Its A 'Big Bite', Sam

(Translated from original Sinhala language)

I'm not sure, how I should start this story. Lets start with my name. Saman. I am Saman Jayasinghe, from Kadawatha. I am a “Lion”, a member of the Lions' association. I was (un)fortunate in getting an opportunity to attend a Lions' Annual Conference in Chicago, with a few others. Stricken with the epileptic of living in the US, I stayed back. I managed a small job there. That was four years ago. I have another valid year left in my visa. Could make a few more dollars and then leave.

My job was in a gas station. That in other words is a petrol shed. A petrol shed would immediately make you visualise a man in kakhi shorts and a shirt, wearing a pair of worn out rubber sandals, with a large betel chew inside the cheek. No, not so in the US. We have a neat uniform and we have to wear tie.

Here, its the driver himself who has to re fuel his vehicle. There are 10 to 12 pumps. With the credit card you can re fuel yourself. Or else they can walk in, give me the number of the pump with cash and I activate the pump. There are also misceleneous stuff from common drugs to condoms in a mini market.

These are quick found small jobs with a small pay. Enough for a single person to exist. Most who work in them are illegal immigrants. I can not open a bank account and nor can I drive a vehicle. The endorsement in my passport says, “Not authorized to work”. If by any means I get caught, its straight deportation.

American English is messy. They have an unusual slant on the letter “a”. So most words get dragged on the “a” with a slant. So my name for them would be like the “salmon” fish. But fortunately they changed my name to “Sam”. I was happy, I was not made into a salmon.

There is a toilet inside the gas station for customer use. That is called the “wash room” or the “rest room”. US is one country that markets itself to the world, while there's nothing for them at home. There may not be this much beggars, any where else in the world. But they are not called beggars. They are all “homeless people”.

I have a pass with distinction for English language and Literature. With another certificate from another institute, I thought I am a grand master at English. But they can not understand what I say, while I can not understand what they say. I was thus given “night duty” with less customer care responsibility.

One day a “homeless man” came in and asked, “May I use your rest room”.

I sent him out saying the “Rest room is only for customers”. He was about the age of my father. I felt sorry, though. His face was different. The complexion, neither dark nor fair. The eyes had a clear, piercing look.


Next morning, after my night shift, I was taking a stroll to my apartment. It was about 7.30 in the morning. A homeless man was seated on a bench, by the road. He was murmuring some thing in a rhythmic style.


Sounded, “Doove...deemot....kaarey...benda”. A familiar voice, it was. It was that man I sent out. I walked close to the man and asked, “hello..are you singing ?”

In very neat English he said, “Cold”, and then asked “Can you buy me a coffee ?” His legs were sore. The purple colour Iodene on the wounds had dried and the wounds oozing. I bought him a coffee then and there and asked “Are you sick ?”

“I am having a cold and fever” he replied.

I had a few Panadol tablets brought from Sri Lanka. I gave him two of them.

“Panadol ? Are you Sri Lankan ?” he asked in surprise.

“My god ! Are you Sri Lankan too ?”

He left a deep, long sigh and wanted to tell something. I was tired and sleepy. I gave him a few dollars from my night pilfering and said we could meet another day.

The sleep was restless, though up the whole night. The morning incident kept gnawing. Any way, the morning sleep is not what we have in the night. After that for some time, I didn't see him.

It was my usual night shift. He suddenly appeared around 12.30 in the night. He stared at me from outside. Through the counter. His hair and the beard was grown and gray. It wasn't a busy night. So I got a coffee cup for him and went out.
“Are you speaking Sinhala ?” He asked me.
“I thought Mr. Sam was a Mexican or an Indian ..... From which part of Sri Lanka ?”

It was I who wanted to know about him. But he was asking my details, instead. Let me now write, what he told me about him. His narration, as told by him, from here.

