At age three, I was a much pampered and spoilt little creature. Owing mainly to the fact that both my parents were abroad at the time, I was brought up by my maternal grandparents who quite naturally doted on their (then) only grandchild. My whole world was centred around them, my parents letters and Joyce Goonesekera’s Montessori, known fondly by all who passed through its gates, as "Auntie Joyce’s".

I was woken up every weekday morning at 6 am. My grandfather would wash me, dress me and comb my hair while my grandmother hovered around with a plate of rice, feeding me my breakfast. I hardly ever stopped talking even at that age. Thus feeding me was never a problem since my mouth was perpetually open. Putting on my socks and shoes was the favourite part of my dressing regime. In the process of getting my socks on, my grandfather would pull each one of my toes and relate the adventures of Big Toe and Little Toe while I screeched in delight. My favourite socks were the "Cherry Socks" as I called them. They were a pair of knee length stockings that had a big cherry embroidered on them near the shin. It was my rule that the cherries always had to be on the outside of the leg, never on the inside - So there was always a right sock and a left sock. Grandpa always got the two mixed up and we had had to go through the saga of the toe family all over again. I of course never complained. Every story was different from the other and I enjoyed them immensely. Since this happened every time I wore my Cherry Socks, I used to think my grandfather utterly forgetful and clumsy. I realise now that he mixed up the stockings on purpose for both our amusements. It was after all our daily ritual.

Thus, attired I would head off to Auntie Joyce’s Montessori. The architecture of the building evades me. All I remember are the huge classrooms, and the back veranda where we children used to play ‘BUS’. There as also a huge garden behind the building that to my three-year-old mind seemed to stretch on to infinity. This "jungle" was out of bounds for the children. Yet since I was always the first to arrive at the Montessori, even before the teachers, I would set out on long expeditions into the "jungle"on my own. I even picked up ripe passion fruits that had fallen and smuggled them home in my bag. This continued until the gardener caught me one day. He seemed much amused to find me, with my stockings bulging with stolen fruit (they were too sticky to carry by hand). He picked a fruit off the tree, held it out to me, and told me that if I ever came to the garden again, Auntie Joyce would be very angry. Of all the teachers in the Montessori, the principle was the only one who could evoke terror in me. Grandpa had told me that she knew Amma and I just knew, she would write and tell her that I was stealing passion fruit. I pulled out the fruits that were in my stockings, flung them on the ground and fled. There ended my wanderings in the jungle.

Expect for the fact that I liked singing, ballet and the reading d at Auntie Joyce’s, the other reason for my exceptional attendance was Mojave. I do not know exactly when or how we began talking but for most of my first year, he was my best friend. He was different from the rest of the boys in Montessori. He was quiet, serious and spoke mostly in English. His Sinhala was not very good and I, able to chatter nineteen to a dozen in both languages helped him when he could not understand our other classmates. Saying I had a crush on this boy would be putting it mildly, as my uncle would testify it was "Mojave said this" and "Mojave did that." from the time I came home until I went to bed. I suppose that even at the tender age of four or thereabouts Mr. Mojave was somewhat of a heartthrob, with his longish black hair, light brown skin and big eyes. Even the teachers fussed incessantly over him.

I was over the moon when I was invited to his Birthday. I prepared for it days ahead and kept asking grandma to by him a "beautiful, spensive present". My uncle drove me to the house and I started jumping in the car seat when I saw my friends playing in the garden. The house was packed with children and I remember umpiring a wrestling match, which took place on the hall carpet, and tearing someone’s dress while playing blind-man’s-buff. My most vivid memory of the party however, was when Mojave’s mother came in and called him to take his medicine.

"Do you have a cold?" I asked him

He shook his head. "No I’ve to take this every day".

A few kids and I followed him into the room. I was shocked by what I saw. Mojave was wearing a mask - like the ones, I had seen people wear in hospital. He was breathing through it and the room smelled faintly of medicine. His mother explained to us that Mojave had a sickness that sounded to me like "astra". This confused me since I knew that was the name of a margarine had no particular liking for. I thus, with typical three-year-old logic concluded that "astra" was a deadly sickness that was caused by eating margarine.

By now Mojave had gained martyr status in my eyes. I recall telling my grandmother the "horrific" details of his medication and how "poor" Mojave had looked very brave. That night before I went to sleep I prayed with all my might that Jesus would make my friend better so that he would never have to wear that ugly mask again.

Like most children of that age, I had many trinkets that I had accumulated through various means. A broken piece of "crystal" from a chandelier, a pressed bo leaf, old coins and moth-eaten lace sari slips were a few of the treasures that I hoarded in my safest hiding place - under the bed. At one time, I was crazy over a glow-in-the-dark Rosary that grandpa had given me. I slept with it under my pillow. Almost every night I would, take it out and count the glowing beads, until I fell asleep. I was strictly forbidden to take anything in the house to Auntie Joyce’s, glow-in-the-dark rosaries included. Nevertheless, I wanted to show my treasure to my friends especially Mojave. So one day I smuggled the rosary into school, in the usual fashion - via stockings.

