Lasantha Rodrigo Honda CG-125

Maybe a lack of belief is not my crime, or my loss, but a belief in something simpler. I believe I will only exist for a short period of time, so I must spend that time enjoying my experiences. I must spend my time doing my best for myself and those around me. No deities, spirits, or souls required. A religion in its simplest form, without complex theology.

LASANTHA RODRIGO

Honda CG-125

It was a bright orange, and at one thirty when school ended, Dad waited for the throng of little boys that came out, some of them running, eager to get into their air-conditioned cars. I liked school, especially because I knew that at one thirty, Dad would buy me strawberry ice cream from the Food Cabin. The ride home didn’t take much time — maybe fifteen minutes — after which, I took a nap until Mom came home.

It was in primary school that I had to use crutches. I woke up one morning and couldn’t walk. On the orange motorbike, Dad took me to countless doctors, and one doctor diagnosed me with some bone condition. After that, the orange bike and Dad became my saviors. I know now that the orange CG125 had nothing to do with it: Just Dad. He was my Savior. ***

In primary school, I was done at 11.30. Dad could come to take me home at 11.30 because He was out of work at that time. He often was. But was He? Whether working, out of work, or busy with anything, He always had the five rupees. Dad never bought ice cream or anything else for himself. Now I know why: He just had enough money to buy me ice cream. Two would have been too expensive. I will never know, as Mom’s memory is not that reliable as she has Parkinson’s now. At eighty two, Mom’s memory must be badly compromised. When I last called her, all she could do was cry. I didn’t understand a single word she uttered between sobs, but the moment she heard my voice across oceans and continents, she knew it was me; she said loudly, “Lasantha!” Then we both cried. I cried inside. She didn’t know how to pretend.

The three most precious men in her life had become two overnight. I don’t know how she could even begin to comprehend after over sixty years of marriage. She was now a widow. Did she know? Did she understand? My sister tells me that Dad used to wash her feet amidst impatience and protestations.

At His old age, Dad had learned to live with her again. Divorce was taboo back in Sri Lanka at the time, so they continued to live with each other, even though it seemed to me that they had become strangers to each other. They lived together to save us the embarrassment.

I called because Aiya had emailed me about Dad’s death. I was grading

student papers at Illinois State University. The newly created coffee room was ideal for the purpose. When I’m at home, I never get anything done. In my solitary existence, all I can do is eat, sleep, or read.

When it finally dawned on me that I was now a solitary soul in a big world, the tears gushed out involuntarily. There were some students in the coffee room, but for once, I couldn’t care less. I was broken. Completely. ***

Dad stopped at the petrol shed on the way home. He had to make sure we had enough petrol to get home. The opening of the tank was on the orange belly of the bike just in front of where I was sitting. I loved the smell of petrol. Dad said, “Don’t breathe, Malli. Let’s see how long you can hold your breath!” I could only do about forty five seconds, but by then, we were good to go.

The ride home I remember vaguely, like in a dream; it was, literally and figuratively. I almost always fell asleep, with the wind in my hair and the unmistakable Old Spice after-shave scent fanning my noon-day dreams. I remember waking up near the lake, just about five or six minutes from home. This is where we could always smell kadju fruit. In retrospect, I realize now that it was some chemical. Dad wore a red helmet, brown gloves, and khaki pants, like a policeman. At home, He really was … a policeman. On the orange motorbike, Dad’s arms were around me, so I couldn’t fall off. How could He buy a new Malli if I did?

Home was never complete without Mom. Dad often remained in the periphery, supporting, providing, and fueling the engine, so to speak. He called me Malli, little brother – that’s what I was to all my siblings as I was the youngest. People always exclaimed that I was the baby. I guess I was. If I wanted anything, I always knew that Dad would buy it for me. As a little boy, I never wondered how He was going to buy it, but at that age, I just knew; that’s what Dads did. Whether out of work, penniless, or traumatized financially and otherwise, Dad was the breadwinner, the patriarch, the provider.

Dad knew everything, especially math. He was an accountant. Well, that might be a glorification. He worked in the accounts department. He often helped with my math homework, but He was an impatient teacher, and I got tired of His instruction very quickly.

Dad had seven siblings, and as His Dad, my Grandpa, died very early, Dad was their breadwinner, their savior. He had given up all His dreams to make sure that His two brothers and three sisters were married and settled, to focus on His own dreams. I don’t know if He had dreams, but maybe the right phrase would be “get on with His life.”

***

When my Sister told me that Dad was doing very poorly, I knew that He was not going to live that long. I had not seen Him in almost 15 years. Dad was a hypochondriac. His room smelled of medicine even when I was small, but it eventually got even worse: more sleeping, more doctor’s visits, more temper tantrums.

