{"id":55429,"date":"2020-12-31T19:22:50","date_gmt":"2020-12-31T19:22:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/websitedesigns.com.au\/elankanew\/?p=55429"},"modified":"2020-12-31T19:22:50","modified_gmt":"2020-12-31T19:22:50","slug":"between-home-and-homeland-by-sharmila-jay-deakin-university-australia","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/websitedesigns.com.au\/elankanew\/between-home-and-homeland-by-sharmila-jay-deakin-university-australia\/","title":{"rendered":"Between Home and Homeland – by Sharmila Jay (Deakin University, Australia)"},"content":{"rendered":"

Between Home and Homeland – by Sharmila Jay (Deakin University, Australia)<\/span><\/h1>\n

When born to a place and brought to another the heart remains torn between the two – this is true to many migrants across the world today. Sharmila Jay ( Sharmila Jayasinghe Niriella) a Sri Lankan born Australian author discusses this unseen struggle of a migrant woman in her fiction prose published in the current issue of Swamp Literary Magazine.<\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Source:<\/span><\/strong>SwampWriting<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando woke up with a dreadful feeling, a dreadful feeling for she had lived through the night. She had nothing to do but she still woke up early. Her mother\u2019s voice had nagged her every morning all her life, telling her \u2018girls shouldn\u2019t sleep till the sun shines on their bums\u2019. It was an alarm she couldn\u2019t silence. She dreaded facing the empty day but forced herself to sit up. Her morning ritual was predictable. The day didn\u2019t begin till she\u2019d had an overly sweet black coffee. It was oil to her machine. Outside, the morning was still struggling to wake when she sat to break her fast. The table was empty but for a single plate. Her shoulders slumped in defeat. In the silence, her thoughts searched for her husband. The crunching of his bite, the drag of his sip: that ever-present music to her ears had been silenced. She could only hear her own munch and sip now, and she hated it. Everything took place in slow motion until her mind pinched her and reminded her today was going to be different. Her daughter Pooja visited once a week; when she couldn\u2019t, she sent one of her kids. Mrs Fernando preferred the grandkids to come. They did not try to discipline her like Pooja did.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her grandson Duleep arrived mid-morning. The boy rung the bell impatiently. Mrs Fernando struggled with the keys, then with the lock. It took nearly ten minutes for her to finally jiggle the thing right and pull the door open.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018The lock gets stuck when it\u2019s cold,\u2019 she explained apologetically. \u2018Fine in summer but not in winter.\u2019 Mrs Fernando was not used to opening doors. Someone always opened doors for her: her father, her husband, her kids, her servants.<\/span><\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, don\u2019t worry Achamma. I didn\u2019t have to stand out too long.\u2019 Her grandkids treated her well. They didn\u2019t come as often as she wished them to, but when they did, all was well.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Here you go,\u2019 he said, handing over a freezer bag. \u2018Amma sent this.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando inspected the bag and pulled out one plastic box after the other: fried brinjal curry, coconut sambal, fried chicken and beans\u2014all her favourites and none of her husband\u2019s. Pooja had sent a stack of curries every week since Mrs Fernando\u2019s husband\u2019s death, leaving her with even less to do.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Tea for you?\u2019 Mrs Fernando asked, placing the curry boxes neatly on the granite bench top. She was so slow now that it was impossible for one to imagine her ever being fast.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018You like chocolate cake, don\u2019t you? Marianna next door brought a Woolworths cake. I\u2019ll cut a piece for you.\u2019 Opening a drawer, she pulled out a fancy plate and a silver fork.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Maybe later,\u2019 her grandson replied, fiddling with the TV remote. \u2018I had Nutri-Grain.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Hmm, tell me when you are hungry.\u2019 Mrs Fernando hovered around the pantry, then stepped out into the backyard with a pouch of tools in hand, knowing the boy would follow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Alone in this place, Achamma, you must feel lonely.\u2019 The boy cocked his head and scanned the surrounds. Back bent, Mrs Fernando dug the ground ferociously like she wished to pour her insecurities out and bury them deep.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Yes, sometimes,\u2019 she answered in her mood. She did not want to give out much to her grandson.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando remembered how vocal her husband had been about not wanting to end up in a nursing home. \u2018It\u2019s our culture or maybe a generational thing: we don\u2019t let our elders die among people they don\u2019t know,\u2019 he had said. \u2018Lonely and cruel places, soulless boxes.\u2019 That\u2019s what he had called nursing homes.<\/span><\/p>\n