I took the rosary out during the interval and showed it to him, describing its wonders. He frowned and shook his head, refusing to believe me. I told him all he had to do was to stand in the dark between the open door and the wall to see the glowing beads. He still looked sceptical. I was devastated. I took one of my classmates as witness and went behind the door. She, much awed told Mojave it was true. I sat down in front of him and making a supreme effort and sacrifice said, " Here you can take it, it’s a present". He looked at me, threw back his head and laughed. "You girls are so silly," he said "with your beads and cherry socks". I was crushed. To have my gift thrown at my face and my socks insulted - by Mojave! That was just unbearable. I wanted to hit him.but being the non-violent child that I was, I settled for the only other resort: I put my head on my desk and sobbed my heart out. Peeping through my tear-wet fingers, I saw a stricken face in front of me. For I think the first time in his life, Mojave had to deal with a weeping female and like all men; he did not handle it too well. I turned a deaf ear to all his "sorry’s" and his "you are not silly.it’s just the other girls". My sobs drew the attention of the teacher, who grew worried as I rarely cried or took ill in class. When asked what was wrong I said what I had heard my mother say on numerous occasions when she looked upset, "I have a headache". I was sent home.

The next day saw me determined never to speak or look at Mojave again. I sat in my usual place and was about to take out my counting frame when I saw a bunch of red "shoe-flowers" on my table. I was puzzled and looked to see if the rest of the class had flowers on their desk as well. No, their desks were empty. Then I saw Mojave standing near the doorway giving me an uncertain smile. I stared at him, stuck my tongue out and looked away. That was the end of our friendship. Henceforth he and I became bitter enemies

Eventually a few girls ganged up against the boys and regular displays of tongue sticking, face pulling and name-calling ensued during the interval. We fought for everything. It was Women’s Lib. all the way through. Once we picked a fight because we wanted to become the bus conductor and the driver during our usual BUS game. The boys yelled that there were no "girl" bus conductors or drivers and we screamed and said that we would tell Auntie what was happening. I called Mojave a ketha kolla (ugly boy) and many others took up the chant. Finally, he and his gang stepped down from the veranda in pure disgust. We had won! But the victory was a shallow one, as all the passengers got off the "bus" saying they didn’t want to ride in a bus that was driven by girls. Talk about chauvinism!

I think Mojave was a year elder to me because I do not remember him being in class the next year. There were many new students and I grew totally absorbed with my other playmates. What amuses me now is that Mojave is the only friend I can remember out of all the kids in my class. I do not recall any other names except for the twins Denver and Deno (?), who loved pulling my hair.

I do however have snatches of memories that have no chronological order. Like, dressing up for the Avurudhu Kumari competition, making kom pittu in the garden and being severely scolded by a teacher; and running out of class on the sly to see my father who would be sitting outside with a chocolate in his pocket for me. I continued to do this even after my parents had left the country, hoping that "by magic" Thatha would be there.

I went abroad to live with my parents after my Montessori Education and any chance of meeting Mojave or any of my other friends was lost.

He, like the rest of my childhood became just a fond memory. It was many years later when I had come back to Sri Lanka and was in boarding school in Kandy that I heard of Mojave again. My friend Meri and I were talking about our past schools when I mentioned the name of my first "boyfriend" to her. She laughed and said one of her cousin’s (or friend’s I cannot recall which) name was also Mojave. It could not be, I thought to myself, but Mojave certainly was not a common name for it to be coincidence. It was when she mentioned the fact that the person she knew suffered from asthma that I realised it had to be the same Mojave. (By then, I knew the difference between the margarine and the respiratory condition) It was also then that I came to know that his name was spelt with a J in the middle and not an H as I had thought. Meri also told me that the he now wore glasses and that he was a "pretty brainy guy". She even gave me his telephone number. I never called.

For me calling would have spoilt everything. I wanted Mojave remain as he was in my memory - a cute little boy with soulful eyes. Bespectacled and "brainy" sounded formidable and well. not Mojavish! I feared even more that he would not remember me, and that I would end up embarrassed. Any way what was I to say? "Hey, remember me . I was with you in Montessori erm. I know Meritza.?" The whole idea sounded utterly stupid and humiliating, although Meri told me repeatedly that he would have loved to hear from me. I made out I was not interested and after sometime even Meri forgot about it.

A few months ago, my friend Manisha and I were trying to decide on a gift for a friend on Campus. We decided on flowers. Our friend loved them and later as we sat around discussing birthdays and gifts in general, she asked me if I ever had got flowers from anyone. I then told them of how one of my colleagues at the advertising firm I used to work in had sent me a huge bouquet of flowers on my last day of work. The bouquet was almost half my height and so thick we could not find a vase big enough to put it in. Finally, my boss purloined a food container from the kitchen, filled it with water and stood the flowers in it by jamming mugs and balls of paper around it. The result was structure so huge that it had to be kept on the floor next to my desk as it completely obscured my view as well as the view of the people who sat behind me. While relating this incident, something nagged the back of my mind. This surely was not the first time I had received flowers from someone. I then I remembered a bunch of crimson Hibiscus on a pink desk and the pleading eyes of a boy whom I now knew, had felt remorse from the bottom of his heart. I felt awful.

I know that the chances of you reading this are very slim, Mojave. Even if you did, I doubt that you could call to mind a little, knock-kneed girl with a glow-in-the-dark rosary and the stubbornness of a mule. It does not matter; I would still like to say thank you for the flowers and thank you - for the memories

The Cherry Socks have long since perished, the glowing beads are lost, and two wonderful grandparents have passed on. Yet, children still laugh. Friendships are made, broken and resurrected. Hibiscus flowers still bloom. I continue to reminisce, and ls ife goes on.