When you’re a kid you think your family’s normal. It’s the yardstick by which you measure everything else, adjusting as necessary when you discover that no, the rest of the class don’t carry their pet goldfish in a bucket of water when they go on a caravan holiday, nor do they mix an extended family’s worth of Christmas pudding mixture each year in a Victorian baby bath. Nobody else had a Hindu godfather either, not even my Hindu friends.
In the years running up to my birth my mum worked with a man from Sri Lanka and our families became close. Although the Sri Lankan civil war didn’t begin until the early 80s, once the demand had been made for a separate Tamil state in 1975 I’m told life wasn’t particularly comfortable for Tamils like my ‘Uncle S’. He, his wife ‘Aunty G’ and their three children came to Britain; when he was born, Sri Lanka (Ceylon as it then was) was part of the British empire so it was an obvious choice.
I’m not a Christian but as I understand it, it’s quite an honour to be asked to be the godparent of a friend’s baby, and my mum (my dad being an atheist) wasn’t going to let a little thing like religion get in the way. Clearly I can’t remember what happened at the ceremony but I have seen a photo of a beaming Uncle S in the church. He had a big influence on my early life though not on my religion, and he certainly broadened my outlook. He moved to London when he retired, to be near his grandchildren, so I haven’t seen him for a few years. However, I always have a box of the sandalwood incense his house used to smell of and I light some when I want to feel closer to him. If only I also had some of Aunty G’s rosewater-soaked Christmas cake.
H could also have been for Hungry Hippos, hats or hedgehogs but if you enjoyed this one you can always buy me a cuppa at https://ko-fi.com/jysaville