Pooja had argued with her father. \u2018These are not at all like the facilities in Colombo Thaththa. They are clean and expensive, and there is so much for elders to do. One day if you, Amma, or even I have to be cared for, those are the best places.\u2019 After a brief battle with cancerous cells, Mrs Fernando\u2019s husband had died at home. When his chest sunk and his face fell flat, grief and insecurity had seeped into her world. \u2018None of us will end up in an old people\u2019s nursing home, not if I can help it,\u2019 he had promised. But he was gone and there was no one to stop her from getting dumped in one now. Mrs Fernando didn\u2019t want to give reasons for Duleep to think his grandmother needed to be cared for.<\/span><\/p>\n

A single bloom struggled to unfold its petals on the lone rose bush Mrs Fernando had thought was dead. She eased up on her knees, squinted her eyes, and inspected the bud closely. Her joints protested in agony, but she didn\u2019t care. A silk scarf shielded her from the sun\u2014she didn\u2019t knot it under her chin the way she would when she went out. The scarf hung like drapes on either side of her face, swaying in the gentle breeze.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Do you think you will ever go back to Sri Lanka, Achamma?\u2019 The boy was full of questions.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando let out a deep sigh, making ripples on her scarf. She was careful not to speak ill about the country she now called home. Not after Pooja sat both of them down and reminded them it had been their decision to follow her to Australia. \u2018Martin and I spent so much money to get you residency here\u2014it\u2019s not fair when you keep complaining about everything. Too cold when cold, too hot when hot and too lonely,\u2019 Pooja mimicked her mother. \u2018It was, after all,\u00a0your\u00a0<\/em>decision to come,\u2019 she had emphasised.<\/span><\/p>\n

It had indeed been their decision to come. Mrs Fernando didn\u2019t mind either way, but her husband had wanted to come. \u2018Pooja can\u2019t visit us more than once a year and the kids even less.\u2019 He\u2019d said he felt hollow living so far from their daughter and grandkids.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018We are not getting any younger, Nalini. There will come a time when you and I will be too frail to take that eleven-hour flight to see them. Then what?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I am scared,\u2019 Mrs Fernando had confessed. \u2018This is our home.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018This is our homeland, but\u00a0home\u00a0<\/em>is where our children are.\u2019 Her husband had decided for them. While other parents who couldn\u2019t join their children overseas envied, the old couple had packed their bags and migrated.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando hadn\u2019t liked her house in The Ponds at first. Her bungalow back home had been four times bigger and much airier. She had locked herself in the bathroom and sobbed every morning for the very first week in her new home. Then she had realised the town house was the right size for the two of them, only because there were no servants to mind the place. A Korean couple came fortnightly to clean, but they didn\u2019t do a good job\u2014not as good as the live-in servant back home. Mrs Fernando always waited till the cleaners left, then dusted, swept and mopped again. At night, when her limbs started aching from the unfamiliar labour, she complained and cried, wanting to be back home. She did not stay in the gloom for long. With the dawn of the morning she busied herself cooking for her husband and tending to her garden.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I do miss home,\u2019 Mrs Fernando confessed, contemplating if she should add more. She carefully retrieved a pair of flower printed scissors out of the waterproof pouch, placed them on the grass and then pulled out another garden tool.<\/span><\/p>\n

She was gentle with her plants. She didn\u2019t have many. Her back yard was just a small patch about the size of a living room carpet. The landscaper had taken a thousand dollars to set it up. Sir Walter turf, a bird bath and two enormous pots was all the change he had made. Mrs Fernando thought it was money well spent. On one side of the yard there was a small vegetable patch, which her husband had tended to. On the other side, Mrs Fernando had haphazardly planted all kinds of flowers she thought were beautiful. With her husband gone, the vegetable patch did not survive the winter. Mrs Fernando watched her plants, willing them to come back to life. She didn\u2019t speak any more about missing home. Still on her knees, she observed her grandson, who was perched on a cement block with eyes glued to his phone screen. Though his skin was light, the boy\u2014tall and lanky with a full head of curls\u2014was the picture of her husband. Even the way Duleep sat with his head bent like he was dozing off reminded her of him.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Let\u2019s go see Seeya,\u2019 she suggested, surrendering to her heart\u2019s wish. She would have visited her husband\u2019s grave every day if she could, but with her husband gone there was no one to drive her around. \u2018You haven\u2019t driven me anywhere in your new car.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

