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 Culture, Mind, and Society

The Making and Meaning of

Relationships in Sri Lanka
An Ethnography on University Students in Colombo

Mihirini Sirisena
 Culture, Mind, and Society

Series Editor
Peter G. Stromberg
Anthropology Department
Henry Kendall College of Arts and Sciences
University of Tulsa
Tulsa, Oklahoma, USA
The Society for Psychological Anthropology—a section of the American
Anthropology Association—and Palgrave Macmillan are dedicated to
publishing innovative research that illuminates the workings of the
human mind within the social, cultural, and political contexts that shape
thought, emotion, and experience. As anthropologists seek to bridge
gaps between ideation and emotion or agency and structure and as psy-
chologists, psychiatrists, and medical anthropologists search for ways to
engage with cultural meaning and difference, this interdisciplinary terrain
is more active than ever.

Editorial Board

Eileen Anderson-Fye, Department of Anthropology, Case Western

Reserve University
Jennifer Cole, Committee on Human Development, University of
Chicago
Linda Garro, Department of Anthropology, University of California,
Los Angeles
Daniel T. Linger, Department of Anthropology, University of
California, Santa Cruz
Rebecca Lester, Department of Anthropology, Washington University
in St. Louis
Tanya Luhrmann, Department of Anthropology, Stanford University
Catherine Lutz, Department of Anthropology, University of North
Carolina, Chapel Hill
Peggy Miller, Departments of Psychology and Speech Communication,
University of Illinois, Urbana-Champaign
Robert Paul, Department of Anthropology, Emory University
Antonius C. G. M. Robben, Department of Anthropology, Utrecht
University, Netherlands
Bradd Shore, Department of Anthropology, Emory University
Jason Throop, Department of Anthropology, University of California,
Los Angeles
Carol Worthman, Department of Anthropology, Emory University

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14947
 Mihirini Sirisena

The Making
and Meaning
of Relationships
in Sri Lanka
An Ethnography on University Students in
Colombo
Mihirini Sirisena
Durham University
Durham, UK

Culture, Mind, and Society

ISBN 978-3-319-76335-4 ISBN 978-3-319-76336-1 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76336-1

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018934368

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2018

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
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 Foreword

The University of Colombo occupies a site just south of the city c­ entre,
on the edge of Cinnamon Gardens, one of the city’s most exclusive
neighbourhoods. Originally, a small cluster of whitewashed high-colonial
buildings, looking out to a cricket pitch, the University has over the years
acquired an incoherent clutch of newer buildings, many of them unu-
sually ugly even by the standards of what we might recognise architec-
turally as transnational academic modernism. The two main roads which
converge at the southern tip of the campus are not only wide and very
busy, but also shaded by beautiful old trees which line the pavements on
each side. It’s easy for a casual traveller to ignore the youthful ferment
of campus life which goes on away from the road, and in the hostels and
boarding houses where the students live.
Politically, the layout of the university evokes other histories. The road
bounding the north-east side of the Arts Faculty is now officially known
as Stanley Wijesundera Mawatha, honouring the memory of the 1980s
Vice-Chancellor who was shot dead in College House by the youthful
insurrectionists of the Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna in early 1989. As
Vice-Chancellor, Wijesundera had refused to close down the campus
when ordered to do so by the JVP. One of the first acts in their rising
against the state had been the abduction and murder of a Colombo stu-
dent leader, Daya Pathirana, in late 1986. In their time, the old trees
have hidden a political history of unexpected intensity, and occasionally
severe violence.

v
vi    Foreword

By the time that Mihirini Sirisena returned to her old campus in a new
role as anthropological fieldworker in 2007, the political environment
had changed. The insurgent violence of the 1980s was a fading mem-
ory in Colombo itself, but the war against Tamil rebels in the country’s
north had just restarted and would reach its bloody finale two years later.
That war and the issues that fed into it—the construction of antagonis-
tic ethnic identities, the causes and consequences of political violence,
displacement and memory—have dominated academic discussions of Sri
Lanka for three decades. But while attention has been rather narrowly, if
understandably, focused on these topics, Sri Lankan society has changed
in many ways. The liberalisation of the economy in the late 1970s has led
to the growth of an expanded middle class, heavily concentrated in the
island’s Western Province. With this have come new styles of consump-
tion, and shifting ideas about gender and sexuality. The young people
coming to the University in Colombo are having to navigate a rapidly
changing and uncertain social milieu, one which provides both opportu-
nities for new kinds of self-fashioning and very real constraints, not least
from the relentless force of peer pressure.
The world of the young, in Colombo as in many places, is often
opaque to outsiders. Lecturers prefer to know as little as possible about
their students’ lives away from the lecture hall. Students are often living
far away from home and therefore far away from the kind of everyday
surveillance which is so much a part of growing up in Sri Lanka. There
are other kinds of surveillance, though, from fellow students. Building
relationships is not easy, especially romantic relationships, and the conse-
quences of failure are felt intensely. New formations of class make all this
more difficult. New technologies like the use of mobile phones create
opportunities as well as further obstacles.
This is the world that Mihirini Sirisena explores in her original and
eye-opening book. In limpid prose, she introduces issues like the eti-
quette of gift-giving that ties a young couple together, the idioms in
which they imagine their relationships with each other, and the fraught
approach to sexual intimacy. In setting out these themes, Sirisena is her-
self charting often un-navigated territory. Anthropologists have, on the
whole, felt more comfortable with the objectifying language of tradi-
tional kinship studies, with its analytic charts and abbreviations, than
with the warmth (and occasional cold) of actually existing relationships
between actually existing young people. In part, this may simply be due
 Foreword    vii

to the greater academic rigour afforded by this apparatus of scholar-

ship. But just as much is the fact that it is quite difficult to create an
­anthropology which brings warmth and emotion back into the study of
relationships.
Sirisena confronts this challenge with considerable skill, and there
are two specific aspects of her achievement which are worthy of note.
To set out the stories she has assembled here requires above all a rare
degree of trust, and that trust is something that had to be built patiently
and carefully. Here, Sirisena’s position as a sometime insider must have
helped, but this would not in itself have created the conditions for her
interlocutors to open themselves as they have. For that, the author
had to do the work that was needed. The second aspect of note is of
course Sirisena’s writing itself, which combines a novelistic attention to
detail, with a coolly analytic sense of the dynamics of self-making and
­relationship-building. It was once said that to be true to its subject, every
new ethnography has to create its own genre anew. Mihirini Sirisena has,
in this book, done just that.

Edinburgh, UK Jonathan Spencer

December 2017
 Series Preface

Psychological anthropologists study a wide spectrum of human activity:

child development, illness and healing, ritual and religion, personality,
political and economic systems, just to name a few. In fact, as a discipline
that seeks to understand the interconnections between persons and cul-
ture, it would be difficult to come up with examples of human behaviour
that are outside the purview of psychological anthropology. Yet beneath
this substantive diversity lies a common commitment. The practitioners
of psychological anthropology seek to understand social activity in ways
that are fitted to the mental and physical dimensions of human beings.
Psychological anthropologists may focus on emotions or human biology,
on language or art or dreams, but they rarely stray far from the attempt
to understand the possibilities and the limitations of on the ground
human persons.
The discourse of romance has a long and fascinating history that spans
the cultures of East and West, and wherever it is found it links the bod-
ily realities of men and women with the larger structures of politics and
economics. In this book, Mihirini Sirisena illuminates how romance
has taken shape among college students in Sri Lanka. She shows how
a culturally adapted form of this discourse works to mediate some of
the contradictions in the lives of these young people, in a world pen-
etrated by new realities of economics, politics and kinship. Love serves
to shape and indeed make the self, to provide new modes of belonging,
but in its powerful effects can leave the self fragile and vulnerable. This

ix
x    Series Preface

work provides a compelling example of how our cultural expectations

and understandings of emotion are central to the ongoing negotiation
between selves and societies.

