TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY VICHITRA GODAMUNNE
Colombo, Sri Lanka
I have a distant memory of my maternal grandmother picking up a small, antique-looking brass tumbler one day, when a few of us were gathered in the living room of our home in Kandy, Sri Lanka, and saying, “This is what I used to drink milk from in those days.” What my grandmother meant by “those days”, was her time in Calcutta, India, as a child and young woman, before she migrated to Sri Lanka, more than half a lifetime ago. I must have been eight or nine years old at that time and had never taken a second glance at this tumbler. But that day, I did. And ever since, I associate it with her.
The brass tumbler measures around nine centimetres in height and is engraved with leaves and peacocks around it. Time and age have somewhat discoloured it and it is dented at the bottom. I imagine that it acquired this dent somewhere along its journey.
Accompanying the journey of this tumbler—from 1920s Calcutta, across the Palk Strait, to the hills of Sri Lanka—is the story of my maternal grandparents. My grandfather, Solomon S. B. Kirielle, and his family hailed from the south-central region of Sri Lanka. A need for adventure saw him travelling to Madras, Calcutta, and Burma. In the midst of these travels, there was university education in Calcutta, a stint serving in the British Indian Army, and flight from a to-be-planned marriage in Sri Lanka. My grandfather, I am told, was not too keen on getting married at that time and wasn’t too fond of the chosen lady.
My grandparents at home in Sri Lanka
My grandfather spent a total of fifteen years in India and married my grandmother, Arati Devi Panday, in 1945. A matchmaker was involved. Clearly, my grandfather had changed his mind about marriage and was not looking to run away this time! My grandmother’s family had their roots in Bihar and Bengal and had been residing in Calcutta for several generations. My great-grandparents believed my grandfather would spend the rest of his life in India and had no qualms about their daughter marrying a foreigner who could potentially take her away from them.
But as luck would have it, a chance meeting intervened. Sometime in the late 1940s, my grandfather met a fellow Sri Lankan from his hometown, who in turn conveyed the story of this meeting to his family back in Sri Lanka. As there had been no contact for a long time, my grandfather’s family did not know what had become of him or if they would even see him again. Once they had recovered from the shock of hearing that my grandfather was indeed alive, married with a child (my mother’s older brother), and settled in Calcutta, my grandfather’s family—delighted and eager to reconnect—wanted him to return to Sri Lanka.
This tumbler was one of the personal items that travelled with my grandmother in 1948 to Sri Lanka. There is no information about how it came into their possession. Perhaps it crossed the sea with my grandmother for sentimental reasons, as a reminder of her childhood or maybe she thought she could use it in her new home.
I look at this tumbler, and it reminds me of adaptability, resilience, and unanswered questions. No migration experience is easy, whether you move to a neighbouring country or one much further away. My grandmother was a young woman in her early 20s with a toddler and followed her husband to his land of birth. I wonder how much choice she had in the matter. It must have been difficult for her, those first few months in a new country, away from her family—my great-grandparents, great-uncles, and great-aunt.
Sadly, my grandfather passed away around a decade after their move to Sri Lanka. My great-grandparents wanted my grandmother to return to India with her children (which included my mother by this time). My great-grandmother even travelled to Sri Lanka to accompany them back to Calcutta. However, my uncle, who was a child at the time, wanted to spend his life in Sri Lanka. My great-grandmother and grandmother respected my uncle’s decision. I imagine there were quiet, unspoken regrets. But life moved on.
My grandmother eventually remarried, had another son, and built her life in Sri Lanka. She took whatever life threw at her in stride and adapted to her circumstances. Over the years, my grandmother visited her family in India when she could and kept in touch with them through letters. Gradually, communications dwindled. Was this an unintended consequence of that decision made to remain in Sri Lanka? Would conveniences we take for granted today—messaging apps and cheap flights—have made a difference had they existed at the time? I wonder.
My grandmother (3rd from left) on a visit to India
My grandmother (far left) with her family
My grandmother with my uncle and her siblings
I lost my grandmother in 1994 when I was 10 years old, and there is a lot I could not ask her about her life. A tangle of memories is what I have today. Everyday moments like the many walks and drives around town when she accompanied me somewhere, seated in front of the TV watching classic Bollywood films from the 1940s-50s, knitting something for us, or indulging in her guilty pleasure, betel leaves. Then there are sadder memories, such as that one time when she spoke of the Partition. She didn’t say much, because I think she didn’t want to dwell on it, but she conveyed an overwhelming sense of grief over what was done to her country.
My grandmother’s emergency travel certificates to allow her to travel between India and Sri Lanka in absence of a passport
Nowadays, this tumbler sits on my desk at home in Colombo, used as a stationery holder. Alongside it is a brass tiger figurine, another object that belonged to my grandmother. Questions, for which I can only piece together answers from my mother and uncle (her younger brother), come to my mind every now and then. Recently, I learned that my grandmother made exceptional gulab jamun, a highly popular treat with my mother’s and uncle’s school friends when they were growing up. I’m curious to know why and when she stopped making her signature sweet. More importantly, I would love to have her recipe because no one thought to write it down.
Recently, my sister found a dusty cardboard box with some long-forgotten items of my grandmother’s including emergency travel certificates, photographs, and a receipt from Calcutta’s New Market for clothing. Back in the day emergency travel certificates were issued for travel to one country as issuing and receiving passports took time. We also found another smaller rustic brass box that my sister thought would be ideal as a jewellery box. Later, we found out that it was actually a betel box from Calcutta belonging to my great-grandmother, that was being used as a jewellery box by my grandmother as well.
My list of unanswered questions keeps growing longer. All I have are a few physical links to a woman born over a century ago in 1924, who led a remarkable life in her own way.