My name is Cyril Saparamadu. My wife is Padmini. We are from Homagama. How many would have benefited from the lottery Mr. Sam …...I won a lottery too.... a visa lottery. Twenty five years ago, I was a staff officer at the Central Bank. My wife was a teacher. We had a comfortable life there in Sri Lanka. After we received the letter from the US embassy, for one whole week, we didn't cook anything at home.....Mr. Sam......all in our house were bit by the US bug.
…...We have three children....The eldest is a son and the other two are daughters. When we came, the son was seven years and the daughters were six and five. We sold everything we had.....before coming here.
I also worked in a gas station like you. Wife managed a job as a Montessori teacher. It was difficult even with our two salaries. So I did another job. That was really, really tough. Carried through with stubbornness.......but I often fell sick.
Between very many episodes in our lives, time sped through.
The son wasn't much interested in studies. The two daughters did their Masters. They got married to two Americans. They are just name sake marriages. In Las Vegas, there is a “drive through marriage” place, also. The eldest daughter left to a different State. We were not told, where or why.
The son did a course in motor mechanics and joined a car manufacturing company. He is not bad off. But does not save anything. Got into drinking too. No sense of what his future would be.
Five years after the second daughter's confinement, she took us to her residence. We were more or less like “outsiders” there. My wife nevertheless was occupied with the grand daughter, Nicole. The little one had a pair of blue eyes and a very fair skin. Her hair of course, was black. Somewhat.....a little like my wife, I thought. At times she cuddle herself with me and slept. I caressed her hair. She loved it. I taught her the Sinhala song “My milk white Rabbit”
One day, our son in law......Mike Pearson.....asked my daughter, “What the hell is that Old man doing here ?”
“Don't talk like that...he is my Dad...” That was my daughter.
“But this....is MY house.” That was our son in law, Mike.
“OK...I will ask them to leave...You can hire a baby sitter.....for six hundred dollars a week.”
I knew, my stay would effect their marriage.
“Padmini....will you stay here ? You have no problems staying here....I will go to our son”
We have never been apart, ever since our marriage. She looked at me. Her eyes full of tears, she gave me a silent nod. “Remember to take your medicine”.
The son had a single room apartment. He was pleased to have me. But never wanted details. That's his way, always.
My first job there was to clean up the place. He had had his food, out.
“Will you have a beer...Dad ?” He was having a beer, the bottle kept to his mouth. We were different. I have not even sat in front of my father. I cursed myself, silently, for taking a decision without serious thought. There is no relationship between children and parents. Children have turned out like “robots”. Like machines with no sensitivity.
I went to the mall and bought a small rice cooker, some stuff to make tea and a few other things.
“Son don't eat out after this....I will cook something.”

I had to interrupt him. “So...how did you go this bad ?”

“Please....Mr. Sam....don't tell any one about me....its a disgrace to us all....”
First the son was good....alright. But later he became reserved. Answered only what was asked about. I felt his change after a few weeks. He sort of..... resented me.
It was fifteenth June. His birth day. I woke up early and prepared “milk rice” for breakfast. He likes it very much.
“Don't get late today....I will prepare dinner tonight”
I am a good chef. Can cook our meals quite well. I prepared “yellow rice”, chicken, dhal with gravy and made an onion sambol too. He did not come. I stayed awake till late, waiting for him. Then I had my meal and stayed for him. I had fallen asleep on the chair, itself. When he finally came with a few friends, it was past three in the morning. All were drunk. They were smelly too. Like marijuana. The lights were switched on and one fellow asked, “Who the fuck is this ?”
“Are you living with your Dad ?” Another asked.
One day, I thought I would ask him, “Am I a problem to you son ?”
“No...not a problem as such” he said nonchalantly. “But.....I can't even ask a friend to come....I too have a life Dad...” he said.
I guessed the time was up. I could turn out into a big problem. For a few days, I tried to call my wife and the second daughter. Their phone line was disconnected. They probably have left to another place.
The son sold his car, without any notice. Most suddenly. He left to New York with his baggage and laptop. Said, its a two-week training. That was a Sunday. I slept, till a little late. Some one woke me with a loud rap on the door. I went and opened it. He was the apartment manager, Norton Lopez.
“Your son didn’t pay rent. You have to pay or leave the apartment”
” Can’t you wait? He will be back in two weeks”
” No he is not coming back. He moved to New York”

The son had made a complete break with me. He was born at the Jayawardnepura Hospital. When I got the message it was around three in the afternoon. After the Cesarean operation, Padmini was still in a daze. The son was in a cot wailing. I caressed his rosy cheek. He stopped crying. A mother in the adjoining bed said, “See....how the baby recognised the father...” That rang in my ears.

