Despite the financial and emotional difficulties she had to face consequent to her husband’s demise, she made do and continued to provide a stable and emotionally secure home for her children. After her eldest son migrated to Australia the following year, much of the responsibilities of the home previously borne by her husband, were assumed by her second son, Bandu. Everything ran on a more or less even keel for the next several years, until, in December 1973, Bandu met with a fatal accident. This was the blow that felled her. And though with the passage of time, she was able to pick up the pieces and carry on with the business of living, she was never reconciled to the loss of her child. I was told that she had once had a beautiful singing voice. I never heard it however. She never raised her voice in song after Bandu’s death.
My husband, as do his siblings, bemoans the loss of his oldest friend. But he does not grudge her passing from this life, as life itself had become a burden to her in the latter years of her life. Now when I think of Amma, I think not of her withered body or her pain-filled and weary expression, but of the woman I knew until her 90th year – gracious, dignified and beautiful with a smile that would light up her entire face and a kiss for every child and grandchild. I will not forget that when I introduced her to someone as my mother-in-law, she quietly told me that she doesn’t like the term ‘in-law’ and would prefer to be introduced as ‘Amma’. And so I bid goodbye to Amma, whose motherly heart was large enough to regard her sons and daughters-inlaw as her very own.