Linked Lives: Elder Care, Migration, and Kinship in Sri Lanka 9781978815346

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Linked Lives

Global Perspectives on Aging Series editor, Sarah Lamb This series publishes books that ­will deepen and expand our understanding of age, aging, ageism, and late life in the United States and beyond. The series focuses on anthropology while being open to ethnographically vivid and theoretically rich scholarship in related fields, including sociology, religion, cultural studies, social medicine, medical humanities, gender and sexuality studies, h ­ uman development, critical and cultural gerontology, and age studies. Books w ­ ill be aimed at students, scholars, and occasionally the general public. Jason Danely, Aging and Loss: Mourning and Maturity in Con­temporary Japan Parin Dossa and Cati Coe, eds., Transnational Aging and Reconfigurations of Kin Work Sarah Lamb, ed., Successful Aging as a Con­temporary Obsession: Global Perspectives Margaret Morganroth Gullette, Ending Ageism, or How Not to Shoot Old P ­ eople Ellyn Lem, Gray M ­ atters: Finding Meaning in the Stories of L ­ ater Life Michele Ruth Gamburd, Linked Lives: Elder Care, Migration, and Kinship in Sri Lanka

Linked Lives Elder Care, Migration, and Kinship in Sri Lanka

MICHELE RUTH GAMBURD

Rutgers University Press New Brunswick, Camden, and Newark, New Jersey, and London

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gamburd, Michele Ruth, 1965– author. Title: Linked lives : elder care, migration, and kinship in Sri Lanka / Michele Ruth Gamburd. Description: New Brunswick, New Jersey : Rutgers University Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2020004907 | ISBN 9781978815315 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781978815308 (paperback) | ISBN 9781978815322 (epub) | ISBN 9781978815339 (mobi) | ISBN 9781978815346 (pdf) Subjects: LCSH: Older people—Care—Sri Lanka. | Older people—Care—Religious aspects—Buddhism. | Grandparents—Family relationships—Sri Lanka. | Grandparent and child—Sri Lanka. | Kinship care—Sri Lanka. | Migrant labor—Sri Lanka. Classification: LCC HQ1064.S72 G38 2020 | DDC 305.26095493—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020004907 A British Cataloging-­in-­Publication rec­ord for this book is available from the British Library. All photos by the author u­ nless other­wise indicated. Copyright © 2021 by Michele Ruth Gamburd All rights reserved No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. Please contact Rutgers University Press, 106 Somerset Street, New Brunswick, NJ 08901. The only exception to this prohibition is “fair use” as defined by U.S. copyright law. The paper used in this publication meets the requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—­Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1992. www​.­r utgersuniversitypress​.­org Manufactured in the United States of Amer­i­ca

 To Geraldine DeNering Gamburd, 1927–2014, and to R. B. H. “Siri” de Zoysa, 1944–2018. They w ­ ere my “every­one.”

Contents 1 Introduction

1

2

Chaos Flower: The Meaning of F ­ amily

18

3

Weighing Financial Opportunities: Migration, Remittances, or a Helping Hand?

39

4

Exchanging Assets for Care: Pensions and the Transfer of Property

57

5

A Youn­gest Son Called “Hope”: Virilocal Ultimogeniture and the Ancestral Home

75

6

Health and Illness: Aging, Self, and Bodily Care

97

7

Shelter or Shame? Old Folks’ Homes

119

8

Rebirth: Buddhism, Almsgivings, and the Transmigration of Souls

142

9

On Beginnings and Endings

171

Acknowl­edgments 177 Notes 179 References 181 Index 191

vii

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1

Introduction I spent the last two weeks of December 2017 visiting my friend Kusuma at her home in Melbourne, Australia. Originally from the South Asian country of Sri Lanka, Kusuma and her husband had followed their son and daughter-­in-­ law to Australia about a de­cade ­earlier. Kusuma left ­behind all members of her natal f­amily, including her aging ­mother. In Melbourne, she cared for her grandchildren when her son and daughter-­in-­law w ­ ere at work, and she gradually formed social networks and connections with other immigrant Sri Lankans. Kusuma is a cousin of my longtime research associate, Siri. Siri lives in a village that I call Naeaegama, a settlement of about 1,250 ­people near Sri Lanka’s southwest coast. I have known Siri and Kusuma since my f­amily first came to the village in 1968, when my ­mother was d­ oing research for her PhD in anthropology (G. Gamburd 1972, 2009). I had my third and fourth birthdays in the Naeaegama, where my mom, dad, and I lived in Siri’s ­family compound. Siri worked as a research assistant first for my ­mother and ­later for me, when I returned to Sri Lanka to do ethnographic research for my own PhD in 1992. Siri often fondly recalled that he used to carry me on his shoulders when I was a child. When I visit Naeaegama, I live in his home. For over twenty-­five years, he accompanied me to interviews to provide translation and social introductions.1 Siri’s cousin, Kusuma, married her college sweetheart and taught En­glish for many years in Sri Lanka’s capital city, Colombo, before moving to Australia. Like Siri, Siri’s wife, Telsie, also has relatives in Melbourne, including her niece, Rani. One eve­ning while I was “down u­ nder,” Kusuma and I visited 1

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Rani, who had invited us to join her extended ­family for a birthday party. A half dozen ­children speaking En­glish played a loud board game in the den, and six adults speaking Sinhala caught up on ­family news in the kitchen. Not long a­ fter we arrived, our hostess, Rani, suggested that we should phone her aunt, Telsie. “But I ­don’t know the number,” Rani said, getting up as if to search for her address book. “I do,” I said, and provided Rani with one of the few numbers still consigned to my memory rather than to the contacts list in my phone. Rani dialed the number and spoke briefly to her delighted aunt, then passed the phone to me. A ­ fter speaking with me, Telsie passed the phone to Siri. ­A fter Siri and I said our hellos, I passed the phone to Kusuma, who spoke with her cousin. Soon a­ fter this conversation ended, Rani’s phone rang; it was Rani’s m ­ other (alerted by her ­sister, Telsie) calling from Sri Lanka to say hello. We passed the phone around again. International contacts concluded, we ate food catered from a nearby Sri Lankan restaurant and enjoyed birthday cake with ice cream. Facilitated by the relatively cheap cost of international calls, this extended ­family bridged the gap between Sri Lanka and Australia, as well as between village-­bound elders and emigrant c­ hildren. Rani told us she also planned to bring her widowed ­mother to Australia in February. A prior visit had not gone well, but Rani hoped that the warm weather of the Australian summer would buffer her m ­ other’s acclimation to Melbourne. How the grand­mother would navigate the streets of Melbourne with her l­imited En­glish or converse with her grandchildren, who spoke l­ ittle Sinhala, remained to be seen. Despite the difficulties of leaving home, many p­ eople like Kusuma seek to shake off their rural roots. Siri once compared the residents of Naeaegama to “frogs in a well,” saying, “We jump and jump u­ ntil the w ­ ater level is high enough that we can escape.” He and ­others explained to me that ­people could “get by” in the village, but the only way to “get ahead” was to leave. For working-­class men in Naeaegama, ave­nues for “getting by” include enlisting in the armed ser­vices, working in the tourism industry, driving three-­wheel taxis, peeling cinnamon, engaging in day ­labor, and peddling and making coconut fiber brooms. Working-­class occupations for w ­ omen include laboring in garment factories and engaging in small business activities making and marketing coconut fiber rope. Seeking to “get ahead,” since the late 1980s, a large number of working-­class ­women have migrated to the Persian Gulf as domestic workers, serving on multiple two-­year contracts. Men also work abroad, but u­ ntil the early 2010s, the majority of mi­grants from Naeaegama and from Sri Lanka in general w ­ ere w ­ omen (Sri Lankan Bureau of Foreign Employment [SLBFE] 2017, 2). In recent years, more men and fewer ­women have worked abroad. In Naeaegama, at least a quarter of village families have had some experience with transnational ­labor migration. Th ­ ese numbers mirror national statistics over the years in question (SLBFE 2017).

Introduction • 3

Although for working-­class ­people, cyclical l­ abor migration provides a way to “get ahead,” for the ­middle and upper classes, “escaping the well” often means ­either moving to the capital city (Colombo) or leaving the country altogether. ­People from wealthy, well-­respected families may find that many of their relatives have emigrated; Australia and New Zealand are popu­lar destinations. “­We’re the only ones still ­here in Sri Lanka,” Telsie told me somewhat regretfully, ­after listing the members of her extended kin network who, like Rani, had left the country for good. S­ ilent testimony to the exodus, many of the big homes in the older, prestigious parts of Naeaegama now stand empty or have fallen down, and some properties have been divided and sold. When upward mobility means leaving the village or the country e­ ither temporarily or permanently, families often find themselves spread across dif­ fer­ent regions and nations. Long distances challenge their ability to provide care on many fronts—­financial, physical, emotional, and ritual. Elders (sometimes poorer, often left b­ ehind) find that their care situation does not match what they provided for their own parents and grandparents. They tell nostalgic stories about the past, while voicing disappointment with the pre­sent conditions. And members of the “sandwich generation,” middle-­aged individuals such as Rani and Kusuma, find themselves torn between their ­children, whose ­futures lie in new cities and countries, and their parents, ­whether they live in their old village homes or make the difficult transition to new locations.

The Culture of Care in Sri Lanka In this book, I explore the nexus between migration and aging, especially how practices of care work change in response to emerging social realities in Naeaegama, a Sinhala Buddhist village in a globalizing world. What does “care” mean, and what does it mean “to care”? Six key themes have emerged for me in answer to t­ hese questions. First and foremost, care is culturally constructed. ­People in dif­fer­ent places and times practice care in culturally specific ways. Care practices si­mul­ta­neously reflect pragmatic adaptations to social, po­liti­cal, and economic environments and the playful creativity of generations of thoughtful, inventive carers working within their cultural framework. Second, care is relational. Almost anywhere in the world, although in dif­ fer­ent ways, “a good old age” involves a network of close relatives, neighbors, and friends (Buch 2017, 87; Loe 2017, 223). Within ­these broad par­ameters, ­people’s ideas about care relations vary profoundly, depending on region and culture. Detailed ethnographic work in South Asia explores the importance of the extended f­ amily, emphasizing both the joys and the challenges of living enmeshed with kin (Lamb 2000, 46; Trawick 1990). Sometimes care relations are egalitarian and reciprocal; sometimes they are hierarchical and

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asymmetrical. “The dependencies between generations” (Whitehead, Hashim, and Iversen 2007, 5) include both cooperation and pos­si­ble conflicts between ­family members regarding the exact nature of kin obligations and expectations. Questions of relationships lead to a third point, that care is gendered. ­People act (and innovate) within their assigned gender roles. In traditional portrayals of the ideal Sri Lankan f­ amily, a man serves as the breadwinner and financial provider, while a w ­ oman cooks and cleans (Ruwanpura 2011, 39). And yet the increasing participation of w ­ omen in the formal workforce (such as the long absences of transnational female domestic workers) takes traditional care-­workers out of the home (M. Gamburd 2000), and Sri Lanka’s ongoing demographic transformation ­toward an older population increases the number and proportion of older ­women on the island (de Silva 2007, 25). Gender therefore forms a key ele­ment in considering the situation of both ­those who give and ­those who receive care. This leads to a fourth point about care: that care work is time-­consuming and, if done by market proxies, expensive. Writing of aging in Sri Lanka, Sirisena (2018, 209) suggests that “mahalu kale” (old age) is the “stage of being looked ­after.” ­Women and men in the sandwich generation often do care work informally, for younger and older kin. Care work is impor­tant for the social reproduction of the ­family, but it does not pass through the market, garner a wage, or accrue retirement benefits or a pension. Instead, when ­people who have done care work for ­family members need care themselves, they rely on that same ­family. However, changing contexts related to migration and smaller f­ amily sizes may cause challenges and require innovations in how Sri Lankans provide care for elders. Fifth, care is moral. Care evokes an ethical imperative: that one ­ought to, or must, care (and care well) for someone. In Naeaegama, Buddhist teachings provide a framework within which p­ eople understand their care obligations, with an emphasis on parent-­child relationships. What counts as good care varies by region and culture, and yet throughout the world, kinship imposes intergenerational rights and obligations (Block 1971; Miles 2018; Stone, 2010, 5; Whyte 2017, 245). Elders who have cared when they ­were younger for their own parents and c­ hildren accrue a deep social debt, or “entrustment” obligation (Coe 2017, 145), with kin who ­will care for them in their old age. ­People often say in Naeaegama, “­Children are debtors.” The depth of care correlates with the intensity of emotion. “To care means to worry,” as Yvon van der Pijl (2018, 141) notes. Love can motivate intense, self-­sacrificing ser­vice for f­ amily and friends. Conversely, receiving or giving insufficient care can cause social suffering and guilt. A mismatch between expectations and real­ity may spur nostalgia for “the good old days” and disappointment in the imperfect pre­sent. Th ­ ese observations lead to a sixth point, that care is emotional. Kinship correlates both with moral obligations and,

Introduction • 5

often, with deep feelings. Our moral and aesthetic sense of what is good or bad, right or wrong, runs through the parts of the brain that govern emotion (Ehrlich 2000, 306–310). Ethically, we must care for kin physically and financially b­ ecause we are bound to them emotionally.

Rites of Passage and the Buddhist Concept of Suffering Every­one alive is aging. P ­ eople mark age-­related changes with rites of passage that lead into new and dif­fer­ent phases of life. Around the world, p­ eople celebrate watershed moments such as births, birthdays, and puberty ceremonies. They mark achievements, such as marriages and anniversaries, childbirths, and promotions and retirements, with rituals and festivities. They mourn deaths and perform funerals. Symbolic anthropologists suggest that public recognition of transformations affects p­ eople’s identities in wider society (Turner 1967); ritual observations lead ­people from one phase of life into another. In Naeaegama, ­people recognize that change is inevitable. Impermanence (anicca; Rahula 1959, 142) is one of the key tenets of Theravada Buddhism, the type of Buddhism that ­people practice in Sri Lanka.2 While aging has its joys, it also has its share of sorrow and pain, particularly ­toward the end of life. Theravada Buddhists draw upon a well-­theorized discussion of suffering (dukkha) to talk about change. Dukkha figures prominently in the story of the Buddha, who began life as Prince Siddhattha. At the time of Siddhattha’s birth, prophets said that he was destined to become ­either a ­great king or a religious ascetic. Fearing the latter, the prince’s f­amily sheltered him from the sorrows of the world. Siddhattha grew up in ­great luxury and joy. However, as a young man, he wished to see more of the world. Siddhattha slipped out of the palace. On his first excursion, he saw an old man. On his second, he saw a sick man. On his third, he saw a corpse. On his fourth, he saw a religious mendicant. Having seen suffering through the life course and a path to understanding it, Siddhattha renounced worldly pleasures and left the palace for good to wander as an ascetic. The story of Siddhattha’s ascetic journey culminates in attaining enlightenment. In his first sermon, the Buddha taught the Four Noble Truths. Suffering is the first of t­ hese Noble Truths. The concept of dukkha includes not only physical and m ­ ental aspects of pain but also metaphysical concepts of impermanence and imperfection (Rahula 1959, 17). The other Noble Truths explain how suffering arises, how it can cease, and the path to the cessation of suffering. According to Buddhism, suffering arises from attachment (greed and craving), hatred, and delusion. Good luck and misfortune in this life arise from meritorious or sinful acts done in past lives; ­these energies pass from life

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to life on a cosmic ledger known as karma. Attachment binds ­people to endless cycles of birth, death, and rebirth (samsara). Earning merit (pin) and extinguishing attachment lead to the cessation of suffering and the attainment of enlightenment (nibbana). Kinship is about social attachment, and according to Buddhist philosophy, attachment and re­sis­tance to change are the root c­ auses of suffering. At the same time, Buddhism instructs kin to care for each other kindly and generously. Change related to aging can be painful. For example, physical suffering arises from injuries or illnesses, and emotional suffering arises from loss of function in oneself or one’s loved ones. W ­ omen are more likely than men to engage in physical care and nurturing, which in Buddhist philosophy makes it more difficult for them to achieve the detachment that they would need in order to cease suffering and attain nibbana. Tensions arise repeatedly between the need to care well for kin and the importance of accepting the inevitability of change. As chapters in this book ­will illustrate, Buddhist concepts shape how p­ eople in Naeaegama think about kinship, gender, suffering, aging, death, and reincarnation.

Structure and Agency Care, like all other modes of h ­ uman endeavor, is always in the pro­cess of unfolding. Recognizing the inevitability of transformation, this ethnography addresses changing f­ amily structures and concepts of care in Sri Lanka, in the context of two wider social realities: ongoing transnational ­labor migration and the rapid aging of the population. I draw on two traditions of anthropological thinking, cultural constructionism and practice theory, to talk about how individuals and families (“actors”) live within and adjust to t­ hese evolving political-­economic dynamics and cultural discourses (“structures”). Practice theorists address the relationship between the individual and society and how that relationship changes through time. Scholars such as Sherry Ortner (1989) focus on individuals as agents who have the capacity to act within enframing social structures. In other words, p­ eople innovate within culturally constructed bounds (Bourdieu 1977). As practice theory has evolved, it has incorporated more sophisticated understandings of “agency”; for example, Ortner’s (1996) analogy likening real life to a “serious game” captures the relational nature of individual actions coordinated with other “players” on a “team,” who pursue the same “goal” or “prize.” Real life consists of playing multiple serious games si­mul­ta­neously, with and against dif­fer­ent teams. Further refinements to the theory elaborate on the concept of “proj­ects” that ­people pursue, alone or in conjunction with o­ thers, and the instrumental role of identity politics in helping coerce the weak into supporting the proj­ects of the power­ful (Ortner 2006). A focus on actors and their agency on unlevel “playing

Introduction • 7

fields” captures the dynamic, emerging pro­cess of how real ­people strive to accomplish their aims within their everyday lives. Attention to agency requires the complementary examination of structures, the bounds that frame ­people’s choices and actions. In discussing the limits on ­people’s innovation, practice theorists note that individuals are heavi­ly constrained by internal cultural par­ameters and external material and social limits (Ortner 1989, 14–16). Internal cultural par­ameters include social norms and expectations, for example, the subconscious understanding of appropriate gender roles and the moral obligations to care for ­family. External material limits include physical constants such as the law of gravity, the need for sustenance and shelter, and the inevitable h ­ uman vulnerability to the predations of age. External social limits refer to the economic and po­liti­cal contexts within which p­ eople’s lives unfold. In this case, such limits include Sri Lanka’s reliance on migration and mi­grant remittances; the po­liti­cal aftermath of Sri Lanka’s civil war (1983–2006); relations with foreign powers such as China, India, and labor-­importing countries in the Persian Gulf; and the long-­term economic and social effects of population aging. In the serious game of social reproduction, individuals (particularly ­people in the sandwich generation) need to figure out how to care for the aged, take care of themselves, and raise their c­ hildren. Many anthropologists challenge the possibility of thinking of an individual in isolation from his or her social context. For the purposes of considering aging and care work, scholars understand that ­people live “linked lives” (Lloyd-­Sherlock and Locke 2008) and thus most ­people play on a team known as “­family.” Families working to get by and get ahead in Sri Lanka find that the po­liti­ cal and economic context in which they live differs from the world as it was a generation ago. As they strive to re-­create social structures and fulfill kinship obligations, they find that the changing context requires new strategies and initiatives. For example, ­people in Naeaegama now balance the need for mi­grant remittances against the necessity to have someone take care of elders and c­ hildren. Who has access to well-­paid jobs, and where in the global economy are ­those jobs now located? What government policies regulate the movement of ­people and money around the globe, and how have they changed recently (M. Gamburd 2020b)? ­These structures influence w ­ hether p­ eople engage in tried-­and-­true forms of social reproduction or w ­ hether they innovate instead. As ­people pursue their proj­ects, they not only follow but also transform the rules of the serious game of life. Adversity and opportunity prompt ­people to modify ideals and adjust social structures to fit the possibilities of the moment. Social structures constrain what actors can do, but reciprocally as actors adapt to new contexts, they change the structures around them (Sahlins 1981; Williams 1977). Practice theorists and social constructionists thus focus on the importance of “practice,” noting the significance of

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ordinary p­ eople’s everyday activities in both reproducing and transforming social norms and values. ­Because of the wide margins within which actors innovate, it is sometimes difficult to distinguish ordinary variation from emerging trends in social structures. Practice theorists thus emphasize the importance of “history.” A longitudinal perspective can reveal the results of numerous serious games played out through time, illuminating in par­tic­u­lar how the rules of the games have changed. Ethnographic research investigates the meaning and nature of everyday practices, and long-­term fieldwork can bring to light how t­ hose practices change over time.

­Labor Migration and the Demographic Shift International l­ abor migration forms a key backdrop for thinking about aging in Naeaegama. Although w ­ omen in the Global North have entered the workforce in large numbers, they remain largely responsible for arranging care for members of their families. And as populations age in developed nations, a larger percentage of p­ eople requires care. The demand for elder care is likely to continue to grow in the United States, Japan, and the Eu­ro­pean Union as neoliberal state policies in labor-­receiving countries continue to privatize care work, and w ­ omen in t­hose countries turn to market proxies to fulfill their own filial duties. Often ­these proxies are ­women from minority or mi­grant populations.3 Similarly, demand for domestic servants remains strong in the Persian Gulf. For example, 90 ­percent of h ­ ouse­holds in Kuwait employed at least one domestic servant in the late 2000s (Ahmad 2010, 27). Poor countries in the Global South, such as Sri Lanka, export l­ abor to meet the international care deficit. Along with millions of other w ­ omen, Sri Lanka’s transnational domestic workers currently fulfill care needs around the world.4 Sri Lanka depends on mi­grant remittances for foreign exchange. In 2010 (the last year for which statistics on the total stock of mi­grants abroad w ­ ere available at the time of this writing), mi­grants made up a l­ittle less than 10  ­percent of Sri Lanka’s 20 million population and over 20  ­percent of the country’s total l­abor force (SLBFE 2014, 131). The Sri Lankan Bureau of Foreign Employment (SLBFE), the government’s main administrative body regulating l­abor migration, estimates that 500,000 Sri Lankans (both male and female) worked abroad in 1994; the number doubled to 1 million in 2003 and, by 2010, had increased to nearly 2 million (SLBFE 2014, 131). The number likely has continued to rise. In 2017, 85 ­percent of Sri Lanka’s mi­grants went to the Gulf Cooperation Council countries in the Persian Gulf (SLBFE 2018). In 2015, total remittances from mi­grant workers abroad amounted to US$5.4 billion; 54 ­percent of this amount, US$2.9 billion, came from the Gulf (SLBFE 2016, 83). In generating foreign earnings, mi­grants’ private remittances accounted for

Introduction • 9

two-thirds of the country’s total, more than the export of garments, tea, and coconut products combined (SLBFE 2016, 84). Unlike in other South Asian countries, in Sri Lanka, ­women make up a significant portion of the transnational ­labor mi­grants. In the mid-1990s, roughly 75  ­percent of the l­abor mi­grants w ­ ere w ­ omen (SLBFE 2017, 1). In 2008, the percentage of w ­ omen fell below 50  ­percent, due mainly to an increase in male migration (SLBFE 2017, 1). A 2013 government policy banning migration of ­women with ­children ­under the age of 5 has sharply reduced migration of ­women through sanctioned Bureau pro­cesses, although studies suggest that w ­ omen continue to migrate through less official channels (Weeraratne 2014). By 2016, w ­ omen accounted for only 34  ­percent of mi­grant departures (SLBFE 2017, 1). As I have written about in other publications, Naeaegama residents have for many years participated in transnational migration (M. Gamburd 1995, 2000, 2005). In 2009, about 10 ­percent of Naeaegama residents had experience working abroad, and roughly 50 ­percent of the village h ­ ouse­holds had, or had had, at least one person abroad. Three-­quarters of t­hese mi­grants ­were female. Reflecting national trends, most female mi­grants from Naeaegama came from the 20-­to 45-­year age range, had six to nine years of schooling, ­were married and had two or more ­children, and had not other­wise worked outside the home (Eelens, Mook, and Schampers 1992; Weerakoon 1998, 102). Data from Naeaegama corroborate studies that suggest that each mi­grant ­woman supports an average of four to five members of her ­family (Weerakoon 1998, 109; Jayaweera, Dias, and Wanasundera 2002, 1). ­Labor migration is lucrative. In 2015, transnational domestic workers from Naeaegama earned an average of US$150–250 a month while abroad. Although this amount seems paltry on an international scale, it compares well to local wages. The median monthly per capital income for Sri Lanka was Rs. 7,881 in 2012–2013 (Department of Census and Statistics 2015, 9), or about US$62. This means that a “house­maid” could earn abroad between 2.5 and 4 times what she (or anyone ­else working in a working-­class f­ amily) could earn in Sri Lanka and that a ­house­maid’s wages equaled or exceed the wages earned by most village men. In addition to using mi­grant remittances to support their daily consumption needs, families often see migration as a good strategy to procure money for one-­time large-­scale purchases. Most mi­grant w ­ omen state that they wish to buy land and build a dwelling; as Siri was fond of saying, “House­maid made ­house.” Families calculated that female mi­grants could earn enough to accomplish this goal by working for four or five years in the Gulf. In addition to securing better housing, w ­ omen’s motives for migration usually include getting out of debt, educating their c­ hildren, providing dowries for themselves or their ­daughters, and starting or expanding small businesses (M. Gamburd 2003).

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Recently, members of the younger generation (often well-­educated c­ hildren of the older l­abor mi­grants) have been g­ oing abroad, heading not only to the Gulf but also to more desirable destinations, such as K ­ orea, Cyprus, Malaysia, Israel, and Italy, sometimes with the hope of settling permanently in their host country (B. Brown 2011; Näre 2010). This emerging trend in migration patterns ­will provide new challenges in care work for families in Naeaegama.

Migration and the ­Family As scholars have repeatedly pointed out in cases worldwide, migration patterns affect ­family strategies for caring for ­house­hold members. A growing body of lit­er­a­ture addresses the effects of migration on ­children and elders in transnational families.5 Care for elders is an issue of growing global importance, particularly in the face of widespread population aging now taking place in developing nations. What ­will happen in the ­future in Sri Lanka as Sri Lanka itself undergoes the demographic shift and has need of care work for an increasing number of elders? In the “serious game” of social reproduction, mi­grant ­family “teams” deploy their members strategically so as to diversify their sources of income while also ensuring that the care needs of youngsters and elders are met (Cole and Durham 2007; Douglass 2014). In this way, even ­house­hold members who are not abroad are still deeply imbricated in the dynamics of transnational migration (Ibarra 2002). Participants in the migration decision-­making pro­cess (under­gone repeatedly for Naeaegama mi­grants who return several times to the Gulf) weigh financial necessity and h ­ ouse­hold improvements against separation, incursion of loans, and alternate arrangements for childcare and elder care. Grandparents and the care work they can do for grandchildren often figure centrally in ­house­hold discussions. ­Family members coordinate productive and reproductive capacities in order to achieve the reproduction of the ­family as a ­whole, ensuring that all are cared for while sufficient income is generated (D. Brown 2013; Huijsmans 2013). Life course analy­sis examines how p­ eople move through each stage of their life (Lloyd-­Sherlock and Locke 2008; Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013b). In the case of Sri Lankan transnational mi­grant laborers, in order for a mi­grant to go abroad, the ­family needs to consider bodily and emotional needs of three and sometimes four generations of kin—­a pro­cess of coordination that researchers refer to as “kin timing” (Dossa and Coe 2017, 12). For example, to understand ­family migration decisions, one must examine issues related to youngsters (nursing, weaning, studying), teen­agers (reaching puberty, engaging in love affairs), mature individuals (marrying, bearing c­ hildren, laboring, recovering from illnesses), grandparents (looking ­after grandchildren, facing illnesses), and frail elders (contributing as able to the ­family but also requiring and receiving bodily care) (M. Gamburd 2020a, 137). Not only does transnational

Introduction • 11

migration affect the f­ amily; reciprocally, f­ amily structures and strategies affect who can and does migrate. The global influences the local, and at the same time, the local influences the global.

Population Aging In 2015, Indrani, a grand­mother who lived across the street from Siri’s ­house, told me, “In the old days ­people had five or six kids, like my husband and I did. Now ­people have only two or three. Some ­women have a sterilization operation ­after three. I ­don’t think that’s a good idea, but I understand that it controls the population.” Demographers confirm that Sri Lanka’s demographic profile is changing (de Silva 2007, 23). The population size is relatively constant, but the population structure is changing rapidly, from a pyramid with many young p­ eople and few elders to the column that characterizes most developed nations. The change ­will have a dramatic outcome: Sri Lanka “­will have the third oldest population in Asia and the largest share of el­derly relative to its income status in the world by 2025” (Gamaniratne 2007, 2–3). The change in population structure ­will create significant social, po­liti­cal, and economic challenges in the near f­ uture, as w ­ omen have fewer c­ hildren, ­family sizes shrink, increasing numbers of elders need care, and individuals have fewer siblings with whom to share ­these filial responsibilities. Mike Douglass (2014, 315) refers to this situation as a “decline of the intergenerational resilience of ­house­holds” and queries w ­ hether (and, if so, how) transnational ­labor migration can help families, ­house­holds, and socie­ties to sustain themselves and cope with such demographic change. Two key issues arise in the face of Sri Lanka’s demographic transformation. The first involves the financial support for elders. A majority of the el­derly population lacks pensions (Gamaniratne 2007, 18). Discussing the financial situation of elders, a newspaper article (Weerakkody 2015, 7) lauds Sri Lanka’s culture, in which “­children and families have taken the burden of the el­derly,” but worries that, “like in the West, concern for the aged is losing its place as an accepted norm.” An article in the Daily Mirror (Handayani 2015, 4) asks, “Is Asia ready to face a grey tsunami?” The author notes that advances in health care have extended life spans and increased the proportion of elders in the population, but the aged also face discrimination and financial insecurity. Similarly, another article (Kurian 2015, A9) comments on an “inevitable demographic transition” and urges the state to make economic and infrastructural changes to support a growing population of elders. As p­ eople live longer, they need resources to sustain themselves. A second key issue arising from the demographic transformation involves where and by whom care work for elders ­will be done. The World Bank (2008, 7) reports that in Sri Lanka in 2006, “nearly 80% of old p­ eople live with their

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c­ hildren,” and Nirosha Gamaniratne (2007, vii) notes that 90% of Sri Lankan elders live in multiple-­person ­house­holds. But ­family patterns and norms for care may change as the population ages and the proportion of frail el­derly grows (Waxler-­Morrison 2004, 252). Strong social norms surround living arrangements for the aged. The World Bank (2008, 27) report suggests that in Sri Lanka, “Old ­people regard institutionalization as a last resort” and that ­there are relatively few institutions of any sort on the island. Ethnographic data can reveal cultural insights about f­ amily relations, housing, finances, and international kinship obligations. The upcoming chapters ­will explore the social contracts surrounding how p­ eople in Naeaegama currently allocate care and consider how continued trends in migration and demographic shift might change t­ hose patterns.

Research Site and Methodology My interest in the topics of aging and migration grows out of my long ­family association with the village that I call Naeaegama. I chose the name one warm after­noon in 1994, with help from Siri; his wife, Telsie; and retired schoolteacher Janaki-­miss, who had joined us on Siri’s open, airy front veranda. Nearing the end of my dissertation research, I asked my hosts and our guest what I should call the village in my publications, spurring a laughter-­fi lled conversation about pos­si­ble (as well as humorously inappropriate) pseudonyms. “Naeaegama,” the favorite among the serious suggestions, means “Village of Relatives” in Sinhala, and the vowels in the word correspond to the vowels in the En­glish phrase “yeah, mama.” Naeaegama has grown since my ­mother, ­father, and I first arrived in the late 1960s. Located about a mile inland from the commercial district at the junction with the main road that runs along Sri Lanka’s southwest coast, Naeaegama has a Buddhist ­temple, a preschool, several small shops, and a number of agricultural plots planted with paddy, cinnamon bushes, or coconut trees. Tall cement walls and softer fo­liage fences line the shady lanes in the village, and pedestrians, bikers, motorcyclists, and ­drivers share the potholed roads with the occasional foraging cow. When I chose to follow my ­mother’s disciplinary footsteps, I relied on longtime fictive-­kinship connections to return. Siri’s extended ­family have graciously hosted me on multiple visits, both long and short, since 1992. Their support made it pos­si­ble for me, a single w ­ oman, to live safely and respectably in Naeaegama. In addition, Siri provided detailed knowledge of village history, kinship, and politics to contextualize data we gathered through interviews and what anthropologists refer to as participant observation, or participating in while observing everyday life and local events. Longitudinal research provides the opportunity to see change through time. I have returned to Naeaegama repeatedly over the past twenty-­five years. Although many researchers choose a topic and study it in dif­fer­ent

FIG. 1.  ​Map of Sri Lanka.

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FIG. 2.  ​Michele Gamburd and Siri de Zoysa. Photo by Manori Karunarathna.

locations, I have chosen a location and studied a variety of topics t­ here. My topic choices grow out of issues that emerge as impor­tant to the local population (M. Gamburd 2000, 2008a, 2013a). In recent years, aging and con­temporary challenges to intergenerational care obligations have cropped up repeatedly as sources of concern (M. Gamburd 2013b, 2015). The anthropological research that generated data for this book took place between 2009 and 2019. Siri and I did 125 interviews with individuals and small groups. Many of the individuals spoke with us more than once. In 2009, in addition to ­running through a schedule of questions, Siri and I presented our interviewees with hy­po­thet­i­cal “scenarios” and asked them to discuss the situations. ­These data proved richly valuable while also allowing ­people to avoid talking about their own personal situations if they so chose. (I discuss the pros and cons of using this method in chapter 3.) I employ grounded theory methods to decipher emerging themes in the data and illustrate ­those themes with exemplar cases and quotes (Bernard 2011). In discussing life-­cycle issues, a person’s age is often quite impor­tant. When I mention ages, I indicate the age at the time the par­tic­u­lar bit of information was gathered; for individuals interviewed multiple times, several dif­fer­ent ages might be mentioned throughout the book. Also, in some cases, I pre­sent interview information from someone who has since passed away; some confusion

Introduction • 15

may arise from this situation. Similarly, due to the devaluation of the rupee, discussing finances across a large span of time requires some finesse. In most cases, exact figures m ­ atter less than general values. I have chosen not to standardize rupees to a par­tic­u­lar year but have instead indicated contemporaneous dollar equivalents for pivotal amounts that in­for­mants discussed.6

About the Chapters That Follow My argument about migration, intergenerational kinship relations, and elder care unfolds as follows. In chapter 2, I explore the meaning of f­ amily in Naeaegama. I unpack the Sinhala concepts of lineage and caste within the framework of Dravidian kinship structures and local marriage practices. I examine both the abstract ideal and the practical instantiation of ­family, considering fictive kinship, adoption, and the relative importance of d­aughters and daughters-­in-­law. I frame the ethnographic data within a discussion of the social reproduction of the ­family: how f­amily members strategize to sustain themselves day to day and generation to generation. Mi­grants who work to reproduce the w ­ hole ­family (including c­ hildren and elders) at the current time could be seen as repaying costs for their own upbringing and saving for their ­f uture retirement. Families most often view t­ hese exchanges between generations as a form of generalized reciprocity, in which no accounts are kept (Cronk 2008) and for which no thanks are expected. Nonetheless, filial obligations and duties create a firm sense of social responsibility between ­family members, which most individuals strive to meet to the best of their ability. Years of ­family history create “webs of interdependence” (Liu 2014, 305) and “networks of obligations” (Kusakabe and Pearson 2015, 50) across generations—­duties and expectations that link lives and evolve over the life course. Families need money to sustain themselves. In chapter 3, I explore the balance between needs for mi­grant remittances from afar and ­family care work at home. When p­ eople cannot make ends meet at home and migrate in order to support their families with remittances, they face challenges in “­doing ­family” at a distance (Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013a, 1883). In conversation with the current lit­er­a­ture on h ­ ouse­holding, I explore “the changing nature of intra-­ household dynamics” while also attending to “per­sis­tence of norms surrounding gender and generational responsibilities and identities” (Brickell and Yeoh 2014, 260; see also Guyer and Salami 2013). The extended ­family plays a key role in facilitating w ­ omen’s migration from Naeaegama (M. Gamburd 1998), and h ­ ouse­hold financial strategies have changed over the years in light of the multiple demands on mi­grants’ remittances. Evidence suggests that families narrow the bounds of kin-­based reciprocity to reward t­hose relatives who directly facilitate the mi­grant’s endeavors (M. Gamburd 2004a). In many

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cases, a mi­grant ­woman’s ­mother, mother-­in-­law, or other female relative takes on domestic duties such as childcare, thus enabling the mi­grant to work abroad. In return, the mi­grant finances daily consumption needs for the ­family and seeks to repay her kin as best she can. How does this debt play out, however, a­ fter a mi­grant’s return from overseas? And what happens as individuals in the parental generation age and require care themselves—­a situation that may impede a mi­grant’s f­ uture mobility and wage-­earning capacity? In chapter  4, I delve further into questions of intergenerational financial obligations by exploring the inheritance of property. Although elders in Sri Lanka in general, and in Naeaegama in specific, often lack pensions and savings, they do own land and h ­ ouses. Patterns in the data suggest the dual importance of the h ­ ouse, first as a valuable economic asset and second as the location in which a ­house­hold team plays the serious game of social reproduction. The kin who inherit property also usually take on the responsibility of caring for coresident elders as they age. I briefly discuss the architecture of homes in Naeaegama, explore how homes structure and are structured by power hierarchies and gender relations, and contemplate how t­ hese spaces affect h ­ ouse­hold interactions and care practices. I explore the financial assets that elders control and how they plan the transfer of owner­ship so as to maximize their social security and reduce the risk of insufficient care. ­Family negotiations about property and care take place within (and si­mul­ta­neously recraft) an “inter-­generational contract between parents and ­children” (Huijsmans 2014, 299–300). I explore the intergenerational transfer of property and the duties of relatives to one another. Continuing the discussion about property begun in chapter 4, in chapter  5 I examine the ties between lineages, personal identity, and ancestral homes. Although p­ eople take their names from their f­ athers, both sons and ­daughters inherit property from both their m ­ other and their f­ ather in Naeaegama (G. Gamburd 2009). If kin who remain on the land do not take steps to consolidate shares of the land, the owner­ship can fragment so that a ­great many ­people own tiny portions. Having a small share of an ancestral property is one way to denote membership in the extended ­family or lineage. In practice, however, the p­ eople who take up stable residence on a property try to consolidate shares from relatives who have moved away, and parents try to write clear ­wills and provide official deeds for t­ hose who ­will inherit their shares. In this chapter, I explore the common pattern of ultimogeniture, in which the youn­ gest son inherits the f­ amily home and takes on the responsibility for caring for his parents. I also examine cases in which property and care responsibilities pass differently. Fi­nally, through the lens of architecture, I look at cases of empty h ­ ouses in the village and consider w ­ hether moving out is the same as moving up. In chapter 6, I take a deeper dive into intimate care work. I begin with a discussion of the “medical identities” that elders develop as their interactive worlds

Introduction • 17

shrink and their medical needs increase. I explore issues of aging, illness, and ingestible substances such as medicine and food. I compare elders’ health activities in Naeaegama with the international discourse on successful aging (Lamb 2017), exploring how personhood in Sri Lanka withstands the predations of time. I then look at three key ways in which p­ eople in Naeaegama express care: by “being t­ here,” by offering food, and by securing medical treatment for elders. I conclude with a gendered discussion of care for incontinent elders and the ­family negotiations that decide which ­woman does this kinwork. Although the vast majority of Sri Lankan elders live with kin, in some cases, ­people reside in old folks’ homes. In chapter 7, I pre­sent a snapshot from southwestern Sri Lanka of social norms, values, and assumptions around the issues of institutional elder care. Drawing on data about such care institutions gathered from residents, caregivers, and ­people in surrounding villages, I explore acceptable and unacceptable forms of institutionalization. Using case studies from several local institutions, I examine the assets available to residents, including their social networks, money, and property. I next turn to the practical operations of old folks’ homes. I examine local norms and religious traditions surrounding the charitable giving of alms to Buddhist monks and consider how t­ hose norms extend to orphans and residents of old age institutions. As charities, old folks’ homes rely on contributions of money and food from area residents. Villa­gers value supporting monks and deserving elders but also perceive many risks in contributing to such facilities. They particularly fear the risk of inadvertently giving money to cheaters and thieves. I highlight how old age facilities adapt to ­these fears and circumvent the risks, examining how ­these practices may impede the development of for-­pay institutions in the f­ uture. This research provides a benchmark of local views on old folks’ homes against which changes may be mea­sured as Sri Lanka’s population ages rapidly over the next thirty years. I conclude the book with a discussion of death and rebirth. While chapter 7 deals with the recipients of the material part of alms (monks and poor elders who accept food, consumable goods, and buildings), chapter  8 deals with the recipients of the spiritual merit generated from giving alms, namely, the recently deceased. Almsgiving is thus a form of spiritual care that continues ­after death and seeks to offer a better rebirth for loved ones. In chapter 8, I examine the religious beliefs and practices associated with concepts of reincarnation (also known as the transmigration of souls). I focus on key Buddhist princi­ples of karma, merit, and demerit. I explore how ­these religious concepts influence treatment of the ­dying. I pre­sent data about funerals and then examine the ritual practices that provide ongoing spiritual care for the deceased. Chapter 9 offers an overview of what is dif­fer­ent about aging in Sri Lanka, as well as a discussion of aging in the ­future as Sri Lanka ­faces continuing trends of migration and demographic transformation.

2

Chaos Flower The Meaning of ­Family In 2015, I accompanied Siri and Telsie on a trip to visit Siri’s aunt, Chandrawathie, who lived about twenty miles south along the coastal road. On the day of our visit, Telsie cooked at home and packed lunch for every­one, including our trishaw driver. We headed out in the late morning, trundling down the main coastal road and then up into the nearby countryside. Chandrawathie and her husband, Ratnasiri, both in their eighties, lived in Ratnasiri’s palatial ancestral home nestled in shady trees and surrounded by a lush garden. Chandrawathie, Ratnasiri, and one of their grand­sons cheerfully greeted our arrival. Siri and his aunt immediately started talking about plants and dis­appeared around the corner to examine some potted begonias. Siri returned fifteen minutes l­ ater with several clippings carefully wrapped in wet tissue and a plastic bag. Sitting on the spacious enclosed porch, Ratnasiri caught me up on ­family news. Susil, his son who lived in Texas, was expecting a second child. Susil’s wife had quit her job so that she could stay home with the kids. To spend more time with her, Susil, who worked for an insurance com­pany, telecommuted as often as he could. Recently, Susil had visited his parents. “But he ­doesn’t get much vacation,” Ratnasiri told me. “The last time he visited, his wife and child ­didn’t come.” Following a pattern of inheritance common in southern Sri Lanka, Ratnasiri planned to deed his h ­ ouse and part of his large property to his son; the 18

Chaos Flower • 19

property next door he would distribute to his ­daughters. “­Will Susil come to live ­here?” I asked. “I ­don’t know,” Ratnasiri frowned. “Susil said he would retire h ­ ere, but his kids ­will be ­going to school in the U.S.” Implicitly, Ratnasiri recognized that his son was likely gone for good. In this h ­ ouse­hold as in many o­ thers, migration ruptured older patterns of caregiving. In the absence of a live-in son and daughter-­in-­law, Ratnasiri and Chandrawathie received practical support from their eldest ­daughter, Manel, who lived a ten-­minute car trip away and came at least twice a day to look a­ fter their main meals. “You just missed her,” Ratnasiri told us, gesturing t­ oward the driveway. Another ­daughter, who was traveling in India, had left her son with Ratnasiri and Chandrawathie. The young man, in his late teens, had Down syndrome. Ratnasiri grumbled affectionately, “This grand­son and his grand­mother fight all the time. And his only hobby is watching TV. But t­ oday the TV got mis-­programmed; Manel ­will have to fix it.” Ratnasiri and Chandrawathie cared for their grand­son while si­mul­ta­neously receiving care from their ­daughter. Neither Ratnasiri nor Chandrawathie was in good health. Ban­dages covered Ratnasiri’s foot and lower leg from mid-­arch to mid-­calf. With some ­family help, the grand­son told me about his grand­father’s trip to the hospital to have an operation for varicose veins. “Someone comes ­every other day to change the ban­dage,” Ratnasiri said, with a gesture to his wounded leg. “We also have a fellow come to sweep the garden.” In the absence of live-in able-­ bodied adults, the f­ amily now relied on market proxies to do some of the work that they had once done themselves. In the back of the h ­ ouse, Telsie unpacked the lunch parcels that she had prepared and called us all to the dining room. While we ate bananas at the end of the meal, Chandrawathie told us several times that they had lots of banana trees in their garden. A ­ fter the meal, as we looked at embroidery Chandrawathie had done in the past, she told us twice where she had gone to high school. ­A fter the meal, Siri, Telsie, and I got back in the trishaw with promises to visit again soon. On our way home, Telsie raised some concerns about Chandrawathie’s memory. Telsie had asked Ratnasiri and Chandrawathie individually what they had had for breakfast. “Ratnasiri said that Manel came and made mung beans. Chandrawathie said that they had string hoppers from a nearby shop. But I saw leftover mung beans in the dog’s dish.” She thought that Ratnasiri was right and Chandrawathie was misremembering events. With a frown, Telsie worried more generally about the social reproduction of the f­ amily. She said that Manel was angry with Chandrawathie ­because Chandrawathie had the money (perhaps from Susil) to hire a servant, but she refused to rely on a market proxy. Chandrawathie justified her decision by claiming that she could take care of the h ­ ouse­work by herself, as she had for the past half a

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c­ entury. But, perhaps due to her failing short-­term memory, Chandrawathie in fact could not accomplish the needed tasks, which fell increasingly to Manel. Susil and his wife, far away in Texas, could do l­ ittle to help.

Social Reproduction: Generalized Reciprocity and Ideal ­Family Structures To begin a discussion of kinship, I briefly introduce some general terms and concepts. Anthropologists often use the term “social reproduction” to talk about the work needed for a ­family to get by day to day and year to year. The concept of social reproduction grew out of the Marxist focus on the reproduction of the l­abor force, which evaluates the wages that employers need to pay in order to maintain a stable supply of workers (Coe 2017, 143–144). Broadly speaking, social reproduction means re-­creating through time a multigenerational ­family with roughly the same composition now as twenty-­five years ago, although individuals ­will have moved into dif­fer­ent phases of the life course over that period. ­There are two ways to think about social reproduction. One way is the snapshot approach, focusing on what a ­family has to do ­today to look ­after all of its members, including c­ hildren and frail elders, so that every­one is h ­ oused, fed, clothed, educated, and receives medical care. A second way is the life-­ course approach, considering what an individual needs to do longitudinally, so that care received as a child and elder is balanced against care one gives to ­children and elders while in the caregiving generation oneself. Holding ­these two approaches in mind at once helps a scholar remember that to reproduce a ­family successfully, f­amily members balance the short-­term needs of the day against long-­term proj­ects—­whatever ­those might be in the culture in question—­such as buying land, building homes, educating ­children, and arranging appropriate marriages. ­Family members receive and give care to each other throughout their lives. A Sinhala saying captures the local instantiation of this general anthropological insight: “­Children are debtors” (laamayo naya kaariyo) who must care for their aging parents as their parents have cared for them when they ­were helpless babies. The concept of debt (naya), however, implies bookkeeping and collection agents, which lends the phrase a humorous quality. Instead of using techniques from the market economy, Naeaegama families usually operate on the princi­ple of generalized reciprocity: p­ eople give and receive care (operationalized as time, attention, ser­vice, and money) freely, not keeping track of who owes what to whom but knowing that in the ­family realm, every­one looks ­after each other throughout the life course. Reciprocal intergenerational obligation, or “linked lives” (Lloyd-­Sherlock and Locke 2008), is a founding princi­ple of the anthropological theory of ­family.

Chaos Flower • 21

One might ask ­whether using the American concept of the “sandwich generation” makes sense in Naeaegama, where most ­people eat rice and curry for lunch. Although not an everyday menu item, sandwiches (known by their En­glish name) serve as snacks or “short eats” bought or packed to consume while traveling. And interviewees quickly grasped the meta­phor when I explained the sandwich generation in Sinhala; for example, Siri’s niece nodded and said emphatically “quintessentially me!” (niyama mama) when I used the phrase while discussing her care relationships with her aging parents and two young c­ hildren. I therefore feel comfortable using the American term as an explanatory concept for thinking about kinship in Sri Lanka. Although the meta­phor of the sandwich suggests that middle-­aged ­people do the meat of the ­family work, scholars should never discount the contributions made by c­ hildren and elders. Ratnasiri’s f­ amily provides a good example. The three ­people in the ­house­hold at the time of our visit (Ratnasiri, Chandrawathie, and their grand­son) w ­ ere surprisingly resilient and self-­reliant together, despite the ­mental and physical challenges that they faced. The grandparents helped their ­daughter by taking care of their grand­son while she was traveling; the grand­son ran small errands and helped out as best he could around the ­house. In Ratnasiri’s ­house­hold, however, tensions arose as old patterns of self-­ reliance ran up against capacities diminished by age. In this context, the role of ­daughter Manel proved crucial in keeping the ­house­hold r­ unning. During this time of transitions in the el­derly ­couple’s life, migration had caused difficulties by upsetting standard residence patterns. One might whimsically compare Susil, the far-­away son, to a piece of lunch meat that had slipped sideways. Although in many ways, Susil represented the most successful of mi­grants, with a good job and a ­family abroad, practically speaking, he was not of much use to his upper-­middle-­class, el­derly parents on a day-­to-­day basis. In the challenging context of “global ­house­holding” (Douglass 2014, 313), this absent son’s role in his natal home consisted of sending money and making infrequent visits. Migration had interrupting lineage expectations; although Ratnasiri had willed his ­house and property to his only son (as parents regularly do in this area of Sri Lanka), Susil did not live at home, and the absent daughter-­in-­law could not fulfill her care obligations to her in-­laws. As in the case of many l­abor mi­grants, Susil provided his host country with a worker who arrived in the prime of his own life and who had left the elder half of his kinship obligations ­behind. In the sending country, Manel might rightly feel that she had assumed her ­brother’s and sister-­in-­law’s care-­ debt for her el­derly parents. Ratnasiri and Chandrawathie’s nearby ­daughter was key to keeping them in their home, an impor­tant aspect of happy and successful aging. In this case, having multiple ­children proved vital to the successful social reproduction of the ­family. The case also highlights the inequitable distribution of kinwork and care responsibilities and the importance of

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d­ aughters; despite structural kinship patterns that emphasize that sons and daughters-­i n-­law care for parents, ­d aughters also play a vital role in social reproduction.

