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I had my fair share of time on grandpa’s lap, but his stories and grand adventures came when we were both much older — and unfortunately a little too late.
My grandfather, Neil Dissanayake, likes to keep to himself. He would spend countless hours sitting in front of the television watching cricket matches, nature programs and Hindi movies — all at volumes well beyond tolerance. Often, my neighbors said they only have to switch to the same channel to enjoy the program, with Grandpa’s speakers providing the audio from 50 feet away.
He loved to work around the garden, much to the dismay of my grandmother who had a “greener” perspective and thought little of his chopping and uprooting. Four years ago, he was probably as fit as me; regularly traveling on Sri Lanka’s dreaded public bus service to and from work when he was well into his 70s. His 50 years of service at a printing press, Paragon Printers, was also a contributor to his lack of hearing.
I haven’t seen my grandpa let alone my homeland for three years. But I know that if I were to spark off a conversation with him, he would tell me how he’s feeling tired and “You know, I’m almost 80.”
My grandma, Chrissie, thinks he’s younger, and at the root of this problem is where the real adventure begins.
In 1943, Neil secretly enlisted with the British at age 14. It wasn’t uncommon for someone in Sri Lanka, known as the British colony of Ceylon at the time, but his age was unusual. Since he couldn’t legally join the war effort at 14, he falsely proved he was 16. Those two years have been added and subtracted many times in the last seven decades that I don’t know who to believe.
For more than a year he traveled across the Middle East, which the British had captured during the Great War, like a Hobbit wandering outside the shire for the first time. Countries like Jordan and Palestine are amongst some of the names he mentioned. Many of the stories came while we were watching the BBC’s roundup of Middle Eastern news: “Oh! I was there once” always gave me an invitation to add to my fascination of the region.
In our part of the world, everything is caused by some strange, comical or unbelievable story from the past. For example, Grandpa was never into drinking. In fact, he detested it. He attributed this to a tale from the vineyards of Palestine, where he and his friends spent far too much time feasting on grapes and wine and thus developed a sour taste for alcohol. Fact or fiction, I don’t know, but no one complained.
Grandpa isn’t a devout Christian but often remarked that he’d seen the lands of Jesus. He even took a dip or a float in the Dead Sea and said he had an old picture of the visit stored somewhere.
He also made friends with an Armenian family. The father was very fond of him.
“He tried to get me married to his daughter,” giggled Grandpa.
He gave me a moment to think of what could have happened if he accepted the proposal, but luckily, he got away. It is completely conceivable that at the same time Grandpa was escaping Armenian proposals, Chrissie, 15 years younger, was still in her mother’s womb. Great-grandma was busy hiding under tables as the Japanese bombed Ceylon.
When I asked about battle, Grandpa said he never saw any action but there were times when he was afraid. During World War II, Palestine saw thousands of Jews returning to their historical homeland to escape persecution in Europe. This mass migration caused tensions with the majority Arab population in the region. There were frequent skirmishes between the groups, and the British were caught in the middle. What both Jews and Arabs lacked were guns, and that’s exactly what Grandpa and his comrades had. Both sides used force and guile to steal soldiers’ rifles. Grandpa was warned by his superiors to keep an eye on his gun, and he never lost it but said he thought about it all the time and suffered many sleepless nights.
His stint in the Middle East ended when he fell off a truck into a precipice and was knocked unconscious for three days, according to Grandma. He was sent back home and was never recognized for his time or contributions.
Although his memory and health seem to be waning, Grandpa is doing well. There are probably many stories of his Arabian nights that will remain with him untold. If these stories seem incomplete, merely tales without depth, that is because they are.
I am both intrigued and chastised by what I will never know. All I have are these morsels of information, like the handful of missing pieces from someone else’s puzzle. But I cherish every fragment, as small as they maybe and hope they will honor his memory in the years to come.
Perera is a journalism student at Winona State University.
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