Beggar's Feast (43 page)

When even waking became a triumph, Sam wanted to talk about what was to be done. As we all do, Rose made as if he was talking madness, but by ninety-six, ninety-seven, she could tell he was already elsewhere, his face either determined steel or drooling gobs of old sweet spit, pained or surprised, proud, stern, angry, blank, smiling—and all unto himself. When he was ninety-eight she asked him where he wanted to be buried, and he said he would not be buried, that of him and his body what deserved to stay upon this earth was already here, was here fourteen times over. He said when the time came his body should be burned on a bier in the car park and then a meal given at the harbour office. What harbour office. She sent word to the village men, who began collecting the wood behind the walauwa. At ninety-nine, he said the feast could be cigarettes or even just jaggery, one hard miracle popped into every beggar boy's mouth. Only no monks should be called. On that he insisted. Rose said you couldn't keep monks away from a funeral any more than you could keep crows away from a beggar's feast and Sam said yes, monks were no better than crows, always waiting to feed unless you ran them off first. Rose told him church or no church he should not die with a bitter mouth. And at one hundred, he told her he did not mind who came, who stayed to feast. Only, when they laid him upon his bier, he asked, in a now puny, not yet exhausted voice, that he burn brighter, louder than just woodsmoke. And then, one evening in July 1999, he was called to make the children eat, in vain. Sudugama was closed to the public for the day. The bier was built and packed, the caravan came and the village, both villages, went to the car park and sat behind Rose and the Marias, who sat behind the monks, who claimed the first row. Who, when the bier was lit, muddied their saffron diving for cover as Sam Kandy shot the heavens in flames full of firecrackers, bright streams and busted rainbows roaring and screaming and chasing all the birds from the still green trees.

Colombo:  Ajith Goonawardene, Mrs. Sybil Francke, and the people of Boyagoda village.

Toronto:  Ivor Boyagoda, June Boyagoda, Bruce Westwood, Charles Foran, T.H. Adamowski, and Nicole Winstanley.

The author also gratefully acknowledges the support of the Ontario Arts Council and Ryerson University.