The Meaning and Making of ­Family What do social reproduction, linked lives, and generalized intergenerational reciprocity look like in practice? To examine this question, I consider the obligations p­ eople in Naeaegama feel ­toward f­amily members and expectations they have of their kin. To understand f­ amily in Sri Lanka, one must grasp the importance of lineage and caste. Lineage (paramparaawa) provides the structure for kin relations. Lineage names are passed from f­ ather to ­children of both genders, and ­people retain their lineage name throughout their life. A caste is an in-­ marrying set of lineages. Castes are hierarchically ranked within local areas (but rankings may differ in other places). In Naeaegama, the Halaagama caste is dominant, although they rank third overall on the island. In addition, a significant minority of lower-­ranking Berava-­caste members live in the Naeaegama area. Halaagama p­ eople tend to say that caste status does not m ­ atter anymore; Berava ­people, in contrast, are highly aware of difference and discrimination. I worked mostly with p­ eople of the Halaagama caste; in this book, my interlocutors are of that caste ­unless other­wise noted. Within a caste, ­there may be subcastes, for which the bound­aries are less firm. Th ­ ere are three hierarchically ranked subcastes within the Halaagama caste (G. Gamburd 1972). R. L. Stirrat (1977, 287) makes the point that marriage ­causes merging and melding—­erasing differentiations. When p­ eople marry out of their caste or subcaste (or, as Stirrat [1977, 285] calls them, microcastes), they erase hierarchical differences, which can cause angst, particularly if the ­family member in question has married “down,” decreasing the status of every­one in the original group of intermarrying lineages.

Dravidian Kinship In South Asia, kinship terminology points ­toward vari­ous idealized social structures. Dravidian kin terms (used commonly in South India and Sri Lanka) indicate generation, gender, age, and a variety of other relationships. In par­tic­u­lar, the distinction between cross-­cousins and parallel cousins requires some explanation. Dravidian kinship terminology provides clear terms for sons and d­ aughters, with nieces and nephews and aunts and u­ ncles denoted by dif­f er­ent terms depending on the sexes of the siblings in the parental generation (G. Gamburd 2009, 90; Trautmann 1981, 41; Trawick 1990, 125). ­Children of two ­sisters or two ­brothers are parallel cousins to each other, and terminologically, they are merged together as sisters/brothers to each

Chaos Flower • 23

other and as c­ hildren (rather than nieces and nephews) to the ­people in the parental generation. Th ­ ese individuals are parallel cousins. ­Children of a s­ ister and a ­brother are referred to by dif­fer­ent words; ­those individuals are cross-­cousins to each other. Dravidian kinship terminology structurally and ideally supposes that cross-­cousins ­will marry each other; conversely, when ­people marry, they become structural cross-­cousins. Opposite-­ sex cross-­cousins are called by terms that indicate that they are the preferred wedding partners for each other, and individuals of the parental generation refer to ­these nieces and nephews by the same terms that are used for daughters-­ in-­law and sons-­in-­law. Similarly honoring the pattern of bilateral cross-­cousin marriage, some aunts are designated with the word for mother-­in-­law, and some u­ ncles are designated with the word for father-­in-­law (G. Gamburd 2009, 92; Trautmann 1981, 24; Trawick 1990, 120). The kinship terminology suggests a social structure with a small set of closely in-­marrying families. Subcastes and castes are actualized through intermarriages, and families invest a g­ reat deal in making sure that youngsters marry the “right” ­people. As discussed in more detail in chapter 5, in Naeaegama, the standard pattern is for d­ aughters to marry “out,” leaving their natal h ­ ouse­holds and taking a dowry to their groom’s f­ amily. Sons remain in their natal h ­ ouse­hold or on f­ amily property; daughters-­in-­law marry “in” to the village. A young w ­ oman must preserve her chastity and her reputation, and her f­ amily must provide a dowry in order to make a good arranged marriage pos­si­ble (Ruwanpura 2011, 38). A young man receives property from his f­amily. The youn­gest son inherits the f­amily h ­ ouse and, with his wife, takes on the responsibility to care for his parents in that ­house ­until the parents’ deaths.

Reciprocity in the Extended ­Family How do p­ eople learn and think about intergenerational kinship obligations and the Naeaegama rules for the “serious game” of social reproduction? Wijedhamma Thero, a young Buddhist priest at the local t­ emple, talked with me about religious tenets regarding care. The slender, well-­spoken young man in orange robes noted, “The Lord Buddha taught about what parents and ­children should do for each other. It is the parents’ duty to educate the kids— in Buddhism as well as other ­things. And it is the kids’ obligation to treat the parents well. This is a foundational duty. And it is this duty (through Buddhism) that the parents must teach their ­children.” Similarly, when speaking with me about intergenerational ­family obligations, Telsie reminded me with her quick, white smile, “­Children are debtors,” then explained that phrase meant that ­children owed their parents care and sustenance in their old age to pay their parents back for providing ­those same ­things when the ­children ­were young. But she hastily added that care-­debt could go both ways, particularly when el­derly parents relied for long periods on their adult c­ hildren.

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Other villa­gers also noted the reciprocity expected and required between f­amily members. Speaking with Siri and Telsie’s out­going neighbor Indrani one day in 2015 about obligations between parents and c­ hildren, I surmised, “Your kids get merit (pin, good karma) for helping you.” Indrani disagreed passionately. She said, “When kids ‘help’ parents it’s not ‘help.’ That is a responsibility of the next generation. That is the generational relationship. That is what ‘lineage’ (paramparaawa) means!” She made clear that ­family members must support each other; this care work is not “help” that requires “thanks” but just “what you do for ­family.” She then spoke about how all of her living sons chipped in to support the wife and child of a son who had died in an automobile accident. Similarly, they would all support Lal, Indrani’s unmarried brother-­in-­law, who had raised the c­ hildren while she was working in the ­Middle East. Her eldest son contributed to her d­ aughter’s dowry, and her ­middle son, who served in the navy, provided health care for Indrani through his military benefits. Families engage in generalized reciprocity, an exchange of material and social support for which no accounts are kept and no thanks or specific repayment is expected. Even (or perhaps especially) in the poorest families, siblings supported each other. For example, one el­derly ­woman had four c­ hildren: one d­ aughter and three sons. Two of the three sons w ­ ere mentally challenged. Separated from her husband, this w ­ oman supported her two disabled c­ hildren u­ ntil her death at the age of 70. Thereafter they went to live with their ­sister. Similarly, a middle-­aged man and his wife and c­ hildren shared the ­family ­house with his ­mother and two of his s­ isters (one divorced, the other unmarried). The unmarried s­ ister had purchased a plot of land on which the divorced s­ ister’s son built ah ­ ouse. The ­family expected that this son would ­house and look ­after his ­mother and his unmarried aunt once he retired from the army and came to live full time in the village. Members of the extended ­family looked ­after each other throughout the life course. In 2017, Siri and I went to talk with Malani (age 59), the local astrologer, and her ­mother (age 96). The two Berava-­caste ­women lived with five dogs. On the adjoining land lived Malani’s ­father’s b­ rother’s ­family. No fence separated the two properties. Although ordinarily, villa­gers frown on ­women living in a h ­ ouse­hold without adult men, in this case, the security offered by a large ­family and numerous canines (one of whom was quite fierce), as well as the lock on the gate, somewhat assured the security for Malani and her ­mother. In the adjoining property lived Malani’s aunt; a widowed cousin; another cousin, Hemal; and Hemal’s f­amily. Hemal’s wife had recently come home from the M ­ iddle East, timing her arrival with the birth of their eldest d­ aughter’s first child. It appeared to me that the grand­mother and great-­grandmother handled the month-­old baby more than the ­mother did. And Hemal’s wife helped out the astrologer by bathing Malani’s el­derly ­mother. The extended

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f­ amily took care of each other, particularly the youn­gest and eldest members. How t­ hese obligations w ­ ill play out in the f­ uture remains to be seen, however; Hemal’s son-­in-­law was taking steps to migrate with his nuclear ­family to New Zealand, potentially removing a crucial link in the care chain. Support and re­spect for ­family members extend beyond death. For example, Emaline’s son Upul had returned from living for over a de­cade in Italy. His wife and ­children ­were still abroad, but due to a liver illness (from heavy drinking), he had returned to Sri Lanka and was living with his ­mother and mute, unmarried b­ rother. When visiting a cousin’s h ­ ouse nearby, he saw a photo of his ­father’s b­ rother resting on the floor u­ nder a pile of other t­ hings. Upul said, “I loved my ­uncle and was very sad to see the frame on the floor, so I brought the photo ­here, dusted it off, and put it in our showcase with the other ­family photos.” Emaline added, “I told my niece that she could have it back at any time, but it is still ­here, six months ­later!” ­There had been quite a bit of tension in the past between the ­house­holds of the two ­brothers, who had lived within sight of each other and who had both drunk heavi­ly before their deaths. The drinking nephew resurrected the drinking u­ ncle, perhaps with the hope of receiving similar re­spect for himself in the ­future. To have the ­uncle’s photo better respected at his nephew’s home than at the home of his d­ aughter indexes how care obligations continue to shift and change ­after death.

Choosing Kin: Making Alliances through Marriage Given the importance of ­family relations, the value that ­people in Naeaegama place on marriage comes as no surprise. One of the most serious duties of parents is to find spouses for their c­ hildren. Although young p­ eople increasingly elope with romantic partners, arranged marriages still remain the ideal. Trou­ ble can arise if parents pass away without fulfilling this duty. For example, in 2017, the el­derly Sujeewani died unexpectedly, before arranging a marriage for her youn­gest son. The other ­children in the ­family had married and moved out of the parents’ home. Sujeewani’s sudden death left her husband and son alone in the h ­ ouse, without a daughter-­in-­law to cover the w ­ oman’s side of the domestic division of ­labor—­and without a ­mother to take the necessary steps to find a bride. Sujeewani’s unexpected demise left impor­tant kinwork undone. In socie­ties in which caste makes a difference and marriage creates alliances between families and lineages, choice of spouse is too impor­tant to leave to the whims of hormonal teen­agers. In talking about intergenerational duties and obligations, grand­father Lalith noted that parents need to find their son a bride who corresponds in wealth, age, caste, and other characteristics. “If the person is too rich or too poor, it ­won’t work,” he said in a bass rumble. “And you have to check the horoscope.” Frowning, he continued, “You can check all ­those ­things—­but you only find out what she’s r­ eally like a­ fter you have ‘eaten the rope’ and brought her to the ­house.” Bringing a bride into the ­house­hold

26  •  Linked Lives

created uncertainty and risk, particularly for t­ hose who would depend in the ­future on her care work. Although economic and po­liti­cal f­actors are crucial in arranging marriages, families also need to consider the character of the prospective spouse. In the Naeaegama area, qualities of a good husband include that he have a good education, a job and some property, and a good character. Marks of good character included that he not drink, smoke, ­gamble, womanize, or engage in domestic vio­lence. Parents w ­ ere especially concerned about young men who drank heavi­ly. Telsie’s ­brother was particularly adamant that he did not want to marry his d­ aughter to a drinker. M ­ others of drinking sons also worried about their sons’ f­ uture. For example, Telsie’s tall, brisk, and beautiful neighbor, Manori, was able to marry her elder son, a moderate drinker, to a good daughter-­in-­law. Manori expressed grave concern, however, about arranging a marriage for her younger son, who regularly drank to excess and hung out with a rowdy group of friends. During a late after­noon conversation on the porch, Telsie suggested that Manori might be able to calm down her younger son’s be­hav­ior by finding him a bride. Manori, however, did not want to put another ­woman into such a bad situation; Manori’s husband, Wasantha (who was Siri’s cousin), was a heavy drinker, and Manel herself had suffered from his bad habit for years. She declared firmly that her younger son would be on his own in terms of finding a spouse. In this case, a parent who could not condone her son’s be­hav­ior de­cided that the undesirable characteristics obviated her duty to arrange his marriage. Qualities of a good wife include that she have a sizable dowry, a good education, and/or a job; that she have a reputation for chastity; that she cook well; and that she be fair-­skinned and beautiful. Parents considered the bride of their youn­gest son especially carefully, ­because that w ­ oman would likely care for them in their old age. However, parents and sons sometimes had dif­fer­ent priorities. For example, in 2017, at a ceremony to lay the cornerstone for the renovation of the preaching hall at the local Buddhist t­ emple, I stood on the lawn and chatted for a while with Rasawathie, who lived across the street. Rasawathie said that her son had finished making a new ­house (pointing over her shoulder at the building next to her old ­house), although he still needed furniture. However, before he moved in, he needed a wife. Rasawathie was having difficulties finding one for him, ­because he insisted that she have fair skin. The other ­women listening to the conversation immediately expressed their disapproval of choosing a bride just for her looks. A middle-­aged ­woman who worked at a local bakery and was a bit chubby noted, “I used to be fair and slim, but a­ fter having triplets, my figure went off. Now my skin is darker, too.” Other w ­ omen chimed in to list the t­ hings that the young man should be thinking of: someone who can cook, someone who has a job and an education, someone with good character—­someone who has something that w ­ ill last,

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b­ ecause good looks would not. Rasawathie agreed w ­ holeheartedly with the other ­women and lamented, “­There was an excellent match in Bandarawella, but he said she was too dark.” If parents are unable to arrange marriages through their own efforts, they turn to licensed marriage brokers. Siri and I spoke with Elson (age 71 in 2016), a spry, well-­spoken, and cheerful Naeaegama resident who worked part-­time as a marriage broker, alongside his other occupation as a h ­ ouse painter. He explained that the first stage of arranging a marriage was for the f­ amily of the bride to create a sheet with the young ­woman’s horoscope on one side and her bio-­details on the other: her age, height, description of her other qualities and qualifications, and description of the dowry. Elson then used that sheet to find an eligible groom. If a potential groom’s f­amily was interested, they would check the potential bride’s horoscope against the horoscope of their son. When assessing a marriage proposal, “Four essential horoscope features must correspond, and it is best if at least 12 out of a pos­si­ble 20 items match” (G. Gamburd and M. Gamburd 2010, 235). Th ­ ere are some combinations, however, that completely scuttle a potential marriage. If the bio-­details are satisfactory and the horoscopes match, the families visit each other to take a look at the h ­ ouses and meet the potential in-­laws. Both the young man and the young w ­ oman can decline the match if they wish to. U ­ ntil marriage arrangements w ­ ere finalized, Elson used the sheet with the ­woman’s horoscope and bio-­details. Once the match was set, he completed some other paperwork. The bride’s ­family signed paperwork formalizing details about the land, ­house, vehicles, and/or cash that comprised the dowry. The groom’s f­amily signed paperwork outlining the marriage broker’s fee (10 ­percent of the cash dowry and 3 ­percent of the value of any land and other property). Relatives carefully research arranged marriages, which often involve the transfer of significant amounts of wealth and property. Such weighty financial arrangements make clear that marriages unite not only the c­ ouple but also their families socially, eco­nom­ically, and po­liti­cally. Although ­people in Naeaegama consider arranged marriages better and more prestigious, sometimes young adults fall in love and ask their parents for permission to marry. For example, one mi­grant w ­ oman’s son met his f­ uture bride on Facebook and moved to live with her f­ amily in faraway Puttalam. In some romantic liaisons, such as this one, parents approve the matches that their ­children propose, but in other cases, prob­lems regarding horoscopes or dowries ­will intervene. Another mi­grant’s son, Piyal, had fallen in love with a local young ­woman, but ­because they had completely incompatible horoscopes, they and their parents did not move forward with the match. Another love match between suitable lineages failed to move forward ­because the potential bride’s ­family could not muster a large enough dowry, indicating a mismatch in the families’ economic statuses.

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Risks inherent in marriages persist ­after the ­couple weds. Waiting for lunch to be served at a local wedding, I sat and spoke with Telsie and her friend Greta-­miss, a retired school principal. All of us w ­ ere dressed in our best, and Telsie and Greta had on brightly colored saris edged with gold thread. Surrounded by the loud and festive crowd, Telsie and Greta talked about the importance of choosing the right son-­in-­law and daughter-­in-­law. Greta said that one had to consider how and by whom one wanted to be taken care of in one’s old age. In addition, one ran the risk of losing one’s child to “the other side.” Telsie and Greta compared the situation of Nilani, whose local daughter-­ in-­law lived at home with Nilani’s ­family, to Telsie, whose daughter-­in-­law had drawn Telsie’s only son far away to the daughter-­in-­law’s hometown of Negombo. Only half joking, Telsie groused, “What’s the use of this daughter-­ in-­law who w ­ on’t come to our weddings or almsgivings? But my son goes to all of her f­amily’s events!” C ­ hildren who fail to live where their parents have planned (particularly youn­gest or only sons) create uncertainty for elders and challenge the ideal patterns of social reproduction. A parent’s duties—­and worries—­extend beyond arranging a good marriage. At the conclusion of a conversation in 2016 with Indrani, I noted that all of her ­children w ­ ere married and all of her parental obligations fulfilled. She replied with a nod but remarked that her youn­gest son, who had married the previous year, still did not have a child. “That’s my one remaining worry,” she said. Happily, when I returned in 2017, the young ­couple had just had a baby, ensuring the continuity of the lineage and the presence of another member to accrue and repay care-­debt in the generalized reciprocity of the extended ­family.

The Importance of D ­ aughters Even though custom dictates that ­daughters leave their natal homes upon marriage, in many cases, families in Naeaegama do not follow this pattern. For example, if a ­family has only ­daughters, they ­will seek a groom who has no property of his own who could come to live at their home with their ­daughter. And even if d­ aughters marry “away” and move out of the village, parents still keep in touch with them. A young ­woman usually returns to her ­mother’s ­house for her first childbirth, coming before the birth and staying for several months afterward. Parents may even move in with ­daughters if other arrangements do not work out. For example, Perera (a ­house painter) and Chandrani had three ­daughters, whom they had raised in a small wooden ­house. They had planned to live with the youn­gest, a pretty, clever young ­woman, on their ­family property. For that d­ aughter to start a rope-­making business, Perera and Chandrani borrowed money from a program supporting small business ventures. The ­daughter then used some of the borrowed money to hold a wedding and took

Chaos Flower • 29

the rest with her when she left without warning her parents to live with her husband in far-­away Monaragala District. Her ­family then borrowed money (at 100 ­percent interest over a one-­year period) from a neighbor to repay the business loan, using the f­ amily’s property deed as collateral. Even though Perera, his wife, and their two other ­daughters worked hard to repay the loan, they eventually lost the land. Homeless, Perera and his wife moved in with their ­middle ­daughter, who had eloped against their wishes with an older man who lived up the street. Both sets of parents lived with the young c­ ouple and their three ­children. Defending his wayward youn­gest d­ aughter from Siri’s and my raised eyebrows, Perera noted that she sent them rice from her husband’s ­family’s farm. A local tragedy brought home for me the importance of ­daughters. Nandani (60  years old in 2015) had two sons and two d­ aughters. Sadly, both ­daughters and a grand­daughter drowned while on a plea­sure trip. Nandani and her husband had been staying with their ­daughter and son-­in-­law at their new cement ­house but moved in with one of Nandani’s s­ isters a­ fter the death. Their son-­in-­law remarried. When I spoke with Nandani, she said with tears in her eyes, “­Daughters are valuable.” Contradicting common conceptions, she said, “Sons come and go but ­daughters stay.” She then noted that her ­daughters w ­ ere taken before their time. Gesturing to a picture of her m ­ other, who had also recently passed away at the age of 90, Nandani said, “One expects one’s parents to die before oneself, but not one’s ­children.” Three years ­later, in 2018, I met another of Nandani’s ­sisters on the road. I had not seen her for quite some time, and the first news that she imparted was of Nandani’s loss. Even though ­daughters marry “out,” families still love and rely upon them as much or more than they do sons.

Adoption and Caring for Servants Care obligations exist outside of consanguineal and affinal relations. I knew of two cases in Naeaegama in which faithful, longtime servants w ­ ere given land by their patrons. For example, Helga’s ­family gave their servant land, which two of her adult ­children had divided between them ­after her death. The servant’s third child, disabled by polio in her youth, had lived for many years with some neighbors rather than with her siblings. ­A fter the neighbors closed up their main h ­ ouse, the disabled w ­ oman moved in with a d­ aughter of her host ­family rather than with her siblings. Implicit obligations to servants and adoptive kin are not always honored. For example, Chaturanga (an unmarried gay man) looked ­after Siri’s el­derly aunt Padma for many years. Many p­ eople, including Chaturanga, expected that Padma’s eldest son, who owned 3.5 acres of cinnamon land as well as other properties in the area, might gift Chaturanga with a small piece of land on which to build a h ­ ouse. However, Padma’s son did not provide this gift.

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In this same extended f­ amily, Padma’s elder s­ ister, unable to have ­children of her own, had a­ dopted a d­ aughter, Kanthi. Kanthi (age 54  in 2017) had hoped that the extended f­ amily would provide her with some property. Due to her elopement at age 16 with a man of the wrong subcaste, the ­family had largely shunned her; they had not provided her with ­family land, although she did own a ­house and property that she received through a government land distribution. The adoptive ­mother had lived in her old age with her ­sister, Padma, rather than with Kanthi, who had not been given the opportunity to provide care. (Kanthi spent sixteen years in the M ­ iddle East, so perhaps she was not around consistently when care was needed.) Kanthi claimed that Padma’s ­family had taken all of her adoptive m ­ other’s wealth and property; Padma’s ­children claimed that their aunt’s funds ­were exhausted long before she passed away, and they supported her from their own money for the last years of her life. The tenuous nature of the adoption, combined with the “wrong,” downwardly mobile marriage and per­sis­tent poverty, worked against Kanthi’s claim to receive ­family land and offer and receive care from her adoptive parents. In this case, f­ amily tensions and concerns about social status disrupted reciprocal relations of care and inheritance.

Fictive Kinship Given the importance of kinship in structuring relationships in Naeaegama and elsewhere in South Asia, perhaps it should come as no surprise that p­ eople extend kin terms (and, by association, care obligations) to refer to individuals who are not “­really” relatives. Acquaintances often use kin terms when speaking with or about someone who is not actually kin. My language instructors taught me that one rarely uses someone’s name without attaching a kin term or honorific. In hierarchical relationships, one might modify a teacher’s name by adding “Sir” or “Miss” to it, as every­one did, for example, when referring to Greta-­miss, the retired school principal. Elders and respected p­ eople have “mahaththaya” (Mr., Sir) or “nona-­mahaththaya” (Mrs., Madam) appended. Friends and acquaintances may have kin terms added to their names, even though no ­actual kinship exists; for example, I called Siri “Siri-­ayya” (elder ­brother) and Telsie “Telsie-­akka” (elder s­ ister). Friends and acquaintances in my generation in Naeaegama put some energy into figuring out my age so as to know w ­ hether to call me “older s­ister” or “younger ­sister.” In short, using a name without a kin term or honorific sounds bald and impolite. In contrast, one can rarely go wrong with an honorific; indeed, someone in a hurry might rely solely on a well-­meant, respectful honorific instead of a name.

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Kin Terms Are Mushy Having laboriously gathered the appropriate kinship terms in the pro­cess of learning Sinhala, an anthropologist might justifiably feel confused when faced with p­ eople’s ­actual usage of kin terms in Naeaegama. Drawing on one ­family’s practice during one visit, I observed the following oddities. Shanthini called her youn­gest ­daughter “puta” (son) to express extreme love, using a “wrong” but more prestigious gender term. Nilani (Shanthini’s mother-­in-­ law) spoke to the older grand­daughter in the voice of the younger one (at that time only 10 months old and unable to talk); she called the older grand­daughter “akka” (older ­sister) to model the right terminology. But Nilani herself called Shanthini “du” (­daughter) rather than “leeli” (daughter-­in-­law). Echoing this same change, Shanthini called her mother-­in-­law’s ­sister’s ­daughter “akka” (elder ­sister), merging herself as Nilani’s ­daughter rather than her daughter-­in-­law. In the instances of “mistaken” usage, I believe that the speakers shift the terminology to indicate emotional closeness, with sons being structurally closer and more valuable than ­daughters, but ­daughters being closer than daughters-­in-­law. I observed the complimentary shift from “daughter-­in-­law” to “­daughter” on numerous occasions, and it seemed from the context that the expectation of care and love was greater between consanguineal kin (kin related by blood) than between affines (kin related through marriage). Other researchers in Sri Lanka and South Asia have noted similar slippage. For example, Stirrat (1977, 273) notes the slippage to turn affinal relatives (relatives by marriage) into consanguineal relatives (relatives by blood). And Coralynn Davis (2014, 190n5), writing of Maithil w ­ omen in southeast Nepal, observes, “It is not uncommon for daughters-­in-­law, as a sign of closeness and affection, to call their female in-­laws by natal kin terms corresponding to ­those their husbands would use to address t­ hose relations.” Shanthini called her mother-­in-­law “­mother,” indexing their close relationship. Conversely, in a less solidary h ­ ouse­hold, the daughter-­in-­law called her mother-­in-­law “aunty” (in En­glish), a translation for the term “naenda” (aunt/mother-­in-­law). In ­these cases, blood relatives are deemed closer than relatives related through marriage, and ­people express their re­spect and affection (or lack thereof) through their choice of kin terms. Kin terms do much more than describe a fixed relationship; they set an emotional valence around a conversation. Terminological shifts also occurred between married and courting ­couples. For example, the married c­ouple who ran the Nivaasaya old folks’ home referred to each other as “ayya” (older ­brother) and “nangi” (younger ­sister), which initially caused me some confusion. This pattern echoes one commonly found on university campuses in Sri Lanka. For example, Mihirini Sirisena (2018, 77) and Eshani Ruwanpura (2011, 97, 103) note that c­ ouples in Sri Lankan universities refer to each other as older ­brother and younger s­ ister—­categories

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that should be barred from having relationships ­because to do so would be incest (Stirrat 1977, 284). In ­these romantic relationships, as Ruwanpura (2011, 136) notes, cross-­cousin (marriageable) terms are merged to parallel cousin (sibling) terms, even though cross-­cousins would be the correct kin to marry. Ruwanpura (2011) also notes that older male and younger female students can be in romantic relationships, but ­couple relationships between older ­women and younger men (akkas and mallis) are nearly unthinkable; if the ­woman does happen to be older than her boyfriend, the ­couple ­will switch to inaccurate but socially acceptable terms. Conversely, university students who interact as akkas and mallis can have casual and even intimate contacts without threatening the w ­ oman’s reputation or causing undue gossip. Th ­ ese examples illustrate the complicated ways in which the use of kin terms set guidelines for everyday relationships and shape the emotional valences for social interactions. ­People I knew in Naeaegama could precisely place kin within a wide web of intermarrying lineages and provide the exact term to designate the official relationship. As an elder from a ­family that had lived in the village for over a ­century, Siri held knowledge of seven generations of the local Halaagama caste’s kinship, which he charted for me in 1992 on several huge pieces of butcher-­block paper. Even within a community that deeply prized knowledge about descent and alliance, Siri was a kinship maestro. Neighbors and acquaintances arranging marriages or consolidating shares of f­amily land sometimes consulted him if they needed to figure out exactly how they w ­ ere related to distant relatives. Perhaps it comes as no surprise that ­people who prize kinship knowledge might use kin terms not only to describe relationships but also to create them. Villa­gers agentively applied kin terms to generate desired types of relationships, even though the usages sometimes ­violated biological realities, gender norms, and incest taboos. The slippages generated emotional proximity or distance, moved ­family members “up” or “down” a notch on the closeness scale, extended fictive kinship to friends and acquaintances, and delineated which individuals ­were suitable marriage partners and which ones could safely be friends.

They Are Our Kids Once c­ ouples marry, they usually have c­ hildren. Families work hard to take good care of their offspring. Parents often dedicate enormous amounts of funding to purchase tutorials (locally known as “tuition” classes) for students studying for exams, and they save for years to ensure that d­ aughters have adequate dowries and their sons have land and h ­ ouses. Even though mi­grant parents often miss being pre­sent for their c­ hildren’s childhoods, they say that they have sacrificed and worked abroad in order to acquire the resources to

Chaos Flower • 33

provide a good ­future for their offspring (M. Gamburd 2000, 2003). All of ­these efforts promote the long-­term social reproduction of the f­ amily. Kinship and care work evoke emotions, and ­children often bring a ­great deal of joy to their relatives. Perhaps in counterweight to excesses of affection, parents may nickname their c­hildren with slightly thorny monikers. For example, Shanthini’s eldest ­daughter earned the nickname “Chaos Flower” (katchal-­mala, a pun on her real name). Despite the literal chaos caused by the talkative, energetic youngster, her grand­mother Nilani affectionately told me in 2015 that “the ­little chatterbox keeps my mind off my illnesses and my sorrows,” referring to the recent death of her husband. When nuclear families can no longer guarantee the well-­being of youngsters, the extended ­family often steps in. For example, Aravinda, an up-­and-­ coming local businessman and politician, died in a vehicle accident in 2012. The entire community felt this loss keenly, and a village committee renamed a local road in his honor. The youn­gest and most successful of three sons, he had lived with his wife and two d­ aughters in his m ­ other’s home. His elder b­ rothers also lived in Naeaegama. Aravinda’s eldest ­brother, Samira, and his wife, Tharaki, had no ­children of their own. Aravinda’s w ­ idow worked full time as a nurse to provide an income for herself, her ­daughters, and Aravinda’s el­derly ­mother. ­Because Aravinda’s ­widow was often away from home, her sister-­in-­law and brother-­in-­law, Tharaki and Samira, assumed many of the parenting duties for their two young nieces. Tharaki took them to tuition classes; Samira bought the eldest a bicycle. Tharaki said that she had de­cided not to go back to a good job in the ­Middle East ­because she needed to look a­ fter the ­children. During an interview, we sat on Tharaki and Samira’s wide front porch, looking out on the verdant green cinnamon garden that surrounded their home. The two ­little girls ran in and out of the yard, playing with neighborhood ­children. “­Those girls are like your kids,” I observed. Tharaki corrected me: “They are our kids.” Her use of kin terms indicated a closeness that exceeded that of surrogate parents. And actions echoed enunciations; when Samira returned home from a brief errand, one child raced across the yard and plastered herself lovingly to his long legs. I asked Samira if the c­ hildren would look a­ fter him in his old age. “I think so,” he replied with a smile. “She [nodding to Tharaki] ­doesn’t have any kids, but we are helping ­these relatives.” He seemed to thrive in the role of “good son” and “­father” that he assumed ­after his youn­gest ­brother’s death. Social reproduction in any context requires constant inputs of care. Mary Weismantel (1995) discusses adoption in the Andes, noting that ­there, all parents (not just adoptive ones) make ­children their own by raising them, feeding them, having them play in their yard, taking care of their medical expenses, and, presumably, buying them bicycles. In the Andes, c­ hildren do

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not automatically “belong” to anyone, even their biological parents; parenting is an ongoing activity rather than a one-­time fact. In Naeaegama, the lineage and the extended f­ amily are bigger than the nuclear ­family; “we” and “our ­children” can stretch or shrink according to the work, effort, and time one puts in. ­Children distribute themselves, or get distributed by adults, according to the needs of multiple generations, and in many cases, offspring do not live exclusively with their blood relatives. For example, Janaki and Lalith had a deaf grand­daughter who lived with her deaf ­mother (the second of Janaki and Lalith’s four ­daughters) in a home that the youn­gest ­daughter had financed. Speaking of the deaf grand­daughter, Janaki said, “She comes home at night to sleep, but other­wise she is over t­ here (gesturing up the lane) with Irangani.” Irangani, Lalith’s unmarried s­ ister, had no ­children of her own but lived in the palatial, somewhat dilapidated ancestral home and looked ­after two of her ­brothers, one unmarried and one divorced. In that same ­family, Janaki’s youn­ gest d­ aughter owned the h ­ ouse that her parents and deaf s­ ister lived in. However, she and her husband w ­ ere living nearby with her husband’s aunt and ­uncle, who had no ­children of their own. Lalith and Janaki’s extended ­family had distributed members through multiple h ­ ouse­holds to maximize the giving and receiving of care. In the Dravidian kinship system, at the grandparent generation, the terminology partially merges what Euro-­A mericans would call “real” grandparents with great-­aunts and great-­uncles. Similarly, at the grand­child generation, the terminology merges grandchildren with great-­nieces and great-­nephews. In Indrani’s ­house, Indrani’s brother-­in-­law, Lal, had spent many years helping raise the c­hildren while Indrani worked in the ­Middle East. Lal had no ­children of his own, but his niece and nephews adored him, and the ­children of his niece and nephews called him “grand­father.” One nephew had died in an automobile accident, and his ­widow and young son lived in Lal’s ­house and would likely inherit the home a­ fter Lal’s death. In this case, practice and terminology both merged great-­uncle with grand­father. Lal is the youngster’s grand­father. In the serious game of social reproduction, families move ­people around so that ­people who need care can receive it and ­people who can give care have ­children or elders to look a­ fter. The Dravidian kinship terminology is flexible enough to accommodate multiple arrangements, and if sometimes the terms do not quite fit, ­people use dif­fer­ent terms to indicate increased closeness.

Kinless, Lonely, or Estranged from ­Family: Care Dilemmas Having examined the importance of marriage and the value of offspring, it comes as no surprise that p­ eople in Naeaegama worry about individuals who have no c­ hildren, ­whether never-­married or other­wise childless. Although

Chaos Flower • 35

such ­people might be okay for the moment (in their youthful vigor), relatives, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances assume that their f­ uture ­will be lonely and bleak. For example, Telsie favorably compared the prospects of Sisira, who was married and living with his wife and child in Italy, to that of Sisira’s ­sister, who lived with her husband and f­ ather but had no c­ hildren. Similarly, when Telsie evaluated the life choices and likely ­futures of Dina’s three ­children, their marital and parental statuses figured heavi­ly. Telsie thought that Dina’s youn­gest ­daughter, who was married to a gem merchant and had three ­children of her own, was the best off. Telsie deemed the other ­daughter (an unmarried engineer) and the son (a recently returned Gulf mi­grant, married with no ­children) as less lucky; despite their clear success in financial and economic realms, Telsie said that the elder two ­children “had nothing.” When Dina’s son and daughter-­in-­law had a baby ­daughter the following year, Telsie felt that their ­future security was greatly improved. Having kin willing to assume care responsibilities in one’s old age provided a mea­sure of security. For example, Siri’s cousin Helga had never married, but had lived most of her adult life with her s­ister and her ­sister’s husband and three c­ hildren. I had a discussion with Helga (who was in her eighties) about her ­sister’s two d­ aughters, both of whom w ­ ere also unmarried. Helga thought that she herself had lived happily with her s­ister’s f­amily despite not being married. She also thought that her two nieces w ­ ere okay for the moment and would be so even a­ fter Helga and her s­ ister had passed away. “They w ­ ill have the ­house and each other,” she said. However, she worried that “the girls” had no ­children to look ­after them when they ­were older. Their ­brother was married and had one child, but his ­family lived in Dubai and his only child might have her hands full looking a­ fter her own parents. Similarly, speaking of her two unmarried ­daughters, another villa­ger knew that her ­daughters would look a­ fter her but worried about who would look ­after them. “They have no ­future,” she lamented. In a social structure that distributed care through kinship relations, ­those who lacked close ties with younger kin faced an uncertain f­ uture. Unmarried and childless myself, I found that my life choices garnered quite a bit of curiosity and criticism in Naeaegama. Within the first few minutes of any conversation with a stranger, my marital status came up. (This conversational trajectory did not apply uniquely to me; Sri Lankans play “who” with strangers, and ­family connections are just as often asked about as age, employment, or country of origin.) In Naeaegama, longtime acquaintances nagged me with increasing insistence through my late twenties and thirties regarding my unmarried status. “Why h ­ aven’t your parents found you a husband?” one interlocutor asked, aghast. Even though I am now in my early fifties, ­people still say (with a worried frown) that “it’s not too late” for me to wed; they unambiguously feel I would have been better off with a spouse.

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In Naeaegama as elsewhere in the world, however, having ­children does not necessarily ensure that one ­will live with f­ amily or that kin relationships ­will be copacetic. For example, widower Gnanasiri, a short, fit, curly-­haired cinnamon peeler in his sixties, had three c­ hildren. All three w ­ ere married and had ­children of their own, but none of them lived with Gnanasiri in the ­family’s ancestral home. Nonetheless, Gnanasiri cultivated close relationships with his kin and would likely live with a son and daughter-­in-­law in the ­future. One day in 2016, when I was visiting Gnanasiri’s el­derly neighbors, Gnanasiri returned from delivering rambutan fruits to all eight of his grandkids and joined our conversation. Siri and I w ­ ere interviewing Hema (age 78) and Albert (age 83  in 2016), a Berava-­caste ­couple. Hema and Albert had eight ­children, six of whom ­were still alive. Of their sons, Hema said that all ­were “quin­tes­sen­tial drunkards.” The old c­ ouple lived with one of their grand­sons, age 20, whom they had ­adopted when his m ­ other could not raise him. A heavy drinker, the young man caused many prob­lems for his grandparents. Hema and Albert received occasional support from a widowed daughter-­in-­law (herself equally poor) and subsisted precariously on the small sums of money Albert earned as a carpenter; their ­house­hold lacked responsible members of the sandwich generation. Gnanasiri’s protective attitude and the familiarity with which he walked in the door gave me the impression that he recognized the older ­couple’s vulnerability and looked in on his el­derly neighbors regularly. In this case, neighbors stepped in to provide some support. As in any community, in Naeaegama, p­ eople fight with their siblings or grow estranged from their ­children in ways that affect care relationships. For example, Anura’s parents fought with him and his wife, mainly, I suspect, ­because Anura had married a ­woman of a lower subcaste; the parents moved out of the village and found shelter working as assistants in an old folks’ home in Anuradhapura. In another case, a mi­grant and her husband divorced. She spent many years working in the ­Middle East. Community members speculated about potential awkwardness for their three sons, who would have to figure out how to take care of both parents when neither wanted to live with the other. And in a third case, Amarasinghe, a feisty man who loved a good confrontation, took his estranged eldest son to court and won a case for financial support. Merely having relatives does not necessarily mean one can easily or automatically collect on the “entrustment” and care-­debt that c­ hildren owe parents. When one set of kin relationships does not work out, ­others can evolve. For example, Thushari stubbornly lived in an unfinished ­house on her f­amily’s ancestral land, despite an ongoing fight with her b­ rothers who also occupied the same property. Her son, who stood to inherit the land, lived elsewhere with his wife. However, Thushari did not live alone. Her dead husband’s divorced ­brother, Diison (and, sometimes, Diison’s girlfriend), stayed in Thushari’s ­house

Chaos Flower • 37

and lent her their support. Thushari told me that some p­ eople criticized her for housing her brother-­in-­law and his lover. “He pays the ­water and electric bills, he cooks, and he sweeps the compound!” she said defiantly, clearly valuing the financial assistance he provided and the ­house­hold chores he assumed. In turn, Diison valued the shelter and was happy to provide support and security for his impoverished sister-­in-­law. What can and should unmarried, childless, or estranged p­ eople do to be sure that they have care in their ­future? Clearly, many ­people in the Naeaegama area remain unmarried or get divorced, and yet most have found comfortable situations living with siblings, in-­laws, nieces, and nephews. Lalith suggested that single elders, particularly ­those who did not have government pensions, needed to think carefully about their f­ utures, distributing property to ­family members who would help them and moderating their own be­hav­ior so as not to alienate their kin. Perhaps as an indirect comment to Siri, Lalith offered the example of a heavy-­drinking old man, saying that such a man should not be surprised if his ­children refused to look ­after him in his old age; ­those who broke the implicit rules of social interaction could find themselves without assistance in the ­future. However, kin remained the caregivers of choice and usually fulfilled their obligations.

Conclusion Throughout the world, cultures create kinship systems that form the blueprint for social structures and set the norms for many interpersonal interactions. One could think of f­ amily as a “team” through which p­ eople engage in the serious game of social reproduction, taking care of the everyday needs of all the members while also looking ­a fter long-­term stability and prosperity for the f­ amily unit. In Naeaegama, kinship-­based patterns regulate how families distribute p­ eople through space, with d­ aughters marrying “out” and daughters-­in-­law marrying “in.” Kin terms correspond with social roles, strongly suggesting how individuals in vari­ous categories interact, including how they look a­ fter each other on a daily basis as well as their long-­term intergenerational responsibilities and obligations to one another. Kinship structures form the basis not only of f­ amily relations but also of lineage and caste solidarities; kinship provides the backbone for many social, po­liti­cal, and financial relationships. Given the importance of kinship in Naeaegama, it may come as no surprise that ­people agentively manipulate the structures to accomplish proj­ects in any serious game that involves linked lives or social reproduction. In par­tic­u­lar, through the creative use of kinship terms, ­people can adjust and modify the ­family team. They can, for example, extend membership to fictive kin and use kin-­based honorifics to recruit acquaintances to interact in a “­family” sphere,

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where individuals have moral obligations to support each other and no financial accounting is kept of credit and debt. They can also manipulate terms to clarify who is a potential boyfriend and who is an ordinary friend, accommodate orphaned ­children, account for “wrong” marriages, and take care of relatives who have no descendants. On a smaller scale, they can “misuse” kin terms within the ­family to create greater closeness and express or request additional emotional solidarity. In other words, ­people use kin terms not only to describe existing relationships but also to create or modify relationships, shaping them into what they desire or need.

3

Weighing Financial Opportunities Migration, Remittances, or a Helping Hand? In the long-­term proj­ect of social reproduction, families weigh financial needs against care obligations. Working outside the home (and, especially, working abroad) often means that a f­ amily member cannot provide intimate care for elders and c­ hildren. Janaki-­miss, a retired female school principal from a cash-­strapped but respected f­ amily, and her husband, Lalith, a retired policeman, welcomed me frequently into their crowded, busy home. One day, while talking with me and Siri about care issues, Janaki ruminated on the difficulty of procuring help. She said, “My d­ aughters come home from work at 8:00 p.m. How can they look a­ fter me and my husband? They w ­ ill have to pay someone. But you ­can’t find a servant. All the local ­people are seeing to their own kids or they have gone abroad. The grand­mothers are all looking a­ fter their grandkids, so you ­can’t hire them. And t­ hose p­ eople c­ an’t put their grandkids in daycare and look ­after us!” Janaki’s statement implicitly points out the dilemmas caused by the dwindling of available caregivers brought about by l­ abor migration and the growing numbers of ­women in the workforce. As the demographic shift continues, challenges in providing care for elders and ­children ­will grow in Sri Lanka as they have in other parts of the world (D. Brown 2013; Rodríguez-­Galán 2013). 39

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Not only w ­ omen but also men worried about balancing l­abor migration with care work. Roshan (age 38) had given up a lucrative position in ­Korea to engage more deeply in his sons’ upbringing in Sri Lanka. I spoke with him in 2016, a week ­after his return from spending six of the past ten years at a factory making parts for Hyundai cars. While Roshan worked out of the country, his mother-­in-­law had stayed with the f­ amily to provide security and preserve his wife’s reputation. The tall, earnest, curly-­haired Roshan showed me an a­ lbum of pictures from his time in ­Korea, including one of the stack of luggage he and two traveling companions had brought home. He said he was sad to leave his job. “But now my duty is at home. When I was small, I d­ idn’t have good guidance,” he said, reminding me of the long discussion I had had with him and his siblings several years prior. “Now I want to be ­here for my kids. It’s time.” His eldest son, 2 weeks old when Roshan first went abroad, had recently turned 10. Working weekends and overtime in ­Korea, Roshan had earned about US$1,000 a month—­not a fortune in US terms but an excellent wage (comparable to what a top executive might make in Sri Lanka) when converted to rupees. With his remittance money, he enlarged the h ­ ouse his ­father had started for him and purchased several additional plots of land. He also invested in a computer for his wife so that he could keep in touch with his f­ amily by Skype. In addition, the f­ amily spent about US$200 a month (comparable to a middle-­class, white-­collar worker’s salary) on tutorial classes for his 10-­year-­old, who was studying for his fifth-­year scholarship exam. If the boy did well on that test, the ­family could enroll him in the best school in the area. In all of ­these ways, Roshan’s remittances had improved the long-­term well-­being of the f­ amily. In addition to spending time with his sons, Roshan also spoke of his care obligations ­toward his f­ ather, Gnanasiri, a cinnamon peeler who lived alone in the old f­ amily home (and, as introduced in the prior chapter, protectively looked ­after his aging Berava-­caste neighbors). “Both my ­brother and I are looking a­ fter our f­ ather. A ­ fter all, he looked a­ fter us! But still to this day my ­father is giving ­things to me. He has never asked me for a cent, even though I have been to ­Korea.” Explaining the intergenerational expression of care through the idiom of food, Roshan continued, “He brings cookies and fruit for the c­ hildren when he comes to visit. I ask him, ‘­Father, have you eaten?’ and if not, he w ­ ill eat ­here.” A man at the height of his earning capacity, Roshan had clearly weighed his financial obligations against his caregiving obligations and de­cided to stay closer to home. Like Janaki, many elders in Naeaegama anticipated the difficulty of finding care. And like Roshan, many ­people faced the dilemmas involved in “global h ­ ouse­holding” (Douglass 2014, 313), choosing between migration and remittance, on the one hand, and ­doing care work, on the other. Currently,

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 41

the burden of care is shouldered by the sandwich generation, the working-­age population that looks ­after both ­children and elders. Coincidentally, ­people in this demographic group also make up the bulk of the transnational domestic workers who sojourn in the Gulf, remitting much-­needed foreign exchange. In this chapter, I ask how p­ eople’s choices about migration and remittance practices influence f­amily relationships and how changing f­amily structures and care needs affect migration strategies. I focus on intergenerational obligations, examining what happens when migration comes into conflict with gendered kinship duties to care for needy ­children and elders. I examine how structure and agency interact as ­people juggle equally valuable but mutually incompatible priorities in the serious game of social reproduction. Striving not only to “get by” at home but also to “get ahead” by g­ oing abroad, Naeaegama actors navigate between existing social structures and individual initiatives, si­mul­ta­neously reproducing and transforming the game. In Sri Lanka as elsewhere in the developing world, choices about migration depend not only on individual whims and f­amily conversations but also on wider structures and pro­cesses (Hoang and Yeoh 2015b; Yea 2015). Large-­scale, long-­term economic and po­liti­cal trends provide context for local care practices. Sri Lankans make care choices against a backdrop that includes the country’s integration into the international economy (particularly the long-­standing trends in ­labor migration and state regulation thereof), an ongoing demographic shift t­oward an older population, and the country’s long and brutal civil war (1983–2009) and ongoing ethnic tensions (Haniffa 2016). Changes in the larger social context affect relations in the f­amily. Understanding care as a pro­cess and an always emerging practice captures its relationship to wider social, economic, and po­liti­cal contexts.

Elders’ Financial Needs and Economic Activity How do families prioritize the importance of remittances and care work? Successfully providing both financial support and day-­to-­day care for all members of the ­family forms the central proj­ect of social reproduction. In a report on aging in Sri Lanka, the World Bank (2008, iii–iv) notes the need to figure out income sources for the el­derly and to get older workers back into the l­ abor force. I suggest that the evaluation of elders’ economic activity must happen on a ­family or h ­ ouse­hold basis rather than on an individual basis, in contexts such as South Asia, where ­people often live in extended families and the ­family serves as a unit of economic activity. As numerous scholars have pointed out (Kreager and Schröder-­Butterfill 2015), elders around the world might not engage in wage work, but their domestic ­labor often enables other ­family members to work locally or abroad. In Sri Lanka, grandparents regularly look a­ fter grandchildren. For example,

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one Naeaegama grand­mother never held a formal job but spent twenty years looking a­ fter half a dozen youngsters while her ­daughter and two daughters-­ in-­law worked abroad; her care work enabled ­women in the sandwich generation to send remittances home, with which the ­family bought several parcels of land and built several h ­ ouses. The age of 65 represents a cutoff point for calculating the de­pen­dency ratio. The de­pen­dency ratio is “the number of young and el­derly ­people in a population divided by the total adult population. The larger the de­pen­dency ratio is, the greater the burden on the average adult ­because the needs of the dependents must be met by the rest of the adult population” (Crossman 2018). In other words, the de­pen­dency ratio gives a quick overview of the proportions of the population that are deemed to provide support (­those between 15 and 65) and to require support (­those younger than 15 and older than 65). As the demographic shift progresses, ­people not only live longer but remain active further into old age. Although the de­pen­dency ratio provides a useful mea­sure for large-­scale comparisons, the age of 65 does not necessarily represent a point at which an individual ceases to provide financially for a f­ amily or ceases to give but instead needs or receives care. A number of el­derly in­for­mants in Naeaegama made clear that they received much less financial and social support from their families than they provided. For example, a retired military officer noted that even though he had provided lavish dowries for his four d­ aughters when he sent them to their in-­laws’ homes, all had returned to his house—­with their husbands and c­ hildren—­significantly draining the h ­ ouse­hold coffers. “I have no peace and quiet to sleep, let alone to meditate,” he grumbled acerbically, and he lamented the lack of money in his savings account. When grandparents provide food and lodging or enhance a ­family’s economic status by facilitating migration, they perform a financially significant function. I consider such eco­ nom­ically active elders not a burden but rather an asset to the ­family. Conversely, as Peter Lloyd-­Sherlock and Catherine Locke (2008, 791) point out, it is prob­lem ­children who can provide “a prevalent source of unhappiness and vulnerability among older p­ eople.” As part of the f­ amily “team,” kin of all ages are deeply invested in the social reproduction of the extended ­family. Despite financial reserves and the possibility of working past the age of 65, many elders fear penury in their old age. In a survey done in 1990, Sri Lankan elders selected low economic status as their primary prob­lem (Kaiser and Chawla 1993; Kaiser and Chawla 1994, 47). Many mi­grants in Naeaegama went abroad explic­itly to address this sort of f­ amily predicament. And remittances do aid the extended f­ amily. For example, a study in Bangladesh found that migration improved both the financial status and the health of mi­grants’ parents (Kuhn 2005, 204). Tensions can arise as families strategize about how best to deploy their available resources. Locke and Lloyd-­Sherlock (2011, 1132) note that in developing

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 43

countries, “Existing expectations and experiences of life stages are often changing rapidly.” Pressures on ­these expectations arise through the conjuncture of the demographic transformation and ever-­increasing integration into the international l­abor market in Sri Lanka as elsewhere in Asia (Huijsmans 2013, 1896). As their parents age, Sri Lankan mi­grants (particularly w ­ omen) must choose ­whether to go abroad and earn money for the f­ amily or to remain home and care for their relatives. The remainder of this chapter covers normative expectations and practical negotiations in Naeaegama as ­people strug­gle to fulfill conflicting kinship duties in light of population aging and widespread female migration.