The boy, mind stuck on his device, wobbled his head and agreed.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll change and come.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Nalini Fernando was a petite woman with a full head of salt and pepper curls she pulled back to a bun at the nape of her neck. Though she tried, she couldn\u2019t tame all those unruly curls: they rebelled and spiralled out like tentacles of an octopus. She didn\u2019t mind displaying the tentacles when she was at home, but if she needed to go out, she lathered coconut oil on her hair and pasted them into place.<\/span><\/p>\n

She had two sets of clothes. One, she wore when she was in the house and one, she wore when she went out. She never wore the inside clothes out or the outside clothes while at home. She put on her pair of denim jeans and white long sleeved kurti, oiled her hair, and re-secured it in a bun at the nape of her neck. She rummaged through a plastic box of fancy jewellery and chose a white beaded necklace, which she wore over her thin gold chain. Mrs Fernando hadn\u2019t worn colours since her husband passed. She would have avoided the blue of the denim if she could, but she didn\u2019t own a pair of white pants.<\/span><\/p>\n

Out in the common courtyard, Mrs Fernando was vocal. She spoke to everyone they met.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Good morning, Reeta, or is it afternoon?\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Oh, Nimal, the black swans are back. You should take some bread.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Malia, did your parents go back? You must be missing them.\u2019 She knew everyone by name. Her mouth worked overtime until she and Duleep reached the car.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Seat belt,\u2019 the boy reminded, just the same way his mother always did. After a lifetime of travelling without a seat belt, Mrs Fernando needed to be reminded.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I still forget.\u2019 She was apologetic for the second time that morning. As they sped off, Mrs Fernando waved at passers-by who noticed her in the car.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside Castlebrook Cemetery, they could drive close to where they needed to go. The hillside was like a battle grave, with eternal pillars erected to house the ashes of residents. Mrs Fernando stopped at pillar number seventy-seven, where her husband\u2019s ashes lay among the ashes of people he didn\u2019t know. A silence cast over the pair as they sank into a wooden bench erected for mourners to rest.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Do you miss him?\u2019 the boy asked as if it was his duty to break the silence.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Hmm.\u2019 Mrs Fernando nodded, gently caressing the gold cross dangling on her chain. \u2018But I\u2019ll see him again soon.\u2019<\/span><\/p>\n

Her grandson\u2019s fingers stopped dancing on the screen, but he didn\u2019t comment.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Nights are the worst, when the house is silent.\u2019 Words jumped out of her mouth without pause. \u2018Your grandfather snored loud, like he was gargling saltwater in his sleep. Without that, I should be sleeping well now,\u2019 Mrs Fernando added for good humour. \u2018He was in uniform the first time he came to see me. The tallest man I ever saw.\u2019 She snorted out a reluctant chuckle. \u2018I got used to looking up when I spoke to him. Like talking to God.\u2019 Lost in a faraway memory, she continued. \u2018He had all his medals pinned on like he was going to a parade. I could see my reflection on his shoes, he had them polished that well.\u2019 Mrs Fernando spoke over the whirl of the cemetery keeper\u2019s lawnmower. \u2018Your grandfather didn\u2019t have the send-off he deserved,\u2019 she lamented.<\/span><\/p>\n

She would have liked her husband\u2019s casket to be draped with the Lion flag, paraded down the streets of Colombo and taken to the Independence Square for a state funeral. She was sad it didn\u2019t happen: the Independence Square was oceans away and the state in the new country didn\u2019t know him at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018He was a war hero back home. Over here, he was nobody,\u2019 she whispered, swallowing her emotions, not trusting her eyes to retain the tears welling up. For days after his death, Mrs Fernando\u2019s Facebook feed was showered with condolences, but at the funeral, the chapel pews had remained relatively empty. Their neighbours and Pooja\u2019s friends had come, but they were just a few. Someone from the Sri Lankan Association came, spoke to her, and wrote a one column article like there was nothing much to write about him. It had made her grief bloat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018If he died in Colombo, he would have had a hero\u2019s send-off, a military guard of honour and all that,\u2019 Mrs Fernando explained.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Hmm,\u2019 the boy acknowledged, eyes still glued to his phone.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mrs Fernando halted her thoughts of anguish and smiled. She didn\u2019t want Duleep to go home and say, \u2018Grandmother is sad.\u2019 She suspected her sadness would trigger all kinds of\u00a0planning\u00a0<\/em>and she would end up in a place she didn\u2019t want to be. \u2018I don\u2019t want Pooja to put you in an old people\u2019s home if I go before you,\u2019 her husband had worried constantly. If she was in her house in Colombo, there would have been any number of people willing to move in and care for her. The old couple hadn\u2019t thought that through when they migrated to a country where they knew only four people.<\/span><\/p>\n