Dad died a couple of days after. Maybe more than a couple, but in my memory, He lives on, like the fragrance of the white water lilies floating languidly on the still water of the lake we passed on the way home: mysterious, omnipresent, glorious.

It is only after Dad passed away, that I realized for the first time that there was no father figure to quietly celebrate my small victories: getting published in some unheard-of American journal, Walking even five steps, cooking for myself, growing my hair that is still black, making people laugh. But He’s not there.

In our desperate and lonely lives, we imagine that those who have left forever still exist in some higher plane. This is exactly what I did. I imagined He was living in some parallel universe, some unheard of oasis. While He was living, I never wrote to Him; not even once. After He was gone, though, I started writing to Him, periodically. Maybe I imagined He was reading from some place, some unheard-of world.

I don’t know where you are. I’m not hurting as much, and in a way, I can’t forgive myself for that. As I write, I have the wedding picture of you and mom right next to my computer. I’m not crying, but there’s an insurmountable heaviness in my chest that won’t go away. Perhaps it will when I go to bed, but I will think of you in sleeping and waking hours. I might hear you telling me a bedtime story. It was always the same story, the story of a poor boy destined to be king. His name was Ghoshaka. You dramatized all the characters, and

in my pink bed, I listened with wonderment every time. I remember exact phrases to this day. If I’m lucky, I will hear this in my dreams. Today is the first day that I felt somewhat alive after you died. I have been very sad for twelve days. I didn’t think I was going to come out of this gloom, but I’m beginning to believe in angels. Tomorrow, I will swim and then go to the library to work on my Classical Mythology class. I am very excited about teaching this class. It’s completely down my alley. You always believed in educating us. I think you did well. I’m giving the gift to others now. You’d be proud of me. Bless my students as you blessed the four of us. All four of us have turned out well. We are not materially rich, but we are all good-hearted human beings. I know you’d be proud of us. You are in us all. Ah, the tears are coming slowly and my heart hurts. It’s a good thing. I didn’t want your memory

Today is the to hurt me less. I know that as much as it hurts me, first day that I you are in every cell of my body. My every breath. My felt somewhat every word. Every thought. My strength. My guardian alive after you angel. died. Ah, Dad, I am getting old. But I will always be your baby. *** I guess when someone dies, when it’s too late, when all you have left is memories, you realize what an unmerciful, selfish, pathetic wretch of a human being you have been. That’s what I learned. Yeah, I was such an asshole to a man a son could only wish for. Oh, dear god, my heart is a battlefield. Please pull me out of this misery! I do have some good in me somewhere, but ah, it’s less than inadequate. It’s been over two weeks, and I’m trying so hard to pull myself together. I wish I could disappear. Oh, god, when this man had next to nothing, He gave me the best He could ever give me. But I was so young. Six, maybe. Seven? But I’m a man now. I wish someone could give me a second chance. Please. Your picture is staring at me. There’s so much love there. Love that kills me. I must be imagining. You couldn’t possibly glance at me with accusations. You don’t wish this pain for me, Dad. I know that. Yet, here I am, making my keyboard a sticky mess. This must be a stage of grieving. Tomorrow, I will wake up to a new day, a

day that you will send me from up above. It will be the best ever because you never gave me anything less. It’s so quiet, Dad. Darkness is laughing at me quietly. Someone said time heals everything. I must be locked in space where time moves not. Do you remember how it always smelled of kaju puhulung near the lake? Will you take me there? Please don’t leave me here. I’m terrified. ***

I still remember that Honda CG-125; it was our Mercedes. At one point, Dad took four of us on that bike: Mom, Dad, Akka, and me. On days you had money, we stopped at the Milk Board to buy ice cream after sea bathing. While everyone else wanted chocolate flavor, I only liked strawberry. At that time, there were only three flavors: chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry. I always pestered you to buy strawberry.

I often wonder why I’m addicted to ice cream. Morning, noon, or night, ice cream always makes me feel better. Especially strawberry ice cream. I never wondered why, but now that you are no more, I know why. Strawberry ice cream always takes me back to those care-free days when you picked me up from school. I was on crutches then, but I knew that at one thirty when school ended, you’d buy me strawberry ice cream from the Food Cabin. The little cup was five rupees, and I never wondered how you always had that, even though you were out of work.

You always said that if I became first in class, you’d buy me anything I wanted. As I was so little and we were poor, I never had anything expensive in mind. It was usually some book I had seen in the library or chocolate I had seen on TV. Kandos was the name of the brand, and there was a Kandos Shop just next to my school. I was cheap. I just didn’t know anything better or more expensive. Looking back, I’m so glad I didn’t.

If you were here, I’d take you to Baskin Robbins. For old times’ sake. On a warm summer day. For strawberry ice cream or any other flavor you’d like. I think you would like Rocky Road or Salted Caramel. I’ll pay.