A Methodological Note: Scenarios When I first began research on the topic of aging, I found it difficult to broach topics of kinship duties and elder care directly ­because many of the questions I wanted to ask probed intimate emotional and financial m ­ atters. Therefore, Siri and I employed an indirect approach. We asked our interviewees to comment on twelve fictional scenarios, eight of which I discuss in this book and three of which I cover in this chapter. We asked that for each scenario, our interviewees consider what they thought the ­people in the scenario should do and why. We asked this of all interviewees. When it felt appropriate, we asked ­whether the interviewee knew of any a­ ctual cases of this sort. In some circumstances, ­people volunteered information about a situation in their own f­ amily. In such cases, we let p­ eople provide as much or as ­little information as they saw fit. Using this strategy, we garnered rich data without making intrusive requests for personal information, and our interlocutors could avoid what they perceived as sensitive subjects without refusing to answer a question. As a research technique, the use of scenarios offers both advantages and disadvantages. On the positive side, scenarios can trigger nuanced replies with lower risks of bias ­because respondents can discuss the topic without revealing private details. On the negative side, this approach may elicit normative responses. As ethnographers commonly note, what p­ eople say they would do in an ideal case often differs from what they actually do when confronting a real situation. Therefore, I pre­sent real cases from Naeaegama ­here to add nuance to villa­gers’ discussions of the scenarios.

Scenarios #1 and #2: Breadwinning vs. Care Work How do p­ eople in Naeaegama balance the need to care for elders against the necessity of generating financial resources for a f­ amily? Siri and I explored this issue through scenario #1, which ran like this: “A husband and wife both have good jobs in Sri Lanka. One member of the c­ouple has an aging ­mother.

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When she was able, the aging ­mother cared for the ­couple’s ­children. Now she is ill and needs to receive care herself.” We described the fictitious situation and asked our in­for­mants, “How should the aging ­mother be cared for and who should do it?” We added an ele­ment of transnational migration in scenario #2, which ran like this: “A mi­grant m ­ other is working abroad. Her mother-­in-­law, who has been caring for the ­children, falls ill.” We described the situation and asked our in­for­mants, “Should the mi­grant return?” In both cases, an elder who has facilitated economic activities by providing childcare has reached a state in which she must call on her f­ amily to reciprocate many years of kin work. Discussions of t­ hese scenarios revealed local norms and values surrounding filial duties, social reproduction, social and financial resources, social protection, and the risk of insufficient care for ­children and elders.

Filial Duties In­for­mants uniformly agreed that the f­ amily members in both scenarios had moral obligations to care for the ailing relative. In their responses, they frequently used the words “must” and “duty.” For example, Janaki remarked about scenario #1, “They must look ­after her. It is a duty, and only rarely would someone refuse to do that job.” The village t­emple’s se­nior Buddhist monk, Mahanama Thero, said that he understood the economic need to hold a job but thought that looking ­after the elder oneself held intrinsic value and generated karmic merit. ­People in Naeaegama praised and honored p­ eople who looked ­after their parents. For example, Lalini and her contractor husband thought the f­ amily members should take care of the aging relative themselves rather than hire someone. Lalini’s husband said, “We would do it willingly/eagerly for our own relative.” He thought of caring for el­derly ­family members as a duty and a plea­sure. By fulfilling such obligations, community members earn social prestige in Naeaegama, where neighbors usually know what happens in each other’s homes. Turning to an ­actual example, Lalani and her husband noted that Siri had cared for both his m ­ other and his f­ ather. His f­ ather had recently passed away in the ­family home at the age of 96. Siri had foregone formal employment to look a­ fter his ­father; the ­family subsisted on Siri’s wife’s earnings and his ­father’s pension. During our research, many of our other in­for­mants remarked positively on the ser­vice that Siri and his wife had provided for his parents. In ­these cases, social norms and religious traditions reinforce the ethic of ­family responsibility for elders. Discussing the scenarios, in­for­mants often distinguished between acute but short-­duration situations (a f­ amily member near death, recovering from a

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 45

broken leg, or about to undergo a serious operation) and chronic situations requiring long-­term care (blindness or dementia). To care for acute illnesses, they advised a short-­term leave for the c­ ouple in scenario #1 (if no one at home could deal with the prob­lem) and a short return from the Gulf by the mi­grant in scenario #2. For example, Rosalin, an impoverished el­derly ­woman living alone, suggested that a mi­grant should come home if the grand­mother ­were critically sick. Similarly, while peeling cinnamon with her husband in a small shed at the back of Siri’s property, Shiromali said that the wife in scenario #1 needed to take the ailing elder to the hospital. Shiromali’s husband, Indika, nuanced the situation, noting that if the elder required long-­term care, the ­couple should hire someone for a reasonable salary to look ­after the ­mother, without quitting their jobs. In­for­mants expressed a consensus that, when pos­ si­ble, p­ eople in the scenarios should fulfill their filial responsibilities with short-­term leave, without endangering their prospects of long-­term employment. ­These statements reveal that in Naeaegama as elsewhere in the world, ­people approach global ­house­holding as a holistic strategy involving the “translocal production of social security by mi­grants and their families” (Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013b, 1886). House­holding required keeping an eye on both long-­term and short-­term needs in the proj­ect of social reproduction.

Financial Resources In­for­mants invariably asked about the financial resources of the families in the fictive scenarios. Reflecting local realities, most in­for­mants assumed that the ­family of the mi­grant in scenario #2 required her remittances to survive. Referring to this scenario, retired male schoolteacher Dayawansa said of the mi­grant, “She ­can’t leave her job and come home, ­because the ­family income would go down. If she ­didn’t need money, she ­wouldn’t have gone abroad in the first place, would she?” Similarly, police officer Anura said, “If she comes home and she was the one who was supporting her husband and kids, then ­they’ll have economic prob­lems. The husband can look a­ fter every­thing at home if he is good and can control the money that she sends. If the wife comes home, the f­amily ­will have no income. Every­one depends on her money.” Along t­ hese lines, Malani (the middle-­aged ­woman astrologer with the five large dogs introduced in chapter 2) remarked, “If someone h ­ ere can look a­ fter the sick person for pay, it is better for the mi­grant to stay abroad. If the w ­ oman comes home, she can help the person, but t­ here ­will be no money, so the f­ amily ­will start to have prob­lems.” Amarasinghe (an 85-­year-­old man recovering from a debilitating stroke) summed it up this way: “The ­woman should stay abroad and send money. It would be foolish to come home.” In all of t­ hese cases, my interlocutors saw mi­grant remittances as key to f­amily well-­being. The obligation to maintain financial stability for the ­whole ­family trumped the mi­grant’s individual duty to provide personal care to the ailing elder.

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Naeaegama residents used similar values to assess the success and failure of local migration endeavors. For example, Lakmini was an out­spoken 52-­year-­old ­mother of four who, despite having worked for more than a dozen years in the Gulf, still lived in an unfinished cement ­house. In 2005, she blamed her ­daughter’s five failed migration attempts for the ­family’s poverty and continued debt. She said, “My d­ aughter keeps g­ oing abroad and coming home ­after only one year. If she is ­going to go abroad, she should go and stay ­there, even if she is suffering.” Lakmini had provided the money for her ­daughter’s endeavors. To give some historical context, in the early 2000s, breaking a ­labor contract was detrimental to a mi­grant; if a domestic servant left her job early, she often had to pay for her ticket home out of her savings and then had to pay the recruitment fees for another job. In contrast, ­women who completed their terms of ser­vice successfully could at that time renew their contracts without charge and receive ­free round-­trip tickets from their employers for a month-­long vacation in Sri Lanka. Changes implemented within the past de­cade have ensured that mi­grant female domestic laborers no longer pay recruitment fees but instead receive a recruitment bonus when they accept an overseas job. Nevertheless, choices about early return continue to have significant adverse financial effects on entire families, and ­people usually encourage mi­grants to complete their contracts. In­for­mants’ discussions of ­family income in scenario #1 included slightly more nuance, given that the scenario included two earner/caregivers and each one worked locally rather than in the Gulf. Nevertheless, villa­gers felt that both members of the c­ ouple should, if pos­si­ble, continue to work. Ramani, a returned mi­grant and ­mother of five, noted, “They need to keep their jobs. ­These days you need two salaries to live and to take care of a ­family. So they should get a servant.” Similarly, the el­derly man Amarasinghe expressed his opinion: “They need to keep their jobs, other­wise how ­will they all eat? If someone quits a job, it’s not good for e­ither the old parent or the young ­couple.” Maintaining a stable income again superseded other familial duties and responsibilities. The ­actual strategies employed in Amarasinghe’s ­family mirrored ­those in both scenarios. Amarasinghe’s two sons and two d­ aughters had all worked abroad at some point. One ­daughter sent occasional financial support from Cyprus and had not returned to Sri Lanka despite her f­ ather’s stroke. Amarasinghe lived with his youn­gest son (who at the time of our interview worked as a bus conductor) and his daughter-­in-­law (who also worked outside the home), and he looked ­after his three school-­age grand­sons. In discussing both scenarios, in­for­mants regularly asked ­whether the ailing relative had property or a pension and w ­ hether the mi­grant’s husband held a job. If the potential caregiver was a major breadwinner in a f­ amily with few if any other resources, economic prudence dictated that the breadwinner should keep his or her job. With their lives linked together, the long-­term well-­being of members of the entire f­ amily rested upon t­ hese financial decisions.

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 47

Social Networks Evaluating decision-­making strategies, ­people often asked about the social resources that the families in the scenarios could call upon. In­for­mants in Naeaegama assumed that extended families would and could provide short-­ or long-­term l­abor to deal with health crises. Gender played a role in discussions about which member of the c­ ouple in scenario #1 should take leave or give up a job. Janaki, the retired school principal introduced above, suggested that it would be rarer for the husband to give up his job than for the wife to give up hers. This view aligns with the general expectation that ­women ­will do care work and men w ­ ill serve as breadwinners. It also reflects that men earn more than w ­ omen on the local job market. Most in­for­mants suggested, however, that if other individuals could do the care work, the ­family should call upon t­ hose p­ eople rather than asking e­ ither of the spouses in scenario #1 to give up their job or asking the mi­grant in scenario #2 to return home. My interlocutors in Naeaegama preferred ­family members as caregivers but also suggested employing hired help. For example, I often spoke with Indrani, the friendly, talkative returned female mi­grant who lived across the street from Siri. She suggested for the c­ ouple in scenario #1 that “they should hire a servant. Or they could get a d­ aughter or daughter-­in-­law to help, even if she had to give up her job.” Indrani implicitly suggested that someone already engaged in care work for ­children could relatively easily expand her role to look ­after the needy elder. A number of ­people suggested that the fictive families call upon poor relatives to take on the duty. For example, Sumitha-­miss, a retired schoolteacher, commented on scenario #1: “Let’s suppose that one of the ­couple has an unmarried relative. Perhaps ­there’s a relative on the sick m ­ other’s side. Ask her if she can come to look ­after the m ­ other. It’s best if it’s a relative. And if ­there are young kids, you can hire a servant to look ­after them. The relative can look ­after the ­mother and supervise the servant, instructing her how to look ­after the kids. If ­there ­isn’t a relative to bring like this, it’s not so good. A servant i­ sn’t ­going to do the job right. You need a trustworthy person.” ­Daughters, daughters-­in-­law, and poor female relatives, by virtue of their gender, class, and positions in the kinship network, got tapped to take on such long-­term, potentially onerous f­ amily responsibilities. Local families seeking servants found themselves in competition with wages offered abroad. The issue of hired care prompted Janaki to lament, “In the old days ­people had servants to look ­after the elders. They gave ­those servants rice and coconuts in exchange. Now every­one has gone abroad, or is at work. One ­can’t find servants now!” She noted that ongoing female ­labor migration to the Gulf had reduced the pool of available poor relatives and hireable help in the village. A vocal minority of sandwich generation w ­ omen, all of whom had experience in dealing with the long-­term care of needy elders, felt that ­family members

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should take on the responsibility for ailing elders without passing it on to hired help. For example, Darshini (whose mother-­in-­law suffered from dementia) felt that for long-­term care, one of the ­couple in scenario #1 would need to leave his or her job. She noted, “Hiring someone ­isn’t the same; that person ­won’t treat the aged m ­ other like a ­family member would.” In this case, one of Darshini’s sisters-­in-­law was working abroad and the other had moved out of the village, delegating their m ­ other’s care work to Darshini. As the wife of the youn­gest son of the ­family, Darshini had assumed the traditional role as parental caregiver in exchange for her nuclear f­ amily inheriting the parents’ h ­ ouse and property. She had never worked outside the home, although she made breakfast foods for sale at a local shop. Her care work freed her kin to go abroad, but their migration constrained her f­ amily structure and her employment options.

Vulnerability The fictional individuals’ stage in the life cycle and degree of vulnerability to vari­ous sorts of harm influenced how in­for­mants discussed the decisions faced by the families in the scenarios. In­for­mants often focused on the age, gender, and amount of attention required by the p­ eople who needed care. Indeed, providing “social protection” for elders and ­children, particularly during life-­ course transitions, may require that families or h ­ ouse­holds “renegotiate inter-­ generational care arrangements” (Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013b, 1874). My interlocutors viewed the care of elders and the care of c­ hildren differently. In­for­mants uniformly suggested that it was more impor­tant for the mi­grant in scenario #2 to come home to care for her c­ hildren than it was for one of the c­ ouple in scenario #1 to resign from his or her job to care for the el­derly ­mother. The difference depended on malleability of character; they saw ­children as more likely to “go wrong” or “get spoiled” without maternal care. One in­for­mant, a single ­mother with two grown ­children, thought that a servant could take care of a needy elder. However, she noted, “You c­ an’t hire someone to look a­ fter your kids. The kids w ­ on’t turn out right if you do that.” Teacher Sumitha-­miss similarly stated, “The mi­grant w ­ oman must come back. If she’s not ­there, then the w ­ hole ­family w ­ ill be ruined. The education of the kids and other such ­things w ­ on’t get done.” Cinnamon peeler Indika and his wife, Shiromali (neither of whom had worked abroad), opined that ­mothers should not go to the Gulf at all: “Their kids ­will go bad.” Shivanthi, a female high school teacher, noted, “It’s hard to educate kids if their parents are abroad.” Caring for c­ hildren held higher stakes than caring for elders; elders might not receive sufficient help from servants, but poor care would not corrupt their characters. Improper care for the ­children, however, endangered the ­family’s ­future. “Lives are lived interdependently,” as Lloyd-­Sherlock and Locke (2008, 792) point out, and familial social relations play out over generations through the life course of multiple f­ amily members.

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 49

Perhaps in reaction to the type of sentiments about the need to protect c­ hildren that I heard expressed in 2009, in June 2013, the Government of Sri Lanka began enforcing an administrative circular, glossed as the “­Family Background Report,” which forbade the migration of ­mothers with ­children ­under the age of 5 (United Nations 2014, 2015). In the ­Family Background Report circular, the Government of Sri Lanka set age limits and other restrictions on ­women migrating as domestic servants. (A 2015 circular extended the provisions to cover all w ­ omen mi­grants regardless of employment category [Ministry of Foreign Employment 2015; Sri Lanka Mirror 2015b].) ­Mothers with ­children over the age of 5 who wished to go abroad needed to fill in a ­family background report regarding plans to secure care for their c­ hildren in their absence. The F ­ amily Background Report policy generated re­sis­tance in Colombo in the form of a “fundamental rights” case that went to the Supreme Court of Sri Lanka. The court found in ­favor of the government policy. Thereafter, feminist organ­izations took the issue to the United Nations. The United Nations condemned the policy as an intrusion on the rights of ­women and mi­grants (United Nations 2014). Conversations continue in Sri Lankan civil society (Mudugamuwa 2013; Sooriyagoda 2015; Sunday Times 2013; W ­ omen and Media Collective 2016). Despite suggestions that the government might repeal the ­Family Background Report regulations, the policy still stands as of this writing (Sri Lanka Mirror 2015a; Dissanayake 2015; Kiyanna 2016; see Gamburd 2020b for a lengthy discussion of the issues at stake). Gender formed an additional vector of choice in understanding vulnerability and harm (Hewamanne 2008; Lynch 2007). ­People in Naeaegama who discussed the scenarios emphasized the strong social imperative to protect unmarried w ­ omen’s chastity. In­for­mants asked about the ages and genders of the c­ hildren in scenario #2. ­Daughters (particularly ­those who had reached puberty) faced more perceived risks than sons. From the onset of menstruation u­ ntil the day of marriage, a young ­woman’s parents (particularly her ­mother) guard her reputation and her virginity, thus preserving the young ­woman’s eligibility for an arranged marriage. High school teacher Shivanthi and her m ­ other, Emaline, agreed that girls could “get spoiled” without their ­mothers. Emaline noted, “If one of the mi­grant’s d­ aughters reaches puberty, ­there’s no way the grand­mother can keep track of her.” O ­ thers in Naeaegama widely shared ­these sentiments. Many female mi­grants planned their two-­year contracts to allow them to remain at home for their ­daughters’ vulnerable teenage years. In a real case, a Naeaegama mi­grant found herself unable to return to the Gulf ­because her eldest d­ aughter had reached puberty and neither grand­mother could look ­after the girl. Another ­woman told me that she ceased migrating ­after her eldest d­ aughter turned 13. She said, “It w ­ ouldn’t have been worth it to have more money if the kids had gone wrong.” As discussed in chapter 2, in Naeaegama as

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FIG. 3.  ​Young ­women in white bearing lotus blossoms for a ­temple festival.

elsewhere in South Asia, arranged marriages mark f­ amily status and caste relations, and ­people attend to the supervision of unmarried teenage d­ aughters with g­ reat care (Gold 2010, 81; Kapadia 1993). In Sri Lanka as elsewhere in the world, “Individual lives are inter-­related with the events and transitions experience by close relatives and associates” (Locke and Lloyd-­Sherlock 2011, 1136). Without a sterling reputation, a young w ­ oman could not enter easily into an arranged marriage, which ­family members deemed crucial to her ­future well-­ being and to the successful social reproduction of the ­family. My in­for­mants also applied gender-­related criteria to the ­house­hold arrange­ ments resulting from bringing in a servant. For example, speaking of scenario #2, Ramani puzzled out pos­si­ble solutions. She told me, “The husband ­can’t take care of the sick m ­ other b­ ecause you need a w ­ oman to take care of another ­woman. And you c­ an’t bring a female servant into the h ­ ouse to take care of the sick ­mother ­because the husband is ­there but the wife is not. So the only solution is for the mi­grant to come home. The husband can take care of the kids but not of the wife’s ­mother.” Strong discourses about gender and sexuality governed the allocation of caregiving activities and the composition of appropriate ­house­holds. The a­ ctual situation in another Naeaegama h ­ ouse­hold mirrored the values that Ramani expressed. Lal and his ­mother for many years looked ­after Lal’s ­brother’s four sons and d­ aughter while his sister-­in-­law, Siri’s neighbor Indrani,

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 51

worked abroad and his ­brother worked in Sri Lanka. Lal’s ­mother’s inability to bathe without aid triggered Indrani’s return from abroad. Indrani had no explicit objections to having a servant take care of an el­derly ­family member; indeed, she said during our interview, “A servant looked ­a fter my ­mother for a number of years.” Although Indrani’s remittances could easily have covered the wages of a female servant to care for her mother-­in-­law, the ­family deemed the arrangement inappropriate ­because Indrani herself was not in the home with her husband and brother-­in-­law. Indrani relinquished her job and returned to Sri Lanka. Both in a­ ctual and in fictive cases, Naeaegama villa­gers felt that improperly channeled sexuality could damage reputations and destroy marriages, particularly when migration separated spouses for many years. Hiring domestic help could also create situations of unwanted intimacy. Commenting on the servant who had looked ­after her ­mother, Indrani said, “She was a good person, and ­there w ­ ere no prob­lems. Sometimes young servants get involved with other p­ eople. But you d­ on’t want to get an old person to look a­ fter another old person, e­ ither.” Indrani suggested implicitly that youthful servants had more strength and energy but that they might also cause prob­lems through sexual affairs and unwanted pregnancies. In other words, ideal servants focused on the reproduction of their employers’ ­house­holds rather than engaging in reproductive proj­ects of their own. ­Children and elders need and are entitled to social protection from their kin, particularly during periods of transition (Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013b, 1881). As t­ hese in­for­mants’ words suggest, vulnerabilities of gender and age nuance the question of ­whether a worker should give up his or her job to care for ­children or elders. Mahanama Thero caused a gale of laugher with this succinct summary of the dangers: “If the ­family gets ruined, it’s no use having earned a lot of money. When a ­woman is abroad, her husband sometimes takes another wife, and the kids are ­running around like baby monkeys.” House­holds respond contextually to external changes and internal dynamics (Huijsmans 2014, 294). In discussing t­ hese two scenarios and making a­ ctual decisions about migration, in­for­mants weighed economic gain from income (from local jobs or from overseas remittances) against vari­ous duties and risks in evaluating a strategy that would be for the entire f­ amily’s long-­term benefit. In the pro­cess, they highlighted expectations of intergenerational care, debts incurred to parents for their past ser­vices, and the long-­term investments that parents made in their own offspring.

Scenario #3: Care Responsibilities of Grandchildren The first two scenarios dealt with the choice of sandwich-­generation individuals between keeping a lucrative job and caring for a needy f­ amily member. The

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third scenario asked in­for­mants to compare at the grand­child generation the relative value of remittances and care work. Siri and I crafted this scenario to decipher how generational distance and phase in the life course affected kinship obligations to do care work. Scenario #3 ran like this: “An el­derly grand­ mother has two grandchildren. One lives close by and provides ‘help from the hand.’ One lives far away or works abroad and sends money home.” We described the fictitious situation and asked in­for­mants, “Which ser­vice does the grand­mother value more? Why?” The data gathered from scenario #3 seem on the surface to contradict the information from scenarios #1 and #2. In scenarios #1 and #2, in­for­mants uniformly felt that ­family members who had lucrative jobs should not give ­those jobs up in order to care for elders and ­children ­unless no other acceptable care arrangements could be made. This would suggest that remittances and general financial support supersede the per­for­mance of care ser­vice. But evidence from scenario #3 suggests that from grandchildren, p­ eople valued care more than money. As I discuss below, youths’ low potential earning power, variation in dif­fer­ent generations’ affective interactions and financial responsibilities, and an elder’s need both for provision and for practical, day-­to-­day help formed key aspects in in­for­mants’ evaluation of this scenario. Village attitudes ­toward the fiscal responsibilities of youth may reflect patterns in their employment opportunities. In Sri Lanka, young adults (­those up to the age of 29) have higher rates of unemployment and underemployment than older adults, with rates in the Southern Province (where Naeaegama is located) higher than ­those in other areas during the time we gathered ­these ethnographic data (Department of Census and Statistics 2011, 21, 26). Even when they can find work, locally employed youth earn low wages. Mi­grant youth earn more. But in both cases, families hope to use youth earnings for the youth’s own ­future endeavors (e.g., money for a dowry or capital to invest in land or a business). Parents and grandparents prefer not to rely financially on their ­children, but they welcome and appreciate a helping hand, the “emotional and instrumental support” (Liu 2014, 311) that greases the wheels of daily practice. In mi­grant families in which ­women from the sandwich generation had worked abroad, a grandparent’s investment of devotion, love, and time created reciprocal obligations and duties for grandchildren. A number of in­for­mants commented on how much they loved their grandchildren. For example, Perera, the ­house painter who lost his ­house due to his ­daughter’s unpaid loan, suggested that grandchildren and grandparents often had close emotional bonds, especially if the grandparent had cared for the child while the m ­ other worked abroad or outside the home—as his mother-­in-­law had done during his wife’s absence and as he and his wife did for their ­daughter. “Grandchildren often love their grandparents more than they love their own parents,” Perera said with a wide smile. “If your kids’ kids are around, it’s good. It’s busy.”

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 53

When I asked her to prioritize the grandchildren in scenario #3, Emaline (herself a grand­mother, who lived with a mute son and, several years l­ater, with a son who had returned from Italy) replied, “That one is obvious, ­isn’t it?” She found the answer so straightforward that it required no discussion and only replied explic­itly ­after Siri and I twice pushed her to do so. Like most of our in­for­mants, she said that the more valued grand­child was the one living next door who ­stopped by to help. “The one living abroad ­can’t come and look in. And if the grand­mother is ­dying, the one next door ­will help. The money ­isn’t worth as much as coming over to help.” Similarly, a retired handyman said, “The close one is better. The major work is done close by. The best quality is to be t­here and to help.” Stroke-­affected Amarasinghe, who looked a­ fter three grand­sons while his son and daughter-­in-­law worked, put it bluntly: “You can get by without money, but you need help.” And when pushed to explain his choice of the close grand­child as more valuable, cinnamon peeler Indika said, “The close one does the t­ hings you c­ an’t do with money. You c­ an’t do every­thing with money.” Darshani elaborated on the fickle nature of money. “Money dis­appears!” she grumbled. Siri laughed and replied, “You have money ­today. I have your money tomorrow. The next day, it’s all gone!” ­People I spoke with agreed that from grandchildren, the presence of a reliable helping hand outweighed sporadic remittances. In­for­mants often elaborated on the sorts of ser­vice that the grand­child living next door could provide. Titus, a middle-­aged ­father of three sons, noted that the close-by relative could fetch food from the shop and bring ­water from the well. An older, unmarried w ­ oman with no ­children suggested, “­Those relatives look in and see about your suffering and health, no?” A poor single ­mother said, “You need someone nearby to ask if you have had something to eat and drink, to ask if your eyes are okay.” Another ­woman noted that her own aged ­mother, for whom she had cared up ­until her death a month before our interview, had told her, “You are h ­ ere to give me a glass of w ­ ater.” Other interviewees mentioned similar low-­cost but vitally impor­tant ser­vices, including helping someone to stand up or drawing ­water for a bath at the well or for use in the toilet. Ramani said, “It’s better to have kaenda (a low-­cost but nutritious vegetable and rice gruel) from the near grandkid than to have fancy foreign food from abroad.” A retired Berava mask-­maker noted of scenario #3, “Money i­sn’t what’s needed in this case. What’s needed is someone to look ­after the grand­mother.” He asserted with pride that looking a­ fter elders in this way was a Sri Lankan custom. Although most of my in­for­mants prioritized receiving help from the hand of a grand­child, many noted the continued importance of money. Sumitha-­ miss did not rank the ser­vice of the two grandchildren in scenario #3. She said, “Both are good. One sends money and the other looks a­ fter the grand­ mother. Without money, you ­can’t help someone. You must have both.” Similarly, Janaki opined, “One ­can’t live without money! It is nice to look in on

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someone, but we need money to live. For e­ very step, we need it. Every­thing is expensive. Medicine is expensive. You need 600 rupees just to speak two words with the doctor! That’s just for five minutes and a prescription!” Janaki went on to detail the expenses that her f­ amily had incurred in curing a serious infection on her husband’s leg and their need to purchase a cochlear implant for her deaf grand­child. Rosalin, a desperately poor el­derly Berava w ­ oman who lived alone in a ramshackle h ­ ouse, simply noted that she would value the money more. All three of t­hese older w ­ omen could still take care of themselves but faced financial difficulties. The replies above suggest that grandchildren have fewer financial obligations than do individuals in the sandwich generation, but their families still expect them to provide care for nearby grandparents. My research did not directly explore ­whether and how a grand­child’s obligation changed in scenarios in which no other f­ amily members could provide financial support to the elder, but the data overwhelmingly suggest a baseline requirement for money. Also, information from other research scenarios (not discussed in detail ­here) shows that the obligation to care for an elder passes along ­family lines. Grandchildren would be obliged to assume financial responsibilities if their se­niors had not already done so. Nevertheless, ­family obligation thins over the generations, particularly if an elder has no ­children; has not provided care for nieces, nephews, or other ju­nior relatives in the past; or has few or no valuable assets or in­de­pen­dent sources of income. An ideal situation for an elder, several interviewees suggested, would involve having ­family members both at home and abroad. For example, police officer Anura discussed one of his relatives, an older man who lived alone, saying, “He has a son in a nearby town, a married ­daughter living across the street, and a married ­daughter living in Oman. The d­ aughter across the street can give meals and look in on him. The ­others send money. The one married to a doctor comes if t­ here are any health prob­lems.” Similarly, Indrani and her son discussed scenario #3 energetically. Indrani asserted that the child nearby was more valued. Indrani’s son, however, pointed out, “The far-­away one is ­doing what he can from a distance. Sending money is also good. You need that money to buy medicine and ­things like that.” He then personalized the question, noting that his ­brother (a best friend of curly-­haired mi­grant Roshan introduced above) was sending money from ­Korea, while he himself was at home to help. All of ­these in­for­mants implicitly reinforce the importance of the extended ­family in providing both finances and “help from the hand” for aging relatives.

Conclusion: Pondering the ­Future The data gathered from ­these three scenarios suggest that Naeaegama residents highly value both care work and remittances. F ­ amily members’ duties

Weighing Financial Opportunities • 55

and obligations vary by gender and generation. Patterns in the data show that the sandwich generation holds primary responsibility for supporting an elder financially. In that generation, men are expected to earn a living, but if a man cannot support the ­family, his wife must assume the burden, often by working abroad. This obligation supersedes her duties as a caregiver to an el­derly parent or in-­law but may not supersede her obligation to her ­children, particularly her teenage d­ aughters. Grandchildren’s primary responsibilities are to care personally and proximately for their grandparents, u­ nless financial difficulties make earning money a priority. What implications do ­these modest findings have for a discussion of the ­future of Sri Lankan migration, remittances, and the extended f­amily in a context of rapid population aging? The World Bank (2008, 9) report on aging in Sri Lanka suggests that modernization in Asia brings about a series of changes that strain the traditional f­ amily support of elders: (1) lower fertility means that ­there are fewer ­children to share care work, (2) higher education levels among ­children may lead to differences of opinions between parents and ­children (e.g., about who should provide care and how much), (3) female ­labor force participation may decrease the number of caregivers at home, and (4) rural–­urban migration may remove young p­ eople from the rural areas where most of the elders live. In Sri Lanka at the moment, economic necessity prompts l­ abor migration, and female mi­grants are drawn from the same population as caregivers. As the data from Naeaegama show, migration affects all four ­factors listed above in ways that w ­ ill require creative strategies to harmonize financial opportunities and intergenerational care obligations. Contrary to many demographic assumptions about elders’ economic activity, ­people in Naeaegama expect that as they age, they ­will continue to contribute their time and financial resources to their extended ­family “teams.” Over the past three de­cades, elders have taken on care work for their grandchildren to allow mi­grants to work abroad. Culturally s­ haped intergenerational kinship obligations require that returned mi­grants and grandchildren ­will in turn care for f­ amily elders when such care is needed. However, the ­Family Background Report policy that keeps young ­mothers at home creates precarity for the entire ­family, undermining elders’ ability to contribute to the ­family’s financial stability and removing a profitable economic opportunity for young ­women. Investments that mi­grants made in their offspring during the past thirty years provide another source of social change. In Naeaegama, a generation of poor mi­grant ­women has spent heavi­ly on education for their c­ hildren. Successful members of this educated younger generation have moved from Naeaegama to the capital city of Colombo or are working abroad in destinations such as ­Korea, Italy, and Australia that provide opportunities for immigration rather than merely allowing cyclical guest-­worker employment (B. Brown 2011; Cole and Booth 2007; Näre 2010; Wanasundera 2001). As predicted by

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the World Bank report, ­these younger individuals find that their ­careers, their migration trajectories, and their ­family duties pull them in conflicting directions. The issues w ­ ill likely not revolve around sending remittances, which research done elsewhere on mi­grants suggests ­will continue (Hoang and Yeoh 2015a, 2015b; Naufal and Termos 2010; Trager 2005). The issues instead w ­ ill concern the availability of nearby kin to provide “help from the hand.” Naeaegama’s residents value both financial provision and care work, both “economic and affective exchanges” (Whitehead, Hashim, and Iversen 2007, 5), when considering the complex web of intergenerational debts and obligations. Ideally, an extended f­ amily can provide both sorts of social support for its members. Currently, families use their kinship network to maximize availability, mobility, and job opportunities. Unemployed relatives or poor servants step in to help ­women in the sandwich generation to fulfill their filial duties. Families distribute responsibilities between able-­bodied adults so as to retain financial stability while si­mul­ta­neously providing the care required for ­children and elders. As the demographic transition progresses, however, extended families ­will grow smaller and care work w ­ ill grow more demanding. Both financial and caring responsibilities ­will fall increasingly on the young. The reallocation of obligations is likely to cause tension, stress, and conflict as ­family members work together to meet the challenges posed by an aging population in a globalizing world.

4

Exchanging Assets for Care Pensions and the Transfer of Property Siri and I spoke with Ramani in July 2016. Ramani, a tall, regal ­woman, had returned from working in Saudi Arabia four months prior to our interview. “The ­people at the ­house where I worked would like me to go back, ­because I can cook well,” she told us. “I would like to go again, but every­one h ­ ere is asking me not to go.” Ramani noted that her clever ­daughter was studying for O-­levels (tenth-­grade exams), and Ramani needed to be home to support her in this endeavor. In addition, Ramani’s el­derly sister-­in-­law had suffered a fall and could no longer take care of the cooking and childcare needed in the h ­ ouse­hold. Not only did Ramani’s story echo the parental dilemmas about balancing breadwinning against caring for elders and preserving teenage ­daughters’ reputations explored ­earlier in this book; in addition, what Siri and I learned that day relates to three key aspects of social reproduction explored in this chapter on pensions, property transfers, and intergenerational care work. First, remittances and other income support the purchase of land and the construction and repair of homes, which constitute a f­ amily’s greatest financial assets. Second, h ­ ouses create spaces for h ­ ouse­holds to live, and ­house­holds form the primary source of care for the aged. Third, pensions and property owner­ship constitute the financial assets that ensure that elders receive care at the end of their lives. 57

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Over the past thirty years, many Naeaegama families have constructed new ­houses with cement walls and tile roofs. As Ramani greeted Siri and me at the door of her spacious new cement home, we chatted about the wattle and daub hut in which the f­ amily used to live. Gesturing across the compound to the remnants of the clay hut’s concrete floor, Ramani remarked, “We have developed a lot since then by relying on our own hands and guts.” She added, “We still need to finish the wall around the back of the garden and get the ­whole h ­ ouse plastered and painted.” Families use mi­grant remittances and other funds to develop their homes, which are where care work takes place and which are impor­tant financial assets for the h ­ ouse­hold. Successful social reproduction involves balancing the long-­and short-­term needs of members of the ­house­hold. Bringing a tray of cake and bananas from the kitchen, Ramani explained that her eldest son and her ­daughter share the same birthday, which was the day before Siri and I visited. “We had a party yesterday for my d­ aughter and her school friends,” she said. The chatter about birthdays led into a conversation about the entire ­family. Ramani (age 43) and her husband (age 67) had five ­children. The eldest two sons w ­ ere married and lived far away. The other three ­children still lived at home. Speaking of her third son, age 21, Ramani considered the possibility of giving him half of the property on which the ­family lived. “But we might also be able to save money to buy land and build a ­house for him elsewhere, or he might marry a wife who has property,” she speculated. Her only ­daughter, a high school student, attended costly tuition classes and would require a dowry for which the f­ amily needed to save. “My youn­gest son is 7 years old. This ­house is for him,” Ramani said with a smile, gesturing with pride to the spacious living room. The summary of the status of the ­children made clear the obligation that parents feel to provide education, property, and dowry for their offspring. And this case also exemplifies the common pattern that youn­gest sons inherit the f­amily home and the obligation to care for the elders who own and live in it. Parents balance the long-­term needs to situate ­children for successful ­futures against more immediate and daily needs. Ramani’s ­house­hold included her three unmarried c­ hildren, as well as her husband (a retired cook) and her el­derly sister-­in-­law (in her early eighties). With Ramani no longer working in the Gulf, the ­house­hold faced financial pressures. Ramani explained, “My husband’s pension is only Rs. 16,000 a month [US$109 at the time]. But the grocer asks Rs. 120 for a kilogram of sugar and Rs. 90 for 100 grams of green chilies. . . . ​Can you buy them!? And a single tutorial class for my ­daughter is Rs. 900.” She listed the ­family’s obligations: “We need to feed every­one, get the ­children an education, and arrange marriages.” Noting that her husband’s pension did not suffice, Ramani told us that she had an interview scheduled for the following Wednesday at a doll factory in a nearby town. “The factory salary ­isn’t very much—­only Rs. 10,000 a month [US$68]—­but it would be

Exchanging Assets for Care  • 59

better than nothing,” she said. (She could easily make three or four times that amount if she returned to work in the Gulf as a domestic servant.) Ramani clearly felt the financial pressures associated with successful social reproduction, both the short-­term needs related to daily sustenance (sugar and spices) and the long-­term demands associated with major rites of passage (school examinations, marriage, and establishing h ­ouse­holds for adult sons and d­ aughters). Elders who have provided care and material resources for younger kin have a claim to receive care in their old age. As we w ­ ere concluding our interview, a government official dropped by to get a signature from Ramani’s el­derly sister-­ in-­law, Elaine. Elaine had never married but had lived for many years with her ­brother’s f­ amily. She had cared for Ramani’s ­children while Ramani worked in the Gulf. In addition, Elaine owned the property on which the h ­ ouse­hold lived. Walking slowly and with a hunch, Elaine entered the living room wearing a clean, new dress pinned together to take up extra fabric around her tiny form. The administrator helped her sign. Siri and I commented on the support that Ramani and her ­family w ­ ere providing for Elaine. “On TV they show stories of parents abandoned by kids,” Ramani remarked with a shudder. In contrast, Elaine received outstanding care from her f­ amily, who recognized both the moral obligation to care for kin as well as the debt they owed her for care work she had done for them in the past and the property they would inherit in the f­ uture. Two years ­later, in April 2018, I ran into Ramani and her ­daughter on the road. Ramani told me that Elaine had passed away several months prior at the age of 82; the ­family had recently completed a large almsgiving in her honor. Ramani’s son had gotten a job driving a trishaw, and Ramani was cooking pastries for sale at a shop at the junction. In addition, the ­daughter had passed her O-­levels and was studying for her A-­level exams. The ­family continued with the ongoing proj­ect of social reproduction, with time-­related transitions and transformations of the h ­ ouse­hold. The prior chapter explored economic decisions related to local and international ­labor, particularly what families chose to do when economic opportunities for ­people in the sandwich generation conflicted with care needs of ­children and elders. This chapter again deals with financial issues but looks more closely at how elders strategically use their economic assets, such as property, pensions, and savings, to minimize the possibility of neglect and to leverage attention and care.

“Scraping By”: Pensions Financial support for elders in Sri Lanka concerns not only villa­gers in Naeaegama but also members of the international community. For example, the

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World Bank (2008, i) notes, “In slightly more than two de­cades, Sri Lanka’s population ­will grow to be as old as Eu­rope or Japan’s t­ oday, but its level of income w ­ ill be much lower.” On a similar note, Gamaniratne (2007, 18) suggests that “72 per cent of Sri Lanka’s working age population . . . ​are not covered by formal retirement savings schemes,” and the expected benefits for ­those who are covered are likely to be “insufficient to meet all retirement needs” (63). The World Bank (2008, iii–iv) report suggests that Sri Lanka needs to figure out income sources for the el­derly and think creatively about how to get older workers back into the ­labor force. The authors suggest that ­unless Sri Lanka makes major adjustments to meet this social challenge, it w ­ ill face “serious prob­lems or even crisis” (World Bank 2008, i). Ethnographic research provides an on-­the-­ground look at elders’ financial assets and strategies. P ­ eople in Naeaegama received several forms of institutionally or­ga­nized financial support. ­Those with government jobs received monthly pension payments. ­Those who had worked in the private sector received EPF (Employee Provident Fund) payments, which they often took as a lump sum upon retirement. For example, in Siri’s ­house­hold, Telsie received a monthly pension payment for her years of work as a schoolteacher. From his work with a private tourism firm, Siri had received a lump-­sum EPF payment when he turned 55; the f­ amily had used that money to install a tank, a pump, and pipes so that the ­house had ­running ­water. ­People with disabilities or ­those living in extreme poverty received small payments from the government. The local government administrator (grama seevaka) told me and Siri during an interview in 2015 that ­there have been some recent changes in the rule about the money that aged p­ eople can receive from the government. She said, “It used to be for a long time that they got Rs. 1,000 a month. Then for a long time they got Rs. 2,000 a month, and t­ here ­were four reasons that ­were required before someone could get that money. Recently, the new government put the amount up to Rs. 3,000 a month and left it up to the discretion of the village administrator. So I have seen the situation of thirty-­two p­ eople in this area and I went ahead and approved the money for them. Th ­ ese are ­people who have less help from their kids. I know their situation and provided this financial support for them.” In this way, the government partially stepped in to support the financial security of needy elders. In Naeaegama, a number of p­ eople (such as retired teachers, police officers, or members of the armed ser­vices) received government pensions. Other villa­ gers envied them their predictable but somewhat meager payments. ­Those in the police and military often retired ­after twenty or twenty-­two years of ser­ vice. Often in their early forties, t­ hese retirees ­were faced with finding something to fill their time and supplement their income. For example, Nishantha (age 56) noted in 2015 that with Rs. 20,000 a month from his police pension,

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he and his f­ amily could “scrape venDa” (scrape by) for everyday subsistence, but if they needed anything more, he had to come up with other funds. They had some cinnamon land that partially filled the gap. He said that his cousin had an army pension but had also gotten a job ­doing security work to fill in the financial gaps. Dayawansa (a retired school principal in his eighties) said that he and his wife could get by on his pension. They lived with their adult son and ­daughter, both of whom had good jobs. “The c­ hildren pay the w ­ ater and electric bills,” Dayawansa noted, acknowledging the importance of supplemental ­house­hold income. In other h ­ ouse­holds, elders who did not have pensions had to save for their retirement or relied more fully on their c­ hildren or other kin for financial support. For example, Anuradha (a dynamic ­woman in her late fifties) worked for a private insurance com­pany. While si­mul­ta­neously getting herself and her el­derly mother-­in-­law washed, dressed, and ready for the day, she told me during an early morning interview in 2016 that she had saved Rs. 1 million (a noteworthy sum in local terms; US$6,850 at the time). She felt that her son would look ­after her in her old age, and she would be able to support herself financially on the interest earned on that money. She also owned property in a nearby town and would, I assume, receive an EPF payment upon turning 60. Rosalin (age 81 when we interviewed her in 2016), an unmarried Berava ­women who lived alone in a decrepit h ­ ouse, was less secure eco­nom­ically. She had depended for many years on her younger ­brother for financial support. This strategy worked well u­ ntil her b­ rother retired. Thereafter, she depended on a small sum of money (Rs. 3,000, or about US$21) monthly from the government, supplemented by donations of food and money from neighbors, particularly the relatives who lived next door. She felt that her neighbors helped her out for merit (pin); she said, “I am not proud. I fed ­others when they had no food. Now, when I c­ an’t feed myself, I get help from them.” Referring implicitly to the fact that we had borrowed chairs from her neighbor for Siri and me to use during our interview, she said, “Before, my ­house was the ­house from which p­ eople borrowed chairs when they needed them for weddings and funerals.” Several passers-by checked in on Rosalin while we w ­ ere t­ here, indicating that the neighbors collectively watched out for her.

House Architecture As data in the prior section suggest, even the relatively few p­ eople who have job-­related pensions or receive welfare payments from the state may find that they need additional support to make ends meet. Conversely, elders who do not have pensions may have significant material and social assets, for example, owning land and a h ­ ouse or cultivating strong intergenerational ties with members of their h ­ ouse­holds.

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Relatively few elders in Naeaegama had pensions, but many owned property. In the moral economy of care, t­ hese elders provided for their families the assets of land and a ­house. With the exception of Rosalin, all of the elders I interviewed in Naeaegama lived in multiperson ­house­holds. Anthropologists differentiate between a ­house­hold (the p­ eople who live together u­ nder one roof) and a f­amily (­people related by blood, marriage, or adoption). Practically speaking, h ­ ouse­holds and families often overlap to a significant extent. In this section, I explore the relationship between a ­house (a ­family’s most significant material asset) and a h ­ ouse­hold (the basic economic unit in the village and the team that engages most directly in the serious game of social reproduction). I examine owner­ship, residence, and how owner­ship and residence affect the receiving and giving of care.

Rightsizing a Residence In understanding the social reproduction of a h ­ ouse­hold, both the p­ eople and the physical building prove impor­tant. All over the world, property, h ­ ouses, and furnishings are often p­ eople’s most valuable possessions (Carrier and Heyman 1997). Houses index a ­family’s material accumulation—­from their tiles to their tele­vi­sions. In Naeaegama, ele­ments such as the height of the trees in the garden, the style of the architecture, and the renovations that have been made (electrical wiring, indoor plumbing, toilets, fans, telephones, interior ceilings) reveal the time frame and financial circumstances within which families have created, modified, and maintained their homes. The size and construction materials of a ­house, its furnishings, and the location and size of the piece of land reflect the ­family’s social status and index the accumulation of wealth. Houses are social spaces as well as physical objects. The ­houses in which ­people live say a lot about their individual identities and their ­family structures. In many cases, h ­ ouses are extended to accommodate more p­ eople. For example, a divorced w ­ oman in her fifties who worked at a local garment factory originally built a small, two-­room h ­ ouse for herself and her two ­daughters. But when her parents joined her, she enlarged the h ­ ouse ­because she needed more space. Her parents chose to live with her to protect her reputation and that of her ­daughters; divorced w ­ omen, and any other ­women living without adult men in the h ­ ouse­hold, are subject to negative gossip and harassment. The composition of this ­woman’s h ­ ouse­hold and the size of the h ­ ouse reflect the ­family’s accommodation to local gender norms. It also reflects intergenerational care relations, as grandparents provide security and respectability for all the other residents while receiving old-­age care and financial support in exchange. In some circumstances, h ­ ouses cannot be or are not enlarged, exerting pressure on extended families to break up into smaller units. In Naeaegama,

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in crowded homes, entire nuclear families may occupy a single bedroom, whereas in less crowded homes, individuals or c­ ouples have their own bedrooms. For example, Siri drew the floor plan for his grand­mother’s h ­ ouse and explained who had slept in which rooms. During the time period Siri recalled, his grand­father had passed away. His grand­mother slept in a room with her unmarried d­ aughters, and her rope-­making business occupied the back area of the ­house. He said that his m ­ other and aunts lived in the h ­ ouse before their marriages. Two of the five d­ aughters moved to their husbands’ property when they married. The other three stayed in their natal home with their spouses ­until they could afford to buy land and build a ­house in the Naeaegama area. Siri remembered that his aunts and their husbands each occupied a room in his grand­mother’s home “­until ­there was a big fight and they left.” Social tensions seem to have accelerated the re­distribution of p­ eople throughout the village. Although the layout of Siri’s own home (built in the early 1960s) differed from that of his grand­mother’s home (built several de­cades e­ arlier and subsequently destroyed), occupation patterns followed a similar rhythm. Siri’s wife, Telsie, reminisced that early in her marriage, Siri’s parents’ home (which Siri and Telsie now occupy) was full. Siri’s ­mother and ­father occupied a back room. Their three sons ­were married, and each ­couple lived in a separate bedroom in the front of the h ­ ouse. Telsie described both good times and raise-­ the-­roof fights during that period. Eventually, Siri’s parents bought land and constructed homes for Siri’s younger ­brothers. The remaining members of the ­house­hold moved into the available space, making adjustments over the years for ­children and visiting anthropologists. In some instances, the size of a h ­ ouse determines the composition of the ­family. Elson, the marriage broker introduced in chapter 2, was 71 in 2016. He and his nuclear ­family had occupied a tiny ­house (consisting of a living room, bedroom, and kitchen) for many years. Eventually, his three ­daughters married and moved away. When Elson’s only son married, he did not want to bring his bride to a home that had no separate bedroom for the new ­couple. Instead, he and his wife rented a ­house, leaving his ­father and ­mother alone in the ancestral home. ­A fter Elson’s wife’s death in 2017, Elson continued to live alone in the h ­ ouse. Lack of adequate space put this still-­spry elder in a potentially precarious situation for receiving f­uture care from his son and daughter-­in-­law. In some instances, social relations fragment ­house­holds even when the physical h ­ ouses could accommodate all involved. For example, Sumitha, the retired schoolteacher introduced in chapter  3, did not get along with her daughter-­in-­law. To lessen tensions, the young c­ ouple built a large new h ­ ouse on the same property as the parents’ h ­ ouse, even though the older dwelling had plenty of space. Then, Sumitha’s son and daughter-­in-­law left Naeaegama

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altogether and moved to a rented property in a nearby town. When Sumitha grew ill with cancer, she went to her ­daughter’s home in far-­off Matara rather than relying on her daughter-­in-­law for care. In this case, the architectural decisions and choices of residence indexed a distance in social relations. In Naeaegama, buying land and building a h ­ ouse cost a g­ reat deal of money. It can take a ­house­hold years to achieve this goal, and most homes shelter multiple ­people in multigenerational families. Physical structures constrain and enable the size of the groups of ­people who live together. Social expectations around gender, sexuality, and adulthood govern the use of spaces. House­holds grow and shrink as families go through predictable cycles of social reproduction. And social relations shape who lives where; t­ hose who need care often live with caregivers, although fights and animosity can alter t­ hese arrangements.