When the whirl of the lawnmower neared and disturbed her time with her husband\u2019s ashes, Mrs Fernando escaped the grip of the wooden bench and signalled she wished to leave.<\/span><\/p>\n

Back at home, Mrs Fernando changed into her house clothes again. It had been a good day. Even if it was only the two of them, she wanted to set the table and do lunch right. The scent of lavender tinged with mothball filled the room when she flung a lace tablecloth in the air and let it drape over the highly polished mahogany table. Standing on tiptoes, she carefully lifted her best crockery out of the corner cabinet and placed it gently on the table. She heated several curries on the stove and poured them into gold-rimmed white dishes. The pair sat ceremoniously and ate off Noritake plates and drank water in crystal glasses.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I like your dhal curry better than Amma\u2019s,\u2019 Duleep confessed. Boys were not afraid to tell the truth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018I\u2019ll make you more next time.\u2019 Mrs Fernando felt needed. She cut the Woolworths chocolate cake for dessert. A piece for Duleep, a piece for her and a piece saved for her granddaughter. Sitting on tub chairs they ate cake and watched reruns of Millionaire Hot Seat.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018What will you do now?\u2019 Duleep asked, collecting his keys to leave. That awful feeling of emptiness crept into her soul again, but Mrs Fernando feigned cheer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u2018Time for my afternoon nap,\u2019 she said. Duleep bent down and touched her feet. Mrs Fernando kissed the top of his head and followed him outside. She placed a newspaper covered brick against the door to stop it from shutting her out and watched till her grandson\u2019s car disappeared round the curb. With the heavy brick in hand she walked back in and let the wind close the door behind her.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside the house there was no noise\u2014only the tick and the tock of the grandfather clock. The old clock was tired just like the old lady, having travelled from house to house and then across the seas. But it wouldn\u2019t stop working. As long as someone wound the coil, the arms rotated, the bell chimed, and the pendulum swung. Eyes fixed on the clock, Mrs Fernando counted the number of hours left before the day would end. Though she wished the days to be shorter, they seemed to stretch like rubber bands. A deep heaving sigh escaped her bosom as it did many times a day.<\/span><\/p>\n

She slumped down into a chair and flicked through other people\u2019s Facebook feeds. Joe Samson posed with his fourth grandchild. His wide grin spoke of happiness. Photos of the Jayasuriyas\u2019 trip to Batticaloa beach were splashed all over their profile pages: clear blue skies, a calm sea and smiling children. She licked her lips and imagined the taste of the ocean. She had been to the beach in Batticaloa as a child, first with her father. It was there that she learnt crabs walked sideways. The memory brought a smile to her lips. On his Facebook page, Peterson\u2019s son ranted on about something she didn\u2019t know. Her husband would have explained. Mrs Fernando hadn\u2019t studied beyond ninth grade. She had been boarded at a convent in Colombo from a young age till her father decided she had learnt enough. Her parents had found her a match and that was that. Though in the military, her husband was a gentle sort. She had spent most of her life with him. If he was alive, come Christmas, it would have been fifty-eight years.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sliding her finger across the screen, she read her own life on Facebook next. A photo of her and her husband on their fiftieth anniversary popped up on the screen. It was a happy moment: her husband had his mouth open and she was feeding him wedding cake. Mrs Fernando made it her profile picture and put the phone down.<\/span><\/p>\n

She eased to her bedroom, washed her feet, and climbed onto bed for her afternoon nap. Her husband\u2019s walking stick stood against the wall. Mrs Fernando shuffled over to his side of the bed and inhaled deeply. The fragrance of\u00a0Old Spice<\/em>\u2014her husband\u2019s aftershave\u2014still lingered on, as strong as when he was alive. She gently stroked the cotton pillowslip and let the world become a blur.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sleeping tears woke. No one saw, no one heard. No one was there.<\/span><\/p>\n

Sharmila Jay is a journalist with two fiction novels under her belt. She\u2019s a migrant, a wife and mother of three kids and a dog, but she has also been a classical dancer, a world traveller and has lent her voice to radio programs and her face to TV commercials. Sharmila is the curious sort who loves to imagine the lives of other people. She does her best writing sitting at street caf\u00e9s. Sipping hot chocolate and watching people pass by, she steps into their shoes to create stories that are multicultural, multigenerational and multiregional at the same time.<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Between Home and Homeland – by Sharmila Jay (Deakin University, Australia) When born to a place and brought to another the heart remains torn between the two – this is true to many migrants across the world today. 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