Tulsa, USA Peter G. Stromberg

 Acknowledgements

Good fortune in my life comes in the form of people. From the time I
signed up to study for a Ph.D. in September 2006, which forms the basis
of this book, I was blessed to have had so many people who poured in
their time, effort, love, care and faith. In seeing the completion of this
book, I am indebted to:

Subhani, Chandani, Thilini and Ajith who introduced me to my inter-

locutors at the university and my interlocutors, who accepted and
trusted me and shared a significant chapter of their lives with me.
Though they remain unnamed in this book, their lives comprise the
core of this book for without them, I would not have a story to tell;
Jonathan and Lynn who let me follow my heart and guided me with
invaluable advice and encouragement from its beginning;
Janet Carsten and Carol Smart, who examined my Ph.D. thesis and
whose comments and critique guided the reworking of the Ph.D. the-
sis into this book;
Becky, Dhana, Eshani, Harini, Jane, Linda, Ruth and Tharindi for
indulging in me with food and care, reading/commenting on various
drafts and above all, helping me keep my sanity in check;
Buddhini and Janaka for lending a helping hand, especially at the
beginning when the ground was shaky;

xi
xii    Acknowledgements

Overseas Research Students Awards Scheme, School of Social

and Political Science at Edinburgh University, Sir Richard Stapley
Education Trust and Radcliffe-Brown and Firth Trust for providing
financial assistance during the Ph.D.;
Kyra Saniewski and Rachel Daniel at Palgrave who were accommodat-
ing and helpful;
The reviewers for their advice and helpful comments;
Nilhan, Nirmi and Shanela who were the rocks I leaned on during
fieldwork, and Gaya, for faith, support and, teaching me to love, ques-
tion and question love;
Vikram, Keith, Christina, Tatyana and Buddy, who were my home
away from home during the Ph.D.;
Amma, Thaththa and my sisters for instilling ambition in me and
helping me chase my dreams with love and unfaltering faith;
Simon and Roo for their unconditional love.

Thank you!
 Contents

1 Introduction 1

2 Ruminating on Love and Love Relationships 55

3 Ayyas and Nangis in Love 77

4 Making It Real 99

5 My World in My Pocket: Phones, Relationships and

Expectations 121

6 Balancing Between Pleasure and Propriety: Where,

What and How 145

7 Sex Games: Pleasures and Penance 167

8 Magēma kenek: On Future and Certainty 185

xiii
xiv    Contents

9 Serious Relationships: Intersubjective Intermingling,

Fuller Lives and Embodied Emotions 207

Bibliography 223

Index 237
 A Note on Translation
and Transliteration

In this book, all statements and conversations come from interviews

and conversations I had with my interlocutors, which I either recorded
or wrote down during or after our meetings. The majority of these dis-
cussions were had in Sinhala, and all translations given in the book are
my own. However, most of my interlocutors used some English in our
conversation, and when they are cited, they appear in single quotation
marks.
Where key terms and phrases for which my translations are approxi-
mations, I have transliterated the phrases and/or terms which are itali-
cised and given adjacent to the translations in brackets. In transliterating,
I follow the common system for Sinhala. Vowels marked in a macron
indicate long vowels (ā, ī, ē, ǽ, ō, ū); retroflex consonants are indicated
with a dot below (ṭ); sh is written as ś; prenasalised n is written as ň;
mūrdhaja na is transliterated as ṇ.

xv
 People in the Book

Here is a brief introduction to people who appear in this book. They

were the key informants, whose stories have shaped the book.
Amali Amali was 23 years old when I met her, and she was in her
third year of study at the university. She grew up in the sub-
urbs of Colombo, with her younger sister and her brother.
Her father was a retired civil servant, and he had passed
away when I met her. Amali’s mother was a housewife.
Amali sought help from her mother while mending her
heart, broken when her four-year relationship to Erantha
ended.
Amintha Standing almost 6 feet tall with an athletic built, Amintha
was an attractive young man who was popular among his
fellow students. He was in his third year at the univer-
sity, studying to become a teacher, when I met him in
early 2008. In his mid-twenties, he beamed confidence
and self-assurance and took the self-proclaimed position
of my ‘key informant’, a role he lived up to well. ‘The
university is not my life’, he told me when we first met,
implying that all his energies are not directed into his
university education. He already tutored students study-
ing Sinhala literature for the advance level examination.
Thus, his fallback was in place. If all else fails, he could
become a tuition master in Sinhala. With all the private

xvii
xviii    People in the Book

tuition classes he conducted, he was building his repu-

tation as a tuition master. Within the university, he was
active in student politics and helped organising and took
part in sport and literary events at the university. He
prided himself on being able to savour all or most oppor-
tunities and experiences life had to offer. The older of
twin brothers, Amintha was born and bred in the sub-
urbs of Colombo. He catalogued himself as middle class,
explaining that money was never a worry while he was
growing up. His father was a teacher, and his mother was
a housewife, who dedicatedly provided her children with
the shelter and guidance they needed. Amintha often
credited this cocoon of warmth his mother provided
them as an explanation for him turning out to be the
good man that he is. Amintha was in a nine-month-old
relationship with a girl he met at the university when I
met him.
Aravinda Amintha’s twin brother, Aravinda offered an almost iden-
tical profile to Amintha, in appearance, character and
activities. While Amintha described himself as the ‘sporty
one’ while Aravinda was the ‘arty one’, Aravinda chose
to describe Amintha as the ‘articulate one’ and himself
as the ‘quiet one’. Aravinda has been going out with his
current girlfriend for over a year when I met him.
Anish  Anish was 21 and was a first-year student at the Law
Faculty. He is from the south of Colombo and was the
youngest of a family of four. His parents were civil serv-
ants. He was in a brief relationship with Hiranthi when
I met him, which ended during my fieldwork. He had
doubts about the relationship, he told me, as he consid-
ers himself a ‘bit of a player’ and was not sure if he had it
in him to work at the relationship to make it last.
Bileka  Bileka was 25 years old at the time of my fieldwork.
Born and brought up in Colombo, Bileka’s background
was significantly different to that of the majority of my
research participants. Her father was a businessman; her
mother was a doctor, and Bileka was educated abroad. At
the time I met her, she was discovering the world of uni-
versity students through her friends at work, who were
 People in the Book    xix

local graduates. At the time, Bileka was engaged to her

long-term boyfriend.
Bimal  Bimal was 25 years old and was the only Sinhala,
Christian in the family of my interlocutors. He was a
third-year student at the Arts Faculty when I met him.
From north central Sri Lanka, he was the youngest child
of a family of eleven. He was in a relationship with a
woman from his village. Despite having carried on with
that relationship for more than two years, Bimal saw no
bright future lying ahead in terms of marital prospects.
Bindu Bindu was 23 years old and was a third-year student at
the Science Faculty. Her parents owned a business in the
south of Sri Lanka, where Bindu was born and bred. She
was the middle child of a family of five and had moved to
Colombo to follow a computing course before she began
her course at the university. It was at this computing cen-
tre that she met Nilanga, with whom she had been in a
relationship for over two years. When I met her, Nilanga
had ended their relationship.
Charithra  Charithra was a 22-year-old law student in her sec-
ond year of study. She had moved to Colombo to study
and stayed with an aunt in the suburbs of Colombo.
Charithra’s father had passed away when she was young.
Charithra told me that her brother and her mother,
who was a teacher, never made her feel the gap that her
father’s death had left vacant. Charithra had just started a
relationship with a man she met at the university when I
met her.
Chathuranga Chathuranga was 23 years old and was from central Sri
Lanka. A third-year student at the Arts Faculty at the
time I met him, education was the first thing that was
on Chathuranga’s mind. It was not just that education
paved the way for upward mobility and security. Being
the oldest of three children, Chathuranga knew that he
had to take over the responsibility of looking after his
two younger sisters, as his ageing, farmer parents found it
difficult to do so. He was not in a romantic relationship
when I met him.
xx    People in the Book