Impor­tant Outsiders and Unimportant Insiders In addition to shaping and reflecting ­family and h ­ ouse­hold relations, h ­ ouse architecture and location also offer clues to the hierarchies within families as well as between families and outsiders. What­ever their blueprint, residences in Naeaegama are built and used according to predictable princi­ples that affect and reflect owner­ship, relationship, and caregiving. At Siri’s ­house, outsiders who came to the home chose which side to approach. More familiar neighbors and less impor­tant visitors went around to the kitchen side or stayed on the front steps; more impor­tant visitors sat on the front porch or entered the living room. ­People entirely unfamiliar with the ­family called a greeting from the gate and waited for a resident to calm the barking dog and invite them into the compound. ­These same patterns of front and back recurred for residents as well as guests. Older h ­ ouses of high-­status families often had small rooms adjoining a large front porch; t­ hese outer rooms did not connect with the main h ­ ouse. Siri’s f­ amily once rented their front room to the local government administrator, and I used it as an office when d­ oing my dissertation fieldwork. Inside Siri’s ­house and other Naeaegama residences, high-­status residents (often young, healthy, able, or male) occupied the front of the ­house near the porch. Lower-­ status residents (often el­derly, ill, disabled, or female) occupied the back areas near the kitchen and bathroom. For example, in Hemal’s h ­ ouse, his elder ­daughter and her husband (the impor­tant outsider) and baby occupied the front room, his younger ­daughter (whose husband was abroad) occupied the second room (both rooms opening off the living room areas), and Hemal and his wife occupied a room in the back of the ­house. Poorer and somewhat estranged from Hemal’s h ­ ouse­hold, Hemal’s m ­ other had a separate one-­room cement ­house on the property, and Hemal’s widowed s­ ister lived in a tiny, impermanent lean-to attached to the m ­ other’s h ­ ouse. The spatial distribution of p­ eople indexed hierarchies of gender and wealth.

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Patterns of centrality and importance structured the use of space in Naeaegama homes. In Kapila’s ­house, his eldest son or other guests occupied the front room near the porch when they visited; this space was reserved for impor­tant outsiders. His ­daughter and second son occupied other rooms adjoining the living room and dining room. Kapila and his wife occupied one of the back rooms. In the least prestigious bedroom, near the kitchen, lived Kapila’s wife’s unmarried, deaf ­sister. Similarly, Telsie described the occupation patterns in her childhood home. A small room for outsiders was located off the front porch; this room had no connection to the inside of the ­house. Inside, Telsie lived in a front room with her ­mother and two ­sisters. (Her ­father had passed away at this point in time). In another front bedroom lived her ­father’s s­ister’s ­family. Telsie’s b­ rother slept in the living room with her grand­mother, and a mentally challenged u­ ncle lived in a back room near the kitchen and the toilet. When one of her cousins got drunk and his wife kicked him out, he would come sleep on the porch or in the living room (both “outside” and relatively “male” spaces) with Telsie’s ­brother. Gender, prestige, ability, and intoxication influenced the distribution of ­people within the ­house. Changes in location within the home often index changes in status. For example, Noni’s husband, Mahatung, had a stroke in 2011. When we went to visit in 2016, Noni showed us to the back room. She explained that soon ­a fter his stroke, she and her husband went to stay with their d­ aughter in Anuradhapura, and they got him extensive Ayurvedic treatment, including exercises and medicinal oil treatments. Noni said, “He was able ­a fter all that treatment to walk if someone steadied him. And he would come from the bedroom to the living room to eat and to watch TV. But he ­didn’t want to keep ­doing this when we returned to Naeaegama. He said ‘baeae’ (­can’t) and he wants to just lie on the bed h ­ ere. He eats and sleeps.” B ­ ecause it was difficult to bring him from the bedroom in the front of the h ­ ouse to the toilet at the back of the ­house, they had moved him to a small back bedroom closer to the toilet. Advertently or not, the change in location also mirrored Mahatung’s new status as someone place-­bound who no longer engaged in wage l­ abor. In 2016, Mahatung’s son and daughter-­in-­law occupied the most prestigious front bedroom off the living room. Mahatung’s interior room indexed his weakness, illness, and age and corresponded to a greater need for protection, supervision, and care. In sum, p­ eople in Naeaegama visit and occupy h ­ ouses according to patterns related to their prestige, gender, age, ability, and relative degree of “insider” or “outsider” identity. The use of h ­ ouse space shapes and reflects their social location within the community and the f­ amily. In the remainder of this chapter, using scenario data gathered in 2009, I explore two key issues related to long-­term ­family care for elders. I examine the transfer of material assets such as the owner­ship of land and ­houses, and I

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consider the social capital that elders accrue through long-­term investment in the social reproduction of their h ­ ouse­holds. Both scenarios deal more generally with intrafamily exchanges of care work and material assets. The first scenario discusses timing and formality of the intergenerational transfer of property, and the second addresses which f­ amily members care, and how they care, for distantly related kin, as well as how childless elders should deploy their financial assets and plan for their old age.

Scenario #4: Deeding Land to Heirs Elaborate and widely accepted cultural rules about the reciprocal exchanges of property and elder care shape how elders and their heirs transferred ­these valuable goods and ser­vices. To elicit discussion of t­ hese rules, Siri and I crafted a scenario involving an elder who owns considerable property. We described the fictitious ­family’s finances and then asked our in­for­mants, “Should the elder ‘write’ the land to an heir? If so, when?” “Writing” the land could consist of signing a deed over to the heir or writing a w ­ ill through which the original owner maintained a life interest in the property but designated who would inherit it. ­Unless someone has left explicit instructions to the contrary, Sri Lankan inheritance law bequeaths half of a deceased person’s property to his or her spouse. The other half is divided equally among all of the deceased’s legitimate ­children. If a ­widow, widower, or unmarried person passes away, his or her property is divided between the ­children or reverts to next of kin. If someone passes away without leaving a w ­ ill, the estate can get mired in a costly and drawn-­out court case, with agents of the state becoming involved in tracing kinship links, tracking past formal and informal sales of land shares, surveying the property, and dividing the land. When asked how an elder with property should pass it down to heirs, the majority of my in­for­mants felt that the elder should write it early for the sake of the entire f­ amily. In separate interviews, several village residents i­ magined in vivid detail the disputes that could arise in the event of the sudden death of a property owner who did not have a ­will. Eighty-­eight-­year-­old Amerasinghe, stroke survivor and f­ ather of four grown c­ hildren, said, “If you keep it in your own name and die without writing the land, then t­ here w ­ ill be a big prob­lem. The kids and also outsiders w ­ ill blame the elder.” Titus, a man in his forties with three sons, concurred, noting, “They ­will fight about who gets which piece, the piece by the gate or the piece with the jack tree.” While peeling cinnamon in Siri’s cinnamon-­peeling shed, Indika, in his late thirties from a large f­ amily, made a similar comment: “The landowner needs to distribute it, or ­else the kids ­will go to the court. ­There ­will be a war for the better half of the land.” He then pointed ­toward his own nearby ­family property and said,

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“Take us as an example!” He laughed. “In our case, it would just be a question of whose fist would win. And the ­family would be destroyed. We would end up with two ­brothers dead and the third in jail for murder!” Legally binding instructions for the distribution of property can and do help families avoid such fragmenting confrontations. In discussing this scenario in separate interviews, several neighbors and relatives mentioned the case of Padmasiri, a recently deceased el­derly man with three sons and three d­ aughters. Padmasiri held two acres of land, with three h ­ ouses and a small business. The two married sons and their families each occupied a new ­house, and a divorced son had been living in the original ­family home with his ­father. The three ­daughters had married and lived elsewhere. ­A fter Padmasiri’s death, his three sons claimed that their ­sisters had no right to the land, even though their ­father had not officially deeded or willed his property exclusively to the sons. They claimed that one ­sister in par­tic­u­lar had no right to a share in the land ­because Padmasiri had already written her the deed for the land on which she and her husband lived. Padmasiri’s sons refused to let their s­ isters exercise their l­egal right to pluck coconuts from the land. In anger, the s­isters filed a court case and refused to take part in the almsgiving honoring the three-­month anniversary of their ­father’s death—­a solemn moment for the public display of ­family unity and re­spect for the departed elder. Villa­gers cited this case as a prime example of the damaging ­family disputes that could arise over parental failure to distribute property. Speaking of his own three sons, Titus perceptively isolated the root issue: parents need to obtain property for all of their male c­ hildren. Although sons and ­daughters inherit property equally in this part of Sri Lanka, the dominant, preferred, and most prestigious postmarriage residence pattern is virilocality: a ­daughter at marriage receives a dowry and moves to her husband’s property (G. Gamburd 2009). Thus, parents often assume, as one in­for­mant put it, that “sons need land but ­daughters ­don’t.” Titus felt that all but one son should receive property elsewhere, and the youn­gest son should inherit the ­family home as well as responsibility for caring for his parents. This pattern of ultimogeniture (Strathern and Stewart 2011, 18) reflected a common ideal in the village; I examine the practice in more detail in the following chapter. Enacting the ideal of ultimogeniture could cause prob­lems, however, if people lacked paperwork to formalize the arrangement. For example, ­ Darshini, a ­woman in her mid-­forties, had looked a­ fter her father-­in-­law u­ ntil his unexpected death. She continued to look a­ fter her mother-­in-­law, who suffered from dementia. Her husband, the youn­gest son in the ­family, had de facto inherited the ­family home, and he and Darshini fulfilled the expectation that they would care for the elders. But the father-­in-­law had passed away without deeding his land to anyone, and the mother-­in-­law’s dementia left her incapable of making a ­will. Officially, all of the siblings owned equal shares of

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the land. B ­ ecause the other siblings already owned land and h ­ ouses elsewhere, Darshini hoped that they would not demand their shares of the small property or payment for their portion of the ­family home from their youn­gest ­brother when their ­mother passed away. Nevertheless, lack of written paperwork put Darshini and her husband in a precarious situation, having already provided long-­term care for the el­derly c­ ouple but having left implicit the arrangement about property inheritance. Although in Darshini’s case, an explicit agreement about property would have been welcome, in other cases, in­for­mants saw a danger in formalizing the inheritance. In 2015, retired police officer Nishantha acknowledged that some elders distribute their land ahead of time to avoid making prob­lems for their ­children. However, early distribution could also cause trou­ble; with a deed in hand, irresponsible c­ hildren could potentially sell the property. “They could drink, g­ amble, and become homeless! Then the ­whole ­family would be destroyed,” Nishantha warned. In addition to the danger that an irresponsible and selfish owner might sell the f­amily land and property, deeding a bigger share of the property to one par­tic­u­lar individual might obligate that person to do more care work, but d­ oing so did not guarantee care, and it could alienate ­those who did not stand to inherit property. For example, when we spoke with her in 2009, Ramani noted, “If the parents ­don’t distribute the money and property equally, then the ones who ­didn’t get any w ­ ill say, ‘You gave us nothing. We w ­ on’t help you. Tell the one to whom you gave the land to help.’ If the parents give to every­one, then no one can say ‘You d­ idn’t give to me.’ ” Deeding all of one’s property to one child implicitly relieved the other c­ hildren of some of their obligations to provide care. In­for­mants made another argument in f­ avor of the landowner in the scenario holding on to the property u­ ntil he or she died. This argument involved an ungrateful heir taking the inheritance and failing to provide care. For example, Rukmini, a middle-­aged ­widow with two ­daughters, worried that “if you write your land to your kids, you c­ an’t say w ­ hether they might abandon you once you have written it.” Renuka, a ­widow in her early fifties, felt the same way. She instructed the elder in the scenario, “Keep the power in your own hand. Some ­people support elders only ­until the land is written to them.” Similarly, Virasena, a man from a large ­family in his late fifties who had cared for his aging ­mother, felt that someone should write the property ­later rather than e­ arlier in their old age. He said, “­A fter getting help, give the property at the last minute to the person who provided care. It’s not good to write the land ­earlier.” In ­these situations, the elder could direct the inheritance ­after some or most of the care had already been provided. Anura, a 35-­year-­old former police officer and current stay-­at-­home ­father, considered the timing of writing property to reflect the degree of trust between parents and ­children. He said, “If you believe in your kids, you can

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give the land at the time of marriage. Then the f­ ather is happy and the kids are happy. The f­ ather can take a risk. If you write it at the last minute, it means that you ­don’t trust your ­family. If you hold the property too long, the ­children ­will think ‘The old man ­doesn’t trust any of us.’ ” Then, seemingly in contradiction to his advice for elders to trust their ­children, Anura related to us a story that he had heard from his grand­father: ­ ere once was an old man who had three sons. He gave them most of his Th property when they got married. He kept only his own h ­ ouse. His three sons came to do their duty. They brought food to him at his h ­ ouse. ­Things went along well for some time. Then the man de­cided to divide the remaining property. He did so. For about two weeks, ­things continued as they had before. Then gradually t­ here w ­ ere a few shortages, like not as much food and care. ­Things got worse and worse, to the point that the old man had to go to his sons’ homes to ask for food. If the sons w ­ ere at home, he would get food, but if it was just their wives, they d­ idn’t take much care. So this old man was very sad. He went out on the road to a beggar’s shelter. ­There he met an old friend from his school days who worked as a carpenter. That friend took him home and gave him tea and heard the w ­ hole story. That friend was smart. He made for the old man a good wooden box and filled it with ceramic pieces that clinked like coins when they shifted against each other. He nailed the box shut. He told the old man to keep that box with him all the time, even when he went to the toilet. The old man went home. He kept the box with him all the time. His eldest son saw that he was home, and he came to visit. He saw that his f­ ather had a box. The other sons came, and they also saw the box. They heard that something in the box clinked, and they assumed that the box was full of valuable coins. Then that old man got very good treatment from all his sons! The old man kept the box with him ­until he died. ­A fter the funeral, his sons pried out the nails and opened the box—­and found only broken pieces of pottery!1

Taken in combination, Anura’s interview implies that elders can trust their ­children, but only so far. It also suggests that ­children ­will treat their parents better if they think their parents still have some assets to distribute. Anura’s story about the clinking box makes the point that an elder needs to hold something in reserve. Naeaegama villa­gers with considerable assets seemed to agree implicitly with this position. At the same time, they saw the need to distribute some property in advance. For example, consider Sumitha-­ miss, a retired schoolteacher introduced in chapter 3. Sumitha came from a rich f­ amily. Sobered by the recent death of their younger b­ rother at age 65, she and her surviving siblings ­were in the pro­cess of dividing their ancestral properties. She planned to give her share of ­these properties directly to her ­children

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while continuing to live on and retaining owner­ship of the land her home was on. Another wealthy villa­ger told Siri and me that he had already deeded his property to his ­children. He received a pension, however, so he still controlled some income. Despite the accompanying uncertainties, the majority of my in­for­mants thought it was better to distribute their land before they died. Janaki, the retired schoolteacher and ­mother of four grown ­daughters introduced ­earlier, recognized the risk that the heir might cast out the former landowner a­ fter he had signed away the property. Another el­derly w ­ oman cynically remarked, “Well, if they abandon you ­after you write the land to them, then you know that they ­were just helping for the property!” Emaline, a ­widow in her late sixties, speculated, “At least the c­ hildren w ­ ill help a l­ittle bit, even if not one hundred p­ ercent perfectly. And if a death occurs, the kids w ­ ill do the funeral.” Most in­for­mants thought it better to risk some neglect from their ­children than to endanger the ­future of the f­ amily over a property fight. The above village cases and reactions to scenario #4 reveal a number of key points about intrafamily exchanges of homes, moveable assets, money, and caretakers’ time. In Naeaegama as in many other areas in South Asia, the general par­ameters of intergenerational obligations outline clear expectations that parents w ­ ill provide an upbringing for c­hildren, giving dowries to ­daughters and properties to sons (Jeffery and Jeffery 2010). In exchange, adult ­children (in this area of Sri Lanka, particularly the youn­gest son and his ­family) ­will look ­after the parents ­until their deaths. In such long-­term, extended cases of intergenerational reciprocity, however, it is impossible to keep exact track of who owes what to whom, particularly b­ ecause the obligations surpass mere economics and involve strongly felt emotions (Magazine and Sanchez 2007). In fact, not keeping exact track of debt and obligation is precisely the nature of generalized reciprocity characterized by ­family interactions (Cronk 2008). Within the general expectation of trust and love, however, lurk areas of risk and fear. By formalizing large financial interactions such as the inheritance of property, elders could si­mul­ta­neously reward t­hose who provided care and alienate the ­family members who did not inherit. Some elders held off on writing their land in order to leverage attention from a wide range of kin and minimize the risk of neglect. At the same time, failing to formalize property arrangements could lead to expensive court cases and family-­ destroying fights, which elders sought to avert. The cultural traditions of virilocal residence and ultimogeniture provided a template for ­handling the transfer of property and the provision of care for the aged. Within this framework, elders agentively negotiated interactions with their kin with varying degrees of trust, retaining or relinquishing control over money and land depending on individual personalities and ­family circumstances.

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Scenario #5: Material Exchanges Bolster Care for Distant Relatives Kinship structures endure in the face of poverty and hardship; indeed, kin operate as a social insurance scheme when all other resources are exhausted (Stack 1974; Weismantel 1995). Villa­gers uniformly stated that “of course” ­children should take care of their own parents, regardless of financial transactions. And yet, the data presented above from ­actual cases and discussions of scenario #4 suggest that parents can and do barter economic assets in exchange for care. How do kin obligations and the intergenerational transfer of property work on the periphery of the extended ­family? Through scenario #5, a situation concerning a somewhat attenuated kin connection with unmarried aunts and u­ ncles, Siri and I hoped to get at the sentimental and economic interactions that cemented care relationships between more distant relatives. In our fifth scenario, we described an el­derly, childless, unmarried ­woman who lived with her married younger ­brother (like Elaine, introduced at the beginning of this chapter). We asked, “When she grows frail, who should assume responsibility for her care?” Key points that in­for­mants raised in discussing this open-­ended scenario included obligatory kinship duties, the emotional quality of past interactions, temporal duration of cohabitation, and the degree of exchange of time and other resources between the el­derly aunt and members of her ­house­hold. ­Here I look at what in­for­mants said about the role of economic incentives, particularly the inheritance of property, in holding together kinship obligations. Kinship ties created a duty to share housing with the el­derly aunt. In the Naeaegama area as in the rest of rural Sri Lanka, w ­ omen of all ages must live within a multiperson h ­ ouse­hold, preferably with a resident adult male relative; a w ­ oman cannot live alone or with only small ­children as com­pany (Marecek and Appuhamilage 2011). Speaking of scenario #5, in­for­mants told me that the aunt’s b­ rother and his c­ hildren ­were responsible not only for her housing but also for the care that she might need as she aged. One in­for­mant suggested that the ­brother’s ­family held more responsibility for her ­because she was unmarried than they would have held if she had wed (in which case, some responsibility would have passed to her husband’s f­ amily). She was considered “one’s own blood” or “one’s own person,” for whom individuals had a compulsory duty to care. House­holding (sharing shelter) led directly to elder care, again emphasizing the importance of the h ­ ouse in creating economic and emotional teams of p­ eople playing the serious game of social reproduction together over long periods of time. In discussing the scenario of the childless aunt, a number of in­for­mants imaginatively fleshed out the emotional valence of the interactions and the magnitude of the exchanges of time and material resources. For example,

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Anura noted, “An elder w ­ oman like that can become like a grand­mother to her grandnieces and grandnephews. But she needs to have done stuff for that ­family, without fighting with her in-­laws. Her b­ rother loves her, but she needs to be careful also not to fight with her sister-­in-­law. And if the aunt has helped with the tuition fees for the nieces and nephews, walked them to school when they w ­ ere young, and washed their clothing, then ­those kids have to help her out. If she has properties, they ­will expect to inherit them. They ­will look ­after her if she has laid the groundwork correctly. But the unmarried one needs to take care of it carefully in advance.” He concluded, “You harvest what you sow.” Similarly, Dayawansa, a retired schoolmaster, noted that the ­woman’s ­brother would certainly look a­ fter her; her nephews and nieces should, but might not, do so too. He said, “Her ­brother is the closest relative, and it is compulsory for him to help. But his wife is looking to the other side [­toward her own kin]. And his kids are not such close relatives.” In this case, in­for­ mants felt that to ensure support, kinship duty should be bolstered by positive emotions and a history of generosity. A number of villa­gers asserted straightforwardly that material exchanges ­were impor­tant in cementing the care relationship. For example, Sumitha-­ miss assumed that the childless aunt in the scenario had lived in the ­house­hold with her b­ rother’s f­ amily and helped them in the past. She concluded, “­Those kids love her. If she has property, she w ­ ill prob­ably leave it to them. So they ­will help her.” Perera, the 59-­year-­old ­house painter who lost his h ­ ouse due to his youn­gest ­daughter’s imprudence, provided an emphatic statement about the importance of property. He asked Siri and me about this fictitious elder ­woman: “Does she have land?” We ­imagined that she did. “Then they ­will come and wash her feet u­ ntil she dies,” he opined, and we all burst into laughter at the image of a sodden elder receiving unending ser­vice of the greatest symbolic value, akin to that offered to Buddhist monks, bridegrooms, and visiting dignitaries. Perera cautioned, however, that this old aunt should be careful to distribute her assets equally to all of her kin, lest some feel slighted and refuse to help. To complement the scenario discussions above, consider the a­ ctual case of three unmarried Naeaegama siblings (two aunts and an ­uncle of Janaki’s husband, Lalith) who had lived u­ ntil their deaths in a large, joint h ­ ouse­hold with a number of nephews and nieces and their families. Members of the sandwich generation had distributed the responsibility for the three elders between them; several of the responsible relatives no longer lived in the village but sent funds to support their aunts and u­ ncle, while ­those living locally took care of day-­to-­day needs. This care included help with medical issues, food, other maintenance, and fi­nally the per­for­mance of the funeral. As part of the relationship, ­these nieces and nephews received their elder charges’ shares of the f­ amily property.

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Several in­for­mants speculated on what would happen to an el­derly ­woman who had not lived with a sibling. When Siri and I w ­ ere deliberately vague about the living situation in the scenario, Ramani noted, “It’s impor­tant to know how this aunt lived and who she helped and w ­ hether she had a job. That would help me to figure out the f­ amily obligations. If she was just living alone d­ oing a job, she should know to save money so that she can hire a servant in her old age.” Ramani suggested that an individual should plan on purchasing care for hire if she has not been able to cultivate a relationship with her nieces and nephews and their ­children, “mixing” with them repeatedly over the years in large or small but deeply meaningful ways that merge their lives together and cement her place in the center of the h ­ ouse­hold and f­ amily (Trawick 1990, 83–88). Con­temporary trends in urbanization and migration affect individuals’ thoughts and plans for their f­ uture. Forty-­three-­year-­old high school teacher Shivanthi noted, “My husband and I have no ­children. Now we can come and go and cook well. But when we are el­derly, we w ­ ill not be able to do so.” She was grateful that she and her spouse would have pensions. She then remarked that she thought her younger ­sister’s ­children might help her out. But Shivanthi worried, “We ­can’t expect too much from the kids. And they might not be able to come and see us. They might live far away or go abroad, and then they would only be able to call us on the telephone.” And even if an elder had offspring, it did not guarantee that he or she would live in a ­house­hold with a child, particularly b­ ecause ambitious and upwardly mobile members of the younger generation sought greener pastures in the city and abroad. Kin relationships and collaborative ­house­hold residence give individuals a claim on the time, space, and material resources of their relatives. Having sufficient money, space, and time could make kinship duties easier to fulfill, and several in­for­mants remarked that educated and wealthy p­ eople w ­ ere more likely to shoulder the responsibility gracefully. But in busy, crowded, financially challenged h ­ ouse­holds, individuals must negotiate their par­tic­u­lar obligations to closer and more distant relatives. Childless elders can strategically reinforce kinship ties by cultivating emotional closeness, investing time and other resources in their ju­nior kin, and amassing assets to pass on to heirs.

Conclusion The data in this chapter emphasize the importance of the material exchange in the serious game of social reproduction. Financial security is crucial to elders’ well-­being. The assets elders bring into a ­house­hold affect their authority and position within intergenerational f­amily obligations, strengthening the moral imperative for care. Elders often control financial assets, such as pensions and property, of g­ reat value to their families and ­house­holds. ­People in Naeaegama prize government

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jobs, such as teaching or serving in the military or the police, not only for the prestige but also for the long-­term stability of a monthly pension check. They also often feel the need to supplement t­ hese payments with other employment or forms of income. House­holds pool their assets, and elders with pensions often rely on kin for added economic support. In addition to pensions, savings, and other small streams of income, elders also often own the land and h ­ ouse in which the h ­ ouse­hold dwells. Homes and property (wealth accumulated over generations by the extended f­ amily) usually constitute the f­ amily’s greatest financial assets. Coresidence with younger kin (who ­will likely inherit the ­house and land) helps ensure that elders receive care at the end of their lives. Houses shape the social spaces for ­house­holds to live, and the physical structure of the ­house affects how ­people live and care for one another within it. Hierarchies of status and gender determine who lives where within the building. High-­status individuals (often younger, healthier, or male) live in the front of the ­house, while lower-­status p­ eople (often older, iller, or female) live in the back. Extended families fission as c­ hildren marry and some move out; the size and shape of the ­house constrain the size and shape of the ­house­hold within it. The data gathered through the scenarios about inheritance emphasize how ­people in Naeaegama or­ga­nize intrafamily exchanges of care work and material assets. Property ­owners strategically leverage their control of ­houses and land to guarantee some social and financial stability in their old age. Elders strive to deed their property equitably, so that the person or ­people who inherit the most are also the ones who do the most care work. Transferring property to the next generation forms a crucial aspect of the serious game of social reproduction. If o­ wners fail to deed their land to heirs with sufficient formality, fragmenting confrontations over property can rupture f­ amily solidarity. At the same time, giving away every­thing ahead of time can weaken an elder’s ability to leverage care from kin. ­Family members recognize long-­term obligations and duties to elders who have contributed time, money, property, and other emotional and material assets to the f­ amily. Elders who have no ­children of their own often integrate themselves into ­house­holds of collateral kin, creating both financial and emotional ties with younger relatives, with the understanding that they ­will reciprocate past material support and devotion with f­ uture care. Discussing scenarios #4 and #5, in­for­mants emphasized the dual importance of the house—­first as a form of valuable property that elders ­will to their kin and second as a location for coresidence and the daily practice of intergenerational care. The following chapter looks in more detail at identity and kin relations as tied to the ancestral home.

5

A Youn­gest Son Called “Hope” Virilocal Ultimogeniture and the Ancestral Home Ruwani, a longtime l­abor mi­grant, had returned from work in the Gulf suffering from diabetes. Soon ­after she got home, she had all of her teeth pulled. In 2015, she told Siri and me, “I keep my false teeth in a jar in the other room, and I put them on when I go out.” Despite having a hard-­drinking husband who squandered money, with her earnings, Ruwani had managed to construct a cement-­walled ­house and raise four c­ hildren, three of whom w ­ ere married. She was in the pro­cess of arranging a marriage for her youn­gest son, nicknamed “Paethum” (hope, anticipation, expectation, or wish). Paethum would inherit the ancestral h ­ ouse. A year l­ ater, when Siri and I w ­ ere interviewing Ruwani’s neighbor, Ruwani called out a cheerful hello. Carefully keeping her mouth out of sight below the boundary wall, she let us know that Paethum had gotten married. Of her son, Ruwani said, “He is good. He ­doesn’t drink too much. He’s home right now; he and his wife just had a baby.” An infant’s laughter burbled through the open win­dow. In a separate interview that year, an in-­law of the ­family told us that Paethum worried about the influence his alcoholic ­father might have on the newborn child. Why might parents name their youn­gest son “Hope”? Why would this child and not another one inherit the h ­ ouse, the land, and the responsibility 75

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for looking ­after his aging and ailing parents? Answers to ­these questions lie in the norms of gender, identity, and owner­ship related to the physical structures ­people in Naeaegama call “home.”

Houses and Identity In chapter 4, I wrote about the architecture of homes in Naeaegama and the ways that elders strategize to leverage their control of land and ­houses to ensure good care in their old age. Houses help maintain and reproduce f­ amily structures, and ­house­holds transfer owner­ship of property between members as they move through the life course. This chapter continues the discussion of the role of the ­house by exploring how places (e.g., ­family homes and properties) relate to identities (e.g., ­family, lineage, and caste groups). I explore the relationship between kinship, owner­ship, inheritance, and elder care. Social norms shape how p­ eople’s identities are tied to their homes. Rights to residence closely correlate with kinship relations. P ­ eople from Naeaegama can often read class identity from the size and quality of a home, caste identity from residence in a par­tic­u­lar village area, and f­ amily identity from longtime association with a par­tic­u­lar property. ­People grow attached to their places—­loving their homes and also taking their identities from ­these indexical structures. Residences reflect ongoing historical trends and emerging patterns of life. In Naeaegama, village h ­ ouses exhibit a wide range of architectural styles and states of repair. Some of the village’s old elite live in gentile poverty, while upwardly mobile families have demolished old wattle and daub structures and built large, new homes with tile roofs and cement walls. Longitudinal research reveals changes in village h ­ ouses and the movement of p­ eople and families. In general, ­there are more ­people and more (and bigger) homes in Naeaegama now than when I started research ­there in 1992. But some ­people have moved away, some properties have been sold, and some ­houses are empty or abandoned. Absent p­ eople and empty ­houses can be a sign of failure or success. An empty or sparsely inhabited home can indicate that someone has died or been disowned; it can also indicate that the younger generation has successfully transitioned from Naeaegama to other locations by migrating internally to the capital city or externally to Australia or New Zealand. Although some elders eagerly accompany their c­ hildren when they move, o­ thers do not want to leave their village homes and social networks. In ­these cases, families have to plan creatively to provide care for elders.

The Ancestral Home: Meanings and Ambiguities As discussed in the prior chapter, ­people in Naeaegama visit and occupy ­houses according to patterns related to their prestige, gender, age, ability, and

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relative degree of “insider” or “outsider” identity. The use of ­house space shapes and reflects their social location within the community and the ­family. As the next section shows, ­houses also reflect lineage membership and caste identity. When p­ eople in southern Sri Lanka meet for the first time, they often “play ‘who,’ ” as I call the activity of locating the other person socially by finding out where the person lives and who they are related to. In t­ hese inquiries, place of residence, f­amily surname, and information about marriages are intimately connected. Caste identity, although rarely discussed openly, correlates closely with ­family and village names. B ­ ecause castes are endogamous, marriages usually take place within the group, between members of intermarrying lineages (G. Gamburd 2009). Properties and families are intimately connected. Unlike in the United States, where roughly 15 ­percent of the population moves to a new home each year (US Census Bureau 2018), in Sri Lanka, lineage members often occupy the same property and village for multiple generations. ­People take their identities both from their ­family name and from the location of their ancestral property (maha waththa, ­great garden) or ancestral ­house (maha gedera, ­great ­house). Missy-­nona at the Nivaasaya old folks’ home told me that members of the extended f­ amily (maha paramparaawa, g­ reat lineage) could all have shares in the large, undivided land of the maha waththa and could call the old h ­ ouse their maha gedera. House and ­family are closely affiliated in Naeaegama. In general usage, the term “maha gedera” refers to, as the painter Perera told me, “where you r­ eally live,” although he explained that for young ­people, it might refer to where their parents lived. Kokila (age 44) told me that the maha gedera was “where your ‘every­one’ lives,” following up with, “It’s where you do the rituals.” Stroke-­survivor Mahatung’s wife Noni (a grand­mother in her sixties) said, “The maha gedera is where every­one is living.” Nostalgically, she followed up by saying, “You can call it your maha gedera ­after you marry and leave.” Similarly, Dayawansa (the retired schoolteacher in his eighties) said, “­A fter my wife and I are dead, our kids can call this ­house their maha gedera.” By reference to the rites of passage of marriage and death, my interlocutors emphasized length of occupation, a key criterion for calling a h ­ ouse a maha gedera. ­These brief statements illustrate the connection between home, kin, place, and time. During interviews in 2016, I explored the definition of the maha gedera. Every­one knew and employed the term regularly, but pinning down details proved surprisingly difficult. I asked ­people a series of questions about the term, and their answers brought out multiple ambiguities in usage. Does every­one have a maha gedera (ancestral home)? This question was answered mostly with “yes.” Telsie said that a maha gedera can also be called a mul gedera (root ­house). She and Siri debated about the difference between “where the ­people are living” and “where the ­people w ­ ere living.” The mostly

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clearly definable maha gederas are the ones with continuous occupation by a single lineage. One can only say that a place is one’s maha gedera if one has (or has had) owner­ship rights or one’s parents had owner­ship rights when one lived ­there as a child. Telsie spoke admiringly of her friend Nilani’s h ­ ouse (which had belonged to Nilani’s husband’s f­ amily for many generations and was occupied by Nilani’s son and daughter-­in-­law). Telsie compared that situation favorably with the situation of her own maha gedera, which had been inherited by her only ­brother. Her ­brother’s wife had not wanted to live “in the forest,” so his nuclear ­family had moved to a nearby town. The old ­house had slowly fallen into disrepair, and the ­family fi­nally sold it and the surrounding land. Telsie felt that she could say she was “from” that old ­house (a well-­known elite mansion constructed in 1832) but said she had “nowhere to go back to” now that the property had been sold and the old h ­ ouse torn down. On the other hand, she pointed out that she had lived at Siri’s ­family home for forty-­four years, indicating that her identity now attached as much to her marital home as to her natal home. Can a rental property be a maha gedera? Of the questions I asked, this one received the surest, quickest, and most consistent answer: “No.” Telsie said that no one could claim “someone e­ lse’s ­house” as their maha gedera. Somatillake, a grand­father, noted that if someone living in a rented h ­ ouse w ­ ere asked about their maha gedera, “they would need to talk about the ­house they ­were born in (upan gedera),” and then clarified for me that this was “the lineage one.” Similarly, Kokila said that every­one had a maha gedera and elaborated to say that ­children living with parents in rented quarters would need to refer to their grandparents’ homes. Some in­for­mants suggested that ­children of renters did not have a maha gedera, although they seemed to find this idea disturbing. Perera insisted that such ­people would at least have a natal village. At the Nivaasaya old folks’ home, Missy-­nona thought that the only way a rental place could become a maha gedera was if the f­ amily bought it and lived in it for a long time. Conversely, the man­ag­er, Chamila, thought that if parents sold a ­house, their ­children could no longer claim it as their maha gedera. Longtime property owner­ship by members of the kin group was a key criterion for belonging. Would ­people ever lie about their maha gedera? My interlocutors often laughed when I asked this question. Sunila, a 25-­year-­old Berava-­caste ­woman with plans to emigrate to New Zealand, grinned and claimed that p­ eople would indeed lie. When I asked why, she replied in En­glish, “Prestige.” She explained that ­people might lie about their homes and villages to increase their social status. Other respondents dismissed the possibility of lying about their maha gedera—­often with statements indicating that they thought they would get caught if they tried. For example, Kokila said, “You would be a fool to lie about it.” Siri put it this way: “I can say I’m from [a locally well-­known

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elite mansion]. But every­one in the village knows who I ­really am, and they would laugh at me.” In other words, one might be able to lie when talking with a stranger, but when talking with someone who might know “who you ­really are,” it was better to tell the truth. Identity and residence fuse together in the maha gedera concept. Even though homes and lineages are closely connected, parents and ­children may have dif­fer­ent maha gederas. When I asked about his d­ aughter and son-­in-­law, 70-­year-­old Somatillake initially said that they had been living at his maha gedera, a ­family property that his ­daughter received for her dowry. The young c­ ouple had recently sold that land and built a ­house on the son-­in-­ law’s ­father’s property. I asked Somatillake which ­house his grandchildren would call their maha gedera—­the one they ­were born in or the new one. I expected him to say it was the ­house they ­were born in but was surprised when he claimed they would call their new h ­ ouse their maha gedera. Somatillake clearly thought that his grandchildren’s ­father’s ancestral land provided a more prestigious identity than their ­mother’s ancestral land would. First, the son-­in-­law’s lineage was of a higher subgrade within the Halaagama caste. Second, the c­ ouple had sold Somatillake’s ancestral land to “outsiders,” making a continued connection problematic. Long-­term linkages to homes could change over time. During a conversation with Perera, Siri said that his own m ­ other and f­ ather (both of whom w ­ ere deceased) might reference their parents’ homes as their maha gederas rather than naming Siri’s h ­ ouse, which was the home in which they raised Siri and his ­brothers. Perera, however, said that enough time had passed that he thought of Siri’s h ­ ouse as Siri’s parents’ maha gedera. Perera’s assertion reflects generational perspective; for ­people of Siri’s generation and younger, the parents belong in the h ­ ouse in which the ­children grew up, whereas p­ eople of an older generation might link Siri’s parents with their own parents’ homes instead. Siri’s ­mother’s maha gedera had stood a stone’s throw to the east, cementing his belonging in Naeaegama. Few ­people who are currently living would know or care where Siri’s f­ ather had been born and raised, although the location of his ancestral home did come up when Siri played games of “who” with strangers to establish wider-­ranging identities of kinship and caste. In order to probe the importance of the physical building, I asked in­for­ mants, “If t­ here was an old h ­ ouse and it was torn down and a new one made, can the new one still be called the maha gedera?” Officially the answer was “no,” but unofficially and conceptually, ­people seemed to merge the new and the old ­houses together. For example, would-be New Zealand immigrant Sunila’s 56-­year-­old m ­ other said that her maha gedera in Kalutara was gone. “My younger b­ rother demolished the old h ­ ouse and made a new one,” she reported. Noni similarly identified with her ancestral home in a shorthand way as the maha gedera but made clear to Siri and me that her younger ­brother,

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who had inherited the ­house and land, had renovated the old building. But Dayawansa held a dif­fer­ent view. Dayawansa’s c­ hildren w ­ ere born when he and his wife w ­ ere still living in his parents’ home (which his younger b­ rother inherited). Thereafter, Dayawansa’s ­family built and lived for many years in a small wattle and daub home (a wood and reed structure plastered with fine clay). ­A fter his ­children completed their education, the ­family tore down the small ­house and put up a larger one with cement walls and a tile roof. Dayawansa said, “We lived in the clay ­house for a long time, ­until my son got a job [as a ­lawyer at the courts]. Then we needed to have a better h ­ ouse, and my son built this one. Now it would be embarrassing to refer to the clay h ­ ouse as his maha gedera.” The decades-­old cement ­house had been built several yards distant from the location of the demolished clay h ­ ouse, on the same property. Officially, Dayawansa thought, his son and ­daughter should say that the ­house their f­ amily lived in when they w ­ ere born was their maha gedera and that the one they currently lived in was just “our ­house (ape ge).” However, the c­ hildren had spent the majority of their childhood and all of their adulthood on the property, and every­one seemed comfortable referring to the current h ­ ouse as their maha gedera. Certainly the not-­so-­new “new” ­house reflected the f­ amily’s current class status better than the old clay one. The maha gedera and the maha waththa (ancestral garden) both correlate with ­family identity. For example, Kokila noted that her youn­gest ­brother had inherited the home that she grew up in (which she referred to as “the” maha gedera), and another b­ rother built a h ­ ouse right next door. Her own home was also built on her f­ather’s f­amily property. Discussing her lineage, Siri mentioned her grand­father and told me how that man’s three sons ­were related to multiple other ­people in Naeaegama. When Siri asked Kokila where her grand­father’s ancestral home (i.e., Kokila’s ­father’s maha gedera) had been located, she said she did not know but assumed it had to have been in the immediate area (on the maha waththa). With a bit of time, the maha gedera and the maha waththa merge, but if standing in the maha waththa, one might distinguish between the locations of former and current dwellings. In both cases, the ­house and the property index a person’s lineage, which for conversation purposes may be specific enough. In other words, “Where is your maha gedera?” is another way of asking someone, “Who are you?”

Inheriting Shares in Ancestral Property Land, and often buildings, persist longer than ­human lives. Socie­ties therefore develop rules and social structures for passing owner­ship from person to person and from generation to generation. In the Naeaegama area, sons and ­daughters inherit land equally from ­mothers and f­ athers u­ nless other arrangements are specified in a w ­ ill or on a deed. A ­ fter

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several generations, an ancestral property may be divided into increasingly small shares held by increasingly large numbers of p­ eople. If they enter the court system, disputes over owner­ship of ancestral properties can (and often do) go on for de­cades, during which ­lawyers argue over decades-­old kinship connections and no one can officially buy, sell, or build on the property. As discussed in chapter 4, parents may attempt to reduce tensions and mitigate fragmentation by “writing” their property shares to a designated heir or heirs, with or sometimes without an accompanying surveyor’s report and deed. Individuals who continue to live on an undivided ancestral property often make efforts to purchase shares from nonresident relatives in order to consolidate their owner­ship (or at least to claim enough shares to justify building a permanent, cement ­house). Tensions often flared when longtime ­family lands came up for sale on the open market. For example, an el­derly lady passed away and her sons and ­daughters inherited her seaside property. Claiming that he wished to continue to live in the h ­ ouse, one son consolidated shares of the land, which his siblings gladly sold to him at a reasonable rate. Soon ­after gaining sole owner­ship of the property, he sold the land for a large sum of money to a developer, who put up a luxury tourist h ­ otel. He shared none of the profits with his siblings but instead used the money to build himself a nice ­house in a Colombo suburb. The Naeaegama relatives who told me about the situation reported, “The siblings ­were so angry with him that none of them attended his son’s wedding.” By deceitfully abusing his siblings’ assumptions about long-­standing property-­ consolidation practices, the man lost all connections with his nearest kin. Sale of the land resulted in rupture of the f­ amily relations. The strong negative emotions related to selling ancestral property that came up in the case of the seaside land also appeared in the situation related to ancestral property held by Emaline’s husband’s f­amily in Naeaegama. Emaline and her husband had bought property across the street from her husband’s maha waththa when their ­children w ­ ere young. The old h ­ ouse, Emaline said, “had grown too crowded for them to be able to study in peace.” Although Emaline’s husband and his four siblings had shares in the maha waththa, the ­house was inhabited by an unmarried s­ister, the youn­gest b­ rother, and the ­brother’s large f­amily. ­A fter the s­ister’s and b­ rother’s deaths, the b­ rother’s youn­gest son occupied the ­house. When I visited Emaline in 2016, I noticed a large area of land across the street that had been stripped of trees and other vegetation. In addition, a ­great deal of the red clay soil had been removed, leaving the old ­house perched awkwardly above a steep drop-­off. Emaline and her son Upul reported that the c­ hildren of one of Emaline’s husband’s nonresident ­brothers had gotten a surveyor to mea­ sure out their shares. They then cut and sold the trees, dug out and sold the valuable clay soil, and sold the remaining land to three dif­fer­ent “outsider” families.

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FIG. 4.  ​Bare land cleared of a well, trees, and clay soil on a recently divided property.

Emaline lamented the dust and heat associated with the treeless, bare ground. Her eyes filled with tears when she reported that the well had been filled in. (The old ­house remained on her husband’s younger ­brother’s f­ amily’s share of the land, but the area with the well had been sold.) Emaline told me, “Before [one of my ­children] was born, I went to my ­mother’s ­house for the childbirth [a common Sri Lankan tradition]. My m ­ other got me a blue plastic basin. I brought it h ­ ere when I returned, and bathed all my c­ hildren in it at that well. It was a good well; all the p­ eople in the area drank and bathed at that well.” Even though she was an in-­marrying daughter-­in-­law, and her own c­ hildren had been brought up in the h ­ ouse on the property that she and her husband had purchased, Emaline referred to the affected area as “the” maha waththa and felt aggrieved by the loss of the well, the erasure of ­family memories, and the new presence of “outsiders.” Emaline and her son noted that the maha gedera “had come down a lot” in upkeep. The disrepair of the once-­proud home and its residents’ inability to consolidate land shares from nonresident relatives illustrated the ­family’s poverty and loss of status.

Ultimogeniture and Virilocal Postmarital Residence In considering care for the aged, understanding the maha gedera (ancestral home) proves crucial, ­because care for parents and unmarried aunts and ­uncles takes place in tandem with inheritance of the ­family home and property. In

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the Naeaegama area, even though both sons and ­daughters inherit land from their parents and can live on the maha waththa and in the maha gedera, the more prestigious pattern is for a bride to “marry out” to live at the groom’s ­family property (postmarital virilocal residence) rather than for a groom to “marry in” and live at the bride’s f­ amily property (postmarital uxorilocal residence). During a conversation with Dayawansa and his wife, Sheila, Dayawansa told me, “The best practice is for the new c­ ouple to move into the groom’s ­father’s ­house or onto land gotten from the groom’s ­family. It’s not so good to move into the ­mother’s natal h ­ ouse.” Families therefore generally concerned themselves with providing dowry for out-­marrying d­ aughters and with providing ­houses and land for sons so that they could bring their brides home. In the Naeaegama area, the ideal model of practice was for the youn­gest son to inherit the maha gedera, a practice that anthropologists call “ultimogeniture” (inheritance by the last born; in this case, usually the last-­born son). The pattern in Paethum’s h ­ ouse­hold, discussed at the beginning of this chapter, occurred in many other families as well. All villa­gers are familiar with this pattern; Roshan (the man introduced in chapter 3 who had recently returned from working in ­Korea) told me, “The youn­gest son automatically inherits the ­family ­house.” Older b­ rothers and ­sisters left the ­house as they married, and families placed some emphasis on older ­children (especially ­daughters) marrying before younger ones (especially sons). Ultimately, the parents lived in their own home with the youn­gest son, his in-­marrying wife, and that c­ ouple’s ­children. That son and daughter-­in-­law ­were tasked with caring for the parents during their old age. Logistically, the pattern of virilocal ultimogeniture makes sense in terms of maintaining a manageable number of ­people in the ­house. For example, speaking of her five c­ hildren and their spouses, Siri’s neighbor, Indrani, told me, “Five have become ten.” All of her ­children also had ­children, further increasing the number of members in the extended f­amily. Having older ­children marry out (­daughters moving to their husband’s properties and sons moving to other family-­provided properties and ­houses) maintained a manageable h ­ ouse­hold size at the maha gedera. However, it often takes a bit of time and a ­great deal of financial accumulation for the young ­couples to be able to move out. One case study in Naeaegama shows how an extended f­ amily sought to actualize the normative framework. Siilawathie, a spry grand­mother suffering from vitiligo, had three sons and a ­daughter. Siilawathie’s mother-­in-­law did not trust her hard-­drinking son, so she divided the property and willed it directly to her four grandchildren. The elder three grandchildren received plots of land without ­houses, while the youn­gest got the deed to the property with the h ­ ouse where he and his parents lived. In 2016, when I interviewed Siilawathie, she talked about her three elder c­ hildren’s marriages. Then she

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turned to the topic of her youn­gest son. She told me, “The maha gedera is over a hundred years old.” The ­family planned, once the youn­gest son had earned enough money abroad, to tear down the old ­house and build a new one. “Then we ­will find him a bride,” Siilawathie said with a smile. Before her death, Siilawathie’s mother-­in-­law had provided financial support for her grand­daughter to construct a ­house. She also helped her wayward and difficult ­middle grand­son to build a foundation and finish one room of a ­house on his property so that he and his wife could move in with their four ­children. Both of t­ hese c­ ouples w ­ ere living in their new h ­ ouses. The timing for tearing down the old maha gedera, building a new h ­ ouse, and finding a bride for the youn­gest grand­son partially rested on the ability of the oldest grand­ son and his wife to earn enough money to build themselves a h ­ ouse for their ­family. At the time of our interview in 2016, the ­couple ­were both working abroad. In their absence, Siilawathie looked a­ fter their two young d­ aughters. Siilawathie saw her care work as a contribution to the entire ­family. She supported the efforts of all of her c­ hildren to achieve h ­ ouse­holds in newly constructed homes. In this extended f­ amily, both Siilawathie and her mother-­in-law took care of grandchildren (providing property and childcare); in return, they expected (and received) care when they grew frail. In other village ­house­holds, youn­gest sons and their wives often inherited the ­house, the property, and the responsibility to look ­after the son’s parents. In Anuradha’s ­house, the normative pattern ran up against a challenge: Anuradha’s feisty father-­in-­law (Amarasinghe) was estranged from his wife; for many years, the wife lived with her ­sister rather than living with Amarasinghe at the f­ amily home. When the father-­in-­law and mother-­in-­law suffered health prob­lems (a stroke and dementia, respectively), the mother-­in-­law moved back in and the estranged older c­ ouple reconciled, perhaps ­because their youn­gest son and his wife had the responsibility to take care of both of them. Amarasinghe’s daughter-­in-­law, Anuradha, said, “[My husband’s] parents ­were turned over to me to look ­after.” She elaborated, saying, “Thanks to God [and Siri ­later told me she ­really did mean the Christian God], my husband and I had three good sons. It is b­ ecause of my husband’s parents that my husband exists. So I am helping them to the maximum.” Virilocal postmarital residence and ultimogeniture, with the associated responsibility for the younger c­ ouple to look ­after the husband’s parents, ­were the accepted “norms” of property inheritance in Naeaegama.

Not Ultimogeniture: When ­Things Go Differently Despite the commonly held norms of virilocality and ultimogeniture, in some cases, families arranged inheritance and care work differently. Several key princi­ples govern decisions in such cases. I or­ga­nize the information in this section ­under broad categories related to gender and marital status.

