It was a Sunday morning, and I was nervously walking through
the railway station, eagerly searching for the person I had been waiting to
meet—my spiritual half and my best friend—after such a long time. I had
prepared so much for this meeting. Days before, I had spent time talking to my
husband and kids, brainstorming gift ideas. I spent hours searching the
internet for the perfect gift, wanting it to reflect my gratitude and care. I
even asked him directly whether he would accept my gift or not.
And there he was, standing at the middle entrance of the
station, his usual emotionless look masking everything he might have been
feeling. My mind was flooded with a thousand questions, all wanting to burst
out at once. But as I stood there, words began to escape me. My carefully
planned thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind, leaving me with a strange
silence I couldn’t explain. I walked closer to him, yet for some reason, I
acted like a stranger—as though I didn’t know how to greet him or what to say.
I’m still not sure why I behaved like that. I had imagined this moment to be so
much easier, so natural. But instead, I stood there, feeling lost, unsure of
myself, and unable to behave the way I truly wanted to.
The story began 20 years ago with a casual but life-altering
newspaper advertisement. Suthu's father had published a marriage proposal,
quietly confident that his son would find a suitable match. Little did he know,
the path to finding that match would be riddled with drama, but will find a perfect
better half and a mother for his son.
At home, my life had been peaceful—or so I thought—until one
day, the phone rang. My mother picked up and was immediately furious. Someone
on the other end was asking about me—about me—claiming they'd received a
reply to their marriage proposal. I stood frozen, baffled and clueless.
Turns out, my elder sister, in a mischievous attempt to poke
fun at the situation, but with a genuine intention had replied to the newspaper
proposal pretending to be my mother. I couldn’t believe it. My mother
vehemently denied everything over the phone, but by the end of the
conversation, to everyone’s surprise, the families agreed to exchange
horoscopes.
I laughed bitterly. Surely this nonsense would end there.
But no. The horoscopes matched perfectly. That’s when my real nightmare
began. I was furious—at my sister, at the horoscopes, and at fate for
conspiring against me. Word spread quickly, and soon the entire department where
I studied in the university seemed to know. Professors, lecturers, my
supervisors—they all came to know about it.
“Why don’t you visit his place at least?” they said, as if
it were the most logical solution. “It’s just one visit.”
I couldn’t believe my life had become the subject of staff
room gossip in the university . But I refused. I didn’t want to marry
someone who was “the only child.” From my experience, they were selfish and
carefree. Besides, I didn’t want a life where my every decision would revolve
around their desires.
I was the middle child of a rural family. My father
and mother were both teachers, which meant our home was a hub of discipline,
strict rules, and constant encouragement to do well in school. Like every
household with teacher-parents, there were clear expectations—no excuses, no
cutting corners, and certainly no skipping homework. My family was no
exception. Yet, amidst the discipline, my childhood was filled with laughter,
bonding, and the unique joys of growing up with two sisters.
We were the three musketeers of our home. Our house
was always alive with our giggles, endless chatter, and mischievous antics.
Small fights broke out regularly, over trivial things like borrowing a hair
ribbon without asking or claiming the last piece of Amma’s special ‘Pani walalu’
(traditional sweet made of rice flour)
or chocolate. But those squabbles never lasted long—often ending with us
making up, laughing over silly jokes, and sneaking out to the garden to climb
mango trees or plumeria flowers straight off the branches.
Our evenings were particularly memorable. After finishing
our homework, the three of us would gather in our small backyard, playing, or
singing songs loudly while swinging on an old tire swing my father had tied to
the tree at our backyard. If it rained, which happened often, we would dash out
barefoot to dance and play in the downpour, splashing through puddles and
feeling the cool water drench us. My mother would scold us afterward for
getting our clothes muddy, but she always let us do it again the next
time—pretending not to see our mischievous grins.
Our house was not short of entertainment. My sisters and I
would write pomes and dramas and perform
in front of our parents, who would act like our most enthusiastic audience.
During school holidays, we would have little “book hunts” in our father’s
study, digging through old cupboards to discover novels, storybooks, and
yellowed newspaper clippings that fascinated us. My love for writing started
there—scribbling my thoughts and stories onto scrap paper, which I would hide
in drawers, fearing anyone would read them.
One day, I found out that my mother, who had secretly read
my scribbles, sent one of my poems to a local newspaper. I was embarrassed at
first but couldn’t believe it when it got published. My heart swelled with
pride. That small success lit a fire in me, and I began writing more poems and
articles, slowly gaining confidence. Before I knew it, my work was being
published in national and even international magazines.
