The Spirit Keeper of Fathima - I

 

THE SPIRIT KEEPER OF FATHIMA

THE SPIRIT KEEPER OF FATHIMA

The story I write is a difficult one.

All these days I have struggled to write the first sentence, not because I don’t have material. Because I have too much of it. Too many versions, narratives, names and dates that are as confusing as it is exhausting.

None of us will know the truth behind the Two Queens, and the conspiracy of the flags. No one will know of Prince Wathhimi’s thoughts and the years preceding the great hardship the capital of Kurunegala faced during the Dambadeniya era. None of us will know the complete story.

Quarasan Muhammed Ismail Buvenakhabahu, was king between 1325 to 1328.

He is the Only king of Sinhala Buddhist, Muhammadan descent.

This story is not about him.

This story is about his mother.

From a casual question of mine when I first arrived in Ibbagamuwa that piqued my curiosity, to multiple Jana Pravaada/folklore I have come across in all corners of this place, I have woken up in the middle of many nights, wondering the best way to do this history justice.

My purpose or function is not that of an academic, archaeologist or a historian. Not even of a writer or a journalist.

As I pass through this place I will listen and tell it to those who care to listen.

As a woman and a mother, I think I will understand Fathima.

As a stranger amidst people not her clan or race, I can only relate to it by being a stranger myself on this journey through many places.

And the best way to write is from that perspective.

(This story will be in several parts as my personal preference is short and sweet. Also when emotions and thoughts crowd too much to do justice, by habit I retreat to something else.

I shall include as much facts & information as possible at the end of it in an annexure to give the reader a background to what I have written. It will be condensed and in bullet form. In this age of information, if one is interested in exploring further about the King, it should be of some help)

* * * * * *

The dusty diesel air whips across my face and the skin feels tight, my whole body vibrates in time to the trishaw. Kasun revs it high weaving through traffic down A6 as he again asks me the name of the village.

“Gettuwana”

After many turns and twists once we get to Gettuwana, the trail runs cold. Nobody seems to know what I am talking about. Or they don’t want me in on the secret. We are tired from dashing all over Kurunegala the whole morning, chasing God Gale Bandara, the final resting of the soul of the King.

I suggest to Kasun that we stop at Muslim Kades and keep asking. After many stops we finally get lucky. We have to get to Eliyagonna.

Once in Eliyagonna, Kasun stops at a trishaw stand and gets out. He comes back in beaming. We drive about 100 meters and he stops at a dusty row of shops. We walk in single file, Me, Irosha – Kasun’s sister who has graduated in Archaeology and currently on a site at Ridee Vihare (How cool & lucky is that? Babbling to Kasun has resulted in him taking me home to meet his sister!), and him.

The path through the ugly concrete that surrounds us is roughly 3 feet wide and there is no indication of what I am about to encounter. It flares out into a compound, and on the left there is an old unfinished concrete structure. It is flagged and draped in green and three beautiful children smile up at me from the dusty ground they are playing on. An old lady draped and covered in a multi coloured sari takes a step forward from the hedge she was invisible against.

At that moment something knots in my chest.

She looks piercingly at me and I softly explain to her that I am interested in visiting the place of Prince Wathhimi’s Mother.

* * * * * * *

Irosha speaks lyrical Sinhalese, it is such a pleasure to hear her. Her training in Archaeology has honed her questioning skills and she did justice at the Gale Bandara Devale, where the Kapu Mahaththaya spoke to us for over an hour about the King turned Demon turned God. Then through the whole Anti-Muslim rhetoric of “This is our only land & they should go back to where they came from”, Irosha nodded her head sagely and was nonpartisan as possible while I was ready to leap up and ask how the deuce can you tell people who have lived hundreds if not thousands of years here, that this is not their home?, and walk out of there.

When I get roughed up verbally at the Muslim monument where supposedly the King’s head landed when it separated from his torso when he fell to his death, she defiantly sits on the steps and makes calls to her professors and lecturers, requesting papers and research written on Prince Wathhimi, to be emailed to me.

Such is her training.

* * * * * * *

We remove our slippers and step inside to the praying site. I am silent and overwhelmed in this simple derelict space looking at an elongated concrete mound draped in the traditional green silk with the symbolic crescent moon and the stars.

It occurs to me that God Gale Bandara holds in his hand, a Sickle.

After a while, I indicate to Irosha that she should ask the questions once Mehru agrees to talk…. But as we proceed into it I feel restless and something's amiss.

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(Each photo is taken with permission)