Chinthana Chinthana was 24 years old and was a third-year student

at the Arts Faculty. He has moved to Colombo to study
at the university, from central parts of Sri Lanka and
stayed at the university hostel. His parents were paddy
farmers, and Chinthana has an older sister who was
married. Chinthana told me that his family struggled to
make the ends meet. He was recovering from a break-up
of a 6-year relationship when I met him.
Dhamma  Dhamma was a 24-year-old third-year student at the
Arts Faculty. He left his parents and sister behind in
a village to the north-east of Sri Lanka, when he came
to Colombo to enter into university. His father worked
as a clerical assistant, and his mother was a housewife.
Dhamma was in a ‘serious’ relationship with a woman he
met at the university when I met him.
Dhananjaya Dhananjaya was 22 and was a first-year student at the
Law Faculty. His father owned a boutique, and his
mother was a housewife. Dhananjaya was the 3rd child of
a family of six and had moved to Colombo from central
Sri Lanka to start his life at the university. He had been in
a relationship with an older woman he met while work-
ing part-time in his village, and the woman had ended
their relationship when I met him.
Dilan  Dilan was a third-year student at the Faculty of Law
when I met him. He is from southern Sri Lanka and is
the youngest of a family of eight. His parents are farmers.
He has been away from home since the age of thirteen,
living with friends and relatives during which time he
looked after himself and indulged in drinking and loiter-
ing. When he was 15, his oldest brother passed away, and
after that, he decided to focus on his education and do
well. He was not in a relationship when I met him.
Duleeka Duleeka was 32 and was married to her university sweet-
heart. She had a child, and they were putting the final
touches to the house they had built in the suburbs of
Colombo, when I met her.
Harsha Harsha was 22 years old. She was the youngest daugh-
ter of a family of four, and her parents were paddy farm
owners. Harsha moved from the south of Sri Lanka to
 People in the Book    xxi

Colombo to study at the university. She was a second-

year student at the Science Faculty when I met her and
was in a relationship with a man she met at the university.
Hemanthi Hemanthi and her parents moved from southern Sri
Lanka, when she started her course for a bachelors
degree at the university. She was 23 and described herself
as a modern, independent woman. Her father was a busi-
nessman, and her mother was a housewife. She was single
when I met her and had recently broken off a relation-
ship she had with a man she met at the university.
Hiranthi Hiranthi was 21 years old and was born and bred in
Colombo. Her father was a civil servant, and her mother
was a teacher. Hiranthi followed her older sister’s foot-
steps into the Law faculty and was in her first year of
study. I saw the death of her relationship to Anish during
the course of my fieldwork.
Hishani Hishani was 23 when I met her and comes from the sub-
urbs of Colombo. Hishani’s mother had divorced her
father, who was an alcoholic, when Hishani was young.
Her mother worked as a wage labourer and struggled to
make ends meet. As a result, Hishani and her younger
sister had a hard childhood. They were estranged from
their older brother, as it was the father who had custody
of the brother. Hishani told me that her luck begun to
change after she had met her boyfriend, with whom she
had been in a relationship for the past 6 years.
Jayantha Jayantha was 25 years old and was a third-year student
at the Law faculty. He is the youngest child of a family
of nine. His father worked as a wage labourer in their
village in the deep south of Sri Lanka. Jayantha, like
Chathuranga, was not in a relationship and didn’t see
himself one. Jayantha didn’t want to be distracted by
romantic relationships and could not afford one.
Kamani Kamani was 23 years old and was newly married when I
met her. She had married her childhood sweetheart. She
was in her third year at the university but didn’t see her
degree amounting to much as she didn’t expect to work.
She was the younger of two children, with an older sis-
ter who worked for a private company in Colombo. Her
xxii    People in the Book

parents were retired teachers and had moved to suburbs

of Colombo when Kamani started her degree at the uni-
versity. Now they lived next door to Kamani and her hus-
band.
Madhura Madhura was a 26-year-old student at the Law Faculty
and was in the final year when I met him. Her father
was a politician and represented their village, which is to
the north-east of Colombo. Youngest of two children,
Madhura followed his father’s footsteps into student
politics at the university and was rather vague about the
business his older brother minded. He was in a relation-
ship with a girl he met at the university.
Nayana Nayana was a student at the Law Faculty and was in her
second year. She introduced herself as a Sinhala, Buddhist
girl from southern Sri Lanka, and was 21 when I met
her. Nayana’s parents were teachers, and she has an older
brother. Her parents had moved with her to Colombo
when she started studying for her degree at the university.
She was in a relationship with Nilan, a man she had known
since she was a child.
Nirasha Nirasha was 21 years old. She was a second-year student
at the Science Faculty. Her mother was a teacher, and her
father was a civil servant. She lived with her parents and
the older sister in the suburbs of Colombo, where she
was born and bred. Nirasha was in a relationship with a
man she met at the university.
Nishan Nishan was a 24-year-old law student in his third year of
study. He moved to Colombo from southern Sri Lanka to
study at the university. He was the fourth child in a family
of seven. His father and mother worked as wage labourers
in their village in the south. Nishan was in a relationship
with a woman he met at the university.
Padmika Padmika was 21 years old and was a first-year student
at the Law faculty. His father was a civil servant, and
his mother was a retired teacher. The middle child of
a family of five, Padmika and his two brothers grew up
in different parts of the country, when they followed
their father as he was transferred from one corner of the
 People in the Book    xxiii

country to another. Padmika was not in a relationship

when I met him.
Sayuri  Sayuri was 23 years old and was a third-year student
at the Arts Faculty. She is from the central province of
Sri Lanka, where she and her older sister grew up in a
rather austere environment. Sayuri’s father was a head
teacher, and her mother was a teacher, and Sayuri was my
only interviewee who referred to her caste status when
describing her background. She was in a relationship
with a man she had met while she was at school.
Susantha Susantha was 26 years old and was a final-year student at
the Law Faculty. He grew up in a village in southern Sri
Lanka with his brother, where his mother worked hard as
a wage labourer to make the ends meets, since his father
abandoned the family for another woman. Susantha had
found love at the university with a woman from the same
village yet their relationship could not withstand the
pressures of a clash of social classes.
Thilini Thilini was 24 years old and was a final-year student at
the Arts Faculty. She was born and bred in the suburbs of
Colombo. Her parents owned a small business in the vil-
lage she grew up. Being the only child, she was the baby
of the family and was not in a relationship when I met
her.
Other people
They too appear here, in their varying roles and capacities.
Anura Hishani’s boyfriend. I didn’t meet him.
Erantha Amali’s former boyfriend. I didn’t meet him.
Jagath Bileka’s fiancé. I didn’t interview him.
Mr. Karunaratna An astrologer and it was Bileka who put me in
touch with him. He enlightened me on the pro-
cess of matching horoscopes.
Mr. Wijetunga My former landlord.
Mr. Wickramasinghe 
A high school Sinhala teacher who advised me
with meanings and interpretations of some
Sinhala terminology.
Narada A TV show host and hosted a talk show on love
at the time of my research and it was to speak to
about this show that I contacted him.
xxiv    People in the Book

Nilan Nayana’s boyfriend. I never met him.

Nilanga Bindu’s former boyfriend. I didn’t meet him.
Sanjeevika A peer from my university days. I spoke to her
about love in Sinhala literature.
Sarangi Dhamma’s girl friend. I met her a few times, but
I didn’t interview her.
Shivanthi Aravinda’s girlfriend. I did not meet her.
Suren  Bileka’s friend. I spoke with him but did not
include his story in this book.
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction

I met Amali just before the lunchtime chaos began to unleash in the gym
canteen. It was our first meeting. She was one of those who sought me
out, she later told me, because she needed someone to talk to. Wrapped
in a denim skirt that hung loose over her knees and an oversized, floral
shirt, Amali looked tired, her cheeks drawn in and dark circles highlight-
ing her sunken, tired eyes. They made her look older than she was, and
weary, as if she bore the brunt of the world on her shoulders. By then,
it had been seven months since the day she found out that the man she
loves had married another woman.
We found a quiet corner by the badminton courts, where we were
least likely to be disturbed. Once she started her story, she did not hold
herself back, and in about two and half hours, she made me privy to all
the twists and turns of her relationship. Her descriptions were detailed.
She spoke fast, moving from one incident to another, a melange of the
happy and the painful, dotting the landscape of her relationship, linking
all the events leading to its eventual break-up. She didn’t try to hide the
tears streaming down her cheeks, from this stranger whom she had met
only a few hours back.
Amali was the eldest daughter of a family of five. Growing up in a
rather conservative, Sinhala-Buddhist suburban household, she strongly
believed that romantic relationships are not things that should concern
school-going children. Therefore, she did not find herself in one until
after she had completed her school education. She met Erantha at the

