ECONOMYNEXT – When my mother was transferred to a leading boys’ school in Colombo, she instantly turned heads. Latha Jayasinghe was the first short-haired teacher the students had seen in a generation.
Teachers then had the privilege of enrolling their children in the same school where they taught, and that is how both my brother, Lakal, and I ended up at what many mockingly called “Mariyakade Central” — but which was arguably the best in the country.
Students at Ananda addressed women teachers as “Madam” (and male teachers as “Sir”), and my mother soon became known among the 6,000-strong student population and faculty as the only “very short-haired Madam.”
She was always seen at school dressed in a neck-high, long-sleeved blouse and an Indian saree. She wore high heels which made her taller than her GCE Ordinary Level students.
She never wore make-up, but there was always a bottle of beer in the fridge. During the import-control era of the early 1970s, she used Lion Lager as a substitute for hair spray.
She had earlier been a mathematics teacher at Ananda Balika Vidyalaya, Maradana, where she had also received her early education.
She took a brief break from teaching when she was seconded to work as a statistician during the formative stage of the Agricultural Development Authority (ADA) in the late 1970s. But her heart was at Ananda, and she returned after helping to establish the ADA’s data collection system.
She remained an Ananda loyalist throughout her life and took great pride in the success of her students. We had no idea of the depth of respect she commanded among her past pupils until her passing.
The messages of condolence from across the world underscored the impact she had made. The number of students who turned up for the brief viewing on November 16, 2021, the day after she passed away in her sleep, was overwhelming — despite the number of mourners being restricted due to the lingering effects of the Covid pandemic.
That sense of respect struck even more deeply about fourteen months later, when I went to see a doctor. After a brief consultation, the penny dropped — he recognised me as his class teacher’s son, four decades after leaving school.
It is a surreal moment when a medical specialist tells you it is a “privilege” to treat you — not because you are well covered by insurance, but because you are the son of his teacher. Hearing him speak so warmly about his teacher, Latha Jayasinghe, in front of her grandson Pravin, made me prouder to be her son.
It was also a moment of reflection — a reminder that a mother’s care endures, even when she is no more.
My mother’s short hair was the result of a compromise with her husband, Lenin, over his smoking. When they married — she aged 18 and he 23 — she had long hair, and he promised to quit smoking.
However, when she later found cigarettes in his pocket, she cut her hair short and declared she would grow it back only if he stopped smoking. Much of his ill health stemmed from his years of smoking — that too, filter-less Three Roses — before he passed away from heart disease and kidney failure in January 2018.
On November 15, we mark the fourth death anniversary of my mother. In keeping with her wishes, the commemorations will be simple — just as she lived her life.
Amal Jayasinghe