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­ aughters Inherit If . . . D One key issue is the distribution of sons and ­daughters in a ­family. If a ­family has only ­daughters, or if a ­daughter is unmarried, or if a ­daughter is divorced, or if a d­ aughter has paid for the renovation or construction of the h ­ ouse, the parents may decide to leave the maha gedera to the ­daughter. If a ­family has only ­daughters, they ­will seek a groom who does not have land of his own for at least one ­daughter. For example, Perera and his wife, Chandrani, had three ­daughters. The two eldest had married and moved to their husbands’ homes. Perera and his wife planned to leave their land to their youn­gest d­ aughter, thinking that they would live in their old age with her and her husband. Unfortunately, as related in a prior chapter, this plan did not come to fruition; the ­daughter moved away to live with her husband’s ­family, and Perera and his wife lost their land ­because they could not repay a loan for which they had used their deed as collateral. Instead, they ended up living with their ­middle ­daughter, who had married a man in Naeaegama. That young ­couple looked a­ fter two sets of parents—­his and hers. If a d­ aughter is unmarried, parents may leave their property to her to ensure her a stable residence and tangible asset in her old age. For example, the el­derly Berava-­caste ­woman Rosalin (age 81 when I spoke with her in 2016) noted that she had two ­sisters and two ­brothers. ­Because Rosalin never married, her ­mother deeded the ­house to her. “My mom ­didn’t trust my sisters-­in-­ law not to kick me out!” Rosalin said. Rosalin looked ­after her ­mother in the ­family home u­ ntil her m ­ other passed away and continued to care for her ­mother by offering almsgivings on her behalf a­ fter she died. Rosalin said that she could go stay with her ­sister but preferred to live in her own home. Her ­brother had helped her financially u­ ntil he retired. Rosalin’s neighbors (relatives from the same caste) kept an eye out for her, and the path in and out of her property ran through their compound. Parents without property worry even more for their unmarried ­daughters. For example, in 2015, Lily told me that she and her husband had been able to procure lands for their three sons. However, they themselves had lived for thirty-­two years on a plot of land that they did not own. ­Because they did not have the deed to the property, they had not improved their h ­ ouse. When I asked Lily about her f­uture, she predicted that she and her husband would continue to live in their ­house with their unmarried ­daughters (age 38 and 47 at that time). Lily had arranged a marriage for the younger of ­these two ­daughters, and the ­couple’s marriage had been registered (for ­legal recognition by the government) but they had not done a wedding ceremony (for social recognition by the community). “Then that man took my ­daughter’s jewelry and sold it. He also took the money in her bank book. She had about Rs. 50,000 (US$400) in the bank and 1 lakh (Rs. 100,000, or US$750) of jewelry.

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She had earned that dowry money by working in a garment factory. He took her money and jewelry and gambled with it!” Embarrassed and financially devastated, this d­ aughter separated from her husband; both unmarried s­ isters worked abroad in the Gulf. Lily worried about what would happen to them in their old age. “­There is no ­future for the unmarried ­daughters,” she said. They did not have husbands or c­ hildren, they would not get pensions, and they would not receive a deed to the land on which the ­family lived. Their only hope was earning and saving money by working abroad. Unmarried ­daughters often remained in the ­house­holds of their parents and siblings. Dayawansa and Sheila had three c­ hildren, only one of whom was married. The old c­ ouple lived in their “new” home (described in chapter 4) with the two unmarried ­children, a son and a d­ aughter. The el­derly c­ ouple still hoped to arrange a marriage for their son (age 47  in 2015), but, Sheila lamented, “He keeps refusing the w ­ omen we suggest.” Their son worked in Colombo as a l­awyer; their unmarried d­ aughter worked in a local bank. The two unmarried c­ hildren took care of the familial duties and stood to inherit the f­amily property. However, they did not have any ­children themselves. Dayawansa and Sheila worried about who would look ­after their son and ­daughter in the f­ uture. Property of unmarried ­women and ­women who have no ­children can run through in­ter­est­ing ­family channels. For example, Torida and her ­father had lived on his ­family’s maha waththa, although the old ­house had fallen down many years ago. Torida’s f­ather and husband passed away. B ­ ecause Torida had no ­children, she willed her land to her ­father’s ­brother’s ­daughter, who was a ­widow with two c­ hildren. A ­ fter Torida’s death, her cousin, Hilda, the current owner of the land, told me that she and her six b­ rothers had grown up in the old maha gedera (on the land where Torida lived). Thereafter, their f­ amily got land nearby during a land reform initiative in the 1970s and moved ­there. Hilda said that Torida had been like a ­sister to her. Hilda gave her own share of the land-­ reform property to her next-­to-­youngest b­ rother, who was living with his ­family in the home constructed in the 1970s. (Her youn­gest b­ rother, a drunkard separated from his wife, also lived in that home.) Hilda said that she would leave the maha waththa property she inherited from Torida to her youn­gest son, who would in turn look ­after her in her old age. This case shows that inheritance of ­family property runs through both men and ­women, and that families strive to keep property (particularly the maha waththa) in the f­ amily line. Families tried to shelter d­ aughters from gossip and harassment if they got divorced. One form of protection was to have the ­daughter live in the ­family home or to have the parents join the ­daughter in her home. Such ­house­holding patterns affected who cared for the parents in their old age. For example, Kokila (introduced above) and her husband had separated many years ago. Kokila had a small home that she enlarged when her parents moved in; their

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presence protected her reputation and that of her d­ aughters. Although her parents had conformed to the standard pattern and left the maha gedera to Kokila’s youn­gest b­ rother, they lived with her, b­ ecause premenopausal adult ­women cannot respectably live alone. In return, Kokila cared for her el­derly parents’ needs. Discussing the number of ­children that they had, Siri and Kokila agreed that perhaps more was better. Kokila said, “As parents age, they might think that it would have been good to have a ­couple extra! I used to think that having two ­daughters was enough, but now I think that if I had a son, t­ here would be someone to stay h ­ ere with me.” Turning to explain to me, she said, “­Daughters move out when they marry, whereas sons bring daughters-­in-­law to the ­house.” Kokila was estranged from her elder ­daughter (age 25). Her younger ­daughter (age 23) was studying to be a software engineer and hoped to get a job abroad. Considering this situation, Kokila said she thought she would end up living alone in her old age. However, several b­ rothers lived nearby with their families on the maha waththa, which would offer her some security. In the meantime, she was working at a garment factory and saving money for her f­ uture. In another case of a divorced ­daughter, Piyadasa (age 79 in 2016) and his wife (age 76) had left their maha gedera to their youn­gest son and his wife. However, they had for many years lived with their divorced ­daughter and her two ­daughters, helping their ­daughter run a small grocery and vegetable shop. ­A fter that ­daughter’s d­ aughters got married and she reached menopause, the parents moved in with a younger ­daughter (age 34 in 2016) who lived in the ­middle of an isolated cinnamon garden, near the local illicit liquor tavern. They helped her with childcare and lent her some respectability and security during the day when her husband, who operated a three-­wheel trishaw taxi, was away from home. On this d­ aughter’s property (which they had given her as a dowry), they had constructed a small h ­ ouse near the main h ­ ouse but separate enough to provide privacy. As the elder c­ ouple aged, they experienced significant medical prob­lems; the list of ailments included diabetes, chronic constipation, asthma, high blood pressure, cataracts, and (I found out when Piyadasa passed away) cancer. The youn­gest ­daughter provided the bulk of the immediate care, although other f­ amily members also lent support and financial assistance. If ­children of ­either gender provide significant funding to pay for the construction or renovation of the f­ amily home, parents often recognize this fact by deeding the property to that child. For example, Siri’s neighbor, Indrani, said that her eldest son and his wife would inherit the ­house and take care of her and her husband; this son had contributed funds to the construction of the ­house during years that he worked as a ­labor mi­grant in ­Korea. Similarly, the ­daughter who paid to construct Janaki’s new home would eventually inherit and live in it with her husband. In the mid-2010s, however, Janaki and

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her husband lived in the ­house with another of their ­daughters and that ­daughter’s ­family, and the young ­woman who had paid for the construction lived with her husband at his aunt’s and ­uncle’s home; that el­derly ­couple had no ­children of their own. In Janaki’s case, care requirements and the need for housing meant that current residence patterns did not match eventual owner­ship. ­These examples show clearly that w ­ omen inherit and own property and build and buy h ­ ouses. Their gender makes it difficult for them to live alone ­until they reach menopause (and is still frowned upon thereafter), a social circumstance that requires families to adjust ­house­hold structures in order to preserve respectability. D ­ aughters and daughters-­in-­law provide care for elders, depending on residence patterns, marital statuses, and other life circumstances.

Sons: The Youn­gest Inherits If . . . If a f­ amily has sons, ­whether or not they deploy the standard pattern of the youn­gest inheriting the maha gedera and caring for the parents depends on ­things “working out right” with the youn­gest son, meaning that this son is alive, gets married to a suitable ­woman, and remains in the village. When any of ­these conditions remains unmet, families may make adjustments to the standard pattern. The unexpected death of a youn­gest son in 2015 brought home to me how much families depend on the reproduction of the standard model of inheritance and elder care. In one Naeaegama ­family, Chutta passed away at age 30. His ­sister had been in the pro­cess of arranging a marriage for him, and his parents had planned to leave their ­house and property to him and to live with him and his bride in the ­house in their old age. His elder ­brother had no intention of living in the village (he planned to migrate to Australia), and his s­ ister and her husband had constructed a h ­ ouse on her husband’s f­ amily’s land. The young man’s death upset every­one deeply and overturned their plans for the ­future. When I spoke with the ­family in 2015, the remaining son was providing medical care for his ­mother and considering ­whether he could persuade his parents to join him if he moved overseas. The ­daughter checked in on her parents at least once a day. By 2018, the situation remained unchanged; the el­derly parents lived on their own with the support of their d­ aughter—­the young ­woman introduced ­earlier who identified with the term “sandwich generation” as “quintessentially me.” Close relatives also lived next door. Their plans for long-­term care, however, remained uncertain. Difficulties in reproducing the standard inheritance pattern can also arise if a son (particularly the youn­gest one) marries “incorrectly.” Eloping or marrying for “love” could cause chaos. At the Nivaasaya old folks’ home, el­derly resident Missy-­nona spoke of her f­amily. She said that ­because her youn­gest

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b­ rother eloped, he “lost the right” to the maha gedera, which went instead to the next youn­gest ­brother. (The eloping ­brother did receive land from the maha waththa.) Similarly, Kanthi reported that her youn­gest son had eloped with a coworker at his ­hotel, and the ­couple ­were living with the bride’s ­family in Habarana. Kanthi’s f­ amily home would go to her eldest son instead. As discussed in chapter  2, p­ eople in Naeaegama take marriage alliances seriously. Sons marrying someone of a dif­fer­ent caste or subcaste prove especially difficult for families to deal with, particularly if the el­derly ­couple has to live with a daughter-­in-­law of a “wrong” or lower caste. Usually (although not always), this sort of situation arises out of a love marriage. Chandrika (age 56 in 2015) explained the situation in her f­ amily to me in 2015. Chandrika had three elder ­brothers and two elder ­sisters. Her ­sisters had married and moved out of the village. ­A fter her own marriage, Chandrika had left her natal ­house­hold to build a h ­ ouse with her husband on a piece of land from her own ­family. Her oldest ­brother had married the “wrong” cousin (a parallel cousin, who by Dravidian kinship terms counted as a ­sister; the match was considered incest). That c­ ouple had moved halfway across the country and never visited the village. Her ­middle b­ rother had died in an automobile accident. Her youn­ gest ­brother, who by the standard structure should inherit the maha gedera and take care of the parents (only her m ­ other was living at the time), did inherit the ­house, but prob­lems arose b­ ecause he had married a ­woman from the Para (untouchable) caste. In the 1990s, Chandrika had spent a g­ reat deal of the money her husband earned in the ­Middle East trying to get her ­brother out of debt to a Para-­caste moneylender. Chandrika could not repay his loan, and her ­brother married the moneylender’s ­daughter (see M. Gamburd 2000, 139, for more information). Chandrika said that her m ­ other lived u­ ntil her death with Chandrika’s elder s­ ister (a divorcee with three c­ hildren) instead of staying in the maha gedera with a Para-­caste daughter-­in-­law. Chandrika’s ­brother’s tumultuous marriage eventually ended in separation. Chandrika’s b­ rother left the village, his wife and ­daughter went to live with the wife’s parents, and the old ­house fell into ruins. Chandrika expected that her ­brother would live with her in his old age and one of her sons and daughters-­in-­law would look ­after them. In 2018, a neighbor reported that Chandrika’s ­family was struggling to prevent the Para-­caste wife and her ­daughter from gaining control over the maha waththa. In this case, caste issues disrupted care relations and undermined the inheritance of the maha gedera. Excessive alcohol consumption can also affect marriage prospects and inheritance patterns. For example, the youn­gest son in one f­ amily drank heavi­ly. He inherited the maha gedera, but he never married. In 2018, the old ­house was falling apart; t­ here was a large hole in the roof tiles over the kitchen, and the garden grew wild. Hilda’s youn­gest ­brother, Mangala, drank to excess; his wife took their child and left him in the mid-1990s. Owner­ship of the

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maha gedera went to his next oldest b­ rother and his wife rather than to Mangala, although Mangala had a share in the land and a right to stay in the ­house. Similarly, Siri’s neighbor, Manori, said that she did not plan to arrange a marriage for her youn­gest son ­because he drank too heavi­ly. Married to a heavy drinker herself, Manori said she did not want to put another w ­ oman into a similar situation. In 2018, neighbors speculated that ­after the death of her ailing husband, Manori might sell her property (instead of leaving it to her son) and go live with ­either her s­ isters or her elder son and his wife. In 2019, her husband having died, Manori did indeed leave Naeaegama but brought her hard-­drinking son with her to try to extricate him from an ongoing, life-­ threatening altercation with area thugs. Other ­women understood her motivation but lamented that she had chosen to “take her trou­bles with her” when she left the village. Issues of marriage and of alcohol consumption both arose in questions about property distribution in Manori’s ­family. Manori and her husband, Wasantha, had eloped, and I suspect Manori may belong to a lower subcaste. Wasantha’s parents built the young ­couple a separate h ­ ouse on land inherited from his m ­ other’s f­amily; the maha gedera went to Wasantha’s next oldest ­brother, even though that ­brother chose to live far away from Naeaegama. That b­ rother took their ­mother out of the village to look ­after her for many years; he and his wife fulfilled the obligations that came with the inheritance (although, as I discuss in more detail in the next chapter, for the last two years of her life, the old m ­ other stayed with Manori and Wasantha in Naeaegama, and Wasantha made troublesome claims on his ­brother’s property, the maha waththa and maha gedera). Parental drinking can also affect c­hildren’s choices about living in the maha gedera. Siri’s son certainly grappled with this issue (and had chosen to move to Negombo to be closer to his wife’s kin). Roshan (introduced in chapter  3) noted that both he and his ­brother had homes other than the maha gedera; they had found it difficult to live with their ­father ­after their m ­ other passed away, and their f­ather lived alone in the old h ­ ouse. Roshan did not know what would happen to the maha gedera in the f­ uture. He noted that both he and his ­brother offered food to their ­father, although often their ­father cooked on his own. Similarly, as related in the opening vignette in this chapter, Ruwani’s son, Paethum, had inherited the maha gedera and was living t­ here with his diabetic m ­ other, heavi­ly drinking f­ ather, wife, and young baby. In this case, responsibilities that came with inheriting the maha gedera and the duty to live with and care for the parents ran up against questions of what effect that his ­father’s drinking might have on his ­family life and on his child. ­Children’s choices of residence, particularly migration to the city or abroad, can also affect inheritance and care patterns. I spoke with Telsie’s retired

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school principal friend, Greta-­miss, in 2015 about her three c­ hildren. Greta’s eldest d­ aughter had an arranged marriage and lived in Ratnapura with her husband and ­children. Greta’s son had also recently entered an arranged marriage. Although her son would be slated by the standard practice to inherit the ­house and take care of the parents, Greta thought that he and his bride would prefer not to live so far south. At the time, they both had good jobs in Colombo and ­were staying at his wife’s ­house, in much closer commuting distance to the city. Greta complemented her daughter-­in-­law, saying that she could happily live with this young w ­ oman in the f­ uture. However, Greta explained with a smile that she had one more child, her youn­gest ­daughter, at that time in her fifth year of medical school. Greta said about that ­daughter, “When she was born, the astrologer who made her horoscope said immediately that this was the child who would look a­ fter me and my husband in our old age.” (Horoscopes say many t­ hings; sometimes p­ eople emphasize the ones they want to and ignore ­others.) Greta and her husband could both look a­ fter themselves at the moment, and they w ­ ere more interested in helping their c­ hildren take care of the grandkids than in thinking about who would look ­a fter them in the ­f uture. However, they pinned their hopes on their youn­gest d­ aughter. Rural to urban migration affected which child could most easily assume ­future care duties for aging parents. Let me sum up the themes of gender, marital status, and financial contributions that govern inheritance of the ancestral home (maha gedera). Although residence choices may seem arbitrary and chaotic at first glance, the following key princi­ples emerge from the data. Economics m ­ atter; if ­either a son or a ­daughter has paid for the renovation or construction of the ­house, parents usually recognize that individual’s contribution by deeding the property to him or her. Similarly, families recognize the importance of leaving the village to obtain a better job. The gender distribution of ­children affects choices. If a ­family has only ­daughters, or if a d­ aughter is unmarried, or if a ­daughter is divorced, the parents may decide to live with this d­ aughter and may leave the maha gedera to her, too. If a ­family has sons, ­whether or not they deploy the standard pattern of the youn­gest inheriting the maha gedera and caring for the parents depends on ­things “working out right” with the youn­gest son, meaning that this son is alive, gets married to a suitable w ­ oman, and remains in the village. The possibility for elders to age in place depends on t­ hese conjunctions of residence and relationship.

Full House, Empty House The ebb and flow of kin means that in Naeaegama, some homes overflow with ­people and ­others stand empty. ­Because care work is done by ­house­holds and takes place in ­houses, the princi­ples that govern the distribution of ­people

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through space shed light on how p­ eople in Naeaegama or­ga­nize care practices. ­Labor migration to the Gulf, internal migration to the capital city, and emigration to foreign countries all contribute to the spatial distribution of f­ amily members. Intergenerational care work takes place more often and more easily when families live in the same h ­ ouse­holds. For example, in 2017, all three of Nimal’s sons worked abroad. To preserve the daughters-­in-­laws’ reputations, Nimal told me, “All three of their wives, and all of my grandchildren, are staying with me and my wife.” Similarly, Siri’s neighbor, Indrani, had a ­house full of kin. In 2018, in addition to the usual residents (the older ­couple, their eldest son, and his wife and ­children), a ­daughter and her child occupied a room while the d­ aughter sorted out an issue with her estranged husband, and other relatives dropped in regularly. Indrani kept busy looking ­a fter the many youngsters. In another h ­ ouse­hold, Noni strug­g led to take care of a rambunctious grand­son and her bedridden, stroke-­affected husband, Mahatung. Despite having a hurt arm, she refused to leave the ­house to go live with her ­daughter. She said, “This is the maha gedera, and it’s my duty to stay h ­ ere.” She clearly belonged and felt needed in her home, even if the work nearly overwhelmed her. When Telsie spoke in 2016 about her neighbor, Dharmadasa, Telsie said, “He may be poor and not entirely recovered from his stroke, but he’s not lonely!” His ­house overflowed with ­children and grandchildren, and more kin had a ­house down the street. Telsie considered other ­people in her generation lucky if they lived surrounded by kin, even if they sometimes lacked peace and quiet. Ideally, care work for elders takes place in the maha gedera, with a son and daughter-­in-­law taking on responsibility for the man’s aging parents. Telsie favorably compared the situation of her friend Nilani (who lived in what Telsie called “the quin­tes­sen­tial maha gedera” with her youn­gest son, daughter-­ in-­law, and two grandchildren) with her own situation, living with her husband and a dog in a too-­large home. In 2017, Telsie occasionally mentioned the possibility of renting out a small cinnamon-­peeling shed at the back of their property, a downsized version of the h ­ ouse that her in-­laws had occupied; if someone lived ­there, Telsie would have com­pany as well as support if any trou­ ble arose. However, she worried about the lack of privacy. ­Because she had a good relationship with Indrani’s large, multigenerational ­family across the street, Telsie felt she could get by without tenants. Other elders found themselves in similar solitary situations. Rosalin, in her eighties and living alone in a crumbling residence, relied on neighbors for support. Roshan’s ­father, Gnanasiri, lived alone, as did the marriage broker Elson; both of their wives had passed away, none of their ­children lived at home, and both el­derly men fended for themselves, although they had ­family in the immediate village area. Neither they nor their ­children had de­cided exactly how they would deal with the

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­ ouse and any needed elder care in the f­uture. Life circumstances that left h elders without cohabiting ­children and their families created uncertainty and precarity.

Is Moving Out the Same as Moving Up? Migratory flows challenged the caste and lineage associations in Naeaegama. In 2017, Siri and I visited Janaki-­miss, the retired school principal with the deaf ­daughter. Siri and Janaki remarked that Siri’s ­family name would soon be missing from the village; all of the young men of the next generation had died or left. Other families had already dis­appeared; Janaki mentioned Siri’s aunt Padma’s empty ­house, which Siri’s cousin was not occupying. ­There ­were also two empty ­houses on Sumitha’s property; Sumitha’s son, who had inherited both homes, came by once a week to check on t­ hings. On another large property in the village, which had belonged to Sumitha’s younger ­brother, the ­grand old h ­ ouse had fallen down; uninterested in taking up residence t­ here, the heirs had divided and sold the land. Given the importance of long-­term residence to both identity and care, what do t­ hese empty h ­ ouses signify for issues of aging and ­family continuity? Large ­houses often index high status. Speaking with Telsie about ­house blueprints, in 2017, Telsie told me that her maha gedera and the siimawa (monk’s residence) at the local t­ emple w ­ ere built using the same architectural plan and started on the same day in 1832. Her high-­status ­family funded both endeavors. Having drawn the footprint of her ­family home as she remembered it from her childhood, she explained that the h ­ ouse used to be even bigger. She remembered her grand­mother showing her the keyboard on which had hung keys to many, many rooms in a part of the residence that had subsequently fallen down and not been replaced. Telsie noted that one of her cousins, who had emigrated to the United Kingdom, had for several de­cades sent money home to preserve what remained of the old h ­ ouse. Reminiscing about her relatives, Telsie listed the f­amily members who had moved to Australia, both from her own generation and, more recently, from the next one. Telsie said that her niece, Rani, who had moved to Melbourne was “gone for good,” unable come to any ­family rituals. Comparing herself unfavorably to ­these successful relatives, Telsie speculated that her own inability to go abroad must stem from sins committed in a past life. Other ­people joined Telsie in seeing the village as a low-­class, incon­ve­nient, or unlucky place to live. Her ­brother had left their maha gedera ­because his wife did not want to “live in the forest.” Other families also talked about preferring to live in a town or at least along a main road so that they could more easily get their ­children to school. And while Anuradha was seeking a bride for her m ­ iddle son, she moved her f­ amily to her natal home in a nearby town, rather than hosting prospective brides in the f­ amily’s old village maha gedera.

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Similarly, Siri’s cousin, who inherited Padma’s ­house, chose to sell some of the land and left the large h ­ ouse empty. He brought his ­mother to his small, crowded home in metropolitan Negombo rather than moving his f­ amily back to the spacious maha gedera in rural Naeaegama. What motives pushed ­people out of their ancestral homes and villages? Naeaegama residents often said that they wished to move away from neighbors who had bad drinking habits. For example, Siilawathie’s son drank to the point that his ­sister, who lived next door, de­cided to sell her h ­ ouse and move to a nearby town. Siilawathie’s neighbor, Janaki-­miss, said that her youn­gest ­daughter, who would inherit the parents’ h ­ ouse, also wished to move away for this reason; Janaki also mentioned the heavy-­drinking residents of another nearby ­house. Elsewhere in Naeaegama, Noni noted that her youn­gest son did not want to live in their home ­because the area was “too noisy” (likely referring to drinking neighbors). ­Because his elder ­brother did not mind the noise, that ­brother inherited the ­house. Drinking to a level that ­causes trou­ble to the neighbors drags down the status of an area. In addition, drinkers tend not to be able to save money for building or repairing residents, leading to shoddy construction and dilapidated housing. Village drinking habits, however, are not the sole cause of outmigration. ­People in Naeaegama see leaving as moving up. As Siri often told me, “We are all like frogs in a well, jumping and jumping ­until the ­water level rises high enough for us to jump out.” ­Family members “jump” to nearby towns, to Colombo, or, ideally, to a foreign country. ­Going abroad permanently represented the highest pinnacle of success. When I spoke with Sunila, she told me about her plans to immigrate to New Zealand, using her Sri Lankan credentials in ­hotel management. I asked how her f­amily planned to arrange elder care for her m ­ other, ­father, and f­ather’s two unmarried elder s­ isters (all relatively spry, in their late fifties to late sixties when I did the interview in 2016). Sunila, 25 years old, saw two clear options: ­either she could bring the elders with her to New Zealand, or her younger ­brother (who was training to be an engineer) could look a­ fter them in Sri Lanka. (Her elder ­brother, age 27, a chef who had worked for years in Dubai and, more recently, the Cayman Islands, planned to build a ­house elsewhere on land received as part of his wife’s dowry.) Although many families in Naeaegama aspired to move to the capital city, even living in Colombo did not protect parents from losing their ­children to the lure of foreign countries. One day in 2016, I was visiting longtime friends in a Colombo suburb. I asked their newly married d­ aughter, Karunika, who stood to inherit the spacious ­family home, about her ­future plans. She surprised every­one (including her parents) by saying that she and her husband ­were taking steps to migrate to New Zealand. When I asked what had motivated their decision, her husband said that they wanted better options for

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their ­children and also a better standard of living. He felt confident he could get a good job in New Zealand in information technology. When c­ hildren emigrate, however, it ruptures the intergenerational exchange of care and creates uncertainty for their elders. Not long a­ fter Karunika’s announcement, I privately asked Karunika’s m ­ other, Shanthi, how she felt about her ­daughter’s decision. Shanthi told me, “­Today was the first I heard about it!” She was clearly upset. Shanthi had planned to leave their large home (built on Shanthi’s ­family’s maha waththa) to Karunika and her ­family. Shanthi’s older ­daughter had a ­house across town. Shanthi’s arguments against Karunika leaving all revolved around the rupture of care arrangements that depended on having f­amily living together ­under one roof. She pointed out how easy the young c­ouple had it in Sri Lanka: “All the food is prepared by me and our servant. My husband and I bring her tea. Karunika ­doesn’t have to lift a fin­ger. She is being selfish to go abroad. She should stay h ­ ere to take care of her parents.” Shanthi reflected that she herself would often have liked to go on weeklong meditation retreats, but she had never done so ­because of her duty to stay at home and look ­after her husband. She did not want to incon­ve­nience him. “But my child is ­going abroad!” she said, implying that her ­daughter was nowhere near as considerate of her parents as Shanthi had been of her husband. “They need to make their own decision,” she said, somewhat resentfully. Immediately thereafter, she again noted now con­ve­nient life in Sri Lanka was for the ­couple. “They have built-in childcare ­here. If Karunika and her husband go to New Zealand, they ­will both work and the child w ­ ill be raised in a day care. Both of them have good jobs ­here in Sri Lanka. Why go abroad?” Hurt, Shanthi reflected, “Our other ­daughter w ­ on’t go like that, abandoning her parents.” When I spoke with the ­family in mid-2018, Karunika’s husband was in New Zealand establishing a home; Karunika and her young ­daughter still lived with her parents in Sri Lanka, although not for much longer. Shanthi said that her ­sister, who had lived for many years in the United States, was building a small ­house on the property next door. “She may come h ­ ere to retire,” Shanthi reported, although she wondered ­whether her ­sister would permanently leave the United States and the d­ aughter who lived ­there. Transnational opportunities move ­family members around the world, and questions of care, inheritance, and ­family property sometimes bring them back home.

Conclusion The data in this chapter reveal the importance of ancestral property (the maha waththa) and ancestral homes (the maha gedera) in tying p­ eople’s sense of identity to their place of origin. In southern Sri Lanka, the question “Where are you from?” means “Who are you?” Families, lineages, and entire castes come

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from and belong to par­tic­u­lar spots on the island. Sinhala inheritance patterns give all c­ hildren equal shares in a property u­ nless ­owners designate specific heirs. Several generations of collateral kin may claim shares of ancestral land and retain rights to live or build on it. Th ­ ose who wish to dwell on the property permanently seek to consolidate shares from nonresident kin. Care takes place in homes, and Naeaegama patterns for caregiving closely correlate with inheritance of property and occupation of ­houses. The standard pattern of virilocal ultimogeniture provides a cultural template for allocating residence and caregiving responsibilities; u­ nless other f­actors intervene, the youn­gest son w ­ ill inherit the property and he and his wife ­will care for his parents in their old age. If a f­ amily has only ­daughters, or if a d­ aughter divorces or remains unmarried, or if a d­ aughter has paid for the construction or renovation of the ­house, parents may deed the property to her and live with her in their old age. And youn­gest sons only inherit if they live long enough, marry the right sort of wife, and remain in the local area. P ­ eople agentively work within the existing social structures to craft a strategy that accounts for exigencies and accommodates the needs of the h ­ ouse­hold. In Naeaegama, “getting ahead” often relies on “getting out.” A number of large, empty ­houses provide s­ ilent testimony that some families have left the village entirely. Rural-­to-­urban and international migration help maximize financial opportunities but also challenge long-­standing patterns of inheritance and care work, particularly for translocal families that no longer live ­under the same roof.

6

Health and Illness Aging, Self, and Bodily Care Whenever I have gone to Sri Lanka, I have lived in Siri’s h ­ ouse and depended upon him to help me choose who to speak with, schedule interviews, guide me to the correct location, and translate for me during the ensuing discussion. From 2015, Siri’s poor health increasingly hampered him in his daily activities and became a barrier to our old way of working together. Siri suffered from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), a progressive lung disease caused by smoking cigarettes, compounded with heavy drinking. Living in Siri’s h ­ ouse­hold allowed me to witness firsthand how he and his f­ amily dealt with the complex issues that arose from his illness. Three themes related to Siri’s health come to the fore for me in introducing this chapter on aging, self, and bodily care. First, Siri increasingly crafted his individual identity through storytelling related to his medical condition and its treatment, and medical institutions served as sites for performing social status. Second, providing food, medicine, and hygiene assistance formed key aspects of the care work associated with his illness. Third, Siri’s care dynamics reflected Sri Lankan assumptions about obligations based on kinship and gender. Let me briefly sketch out some instances related to ­these three themes. Over the four visits that I made to Naeaegama between 2015 and 2018, I found that as Siri’s health deteriorated, his sense of identity changed, with medical issues increasingly supplanting the use of alcohol as the central narrative of self (see M. Gamburd 2008a). On my first day back in Naeaegama in 2017, Siri 97

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with ­great solemnity explained the variety of pills he was taking, in addition to the capsules that he placed in his inhaler. He could no longer walk far or ­ride his bicycle; his world had shrunk. To compensate for his immobility, he used his mobile phone to arrange our interviews and to call a trishaw (three-­ wheel taxi) driver to purchase and deliver liquor. Health and liquor figured prominently in the stories that Siri related to ­others about himself. As part of the social interaction before and ­after formal interviews, our interlocutors often asked about or ­were told about Siri’s health. At one interview with a Berava-­caste f­ amily, an older lady asked Siri about his well-­being. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and pulled out both of his inhalers, the plastic gadget for inhaling medicine from capsules, and plastic cards that held three va­ri­e­ties of capsules. Siri seemed to assert his importance and his right to and need for re­spect and care by discussing his medical needs and his trips to doctors’ offices, clinics, and hospitals. He also occasionally chose to demonstrate his relative wealth and financial well-­being by noting that he had paid for vari­ous medi­cations and treatments rather than receiving them for ­free. (Practically speaking, relatively well-­to-do Sri Lankans who use the public health system purchase their medi­cations; hospital doctors reserve their scarce supply of ­free medicine for the truly destitute.) P ­ eople near Siri’s age seemed more impressed with this strategy than did younger interlocutors. Siri increasingly crafted narratives about himself using the framework of medical technologies and interactions. One story, which Siri told repeatedly before or ­after formal interviews during 2015 and 2016, brought together the themes of hospital care and drinking. The story went as follows: When Siri was in the hospital, the man in the bed next to him had diabetes. The doctors gave the man medicine, but the man’s sugar levels remained too high. Siri told the doctor that the man ate Maliban Lemon Puffs (sugary cookies) secretly at night and tossed the packaging out the win­dow. The doctor checked outside and indeed found empty cookie wrappers. So he scolded the man and kicked him out of the hospital. That man got even, though. He told Siri’s doctor that Siri snuck sips from a quarter ­bottle of arrack (hard liquor distilled from palm sap). So the doctor sent Siri home too. The story usually produced the desired laughter. More seriously, Siri told me in private that the doctor had scolded both patients for abusing public medicine: “The doctor said, ‘Public medicine is for poor ­people. You are eating Lemon Puffs and drinking arrack ­because you have money. You can go to a paying hospital. You ­aren’t g­ oing to get cured ­here if ­you’re playing around with t­ hese other substances. You are not taking this cure seriously, so please leave.’ ” In this story, the doctor emphasized the men’s middle-­class status while also disciplining them for failing to comply with medicalized food taboos related to their conditions. Food and drink as sensual objects for the embodied subject came up against biomedical regulation of consumption.

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Siri wanted and needed both the physical and the social support of nearby medical institutions. On several occasions in 2017, Siri clearly wished me to go with him to the clinic at the junction with the main road, preferring my com­ pany to his wife’s. He visited the ­people at the clinic regularly for nebulizer treatments; they treated him with re­spect but saw him mainly as a noncompliant patient who smoked too many cigarettes and drank too much liquor. I believe that he hoped to demonstrate to the staff that he had an additional aspect to his life—­the job of interpreter for a foreign anthropologist—­and that said foreigner cared enough to accompany him to his medical treatment. In 2018, a similar scenario unfolded, with Siri manufacturing a not-­entirely-­ needed trip to the hospital and then relishing my visit, during which he went out of his way to introduce me to his doctor, whom he had told about our research. I do not think that my presence on t­ hese visits to local medical institutions entirely fulfilled Siri’s wishes to convince his doctors and nurses of his high status. Instead of spending time talking about Siri’s work as a research assistant and interpreter, the doctors wished to shame and discipline me into helping them help Siri stop smoking and drinking. The doctor at the local dispensary wondered aloud ­whether I joined Siri in consuming cigarettes and alcohol (I do not) and explained the c­ auses of COPD to me in En­glish. The doctor at the hospital was equally blunt. In the m ­ iddle of a crowded ward, in the presence of numerous patients and several nurses, Siri’s doctor scolded me thoroughly. He made clear that he thought the only constraint on Siri’s smoking and drinking was ­whether he had money. When Siri had money, he drank to the point of damaging his health and then arrived at the hospital. The doctor enjoined me not to give money directly to Siri but to find another way to convey the salary and pension I paid him. Th ­ ese interactions with medical interlocutors forced me to see Siri as a patient rather than as a research associate; I think Siri had hoped that the encounters would instead reinforce his nonpatient identity with the doctors. ­Family members strug­gled with how to re­spect Siri’s position in the ­house­hold and maintain their collective social status while also feeling frustrated with his lack of self-­care, manifested through his continued smoking and drinking. Siri’s wife, Telsie, observed that both Siri and his cousin, Wasantha, regularly drank ­until they suffered serious health consequences. Then they would visit the dispensary or the hospital in search of some pills to let them get back to business as usual—­more drinking. They did not engage in the sort of individual responsibility that forms the core of the global “successful aging” discourse (Lamb 2017). Although Siri enjoyed the attention he received at the dispensary and the hospital (and once even referred to the hospital as “heaven”), Telsie found his visits to t­ hese institutions expensive, embarrassing, and time-­consuming.

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Clinic visits required paying for a trishaw and treatment. Hospital visits cost even more (longer trishaw ­ride, additional medi­cation, costs to hire a bedside attendant) and also required that Telsie or another f­ amily member suspend all other activities and obligations in order to go to the hospital three times a day to deliver meals. (Hospitals do provide food, but high-­status ­people have a ­family member bring food from home or, in a pinch, have a bedside attendant purchase food from a nearby shop.) Admission and discharge procedures involve lengthy waits and extensive paperwork. It seemed to me that occasionally Siri engineered his hospital visits deliberately to demand this sort of time and attention from his ­family, particularly from Telsie, especially when they had been fighting. By bringing food and visiting frequently, Telsie expressed care and fulfilled her role as a good wife. In addition to the gendered discipline that Siri imposed on his wife, Siri’s doctors also did their best to recruit Telsie to their team in the serious game of preserving Siri’s fragile health. While at the hospital, Telsie likely received the same sort of admonitions to control Siri’s smoking and drinking as I did. She told me once that it embarrassed her that the staff at t­ hese institutions knew her husband as a heavy drinker and smoker. She displayed ­great patience. She also recognized the gravity of Siri’s health concerns and their implications for his longevity, given the seriousness of his illness and the ambivalence with which he engaged in self-­care. In the sections that follow, I briefly explore what “successful aging” looks like in Sri Lanka. I examine how identity comes to be tied to illness and treatment. I then delve into three key ways in which ­people in Naeaegama demonstrate care: by being ­there, by feeding someone, and by providing medicine and medical care. I conclude with a discussion of the gendered nature of care work and the micropo­liti­cal negotiations that determine which w ­ oman ends up “getting the smell” from looking a­ fter incontinent elders.

Medical Identities: Aging, Illness, and Ingestible Substances ­ eople craft their identities through their self-­presentation and interactions P with ­others. As elders age, experience health issues, suffer declining in­de­pen­ dence, and interact in new ways with f­ amily members and medical prac­ti­tion­ ers, their identities change. In this chapter, I explore issues of identity as they relate to giving and receiving care. The food, drink, and medicine that p­ eople ingest form a major theme of identity. Through the “anthropology of ingestible substances” (Hunt and Barker 2001, 178), scholars investigate how p­ eople interact with the t­hings they eat, drink, smoke, or other­wise consume, which are “a special kind of material culture created specifically to be destroyed but destroyed through the transformative pro­cess of ingestion into the h ­ uman body” (Dietler 2006, 232).

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Eating, drinking, smoking, and taking medi­cation or drugs on a daily basis provide a rich context in which to perform individual and group identity and to craft relationships and networks with other p­ eople (M. Gamburd 2008a). ­People ingest substances in social contexts, complete with elaborate rules about how much, when, where, why, and with whom one partakes (Heath 2000). In the ethnographic sections that follow, I discuss how ­people craft their identities (and how ­others they interact with support or push back against t­ hose constructs) in relationships with doctors and f­ amily members as they take care of bodies and bodily needs. The analy­sis requires thinking carefully about gender and relations between kin, as well as biopo­liti­cal dynamics and relations between patients and their doctors. Biopower refers to the power and politics surrounding control over bodies, both the miniscule actions and conditions of individual bodies and the aggregate health and physical activities of entire populations (Foucault 1979). Cultural and medical discourses influence ­people’s sense of self as they work with (or sometimes against) their medical prac­ti­tion­ers to preserve their health and in­de­pen­dence. In Naeaegama, ­these endeavors and strug­gles increasingly shape p­ eople’s sense of identity as they age, and medical topics creep into their narratives of self. Around the world, illness and aging impinge not only on the elder but also on ­family members. In her work on dementia care in India, Bianca Brijnath (2014) explores the profoundly intimate and touching devotion of caregivers performing seva (respectful ser­vice) for their kin. The term “seva,” central to discussions of care in India, did not appear as a dominant concept in my research on aging in Naeaegama. But even though they did not talk about their activities within a discourse of seva, families engaged in care and kin ser­ vice for elders. Through t­ hese interactions, f­ amily members performed their gendered identity, shaping their own sense of self through their relationships with ailing elders. As discussed in chapter 1, care work is culturally constructed, relational, moral, emotional, gendered, and time-­consuming. Throughout the book, I address the question of how families in Naeaegama approach the challenge of providing care for elders and how, through their everyday practices, they reproduce and transform cultural norms and ideals as they face circumstances arising in their everyday lives. In the chapter that follows, I explore ­these questions in light of activities related to illness, self, and the provision of bodily care.

Successful Aging? Personhood and the Predations of Time Although f­ amily members help their kin in times of illness, each individual provides for himself or herself the first line of defense in staying well. The

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popu­ lar discourse of “healthy” and “successful” aging pervades Euro-­ American culture and has made inroads throughout the rest of the world (Lamb 2017, xii). Scholars identify key tenets of this discourse as “(1) individual agency and control; (2) the value of maintaining in­de­pen­dence and avoiding dependence; (3) the merit of productive activity; and (4) a vision of permanent personhood or not aging at all” (Lamb, Robbins-­Ruszkowski, and Corwin 2017, 7). I find ­these categories useful in analyzing about how elders in Naeaegama thought about aging. Although some ele­ments of the global discourse appeared locally intact or in altered forms, other aspects did not translate at all.

The Impossibility of Not Aging at All In the United States, successful and healthy aging ideologies tend to hold up an ideal of agelessness or not aging at all. In Sri Lanka, ­people more readily accept the inevitability of aging, sickness, and death than do ­people in the United States; indeed, recognition of impermanence is central to Buddhist philosophy. Manori put it succinctly: “This is a given: we all die.” Dealing maturely with the inevitability of decline forms a valued aspect of elder identity in Naeaegama. Dustin, who had a chronic condition that required dialysis, talked about life stages. He said, “In old age, p­ eople become like ­children again. Some ­people fear aging. ­Others ‘own’ it.” He then spoke disapprovingly of an el­derly neighbor, Deepika. “She is taking a lot of medicine. She has asthma, and she takes medicines when she has a cold. She gets afraid, and then her [blood] pressure goes up, so she takes medicine for that, too. She is afraid that she w ­ on’t see her grandkids get married and get jobs. She wants to help, but she c­ an’t look ­after them.” Dustin concluded, “­Because ­people are afraid, they die quickly.” Turning to Siri and, likely referring to his smoking and drinking habits, Dustin somewhat enviously noted, “­You’re not afraid.” Siri looked extremely pleased by the positive interpretation of his choices and replied, “I am like ‘Andare’ [a crafty jester and trickster who figures in many folk stories, sometimes taking foolish risks but always triumphing in the end].” Siri actively pursued plea­sure for the day, rather than engaging in less enjoyable but healthier habits that would improve his chance of surviving in the f­ uture. Between the extremes of fearfully taking too much medi­cation (like the hypochondriac Deepika) and carelessly disregarding medical advice and endangering one’s health (like the trickster Siri) lies a range of thinking and practice that corresponds with habits of “healthy aging” in the West. Two aspects of successful aging include financial stability (which I investigated in chapters 3 and 4) and taking responsibility for one’s health, which I consider h ­ ere.

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Individual Control of Health in an Extended F­ amily Around the world, ­people who subscribe to the healthy aging discourse endeavor to extend their active and productive life by eating well, getting plenty of exercise, and following their doctors’ advice. P ­ eople in Naeaegama hope to be able to continue to maintain their social personhood into old age by taking care of themselves and also extending care to ­others. Many elders strove to stay healthy and self-­sufficient. For example, Mahanama Thero, the chief monk at the local Buddhist ­temple, had recently retired from his job teaching at a local high school. During an interview in 2015, Siri showed Mahanama Thero an inhaler that he carried with him for his asthma. Although for Siri, having an illness and associated medicines was a point of pride and identity, Mahanama Thero took a dif­fer­ent view. He said that he used to need an inhaler, but ­because he did not want to be dependent on medicines, he slowly ­stopped using it. He had recently climbed Sri Pada (a tall and religiously significant mountain with a well-­traveled pilgrim trail) and had not needed the inhaler, so he proclaimed himself cured. Similarly, Somatillake (age 70 when we spoke with him in 2016), once a heavy drinker, said that he had given up liquor. “Now my body is fully fit,” he said, posing like a bodybuilder. “I’ve gotten handsome again, and I can eat well.” He split his time between his son’s ­house and his d­ aughter’s h ­ ouse and spent the days helping out with the grandchildren. His self-­care and his care for his young kin established him productively in the ­family network. I saw some evidence in the local English-­language newspapers (aimed for an English-­speaking audience, mostly in the capital city of Colombo) of lifestyle suggestions for successful aging. For example, a comic advertising Sucrolose (a chemical substitute for sugar) urged p­ eople to assume the responsibility for caring for their own health. Similarly, a newspaper article on meditation and yoga suggested that such practices could ward off dementia and keep one’s brain active and sharp (Daily Mirror 2015, C2). However, I saw ­little evidence that ­people (other than diabetics) ­were cutting sugar out of their diets. Some villa­gers meditated, but I knew of only one person who practiced yoga; he led yoga classes for tourists at a local ­hotel. And several individuals discussed their distress over how best to implement their doctors’ suggestions to take a daily walk, an activity that they found uncomfortably warm, undignified, and potentially hazardous on Naeaegama’s narrow, crowded lanes. Discourses about healthy food did circulate freely in Naeaegama. ­People talked about the importance of avoiding artificial chemicals. Renuka, a m ­ other of two who was in her fifties when we spoke in 2015, said, “­Those days, p­ eople lived to a ripe old age. Now the food is bad and p­ eople die early.” She also mentioned that girls reached puberty early b­ ecause of the hormones they ate in meat. Jagath, a retired chef who had worked for many years at a local tourist

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­ otel, said, “­Those days, p­ eople ate a better diet.” A discussion followed regardh ing poison (vasa) contaminating food through chemical fertilizers, pesticides, and preservatives. “They are selling bad stuff for the same price as good stuff,” Jagath noted, concluding, “The ­people in the Third World get the worst stuff.” To my knowledge, Sri Lanka does not yet have an explicit market for organic produce, although p­ eople in Naeaegama are certainly aware of the dangers from conventional agrichemicals and prefer to eat fruits and vegetables grown without chemicals in their home gardens. In taking in­de­pen­dent actions to improve one’s own health, ­people I interviewed found food an easier idiom to embrace than exercise.

Extending Productive Activity Around the world, the successful aging discourse encourages ­people to extend their creative and economic endeavors into their ­later years. In Naeaegama, however, many p­ eople recognize that aging often reduces productive activity. On numerous occasions during my fieldwork, I heard a phrase “old means c­ an’t” (naaki kiyanne nohaeki). Siri told me that the term for “old” (naaki) is disrespectful. The term for being unable, nohaeki, translates as “cannot do” and uses a slightly formal linguistic construction with a negative marker specific to southern, coastal Sri Lanka. The wordplay appealed to p­ eople ­because of its clever rhyming and alliterative properties. I only heard the phrase uttered by elders, usually when they spoke with some frustration about their own age-­ related impediments. The phrase “old means ­can’t” draws attention to personhood as socially constructed through interactions. What happens to one’s personal identity during old age, when physical incapacities keep one from interacting with ­others as one has in the past? If one can no longer bike to the market, or cook a meal, or look a­ fter a rambunctious toddler, what becomes of one’s social self? In 2015, Siri and I went to see Dayawansa (the retired schoolmaster) and his wife, Sheila. Sheila, who had been reading a Sinhala translation of a Harry Potter book, brought us refreshments. The old ­couple shared cracker crumbs with one of their cats. Dayawansa, in his eighties, had recently suffered a stroke. Referring to his new limitations, he mentioned the phrase “old means ­can’t,” and Sheila (age 73 and also in ill health) picked up the theme, saying, “I used to do so much. Now I c­ an’t. My c­ hildren w ­ on’t let me go out alone anymore.” The c­ ouple’s adult son and ­daughter did the bulk of the tasks needed around the ­house. Dayawansa and Sheila used the phrase “old means c­ an’t” to index age-­related declines in capabilities. As elsewhere around the world (Calasanti and King 2017, 30), in Naeaegama, successful aging requires the ability to continue to fulfill gender-­specific duties. If an aging spouse is injured or ill and cannot complete his or her share of the ­house­hold duties, both members of the ­couple encounter difficulties.

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House­hold in­de­pen­dence, in other words, requires personal interdependence. For example, Siri and Telsie both talked with me about the gendered division of ­labor that allowed them to sustain their h ­ ouse­hold and wondered anxiously what would happen if ­either of them grew unable to uphold their side of the exchange. As Siri grew less mobile, Telsie compensated by, for example, hiring a trishaw to bring home groceries that Siri in the past would have fetched by bicycle. When one spouse can no longer compensate for the other, then someone e­ lse needs to provide care. As ­people age, gender roles can stretch and bend, but eventually elders need someone (often a younger relative of their own gender) to take on their duties and responsibilities.

In­de­pen­dence and the Wish to Do One’s Own “Work” The drive to maintain in­de­pen­dence is a core facet of healthy aging ideals in the United States, where elders often live alone. Even though they usually live in ­house­holds with their extended ­family, elders in Naeaegama similarly hope to preserve at least a bare minimum of in­de­pen­dence in personal care and hygiene. In par­tic­u­lar, they fear growing so infirm that they cannot take care of themselves—or the kin in their ­house­holds. Despite understanding that ­family members might want to support them in their old age, older ­people in Naeaegama invariably said that they did not want to be a burden on their ­children. For example, Siri’s neighbor, Indrani, had had bypass surgery and suffered from high blood pressure and diabetes. She said, “I was so strong back then! Now I have no strength in my legs.” She continued, “I d­ on’t want to rely on other ­people’s help. But now I am sick and I need someone to cook for me and make tea.” Despite her illnesses, Indrani took care of her own bodily needs and contributed to the ­house­hold by looking a­ fter the grandchildren; her son and daughter-­in-­law did much of the other work around the h ­ ouse, an arrangement that Indrani had come to accept. Similarly, I asked Manori if she would live with her daughter-­in-­law when she grew old. Manori did not like the idea. “It’s okay to stay ­there for a few days, but not all the time. Every­one needs some freedom,” she replied. She hoped to die without causing trou­ble to anyone. At a minimum, all of the p­ eople I spoke with hoped to retain their dignity, epitomized by their ability to “do their own work” (feed, bathe, and go to the toilet in­de­pen­dently) u­ ntil their death. Many p­ eople in Naeaegama dreaded the possibility of extended illnesses that could make them dependent on their kin. Reflecting on diminished capabilities, Dayawansa and Sheila discussed sudden and lingering deaths among their ­family members. Sheila said that her ­father and two older ­brothers died quickly of heart attacks. Sheila had high blood pressure and was taking pills for it morning and eve­ning. But she thought it was good to die quickly, without suffering. She elaborated on this position, saying, “A fatal heart attack is fast and painless for the one who dies. But the ­family c­ an’t help,

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so it is hard for them. Th ­ ere is no time to treat the patient.” A quick death preserves in­de­pen­dence by obviating the need for long-­term intimate care, but when an elder dies suddenly, the loss leaves survivors feeling that they have not had the opportunity to reciprocate care that they have received in the past. The sudden death of an older relative may leave entrustments unfulfilled and debts unpaid. In sum, ­people in Naeaegama share goals from the healthy aging discourse related to maintaining at least a modicum of in­de­pen­dence in activities of daily living. The realities of ­house­hold interdependence, however, mitigated the need to take care of every­thing on one’s own. ­People strive instead to contribute as best they can to the social reproduction of their ­family and retain some control over their life proj­ects and assets. The predominant discourse on aging in Naeaegama recognizes old age as an inevitable phase of life through which all elders journey, no m ­ atter how much they exercise or how many pills they take. Most p­ eople do attempt to live a healthy life, but they do not imagine that they can evade death or avoid the ravages of time.