© The Author(s) 2018 1

M. Sirisena, The Making and Meaning of Relationships
in Sri Lanka, Culture, Mind, and Society,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76336-1_1
2 M. Sirisena

garment factory she worked at against her parents’ wishes, after finishing
her Advance Level exams. Though her parents had made it clear to her
that they did not want her to be associated with ‘garment’ girls, she fol-
lowed her friends to work at the factory because she wanted to hang out
with her friends. So, it was no surprise that her parents disapproved of it
when they found out about her relationship with Erantha. For her par-
ents, Amali and Erantha were an incompatible match. For them, Amali
was more educated and from a social background different to Erantha’s.
Besides, and maybe more importantly, their temperaments clashed.
Amali told me that her parents often suggested that she needed a partner
who is stronger, someone assertive, a strong personality. Amali admitted
that she is stubborn and is used to having things her way. So, she needed
someone who could keep her stubborn tendencies in check and balance
her strong personality. Erantha did not fit this description. But, Amali
persisted and eventually managed to win her parents’ blessings.
Four years later, she found herself facing a grim reality. “It was not
like we talked about breaking up and then ended the relationship”, she
told me. “I used to fight with him often. I argue over little things. I get
angry easily. That’s the way I am. … Since about last May, there was a
change in him. He treated me indifferently … He stopped asking after
me.1 Calling reduced. … Even if we were to meet, he would not make
the same effort anymore”. The uncertainty ended when she found out
that he had married another woman. With that began a period of bewil-
derment, she told me. Despite the frequent quarrels and the lapses in
caring, she had not imagined that her relationship would end this way.
She tried as hard as she could to understand what brought it on. Her
words fell out like a waterfall, rapid and charged with pain and anger.
Suddenly she stopped, stared at me for a few seconds and told me, “I
even took Panadol because of this”.2

1 Asking after (hoyala balanava) is understood to be an act through which love is commu-

nicated. Lovers often exchanged text messages and telephone calls informing each other of
their whereabouts, what happens during the day etc. The absence of this kind of exchanges
hinted that one does not care about the person they are in a relationship with any longer.
2 Panadol is a brand name for paracetamol and is synonymous with painkillers in Sri Lanka.

Taking Panadol, as Amali used it, is a euphemism for overdosing. Senadheera et al. (2010)
report that overdosing on painkillers is a relatively recent method of attempting suicide,
which is more popular among young women.
 1 INTRODUCTION 3

Years later, I am still haunted by vivid recollections of Amali’s words,

posture and the sense of loss that hung over her when she spoke. Amali’s
struggle to cope with the end of her relationship still unsettles me. The
helplessness I felt as I listened to her annoys me. What is it about these
relationships that they mattered so much? That we devote so much time
and effort to them? What is it that mattered so much that some of us
were driven to seek solace in self-harm when a couple relationship has
ended? It was similar questions that befuddled me when I set off to do
ethnographic fieldwork at University of Colombo in September 2007. I
was enraptured in the idea of finding out about the meaning of couple
relationships at the time and chose University of Colombo as my field
site for a few key reasons. My previous experience at the same university
had alerted me to some interesting aspects about its student population.
When they begin their university lives, most students would have moved
out of their parental nests for the first time in their lives. Living on their
own or having no parental figure watching over them, the university
allowed them a certain freedom to interact with members of the opposite
sex without adult surveillance. Moreover, by the time they entered into
the university, most of them would be in their early twenties and would
have begun to think about marriage, preferably resulting from a roman-
tic relationship. Being the preferred channel to marriage, ‘love’ holds a
special place in the hearts and minds of these young people, thus making
them keen to talk about it. I intended to capitalise on these circumstan-
tial dynamics and engage with the university students on a concern that I
thought they found relevant at that juncture in their lives as I headed to
Colombo University to do ethnographic fieldwork in 2007.
Amali’s story of unmaking suggested that the end of her relationship
brought on a sense of death of herself, so much so that she contemplated
and acted on putting an end to a half-alive life. In so many different
words and ways, Amali told me that, when her relationship ended, she
felt as if she were losing the sense of who she is and what she should live
for. Through her descriptions of losing weight, lacking motivation for
work or pleasure, she painted a picture of a young woman who was once
happy but now has been stripped off of everything she had known her-
self to be. She described herself as someone left with nothing but feelings
of failure and confusion. She was half-alive. For Amali, who was alive for
the sake of being alive (jīvat vena vāle jīvat venava), popping over thirty
white caplets in less than half an hour did not seem a drastic act, but an
obvious one. For her, by doing so, she was not ending herself because
4 M. Sirisena

everything that she had once known herself to be had melted away when
the relationship ended. The questions and the concerns she brought up
boiled down to “whole life is a lie, because [I] was lied to by someone
whom [I] deeply trusted” and “how do I face the family and friends who
know of us”. Yet, to assume that it is a feeling of being cheated on and/
or she could not face the society because she is compromised by the fail-
ure of her relationship that drove her to contemplate suicide is to over-
look a whole lot of dynamics that are at play in couple relationships. In
this book, I argue that, through couple relationships, which are filtered
through sociocultural sieves, one forms affective kin bonds at the essence
of which belie our sense of personhood and belonging. In this three-part
introduction to the book, I present the theoretical context within which
the content of this book is located, socio-historical context of my inter-
locutors, and the methodology and the structure of the book.

Part 1: Belonging, Love and Relationality

Feeling Selves
Let’s face it. We’re undone by each other. And if we’re not, we’re missing
something. (Butler 2009: 389)

In recent works, writers such as Butler (2009), Gay y Blasco (2005),

Josephides (2005) and Biddle (2009) have pointed out that it is impos-
sible to speak of self/subjectivity without taking our ‘feeling sides’ into
consideration. While recognising ourselves as feeling beings and arguing
that it is this that distinguishes us humans from other living, breathing
beings, they point out that these structures of feelings and emotions are
culturally conditioned. To begin with, emotions are “the means by which
social and cultural formations affect us, that is, render us feeling beings
in a series of complex, intricate ways” (Harding and Pribram 2009: 13).
These intricate ways that emotions affect our sense of being could be
clustered into two broad levels: emotions become a demarcator of who
we are and, through feeling emotions and responding to them in par-
ticular ways, we seek assertion or negation of the persons that we are.
It is this approach to the link between emotions and self that inform
the argument I make in this book. The crux of this argument is, emo-
tions reflect who we are. Being individuals of a certain kind, we become
 1 INTRODUCTION 5

emotional in certain kind of ways. The categories through which we

define ourselves as persons belonging to a certain class, gender and sexu-
ality guide us on how to envision our emotionality: what we feel as well
as how to feel what we feel. As Harding and Pribram (2009: 13), expli-
cating the connexion between gender and emotionality, argue:

Gendered subjects are constructed through particular emotion events in

which they express or suppress specific emotions. Gendered subjects must
live and feel the specificities of such emotional occurrences or events, and
they must constantly re-enact – relive and refeel – those specificities as part
of the ongoing performance and maintenance of their identities.3

Feeling emotions, it appears here, as a performance, not in the sense of

putting on a show, but as a way of being. Emotions, when associated
with subjectivity, carry insinuations of awareness. In order to feel as if
we are ought to feel as persons of a particular nature, we learn to express
and suppress emotions. For instance, to be a womanly woman, I learn to
suppress emotions such as competitiveness, which are seen as manly in
the cultural context I grew up in.
To feel is to act. Supporting the Extended Mind Theory view and
considering emotions as that which involve the brain, the body and the
world, Scheer (2012) offers the definition that emotions are “an act sit-
uated in and composed of interdependent cognitive, somatic, and social
components, mixed in varying proportions, depending on the prac-
tical logic of the situation in which it takes place” (ibid.: 219–220).
Stemming from this definition, emotional practice entails habitual dis-
positions that mediate emotional responses as well as automatically exe-
cuted bodily movements. When considering emotional practise, Scheer
(2012: 220) suggests that we should recognise:

1) that emotions not only follow from things people do, but are them-
selves a form of practice, because they are an action of a mindful body;
2) that this feeling subject is not prior to but emerges in the doing of emo-
tion; and 3) that a definition of emotion must include the body and its
functions, not in the sense of a universal, pristine, biological base, but as a
locus for innate and learned capacities deeply shaped by habitual practices.

