Shramadana is an awakening through service and is typically done with a group or community, but it is a giving of the self.
Our group Shramadana project in Kabithigollawa was to begin the construction of a roof on the preschool building, repair a road in the village and there was an option to help the women cook the lunch feast.
Though I never turn down an opportunity to bond with and learn from a group of women, especially when food is involved, I was full of energy that day and wanted to help with one of the construction projects.
The rest of the group had similar feelings, however, and only Laura and Shelby were staying to help the women. So, I happily jumped lines and joined the ladies preparing to cook for our group and most of the village. I immediately was in a state of bliss once I realized the opportunity I almost passed up.
The ladies blouses and cotton skirts flittered in the wind, much like their locks of mysterious dark brown hair, as they laid down a tarp in the shade and gathered heaping mounds of rice and coconuts and other bags of local produce or collected herbs.
Some peeled potatoes on rocks, while others sat on stools, which had sharp knives or graters attached to the front. They straddle the stool and mince coconut or shred leaves or cut open fish on the tools in the front part. One elder woman soaked and sifted rice in cold water before steaming it in one of the deep cauldrons warming over kindling fires.
I joined two women in carrying water from a pump to the cooking ground in heavy jugs, which were curved sweetly to rest in the nook of a hip.
I was so happy I thought I would burst or burn from my excitement to be surrounded by generations of Sri Lankan women, dressed in their eclectic patterns, laughing with each other and kissing children as they stumbled into the collective.
There were nearly fifteen women and countless kids and then three of us. We were all sitting or tumbling through the piles of food giggling with each other beneath the shade of the community tree.
Not to mention I was experiencing hands-on how most of the scrumptious dishes we were eating on the island were made. I also never turned down cook’s privilege to taste each dish as it simmered.
After trying multiple tasks, it was obvious my prep skills were not up to par with theirs, so we turned it into a vocab lesson instead.
None of the women spoke English, but I had three Sinhala words to sustain my interaction with them-good, beautiful and tasty.
From there, they pointed to each other and objects and body parts and taught as much as they could.
Everyone was introduced as an akka (sister) or an ama (mother).
Eventually, one woman started to call me her mother. She and I became quite attached as she was my match in the amount of laughter we shared over the simple but sweet things throughout the day.
During tea time, I was talking with Chandima, our Sarvodaya staff leader and big brother type, about how I had changed my mind to be in the “kitchen,” and it had turned out to be one of favorite days of the entire trip.
He said Shramadana is not measured in the type of work done; it is valued as a giving of energy and of the self to others, no matter how that is carried out. People must eat and to make the food for them is just as important as any other responsibility. He also said that even being a positive presence is a type of service to others.
With that, the day continued on in sharing games and dances with the women and kids.
I told my ama that I also had my other ama, my host mother. She exclaimed and hugged me, “Ahhh, two amas!”
Later that evening before we left, my cooking ama gave me an envelope with pictures of her husband and son (giving or showing us pictures of family members became a normal thing).
She said, “no daughter,” then pointed at me smiling, “you, my daughter.”
I could only smile, humbled. I took her hand, and we walked toward the rutted road together.
Our group Shramadana project in Kabithigollawa was to begin the construction of a roof on the preschool building, repair a road in the village and there was an option to help the women cook the lunch feast.
Though I never turn down an opportunity to bond with and learn from a group of women, especially when food is involved, I was full of energy that day and wanted to help with one of the construction projects.
The rest of the group had similar feelings, however, and only Laura and Shelby were staying to help the women. So, I happily jumped lines and joined the ladies preparing to cook for our group and most of the village. I immediately was in a state of bliss once I realized the opportunity I almost passed up.
The ladies blouses and cotton skirts flittered in the wind, much like their locks of mysterious dark brown hair, as they laid down a tarp in the shade and gathered heaping mounds of rice and coconuts and other bags of local produce or collected herbs.
Some peeled potatoes on rocks, while others sat on stools, which had sharp knives or graters attached to the front. They straddle the stool and mince coconut or shred leaves or cut open fish on the tools in the front part. One elder woman soaked and sifted rice in cold water before steaming it in one of the deep cauldrons warming over kindling fires.
I joined two women in carrying water from a pump to the cooking ground in heavy jugs, which were curved sweetly to rest in the nook of a hip.
I was so happy I thought I would burst or burn from my excitement to be surrounded by generations of Sri Lankan women, dressed in their eclectic patterns, laughing with each other and kissing children as they stumbled into the collective.
There were nearly fifteen women and countless kids and then three of us. We were all sitting or tumbling through the piles of food giggling with each other beneath the shade of the community tree.
Not to mention I was experiencing hands-on how most of the scrumptious dishes we were eating on the island were made. I also never turned down cook’s privilege to taste each dish as it simmered.
After trying multiple tasks, it was obvious my prep skills were not up to par with theirs, so we turned it into a vocab lesson instead.
None of the women spoke English, but I had three Sinhala words to sustain my interaction with them-good, beautiful and tasty.
From there, they pointed to each other and objects and body parts and taught as much as they could.
Everyone was introduced as an akka (sister) or an ama (mother).
Eventually, one woman started to call me her mother. She and I became quite attached as she was my match in the amount of laughter we shared over the simple but sweet things throughout the day.
During tea time, I was talking with Chandima, our Sarvodaya staff leader and big brother type, about how I had changed my mind to be in the “kitchen,” and it had turned out to be one of favorite days of the entire trip.
He said Shramadana is not measured in the type of work done; it is valued as a giving of energy and of the self to others, no matter how that is carried out. People must eat and to make the food for them is just as important as any other responsibility. He also said that even being a positive presence is a type of service to others.
With that, the day continued on in sharing games and dances with the women and kids.
I told my ama that I also had my other ama, my host mother. She exclaimed and hugged me, “Ahhh, two amas!”
Later that evening before we left, my cooking ama gave me an envelope with pictures of her husband and son (giving or showing us pictures of family members became a normal thing).
She said, “no daughter,” then pointed at me smiling, “you, my daughter.”
I could only smile, humbled. I took her hand, and we walked toward the rutted road together.
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