A Cingalese Girl in London

Southland Times, Issue 22218, 10 January 1934, Page 3

A Cingalese Girl in London

Marcia de Silva is a young Cingalese girl who recently came from the seclusion of Ceylon to earn her living in “This bewildering, foggy, rain-sod-den beautiful city of London” as she called it. Here is an article written by her for an English paper. If you have ever been to Ceylon, where the fireflies sometimes take the place of stars, and the flamboyant trees burst forth into flaming glory during the day, you will wonder why I have chosen to live in London. London that ought to seem so grey and dull , and gloomy to a stranger’s eyes. I said it ought to—But it doesn’t. Having lived in London for some years I returned to Ceylon for one year, and all during that year—in spite of the sunshine, the moonlight and the blue-green hills—l had a yearning for this bewildering, foggy, rain-sodden, beautiful city of yours. On the boat, as we drew nearer England, people took bets as to whether there would be rain or fog—l somehow thought that the sun would shine for a change, and said so—much to the surprise of all the others! But I was right—it did—only the very next day the fog came down in its usual sooty way. When I landed, it was. a delight to hear the porters, the taxi-men, yes—and even the Customs officers talking in a leisurely way—no fuss and no bother. And above everything else I loved that quiet,, stodgy courtesy that seems ingrained in every one of you. It is not the kind of courtesy. that gushes and leaves you feeling frightfully uncomfortable and somehow all wrong—it makes you—or at least it makes me—feel happy and at home. A sort of unspoken welcome that I do not think I could explain.

Christmas in London! Could it be true? Was I really here? The mere mention of it sent a glow of excitement through me. The shops—London shops—with their lights, warmth and colour; the restaurants, the cafes and the pantomimes —for I confess, though I am grown up, I love them. The cold and fog outside only seemed to intensify the pleasures within—fires burning merrily, hot buttered crumpets anc ]—oh! the quiet friendliness of those every-day, commonplace little things that go towards making an English Christmas. I motored down to the Leather Bottle in Cobham, Kent, for lunch the other morning. During our meal two little village children looked in through the lattice windows—and this is part of the con-

versation we overheard: “Who is she?” “Oh, an Indian lady.” „ “Has she got any shoes on ” “Let’s wait and see!” I thought it very intelligent of them to know I might not have had any shoes on. After all, probably all the Indian women in their picture-books were shown bare-footed. After we had explored this famous Dickens alehouse and visited all the bedrooms (each one named after a character from “Pickwick Papers”), climbed down dark stairs and turned along narrow passages—we went for a short drive. We passed under the bare branches of trees that would meet overhead—and I thought of spring—an English spring. Ah! Yes, I know you are smiling_ and perhaps saying: “If there is a spring! But as I’ve always known spring as. the most glorious, exhilarating, vividly joyous time of year, I cannot very well think of it in any other way.

We stopped the car, and. had a glorious view of the countryside. I di’ank in all the peace—the utter peacefullness—of that scene.

And I thought of another scene—my home thousands of miles away—the beauty of which held you almost breathless perhaps.

And yet what was it? Where was that sense of quietness and rest that one always associates with an English country scene? I couldn’t see a living soul about, and silence reigned everywhere; but yet underneath all that seeming peace a thousand voices shouted to you—a hundred hidden forces seemed at work, and you knew that there was no peace —not really! Was it imagination? I don’t think so; but perhaps I’m wrong. There’s a dear little shaggy pony (not more than three feet high) who comes round our road nearly every day, dragging an equally tiny coster cart. Her name is Phyllis, and I’ve given her a lump of sugar to-day. Phyllis is such a dear little thing!

I don’t think there is any place in the world where animals have such a good time as in England The kindness and consideration shown to them here is really touching to one who . is used to hearing a dog being told he is a dog. Not, that there is any actual unkindness —but there is none of that understanding and friendship that exists between a dog and his master, of a horse and his master for that matter. Please don’t misunderstand me —they would get every comfort—bathed regularly, combed and brushed, but that is not quite what I mean—or perhaps I should say it is not all I mean. People talk a great deal of the “Mystery of the East”—all in capital letters—but there is not so much said about the “Mystery of the West,” and perhaps of London in particular. But, to me, there seems just as much mystery in this. fascinatingly tantalising city as you would get in a jungle, surrounded by shining eyes that peer at you from every tree.