3 Emphasis in the original.

6 M. Sirisena

Scheer’s presentation of emotions as practice invites us to re-engage with

Rosaldo (2009), who, while maintaining a strong association between
emotions and biology, advocated for emotions to be considered as
embodied thoughts. She explained that thoughts and emotions are inter-
linked and explained that thought is cognition that is “always culturally
patterned and infused with feelings which themselves reflect a culturally
ordered past … thought does not exist in isolation from affective life
…affect is culturally ordered and does not exist apart from thought”
(ibid.: 84). After having established that thought as culturally located,
she elaborates the connection between thoughts and feelings.

The crucial point … is recognition of the fact that feeling is forever given
shape through thought and the thought is laden with emotional meaning.
… what distinguishes thought and affect, differentiating a “cold” cog-
nition from a “hot,” is fundamentally a sense of the engagement of the
actor’s self. Emotions are thoughts somehow “felt” in flushes, pulses,
“movements” of our livers, minds, hearts, stomachs, skin. They are
embodied thoughts, thoughts seeped with the apprehension that “I am
involved.”4 (ibid.: 88)

Rosaldo highlights the reflective side of emotions that a feeling is a feel-

ing when it is recognised as such; that we cannot feel without being
engaged; and that cognition and interpretation are pivotal elements of
the experience of feeling. Lutz and Abu-Lughod (1990) further the
debate on emotions and thoughts and present a case for the process of
reflection on emotions to be considered in anthropological studies. Their
argument is that it is emotional discourse that interprets the feeling.
While emotions can be seen in social interactions, much of it is verbal
and it is through language and exchange that meanings are interpreted/
made. Illouz (2007: 2) adds that emotional practice entails, not action
per se and meaning-making, interpretive discourse, but “the inner energy
that propels us toward an act”, which is what gives a “mood” or “col-
oration” to an act. Emotion thus represents the “energy-laden” side of
action, where the “energy is understood to simultaneously implicate cog-
nition, affect, evaluation, motivation, and the body”.
The awareness that we associate with feeling likens it to a performance
and when they are performed in that manner, become a marker of our

4 Emphasis in the original.

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Het zijn wafels, maar die kunnen jullie niet zien omdat ze onderin
zitten, en een leege wijnflesch, maar we doen net of die vol is." Even
keek Bep met een heel ernstig gezicht naar de lachende
toeschouwers, toen ver-[a196] volgde ze: "Ik ben ook heelemaal niet
bang voor de wolf, want die is er niet, en o ja, deze bloemen zijn
eigenlijk ook voor Grootmoeder, maar die wou ik nu maar aan
Maatje geven!" En toen holde ze naar haar Moeder toe en klom op
haar schoot.

"Dat 's ook wat!" zei Hugo, die dit niets geen gepast slot vond,
maar de andere kinderen klapten zoo hard dat er verder geen woord
tusschen te krijgen was.

Tante Lina vond dit slot mooier dan ze het hadden kunnen
bedenken.

"En gaan jullie nu mee naar beneden om een glaasje limonade te

drinken?" vroeg ze, Bep op den grond zettend.

In vliegende haast werden de mooie pakjes uitgeschopt, want ze

verlangden nu opeens allemaal weg te komen van de rommelige
zolder, waar een benauwde lucht van afgebrande Bengaalsche
lucifers hing. —

"Vond u 't mooi?" vroeg Eduard, toen ze de trap afgingen.

"Zeker," zei Tante Lina, "wat ik gezien heb vond ik heel aardig!"

En de Kapitein verklaarde dat hij zich bepaald dol geamuseerd

had.
 [a197]

XI.
"Heb je nu eigenlijk gestudeerd of niet?" vroeg Mijnheer Hofman
ontevreden, want Eduard stond op een geweldige manier te knoeien
en hakkelde nu al voor de derde maal in een etude die hij de vorige
week al had moeten kennen.

Eduard keek van Mijnheer Hofman naar Theo, en van Theo naar
zijn viool.

"Jawel meneer!" zei hij toen.

"Hoeveel keer?"

Eduard zweeg.

"Nu, hoeveel keer heb je gestudeerd?"

"Drie keer!" klonk het zachtjes.

"Zoo, en dat vond je zeker voldoende, he? Verbeeldde je je nu

heusch dat je die etude kende? Ik wil je dan wel vertellen dat 't naar
niets lijkt! Vroeger kon ik tenminste merken dat je behoorlijk
gestudeerd hadt, maar 't is de laatste keeren al heel treurig! Je staat
te knoeien of je nog nooit een viool in je handen hebt gehad, en dat
is nu een jongen die bijna drie jaar les heeft!"

[a200] "Er was zoo weinig tijd!"

 "Ja natuurlijk, dat kennen we! Zwijg nu alsjeblieft maar en speel de
sonatine!"

De jongens verwisselden de muziek en Eduard begon te spelen.

Vanmorgen voor hij naar school ging had hij de sonatine nog gauw
even een paar keer geprobeerd, maar hij wist heel goed dat hij er
niet veel van kende.

De eerste regels vielen hem mee, 't ging vrij goed, maar verderop
waren een paar moeilijke loopjes, en daarna raakte hij zoo in de war,
dat Mijnheer Hofman het al gauw mooi genoeg vond en hem
vertelde dat hij wel kon ophouden. "Berg je viool nu maar weg," zei
hij boos, "en dan zullen we zien of je er de volgende week meer van
kent. — Theo, wil jij de sonatine spelen alsjeblieft?"

Theo bracht het er nogal goed af, maar Eduard wilde er niet naar
luisteren. Vervelend gezanik ook, om hem zijn viool te laten
wegbergen; Theo maakte ook wel fouten; je moest het ook altijd
even prachtig kennen, en hij kon 't toch niet helpen dat Hofman
vandaag uit zijn humeur was. — Zoo vreeselijk slecht was 't niet
eens gegaan, maar omdat hij nu had verteld dat hij maar driemaal
gestudeerd had moest Hofman ook op alles vitten. Maar als die
malle vent soms dacht dat 't hem schelen kon, had hij het toch glad
mis!

En Eduard probeerde zoo onverschillig mogelijk te kijken en

staarde strak naar buiten, steeds met zijn knokkels op de vioolkist
tikkend, totdat Theo [a201] eindelijk klaar was met spelen en
Mijnheer Hofman opgaf wat ze voor de volgende week te doen
hadden. Toen konden ze hun jassen aantrekken en naar school
gaan.
 "Flauwe aardigheid," was 't eerste wat Eduard mopperde, nadat de
voordeur achter ze dichtgevallen was.

"Wat flauwe aardigheid?" vroeg Theo.

"Nou, van Hofman natuurlijk!"

 Theo keek Eduard eens even schuins aan en be-[a204] gon te
lachen. "Nou, je kende er dan toch ook eigenlijk wel een bar schijntje
van, als ik 't zeggen mag!" beweerde hij.

"Zeker mag je 't zeggen!" zei Eduard kwaad, "als jij Hofman
geweest was had je me zeker dadelijk naar huis gestuurd!"

"Wees nou niet zoo, flauw!"

"Flauw? 'k Ben niet flauw, jij bent flauw!"

"Nou ja, maar heel veel gestudeerd had je toch ook niet!"

"Dat zei 'k immers al!"

"Jawel. — Maar 't was toch zeker geen drie keer?"

"Waarom niet?"

"Zoo maar. Je zei 't net of je dacht: drie keer vind ik wel zoowat het
minste dat ik zeggen kan!"

Eduard zweeg even. "Maandag heb ik een kwartiertje gestudeerd,"

zei hij toen, "en Woensdag had ik juist mijn viool gekregen en toen
was er net iets anders, 'k weet niet meer wat, nou, en vanmorgen
voor 'k naar school ging heb ik de sonatine nog eens gespeeld."

Theo antwoordde niet.

"Jij moest maar eens bij een Oom en Tante en zes nichtjes en
neefjes logeeren, dan zou je eens zien hoe hard je werken kon!"
vervolgde Eduard, verwoed tegen een steentje schoppend, en Theo
aanziende: "Zeg nou eens, wat zou jij tegen Hofman gezegd
hebben?"

"Dat weet ik niet," zei Theo, nadat hij even ge-[a206] floten had, "ik
zou 't misschien ook wel gezegd hebben, hoor!"

"Vind je 't erg gemeen?"

 "Gemeen? Och ja, natuurlijk is 't gemeen, maar dat bedenk je
meestal pas achteraf."

