Goodbye dearest Maria!

My dearest Maria. I never thought I would have to write this, this soon but then I realised, I owe it to you. Remember the very first day I met you ? It was way back in 1981. I was 19, working at Lake House and writing to the Sunday Observer’s “Sat Mag” magazine. You were 23. I made a prior appointment with you on the old rotary dial phone and arrived at Ekanayake Mawatha, Nugegoda, sharp on time. I waited and waited. There were (either) dogs or cats playing around me, with their fur flying all around me. That irritated me. I waited and waited. I wanted to, but could not walk out because the Editor was waiting for the article. You sailed in one wretched hour late. I was furious. You never apologised either. That’s how we began our friendship. Rather a rocky start wasn’t it ? What struck me most was NOT the fact that you were the highly celebrated Kandy Lamissi at that time, but rather the sparkle in your eyes and the warmth of your smile. It came from the depths of your heart and radiated outwards to everyone you came into contact with – both those who liked you and those who did not like you. You radiated that sparkle and smile during the best of times and even the most difficult of times. You had your fair share of both in your 68 years. That smile was your trademark. It stayed on until the end. We were neighbours, too, in Nugegoda. You were on that side of the junction and I was on this side of the junction. Remember in the mid-1990s when fitness fever hit us and we ambitiously started those 6.00 am early morning walks. They were alas short lived when children in passing school vans began shouting “Aunty Aunty” or “Kandy Lamissiiiiii”. That put an end to our walks and we reverted back to being unfit. You also had a very, very wicked sense of humour which I loved to bits. Remember that evening when, with dead pan faces, you and I walked into the Metro Cinema Nugegoda and bought two balcony tickets for the 6.30 pm show. The man at the ticket counter couldn’t not believe his eyes. And how we, again with dead pan faces, slowly crept upstairs and sat in the (last row) middle seats much to the shock of all those lovers around us. You were the Star. I was much lesser known to them than you. They were shocked and looked at you in great disbelief. I remember at one intense moment of the film, we asked the couple next to us, “Meh, excuse me. Aney welaawa keeyada?”. They only didn’t slap us. And then, during the movie we crunched on and made a helluva din with the prawn crackers, much to the irritation of those around us. We hadn’t come to watch the film. We just wanted to shock and annoy those lovers. Mission accomplished, we sailed out in the Interval, our sides splitting with laughter. We could not remember the movie either. Remember those incessantly chats we used to have on a variety of topics? You could hold forth on practically any topic. Those chats sometimes went on till well past midnight and we hadn’t finished talking either. Teshan your son was the apple of your eye, to use a cliché. How proud you were of him and how very much you used to talk about him. You took pride in his academic success and the fine young man he has turned out to be. In our 46-year friendship, you and I have had our misgivings, too. Remember Mariazelle how we didn’t speak to each other for about three years? And then in December 2015 you were a guest artiste and I the emcee at the Break-Away New Year’s Eve Ball organised by (your cousin) Sohan Weerasinghe and Corrine Almeida. We were still not talking to each other, but then, just after the countdown to midnight, you came up to me, hugged me and wished me with tears in your eyes. My respect for you hit the ceiling that night. Our friendship became rock solid from that day onwards. We last met over dinner at Harpos Commons in Kotte, just before illness dragged you down. You had medical problems but you never complained. Remember the stories we traded and how much we laughed and laughed, at times much to the displeasure of the other diners. Harpo might have got the complaints but he never told me either. And now you’re gone. Gone just like that. Before I close, I’d like to quote a few lines from your dear friend Aruna Siriwardhana’s tribute : “I take a moment to mention two special beings in Mariazelle’s life. One is surgeon Prof. Srinath Chandrasekera (a musician himself) who for the past six months or so, together with his team at the Kalubowila Hospital, took indescribably attentive care of her. The other is singer Dinu, who virtually placed her life and work on hold, to care for Mariazelle”. It was heart-breaking to see you lie in that coffin at Barney Raymonds last Monday (13 July). You were dressed in ivory and gold. You looked peaceful. You were free from suffering and free from pain. “Kandy Lamissi” will ALWAYS be sung at parties and weddings and home comings and dinner dances and batch get-togethers. “Kandy Lamissi” and You have an unlimited life span. You will both go on forever! And I will always remember that sparkle in your eyes and the warmth of your smile. That to me was You. Goodbye my dearest Maria. May your journey in Samsara be speedy. by Kumar de Silva