The
Heart - Breaking Story of the Stone - Breaking Families
Emil Susantha, NSJ
In a little village half a kilometer away form the Habarana
town I saw a massive granite rock. It is a very beautiful
rocky landscape. A rich man in Colombo had bought it and the
fifty odd families who live in this village are involved in
breaking it into pieces of metal. Michael’s family is one
among the lot who earned a living or rather tried to cover the
bare necessities of daily existence by breaking stones.
In the evening of my arrival, I walked with Michael along the
narrow footpath that led towards his house, where I was to
live during that week, From then on this illiterate poor man
was going to be my Guru and host. I had already begun to feel
like a poor man myself. The time was around 6.30 pm but it
looked like midnight. Wherever I turned my head I could see
nothing but thick forest buried in darkness. We could see no
one along the path-way. The main reason, I learnt later, was
that everybody was afraid of wild elephants. I was really
afraid of the eerily dark surroundings. After some time I saw
a patch of light through the forest. It was Michael’s house
and I was given a simple yet warm welcome by his wife and
three kids. I could see the immense joy on their faces;
perhaps this was the first time in their whole life they got a
guest at their humble home.
The
house, consisting of two small rooms, was made of wattle and
daub. I could imagine their daily battle for life taking place
in these two tiny rooms. I searched for a place to keep my
small bag but I couldn’t find any furniture around and so I
placed it in a corner of the room. It became my “private
corner”, exposed though it was to everybody’s gaze in the
house! When the meal time came, all of us sat on the floor in
the middle of the room around the food. They gave me rice and
ashplantain curry with some fried dry-chillies. I took it
joyfully and enjoyed it as they did. But my conscience
reminded me that back home I always knew ways of getting what
I wanted, even multiplying my needs.
Next morning I went to the granite quarry with Michael. I
asked him to introduce me to his co- workers as an ordinary
layman, because I felt that if they came to know me as a
religious brother they would respect me and that would defeat
the purpose of my going there. But before I reached the quarry
all had come to know of my identity. Of course, I immediately
got acquainted with them and their work. All of them were
engaged in doing one thing: breaking stones. There was the
scorching sun above them, a heated rough granite surface under
their feet, and the sledge hammers that knew not man from a
woman. Their aim was to earn a few rupees to keep them from
hunger. For this, from morning till evening, they would break
the giant rock into small pieces section by section.
They knew their lives were in danger under those hazardous
working conditions but took that risk because they needed to
survive. They practice a lot of patience as they repeat the
same routine action day by day and hour by hour. I, of course,
lost my patience and hit a stone so carelessly that a tiny
chip pierced my finger, giving me an excruciating pain. All of
them stopped their work and came to my rescue. But in their
case they simply go through worse mishaps without expecting
any word of comfort from others. But when I saw the wounds and
cuts in their legs and hands, I stopped thinking about my pain
and got back to work. Just a few yards away from where we
worked there was a blue thick forest in all its natural beauty
and with all sorts of animals and birds playing around. But in
the quarry these people were drowned in the din and the noise
of machines, trucks, drillers and pounding of sledge hammers,
while in their hearts they carried problems that will never
find answers.
On Tuesday evening they receive a little amount of money,
their weekly earning. On Wednesday they would not come to work
as they go the Pola (Weekly Market) where they would buy the
provisions for the week. Hence there was no holiday for a
person like Michael. But like all men in this village, he
resorted to alcohol to drown the mental, emotional and
physical pain. Alcohol has become ‘the medicine’ for all their
problems practically in every house. One day while I was
teaching some English to Michael’s children in the late
evening after work, Michael came drunk and screamed at the
children. I lost my temper and shouted back at him. He did not
retort but kept quiet. In the night as I was lay down to sleep
I realized that, as their guest, I should have acted in more
caring way. In the morning I expressed my deep regrets to
Michael.
I hardly got any free time, but when I did, I visited
other families too. After some time I got used to the place
and their life cycle. But each and every second that I spent
amidst them brought me back my past memories. I come from a
poor family myself.
There
were times when we had hardly anything to eat. Struggling in
poverty for me was not a mere idea but a reality. But today,
if I am where I am, it is because of the hard work done by my
parents. Therefore I hope that these people too would one day
be like me. I didn’t teach any thing but learnt all the time.
They shared the cup of plain tea because they knew what it is
to feel thirsty; they shared their meager meal because they
knew what hunger is. My calling is to listen to the voice of
the poor and walk with them.
Events
The
house, consisting of two small rooms, was made of wattle and
daub. I could imagine their daily battle for life taking place
in these two tiny rooms. I searched for a place to keep my
small bag but I couldn’t find any furniture around and so I
placed it in a corner of the room. It became my “private
corner”, exposed though it was to everybody’s gaze in the
house! When the meal time came, all of us sat on the floor in
the middle of the room around the food. They gave me rice and
ashplantain curry with some fried dry-chillies. I took it
joyfully and enjoyed it as they did. But my conscience
reminded me that back home I always knew ways of getting what
I wanted, even multiplying my needs. 
There
were times when we had hardly anything to eat. Struggling in
poverty for me was not a mere idea but a reality. But today,
if I am where I am, it is because of the hard work done by my
parents. Therefore I hope that these people too would one day
be like me. I didn’t teach any thing but learnt all the time.
They shared the cup of plain tea because they knew what it is
to feel thirsty; they shared their meager meal because they
knew what hunger is. My calling is to listen to the voice of
the poor and walk with them.