"Ja, dat is lam genoeg!" Eduard zuchtte. "'t Is net of 't me nu niets
meer zou kunnen schelen om te zeggen dat ik maar ééns
gestudeerd had. Hij was toch al woedend, en een beetje meer of
minder is dan toch zoo erg niet!"

"Als je nu maar maakt dat je 't de volgende week kent," besloot

Theo. "Wanneer 't sonatineboek uit is krijg ik als 'k twaalf word een
fiets, heeft Pa beloofd!"

"Krijg je ook een fiets? Wat moppig!" riep Eduard, want door dit
nieuwtje was hij opeens de narigheid van de vioolles vergeten. "Wat
zullen we dan van de zomer leuk samen kunnen rijden, zeg!"

"Nou, fijn!" vond Theo, "een Fongers, leuk he?"

"Ja, mijne is een Humber, hij staat nog thuis, maar zoo gauw als
het mooi weer wordt mag ik hem gaan halen!"

En ze hadden 't nog druk over de fietsen toen ze eindelijk de

school inliepen en Theo met een "Nou dag!" naar zijn eigen klas
ging.

Fransche themaschriften terug! Eduard schoof in zijn bank en sloeg

't schrift open. Met schrik keek hij naar de elf fouten en naar het
"slecht, overmaken", dat in groote blauwe letters onder aan de
[a207] bladzijde stond. Afschuwelijke thema ook! 't Was een echte
ongeluksdag vandaag, eerst die ellendige vioolles, en nu dit weer!

En ongeduldig stopte hij 't schrift in zijn lessenaar toen om twee uur
de bel luidde.

"Ziezoo, dat hebben we alweer gehad!" en Tante Lina leunde

achterover in haar stoel. 't Was een roezemoezig half uurtje geweest
na 't eten, maar zooeven waren de twee jongsten door de juffrouw
mee naar boven genomen, en een oogenblikje genoot Tante van de
rust, nu de twee schel en helder boven alles uit klinkende
kinderstemmetjes niet meer gehoord werden.

Broertje had voor 't eerst ook mee mogen spelen vanavond, en met
gesloten oogen dacht Tante Lina nog even aan het opgewonden
gezichtje en de drukke bewegingen van 't kleine ventje. Maar toen
viel haar iets in, en glimlachend keek ze Oom Tom aan en zei: "Die
jongste zoon van jou zal anders een beste worden!"

"Hoezoo?" vroeg de Kapitein, die 't zich in een groote leuningstoel

gemakkelijk gemaakt had, en juist een sigaar aanstak.

"Wel, vanmiddag nam ik hem mee uit, 't was mooi weer, en voor we
naar huis gingen liep ik nog even 't plantsoen door. Opeens zag ik
Kolonel Durand naar mij toekomen; hij maakte een praatje en begon
[a208] toen notitie te nemen van Broer, die hem met zijn groote
blauwe oogen strak stond aan te staren. 'Hoe heet je wel, vent?'
vroeg hij, en Broer verklaarde heel ernstig dat hij Willem Cornelis
Verhey heette, maar verder verkoos hij heelemaal geen antwoord
meer te geven, en toen Kolonel Durand eindelijk wegging en vroeg
of hij een hand kreeg hield Broer stijf zijn handen op zijn rug en zei
niets anders dan 'Ik doet het niet!'"

De Kapitein lachte. "Dan legde je met dat jongemensch meer eer

in!" merkte hij op, naar Piet wijzend, en Tante Lina vertelde nog aan
Eduard en Lineke hoe Piet als jongetje van een jaar of vier met alle
officieren beste maatjes was, en als ze hem vroegen wat hij worden
moest, altijd antwoordde "Generaal!" "Och, 't was zoo'n lieve jongen,
he?" besloot ze, op één na haar oudsten zoon op den schouder
kloppend.

"Je zou 't nu niet meer van hem gelooven!" zei de Kapitein
droogjes, en Lineke zong zachtjes:
"Zeg eens, ken je onze Piet?
Och, da 's jammer, ken je 'm niet,
Och, hij was zoo'n lieve jo...."
 Een harde klap op haar wang van Tommy deed haar plotseling
ophouden, en half verbaasd, half verschrikt vloog Lineke van haar
stoel, om de beleediging met de rente terug te betalen. Maar haar
Moeder hield haar tegen, en de Kapitein vroeg streng: "Tommy,
waarom sla je Lineke?"

Tommy gaf geen antwoord, en schopte met zijn [a209] laars tegen
de tafelpoot, maar toen zijn Vader opstond en naar hem toe kwam,
schoof hij haastig naar den anderen kant van de kamer.

"Tommy, kom onmiddellijk hier!"

Maar Tommy, die zich, zoolang hij buiten 't bereik van den Kapitein
was, nog veilig voelde, zei met een ondeugend gezicht: "Ik doet het
niet!"

"Doe je het niet?"

"Nee!"

Zonder verder nog iets te zeggen ging de Kapitein op hem af; nog
eenige oogenblikken deed Tommy vergeefsche moeite om te
ontkomen, toen voelde hij zich stevig bij den kraag gepakt. "Waarom
heb je Lineke geslagen?"

"Omdat ze zoo gemeen deed!" riep Tommy half huilend.

"Gemeen?" vroeg zijn Vader, zich even bedenkend wat Lineke

gedaan had, dat de boosheid van haar broertje zoo had opgewekt:
"Wat deed ze dan?"

"Ze zong over Piet!"

"Was dat alles? Maak je daar nu zoo'n scène om? Begreep je nu

niet eens dat dat gekheid was?"

Tommy zweeg.
 "Zeg nu maar dadelijk tegen je zusje: 'Het spijt me dat ik je
geslagen heb,' en laat het dan uit zijn alsjeblieft."

Maar Tommy verroerde zich niet en herhaalde alleen zijn

ondeugend: "Ik doet het niet!"

Tante Lina wenkte Oom Tom, den kleinen jongen [a210] verder aan
zijn lot over te laten, en stuurde de andere kinderen de kamer uit.
"Neem de kaarten maar mee en ga in de leerkamer een spelletje
doen!"

Langzaam verdween het drietal, om even later in de leerkamer te

gaan "banken", tot groot ongenoegen van Hugo, die zat te werken,
en met 't gezelschap dat hij kreeg alles behalve ingenomen was;
zuchtend besloot hij, dan maar liever mee te doen; de fiches werden
verdeeld, en Eduard, die de bank hield, schoof ze ieder een kaart
toe, met een luid "opzetten!"

"'k Ga nog lang niet naar bed!" verklaarde Lineke met een kleur van
plezier, toen haar bakje met fiches steeds voller werd.

Aan Tommy dachten ze niet meer, totdat ze hem om kwart voor

acht weer in de gang hoorden, hard gillend, en steeds herhalend: "Ik
doet het niet!"

"Ma zal wel spijt hebben dat ze dat verhaal over Broertje verteld
heeft!" merkte Piet lachend op.

Een kwartier daarna kwam Tante Lina de leerkamer binnen om

Eduard en Lineke naar bed te sturen. 't Was Linekes tijd, en Eduard
moest ook maar eens vroeg gaan slapen, 't was al een paar
avonden achter elkaar erg laat geworden, en hij was vanmiddag aan
tafel zoo stil geweest, zeker een beetje moe.

"He Ma, nog even! 'k Heb nu juist zoo'n mooie kaart!" zeurde
Lineke, en Eduard zei dat hij juist heelemaal niet moe was; maar
Tante Lina's geduld was door 't gezanik met Tommy vrijwel uitgeput,
en met een "'t Is nu mooi geweest!" konden ze [a211] gaan
opruimen. Langzaam werden de fiches weer in de doosjes gestopt,
en na nog wat lachen en onzin praten gingen ze eindelijk naar
boven.

't Licht brandde nog in de kamer van de kleine jongens, Tommy

scheen nog steeds niet in bed te zijn, en duidelijk hoorde Eduard
nog zijn boos: "ik doet 't niet." En toen hij zelf al uitgekleed was
hoorde hij de juffrouw pas naar beneden gaan. Even keek hij om de
deur; alles was nu donker, ook in de meisjeskamer. Maar stil was 't
nog niet geworden, en Eduard lag er in bed naar te luisteren hoe
Tommy nog maar steeds bleef doorschreeuwen en eindelijk zelfs 't
portaal opkwam om over de trapleuning hangend nog eens hard
naar beneden te roepen dat hij 't niet deed.

