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In these days
of lunch packets for sale at every street corner and fast food snacks
in every other shop, a home-cooked rice and curry is not only a
luxury but also quite scarce with the hectic routine of working
couples. But for some Sri Lankans it is a difficult "custom"
to give up and a few of them still enjoy that luxury, thanks to
the handful of "bath bicyclemen" who are stubbornly clinging
onto a dying trade. "Yes, there
are only five of us doing this trade now," says 56-year-old
H.G. Gunapala as we catch him at noon on a Monday, after a long
wait at the Queen's Road-Duplication Road junction. Collecting
about 30 lunches, starting from his home area of Attidiya at around
8 a.m. and covering Dehiwela, Wellawatte and Bambalapitiya, he makes
a very brief stop here to "kema addukku karanna". To sort
out the lunches which come in various shapes and sizes -- packets,
plates tied up with checked serviettes and food flasks in blue and
red to keep the rice and curry warm-for easier delivery along his
route. Sometimes the food is still on the fire when he rings the
bicycle bell at the gate of his client, then he gives them another
five minutes. He cannot wait any longer because the delays will
disrupt not only his task but also keep his clients waiting for
their afternoon meal. The lunches
are taken to offices and shops close to Eye Hospital, on Navam Mawatha,
Dharmapala Mawatha, many by-lanes and even as farther as Aluth Kade
where the plush Supreme Court buildings are. A loner who
handles his work alone, unlike the other four who keep to the tradition
of exchanging lunches, Gunapala has been on the job for 30 long
years. At the different drop off points, he carefully hands over
the lunches to the canteens or the security personnel manning the
gate. The final plate is dropped off about 1.45 p.m. He starts the
return pick up of the now empty plates around 2.15 p.m., ironically
only grabbing a bite of lunch for himself and not a home-made meal,
while on the move. With so many
lunches, doesn't he ever get them mixed up and give the wrong one
to the wrong person? "No, never,” he smiles, proudly showing
us that most of the lunches don't even have labels or tags. "Puruddata
gihilla." (I know through habit which is which). Five days a
week, in sun and rain, Gunapala cycles strenuously through the traffic
to get his job done, earning between Rs. 200 to 300 on each plate,
each month, depending on the distance. His hands work dexterously
while talking to us, sorting out the lunches, without a minute's
pause. His day's work
ends only around 6.30 p.m. when he finally hands over the last empty
plate. He cannot fall ill or take a day off for the survival of
his family of wife and three children depends on him. After all
these labours he is able to take home a meagre Rs. 5,000 to 6,000
a month. "We manage," he says with stoic resignation not
questioning his lot in life. Life has been
difficult for him since he was four years and his father, a coconut
plucker, fell off a tree to his death. His mother
who did not have any means of bringing up the family in their hometown
of Matara moved them to an uncle's house in Bellanwila. There were
no opportunities for much study. Starting off
by doing odd jobs very young, he moved into this trade in his twenties,
long before the bicycle became a tool of help. "I used to carry
the lunches in a large box on my head and board the train at Mount
Lavinia for the Fort. Getting off at Fort I walked around distributing
the lunches, earning about Rs. 35 per month from each customer,"
he recalls. What of the
future? He does not know. He feels it is a dying trade, made difficult
due to roads being closed or most being one-way. "It's also
not a paying job. Godak mahansi wenna onai. You needed to toil very
hard cycling 30 to 40 miles per day," he concedes, adding that
the younger generation will not take to it. Gunapala needs
to hurry, he cannot linger any longer, wasting his valuable time.
He bids goodbye and crosses the road to a tiny street kiosk. Pally
with the stall owner, he cuts himself a thamibili, gulps down the
water, buys one cigarette, most probably his only sustenance since
morning. Then he's off to do his duty of taking home-made rice and
curry to his clients. As we lose sight of him weaving his way through the thick traffic of Duplication Road with his heavy box behind him, we wonder how soon the "bath bicycles" would become extinct, vanishing like the rickshaw pullers of yore. Is his bell the swansong of the tiffin carriers? Only time will tell. Great - grandmum’s needle magic By Esther
Williams Later in life,
when her eyesight did not permit her to do so, she collected pictures
from newspapers, magazines and posters, photocopying and enlarging
them to life-size before using carbon paper to transfer the pictures
onto cloth. Only then, would she start sewing. Great-grandmother
Kusuma Hettiarachie, is in her late 80s and the needle painting
that she has been doing for most of her life has not just been a
delightful hobby but also a definite therapy that has kept her in
good health. Next month,
she holds an exhibition of her work titled 'Our Feathered Friends'
at the Lionel Wendt Gallery.Kusuma has embroidered from her schooldays
at Musaeus College during colonial times. It was only decades later
while she was in England in 1990 that she learnt that she was using
an ancient needlework form called Opus Anglicanum. Her son had taken
one of her embroidery pieces to the Victoria & Albert Museum
and curators there identified it as needle painting. They traced
the history of this art form also called the long and short stitch
and found that it was done in the 13-14th century in Britain. Its
technical name was Opus Anglicanum meaning English work or how to
paint with a needle. A branch of it was called Opus Plumarium, which
means either general plumage or featherwork. From the latter
half of the 14th century, research indicates, there was a sharp
decline in embroidery of this type. In those days it was mainly
used for church work, to depict scenes such as the Last Supper,
etc. As far as Kusuma
is aware no one else in Sri Lanka practises this technique. So from the
annual school needlework exhibition where she outshone others, her
passion for this art form continued. Later, her household linen,
children's clothes and nightwear had the same dainty cross stitch
and satin stitches etc. In fact, all the clothes her children wore
were embroidered. Graduating
in Pali, Sinhalese and English at the London University, Kusuma
taught at St. John's College, Panadura and after retirement spent
seven years in Zambia teaching English language and literature.