Those were also the days of pen pals. It was a trend
everyone adored. I got addresses through magazine ads and wrote letters to
strangers in Malaysia and London, telling them about my school, our local vesak
celebrations, and how I spent my weekends. To my excitement, they wrote back.
Receiving their letters—delicate envelopes with foreign stamps—was the
highlight of my week. I would read and reread them, imagining what their lives
were like on the other side of the world.
I attended a traditional girls’ school, the same one my
mother and relatives had studied at, and it became our second home. My sisters
and I were part of a close-knit group of friends who spent every school day
giggling, sharing lunches, and sometimes getting into trouble. Our teachers,
though strict, were kind and inspiring, becoming role models to us. They
encouraged us to dream big, work hard, and always uphold values of respect and
kindness.
I loved the idea of large families—homes filled with people
who cared for one another, who laughed together through the good times and
stood strong during the hard ones. Like many young girls, I dreamt of having my
own family one day—a handsome, caring husband who would love me unconditionally
and many children as possible who would fill our home with laughter. I imagined
the sound of their tiny feet running around, the clatter of dishes during meal
times, and all of us gathered together in the evenings sharing stories about
our day.
These daydreams, along with my disciplined upbringing and
love for scribbling articles, passed the days quickly and took me to university
life—a new chapter that felt both exciting and overwhelming
When I stepped into the University of Peradeniya, it felt
like stepping into another world. Nestled amidst the lush greenery of the
hills, the campus was a paradise of its own. The sprawling grounds, ancient
trees, and the picturesque Mahaweli River flowing nearby made it feel serene
and inspiring. Peradeniya wasn’t just a university—it was a place that breathed
history, beauty, and knowledge.
I was studying agriculture, and I quickly fell in love with
the subject. There was something magical about learning how the earth works—how
seeds grow, how ecosystems function, and how agriculture sustains life. Our
classrooms were often beyond four walls. The wide-open fields, botanical
gardens, and experimental farms became our learning spaces. I remember how
excited we would get when we had practicals—whether it was planting paddy,
studying soil composition, or conducting field experiments in the vibrant
midlands of Sri Lanka.
Our lecturers were passionate, and their enthusiasm was
contagious. They didn’t just teach us theories—they showed us how agriculture
was a lifeline to communities and economies. Some days, we would hike into the
hills, visiting small-scale farms, talking to farmers, and understanding the
challenges they faced. On others, we’d spend hours in laboratories, examining
crop samples under microscopes or experimenting with plant nutrition.
The university life also passed mostly with girls. I found
boys intimidating—tough, dominating, and insensitive. I had seen how they
mocked and tormented others. I rarely engaged with them unless my professors
assigned group work. Immersed in my friendships with girls, I almost forgot my
childhood dream of having a big family. My new dreams began to center around
research, and I spent most of my time in the beautiful midlands of Sri Lanka.
There was a camaraderie among us agriculture students. We
were a small, tight-knit group—each of us sharing notes, struggles, and a sense
of wonder as we learned together. But the boys in our batch were still a
mystery to me. To my eyes, they were often loud, tough, and competitive, but my
friends and I kept to ourselves. The moments I had to work with them during
group assignments were limited to polite exchanges or practical discussions,
and I found comfort in the familiarity of my friends.
It was during my final year, while specializing in my chosen
field, that I came to know about a departmental trip organized for our batch.
This was one of those rare moments where our entire class—boys and girls—would go
to gather to the north of Sri lanka. I
almost didn’t attend, thinking of how out of place I might feel, but curiosity
got the better of me. At the planning meeting, I saw a group of new boys taking the lead—lean but
confident, determined to make sure everything went smoothly.
There was one guy, though, who stood out to me. He was
crazy, funny, and a bit mad—but there was something about him. He was sincere,
approachable, and completely different from the boys I had encountered before.
Though we rarely spoke, I felt a strange connection—a sense that we could be
good spiritual friends. He was sensible,
kind, and respectful. He treated everyone with dignity, and never made me
feel small. With him I felt, I could share my feelings, my frustrations, and my
confusions without fear of judgment.
Coming back to my marriage
proposal, one day, overwhelmed and helpless, I decided to confide in someone I
trusted most the ‘Spiritual half’. I told him the whole absurd story. I
expected comfort, maybe even validation for rejecting the proposal. Instead, he
surprised me by encouraging me to consider it. He gave me examples—real,
relatable ones—that nudged me toward accepting the idea.
I couldn’t believe my life had become the subject of staff
room gossip. But I refused. I didn’t want to marry someone who was “the
only child.” From my experience, they were selfish and carefree. Besides, I
didn’t want a life where my every decision would revolve around their desires.