Modes for Expressing Care Having looked at the relationship between health and identity, and having examined some of the main themes in how p­ eople in Naeaegama think about illness and aging, in the following sections, I consider how kin in Naeaegama perform care work by examining three key modes of offering physical care: being t­ here, feeding someone, and providing medical treatment.

Expressing Care by Being ­There As I began to explore in chapter 3 with the scenario about the value of the nearby grand­child, ­people in Naeaegama prize “help from the hand,” the aid that nearby kin provide to ­those who need assistance with activities of daily living. Another example from Naeaegama gives a clear picture of how friends, neighbors, and relatives rally to support t­ hose in poor health. In early July 2015, the laborer Dharmadasa had a stroke. One eve­ning ­after returning from working for a local landlord (clearing out weeds and thinning cinnamon bushes in a cinnamon garden), he passed out and fell to the floor. His f­ amily took him to the local hospital, and from t­ here, staff transferred him to Karapitiya Hospital in Galle, the premier hospital for Sri Lanka’s Southern Province. (Only “serious cases” end up in Karapitiya.) Dharmadasa’s extended ­family lived in a small, crowded h ­ ouse. Sixty years old, Dharmadasa had worked ­until the day of his stroke ­doing a variety of menial jobs and supporting the residents of his h ­ ouse­hold, which included his wife; his son, daughter-­in-­law, and their four young ­children; and his ­daughter, son-­in-­ law, and their two young ­children. The neighbors frequently commented that

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both the son and the son-­in-­law drank heavi­ly and contributed ­little to the ­house­hold; one neighbor suggested, “If they earn Rs. 1,000, they w ­ ill drink Rs. 750 and bring home Rs. 250. If a small kid gets sick, Dharmadasa ­will pay the bus fare to the hospital and buy the medicine.” Dharmadasa’s sister-­in-­ law noted, “­These young men waste money for nothing. When an impor­tant ­thing happens, they have no savings and no assets.” The ­house­hold stability depended on what Dharmadasa earned. In the aftermath of Dharmadasa’s medical crisis, relatives and neighbors rallied to the aid of the ­family. His son from Anuradhapura came down to stay at the hospital. His niece came to visit for the first time in two years, journeying by bus from her residence north of the capital city of Colombo. His sister-­in-­law also visited and provided financial support. B ­ ecause of his stroke, Dharmadasa could not walk or travel by public transportation, and his ­family worried about how to bring him home from the hospital ­after he was discharged. Hearing of this prob­lem, a neighbor provided Dharmadasa with a ­ride in the front seat of his lorry. Once Dharmadasa returned home, he and his ­family continued to receive clear benefits from the social capital that they had accrued over many years. The term “social capital” refers to immaterial assets, in the form of social debts and obligations, that can be transformed when needed into financial and material goods and ser­vices. For example, Telsie took over Rs. 1,000 and a jackfruit (a savory food) and nodded approvingly when I added a similar contribution. Telsie explained, “Dharmadasa has done a lot of work for us. He’s the one who usually cleans our garden.” Conscious of her debt and reciprocating the neighborly care, Dharmadasa’s wife l­ater brought Telsie a large bunch of bananas. In addition to temporarily depleting the ­family’s social capital, the stroke also rearranged the f­ amily’s relationships with several valuable assets in their possession. For example, Dharmadasa owned several cows. Villa­gers worried that his wife, a tiny w ­ oman, would be unable to lead the large animals to and from the places where they got tethered during the day. In addition, Dharmadasa had a bicycle. Several neighbors (including Siri) came to borrow it, noting that Dharmadasa could not use it at the moment and would likely never be able to cycle again. By the end of July 2015, Dharmadasa had recovered some of his speech and was able to move around inside the ­house with assistance. By April 2018, he was able to walk around unassisted and could speak quite clearly. He visited with Siri frequently, and the old friends spent time talking about local news. However, Dharmadasa was never able to go back to work, a change that reverberated through his ­house­hold. In 2018, Dharmadasa moved with his ­daughter and son-­ in-­law to occupy their half-­finished new home. Dharmadasa’s wife remained with their son to take care of the four grand­daughters. Neighbors told me that Dharmadasa objected to his son’s current employment: dealing drugs.

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Dharmadasa’s son’s ­family suddenly had enough money, but the neighbors worried about the illegality of their income stream. The extended f­ amily and village community had stepped in to support Dharmadasa’s ­family in the immediate aftermath of the health crisis, and proximate kin w ­ ere d­ oing what they thought best to provide financial stability in the long term. In 2019, I discovered that Dharmadasa had taken ordination as a monk and moved to a local ­temple, which neighbors in Naeaegama viewed as an unusual step for a man of his age.

Expressing Care through Food In addition to expressing care by “being ­there” and providing “help from the hand,” ­people in Naeaegama often enact their relationships through cooking and sharing food. Expressing kinship and identity through food has a long and rich history in South Asia. In India and Sri Lanka, ­people communicate their caste status through what they do and do not consume (meat, alcohol) and who they ­will consume it with (Caplan 2008; Chapin 2014, 65–66). In Naeaegama, details about social hierarchy are conveyed through who eats first, both at impor­tant ceremonies such as wedding feasts and in everyday interactions at home; high-­status (often richer, middle-­aged, and male) ­people often eat first, and lower-­status (often poorer, older, and female) ­people eat ­later. Exchanging food and sharing a meal are signs of social solidarity, and refusing food carries implications well beyond merely stating that one is not hungry; consider, for example, the power of Gandhi’s hunger strikes during India’s strug­gle for in­de­pen­dence from ­Great Britain. Food figures prominently in childrearing. In Naeaegama, parents spend what Euro-­A mericans would consider inordinate amounts of time getting ­children to eat (Chapin 2014, 70). Each meal provides a long, drawn-­out occasion for intense social interaction. For example, in 2016, when Telsie and I arrived to visit Telsie’s friend Nilani, Nilani’s daughter-­in-­law, Shanthini, was trying, with her elder ­daughter’s “help” and a circle of three female onlookers, to feed her young baby something green and creamy. The baby showed no interest in the food but seemed to enjoy being the center of attention. Green cream covered the infant and the ­table. In the intensely female space of this ­house­hold, the ­women welcomed the youn­gest member into their tightly knit community through ties of food. Similar dynamics persisted throughout ­children’s lives. For example, ­after Siri’s el­derly relative Helga passed away in 2015, her niece recalled with tears in her eyes how her unmarried aunt had laid out breakfast for her and her s­ ister before suffering a fatal stroke; when they got back from the hospital, the food was still on the ­table. Telsie ­later told me, “­Those girls never learned to cook b­ ecause Helga always spoiled them that way.” Food provided a power­ful medium for the expression of care. Refusal to offer or eat food indexed disruption in social relations. When listing positive and negative characteristics of elders, Janaki put “giving up

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food” on the negative side of her list, along with “disliking medicine” and “staying up all night talking and shouting.” Telsie expressed her worries about Siri’s drinking in terms of what it did to his appetite for food; when Siri heavi­ly drank in the eve­nings, he usually skipped dinner and went directly to sleep. At other times, in contrast, Siri not only wanted but also demanded food. In 2017, I saw repeated instances of Siri asking Telsie to bring food to his hand. For example, at breakfast one day, Siri wanted bananas. Telsie laughingly told him to get his own bananas from the bunch in the fruit basket on the ­table, but when he sulked, she got two bananas and took them to his room. On other occasions, he asked her to deliver his tea to his chair. ­Because feeding a husband forms part of a wife’s gendered work, Siri was within his rights to make t­ hese demands and would occasionally complain in public if his wife did not fulfill them. (Always ladylike, Telsie refrained from pointing out instances when Siri failed in his duties as a husband due to excess consumption of liquor.) Providing and consuming food and drink in socially accepted ways indicates social inclusion and well-­being. When discussing how they cared for their kin and themselves, p­ eople in Naeaegama often talked about special diets. For example, Siri’s neighbor, Indrani, discussed the necessities of changing cooking practices to accommodate the diabetes that plagued her and her husband. Indrani said that she was supposed to have lots of vegetables and only a ­little rice and a bit of meat or fish. “Rice has sugars in it,” she told me, “and I ­can’t have any ‘puddings’ ” [the British En­glish term for desserts]. ­Because sugary tea and rice are two staples in Naeaegama, taking care of a diabetic requires careful consideration of menus. Guests bring gifts of food to their hosts. Even f­amily members do this when they drop in, especially if they have not visited for a while. For example, the el­derly cinnamon peeler Piyadasa told Siri and me that his son brought curd (buffalo milk yogurt) when he journeyed from Matara, an area famous for that delicacy. Close friends and neighbors also took food to each other, especially if the recipient was ill. For example, Telsie recalled in a food-­based meta­phor her relationship with her close friend Sumitha, who had passed away from breast cancer. Telsie frequently took kaenda (a gruel of cooked greens and rice) to Sumitha, who would eat a c­ ouple spoonfuls “­because of the closeness,” even though she had no appetite. Telsie reminded me of this trea­ sured memory ­every time we spoke of Sumitha. As I explore further in chapter 8, friends and ­family retained and reflected upon with both sadness and satisfaction the memory of what someone last ate from a par­tic­u­lar person and what they ate right before their death. Hosts treat guests to tea (and sometimes cookies); guests similarly bring small gifts of food when they arrive. The exchange of food is a social imperative for all but the briefest visits, and the inability to fulfill this social convention can cause a g­ reat deal of distress. For example, Siri’s aunt, Padma, lived in

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the village most of her life. When she lost the ability to live in­de­pen­dently, she spent several years with a son and daughter-­in-­law in Negombo before returning to Naeaegama to stay with another son (Siri’s cousin and neighbor), Wasantha, and his wife, Manori. When Padma still lived in­de­pen­dently in Naeaegama, she used to treat me to tea and cookies when I visited her. She had a locked cupboard filled with mothballs, old saris, and special foods like packets of cookies. When she lived in Negombo, in her upstairs room, she had the facilities to treat ­people to cool beverages from a small fridge, as well as cookies from a stash on her ­table. But when she came back to Naeaegama, she could no longer get out of bed on her own. Wasantha and Manori dressed and feed her in the morning but then left her alone in the locked ­house while Manori went to work and Wasantha ran errands. Telsie occasionally went next door to visit and talk with Padma through the open win­dow. Telsie mentioned several times that Padma always remarked with sadness on her inability to treat Telsie to cookies and tea when she came to visit. Telsie said, “Padma was bored and lonely; she would say ‘It’s just me and the bed ­here’ [a short phrase that rhymed nicely in Sinhala].” Padma always wanted Telsie (whom she called “­daughter” rather than the technically appropriate “daughter-­in-­law”) to stay longer. Telsie said, “Aging is about loneliness. It happens to all elders.” In this case, the el­derly w ­ oman held on to her ability to treat guests with food as long as she could and lamented her inability once she was no longer capable of making this impor­tant social offering. Failing to feed a weak and needy relative tops the list of socially and morally unacceptable actions. While talking with Siri and two older men (Janaki’s husband, Lalith, and Sini-­Mahattaya, a retired sawmill owner) on Lalith’s porch one hot after­noon in 2015, the conversation turned to religious tenets on care for parents. Lalith noted, “Buddhism says that p­ eople have to help their parents.” Siri said, “If I d­ on’t re­spect and help my parents, my kids w ­ on’t help me.” Lalith agreed, saying, “The son w ­ ill see how the ­father helps the grand­ father and treat the f­ ather that same way.” Lalith then asked Siri to relate to me in En­glish a well-­known local tale. The story involved a man who was keeping his old dementia-­afflicted ­father tied to a tree near a small hut and feeding him only a ­little bit of food on a tiny plate. “His son saw that situation. He told his ­father to keep the rope and the hut and the plate ­after the grand­father’s death so that he could use them all when he looked ­after his ­father in the ­future. Only then did the f­ ather understand his ­mistake,” Siri said. In this story, food (along with appropriate shelter and re­spect) served both as a physical necessity for life and as an impor­tant means of communicating care.

Expressing Care through Medical Treatment In addition to providing a helping hand and offering food, p­ eople in Naeaegama express care by arranging medical treatment for ailing relatives. Technological

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advancements in the past half ­century have greatly changed illness outcomes for villa­gers. Speaking of Dharmadasa (the stroke survivor introduced above), Jagath noted that Dharmadasa had never had his blood pressure checked, and he had not known it was too high. I said, “We say now that in the old days, ­people ‘­didn’t have pressure,’ but we also never tested.” Jagath replied wryly, “We d­ idn’t have tests. We d­ idn’t have cures then, ­either!” Now that tests and treatments are available, families express care by providing them, while patients express their identity and self-­worth by discussing their diagnoses and their prescriptions. ­People whom Siri and I spoke with often found their encounters with Western medicine fascinating and transformative, and they shared their experiences eagerly. For example, Dustin’s neighbor, Deepika, a grand­mother with multiple health prob­lems (although fewer, perhaps, than she ­imagined), explained her vari­ous ailments to me and Siri. When we raised the topic of illnesses, she fetched a bag of pills and her inhaler. She and Siri compared the colors and properties of vari­ous capsules that they used for their asthma. She also mentioned that she was dealing with phlegm and had self-­medicated with two amoxicillin (antibiotic) pills and two Panadol (analgesic) tablets the previous night. Deepika talked with some pride about a lung scan she had recently had done for Rs. 16,000 (roughly a month’s salary). She spoke about her recent cataract surgery and an upcoming appointment to fit the hearing aid that she was having made. “I spend Rs. 6,000 a month for pills! And that’s without the travel costs,” she told us. ­Because she could not eat well, she supplemented her diet with vitamins and Sustagen, a high-­protein, vitamin-­rich nutritional supplement drink for elders. Deepika’s ­daughter and son-­in-­law helped pay for the supplements, medicine, and procedures, and during the interview, Deepika spontaneously expressed her gratitude for their care. Other elders similarly told me about their illnesses, their medi­cations, and the support they gave to or received from their families. Kalyani, a spry Berava elder who lived in a large compound with many relatives and five fierce dogs, cheerfully and somewhat proudly related a rapid-­fire list of her medical conditions, which included “pressure, arthritis” (in En­glish), asthma, and diabetes. She said she took a lot of pills in the morning and eve­ning, gesturing to indicate an overflowing handful of medicine. Sudu-­nona (age 71 when I spoke with her in 2016) mentioned having asthma, high cholesterol, and numerous aches and pains. She invited Siri and me into the kitchen to see a small nebulizer machine that her ­family had purchased for Rs. 1,800 for her to use at home. Sudu-­nona’s younger ­sister (age 53) came over from the ­house next door at this point, and we discussed an MRI recently done to diagnose her spinal prob­lem. When we spoke with Perera and Chandrani in July 2016, they said that Perera had spent five days in February in the intensive care unit with heart trou­ble. “He nearly died,” Chandrani exclaimed. “The doctors told them he was too

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weak to do bypass surgery.” The f­amily purchased injections for Rs. 6,460; ­those drugs saved his life. In order to take care of him, Chandrani quit her relatively lucrative job at a Colombo hospital. Dayawansa (the octogenarian schoolmaster) told Siri and me that his d­ aughter had spent a lot on physical therapy. “That is how I got back to this good level,” he said, referring to his ability to talk and walk with relative ease ­after his stroke. Serious health crises required that entire families spend time and money on medical treatment. Despite treatment and care, health issues could interfere with elders’ ability to perform activities of daily living. For example, Janaki talked about the rheumatoid arthritis that had deformed her right foot. She said that her husband, Lalith, was still dealing with a case of cellulitis he had had for ten years; his doctors w ­ ere planning to do a skin graft. Janaki said of Lalith, “He also has ‘pressure.’ He fell once. Our ­daughters are always calling to make sure that he has taken his medicine. They d­ on’t want him to fall off his motorcycle, and they ­don’t want ­either of us leave the ­house; they want me ­here to help him if he falls.” Janaki and Lalith had four ­daughters (all married), and a varying combination of them lived in the ­house with them at any point in time. Janaki talked about one of her grand­sons, 8 years old at the time, who often accompanied her on her short and painful daily walks to the nearby Buddhist ­temple. “He said I need to live another sixteen years so that when I die, he can be old enough to do the [religious] work. I told him that I might not live that long. He said I should take more Sustagen so that I can live a long time.” As every­ one laughed at this story, Janaki added fondly that this same grand­son regularly checked to make sure that his grandpa had taken his medicines. The child had clearly internalized the ­family idiom of expressing care through queries and initiatives related to health and medicine. ­People in Sri Lanka’s armed ser­vice can access military health care for not only themselves but also their families. (All Sri Lankans have access to ­free universal health care, but military hospitals are better than regular ones.) Many men and some ­women in Naeaegama serve or have served in the Sri Lankan army, navy, and air force (M. Gamburd 2004b). As their parents age, the ser­vice members can provide them with ­free, high-­quality medical facilities. For example, one young man who served in the navy explained that he had gotten extensive care for his m ­ other through the navy hospital, where she was being treated for a thyroid prob­lem. Similarly, Indrani said that her son in the navy provided the medicines for her diabetes treatments. ­People in the armed ser­vices risked their lives for their country during the Sri Lankan civil war (1983–2009), and the national government used the promise of top-­notch medical treatment for them and their kin as a successful recruiting tool during the height of the conflict. Evidence of medical treatment indicates the care that ­people take of themselves and of o­ thers. At the Nivaasaya old folks’ home, I spoke briefly with an

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English-­speaking resident. Perhaps dealing with the onset of dementia, he worried that he was losing words both in Sinhala and in En­glish. Having left the room briefly to view some changes in the building, I found upon my return that the man had gotten out a stack of medical paperwork to show me. Two moth-­eaten files contained information pertaining to his own health and the health of his wife, who had recently passed away. Chamila, the lady man­ag­er and one of the chief caretakers at the old folks’ home, told me in an aside that this old man had often pulled his wife off her bed. She was bedridden and plagued with bedsores for the last four months of her life. “He wanted to help her stand up, which was not safe for ­either of them,” the caregiver told me. The man’s files contained prescriptions and doctors’ notes, as well as five X-­ray images of someone’s torso. I had the impression that the old man was trying to put together a picture for me of who he was and who his wife had been and how much they had been cared for. He had to pre­sent this information to me in writing, ­because he could not speak well anymore. To substitute for his own voice, he chose the doctors’ words about medicine and treatment—­ power­ful, authoritative words to illustrate personhood and care relations.

The Smell End of life is often associated with loss of control over bodily functions, accompanied by the inability to clean oneself and the reliance on ­others for toileting and bathing. ­People in Naeaegama referred to bathing and ­going to the toilet in­de­pen­dently as “­doing one’s own work.” They feared losing t­ hese abilities and knew that their nearest kin would likely take on the task of keeping them clean. I look at intimate bodily care, an extreme form of “being ­there,” in detail in this last section of this chapter. I often heard ­people in Naeaegama discuss worries about incontinence within idioms of odor. Intimate caregivers ­were ­those who “got the smell” of feces and urine. During an interview with some elders in 2016, Siri related a story (which I subsequently heard several times that year) about the most recent time he had stayed in the hospital. Siri said, “The doctor told me, ‘If you drink again, you w ­ ill not live more than two months.’ ” The doctor assured Siri that he would die a terrible, stinky death with disgusting excreta coming out of ­every orifice. This sort of death would embarrass and humiliate Siri, not to mention burdening his relatives or other caregivers. Siri used this story as a way to reinforce his sobriety at the time and as evidence to pre­sent to his listeners that he understood that he needed give up drinking alcohol. “­Doing one’s own work” meant keeping one’s body f­ree from smells, an impor­tant aspect of social adulthood. When p­ eople w ­ ere unable to do their own work, kin (usually ­women) had to step in to help. Like incontinent elders, babies need constant care to keep them clean. I heard one grand­father suggest

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that his daughter-­in-­law could not go back to work in the M ­ iddle East “­until the youn­gest child’s work is done.” By this, he meant that the child needed to be weaned, potty trained, and at least somewhat in­de­pen­dent in terms of bathing and eating. Ramani curtailed her overseas migration when her husband’s older s­ ister, Elaine (in her early eighties), fell, hurt her back, and became unable to bathe in­de­pen­dently. Similarly, p­ eople felt that Dharmadasa, the 60-­year-­old stroke survivor introduced above, had greatly improved when he was again able to bathe, eat, and go to the toilet in­de­pen­dently. Even though he never regained the ability to work, ­ride a bike, or use his right hand well, he did not require a g­ reat deal of physical care from his relatives. The idiom of odor expressed not only one’s level of social adulthood but also the quality of caregiving. I heard several older ­women remark with pride that they had kept their own ­mothers “without smell.” Emaline told me that she had ­housed her ­mother in the front (most prestigious) bedroom room, near the living room, not in a back room away from the public. She explic­itly noted that she had kept her m ­ other very clean; “­There was no smell.” Similarly, when I asked another el­derly w ­ oman about who had cared for her ­mother, she said that she did it herself and that she kept her ­mother “without smell.” Smell became the shorthand reference for serious care work, and lack of smell indicated care well done. One place that did occasionally smell of feces and urine was the incontinence room at the Nivaasaya old folks’ home. When I visited the fifteen-­ person fa­cil­i­ty in 2015 a­ fter not having been ­there since 2009, I was surprised to find six p­ eople in the informal incontinence ward. Chamila, the fa­cil­i­ty man­ag­er, washed laundry three times a day, by hand. Chamila told me that elders in Sri Lanka w ­ ill not wear adult diapers (which many p­ eople in the United States know by the brand name Depends) but tear them off their bodies. Without the presence of a barrier, feces and urine saturate bed sheets. I asked w ­ hether Chamila could hire some help. She said that she and her husband had tried, but the trainees refused to deal with feces and urine. “We used to have a washing machine, but it broke,” Chamila told me. That after­noon, I went to the nearest large town and bought them a new one.

Which W ­ oman Does the Work? As mentioned in chapter 1, care work, particularly for incontinent or bedridden elders, can be time-­consuming, expensive, unpleasant, and difficult. H ­ ere I delve into the complicated micropolitics of care, exploring how elders and potential caregivers agentively negotiate which ­house­hold ­will accommodate an elder who needs extensive help with activities of daily living and which ­woman in that ­house­hold w ­ ill get “the smell.” To ­settle ­these arrangements, p­ eople in Naeaegama draw upon kinship norms and residential patterns that I have discussed in prior chapters as they actively work to accomplish

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individual proj­ects within the larger framework of the social reproduction of the ­family. Elders clearly understood the sorts of care they might require in extreme old age and knew who would likely provide it best. I asked Somatillake (age 70) about who would take care of him in the ­future. He framed his answer within a discussion of the care that he had provided already for his c­ hildren, saying, “Parents should help their ­children equally,” implying that all ­children ­were in care-­debt to their parents. Then he qualified his statement, speaking and miming the following: “At the end, when you have trou­ble pooping and you pee wrong, when y­ ou’re curled up on your side on a bed, you w ­ ill know who ­will keep you clean and fed.” By this I think he meant that elders strategically tried to stay with the kin who would take the best care of them. In families with multiple pos­si­ble caregiving configurations, ­family hierarchies come to the fore in the allocation of care work, particularly when that work extends over long periods of time. Consider, for example, the case of Padma, the lovely lady who wished that she could offer Telsie tea and cookies when she visited. I have related some of Padma’s story in bits and pieces elsewhere in this book and draw the disparate materials together ­here. According to Telsie, Padma always wanted to live with her eldest and most successful son. However, that son’s wife was not interested at all in looking a­fter Padma, although she did look ­after her own ­mother. Padma lived with the help of a gay male servant, Chaturanga, in a large ­house in Naeaegama ­until a broken hip made it difficult for her to bathe herself safely. Padma did not live a single day with her eldest son but instead lived with two younger and less successful sons, Presanna (for about six years) and Wasantha (for the last two years of her life). Even though Padma wrote her property to Presanna, the second-­from-­ youngest son, he and his ­family did not live in that large ­house. Instead, they brought Padma (much against her wishes) to their small home in Negombo; she knew no one ­there and was unable to navigate the stairs in­de­pen­dently to leave her second-­floor room. When Presanna’s wife and ­daughters could no longer continue the care work, they made arrangements to send Padma to an old folks’ home. Padma’s d­ aughter, Kusuma, whom I visited in Australia, stepped in to have Padma move instead to the home of her youn­gest b­ rother, Wasantha, in Naeaegama. This decision, which cast doubt on their willingness to fulfill their kinship obligations, deeply displeased Presanna and his wife and caused an irreparable rupture in sibling relationships. ­A fter Padma moved to Manori and Wasantha’s ­house, Manori took care of intimate care such as bathing and dressing. The servant Chaturanga, who had worked for Padma for many years in the past, returned to serve her in other ways for another sixteen months. When at the age of 92, Padma grew unable to ­handle toileting in­de­pen­dently, the ­family hired a local ­woman to bathe Padma and wash the bedsheets in the morning and clean the commode in the

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eve­ning. This ­woman worked for the ­family for the last eight months of Padma’s life. Speaking of care arrangements for her mother-­in-­law, Manori explained, “Up u­ ntil two weeks before her death, Padma was able to eat with her own hand. ­A fter that we fed her, and at that point she only ate a tiny bit. My husband did the cooking.” (A high school teacher, Manori was gone from the ­house most of the day.) Moving from food to other forms of care, Manori noted, “Sometimes ­there would be a smell. If [the female servant] ­wasn’t ­there, then I or Wasantha and our son would have to clean her.” Looking me straight in the eye, Manori emphasized, “Wasantha’s other three siblings w ­ ere not getting that smell.” A heavy drinker who had eloped against his ­family’s wishes, Wasantha regained a g­ reat deal of social capital for looking ­after his ­mother well in her last days. In South Asia, poor relations between mothers-­in-­law and daughters-­in-­ law form the stuff of legend (Davis 2014). In Naeaegama, p­ eople regularly note that although daughters-­in-­law should care for elders, the in-­marrying ­women are “outsiders” and might not be as “faithful” as d­ aughters. For example, Sumitha, the cancer patient introduced above, had three d­ aughters and a son. One ­daughter died in the tsunami in 2004. Another was mentally challenged and never married. The third married and moved to Matara, a town about 50 miles down the coast. Sumitha’s son stood to inherit the land and ­house. However, Sumitha did not get along with her daughter-­in-­law. As related in chapter 5 on inheritance of the ancestral home, initially the f­ amily tried to mitigate the ill w ­ ill by constructing a new h ­ ouse for the young c­ ouple on the same land, but eventually the ­couple moved out, renting a residence in a nearby town instead. When Sumitha grew weak due to her cancer, she went with her husband and disabled d­ aughter to live with the d­ aughter in Matara. The f­ amily held the funeral and almsgiving for Sumitha in Matara rather than in Naeaegama, and a­ fter Sumitha’s death, the other two f­ amily members remained in Matara rather than returning to Naeaegama and receiving care from Sumitha’s daughter-­in-­law. Both h ­ ouses on the f­ amily property in Naeaegama remained empty, perhaps indicating that the son and daughter-­in-­law rejected both their obligation to perform care work and their inheritance. Although a daughter-­in-­law structurally “should” take care of her husband’s parents, the best praise one can give a caregiving daughter-­in-­law is to say she is “like a d­ aughter.” As discussed in chapter 2, p­ eople agentively misuse kin terms to indicate enhanced caring and closeness. For example, Sudu-­nona said that her new daughter-­in-­law was “like a ­daughter” now, although she could not say what might happen in the ­future. In another ­house­hold, Anuradha had looked ­after her el­derly father-­in-­law a­ fter his stroke u­ ntil his death and in 2016 was looking ­after her 88-­year-­old mother-­in-­law, who suffered mild dementia. Anuradha said, “At my father-­in-­law’s funeral, the monk said that I

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was a d­ aughter, not a daughter-­in-­law to him” (implying that he had praised her caregiving efforts). ­These cases illustrate that kinship terms are squishy, and the more valued caregiver is the “­daughter,” even though daughters-­in-­law are structurally set up by the inheritance pattern of virilocal ultimogeniture to take care of their husbands’ parents. ­Daughters and daughters-­in-­law regularly negotiated care work. For example, Siri’s son and daughter-­in-­law lived in Negombo. When the young ­woman’s ­mother broke her hip in 2015, it was the d­ aughter (a stay-­at-­home m ­ other) rather than her ­brother’s wife (who worked in a bank) who did the bulk of the care work. And when Chutta died before getting married, his ­sister stepped in to look ­after their parents. The dead man’s ­brother and sister-­in-­law lived far away and could not provide practical, day-­to-­day assistance and care. Elders ­either end up with their own d­ aughters or, through the agentive misuse of kinship terms, turn caring daughters-­in-­law into fictive d­ aughters. Migration posed challenges for sons to care for el­derly ­mothers and f­ athers. For example, Siri’s cousin, Susil (introduced in chapter  2), moved to the United States and married a bride from Sri Lanka some years ­later. He could not practically bring his ­mother and ­father to the United States, nor did the el­derly ­couple wish to move. Susil regularly sent money to support his parents and had instructed his ­mother to hire a servant. However, his ­mother refused to do so. As the c­ ouple aged, their d­ aughter who lived nearby took on more responsibilities for looking ­after the ­house­hold. Susil’s wife could not offer her support to her in-­laws in this situation. Migration also posed a challenge in elder care for Lakmini; ­because her ­sister was abroad when their ­mother was ­dying, Lakmini took on all of the care work. In t­ hese cases, the types of financial opportunities that migration provides (explored in chapter 3) outweighed the usual kinship obligations (explored in chapters 2 and 5). In some instances, issues related to other members in the ­house­hold altered how d­ aughters and daughters-­in-­law allocated the care of el­derly kin. For example, in 2016, Siri suggested that Dina had gotten “mod” (chic, trendy, modern) when her son and daughter-­in-­law returned from working in the Gulf. The f­ amily fixed up their h ­ ouse and bought a huge tele­vi­sion and a new car. Siri speculated that Dina’s ­mother “­wasn’t up to the standard” and therefore lived with Dina’s ­brother and sister-­in-­law next door. However, by 2018, the el­derly w ­ oman was again staying with Dina; the sister-­in-­law, Anuradha, who had previously done the care work, had moved her nuclear f­amily to a ­house on her natal property in a nearby town. Siri speculated that an elder-­ free ­house in town would make a better showcase as Anuradha worked to arrange a marriage for her second son. As discussed in chapter 2, arranging a prestigious match has long-­term benefits for the entire ­family. This case shows the fluidity of care arrangements and the benefit to elders of having multiple kin live close by.

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Conclusion This chapter has considered everyday issues of health and illness. When they are able and relatively fit, individuals value their ability to care for themselves and ­others. Once they begin to need care themselves, their identity gradually shifts as they integrate narratives about their ailments (and any associated medical diagnoses and medi­cations) into the way they pre­sent themselves to ­others. They also interact in complex ways with doctors, valuing their power­ ful words and seeking recognition from ­these impor­tant authorities but also occasionally defying the medical professionals’ biopo­liti­cal control over problematic be­hav­iors and consumption patterns. ­People in Naeaegama share goals from the global “healthy aging” discourse in that they seek to extend their productive activity as long as they can in order to contribute to r­ unning the h ­ ouse­hold. At a bare minimum, they hope to stay healthy enough to “do their own work” and not burden their kin by requiring long periods of laborious care. Elders who lived in extended families, however, did not need to maintain as much in­de­pen­dence as do Euro-­ American elders living alone. Nor did elders in Naeaegama believe that they could, through their own agency and hard work, control the inevitable effects of aging. Everyday practices of care for the ailing include “being ­there” to help with daily activities, providing food, and procuring treatment and medi­cation. Medicine, food, and beverage feature prominently in narratives ­people relate about their own illnesses, and members of the sandwich generation remember in ­these same terms the care that they have provided. W ­ omen spoke often of the food that they cooked and fed to sick friends and relatives, and patients and their families mea­sured care in terms of the treatments under­gone and prescriptions filled. Bringing food to the hospital, feeding patients on their deathbeds, treating guests to cookies, and negotiating w ­ hether one should continue to smoke and drink liquor are some of the cases discussed in this chapter. ­People I spoke with in Naeaegama equated serious care work with the type of care done ­toward the end of life, when elders could no longer eat, bathe, or go to the toilet on their own. The social aspects of care, especially care given in advanced old age for incontinent elders, are deeply gendered and laden with power relationships. The idiom of “the smell” captured ­labor involving excreta such as urine and feces. No one wanted to lose in­de­pen­dence to the point that they could no longer “do their own work.” Recognizing the likely inevitability of needing at least some help, however, elders strategized to live their last years with the kin they thought would help them the best.

7

Shelter or Shame? Old Folks’ Homes As Siri, Sumitha, and I made our way into the Mahamodera old folks’ home on our first visit, my research associate Siri caught a glimpse of Milton, an acquaintance he had met on the commuter train many years before. Surprised, Siri wondered aloud, “What is he ­doing ­here? He has a f­ amily.” ­Later that day, Siri asked the same question of Milton, who explained, “I was bad and my wife scolded me. I drank. So my wife and kids sent me h ­ ere.” Sumitha-­miss, the retired schoolteacher and neighbor from Naeaegama who had introduced Siri and me to the management at the old folks’ home, asked Milton if he was still drinking. “No,” Milton told her. “Not now. I am very sorry for all the bad ­things I have done. I am ­here as a punishment.” Sumitha, whose ­family had founded the institution we ­were visiting, objected to the portrayal of living at Mahamodera as a punishment. Milton quickly praised the fa­cil­i­ty, saying, “This is a good place. They are helping ­people well. They spend money; they take ­people to doctors.” But I got the impression he still thought of his own residence t­ here as a punishment. When Siri asked about his f­ amily, Milton explained that he had four sons and two d­ aughters. “Do they come to see you?” I asked. “No,” he replied. “They ­don’t come b­ ecause they have taken their ­mother’s side in the argument.” “Is it shameful for you to be ­here?” Siri asked quietly. “Yes.” Then Milton modified his statement: “It is not shameful for me, but it is shameful for my relatives.” 119

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Nodding, Sumitha said, “It looks like they h ­ aven’t done enough.” But minutes l­ater, another male resident refuted any hint of stigma. He insisted, “It’s good h ­ ere. We have food and drink. It is better than living at home.” Having told us of his two sons and his deceased wife, he said, “It’s not an embarrassment to be h ­ ere. Some c­ hildren c­ an’t help their parents. My sons have lots of kids themselves, and they have financial prob­lems, so they c­ an’t help me.” In a ­later conversation, a director of the institution mentioned another resident, saying, “She came h ­ ere and has gotten fat and healthy compared to when she was at home. The food is better and more regular ­here.” Collectively, ­these conversations at Mahamodera reveal a tension between the need for institutional care and the stigma it generates. Even though residents may lose social status, they are often grateful for shelter and a place to call home. Most old folks’ homes in Sri Lanka provide ser­vices for ­free, and therein lies both their benefit and the source of stigma. I use “old folks’ home” as a translation of the Sinhala terms vaeDi-­hiTi nivaasaya and the less respectful mahalu nivaasaya. ­These terms generally connote facilities that provide f­ ree ser­vice for poor elders but are also used to describe upscale for-­pay institutions. Middle-­class ­people prefer to pay for institutional care or to hire a servant to look ­after elders at home. For-­pay old folks’ homes are few and far between, however, and servants are scarce and expensive. This chapter explores how local old folks’ homes operate and how ­people in Naeaegama both support and stigmatize such institutions. As amply illustrated in prior chapters, p­ eople in Naeaegama expect to age at home, assisted by their kin. Nearly 80 ­percent of Sri Lankan elders live this intergenerational kinship ideal (World Bank 2008, 7). Conflicts or structural challenges, however, create situations in which families cannot or w ­ ill not meet social expectations. In Naeaegama as elsewhere in the world, personal animosities, poverty, or bad life choices may drive ­family members apart. And as life spans increase, ­family sizes shrink, ­women enter the workforce, and would-be caregivers commute long distances to their jobs, p­ eople in the sandwich generation find it more difficult to keep at home elders who need significant amounts of care. Given how closely ­people identify with their ­family and their ancestral home (maha gedera), moving to an old folks’ home can affect ­people’s sense of self and cause social suffering. Late-­life care anywhere (particularly in institutions) can seem to reduce p­ eople to bodies that lack social and po­liti­cal presence, undergo constant supervision, and consume ste­reo­typically bad food. When interpersonal tensions or structural impediments keep relatives from sheltering an ailing elder at home, ­people may nostalgically romanticize prior social situations and experience their current circumstances as a form of suffering (van der Pijl 2018). Namgyal Choedup (2018, 82–83) notes that among el­derly Tibetans living in India, “For someone who has ­children of his own, ­going to the el­derly home in old age is unthinkable and would be considered a

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form of ‘social suicide’ b­ ecause it would reflect very poorly on one’s ­children and it would be the talk of the community.” In Naeaegama as among Tibetans living in India, although an institution might provide appropriate and necessary levels of care, p­ eople hesitate to use old folks’ homes u­ nless they face even more dire alternatives. The image of old folks’ home residents as poverty stricken and abandoned forms a cornerstone of the cultural logic around how such institutions are financed and run. Villa­gers in Naeaegama see the aged poor as worthy (like Buddhist monks) of receiving almsgivings (daanas). Old folks’ homes subsist on community gifts of food, money, and other material resources. Institutions’ staff and directors cannot easily charge residents for ser­vices without losing their image and status as a charity. In this chapter, I explore Naeaegama attitudes t­ oward old folks’ homes. I ask why such institutions carry a cloud of shame around them and why ­people find them unsuitable residences for respectable ­people. I consider the Buddhist under­ pinnings and charitable financial mechanisms through which several local old folks’ homes function. I also pose questions for the f­ uture: how w ­ ill the current system hold up in the face of migration and demographic transformation? At three old folks’ homes near Naeaegama, I engaged in participant observation, interviews, and casual conversations with residents and staff. In 2009, the Nivaasaya old folks’ home had seventeen residents and three staff members (reduced to two staff in subsequent years). I returned to Nivaasaya yearly from 2015 through 2019. The other two old folks’ homes I visited only in 2009. In 2009, Mahamodera had forty-­three residents and four staff members. Nivaasaya and Mahamodera ­housed residents who could not pay for care. The third home, in the town of Ambalangoda, had two staff members and offered accommodation to both paying (three) and nonpaying (fifteen) residents. In addition to visiting local institutions, I also rely on information gathered in 2009 using the “scenario” method described in chapter 3. I discuss three scenarios dealing with old folks’ homes h ­ ere.

Scenario #6: The Doctor’s F­ ather—­Acceptable and Unacceptable Forms of Elder Care In her elegant discussion of the rise of old age homes in urban Kolkata, Sarah Lamb explores Indians’ valuations of such institutions as on one hand enabling in­de­pen­dence and freedom and on the other hand leading to alienation and abandonment (Lamb 2009, 56; Lamb 2018, 174). Lamb’s in­for­mants credited the rise of old age homes to a number of modern trends, including the breakdown of the extended f­amily, w ­ omen’s entry into the workforce, ­children’s migration to foreign countries, and a “Westernization” marked by more money and less time (Lamb 2009, 68).

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Examining the parallel situation in rural Sri Lanka, I set out explore the social pressures that force ­people into old folks’ homes and the cultural norms that stigmatize residence in them. The prevalent ethos in Naeaegama assumes that ­people who live in old folks’ homes are poor, but my research reveals that ­people take up residence in such institutions for a number of reasons besides poverty and may in fact have extensive f­ amily networks and financial resources. ­Because we wanted to explore the intersection between social stigma, financial assets, and f­ amily support, Siri and I crafted a scenario discussed h ­ ere, in which an older man resides in an old folks’ home. His son is a doctor. We described the fictitious situation and asked our in­for­mants, “Do you think that the ­father ­will talk with staff, fellow residents, and visitors about his son? In par­tic­u­lar, ­will he tell ­people about his son’s job?” The data gathered from this scenario fell into several main themes. One theme related to emotional reactions to institutionalization, with pride in the son’s accomplishments warring with the anger and shame of abandonment. A second theme highlighted questions of agency, particularly ­whether the elder had any say over the decision. The third theme revolved around issues of wealth and class status, particularly over the ­family’s financial situation and ­whether the institution charged for its ser­vices. Issues of elder care resonate with deep emotions, including trust, love, and pride, as well as fear, shame, and anger. The first theme emerging from the data concerned the conflict between the pride a parent feels in a son’s occupational accomplishments and the shame that both son and parent are culturally conditioned to feel about placing an elder in a care fa­cil­i­ty. As illustration, consider this interaction between Naveen (in his twenties) and his ­mother Indrani (age 59), who had cared for her mother-­in-­law u­ ntil her recent death. Upon hearing the scenario, Indrani surmised, “The f­ather w ­ on’t tell, to protect the son’s reputation.” But Naveen thought that the f­ ather would talk about his son, b­ ecause he was proud. “Of course he ­will talk about his son,” Naveen exclaimed. “His son is a doctor, not a robber!” “That’s true,” Indrani replied, “But he’s not helping his f­ ather! C ­ ouldn’t a doctor at least hire a servant for his f­ ather, rather than putting him in a fa­cil­i­ty?” “Some p­ eople want to go to old folks’ homes rather than having servants or troubling their kids,” Naveen asserted. “I c­ an’t think that way!” Indrani protested. The conversation had gotten heated by this point, and Indrani turned to Siri for support. She asked, “­Wouldn’t it be embarrassing for your son if you ­were in an old folks’ home?” Diplomatically, Siri agreed that his son, a h ­ otel executive, would be too embarrassed to put him in a fa­cil­i­ty but also noted that some residents entered old folks’ homes willingly.

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Naveen agreed vehemently with this point, explaining, “It’s like when someone has a bad argument at home and goes to the ­temple for relief.” And indeed, parallels between old folks’ homes and ­temples arose frequently in my research. In­for­mants discussed a number of conflicting emotions in relation to this scenario. Sumitha, who guided Siri and me to the Mahamodera old folks’ home, suggested, “Some ­fathers ­will tell, b­ ecause they are proud; o­ thers ­will tell b­ ecause they are angry. Some ­won’t talk about the son’s job, ­because it is a disgrace to the son.” Mahanama Thero, the Buddhist monk at the local t­ emple, opined that a parent might speak out of pain, rather than staying s­ilent out of shame. Retired police officer Anura suggested, “If the ­father says that his son is a doctor, then the p­ eople can understand that the son d­ oesn’t love the f­ ather and the ­father ­doesn’t love the son. If the son and ­father are okay together, then the ­father ­won’t tell anyone that his son is a doctor.” In­for­mants frequently noted that it was an “embarrassment” or a “shortfall” to put a parent in an old folks’ home. Such an “ugly” act was the opposite of treating one’s parent with re­spect. Opinions varied over w ­ hether the shame belonged only to the son or also to his ­father and the rest of the ­family. Most in­for­mants felt that the parent bore no blame in the m ­ atter but did partake of the overarching stigma that attached to the ­family reputation. The ­father’s institutionalization threatened the ­family’s middle-­class status and indicated a failure in the social reproduction of the ­family. In addition to examining the conflict between pride and shame, villa­gers brought up a second set of pos­si­ble conflicts, related to questions of agency and choice. This second theme focused on the difference between, on the one hand, having taken a parent and by force left him or her at an old folks’ home, which in­for­mants universally deemed wrong or sinful, and, on the other hand, turning a parent over respectfully to a high-­quality institution for care, which in­for­mants deemed acceptable u­ nder certain conditions, although rarely optimal (see also Lamb 2009, 94). Exploring this scenario with her 43-­year-­old d­ aughter Shivanthi, Emaline said, “Some parents w ­ ill have been brought to the old folks’ home by force, angrily. They w ­ ill talk. They w ­ ill say of their ­children, ‘This one is like this and that one is like that.’ ” Shivanthi chimed in to say, “If ­children put their parents in a for-­pay fa­cil­ i­ty, not a ­free one, it is better.” A short discussion of vari­ous for-­pay facilities in the area followed. Emaline agreed, noting, “The for-­pay places are okay. If the kids are busy with their jobs, they can pay and keep their parents in that sort of place comfortably.” She compared elders who went to an old folks’ home “happily” with ­those who w ­ ere left t­ here against their w ­ ill. She felt that t­ hose who went happily would not speak badly of their ­children, especially if their ­children visited frequently.

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I asked, “Is it shameful to put parents in a fa­cil­i­ty?” Usually, in­for­mants answered this question with an unconditional “yes.” In this case, however, Shivanthi nuanced her reply. She said, “It’s not a shortfall if they went happily and they are in a for-­pay place.” But Emaline added in a hushed voice, “No parent ­really wants to go to an old folks’ home. Even if they go to a better place, a for-­pay place, parents might be angry. I myself would prefer to stay in my own ­house even if I have to sleep on a mat on the floor and go without eating, rather than to leave. At least my kids w ­ ill help me with food.” ­A fter a thoughtful pause, she continued, saying she did not want to make prob­lems for her c­ hildren. “It’s not just the kids’ fault that parents go to old folks’ homes. The parents are also sometimes at fault. When you are old, you need to obey your ­children and be satisfied with what they give you.” In this discussion of the scenario, Emaline and Shivanthi spoke about trade-­offs: the expense of a for-­pay fa­cil­i­ty can remove some of the class-­related stigma of placing an elder in an institution, but the luxury of aging in a familiar context can offset less-­than-­perfect care at home. As Emaline and Naveen sensitively pointed out, emotional f­actors influence difficult decisions, and elders become vulnerable to unwelcome changes as they relinquish authority to the next generation. A third set of conflicts brought out in this scenario concerns the question of class and financial status as they affected the sort of care that relatives could provide. In separate conversations, two local men discussed the issue of poverty. The ­house­painter Perera made the following point: “If you ­can’t afford to feed someone, then by putting them in a f­ ree fa­cil­i­ty, you are taking care of them. You are sending them somewhere where they can eat! Sometimes it is like a punishment to put someone in an old folks’ home. But sometimes it’s a necessity.” Atulasena, an unmarried 62-­year-­old Berava mask-­maker, echoed ­these sentiments: “If you put someone in an old folks’ home a­ fter ­doing every­ thing you can for that person, then it’s okay.” Perera and Atulasena, both quite poor themselves, voiced a working-­class pragmatism: in cases of extreme poverty, finding food and shelter in a nonpaying fa­cil­i­ty for a needy relative was a necessary but status-­lower step. Providing for-­pay care for elders reduced the stigma of institutionalization. Having discussed nonpaying institutions, Atulasena continued, “If you put someone in a for-­pay place ­because you c­ an’t take care of him, it’s okay.” Similarly, Perera felt that it would be acceptable for the doctor to put his ­father in a good-­quality, for-­pay fa­cil­i­ty, especially if the doctor’s wife did not want to do the care work. “If the doctor put that ­father in a ­free place, though, that’s not okay. That is a shortfall.” And similarly, Atulasena noted, “When parents get old, some impor­tant p­ eople w ­ ill push them off to an old folks’ home, ­because they are an embarrassment.” Although certain circumstances justified

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the use of a fa­cil­i­ty, and putting an elder in a paying fa­cil­i­ty helped preserve the ­family’s class status, Atulasena deemed prestige-­enhancing motivations for institutionalization improper. Most villa­gers felt that elders who had c­hildren, and families that had money, should care for the elder at home. When we asked Lakmini, a poor 56-­year-­old returned mi­grant, ­whether she and her siblings would put her aging ­mother in an old folks’ home, she replied, “No. She has kids. This would only happen to someone without kids.” For a rich person like a doctor, Sumitha felt, “It would be better to keep the f­ ather at home, according to Sri Lankan values. An old folks’ home is for poor p­ eople, although some other p­ eople go ­there too.” Nishantha and his ­sisters suggested that parents might end up in old folks’ homes if their c­hildren w ­ ere poor and could not help them, if their ­children worked abroad and could not provide hands-on support, or if the ­children ­were rich and felt embarrassed to have aging parents in the ­house. Of the latter, Nishantha remarked, “That is an ugly act, a black mark on the ­family. But kids do it.” As elsewhere in South Asia, in Naeaegama, p­ eople felt that as a middle-­class professional, the doctor owed his or her success in part to his parents (Lamb 2009, 181–187), and he should repay them with re­spect in their old age. A doctor should be rich enough to hire a servant to care for his f­ ather at home instead of placing him in a fa­cil­i­ty. In many villa­gers’ opinion, receiving hired care was not stigmatized at home, only in an institution, and staying in the ­family home was the most impor­tant signifier of dignified aging.