Wat zou hij nu toch eigenlijk niet willen doen? Hield die vervelende
jongen zijn mond nu toch maar! Net of je zoo kon slapen!

Daar ging opeens beneden haastig de deur open en dicht, en een

driftige stap kwam naar boven; Eduard hoorde duidelijk dat het Oom
Tom was —wat zou er nu gebeuren? Een zacht geritsel op 't portaal
— Tommy was zoodra hij zijn Vader hoorde aankomen naar zijn bed
gevlucht.

Eduard voelde zijn hart kloppen en met wijd open oogen bleef hij
liggen luisteren. Oom Tom liep langs zijn deur naar de kamer van de
kleine jongens, en begon daar heel kwaad tegen Tommy te praten —
Eduard verstond het niet, maar wel kon hij duidelijk [a212] de
klappen hooren, die toen volgden, en Tommy's huilend geroep: "Ik
zal wel gaan slapen!"

Arme Tommy! Hij was wel vreeselijk ondeugend en vervelend

geweest, maar hij riep nu toch al dat hij zou gaan slapen en 't duurde
zoo lang! Oom Tom was toch ook wel vreeselijk streng; Vader was
ook wel streng, maar héél anders, en zóó zou Vader nooit gedaan
hebben! Tenminste .... ja, toen! 't Was nu al meer dan een jaar
geleden, ze waren samen aan 't koffiedrinken en weer hoorde hij
Vaders stem vragen: "Wel, hoe was 't vanmorgen? Ging 't uit 't hoofd
rekenen goed? Hoeveel sommen had je?" En weer hoorde hij
zichzelf haastig antwoorden: "vijf Vader." — Dadelijk kreeg hij spijt
toen hij 't gezegd had: 't waren er maar vier geweest, maar hij had
de laatste keeren al altijd moeten vertellen dat 't onvoldoende was,
en dan had Vader altijd zoo teleurgesteld gekeken, want ja, 't was
dikwijls zijn eigen schuld als hij een som fout had, als hij middenin
vergat verder te rekenen of zoo — maar vier of vijf maakte toch niet
zoo'n groot verschil — hij had 't eerst nog willen vertellen voor hij
naar school ging, maar Vader had verder aldoor over andere dingen
gepraat en was toen al heel gauw naar de fabriek gegaan .... Dien
middag was Vader hem 's middags van school komen halen, zooals
hij wel meer deed, en Vader had met Mijnheer Snijders staan praten
— en duidelijk herinnerde Eduard zich hoe Vader toen naar hem
gekeken [a213] had, hoe Vader toen met hem naar huis gegaan
was, hard loopend en steeds zwijgend, hoe hij zelf Vader telkens
even schuins aangezien had, zonder iets te durven zeggen ....

En ook wist hij nog heel goed wat er gebeurd was toen ze eindelijk
thuiskwamen; hoe Vader hem heel kortaf vertelde dat hij mee moest
gaan, naar Vaders eigen kamer, en wat Vader hem daar vroeg: of hij
dan heelemaal vergeten was hoe vreeselijk boos Vader werd als
hem iets verteld werd dat niet waar was; of hij er dan heelemaal niet
aan gedacht had hoe naar Vader het zou vinden, om te merken dat
zijn eigen jongen hem voorgelogen had, en of hij wel wist wat hij nu
verdiende?

Dát was de eenige keer geweest.

En nu? Wat had hij vanmiddag gedaan? Wat had hij tegen Mijnheer
Hofman gezegd? Hoeveel keer had hij er wel bij gelogen dat hij
gestudeerd had? Dit was véél erger dan die ééne som! Wat zou
Vader wel zeggen als hij dát wist! Als Vader hem gehoord had
vanmiddag, hoe zou hij Vader tegengevallen zijn! Een gemeene
jongen was hij, en veel meer dan Tommy had hij verdiend wat zijn
kleine neefje zooeven gekregen had —

Maar niet van Oom Tom — dat mocht alleen Vader zelf doen!
 En Eduard draaide zich om en drukte zijn gezicht zoo stijf in 't
kussen dat hij bijna geen adem kon halen — och, kwam Vader maar!

[a214]

XII.
"Zeg Kerner!" klonk het zachtjes.

"Nou?"

"Wacht even, hij kijkt!"

Mijnheer Snijders zag zoekend de klas rond. "Van Hamel, wil jij de
gebergten Van Zwitserland eens komen aanwijzen?" En Van Hamel
schoof zijn bank uit om langzaam naar voren te komen.

"Zeg Kerner!" herhaalde dezelfde fluisterende stem. Eduard leunde

zoo ver als hij durfde achterover en draaide zijn hoofd half opzij, om
geen woord te verliezen van wat zijn achterbuurman te zeggen had.

"Wil je een stukje drop hebben?"

 "Jawel."

"Nou, steek je hand dan uit. — Voorzichtig, doe nou niet zoo sloom,
straks ziet hij het!"

Een kleverig stukje drop werd tusschen Eduards vingers geduwd.

"Ik heb niks geen zin om op te letten!" ging de stem achter hem
voort.

Eduard maakte van een oogenblik dat Mijnheer [a217] Snijders

naar 't bord keek gebruik om 't stukje drop in zijn mond te stoppen.

"Ik ook niet; 'k verveel me dood."

"Dat taaie Zwitserland ook."

"Net zoo taai als die drop van jou."

"Wat?"

"Ik zeg dat 't net zoo taai is als die drop van jou, je tanden blijven er
in kleven!"

"Kerner, je zit aldoor te praten, je hebt een aanteekening! Wilkens,

kom jij de rivieren aanwijzen!"

"Natuurlijk doe ik 't weer," mopperde Eduard. "Net of je in je eentje

kan praten!" en Meertens fluisterde hem in dat dat zijn straf was,
omdat hij zijn drop voor taai had uitgescholden. "Wil je soms nog
een stukje?"

"Nee, dank je feestelijk!"

"Nou, niet of graag!"

"Meertens, houd nu onmiddellijk op met dat gepraat!" viel Mijnheer

Snijders uit, die aldoor in dezelfden hoek hoorde fluisteren; "Kerner,
kom jij voor de kaart en wijs de rivieren nog eens aan!"
 Eduard stond op, zijn handen in zijn zakken, liep tusschen de
banken door, en begon voor de klas de verschillende rivieren op te
noemen, telkens even wachtend om 't lastige stukje drop achter zijn
kiezen te duwen.

"Wat eet je toch eigenlijk?"

Eduard keek verschrikt op. "Een stukje drop," zei hij toen.

"Waarom? Ben je verkouden?" en toen Eduard [a218] geen

antwoord gaf, nog eens, ongeduldig: "Geef me antwoord, ben je
verkouden?"

"Nee meneer."

"Heb je drop meegebracht?"

"Nee meneer."

"Heb je het gekregen?"

't Was doodstil in de klas.

"Heb je het gekregen?"

Alle jongens keken en luisterden, maar Eduard bleef zwijgen.

"Heel goed," besloot Mijnheer Snijders, "je verkiest dus geen

antwoord te geven. Ga nu maar naar je plaats, om twaalf uur kun je
schoolblijven."

"Daar bof je bij!" fluisterde Meertens, toen Eduard weer in de bank

schoof, "'n taaie boel, he?"

Maar Eduard was niet meer in de stemming om door te praten, en

schoof met een kwaad gezicht zijn elleboog op de bank.

"Wil je soms een turf hebben?" vervolgde Meertens, en hoe boos

Eduard ook wilde kijken, toch kon hij niet laten even te lachen.
 "Kerner, doe die elleboog weg!"

"Ook al goed!" mompelde Eduard, en onverschillig langzaam trok

hij zijn arm weg en bleef schuin in de bank hangen.

Mijnheer Snijders keek nog even naar hem, maar liet hem verder
stil zitten.

"We zullen voortgaan met de les; Van Effen, het is jouw beurt!"
[a221] Toen om twaalf uur de bel gegaan was en de andere jongens
weg waren liet Mijnheer Snijders Eduard bij zich voor de klas komen.