I left the conversation fuming. My mind was a storm of
thoughts, my heart weighed down with frustration. On my way home, I couldn’t
hold it in anymore and called my best friend, who was at the Medical Faculty at
the time. “You won’t believe what’s happening,” I vented.
The next day, I skipped classes at the university and stayed
home. I was too overwhelmed to face the world. Instead, I watched a Shah Rukh
Khan film—twice. Something about his idealized romantic world, his
unwavering charm, made me accept what I thought was fate.
After watching the Sharukh Khan film twice that day, I sat
alone in my room, staring at the ceiling and replaying everything in my mind.
My heart was heavy, torn between anger and acceptance. I realized that no
matter how much I resisted, this proposal was not going away. My mind wandered
back to my childhood dreams—dreams of a loving family, unconditional care, and
a home full of laughter. Perhaps, just perhaps, fate was nudging me toward
something I didn’t yet understand.
The next day, I picked up the phone and called Suthu. My
voice trembled slightly, but I held onto my resolve. I didn’t say “yes”
outright. Instead, I gave him five conditions. They were not demands but
desperate attempts to cling to the life I knew and to test whether he could
understand me as a person.
To shave his face completely.
I wasn’t sure why this mattered so much, but it did. Maybe it was
symbolic—something about starting fresh, removing masks, and revealing the
person he truly was.
To stay at home and travel
daily for his job in the place he worked. I couldn’t bear the thought of being uprooted
or living away from my family in an unfamiliar place. I needed the comfort of
my home, at least for now.
To let me keep in touch with
my friends. My friends were my lifeline—people who understood me without
judgment. I couldn’t give that up, not even for marriage.
Not to be selfish or carefree.
I wanted a partner who was thoughtful and considerate, someone who would share
the weight of life and not just drift through it.
To never pressure me to give
up my job. My work was my identity, my dream, and the result of years of
hard work. I wouldn’t let anyone take that away from me.
When I finished, there was silence on the other end. For a
moment, I thought he might refuse or laugh at me, but then his voice came
through—calm, steady, and sincere. “I accept all of them,” he said. “If these
things make you happy, I will honor them.”
His response caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting him to
agree so easily. A strange warmth spread in my chest—half relief, half
confusion. I put down the phone and sat quietly, trying to process what had
just happened.
When I told my family, they were both surprised and amused.
My mother, who had been furious about the entire situation just weeks earlier,
softened a little. “You’ve done well to speak your mind,” she said, her voice
carrying a note of pride she rarely showed. My father, ever the quiet observer,
simply nodded. But my elder sister—the mischievous mastermind behind this
ordeal—smiled knowingly, as if she had seen this outcome long before any of us
had.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about how strange
life could be. Just months ago, I was furious—ready to fight against fate,
horoscopes, and everyone who thought they knew what was best for me. But now,
something was changing. I didn’t know if it was acceptance or hope, but for the
first time, I was willing to give this a chance—not to marry, but to talk, to
understand, and to see where this path might lead.
In the middle of this whirlwind of emotions, recollected the
words from someone I deeply trusted—my spiritual friend, whose wisdom and
kindness had always been my guiding light. I poured my heart out to him,
sharing my fears, my confusion, and my resistance to the proposal. He listened
patiently, and then, with a calm voice, he spoke words that changed everything.
“Sometimes, people come into our lives not because we plan
for them, but because they are part of something bigger—something divine.
Marriage is not just about two people; it is about growing together, helping
each other, and becoming better versions of yourselves. Let go of your fears
and trust the path you are on.”
His words lingered in my heart like a soft prayer, filling
the empty spaces of doubt with hope. There was something divine and majestic in
the way he explained life and relationships, as though he could see a future I
could not yet imagine. For the first time, I felt a quiet acceptance growing
within me—an understanding that maybe this proposal wasn’t a mistake, but a
part of a larger plan written by the universe.
As a mark of gratitude and respect, I later decided to
invite him to the wedding as a special guest. He was more than a friend—he was
a guiding star, someone whose presence brought peace and clarity when I needed
it the most.
Now I am married to Suthu and having lovely three boys as
children . They are grown up – soon they
will be taking care of all my emotions. My life is surrounded by the four boys
as predicted by the spiritual half 20 years ago. My life not be the same without
so called ‘spiritual half’.
I am whispering to myself, “Sometimes, life brings people
together for reasons we don’t yet understand.”
Inspired by true events and quotes.
Sikaran
Chapter Two will
continue.
08/12/24