Scenario #7: Almsgivings—­Old Folks’ Home Residents as the Deserving Poor Examining local valuations of old folks’ homes and the identities of such homes’ residents reveals the religious under­pinnings of charitable gifts. Having established some of the sources of stigma related to old folks’ homes, I now examine images of residents as the deserving poor. Siri and I explored this topic by asking Naeaegama villa­gers to compare two charitable options for generating religious merit (pin). We asked p­ eople which option was better: giving an almsgiving (daana) to monks at a Buddhist ­temple or giving a similar almsgiving to residents at an old folks’ home. When we asked p­ eople to explain the values b­ ehind their choice, rich data emerged about the conceptual parallels between monks and poor, institutionalized elders. Both are deemed outside the usual class hierarchy in society. Monks officially should not own property or ­handle cash (although in practice, they do own ­temple property, hold jobs, and manage bank accounts), and elders in old folks’ homes are assumed (not always accurately) to have no close ­family ties, financial assets, or capability to support themselves. Both groups thus require care from the community. In return for giving alms, community members receive merit

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(pin, good karma, or blessings). In this chapter, I examine views about the moral valences and social positioning of the recipients of the material parts of almsgivings (monks and the deserving poor). I continue the discussion in chapter 8 by examining the Buddhist philosophy around the recipients of the spiritual merit generated from almsgiving (the recently deceased). In Sri Lankan Buddhist communities, p­ eople collectively contribute to sheltering, feeding, and caring for resident monks. All of ­these contributions count as “alms.” Discussing life in southeastern Nepal, Davis (2014, 79–84) notes that giving alms is the inceptional act of virtue; it is dharmic (scriptural, righ­teous) and moral. In Naeaegama, the Was ceremony, which occurs yearly in July, reiterates the community obligation to provide for monks. During this ceremony, community members gather at the t­ emple to invite the monks to stay in their residence during the duration of “the rainy season” (as understood in North India during the time of the Buddha; monsoons actually start ­earlier in southwestern Sri Lanka). During the 2015 Was ceremony at the Naeaegama t­emple, Mahanama Thero (the chief monk) graciously accepted the community’s ritual invitation. He then spoke about plans and proj­ects for the ­temple, for example, getting new roof tiles for the dwelling hall. He also mentioned support received from the community in prior years, particularly assistance rendered by Telsie’s ­family in reinforcing a retaining wall. In other years at Was ceremonies, he reminded the community of the donation of four acres of land and the original t­ emple buildings by Telsie’s natal ­family in 1832. Like the social reproduction of the f­ amily, community support for monks (and ­temple workers and occasional resident beggars) requires both short-­ term, daily input (for example, providing food, clothing, and medicine and paying the electricity bill) and long-­term investment (for example, the donation of cinnamon gardens and the construction and maintenance of ­temple buildings and other structures). Food almsgivings occur daily. Leading lay disciples (dayakas) or­ga­nize village families to provide breakfast and lunch for the resident monks at the local ­temple, often on a monthly schedule and done on a small scale (incorporated into the ­house­hold’s own meal preparation without significant fanfare). In addition, families ­will occasionally offer larger daanas for a greater number of monks. Large almsgivings often commemorate impor­tant events, such as the anniversaries (­after one week, one month, three months, one year, and yearly thereafter) of a relative’s death. (I explore death anniversaries in more detail in the next chapter.) For a large daana, a ­family w ­ ill cook a lavish meal and offer it to a specifically requested number of monks, gathered ­either at a local ­temple or in the ­family’s home. The greater the number of monks, the more prestigious the undertaking. Hired help or members of the extended ­family often provide ­labor for such feasts. The almsgivers offer the first plate of food to the Lord Buddha’s statue at the local ­temple. Then the hosts serve the monks. A ­ fter the

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meal, the almsgivers distribute other gifts, for example, umbrellas, packages of milk powder, bars of soap, ­bottles of herbal medicine, and parcels that include new robes and begging bowls. ­A fter eating, the monks chant to bestow merit upon their hosts and ­those commemorated by the event. Once the monks have returned to their ­temples, the gathered f­amily and other guests eat. Such events symbolize f­ amily solidarity and reaffirm ties of kinship and friendship. ­People give alms not only to ­temples but also to old folks’ homes, orphanages, and hospitals. Gifts to institutions include large-­scale donations of land and buildings, as well as smaller-­scale donations of food and other consumable items. At the old folks’ homes near Naeaegama, ­people can give food daanas in three ways. First, the donors can cook the meal at home and bring it to the fa­cil­i­ty. Second, they can bring the raw materials and cook them at the fa­cil­i­ty or have someone at the fa­cil­i­ty cook. Third, they can make a monetary donation and the staff at the fa­cil­i­ty ­will buy the ingredients and cook the meal. Staff and residents prefer the first option; the staff has less work to do, and the residents say they get more and better-­tasting food.1 As at all daanas, the first plate of food is offered with suitable religious observations to a statue of the Lord Buddha. Thereafter, the residents eat and sometimes receive practical gifts (such as soap, clothing, bed sheets, and mosquito nets). A resident or staff member bestows merit upon t­ hose who provided the meal and whomever they seek to commemorate. The local community already collectively takes care of Buddhist monks, and giving alms to old folks’ homes extends this form of care in both concept and practice. In scenario #7, Siri and I asked villa­gers in Naeaegama which type of almsgiving they deemed most worthwhile: one for a t­ emple or one for an old folks’ home. The answers revealed conceptual parallels between monks and residents in old age facilities. They also revealed under­lying assumptions about financial security, poverty, and need in both categories of alms recipients. According to Buddhist doctrine, giving alms to the t­ emple should take priority in any weighing of worthiness. Mahanama Thero made clear that laypeople’s primary responsibility was to give to the t­ emple, b­ ecause monks w ­ ere in the lineage (paramparaawa) of the Lord Buddha. “Giving to an old folks’ home is also good, but less so. But a daana ­there, or to an orphanage or hospital, w ­ ill certainly generate merit,” he stated. Laypeople also upheld the value of giving alms to monks. For example, an el­derly h ­ ouse­hold servant felt that giving to the t­ emple was more impor­tant than giving to an old folks’ home. Although the Naeaegama ­temple often did not have a monk pre­sent (which irked a large number of villa­gers during the summer of 2009), she said, “One can at least give the offering to the Buddha statue (puujaawa).” Respecting the priority of the Buddhist ­temple, el­derly retired schoolmaster Dayawansa said, “Our religion says that giving to the

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t­emple is best. The ‘real’ daana is to the t­emple.” Similarly, Janaki said, “As Buddhists, we must give to the ­temple, but it is also very good to give to poor (naeti baeri) p­ eople.” Janaki nuanced her statement when she went on to say, “Buddhists believe that you must give to monks. But monks get plenty. Other ­people ­can’t be sure of having what they need.” Like other religious institutions in the modern world, Buddhist ­temples in Sri Lanka suffer from a lack of youth interested in joining the monkhood. The relatively few remaining monks receive ample alms. Although Buddhist monks officially own nothing and eat out of a “begging bowl,” in practice, monks often control significant property, and ­temples are quite rich. In contrast, the dominant discourse portrays residents of old folks’ homes as the poorest, neediest, most vulnerable members of society. When interlocutors compared wealthy monks with poor elders, the majority suggested that giving alms to an old folks’ home was the worthier endeavor. For example, Dayawansa asserted, “The t­ emple gets offerings from every­one. So perhaps it is better to give to the old folks’ home instead.” Similarly, stroke survivor Amarasinghe noted, “The ­people in the old folks’ homes ­can’t get around. They have no one to help them. The ­temples have incomes, and they get almsgivings. In the old folks’ homes, they only eat what someone gives. That’s what I feel, anyway.” He then asked Siri if this was the right answer, and we reassured him that t­here ­were no wrong answers. Amarasinghe’s uncertainty reflected a conflict between his deep-­seated re­spect for Buddhism and his visceral understanding of elders’ poverty and need. The theme of monks’ well-­being came across in a number of interviews. For example, Perera said simply, “Monks live like ­they’re in a tourist ­hotel!” Titus said, “­Temples have plenty of stuff—­all sorts of food. The old folks’ home ­isn’t that way; they only get daanas occasionally. So it’s better to give to the old folks’ home.” Lakmini felt that giving alms to ­temples and old folks’ homes ­were both equally good. But then she noted, “The ­temple gets alms ­every day. In the old folks’ homes, sometimes p­ eople can go hungry.” The old folks’ home residents with whom Siri and I spoke said that they never went hungry, but Lakmini’s observation echoed the class identity assigned to old folks’ home residents in the dominant discourse. Some discussions of ­temple wealth bordered on critiques of class in­equality. For example, Indika began his discussion of this topic by stating, “I’m a Buddhist, but . . .” He justified his preference for giving daanas to old folks’ homes by talking about the income available to a local ­temple. Indika said, “Consider all the cinnamon land that belongs to this ­temple, and all the ­temples that belong to this monk. This monk has a lot of money in the bank and a good salary from his teaching job! And the t­ emple has all its expenses paid by the village; for example, villa­gers pay the electricity bill. All the facilities are t­ here [referring to indoor plumbing and electrical lighting and appliances]. Every­thing is taken

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care of for the monks.” Similarly, in a dif­fer­ent conversation, Indrani’s son, Naveen, brought up the case of a local monk who had taken ­temple funds for personal gain and then left the priesthood. Naveen said, “We re­spect ‘the robe,’ but not necessarily the monk in it. ­There are bad monks.” ­These villa­gers contrasted the assets and facilities available to monks with the assumed poverty of residents in old age homes, and they compared the character of certain monks with the assumed humility and honesty of elders in facilities. Local experiences of giving daanas to the t­ emple reinforced p­ eople’s perception that old folks’ home residents might need alms more than monks do. For example, Lakmini noted, somewhat miffed, that she used to give a daana monthly to the Naeaegama ­temple. “But then they w ­ ere getting two almsgivings at the same time, one from me and one from [another village h ­ ouse­hold]. So I got fed up with that, b­ ecause someone’s food would get wasted.” Lakmini implied in contrast that food given to the old folks’ homes was highly appreciated and never wasted. Similarly, in 2015, Telsie noted that a­ fter she had reserved a date for a daana in honor of her deceased father-­in-­law (a devout, long-­term ­temple supporter), Mahanama Thero asked her to change the date and gave her original date to a close relative of a local construction contractor who was putting up several buildings at a new ­temple site. Having visited the new ­temple with Mahanama Thero, Siri, and me, Telsie said she understood Mahanama Thero’s choice to honor the current donor over t­hose who had supported the ­temple in the past. However, Telsie pointed to this incident as the moment ­after which she started to give daanas to the Nivaasaya old folks’ home in addition to the t­emple. The ­temple clearly had more than enough wealthy donors. In contrast to the widespread impression of t­emple wealth, most p­ eople perceived residents of old folks’ homes as poor. All of the ­people whom I interviewed in 2009 deemed old age homes well worthy of support for this reason. Referring to the choice presented in scenario #7, Dharmapriya said, “Both options are good, but giving to the old folks’ home is better.” He explained, “Residents in the home are old and they c­ an’t help themselves.” In separate conversations, respondents voiced similar opinions. Rukmini asserted that giving to an old age home was better, “­because ­these are poor ­people (naeti baeri ayyo; literally ­people who are without [anything] and cannot [care for themselves]) and it’s good to help them.” The middle-­aged contractor Sudharshan stated, “They have no one to help them out. ­There are fewer gifts to old folks’ homes than to t­ emples. Priests get daanas all the time.” Sumitha said, “An old folks’ home is like a place for abandoned ­people. They have only a ­little bit of food, ordinarily—­just two vegetable curries and some sauce—­ unless someone gives a good almsgiving.” In weighing the worthiness of giving alms to ­temples and old age homes, villa­gers considered recipients’ assets and their character. Sumitha compared

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virtuous monks who are true to the religion with residents in a nonpaying old folks’ home; both categories of p­ eople theoretically subsisted as h ­ umble recipients of charity. Of the two categories, p­ eople deemed the el­derly poor most vulnerable. For example, Siri noted, “Monks can go around begging if they ­don’t get alms at the t­ emple, and p­ eople w ­ ill for sure feed them. But the p­ eople living in old age homes ­can’t go; they ­can’t walk around like that. And ­people ­will help someone in a saffron robe; for example ­they’ll gladly buy two buns from a shop for a hungry monk. But needy elders might get chased away like beggars if they came to the gate and asked for food.” Overall, ­people recognized the official priority of giving alms to Buddhist ­temples but valued gifts to old folks’ homes more highly b­ ecause they felt that the recipients genuinely needed the food in a way that monks often did not. Th ­ ese data highlight the prevalent ste­reo­types around old folks’ homes and the cultural imperative to give aid to the needy.

Charitable Routines: Naeaegama Almsgivings As Siri and I interviewed Naeaegama residents about elder care issues, we gathered data regarding how vari­ous local institutions fit into villa­gers’ charitable routines. In par­tic­u­lar, ­people gave daanas and other support to t­emples, orphanages, old folks’ homes, and hospitals. The Mahamodera and Nivaasaya old folks’ homes figured into a number of village narratives. In most of ­these cases, p­ eople prepared the food in their own home or went to the institution and prepared the meal ­there. Neighbors kept track of who gave alms and where they w ­ ere offered. For example, Perera told Siri and me that a neighbor had recently given a daana in honor of his deceased ­father. “He gave it to the Nivaasaya old folks’ home. ­There w ­ ere twenty-­five p­ eople t­ here. The f­ amily went the day before and asked what the menu should be. They cooked pumpkin, potatoes, and b­ itter gourd. Every­one ate nicely.” Individuals also had clear memories of their own charitable contributions. For example, Dharmapriya said that he and his f­amily gave many daanas at the old folks’ home, the hospital, and the local ­temple. Recently, his ­family had given an almsgiving at the Mahamodera old folks’ home. “We gave not only a meal but also textiles: sheets for the w ­ omen and sarongs for the men. The total cost was about Rs. 8,000. Th ­ ere are fifty p­ eople t­ here. They have a waiting list to give a daana. You c­ an’t get close to the date you want u­ nless you ask the person who has reserved that date. We gave my ­father’s one-­month almsgiving to the ­temple. The two-­year almsgiving was to the old folks’ home. We w ­ ere ­going to give the three-­year almsgiving to the old folks’ home also, but then my wife broke her hip. So we postponed that almsgiving.” P ­ eople remember their own and their neighbors’ daanas in detail, and local experiences

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indicate that old folks’ homes, like Buddhist ­temples, seem to receive ample alms from the community. Generous charitable activity was a source of ­family pride. Emaline and her ­daughter, Shivanthi, noted that their ­family had given a number of daanas over the years. They had cooked a meal for the forty-­five ­people at Mahamodera. Shivanthi noted that u­ nder her grand­mother’s direction, the f­amily had also given a daana to an orphanage in Galle. “More than us, grandma used to take on t­ hese endeavors. But now she c­ an’t. She’s 83. Now she gives money instead. She c­ an’t cook and give the food anymore.” When p­ eople grew too old to offer their ­labor, they made financial contributions to institutions instead. A number of Naeaegama villa­gers coordinated almsgivings with anniversaries commemorating impor­tant f­amily events. For example, Lalani explained that her ­family (in conjunction with her younger ­brother’s) gave daanas six times a year, on vari­ous death anniversaries and c­hildren’s birthdays. They spread their support between two ­temples, the Mahamodera and Nivaasaya old folks’ homes, and two orphanages. Similarly, an el­derly Berava ­woman noted, “We take food to the closest old folks’ home, Nivaasaya, once a month.” Speaking of her m ­ other’s recent death, this w ­ oman continued, “We w ­ ill go on the 19th for my ­mother’s one-­month almsgiving.” She noted that recently, it had been difficult to locate the monk at the local ­temple. “We want to give him a daana, too, but it’s hard to find him!” And as part of our research, Siri, Telsie, and I gave a daana at Nivaasaya for our deceased relatives. Thereafter, Siri and Telsie integrated that almsgiving into their yearly charitable cycle. Charitable activities formed a central part of villa­gers’ social and religious activity, and the local institutions w ­ ere well integrated into the patterns of almsgiving.

Old Folks’ Home Residents’ Assets: Networks, Money, and Property Although the prevailing ste­reo­type of old age home residents suggests that they have no kin and no sources of income, many residents did indeed have extensive social networks, access to some money, and owner­ship of some property. Nonetheless, for a variety of reasons, they lacked the ability to fend for themselves or remain in their f­ amily homes. In this section, I explore how par­ tic­u­lar residents came to live in the Mahamodera and Nivaasaya old folks’ homes and the types of assets ­these residents could draw upon. The directors of the Mahamodera old folks’ home explained in 2009 the se­lection pro­cess for accepting new residents. A village administrator (grama niladhaariyaa) and a social ser­vice officer needed to write a letter stating that ­there was no one to care for the person. The Divisional Secretary also needed to write a supporting letter. A staff member described the profile of the institution’s

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residents, saying, “We get some unmarried ­people. Or if residents have relatives, usually ­those residents have ­mental prob­lems. ­Family prob­lems are another reason for p­ eople to come ­here. If they have trou­bles with their sons-­ in-­law and daughters-­in-­law, they w ­ ill come.” In sum, residents often experienced personal and f­amily prob­lems, and state officials documented that residents deserved financial and social support from the old folks’ home. Siri and I had a brief conversation with a group of six w ­ omen residents who confirmed the staff member’s observations. One unmarried w ­ oman said, “­Here the p­ eople have no one to look a­ fter them.” Another w ­ oman told us, “I was married and have two ­children, but my son-­in-­law is no good.” She explained that he drank too much and caused trou­ble. She concluded, “It is good h ­ ere. We are ­free.” Siri joked, “If you ­were at home, you would have lots of work.” Every­one laughed. Another w ­ oman said, “We come h ­ ere b­ ecause of poverty. It is b­ ecause our relatives c­ an’t help us. It i­ sn’t our shame, it is the relatives’. They are useless.” She explained that she had come to the old folks’ home so as not to be a trou­ble to her c­ hildren. “They can come and visit or not as they choose,” she grumbled. One ­woman told us that the lady sitting next to her was from Colombo and had just moved in. The newly admitted ­woman cried quietly during the conversation, but the longer-­term residents joked and laughed with us and with each other. Life at Mahamodera took some adjustment. A staff member gave us the following example: “One person who came ­here at first d­ idn’t want to eat. She ­didn’t want to eat on a commonly used plate [a reflection of ­either caste discrimination or hygienic concern]. So we got her a separate plate and cup. She is from a ‘big’ f­ amily. She ­didn’t like the toilets at first ­either. But slowly she has gotten used to it. She wanted a higher level. But now she is okay.” This statement suggests that some ­people found the adjustment to the fa­cil­i­ty difficult. Growing accustomed to group living required an erasure of certain class (and pos­si­ble caste) identities that ­people held dear. The erasure of identity and the leveling of statuses, however, may be a key ele­ment in the self-­ portrayal of nonpaying old age homes.2 Funerals provide a key moment for demonstrating ­family solidarity. However, old folks’ home residents often lack the ­family connections to fulfill ­these rituals. Two of the fa­cil­i­ty’s directors spoke briefly about what happened when a resident died. The phlegmatic se­nior director said, “We give a coffin ­free if someone dies.” The loquacious ju­nior director added, “We do the cremation work from our money if the relations d­ on’t do it. And we also give the offerings to the monks before the funeral and perform the seven-­day almsgiving.” When I asked w ­ hether relatives came to take care of this kinship obligation, the ju­nior director replied, “Very few come. Perhaps one or two ­percent take the responsibility outside. Usually it’s us.” “Is that shameful?” I asked.

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The directors nodded, and one added, “Some ­people even send their parents to us through a third party!” They discussed an el­derly gentleman who arrived ­after having a stroke. “He has gotten much better since he came ­here. He was worse when he came and now he’s better.” Taken collectively, ­these statements suggest that the institution took on the ritual obligations and care responsibilities for resident elders, while residents gradually lost ties to ­family and links with their prior caste and class identities. At the Nivaasaya old folks’ home, Siri and I spoke with a number of the residents in 2009 to find out what brought them to the home. As at Mahamodera, at Nivaasaya, several w ­ omen ­were unmarried or had no c­ hildren, and o­ thers (both men and ­women) had hostile relationships with their nearest relatives. For example, a 75-­year-­old man with five c­ hildren said that he had separated from his wife. A 70-­year-­old w ­ oman had a ­daughter who lived nearby, but she fought with her ­daughter and son-­in-­law. Many held no property or had relinquished their land shares to their kin. Several had small sums of money in the bank. ­People in the West sometimes assume that staff at old folks’ homes care only for the body and not for the person, but anthropologist Monika Palmberger (2018, 98) challenges the idea that institutional care is necessarily cold, uncaring, and bad or that it is implemented with “fake” emotions. Observations at Nivaasaya illustrate that staff took personal interests in protecting and supporting residents. For example, one resident, Rasawathie, came from the local area and was actively engaged in a dispute with her kin about a wardrobe, a sewing machine, and her share of a valuable piece of ­family property. Rasawathie suffered from glaucoma, and she and the staff needed money to pay for the expensive eye drops she needed to halt the blinding disease. Rasawathie explained to Siri and me that she had come to the old folks’ home without telling her f­amily. “They would not have let me come. But I obtained a grama niladhari certificate and got in a three-­wheeler [small taxi] and came.” Rasawathie launched into a discussion about the current dispute with a younger male relative over her land. “He wants me to sign over my shares,” she began. As she stumbled through the explanation, Ruwan, a member of the staff, took over the tale. “He [the relative] came h ­ ere,” Ruwan continued. “He brought a Rs. 90 cake [a nice one] and a big bunch of bananas. He got her to sign a sheet. But we took that sheet back. The land is small, but it is valuable ­because it is on the Galle Road right at a junction.” Siri ­later showed me the land in question, explaining that the f­ amily could build several shop fronts on that property. “So to get that land signed over, he came with cake,” Ruwan summed up with a scowl. Another staff member continued the story. “Rasawathie signed the letter, but she was crying and her blood pressure was up. So I took her to the police station to make an entry about the incident.” With a frown, she added, “I got

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a bad name for interfering and ‘making trou­ble.’ ” The staff then discussed their efforts to help Rasawathie go home to sell her wardrobe and sewing machine. The endeavor had ended with a large ­family altercation that caused the furniture broker to back out of the deal. The staff planned to help Rasawathie bring her possessions to the old folks’ home and sell them from t­here. Both staff members seemed protective of Rasawathie but also a bit frustrated with the situation. Ruwan joked, “Rasawathie has written her land to three dif­fer­ent p­ eople. She ­will write it to anyone who comes ­here!” The cases presented above suggest that attenuated or strained ­family ties form a key ele­ment in most old folks’ home residents’ stories. Th ­ ese elders ­were not necessarily “abandoned” or without kin, but their social networks have been strained to the breaking point for a variety of reasons. Once residents are admitted to a fa­cil­i­ty, the staff members become surrogate kin and advocates. But conditions in the home and lack of ample funding for the fa­cil­ i­ty mean that residents relinquish their former social statuses (as did the ­woman who initially refused to eat on a common plate) and liquidate their remaining assets (as Rasawathie was in the pro­cess of ­doing). In the end, their situation fairly closely paralleled that of the prevalent cultural ste­reo­type: elders with no kin to help them and no wealth to call their own.

Scenario #8: Unknown Solicitors: Thieves, Con Men, and Established Charities When discussing scenario #7, villa­gers in Naeaegama often judged giving alms to old folks’ homes as (or nearly as) meritorious as giving alms to t­ emples. But villa­gers viewed with skepticism the individuals who solicited funds to support old folks’ homes, particularly if they did not recognize the individual or the institution in question. They feared that con men, thieves, and other unscrupulous characters would bilk generous community members of money. Siri and I explored this wariness by crafting scenario #8, in which an unknown person comes to the door of a h ­ ouse and asks for a donation to an old folks’ home. We described the fictitious situation and asked our in­for­mants, “Would you give money to this solicitor?” In­for­mants immediately affirmed the value of donating to ­causes such as old folks’ homes. ­Those who, without voicing any stipulations or suspicions, stated that they would give money, however, also said that they had no money to give. For example, Lakmini said that she would give money, even to an unknown individual, but added that she would only give if she had funds to donate. A poor ­woman from a large, impoverished ­family, Lakmini at the time of our interview had l­ ittle if any surplus. Many in­for­mants in­de­pen­dently stated that they would check the paperwork of anyone who solicited funds. For example, Anura said, “Lots of p­ eople

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come to the door. I give to some ­people and not to ­others. I look at the person and his paperwork. I can understand from that if the person is an honest person or a liar. I ­will give the good person a lot of money and a bad person just Rs. 10 or so. Or I ­will say, ‘My wife ­isn’t home,’ or ‘I ­don’t have any money right now; please come back some other time.’ An honest person ­will come back, perhaps with someone ­else from the establishment. A con man w ­ on’t come back.” Similarly, Amarasinghe said that he would want to see some documentation from the institution granting approval to collect money, and Mahanama Thero wanted to see an identity card for the solicitor and an address and a phone number on the collection materials. Shivanthi wanted to see a copy of the institution’s registration and some pictures. In addition, Shivanthi said, “I would try to figure out who the person was related to. And if someone came alone, I w ­ ouldn’t give money. A few more p­ eople should all come together.” Only if the solicitor could provide symbols of personal and institutional identity and prove connections to known places and ­people would contributors feel comfortable in making a cash donation. Several in­for­mants placed a ­great deal of importance on receipts. Sumitha felt that anyone who failed to offer a receipt was likely a fraud. Similarly, my associate Siri discussed a case from his experience. He said, “Someone came collecting money for an old folks’ home. On the first occasion, I donated funds and this person gave me a receipt. On the second occasion, I donated funds but the person did not give me a receipt. On the third occasion, I told him I would not donate money ­until he gave me the receipt for my second donation. This rascal went away and d­ idn’t come back! And I d­ idn’t get a receipt, e­ ither.” Siri assumed that the absence of a receipt indicated that the funds had gone astray. Mahanama Thero had encountered similar prob­lems with fraud related to ­temple solicitations. He gave an example of ­people taking a picture of the Naeaegama ­temple and saying that they ­were collecting money for that ­temple. “I have told p­ eople not to give money for the t­ emple except to the t­ emple workers themselves.” Both monks and needy elders merited contributions, but ­people ­were wary of being misled. In addition to worrying about con men, ­people also worried about thieves disguised as solicitors. The el­derly sawmill owner, Sini-­Mahattaya, asserted categorically that they would not give money to an unknown solicitor. His wife concurred: “I ­will not give anything! That person is a thief.” Sini-­ Mahattaya added, “I ­wouldn’t even let him come onto the porch.” The el­derly man continued, “I also try to keep the peddlers away. They come, look and see who’s h ­ ere, when t­ hey’re ­here—­like that. Then they can come back when only the old folks are at home and steal some stuff. So I say, ‘Go away [derogatory phrasing] and d­ on’t come back h ­ ere!’ And I might add, ‘­Don’t even go to other h ­ ouses in the area.’ So they w ­ ill swear at me and leave.” Several interviewees also distinguished between solicitations made during the day and

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t­hose made at night, and suspected ­people who called ­after dark of bad motives. Upon hearing this scenario, Emaline immediately exclaimed, “If it is night, then I am not opening the door! I would call the police instead.” Titus said, “If someone comes at night, he’s prob­ably a rogue,” and a discussion of duplicitous peddlers and recent village thefts and robberies followed. Village reactions to this scenario revealed a ­great deal about the proper and improper ways to solicit money in Naeaegama. For example, Ramani said, “A person came ­here begging for contributions to give an aTapirikara [an expensive and symbolically impor­tant collection of eight items necessary for a monk] for his m ­ other’s three-­month almsgiving. I thought he was big and strong and asked him why he was begging instead of earning money. That sort of person is a con man. Maybe he just wanted to smoke ganja.” When Siri jokingly asked what she would do if he asked for a similar contribution, Ramani said that it would be bad for his reputation in the village to try. This case suggests that blood relatives, especially sons, should pay for the t­ hings that their elders need (food, ritual observances) without recourse to community donations. Villa­gers ­were willing to give donations to old folks’ homes, but even ­those solicitors needed to approach with the right spirit. For example, Indrani reported, “Recently someone came to ask for money for an old folks’ home. I asked her if she got a salary for collecting money. She said she did. So I d­ idn’t give anything, ­because I felt that the person should instead have a real feeling for the old folks’ home rather than just getting a salary to collect money.” In village opinion, able-­bodied kin and hired canvassers made poor solicitors. To minimize the possibility of contributions g­oing astray, a number of interviewees preferred to give in kind rather than in cash. For example, Darshini mentioned giving a package of Nestomalt (a powder for making a sweet, hot drink) to a solicitor, and Virasena said that instead of giving money, he would give food monthly to an institution. Similarly, Shiromali thought it was better to cook a meal when giving a daana; dry goods and cash contributions could more easily go astray. On this topic, her husband, Indika, told the following story: “While I was peeling cinnamon in [a nearby area], someone came to the landowner’s h ­ ouse. He said he was gathering money for beds for an old folks’ home. The lady of the ­house said, ‘Okay, I’ll give two beds, but I’m giving the beds themselves, not money.’ That person never came back for the beds! That means that he would have stolen the money.” Less fungible than money, cooked food and furniture seemed more likely to reach their intended destination. Collectively, ­these comments suggest that ­people in Naeaegama willingly supported local ­temples and old folks’ homes with donations of food, buildings, and other tangible goods, but most ­people hesitated to contribute money to more distant c­ auses, particularly if they did not know the institution or trust the solicitor. Community support for monks and elders depended on long-­term, trusting relationships and gifts in kind of practical, material items.

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Institutional Finances and Fund­rais­ing The local old folks’ homes operated u­ nder considerable financial pressure within tight bud­gets. Almsgivings formed a crucial aspect of their operational strategy, without which they likely could not continue. Therefore, they carefully guarded their reputation in the local community. Long-­standing institutions had an easier time of collecting funds than did newly established ones. For example, Telsie regularly contributed to an old folks’ home somewhat distant from Naeaegama; in 2016, a familiar solicitor provided a receipt and chanted pirith (Buddhist blessings) to mark Telsie’s and my donations to this cause. Similarly, in 2009, Janaki noted, “Someone comes regularly from the old folks’ home in Welawatta [near Colombo]. I give contributions to them.” Local reputations and long-­ term relationships increased the ability of organ­izations to raise funds. In the Naeaegama area, every­one had heard of Mahamodera, which was established in 1954. Nivaasaya, established in 2006, initially encountered fund­rais­ing difficulties. As the institution grew more widely known, village families made regular almsgivings at that location part of their regular charitable routines. Without an official and widely publicized list of accredited facilities and a reliable, trustworthy method for making sure funding would reach the intended destination, almsgiving remained a personal act based on established relationships and institutional reputation.

Financial Strategies at the Mahamodera Old Folks’ Home Like other officially registered old age homes, in 2009, Mahamodera received Rs. 10 per resident per day from the government. Although this sum would barely purchase a cup of plain tea, the support did help the institution make ends meet. Mahamodera also had a private endowment, which they had used as collateral for a building loan. (Plans for the new building had been halted, however, due to the Indian Ocean tsunami of 2004, which inundated the property.) Interest from the endowment provided some income. Mahamodera also accepted donations from private companies and from other charities, such as HelpAge International, which had facilitated cataract operations for needy residents. In addition to receiving donations of money, furniture, and eye lenses, the fa­cil­i­ty benefited from community ­labor such as community ser­vice assignments given to defendants in court. The institution’s se­nior director remarked, “Even if they have done some fault to the community in the past, the community ser­vice ­people are all very good ­here with the residents. All of them do the work well when they come. We set them to work cleaning inside and outside. This is a g­ reat saving for us; other­wise, we would have to pay someone Rs. 500 a day to do this work. The court sends us both men and w ­ omen. One w ­ oman

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who is cooking h ­ ere now first came through community ser­vice! We liked her work and de­cided to hire her b­ ecause she cooks so well.” The court sent workers depending on the fa­cil­i­ty’s needs: “If we have a big occasion coming up, w ­ e’ll ask for more workers.” A second source of ­labor came from schoolchildren who volunteered during the Vesak holiday season and during Elders Week (vaeDi hiTi satiya). The ju­nior director explained, “The school classes come, and the ­children bathe the residents, cut their nails, and wash the mosquito nets. And they sing songs and talk with the elders. It is a big help.” A local schoolteacher similarly mentioned taking students to an old folks’ home to see the elders, suggesting that the experience would encourage ­children to look ­after their parents at home. Helping the el­derly residents served as both a punishment for delinquent adults and a learning experience for schoolchildren. The majority of donations for old folks’ homes, however, came in the form of food given as alms by community members from the local area. The directors wished above all t­hings to preserve this form of donation. The se­nior director speculated, “If we took paying residents, we would not be able to get daanas.” The ju­nior director added, “­There are p­ eople who say that they w ­ ill give their pensions to this place and ask if they can stay ­here. We say ‘No.’ If we let them come, they could complain about t­ hings. And we ­wouldn’t be able to receive almsgivings. Then it would be hard to manage.” In this case, the institution’s charitable profile and the residents’ evident poverty formed key aspects of the financial strategy.

Financial Strategies at the Nivaasaya Old Folks’ Home Nivaasaya opened in 2006 in an old home that h ­ oused fifteen residents. When I asked the staff how much money they needed to run the institution for a month, the director said, “That’s hard to say. It depends on who’s sick and how many daanas we get.” They received contributions of money and food from the community. In addition, a local doctor came once a month to check on the residents. (The staff also took residents to the doctor when needed.) When I asked w ­ hether ­people w ­ ere suspicious when the staff canvassed for financial contributions, the director replied, “Yes! Some p­ eople w ­ ere, especially at the start. Now they know the place is h ­ ere, so they are less suspicious. We give receipts for every­thing.” She mentioned that she asked ­people from other old age homes not to fundraise in this area. Discussing significant almsgivings in the recent past, the director mentioned, “Students from a local high school gave morning tea, lunch, and after­ noon tea to the residents. And on Police Day, the Officer in Charge at the local police station gave a daana. We had a big cele­bration in honor of a major donor back in 2006. And t­ here was also a crowd of p­ eople h ­ ere for the opening ceremony for the new bathrooms that ­were constructed in 2007. A foreign doctor from Austria helped with the construction. ­Those ­people also gave a

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refrigerator and a tele­vi­sion. In addition, a group from Brussels contributed money for a three-­wheeler.” The staff brought out a photo a­ lbum as they narrated the significant charitable events. In subsequent visits in ­later years, staff caught me up on additional donations, including putting on a new roof, extending the porch, adding a new dining room at the back, and building a wall to keep residents from wandering away. In addition, a foreign benefactor helped secure the deed to the property when relatives of the original owner sought to displace the old folks’ home from the building. In 2017, the staff let me know that their main foreign donor had divorced, remarried, miscarried, and been unable to continue her interaction with the institution with her usual energy and enthusiasm. They seemed moderately confident, however, that they could continue to run with the support of other foreign donors and local business ­owners (who funded larger needs) and area families and institutions (who provided daanas and supported smaller proj­ects).

For-­Pay Old Folks’ Homes The Mahamodera and Nivaasaya facilities both depended largely on community almsgiving and received small subsidies from the government. Neither place accepted paying residents, a policy that the leadership at Mahamodera explic­itly ­adopted to preserve their image as a charity. In contrast, in Ambalangoda, a fa­cil­i­ty, opened in 1989, h ­ oused both paying and nonpaying residents. When Siri, his brother-­in-­law, and I visited in 2009, on the paying side of the institution, only three of the five rooms ­were occupied; the nonpaying side was full with fifteen residents. At that time, Nivaasaya and Mahamodera had waiting lists. At first glance, one might conclude that for-­pay institutions lacked potential clients. I suspect, however, that other ­factors intervened in this instance; pos­si­ble reasons for low occupancy included a large, wet, moldy patch on the wall of one of the unrented rooms and an ongoing noisy and messy construction proj­ect in the compound. The construction proj­ect, designed to create an additional twelve for-­pay rooms, suggested that the management saw ­future demand for this ser­vice. One of the w ­ omen who lived in a paying room had given her ­house and property to the old folks’ home in exchange for the promise of care throughout the rest of her life. The institution sold the property, and with that money and some other aid, they w ­ ere constructing a new building for paying residents. Siri and I met the resident who had donated her property to the old folks’ home. We found her engaged in a textile proj­ect with several w ­ omen from the nonpaying side of the fa­cil­i­ty. The donor told us that although she had a room in the other half of the complex, the only in­ter­est­ing t­ hings happened on the nonpaying side. All residents ate daanas donated by the local community, and a blackboard announced the names of the week’s donors. Separating the

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dif­fer­ent classes of occupants, paying and nonpaying residents usually ate on their own sides of the building, foreshadowing pos­si­ble rifts and class hierarchies once construction finished on the new building and additional paying occupants moved in. Ambalangoda old folks’ home was not the only one to accept paying residents. I heard several times during my research about a highly respectable fa­cil­i­ty affiliated with a large Buddhist ­temple in Kalutara, which offered for-­ pay housing for civil servants who had pensions. In contrast to the stigma of poverty associated with most old folks’ homes in Sri Lanka, this fa­cil­i­ty projected a strongly middle-­class image, although interestingly, its location continued the symbolic tie between religious institutions and old folks’ homes. I was able to visit the Ambalangoda old folks’ home only once, and I never managed to go to the institution in Kalutara. I hope in ­future research to explore for-­pay operations in more detail. I suspect that demand for such ser­ vices ­will likely grow in Sri Lanka. In par­tic­u­lar, facilities that do not charge cannot attract residents from the m ­ iddle class without exposing t­ hose residents to stigma and shame. As more middle-­class elders need care that their families cannot provide, more institutions w ­ ill cater to their needs. For example, I found out in 2017 that Telsie’s recently widowed ­sister and two of her sisters-­in-­ law had lived temporarily in a for-­pay old folks’ home in the Colombo area before moving in with ­family members. For-­pay care institutions represent a small but growing option for the aging m ­ iddle class in Sri Lanka.

Conclusion This chapter has examined both the ideological basis and the practical operations of charitable institutions that provide elder care in southwestern Sri Lanka. Through the scenario of the doctor’s f­ ather, I first explored acceptable and unacceptable forms of elder care. Given that elders expect to age at home with their ju­nior kin, they can understandably experience a g­ reat deal of social suffering when they lose their in­de­pen­dence, their financial assets (if they had any), and their sense of identity when parted from kin and ancestral property. Although of generally good quality, care in non-­fee-­paying old folks’ homes carries a significant social stigma; f­ amily members strive if pos­si­ble to keep an elder at home instead of sending him or her to such a fa­cil­i­ty. Second, I examined the strong conceptual correlations between deserving poor elders and Buddhist monks. I looked at the similarities between how the community of Naeaegama supports monks at the local t­ emple and how community members’ charitable donations support local old folks’ homes. Almsgivings can include daily gifts of food and other items of consumption (such as soap, sheets, and clothing) or larger donations (such as gifts of property and

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buildings). By giving alms to Buddhist ­temples and to old folks’ homes, donors earn merit (pin) for themselves and for their deceased relatives. Third, this chapter investigated the financial statuses of residents in two area old folks’ homes, as well as the operational practices of ­these institutions. Interview data reveal that even elders who have kin and control some financial assets lose t­ hose attachments as they live in nonpaying facilities; in turn, their perceived poverty and abandonment reinforce the institutions’ fund­rais­ing practices. Through scenario data, I examine the logistical difficulty that institutions face in raising cash donations and trace the roots of why villa­gers prefer instead to give donations in kind (food and other material support). The World Bank report (2008, iii–iv) suggests that Sri Lanka needs to take steps to shore up its traditional support system for the el­derly and develop community care ser­vices. The ethnographic data suggest, however, that the Buddhist tradition of almsgiving is firmly rooted and unlikely to go away. This decentralized, locally driven charitable practice redistributes wealth from ­those who have enough to t­hose in need more directly and completely than governmental interventions such as the small amount of social welfare distributed to the poor from the Divisional Secretariat. (Providing national financial support for elders in the form of a universal pension would also help. HelpAge International (2008) is working on this proj­ect, but so far unsuccessfully.) Despite the stigma of living in an old folks’ home, most residents appreciated the food, care, and shelter they received. The institutions, however, could not pay for their residents’ care without the generous contributions of community members. The system of nonpaying old folks’ homes has several drawbacks. First, it reaches only t­ hose elders who have no functional network of kin and few financial resources to support themselves. ­These sorts of facilities do not, and for ideological reasons cannot, accept paying customers. Also, in the Naeaegama area, demand seemed to exceed availability of space in the local old folks’ homes, all of which had waitlists. It takes a while for new old folks’ homes to get established and develop a favorable reputation. During that initial period, they have difficulty soliciting funds and getting ­people to give daanas. Speeding up this pro­cess by publicizing the official status of a new institution would aid a new old folks’ home in its fund­rais­ing efforts. But the establishment of new institutions runs the risk of overtaxing the charitable capacity of the host community. ­Future research should address the demand for ­free shelter, the capacity of the community to support needy elders residing in such old age homes, and the possibility of creating additional for-­pay institutions for the m ­ iddle class.

8

Rebirth Buddhism, Almsgivings, and the Transmigration of Souls One warm after­noon in July 2015, Siri and I walked over to Lalith’s h ­ ouse and found him visiting with Sini-­Mahattaya, a neighbor a bit older than Lalith. Joking and laughing on the shady porch, Siri and the men, all grand­fathers, held a freewheeling conversation about the topic I proposed: aging. Lalith, a g­ iant of a man by village standards, said, “I used to be very strong.” He curled his left bicep and continued, “When I made a muscle, the bulge was so big!” With his right hand, he traced an arch t­oward the ceiling over his upper arm. “Now my arm is flat when I flex,” he said, with another humorously exaggerated gesture. “And now I have a belly, and I walk a ­little bit stooped over rather than straight.” Lalith then listed the stages of life: “First you are a kid, then a teenager, and then you get married. In ­those stages you are young (taruna). Then once ­you’re married and have kids and do a job, from then ­until 50 you are ­middle aged (taelaestaeaeni). A ­ fter that y­ ou’re old (naaki), which is us,” he said with a gesture t­ oward his friends. “Old men,” he emphasized in En­glish. “Then you die.” The whirlwind tour through the life course, terminating with such an abrupt end, set us all to laughing. More soberly, Lalith spoke briefly about taking care of the funeral rites for an unmarried u­ ncle, in exchange for inheriting that ­uncle’s share of the ­family property next door.

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Consideration of death and rituals brought up the topic of religion. Lalith said, “Muslims and Christians believe that p­ eople get one life and then go to heaven or hell. Buddhists believe in reincarnation. Now I ask you, if God made man in his own image, why do we have cripples? How do you explain that? In Buddhism, we explain t­hose situations as the effects of actions (kamma) and demerit (pavu, sin) from past lives. And what we do in this life ­will affect ­future rebirths. We could be reborn in hell or in heaven for a time. But often the dead are reborn in our world, to live as h ­ umans or animals.” Lalith spoke fondly about the f­ amily cat. “Other p­ eople feed it, but it w ­ ill wait patiently to get food from me.” Half joking, he said, “It is prob­ably a dead relative come back to live with us, so I treat it well.” Connecting the topic of reincarnation with the prior rundown of the life course, I said, “­People die and are born again.” “But not in this body with arthritis,” Lalith replied. “You get to be young again, but you ­don’t remember your past birth,” Sini-­ Mahattaya added. Lalith concluded, “Life is suffering (dukkha)! But you c­ an’t think about that all the time. Just live well!” In this chapter, I examine how ­people in Naeaegama talk about action, sin, and death; how they mark the end of life with ceremony and ritual; and how they continue to care for deceased relatives with gifts of merit to ensure them a good rebirth.

Buddhist Religious Beliefs and Practices ­ eople in Naeaegama think about death and rebirth in the context of TheraP vada Buddhist philosophy. In chapter 1, I presented the basic ideas of impermanence (anicca) and suffering (dukkha). ­Here I delve more deeply into how, in the context of caregiving and intergenerational f­ amily obligations, p­ eople in Naeaegama think about suffering, illness, death, and funerals. Picking up on the discussion of almsgiving begun in the prior chapter, which examined monks and the deserving poor as recipients of food and other material gifts, ­here I think about the recently deceased as recipients of the spiritual merit (pin) generated from the charitable act of giving alms (daana). The spiritual and ritual beliefs and practices described below cover end-­of-­life care and care that extends beyond death into the foreseeable ­future.

Mahanama Thero on Key Buddhist Princi­ples In 2015, Mahanama Thero, the chief monk at the local ­temple, talked with me and Siri about Buddhist beliefs about past and pre­sent actions (kamma; karma in Sanskrit and common En­glish usage), demerit (pavu, or sin), and merit

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(pin). He told me, “Even the Buddha died. No one is immortal. That is the state of the world. You are born, you are a youngster, you get older, you get ill, you die, and you are reborn. This is samsara [the cycle of continuity; see Rahula 1959, 27]. Every­one gets old and dies.” Mahanama Thero then asked rhetorically, “Why do p­ eople grow old? It is ­because of the three lakshana (which Siri translated as ‘objections’ but ­others translate as characteristics or marks of existence).” Mahanama Thero explained ­these three key princi­ples of Buddhist philosophy. First is the idea of impermanence or flux (anicca): all ­things change. The second is the idea that life is full of suffering and imperfection (dukkha). The third is the idea of the impermanence of the self (anatta); instead of conceptualizing an unchanging “soul,” Buddhist philosophy sees the person as an ever-­changing, continuing aggregate of ­matter, sensations, perceptions, m ­ ental formations, and consciousness (Rahula 1959, 20–23). This continuous “self” changes moment to moment throughout life, and at the time of death, some parts of it move forward into a new birth, although clearly ­matter (the body) and memory do not. How should one achieve a good rebirth? By engaging in ethical be­hav­ior (siila), practicing mindfulness (samadhi), and cultivating wisdom (panna).

Local ­People’s Practice of Buddhism Within the philosophical framework discussed above, laypeople in Naeaegama study Buddhist teachings, practice ethical be­hav­ior, support the monks in their ­temple, and provide end-­of-­life and after-­death care for relatives. ­These lay practices overlap in complex and intricate ways. Speaking with Telsie’s good friend Nilani about Nilani’s mother-­in-­law, I asked, “Who took care of her when she was old?” Nilani said, “She was fine. She died at age 84, and u­ ntil she was 82, she was able to do all her own work. I pulled ­water from the well for her bath, but she gave her laundry to her ­daughters to do. I took care of the food.” Nilani described life in a h ­ ouse that Telsie thought of enviously as the quin­tes­sen­tial ancestral home (maha gedera) and I see as a textbook example of virilocal ultimogeniture, in which Nilani as an in-­marrying daughter-­in-­law took care of her mother-­in-­law and father-­in-­ law ­after she wed their youn­gest son. ­Every time I have visited her h ­ ouse, Nilani has unlocked the small room off the front porch, which is set up as a Buddha shrine. Telsie greatly admired this fa­cil­i­ty. That day, Nilani said, “We used to have the shrine in my mother-­in-­ law’s room, but when she lost continence, we moved the shrine to this room.” Many families set up small worshiping areas in their homes, with pictures or statues of the Buddha to which a member of the ­family would offer fresh ­water and flowers and quietly chant verses and burn a small oil lamp at least once and often twice a day. Not all ­family members participated. Busy or

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FIG. 5.  ​A living room shrine.

­ ouse­bound devotees often substituted such home worship for a trip to the h local ­temple. In addition to venerating the Buddha, laypeople (especially older ­women) often listen to Buddhist sermons (bunna) and blessing verses (pirith). Speaking fondly of her 3-­year-­old grand­daughter, Nilani said, “That chatterbox tells me not to talk and ‘locks’ my mouth with her fin­gers. She has a bike and some teddy bears and dolls. She lines them up on the porch. They are all named, and she talks with them. The only time she’s quiet is when we ask our ­little ‘Chaos Flower’ to let us listen to the tele­vi­sion for Buddhist sermons (bunna) or a teledrama.” Other older village w ­ omen, such as Lalith’s wife, Janaki, also listen regularly to pirith and bunna. In 2016, Janaki, whose mobility had been drastically reduced by rheumatoid arthritis in her right foot, lamented her inability to attend ­temple functions as frequently as she used to. “But ­there’s a channel on TV that gives bunna all day long! I listen to it while d­ oing ­house­work,” she said. In addition, the local ­temple in Naeaegama for many years broadcasted on their loudspeaker an hour of pirith verses starting at 5:00 a.m.; villa­gers used this ser­vice as an alarm clock. In short, p­ eople had ample opportunities to listen to pirith and bunna, even if they did not regularly go to the t­ emple.