After hearing Saparamadu, I felt I lost all liking to most I thought, I should live for. As soon as I went to my apartment, I called home, to speak to my mother. My father is no more living. My mother answered the ringing phone. A soon as I said “hello” to the mouth piece, she said, “Oooh my son....have you had breakfast ?....What time is it there now ?” I felt like crying. She sensed that, I guess. “Why...whats wrong ? Aren't you well ?” she asked. “That's enough staying there....come now”.

That was a five dollar phone card. I finished it, speaking to my mother. I spoke till I finished it, to say it right. But the weight I felt in me, in my mind, wasn't over.

“Why Uncle....you could have gone to the Buddhist temple....Aren't you Buddhist ? Why didn't you contact the Sinhala association ?”
“They are meant for the elite....They only organise Basket ball tournaments and dinner dances......after completing two jobs every day, I come home, wanting to hit the bed....So, I had no time for friends and company....no time to go the temple. I was not prepared to meet Sri Lankans...may be, that was my inferiority.....I have gone to Lankaramaya Viharaya a few times.....That was during the 'Katina pooja'...to have a good, tasty meal.....now I can't face Jinananda hamuduruwo....”

Those who work with me, have noticed me speaking to a “homeless guy”. They say, he is my “Dad”. I wasn't very much different to Saparamadu. It was like the walking stick being more weak than me. I could only sigh and then try to forget. Once in a way, I gave him a few dollars.

“Uncle..aren't you getting any dole from the State ?”
“I had my social security before. But now I don't have a place, an address. Seldom do I get anything from any one...These fellows give charity on the skin colour....”
“How long have you been this way ?”
“Now its more than five years....Summer is no problem...can sleep in the open. During the winter...they deport us to a camp....”
“Haven't you contacted your wife ?”
“Met her once.....I was lying on a park bench. I saw a familiar figure, coming into the park....pushing a go-cart with a little baby.....That was Padmini....in a pair of slacks...It was difficult.....to recognise her, all at once.”

I was very bad by then. I couldn't yet, avoid her. I walked up to her. She stared at me, with her brows on her forehead. “What happened to you ?....I searched for you....all over.”
“Son....left me....where are you now ?”
“The daughter and family also shifted residence.....I think to Florida....They gave me a letter saying, I have experience in baby sitting....Now I baby sit for a family.....Where are you now ?”
“I don't have a real place. Often I sleep under the freeway.”
“Go.....go to the County hospital and get those wounds dressed.”

Those days, if I fall sick, its Padmini who gets most upset. She forcefully drags me to the doctor. All things have changed now.

“I'm getting late...This baby's mother comes home by five thirty.”

I felt my heart bursting in a hollow nothing. When would we meet again ?

One day, after midnight, Saparamadu came to meet me. He brought a parcel wrapped in a flimsy, polythene sheet.
“Mr. Sam...you should do me a favour.....That's our wedding album....there's some money too inside....You should give that to Padmini....It won't be difficult for you to make her out....Didn't you say...you would go back to Sri Lanka ? Please go....this is no good place.” He wasn't that sound in mind, I thought. “If you don't meet my wife......buy something for your mother....from the money there....when you go”.

Early next morning, a customer told me, a homeless guy is lying near the trash bin. I ran there and found it was Saparamadu Uncle. I called 911 immediately. A little while later the ambulance arrived. I watched through the glass counter. Wrapped in a plain white cloth, Saparamadu's corpse, was taken some where.

He was gone.

[This story, in its original Sinhala language, titled “Rata Giya Ethto” (Those who went abroad) came to me with an e-mail I received from a friend. It had no author, except in how the story is told, or re told. It carried such pathos in it, woven around a disintegrating Sri Lankan family in foreign soil, I thought it should reach a wider readership, for comment and review. Hence my translation of the story, into English]

Kusal Perera
09 November, 2011

Photo courtesy - http://www.squidoo.com/homeless-in-america