I often went to the Negombo Esplanade by the sea in the evening for training to capture the illusive Public School Athletics furlong record once held by Duncan White of Trinity College, Kandy. I was then attending St. Joseph’s College, Colombo from where I did capture the record. The previous year I was deprived of the record because the race was not timed as the time keepers were having tea whilst the race was being run. The Director , Bro Alban FSC of St. Anne’s College, Kurunegala the school I represented in a sharp letter demanded an explanation. In a weak response the authorities apologised and awarded me the athletic crest, an unprecedented gesture in the annals of Public Schools athletics where a laurel was awarded for an un-timed race.

From the esplanade I Jogged back home on a road skirting the lagoon. On the opposite side of the old customs office rested a venerable Dutch mansion. Leading to it was a winding road and when the gate was guarded by armed constables, a supreme court justice was residence, come to town for the sessions. Leaning on to the lagoon was a tree, the angle of which was such anybody could sit on it in solitude.

When justice L. B. de Silva was the judge the wooded gardens where, even exorcists feared to venture, because a part of the gardens was a Dutch burial site, turned sprightly with girls seated on the trunk laughing, chatting and throwing pebbles into the lagoon. I took all that as I Jogged in my track suit from the esplanade back to where I lived in the usual nonchalant way at times mistaken by friend, and foe for arrogance.

I did not know one of the girls so seated was Srimal daughter of justice L. B. de Silva and Nancy Silva, nee Warusavitane who was also secretary to the judge. Neither did I know as I watched in awe with the crowd , kept at a distance by armed policeman, the pomp and pageantry that accompanied the opening of the sessions that included the judge walking in regalia into the Hall of justice with Srimal his secretary, that a day would dawn when she would be my wife and live with me for 44 years until her sad and peaceful death on May 15, 2009.

For the sake of brevity I will skip the bizarre circumstances under which we met but the question that baffled prophets, high priests and philosophers was how on gods’ earth could a devout Buddhist and a Catholic devoted to 2000 years of tradition marry and manage to co-exist and live together peacefully, in harmony and dignity for almost half a century. The answer I believe lies in the words of Cardinal Newman and Salvian. While the Cardinal observed "that the Goths and Vandals who had embraced fundamentalism were moral people and put to shame the Catholics whom they dispossessed" Salvian asserted "what can the prerogative of the religious name profit us that we call ourselves Catholic, boast of being the faithful, taunt Goths and Vandals with the reproach of a heretical appellation, while we live in heretical wickedness. The barbarians were chaste, temperate just and devout. The Visgoth Theodotic repaired every morning with his domestic officers to his chapel where service was performed by the Arian Priests and in one singular instance is on record of a defeat of a Visgoth force by the imperial troops on a Sunday when instead of preparing for battle they were engaged in the religious service of the day."

Wherever I travelled on assignments whether it be England, America, Thailand, Phillipines I took Srimal with me. The only exception due to restrictions was Burma, a country she would have loved to visit because of its historical ties with Sri Lanka. Leaving Rangoon by air for the former capital Mandalay with my fellow consultants we travelled by land to the ancient capital Pagan. On the way we passed the equally ancient capital Amarapura. As the jeep swung past I recalled Srimal’s oft repeated assertion that what she knows about the Dhamma came from the monks belonging to the Amarapura Nikaya.

She had a talent for hand work proof of which was the class prize she won when Susan Pulimood was the principal. She was so proficient she could turn a piece of rag into a work of art. The only time she was crestfallen was when I retired her Remington with an electric type writer with a erasure ribbon. The emotion was short lived. Once she got the hang of it she was all for modernism. When typing she had no problems with the jargon of theology, engineering, mathematics, alternative medicine, cricket or athletics. Only once did she ask me whilst typing an article what I meant by the epithet "Occam’s razor" a variation on Ernest Rutherford’s dictum but attributed to the fourteenth century English logician and monk William of Ockham. It simply means when picking a theory, pick one with the least number of assumptions.

She was a splendid story teller. In one case the accused had told the judge he would represent himself. After the judge had explained the perils of his decision he had replied he would be in greater peril if he engages a lawyer. His cross examination of witnesses had rocked the court with laughter. When I asked what happened to the accused, apparently a certified crackpot, she replied Daddy felt sorry and discharged him.

She had spent some of her happier times in Jaffna. The elite had fallen head over heels to invite her to their dinner tables. The official residence of the Judge was inside the fort a former Dutch governors mansion. She described her room as having windows as large as the doors. The daughter of the Dutch governor had committed suicide in that room. When I asked whether she was not frightened she replied she had "Amme" hardly a protection since Amme was old as the hills.

Beyond the Biblical age of three score and ten. She entered a Catholic Church for the first time when a friend invited her to be her bridesmaid. She did not know the Mass was in Latin because the priest was reciting in the usual way the prayers in a low voice. Nevertheless the dignity of the ritual and the singing of compositions by Beethoven and Mozart edified her. After the Mass when the groom, later to enter the civil service, asked her why she did not receive she had calmly replied she is a Buddhist.

She was the first to read my published articles. In a reply to one when a theologian asked whether God understand only Latin she remarked isn’t that a joke. If God understands Sinhalese surely the sensible thing to do is to translate the Latin Mass into Sinhalese. She thought the language issue was a red herring, a ruse for the destruction of altars, tabernacles, alter railings, confessionals. She said that would never happen in Buddhism.

Quoting her teacher Bhikku Narada she said what we receive we give to those who come after. That has been so for the last 3000 years. After reading my articles she became familiar with the history of the Catholic Church. If I ask her who composed the Vulgate she will promptly reply St. Jerome. If I asked who replaced Judas she will reply Mathias. The first martyr, St. Stephen. She would name the 12 Apostles while taking a cup of tea. If I asked to name the Greek books in the Old Testament the socalled Septuagint she will give that too.

When she was seriously ill in hospital. I asked God for a reprieve. My prayers went unanswered. Her death was blamed on heart failure but that obviously could not have been the reason. Her heart never failed her or anybody else. But I was heartened by the thought that Jesus himself did not always get his own prayers answered at least not the way he wanted. As the liturgy of Good Friday recalls Jesus pleaded with the Father just before his arrest by Roman Soldiers that "the cup" of suffering he was about to drink be taken from him. He literally sweated blood the gospels say while thinking of the hideous death that lay before Him. Yet his supplication was refused and he went to the cross in obedience. Mark’s gospel records that Jesus’ last words were dark indeed " My God, My God, Why have you forsaken me".

On the 7th day after Srimal’s death her sisters , nephews, nieces and In-laws gathered for religious observances. The Buddhist monks from the neighbourhood temple came and chanted followed by the offering of alms. Then came the blessings which according to the monks Srimal will take with her as she departs from the sanctuary where she dwelled with me for decades to join her beloved Daddy and Mummy on the journey to eternity. No Heaven, no Hell, just a journey. A consoling thought.

After the noted Oxford scholar and writer C. S. Lewis died J. R. R. Tolkein wrote "I feel his loss so deeply that I have since his death refused to write or speak in public about him." Now since Srimal has gone my pen will fall silent and thank the numerous readers who down the years appreciated my articles, all typed by her , and sent messages and calls of goodwill and encouragement. Life is a vale of tears. I will pick up the pieces and carry on as best I could. I have been knocked down before. But I always got up. The floor is not the place for champions.