Though she was hesitant about going there, it proved to be a period
of absolute pleasure, she recalls. "They are such nice kind-hearted
people who wanted to learn and respected those who taught them." Following the
brief period in England, Kusuma lived in Canada for 10 years. Her
exhibitions of needle paintings, both in England (1990) and Canada
(1998) gave her much exposure. Back in Sri
Lanka, this sprightly old lady now spends 2 - 2 ½ hours a
day on her hobby. It takes about 4-5 months to complete one picture.
"It requires monumental patience and total absorption but now
I have all the time in the world," Kusuma smiles. Her offspring,
she says, have no time in their busy schedule to learn the art.
Looking back,
Kusuma reflects that most of her skill was developed on her own
- by sitting for hours to get the effect of light and shade - using
her needle as a medium to paint the picture. Kusuma's exhibition
of needle paintings will be held on April 4 (5.30 to 7.30 p.m.)
5 and 6 at the Lionel Wendt gallery. The entire proceeds from the
sale will be donated to the Hope Cancer Hospital Fund.By Esther
Williams There was a
time when she went bird watching and sketched birds at close quarters.
She would go to the zoo and spend hours studying peacocks and peahens
so that she could get the colours just right. Later in life,
when her eyesight did not permit her to do so, she collected pictures
from newspapers, magazines and posters, photocopying and enlarging
them to life-size before using carbon paper to transfer the pictures
onto cloth. Only then, would she start sewing. Great-grandmother
Kusuma Hettiarachie, is in her late 80s and the needle painting
that she has been doing for most of her life has not just been a
delightful hobby but also a definite therapy that has kept her in
good health. Next month,
she holds an exhibition of her work titled 'Our Feathered Friends'
at the Lionel Wendt Gallery.Kusuma has embroidered from her schooldays
at Musaeus College during colonial times. It was only decades later
while she was in England in 1990 that she learnt that she was using
an ancient needlework form called Opus Anglicanum. Her son had taken
one of her embroidery pieces to the Victoria & Albert Museum
and curators there identified it as needle painting. They traced
the history of this art form also called the long and short stitch
and found that it was done in the 13-14th century in Britain. Its
technical name was Opus Anglicanum meaning English work or how to
paint with a needle. A branch of it was called Opus Plumarium, which
means either general plumage or featherwork. From the latter
half of the 14th century, research indicates, there was a sharp
decline in embroidery of this type. In those days it was mainly
used for church work, to depict scenes such as the Last Supper,
etc. As far as Kusuma
is aware no one else in Sri Lanka practises this technique. So from the
annual school needlework exhibition where she outshone others, her
passion for this art form continued. Later, her household linen,
children's clothes and nightwear had the same dainty cross stitch
and satin stitches etc. In fact, all the clothes her children wore
were embroidered. Graduating
in Pali, Sinhalese and English at the London University, Kusuma
taught at St. John's College, Panadura and after retirement spent
seven years in Zambia teaching English language and literature.
Though she was hesitant about going there, it proved to be a period
of absolute pleasure, she recalls. "They are such nice kind-hearted
people who wanted to learn and respected those who taught them." Following the
brief period in England, Kusuma lived in Canada for 10 years. Her
exhibitions of needle paintings, both in England (1990) and Canada
(1998) gave her much exposure. Back in Sri
Lanka, this sprightly old lady now spends 2 - 2 ½ hours a
day on her hobby. It takes about 4-5 months to complete one picture.
"It requires monumental patience and total absorption but now
I have all the time in the world," Kusuma smiles. Her offspring,
she says, have no time in their busy schedule to learn the art.
Looking back,
Kusuma reflects that most of her skill was developed on her own
- by sitting for hours to get the effect of light and shade - using
her needle as a medium to paint the picture. Kusuma's exhibition of needle paintings will be held on April 4 (5.30 to 7.30 p.m.) 5 and 6 at the Lionel Wendt gallery. The entire proceeds from the sale will be donated to the Hope Cancer Hospital Fund. |
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