For a bowl of rice

My relationship with India began when I was barely 18 years old. I was packed away to the YWCA down Mount Road, Madras to sit for my London A Levels at the British Council Centre. 

We could hardly afford it. In 1976 my father was holding  a post in the CAS; considered the Civil service at that time.  I knew my father had to purchase Indian rupees the way they did at that period in time.

I remember my family was astonished that I did not show any emotion when bidding them goodbye. I was probably too absorbed by the way I was living. Unlike my classmates who were able to relax after the Ceylon ‘A’levels. I  had to continue studying  late into the night  trying to understand the writing of André Gide,or  to understand  Polyeucte’s  notion of sacrifice in Corneille’s writing.

My book ‘The Ayah and Other Storries’ was published in Bhopal and Dehi in 2017 by Manjulindia-Amaryllis

I liked the YWCA.  I shared my room with Seetha, a SriLankan student from Zambia. The head waiter woke up each day to take our order for the day. I sometimes ate at the canteen with the local, university students.

Most of the students were from more affluent families compared to mine. I didn’t join them on sightseeing expeditions. I stayed  close  to the wife and son of a well-known  judge. This son, Peter, fell ill during our exams. I have lost track of them now, but I remember them with gratitude as they stood by me and helped me during that first night in Madras when I hadn’t yet changed my travellers’ cheques.

There were so many myths doring the rounds; people said to take Sri Lankan  soap and toiletries to India and they could be interested in buying them was one.

The streets and markets were great fun. I had never seen so many red apples and plums nor ridden in a tri shaw before. It was the only way to get to the exam centre!

The years rolled by and the year 1977 saw me as a student at Frances’ Sorbonne University. After some timid preliminary attempts at conversation I grew really close to two  Bangladeshi PhD students. One was to become my wedding witness years later.

During those years they guided me. “Careful this Pakistani guy runs behind  any new student” they said. “Watch out for that Egyptian one” they warned. They had already served as guinea pigs !

The first question anyone asked me in France was whether I was Indian? In the 1970s we had a particular mindset with a natural leaning towards the British or anything Western. The middle-class seemed to reject any association with India in near chauvinist fashion. “No, I’m Sri lankan” I would reply each time someone asked me that question.
Three years passed. I thrived on continuous assessments, gained recognition for both my languages and my writing. I danced my weekends away in the company of my two Bangla friends and my Mauritian roommate. While the four of us resided at the College Franco Britannique our Mexican friends were at a residence of their own. They seemed to project sunshine, which we so lacked during the long, dreary Autumn.

I got married, taught businessmen and hotel staff English and joined the airline business. I made my way to India again visiting the Taj Mahal one year in May, Kerala on duty for the airline, Mussoorie  with my husband,  Ooty with the family, visited temples with a Jain guide, had tea with saree sellers and fell in love with the Leela Kempinski hotels. I need to go back for the camel market in Pushkar  and so much more.

Today I  am connected with India. I learn my foreign language through platforms in India and my book ‘The Ayah and Other Storries’ was published in Bhopal and Dehi in 2017 by Manjulindia-Amaryllis. There’s more to learn and perhaps to give back. I am a writer and interpreter of Sri Lankan origin living in France.

Today  in Sri lanka- while cars gather dust in garages and queues congregate for what no longer exists- children might go hungry to bed.

Some try to swim to the shores of India-  (did we come from there) ?

Others gratefully accept their bowl of rice.

The writer is a Sri Lankan born interpreter living in France.