"Kerner, wilde je deze zomer nog toelatingsexamen voor het

gymnasium doen?"

Eduard knikte van ja.

"Zoo, nu, dan wilde ik je eens even het volgende zeggen: ik heb
van de week de rapporten opgemaakt, die jullie vóór de
Paaschvacantie zult krijgen, en ik heb je voor Fransche taal een 4 en
voor rekenen een 3 gegeven. Het werk dat je tegenwoordig inlevert
is bepaald slecht, en je huiswerk is eigenlijk gezegd beneden alle
critiek; en het ergste is, dat het niets dan luiheid van je is; als je je
werkelijk inspant kun je heel goed werken, maar van de fouten die je
maakt is het grootste gedeelte slordigheid en onattentie, en ik heb je
voor vlijt dan ook niet meer dan een 4 kunnen geven."

Eduard luisterde met zijn handen op zijn rug, en aldoor keek hij
naar den grond.

"Je vader zal het zeker wel heel plezierig vinden als je hem dat
schrijft!"

Stijf kneep Eduard zijn vingers tegen elkaar.

"Ik waarschuw je nu nog eens voor de laatste keer, 't is vandaag 3

April, je hebt nog ruim drie maanden tijd, maak dat alles zoo gauw
mogelijk beter wordt en probeer in de Paaschvacantie de tijd die je
verknoeid hebt in te halen. Je begrijpt wel, dat er, als het laatste
rapport zoo is als dit, van examen doen niets [a222] komt! Ziezoo,
denk daar nu maar eens goed over, en nu kun je naar je plaats gaan
en voor je gepraat en je koppigheid vanmorgen de aardrijkskundeles
nog eens uitschrijven."

Haastig begon Eduard, met een krassende griffel; een 4 voor

Fransch en een 4 voor vlijt en een 3 voor rekenen! 't Was ook
allemaal zoo ellendig lastig en vervelend! En dan dat
toelatingsexamen nog! Vader rekende er vast op dat hij er door zou
komen! De Rijn, de Rhône, de Aar, de Reuss, de Limath .... En nu
kwam hij natuurlijk weer veel te laat voor de koffie ook! De Sint
Gothard, de Simplon .... had hem tenminste best een 4 voor rekenen
kunnen geven, 't was op 't vorige rapport ook een 4 geweest! De
Jungfrau .... Vooruit, klaar, streep er onder! —

"Zie je wel dat je 't wel weet?" vroeg Mijnheer Snijders, toen hij 't
nagekeken had.

"Nou ja, aardrijkskunde!" Eduard haalde zijn schouders op.

"Ja, maar 't andere kun je ook wel! Heusch, span je nu eens in!
Begin nu eens met te maken dat er geen enkele fout in de Fransche
thema voor morgen zit! En ga nu maar gauw weg, dag Kerner!"

Eduard haastte zich niet om thuis te komen. Even holde hij tot hij
de straat uit was, toen bleef hij met aandacht bij den singel staan
kijken; een troepje jongens was er aan 't spelen op een vlot, dat met
een stevig touw aan den kant vastlag. Telkens klonk een luid gejuich
als een van de jongens met een [a223] flinke sprong op 't vlot terecht
kwam, en geen van 't troepje scheen zich er aan te storen dat bij 't
daarop volgende geschommel de klompen vol water liepen. Wat zou
't ze ook kunnen schelen! Zij hoefden geen akelige Fransche
thema's te maken, en toelatingsexamen voor 't gymnasium hoefden
ze ook niet te doen!

Met een harden schop tegen een kiezelsteentje liep Eduard verder.
 Een 4 voor vlijt! Verbeeld je! En een 3 voor rekenen! Nou ja,
rekenen kon hij nou ook eenmaal niet, en dat zou hij wel nooit leeren
ook! Maar die 4 voor vlijt was onzin! Dat was zeker om vanmorgen;
net of je altijd maar hetzelfde uitgestreken gezicht kon zetten! En
natuurlijk had hij moeten schoolblijven, en Meertens, die begonnen
was, kon stilletjes naar huis gaan. Die kwam er altijd goed af, en hij
kreeg er de standjes voor! En die cijfers moest hij nu aan Vader
schrijven! Wat zou Vader 't ook lam vinden! Misschien kwam 't
rapport ook wel te laat om 't nog te schrijven, Oom Tom had gezegd
dat wanneer hij na de volgende week nog schreef Vader de brief
toch niet meer zou krijgen. Dan moest hij 't vertellen als Vader terug
was!

Eduard liep de stoep op en trok hard aan de schel.

Vervelende boel hier ook al! Was hij maar weer goed en wel thuis!

Trijntje deed de deur open, brommend over 't malle gebel, maar
Eduard liep haar zonder iets te [a224] zeggen voorbij en hing zijn pet
aan de kapstok.

"Edu!" en Lineke kwam de huiskamer uithollen.

"Wat is er?" vroeg Eduard op alles behalve beminnelijke toon.

Lineke bleef voor hem staan. "Wat heb je?" vroeg ze.

"Ik? Ik heb niks!" 't Klonk dreigend. "Wat heb jij?"

 "Ik wou je alleen maar vragen of je mij wilde [a227] leeren fietsen!"
zei Lineke verontschuldigend, "maar je zult het zeker ook wel niet
doen!"

"Waarom niet?"

"Nou, je kijkt zoo kwaad!"

Eduard draaide zich om en hing zijn jas op. "Vraag 't maar aan
Hugo of Piet, hoor!" antwoordde hij, toen Lineke bleef staan
wachten.

"Dat heb ik al gedaan, maar die willen juist niet!" klonk het treurig,
"en 'k zou het toch zoo vreeselijk graag leeren!"

Eduard keek zijn nichtje even aan, maar hij zei niets.

"Heb je school moeten blijven, Ee?" vroeg Lineke opeens; "waarom

kijk je zoo boos? Heb je gehuild?"

Hij had niet gehuild, heelemaal niet, verbeeld je dat hij zou huilen
om dat malle schoolblijven! En hij keek Lineke aan en probeerde te
lachen. "Welnee!" antwoordde hij luchtig, "hoe kom je er bij?" en
haastig over het fietsen doorpratend: "In de Paaschvacantie zal ik
mijn fiets gaan halen en dan zal ik het je wel leeren hoor!"

De uitdrukking van Linekes gezichtje veranderde onmiddellijk.

"Zalig dol-leuk!" riep ze, en toen sloeg ze in haar verrukking opeens
een arm om Eduards hals en gaf hem een zoen. "Je bent een
snoes!" verklaarde ze.

Eduard duwde haar lachend op zij.

"Toe, schei uit!" zei hij, "gaan we nog niet koffiedrinken?"

[a228] "Ze zijn al lang bezig!"

Eduard wilde naar binnen gaan, maar Lineke hield hem bij zijn
mouw vast. "Wacht nog even," riep ze, "ik weet nog wat!"
 "'t Zal wat zijn!"

"Nee, heusch!"

"Nou, wat dan?"

"Er is een brief!"

"Een brief? Wat voor brief?"

"Nou, voor jou, van Oom Eduard, en ...." Maar Eduard had zich al
losgetrokken en liep de huiskamer in.

"Edu zal 't me leeren!" vertelde Lineke aan de anderen, toen ze

weer op haar stoel schoof, en ze keek met voldoening rond.

"Daar ben je vet mee!" zei Hugo, en Piet reciteerde half hard:
"Ik heb een aardig neefje
Dat op zijn fiets óók rent!
En als je vraagt 'hoe rijd je toch?'
Dan zegt hij 'Wel, patent!'"

Dit vers was een blijvende aardigheid geworden en werd bij alle
mogelijke en onmogelijke gelegenheden en met alle denkbare
variaties te pas gebracht. Maar de geestigheid ging voor Eduard
deze keer verloren; haastig had hij het couvert met de Indische
postzegel opengescheurd, en met alle aandacht was hij verdiept in
wat Vader schreef:

[a230]

"Mijn beste jongen!

Daar zit ik nu in de leeskamer van de groote mailboot

te schrijven; we zijn nu al een heel eind; overmorgen
zullen we waarschijnlijk in Batavia aankomen, en ik
kan je vertellen dat ik er al naar verlang om mijn
voeten weer op vasten grond te zetten! We hebben