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Telsie’s Booklet of Buddhist Sayings In our h ­ ouse­hold, Telsie held the most knowledge about Buddhism. She knew many pirith verses by heart, and she listened to bunna preaching on the tele­vi­ sion. When she could, she attended a Saturday meditation class, at which bunna books ­were sold for reasonable rates (and given for ­free to ­people who could not afford them). In addition, at vari­ous t­ emple ceremonies, in the 2010s, it had become standard practice for a sponsor of the ceremony to distribute a booklet with religious teachings and sayings. Telsie brought ­these books home and read them, and her friends often brought her similar lit­er­a­ture. One hot after­noon in 2017, Siri, Telsie, and I w ­ ere sitting on the front porch, waiting for their son, Sujeewa, to arrive. We de­cided to use the time to talk about some sayings in a booklet that Telsie thought would apply to my research on aging. Telsie read out the first one. I speak ser­viceable Sinhala, but I could not understand the verse; perhaps it was in Pali (an ancient language related to both Sanskrit and Sinhala, in which Theravada Buddhist texts are often written). “I ­will definitely die. I ­will be reborn,” Siri translated. Then he refused to translate anymore. I think Siri might have suspected that Telsie and I had deliberately set him up to translate Buddhist teachings that applied to certain issues that we ­were dealing with in the ­house­hold at that time (e.g., some heavy drinking). Also, dense, poetic material and complex religious concepts are not easy to translate, particularly if a neighbor has borrowed the dictionary. Telsie handed the book to Siri and then left the porch briefly. Siri grumpily tossed the book on her chair. Telsie returned and chose another phrase from the book. Siri proposed that he translate the book slowly, on his own, but Telsie wanted to approach it piecemeal, focusing on particularly apt sayings. She read another verse. Reluctantly, Siri agreed to try to translate. “If you are a good person, if you have become rich and power­ful and educated, it is b­ ecause of the merit that you earned in an e­ arlier birth,” he paraphrased for me in conversational Sinhala. Telsie nodded emphatically. She had recently used this type of logic when explaining why many members of her f­amily had been able to immigrate to Australia while she was still stuck in Naeaegama. Telsie then chose a phrase that Siri said he could not translate; this one was apparently about ­mothers’ milk, tears, love, and blood. Several more phrases about honoring one’s parents followed, perhaps reflecting thoughts Telsie had about her son’s much-­ anticipated and often-­delayed visit. I asked if any of the phrases dealt with reincarnation. Siri said, “Usually ­people become gods or dogs, not h ­ umans again u­ nless ­they’ve earned a lot of merit (pin).” Telsie reminded me of the Five Precepts: “­Don’t kill, ­don’t steal, ­don’t be unchaste, ­don’t lie, and ­don’t take intoxicants.” The Five Precepts

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(akin to the Ten Commandments in Chris­tian­ity) form the core of ethical lay Buddhist be­hav­ior (siila, virtue or morality). Then she noted, “If you observe ­these Five Precepts (pansil), your next birth ­will be good.” Many local meetings and e­ very school day started with the chanting of the Five Precepts, and thus no one could claim not to know the code. Returning to the booklet, Telsie read several phrases about the types of illnesses that ­people could get. Siri and Telsie then paraphrased the points in conversational Sinhala, and I gathered the following: “­People can sense through their eyes, nose, ears, tongue, brain, and body. If you have satisfied your senses in inappropriate ways, you ­will get sick in ­those same ways. If you use your brain too much, you ­will go mad. If you satisfy your tongue too much, you w ­ ill get sick to your stomach.” Telsie continued through the other senses. I asked if ordinary ­people actually believed ­these points. Telsie confirmed that they did and suggested that Siri’s smoking and drinking connected directly to the illnesses he was suffering. She added, “­People who eat too much meat and fish get par­tic­u­lar body illnesses.” (I believe she referred with this statement to the lifestyle diseases that come from eating diets rich in fat, sugars, and salts; eating meat and fish are prohibited in Buddhist teaching, although many ­people in Sri Lanka do it anyway.) Siri agreed, saying, “If you smoke too much, you get mouth cancer,” something that had happened several years prior to a local man but ­wasn’t the smoking-­related illness that Siri himself suffered from. Telsie continued, “All p­ eople w ­ ill die. The ones who have done bad t­ hings ­will suffer.” I heard this concept repeatedly during my research on aging. For example, during an interview in 2015 with Dayawansa and his wife, Sheila, Sheila said, “Dayawansa’s stroke was a result of the pin and pavu that he has done in his prior lives.” Similarly, Mahanama Thero told me that year that the amount of suffering that someone experiences depends on his or her past actions (kamma): “Some ­people suffer for years, confined to bed. Other ­people fall over suddenly, dead in their tracks.” Mahanama Thero assured me, “You ­can’t hide from bad deeds.” Bad kamma led to extra suffering. The meritorious or sinful nature of past actions directly affected current adversity and f­ uture rebirths.

Karma: Pin and Pavu I found common local concepts of merit (pin) contradictory and complex. On the one hand, individual actions and decisions ­were said to lead directly to good and bad consequences. This “individual ledger” discourse dominated discussions of illness and fortune. On the other hand, almsgivings (a cornerstone of commemorative ritual) ­were arranged to give merit to the deceased. This “top up the account” discourse ­shaped the care that families offered relatives a­ fter their deaths. Was merit solely earned by an individual, or could

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o­ thers make donations? In early August 2015, I talked this question over with Telsie and her friend Greta-­miss as we sat around chatting at a local wedding. The two ­women had taught together for many years at the local school, and the ­daughter of a third teacher was getting married that day. Telsie and Greta agreed that ­after death, ­people w ­ ere reborn relatively quickly. The most efficacious gifts of pin w ­ ere from the first year’s almsgivings (performed seven days, one month, three months, and one year ­after the death). “­A fter that,” Greta said, “One is mostly just giving a daana in memory of someone. But that person is prob­ably already reborn.” Thinking aloud, Telsie smiled and said, “Maybe ­people from my past life are still alive and giving me merit, though I d­ on’t know it.” P ­ eople rarely thought about themselves as the recipients of this sort of gift, even though they focused often on giving merit to ­others. Greta and Telsie then talked about cases in which gifts of merit might help deceased relatives. They said that some types of beings can accept pin from ­others, and some cannot. Greta said, “Some types of ghosts get stuck; they cannot generate their own merit and therefore need such gifts in order to be reborn.” Another villa­ger told me something similar; she said, “Sometimes if ­people have done bad ­things, they are reborn in hell or circle around as creatures or dev­ils without a h ­ uman rebirth. U ­ ntil they finish their pavu (suffer through the effects of their demerit), they are like this.” Extra merit can help in such cases. ­There are also cases in which ­people have done t­ hings so awful that their pavu w ­ ill never dis­appear. Telsie and Greta listed such sinful acts: killing one’s ­mother, one’s f­ ather, or a Bodhisattva (preincarnation of a Buddha); “shaking the blood” of the Buddha (which seemed to mean angering or scaring him); and causing fights within the order of monks (sangha). “­A fter d­ oing ­those actions, it ­doesn’t m ­ atter how much pin someone gives; you ­will have permanently bad rebirths,” Greta said. On the balance, however, some deceased relatives might benefit from receiving merit. In addition, giving alms aided the giver as well as the recipient of merit. Telsie and Greta felt that giving daanas in honor of the dead created a win-­win situation. I wondered ­whether ­people could transfer demerit in the same way they transferred merit. I asked about this idea through two related questions. The first concerned ­whether cursing someone was the same as transferring demerit. Telsie and Greta thought (as did other villa­gers) that a curse ­will only “stick” if the cursed person had done a bad t­ hing. “Innocent p­ eople a­ ren’t affected by curses,” Telsie said. “What about if a parent has done something wrong; ­will his or her c­ hildren also receive a bad effect?” I asked this second question ­because some years ago, I had heard that a local moneylender’s son died of cancer. P ­ eople said that borrowers had cursed his ­father for charging high interest, and the son got sick from living on his f­ ather’s ill-­gotten gains. Greta said, “If someone lends at a reasonable rate, then it’s okay. It’s only if you

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charge high or ‘burning’ interest that the borrower gets resentful and angry. That’s what creates the curse.” (When I asked a young local monk ­whether a child would receive a bad effect from a parent’s action, the monk suggested that a child who did not know what was ­going on would be unharmed, but one who understood and condoned the situation could share in the bad effects.) Greta and Telsie concluded that merit and demerit stem from what ­people think and feel. ­People who knowingly and deliberately do unethical ­things earn demerit and receive the bad effects of curses. In contrast, deliberate ethical be­hav­ior generates merit for oneself and can in some cases benefit deceased relatives as well.

­Dying as Something One Has to Do At the end of July 2015, Telsie, Siri, and I went down to Boosa (near Galle) to visit Siri’s aging aunt, Chandrawathie, and her husband, Ratnasiri. I took some photos. Discussing the images at home that eve­ning, Telsie noted that ­people’s age showed in their pictures. Jokingly, I said, “The alternative to getting old is ­dying.” Telsie replied seriously, “If you ­don’t age, you ­can’t die.” Her statement turned the issue around; if you get old, you can do something you have to do, which is die. About a week ­later, Siri’s cousin, Helga, passed away. A ­family favorite (and one of my mom’s research assistants during her fieldwork in Sri Lanka in the late 1960s), Helga was in her early eighties at the time she died. She had lived near Colombo with her older s­ ister and her s­ ister’s two unmarried d­ aughters. Upon hearing the news of the death, our entire h ­ ouse­hold went completely quiet. Fi­nally, Siri broke the long silence by saying that Helga was the one who taught him his first words of En­glish. Wasantha, Siri’s cousin who lived next door, had tears in his eyes. He called Helga a very good person and said that he and his wife would definitely go to the funeral. Telsie sadly remembered that Helga and her s­ister never helped the village ­temple; “They d­ idn’t stay connected in that way.” I was grateful that Siri and I had gone to visit Helga and her f­ amily three weeks e­ arlier while in Colombo for an almsgiving for one of Telsie’s relatives. The following morning, Siri and Telsie ­were busy with a variety of tasks, including getting the food containers from the ­temple in order to transport their monthly breakfast daana for the monk and ­temple workers. From the kitchen, Telsie called Siri to come help, and as he came by me typing at the dining ­table, he grumbled loudly, “I ­don’t know why some days I ­don’t just die like Helga did.” “­Don’t be afraid; you ­will (indeed) die!” Telsie replied tartly from the other room. Instead of assuring him he would be fine, she assured him that he was ­going to die. Both Siri and I laughed at the truth of the unexpected comment.

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Remembering: Care and Food ­People express care for each other through food, and they often remember someone’s last days in terms of what they ate and drank. ­Women, who cook and serve the vast majority of food in Naeaegama, particularly remember ­these details and repeat them often, perhaps as a way to emphasize the attention they gave to their care duties. Siri’s f­ ather, Martin, passed away in 2009. In 2015, six years ­later, Telsie told me about the days leading up to Martin’s death at the age of 97. Telsie said, “He last came to the easy chair on the porch on January 14, 2009. I had to go to a meeting at the school, and he said he would look ­after the ­house ­until I got home. I brought him a choco­late from the meeting, and he ate it on his way back to his room. That was the last time he came to the front of the h ­ ouse. He died three weeks ­later.” ­A fter a pause, Telsie remembered further, “­Every night, he would call me at 10:00 p.m. and ask what time it was. I would get up and make him some tea. The last two nights before he died, he ­didn’t call me.” Memories of tea and choco­lates permeate her recollection of her father-­in-­ law’s last days. Similarly, several times when Telsie spoke about Sumitha, an el­derly neighbor who had recently passed away from cancer, she recounted this story about food. Telsie said that she and Sumitha had grown close before Sumitha’s death. Telsie said, “Three weeks before Sumitha died, and a week before she went to her ­daughter’s h ­ ouse for final care, I made Sumitha some gruel (kaenda, a healthy green rice-­based drink). Sumitha had no appetite by that point, but she had a few spoons of the kaenda ‘for the closeness.’ ” Sumitha’s gesture touched Telsie deeply, and she expressed and remembered the relationship through the sharing of food. Food also figured in ­family memories of Siri’s cousin Helga. Even though Helga and her s­ister had not lived in the village for several de­cades, many villa­gers went to pay re­spects at the funeral parlor near Colombo. Initially, ­there was some talk of pooling contributions and hiring a bus, but that plan fell through; p­ eople went individually instead. I printed up large copies of digital photo­graphs to give to Helga’s nieces and nephew. At the funeral parlor, Helga’s older s­ ister told us the story of Helga’s death. She said, Helga was never a burden to anyone; instead, she helped every­one all the way to the end. The morning she died, she was making breakfast for my ­daughters. They w ­ ere just about to come to the ­table when Helga came out of the kitchen and sat in a chair. She said “something is happening” and then her head fell to the side. I was sitting near the front of the h ­ ouse waiting for the newspaper. Dilrukshi [the youn­gest ­daughter] called the rest of us, and I told them to get

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Helga to the hospital immediately. They got ­there very quickly—­maybe fifteen minutes. I stayed home; I knew enough to stay out of the way and not hamper the p­ eople who ­were getting t­ hings done. I got a call around 9:00 from Dilrukshi, who was in tears. She said that Helga had died from a hemorrhagic stroke. I told her not to cry but to think good thoughts to help Helga have a good rebirth. That is what my s­ ister would have wanted.

Sitting quietly by her m ­ other, Dilrukshi remembered that when they got home, the breakfast was still laid on the t­ able, just as Helga had left it. If discussions of food and other sorts of care index closeness, lack of care and the denial of the right to give or receive care index a lack of closeness and the cutting of ­family ties. For example, Kanthi, an ­adopted ­daughter, had eloped at the age of 16 with a man of the wrong subcaste, and her adoptive ­family never fully forgave her for this transgression. ­A fter Kanthi’s ­father’s death, her m ­ other moved in with an aunt rather than with Kanthi and her husband. During an interview in 2016, Kanthi recalled fondly that her ­mother gave her money secretly and provided toffees for her three ­children. But her m ­ other’s s­ ister did her best to break the relationship. The most hurtful act was denying Kanthi the right to care for her adoptive ­mother. Kanthi said, “A week before my ­mother’s death, they called priests to chant verses (pirith) for her. I went then, and that night I bathed my m ­ other and combed her hair. She was worried for me; she wanted to know if her ­sister knew I was ­there. I’m glad I went then, ­because when I tried to go a week ­later, when my ­mother was critically ill, they would not let me in. The door was locked. I was crying and crying outside.” Barred from providing physical care for her ­dying ­mother, Kanthi offered alms and dedicating merit to her adoptive parents instead. No one could prevent her from offering a feast in honor of the deceased.

The Benefit of Hearing Pirith at the Moment of Death Although the cosmic accounting of merit and demerit determines the nature of one’s ­future lives, p­ eople in Naeaegama believe that some interventions can affect rebirth positively. The mind-­set of the ­dying person ­matters; thinking calm thoughts, listening to pirith or bunna, and recalling the good deeds one has done can influence a favorable rebirth. Speaking with Mahanama Thero in 2016, I asked him about thoughts at the moment of death. He said, “One needs to recall the good t­ hings that one has done.” I asked what would happen if someone who has done many good ­things nevertheless dies while sad or frightened. Mahanama Thero assured me, “At the last moment, the good deeds ­will come to you.” He often answered questions in this way, obviating problematic paradoxes in a comforting manner to assure the questioner not to worry too much.

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At the Naeaegama ­temple in 2017, a ju­nior priest, Wijedhamma Thero, told me, “If ­people are born rich or smart, it is ­because they have earned merit in past lives. If they have not worshipped, or if they have killed animals, they ­will be reborn poorly. However, even if one has done bad deeds, if they hear bunna at the moment of death, they w ­ ill have a good rebirth.” Wijedhamma Thero then told a story of a frog who was listening to the Buddha’s teaching. A cowherd passed by with a walking stick and accidentally hit and fatally injured the frog. The frog could hear the sound of the Buddha’s preaching, and ­because it died while listening to bunna, it went to heaven. “So even if you have done bad deeds, if you hear bunna when you die, you w ­ ill have a good rebirth,” the monk told me. Local families make e­ very effort to have a priest come to the ­house and say pirith for a ­dying person or (more recently) to play recorded pirith on a cassette player or a smartphone. For example, two ­sisters lived on the road to the junction. I had passed their home e­ very day on my way to get the newspaper for many years, and they ­were friends. In 2015, Siri and I visited so that I could offer my condolences for the deaths several years previously of their ­mother and ­father (aged 80 and 90, respectively). During our conversation, we touched on the topic of rebirth. One s­ ister said, “What’s most impor­tant is what y­ ou’re thinking at your last breath. For example, if you are afraid or angry, then you might be reborn as a python.” She gave as an example a story about a king whose name I did not catch, concluding, “That’s why every­one tells someone who is on his or her last bed not to shout or cry, but instead to say pirith verses or listen to bunna.” She reported that they had been able to play pirith in this way for her ­father as he died. The other ­sister said, “Even someone who has earned a lot of pin ­will still be reborn according to what his or her last thoughts are.” Siri nodded and told me, “King Dutugamunu [a culture hero] died in Anuradhapura. From his win­dow he could see the Ruwanweli Seya [a large Buddhist stupa] that he had built. Building that stupa was a massively good deed, so he got a good rebirth.” The first s­ ister agreed, saying, “If you remember your flaws, you w ­ ill repeat ­those in the next life. It’s better to remember the good t­ hings you have done instead, so that ­those are the thoughts that affect your next life.” Siri added, “­You’re supposed to bring in loved p­ eople and not strangers or enemies.” The best death was to die surrounded by friends and relatives while listening to pirith verses, and families strove to provide this situation for their loved ones. In considering death, p­ eople recall the help they have given ­others and the good deeds that they have done, and they encourage the d­ ying person to do the same. Care and other good actions (kamma) ­will positively influence one’s next life.

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Kumudu’s Funeral Death creates a rupture in a f­ amily’s structure, causing significant social suffering. ­People mark this rite of passage with elaborate ceremonies. Drawing on research in India, Choedup (2018) notes the importance of having knowledgeable f­amily around to or­ga­nize and perform death rituals. Similarly, in Naeaegama, ­family, friends, and neighbors cooperate in the serious game of conducting a multiday wake and funeral (mala gedera, literally “funeral ­house” in Sinhala). The surviving kin decide who to inform of the death and invite to the funeral, and they negotiate who pays for the embalming, coffin, decorations, cremation or burial, and subsequent almsgivings. Barring bad blood and enmity, all village h ­ ouse­holds strive to send a representative to the wake or funeral. Close friends, relatives, and nearby neighbors often visit more than once and contribute l­abor and funds to the effort. The events around wakes, funerals, and almsgiving rituals provide a context in which participants agentively maintain, reaffirm, or change f­amily and community networks in the aftermath of loss. Kumudu’s death on April  13, 2018 (New Year’s Eve day), reverberated throughout Naeaegama, and our ­house­hold gradually learned the details of the accident that killed him. Kumudu fell from a not-­very-­high tree while plucking coconuts for Irangani, his next-­door neighbor. Apparently, Irangani had asked someone to wake him up to come pluck, and he went up the tree even though he was still drunk from consuming New Year’s liquor. While at the top of the tree, Kumudu grabbed a dead coconut frond, and it came off the tree when he put his weight on it. He fell with it from the tree and fatally injured his spine. Telsie and Siri reacted to this news with grimaces and winces, and Telsie reminded me of her long-­standing practice of never sending a drunk man up a tree, no m ­ atter how badly she needed a coconut for cooking. ­People in Naeaegama say that the time of death is “written” at the time of birth, before this life’s pin and pavu accumulate. ­People spoke of this belief most often when discussing sudden and unexpected demises, such as Kumudu’s. I have heard similar comments about young men who died in the army during Sri Lanka’s long civil war (M. Gamburd 2004b). Each individual ­will die on a par­tic­u­lar day; if they w ­ ere not killed falling from a tree or fighting in a ­battle, they would suffer some other accident on that same day at that same time. Perhaps this belief gives courage to ­people who perform dangerous jobs. Kumudu and his wife lived in poverty; plucking coconuts is not a lucrative occupation, and heavy drinking takes a toll on f­amily finances. The c­ ouple had four ­children. One ­daughter had married and left home, but the other three c­ hildren w ­ ere still at home, some of them still g­ oing to school. To support the ­family, their neighbor whose tree Kumudu fell from, Irangani, gave quite a bit of money for the funeral. Other villa­gers and ­family members also

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contributed. Siri, Telsie, and I found out some of the details from Diison, a relative of Kumudu. Diison was peeling cinnamon for Siri and Telsie. He had arranged to take April 13 and 14 off for New Year. He came by early on April 15 to say that he needed further time off to attend to funeral activities. Diison, an energetic, or­ga­nized, trustworthy man in his mid-­fi fties, had recently divorced and was living at Thushari’s ­house. Thushari was Diison’s dead b­ rother’s wife and Kumudu’s older s­ister. Thushari and Kumudu lived on the same ancestral property (maha waththa). As Kumudu’s brother-­in-­law or cross-­cousin in the Dravidian kinship system, and as a near neighbor, Diison felt compelled to help with the funeral work, even though neither he nor Thushari was particularly fond of Kumudu. Diison told us that he had not slept the prior night. (Someone has to stay up with the corpse. Men usually take on this duty, and they often drink and ­gamble through the night.) Much work needed to be done for the funeral; Diison asked Telsie for an advance on his pay, and she gave it. In Naeaegama, p­ eople spend a lot at New Year for gifts, gambling, and liquor; it is difficult to fund a funeral right a­ fter this major holiday. In southwestern Sri Lanka, Buddhists have the deceased person embalmed at a funeral parlor and then bring the body home in a hearse. The corpse, dressed in white, lies in an open casket in the ­family home u­ ntil the funeral, usually three days ­later. The white-­lined casket, supported on a stand at waist height, is often decorated with mauve orchid flowers. A white canopy covers it over head height, and two elephant tusks (now usually plaster replicas) guard ­either side of the casket. Several lamps are situated nearby. In addition to providing the coffin and surrounding decorations, the funeral parlor assists in printing death notices, which f­amily members post on telephone poles and garden walls in public places near their home. The notice includes the deceased’s photo­graph, his or her birth and death dates, well-­wishes for ­future reincarnation, and information about the funeral. The ­family hangs white flags along the road and sometimes constructs a pandol (decorative archway) near the entrance to the property. ­A fter a death, the ­family notifies relatives in person, by phone, and increasingly over social media. During the three-­day period that the body lies in the ­house, friends, neighbors, and relatives ­will come to visit. Every­one wears white. The ­family offers soft drinks to the guests who come during the day and hard liquor to the guests who visit ­after dark. In my experience, ­every ­house­hold in Naeaegama ­will send at least one member at least once to the “funeral ­house” to pay re­spects. The visit to the ­house is the obligatory social aspect of the event, although families are also quite conscious of the size of the crowd that comes to the ­actual funeral. On April 16 around noon, Telsie and I visited Kumudu’s funeral h ­ ouse. We went on a path through Irangani’s backyard, to the far edge of Kumudu’s

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FIG. 6.  ​A deceased f­ amily member lying in state at home.

f­amily property. Th ­ ere we found a group of a dozen men, including Diison, digging a grave. Diison called out to me, telling me that the men w ­ ere making “a last resting place” for Kumudu. The ­family had de­cided to reuse the ­mother’s burial site, and the men had pulled up the cement slab that marked the spot. Several other siblings had also been buried in the same place. Past the gravesite, Telsie and I walked through a crowd of about thirty ­people in the garden and at a neighboring sibling’s ­house and arrived at Kumudu’s home. Kumudu’s body was in a coffin in a small room at the front of the h ­ ouse. Kumudu’s wife occupied one of the four chairs. One of Kumudu’s ­sisters stood by the coffin. She graciously greeted me and Telsie and caught us up on the status of other members of her f­ amily. Kumudu’s wife sat silently except to thank me quietly when I gave her Rs. 1,000. Telsie and I paid our re­spects for about ten minutes, spoke to some of the p­ eople gathered in the yard, and then made our way home. The following morning, I asked Diison what they found when they opened the grave. “Bones,” he said. “We gathered them and put them in a gunny sack.” “Did you find the skull?” Telsie wondered. “It was in fragments,” Diison replied. They planned to put the new coffin into the grave and then put the ­mother’s bone bag in beside it. Diison looked tired. He said he had spent another sleepless night, cooking dinner, sitting with the corpse, and settling a fight between his nephew and several other young men. Hearing t­ hese details

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FIG. 7.  ​A publicly posted death notice.

from Diison gave me new insight into why the men who stay up all night with corpses and dig graves in the heat of the day might request and receive large quantities of alcohol. Kumudu’s f­amily did what local p­ eople call “the funeral work” on the after­noon of April 17. Funerals follow a general pattern, with some variations on the theme. For elaborate funerals, the f­ amily hires drummers to drum and play an oboe-­like horn at the t­emple. As the crowd gathers for the funeral, local politicians may say a few words. Just before the coffin is taken to the crematorium or the cemetery, the drummers escort the local monks to the funeral

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FIG. 8.  ​­Family members offering merit to a deceased relative.

­ ouse to conduct the final rituals. The monks receive liquid refreshment (usuh ally tea or soda) and a length of white cloth from the bereaved ­family. The living give ­these alms to the monks and pass the merit to the deceased. The immediate ­family sits close together on a mat in front of the monks. The monks chant pirith. Then they chant a Pali verse, during which the ­family members pour ­water from a pot into a cup ­until the cup overflows, symbolizing the transfer of a surfeit of merit.

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Thereafter the casket is closed, often with dramatic expressions of grief. If the f­ amily has hired drummers, particularly if the cemetery or crematorium is nearby, strong young ­family members ­will carry the casket on foot in pro­ cession, led by drummers. Young girls or boys (often dressed in white) follow the drummers, throwing flower petals onto the road. The pallbearers walk slowly on cloth (often old saris donated by female ­family members) laid down on the road. Four additional ­people hold the white canopy (which the corpse has rested ­under for the past three days) over the casket. If the cemetery or crematorium is far away, the casket is taken from the h ­ ouse as described above (often without drumming), placed in a hearse, driven to the destination, and continues with similar ceremony up to the grave site or crematorium incinerator. At the grave side or crematory hall, the casket is opened once more, and close ­family members again vocally express their grief. The casket is closed and the coffin lowered into the tomb or placed in the incinerator. Thereafter, ­family members ignite the burner or begin filling in the grave, and the gathered crowd disperses. House­hold members return home to complete a cleansing ritual and make preparations for the first large almsgiving. If the corpse has been cremated, the crematorium gathers the ashes and sprinkles them with ­water blessed with pirith verses. The crematorium often keeps the ashes ­until the ­family has completed the seven-­day daana. Families usually inter the ashes and make a monument to mark the grave, but t­ hose activities do not require elaborate ceremonies and ritual timelines.

Good and Bad Funerals Like all large social events, some funerals work out better than ­others. ­People in Naeaegama evaluate a funeral as “good” if many p­ eople visit the h ­ ouse and if a sizable crowd comes to the funeral itself. (For many years, Siri talked about the necessity of maintaining good social relations in the village by saying, “Someone has to come to my ­father’s funeral.” And indeed, a large crowd did show up for his ­father’s funeral, as it did for his own.) Military funerals are quite spectacular and seem to set the bar. For example, Siri’s nephew, Chutta, died as a recruit in training with the navy, and therefore the navy sent a guard of honor to particulate in the event. Sometimes families w ­ ill choose to hold a funeral in a relation’s home rather than in their own if their own ­house is incomplete, too small, or other­wise inadequate. For example, Diison’s ­brother’s funeral was held at their ­family’s maha gedera (occupied by the youn­gest b­ rother’s ­family) ­because the h ­ ouse that Thushari and Diison’s ­brother had occupied was not completed; it had a roof but no wood doors or win­dows at the time. Thushari’s son, who worked in the army, paid for the event. ­People in Naeaegama evaluate funerals as unsatisfactory if they are held far away. For example, even though Sumitha had lived her entire life in Naeaegama,

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FIG. 9.  ​A funeral pro­cession.

she went a week before her death to her d­ aughter’s home in Matara (about 50 miles south), and her d­ aughter held the funeral t­ here. Villa­gers hired several buses, in which many friends, neighbors, and relatives made the journey south. Even more ­people would have attended if the ceremony had been held (as many felt it should have been) by Sumitha’s son at Sumitha’s own home in Naeaegama. In this case, physical distance indexed a chill in relations between Sumitha and her son and daughter-­in-­law.

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Funerals are also deemed inadequate if they are done too quickly. Many p­ eople in Naeaegama commented unfavorably about Padma’s funeral. Padma, from one of the most established and impor­tant families in the village, passed away at 10:00 p.m. one eve­ning and her c­ hildren held the cremation at 3:00 p.m. the following day. The f­ amily put up no flags, posted no notices, and hired no drummers. Few p­ eople had a chance to visit the corpse at her son’s home. Padma’s ­children insist that their ­mother specifically requested this type of funeral, but many other villa­gers and relatives found the abbreviated ceremony disrespectful. One villa­ger remarked, “They took the corpse to the [village] crematorium, which is only a few hundred yards down from the crossroad ­here. Any poor person would get at least a notice on the light posts!” Helga, Siri’s cousin who had moved to Colombo, said that she found out only at the last moment (and not, she remarked pointedly, from a ­family member). She managed to reach the village before the cremation, although the casket had been closed before she arrived. She felt the ­family should have given more time for neighbors, friends, and relatives to express their re­spect and participate in the ritual. Kanthi, a relative of Padma’s by adoption, was even franker. A year ­after the funeral, she was still upset about it. In 2016, she said, “They kept my adoptive ­father’s body for seven days in g­ reat style. But for my adoptive m ­ other and for my aunt Padma, even though both of them had saved money for their own funerals, [my cousins] did not keep the bodies even three days. They did t­ hose funerals like they would do for Muslims or dogs! They ­didn’t even hire drummers for Padma. That would have been very impor­tant to do. They [Padma’s ­children] are saying that Padma said in her ­will that they should not do ­those ­things, but who has seen that w ­ ill? I d­ on’t believe them.” Kanthi’s concerns went beyond the disrespectful funeral to won­der about the adequacy of ­future almsgivings (necessary, as explained below, to convey merit to the deceased). She asked, “Are they giving the daanas on time? No one knows, ­because no one is invited!” Lack of adequate public rituals in the village community indexed the distance between Padma’s ­children and remaining friends and relatives in Naeaegama and cast doubt on the adequacy of ongoing ­family care for the deceased. Funerals map out social relationships. Who spends money for the event and who attends index social capital and the strength of relationships between kin. When I offered my condolences to a middle-­aged man on the death of his ­mother, he said ruefully, “I c­ ouldn’t be t­ here for the funeral. I was in prison at the time!” His ­sisters took care of the funeral arrangements and expenses. When Janaki’s b­ rother, who lived in Negombo, died, she and another b­ rother quickly spread news through Naeaegama and strategized on how best to ensure that all the rest of their kin w ­ ere informed. Janaki came to Siri’s h ­ ouse and asked Siri to tell his cousin in Negombo about the death. Siri immediately found the phone number and called. News had traveled quickly; the cousin already knew. Siri also called his son, who said he would visit on behalf

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of Siri’s ­family. Janaki confided, “I sent my ­brother to tell some relatives who live near h ­ ere in person; I c­ an’t inform them by phone b­ ecause it would be too informal. They might not be able to get to the funeral ­house, but they ­will want to know. They ­will scold me l­ater if they are not informed now.” News spread quickly through multiple connections, and the flow of information and visitors reaffirmed the social network. Flows of money also map out relationships. Speaking about her f­ ather Amarasinghe’s funeral, Dina noted (perhaps with some surprise) that her m ­ other, estranged for many years from her f­ ather, had provided money for the event. The ­family had been unable to inform one of Amarasinghe’s other ­daughters ­because they did not have her phone number (she was working in Cyprus at the time), and an estranged son who lived in a nearby town did not come or send any money for the funeral. Similarly, Siri noted that his youn­gest b­ rother, somewhat estranged from the ­family and living in Colombo, had come to their nephew’s funeral but had not come to the subsequent daana. Rituals provide occasions for families to gather (or not) and reaffirm (or disavow) ties of kinship and caring.

Giving Merit: Almsgivings Discussing life in southeastern Nepal, Davis (2014, 79) notes that giving alms is the inceptional act of virtue. Giving alms generates merit, a key driving force for samsara. The merit accrues to ­those who give, as well as to ­those in whose honor the gift is given. In chapter 7, I examined the charitable practice of giving alms by looking at the recipients of the material gifts: monks and other men and w ­ omen engaged in religious activities; residents at orphanages, hospitals, and old folks’ homes; and beggars. ­Here I look at the recipients of the spiritual merit (pin) generated from giving daanas. Alms can be offered for multiple reasons. For example, p­ eople sometimes give daanas to commemorate birthdays or significant achievements, or to generate merit for an organ­ization such as a local police station or school. Mostly, however, almsgivings are given to commemorate death anniversaries and to give merit to the deceased. Alms can be given in lasting material form. For example, Chutta’s s­ister said, “Now all I can do is give pin to Chutta so that he gets a good rebirth or gets a better one in the next life if he has gotten a bad spot now.” She and her ­family offered multiple almsgiving for Chutta, some of them infrastructural. For example, they contributed money to the local ­temple to construct around the bo-­tree a concrete ring filled with niches for twenty-­eight statues of past Buddhas. Other community members contributed the smaller statues, and Chutta’s ­family contributed the larger statue at the side of the structure facing the path to the main ­temple.

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FIG. 10.  ​Pots of steaming rice cooked for an almsgiving.

­ ere are two sorts of food almsgivings: ordinary ones and special ones. Th Ordinary food daanas are given twice daily to the ­temple, at breakfast and lunchtime. Local families sign up to provide ­these daanas once a month on a par­tic­u­lar day. Monks do not eat ­after noon, although they ­will drink tea (sometimes with candies) in the after­noon. Lunch almsgivings may be cancelled (or shrunk to include only ­temple workers) if monks have accepted an invitation to attend a special daana away from their t­ emple. Relatives offer large or special food almsgivings for deceased kin on a predictable schedule. They offer the first daana seven days ­after the death, followed by daanas one month, three months, and one year ­after the death. Usually, ­these almsgivings are given to monks, especially in the first year. Thereafter, ­family members may choose to give daanas to old folks’ homes or other locations instead, often on a yearly basis. ­People who have some money and are interested in sponsoring a large, special almsgiving w ­ ill work with a local ­temple to plan an event ­there. For example, p­ eople “observe sil” once a month on the full moon (Poya) day; in addition to following the Five Precepts, on this day, they add several extra ritual restrictions. Usually, they dress in white and spend most of the day at the t­ emple, meditating and listening to bunna sermons. For breakfast, lunch, and tea breaks, they partake of the daana offered by community members.

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In 2015, Mahanama Thero’s ­brother, Dustin, told us about a large daana that he and his ­family had or­ga­nized. At the Vesak holiday in May, they gave the lunch almsgiving to 125 p­ eople who came to Mahanama Thero’s t­ emple to observe sil. Dustin estimated that they fed about 300 p­ eople that day, by the time you count all the monks and the relatives who came. “We cooked completely without meat or fish. To the p­ eople observing sil, we gave food, and dessert, two soap bars, and a book.” He gave us copies of the book and told us where they had gotten it. “­A fter feeding the p­ eople at the t­ emple, we fed our guests ­here at our ­house [a big, beautiful, newly constructed dwelling], putting mats on the floors for them to sit. Every­one said that we did a very good job! [in En­glish:] Best standard.” Daanas like this are public events, and funding one indexes high social status. They provide a good opportunity to show a ­family’s wealth to the entire community and to invite and treat members of the ­family’s social network to a feast. Other Naeaegama residents also offered high-­ status almsgivings. For example, Sumitha and her ­family used to give a yearly daana at the T ­ emple of the Tooth in Kandy, the most impor­tant Buddhist institution on the island. Both Telsie and I had the opportunity, separately, to accompany Sumitha’s ­family on this journey, staying at the pilgrims’ rest at the t­ emple and enjoying the trip to the upcountry. Helga’s f­ amily also gave an almsgiving at the T ­ emple of the Tooth and remember it as a g­ reat accomplishment, speaking of it with pride. Such religiously and socially significant daanas generated social status. To commemorate a death, p­eople in Naeaegama give a special daana, although not often as elaborate as the one that Dustin offered at the local ­temple or Helga and Sumitha offered at the ­Temple of the Tooth. ­These smaller special daanas can be given at the ­temple or at the donor’s own ­house. Especially ­after a death, at least one almsgiving (particularly the three-­month almsgiving) should be done at the h ­ ouse in which the deceased lived at the time of death. Death-­commemorative almsgivings do not have to be large. Wijedhamma Thero said, “­There is no rule about how many daanas to give, or how often, or how many monks to invite; ­people do it as they can. Giving alms to the ­temple is cheaper than bringing the priests to the ­house. And ­people w ­ ill gauge how many monks they can fit into their space.” He assured me, “All of the priests get a benefit from the daana, even if only a few actually eat it. And p­ eople get the same amount of merit from spending a lot of money for a huge daana as they get for taking a small bit of lowly food to the ­temple. The pin is not from money but from their own hearts and plea­sure.” Although size does not officially m ­ atter, families do strive to give the largest ceremony they can afford and may go into debt to accomplish this major proj­ect. ­Family members ask the local monk to bring a par­tic­u­lar number of monks for a daana at their ­houses. “How, practically speaking, do you get enough priests?” I asked Wijedhamma Thero. “We invite monks from other ­temples if

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t­ here are not enough at our t­ emple. It used to be easy to get priests, but now Buddhism has declined and t­here are fewer monks, so it is harder to find ­people for almsgivings. Th ­ ere are now about 20,000 monks in Sri Lanka. ­There used to be more than 100,000 of them!” he said. Perhaps the decline in monks correlates to an increase in daanas offered to old folks’ homes and other deserving institutions.

Anatomy of an Almsgiving Although ­every almsgiving is a bit dif­fer­ent, they all follow a general pattern. Sitting at the dining room ­table with Siri, Telsie, and Telsie’s cousin in 2017, the four of us we went through pictures on my laptop that I had taken in 2015 at a daana that Telsie’s ­sister held for the three-­month anniversary of her husband’s death. My interlocutors explained the structure of the ritual and commented on the par­tic­u­lar event. From that exchange, combined with other experiences of this type of ritual, I constructed this list of activities undertaken at an almsgiving. Once the f­ amily decides on a day for the daana, they go to the local t­ emple to invite the priests to attend. I did not have pictures of that part of the planning pro­cess, but “They come with betel leaves,” Wijedhamma Thero explained to me in a separate interview. Then the ­family makes preparations, which include arranging transportation for the monks and the small shrine of movable relics, hiring drummers (if they choose to include this part of the ritual), purchasing gifts, and preparing food. On the day of the daana, f­amily members arrange their living room to accommodate the invited monks. They often remove all of the furniture and arranging white cloths over chairs or cushions that the monks w ­ ill sit on. They may prepare in advance plates of rice and plates with desserts. A contingent of ­family members w ­ ill take food to the t­ emple to feed the statue of the Buddha in the image h ­ ouse. Both the statue and the ­temple’s reliquary are treated as another (extremely impor­tant) monk; anything that the monks get, the statue and relics also receive as proxies for the Lord Buddha himself—­the most se­nior and impor­tant of all the monks. The monks and the reliquary arrive from the local ­temple. If they come by foot, drummers w ­ ill drum and play the horn at the head of the parade. The same troupe of drummers drums for almsgivings as for funerals but beat dif­fer­ent drum poetry (Sykes 2018) to distinguish the separate activities. In recent years, ­people often arrange transportation by vehicle instead and may leave out the drumming. The reliquary is brought into the h ­ ouse first, carried on a man’s cloth-­covered head and shaded by a gold umbrella. The man places the relics in a high place in the home. (Often the meal for the relics is served ahead of time and placed on the same structure that holds the reliquary.)

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FIG. 11.  ​Bringing the reliquary to a h ­ ouse for an almsgiving.

The monks follow the relics into the ­house, with the most se­nior monk entering first. At the door, they take off their sandals, and a male ­family member washes their feet. Sometimes the head of the h ­ ouse performs this duty; at Telsie’s s­ ister’s daana, a relative’s grand­sons did the task. (If a nun attends a daana, she enters last, and a w ­ oman needs to wash her feet; I washed the feet of the nun whom Telsie invited to Siri’s one-­year almsgiving in 2019.) Once the monks are seated inside, the lay guests spread mats on the floor and sit to chant the Five Precepts (pansil). The eldest monk tells the gathering ­people the deceased’s name and the good deeds that this person has done, for example, that they w ­ ere a supporter of the t­ emple and the other t­ hings they had accomplished in life. He leads the p­ eople in worshipping the Buddha

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(represented by the reliquary). He then preaches a sermon (bunna) or tells a Jataka story (tale of the Buddha’s past lives) that has some relationship to the deceased person’s life. Next, the gathered laypeople distribute food to the monks. If many guests are pre­sent, a subsection (usually close relatives, often female) ­will take on the duty, with a line of p­ eople, each holding a bowl of a dif­fer­ent food, circulating in front of the seated monks. Telsie said, “We give rice first. Th ­ ere are three kinds: fried rice, white rice, and red rice. The monks w ­ ill choose which of the three they want. Then the other food is distributed, with seconds.” Families choose prestigious foods for this feast. Once the monks have finished the main course, the hosts serve a generous se­lection of desserts. Speaking over each other excitedly, my interlocutors listed the many pos­si­ble offerings: bananas; cookies; curd and treacle; flan, puddings, and jellies; and fruit salad and ice cream. The meal concludes with an offering of betel leaves, accompanied by other items (such as lime, araca nuts, and tobacco) that ­people who chew betel (a mild stimulant) like to add to the mix. ­A fter the meal concludes, the laypeople again sit on the floor on mats and the monks offer e­ ither a sermon (bunna) or religious verses (pirith). Siri said, “The monk decides which to do. If an older person has died and it ­wasn’t unexpected, they might chant pirith. If a young person dies or an older one dies suddenly, then the monks might choose to tell bunna to relieve p­ eople’s sadness. They preach something specifically for the par­tic­u­lar person and occasion.” Separately, Wijedhamma Thero told me that bunna at this point in an almsgiving usually emphasizes the benefits of giving alms. Once the bunna or pirith concludes, the f­ amily offers gifts to the reliquary and to the monks. At large daanas, the largest gifts (for example, an aTapirakara package containing the eight essential items that monks need) often circulate to the crowd outside the room where the monks eat and preach so that the gathered p­ eople can touch them. Touching the gift means that one partakes in offering it and shares in the pin generated. At Telsie’s ­sister’s almsgiving, five such large parcels w ­ ere offered. Two years a­ fter the event, Telsie remembered and listed the f­ amily members who had purchased and brought them. ­A fter the ­family distributes the big gifts to the reliquary and the most se­nior monks, they give other, smaller gifts to the other monks. With the gifts of food and material items concluded, the f­amily again spread mats on the floor to perform the water-­pouring ritual (which is also performed at the funeral). The closest relatives sit on a mat and, as the monks chant in Pali, pour ­water from a teapot into a smaller cup ­until the w ­ ater overflows into a supporting bowl. The overflow symbolizes the surplus of merit generated on behalf of the deceased. For Telsie’s brother-­in-­law’s daana, Telsie’s s­ister, nephew, nephew’s wife, and their two c­ hildren held the pot.

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Recalling the event, Telsie remarked that her niece, Rani, who lived in Australia, should have been ­there with her ­family for this impor­tant ritual. “She’s gone for good now,” Telsie said sadly. With the ritual events concluded, a monk helps a man from the f­ amily lift the reliquary onto his cloth-­covered head. He leaves the ­house u­ nder the gold umbrella, and the monks file out ­behind him in order of se­niority. If a f­ amily has hired drummers, the drummers lead the reliquary and the monks back to the local t­ emple, drumming and playing the horn. If the f­ amily has chosen to transport the monks by vehicle, the monks and reliquary depart, with their gifts, in trishaws, cars, or vans. The ­family also sends packages of extra food with the monks for the ­temple workers. Once the monks have departed, ­family members (usually ­women) roll up the mats and fold the white cloths on which the monks have sat. At Telsie’s ­sister’s almsgiving, Telsie’s ­sister came around with a glass of ­water on a saucer; this gesture invited ­people to come through the buffet line set up in an adjoining dwelling. (The ­family had this daana catered ­because their small kitchen could not accommodate adequate food preparation. At most Naeaegama daanas, ­people cook at home, sometimes with the help of a hired cook.) Relatives filed through the buffet, filled plates with food, and found places to sit and eat. ­People visited the buffet in a somewhat hierarchical order (with Siri taking the prestigious role of “opening the ­table” as the first lay guest), then sat and ate together with less formality than at most village meals. Having eaten, the guests depart. As I scrolled through images of this part of the event, Telsie and her cousin discussed who had come to the daana and how they w ­ ere related. Almsgivings are a cornerstone of ritual activity. Giving alms generates merit, which fuels the karmic cycle of reincarnation. Daanas map out the intermarrying lineages of a caste; who comes indexes who belongs in the ­family network. Hosting a daana generates social capital. By offering a feast and feeding relatives, a f­ amily reciprocates past hospitality and obligates kin to invite them for feast in the ­future, thus maintaining and strengthening ­family solidarity. Having the wealth to provide a lavish meal and having the kin to create a crowd index social status. Holding an almsgiving allows a ­family to demonstrate their care for the deceased while affirming social networks among the living.

Rebirth: Reincarnation and the Transmigration of Souls At the crematorium down the road from Siri’s h ­ ouse, the Buddhist phrase painted over the top of the door to the furnace references the doctrine of samsara: that one is born, dies, and gets reborn. In 2015, I asked Telsie how soon ­after death a person gets reborn. She said, “No one ­really knows. Some p­ eople say that reincarnation happens ­after the seventh day. O ­ thers say it’s immediate.

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In bunna, the monks say rebirth is like an inchworm moving along, stretching and then bunching up and then stretching. Something moves forward from step to step, but the footprints are not contiguous. The aggregate that moves forward ­doesn’t remember its past birth, even though it bears with it the effects of past pin and pavu [merit and demerit].” The concepts of merit and rebirth shape the types of care that f­ amily members continue to provide for relatives ­after their deaths. Emphasizing samsara, pin, and the efficacy of giving alms, Mahanama Thero told a story about rebirth from the time of the Buddha. (He told me nearly the same story in 2015 and 2016; I pre­sent the 2016 rendition ­here.) During the Buddha’s lifetime, t­ here was a rich man named Tho-­deyo. When the Buddha would walk past, Tho-­deyo would insult him. The Buddha just went by quietly. When Tho-­deyo died, he was reborn as a puppy to a bitch in his own kitchen. Tho-­deyo’s son was named Suba. Suba ­didn’t know that Tho-­deyo was now a dog. Every­one in the ­house­hold loved the dog. They fed him and bathed him and played with him. He loved them all and jumped up and slept on their beds. When the Buddha passed by, the dog barked and growled at him. The Buddha knew it was Tho-­deyo, and he remarked, “You speak to me as a dog as you spoke to me when you w ­ ere ­human.” Tho-­deyo knew the Buddha recognized him as the dog, and he was embarrassed. He was mentally down. He went to the kitchen and hid by the hearth. He ­wouldn’t jump or play anymore, or sleep on ­people’s beds. Every­one loved the dog, and they ­were concerned for him. Suba was upset by the change, so he did a bit of research to figure out what had happened. He learned that the dog had growled at the Buddha and the Buddha had called it by his f­ ather’s name. The ­people in his ­house thought that Buddha might have cursed the dog. Suba was upset by this story, and he went angrily to talk with the Buddha. He asked, “Why are you calling my dog with my f­ ather’s name?” The Buddha said, “I’m telling the truth. It’s your f­ ather.” Suba said, “That c­ an’t be so!” Buddha said, “I ­will prove it.” Buddha said to Suba, “Your f­ ather had money.” “Yes,” Suba agreed. “Before he died, did he tell you where all of it was hidden?” the Buddha asked. “No,” Suba replied. Nodding, the Buddha said, “If you do what I say, you w ­ ill find the wealth, but you ­will also realize that your ­father is now a dog.” So Suba both wanted and d­ idn’t want to try the experiment. The Buddha told Suba to go home and make [a special meal]. Then he should bathe the dog and feed him the [food]. Then the dog would go to sleep. ­A fter the dog was sound asleep, he should pet the dog ­gently and call him

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“­father” and ask him where the wealth was buried. The Buddha said that the dog would get up and walk around the garden and paw at the places where Tho-­deyo had buried his trea­sure. So Suba went home and did as the Buddha instructed. Sure enough, the dog walked around the garden and pawed at the ground. When Suba dug in t­ hose places, he found trea­sure. ­There ­were millions ­there. Suba went to see the Buddha again. He said, “You w ­ ere right.” He was pleased to have found the money, but he was upset that his f­ ather was an animal. He asked, “Why did my f­ ather become a dog?” Then the Buddha taught. [Maha­ nama Thero named the sermon in question.] He explained to Suba that his ­father had not had good habits as a man; he had not observed the Five Precepts, or given alms, or helped the poor. Then the Buddha explained about kamma. The teaching went like this: some p­ eople are rich, some are poor. Some are beautiful, some are ugly. Some are ill, some are well. Some are educated, some are uneducated. Why does life work like that? It comes from the pin and pavu that you have done in the past. You receive as you have done. If you have killed many creatures, you w ­ ill die at a young age. If you have done good works, you might live a long time. ­A fter this teaching, Suba did many good works to earn merit for his f­ ather.

The story of Suba and Tho-­deyo provides justification for local practices of giving alms to earn merit for dead relatives. What­ever other concerns they might voice about day-­to-­day life, p­ eople in Naeaegama return to concepts from Buddhism to govern their ideas of ultimate real­ity and meaning (Carbine 2000). In 2016, concluding a long discussion of unsatisfactory distribution of f­ amily property, insufficient funerals, and neglectful relatives, Kanthi gathered herself and sighed, “Ah, well. ­After we die, all we take with us is our kamma.” She seemed to remind herself (and Siri and me) that material possessions ­were less impor­tant than good thoughts and deeds. Even though Buddhism discourages attachment to e­ ither t­ hings or p­ eople, villa­gers in Naeaegama drew comfort from the idea that departed relatives might be reincarnated close to their families. In 2015, a pale yellow frog took up residence in the colorful paper lantern that adorned the light fixture in the porch ceiling near the front door. It slept in the lantern during the day and ventured out at dusk. “Perhaps it’s a reincarnated relative come to stay with us for a while,” Siri joked. One eve­ning we saw the frog leave, but the next morning, it had not returned to its usual spot. “A snake might have eaten it!” Telsie worried. The next day the frog returned, to our relief, spurring much joking about how it might have spent the intervening eve­nings. Then it left again for good. We marked its absence and wished it well. Discussions of reincarnation can be lighthearted, as in the case of the frog, or more serious. In 2015, Nilani’s daughter-­in-­law, Shanthini, showed me some

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of their f­amily pictures, including many of Nilani’s recently deceased husband, someone I had known since my childhood. She said, “When my father-­ in-­law was sick at the end of his life, he told me that he would like to be reborn as one of my ­children.” That statement made me weep. Nilani put her hands consolingly on my shoulders. In 2018, Telsie and I went to visit Lalith and his wife, Janaki; b­ ecause by that time, Siri could not walk even a short distance without discomfort, he had stayed home. We chatted a l­ittle bit, and then their third d­ aughter came out with her baby, who we handed from person to person. “He likes to be with ­people and hear the conversation,” said Janaki. “Yes, he loves a crowd,” agreed her ­daughter. “­He’ll be a politician,” Lalith opined. The baby ended up with Lalith, who jiggled and tossed the delighted infant. Janaki said, “It’s Lalith’s job to do that; I d­ on’t have the strength to toss a baby anymore.” Lalith smiled, clearly relishing the familiar role. When he had rocked the baby almost to sleep, he s­topped, then predicted in a quiet voice that the baby would wake up any moment—­which he did. So Lalith jiggled him some more, and he slept. When the baby’s ­mother came, Lalith warned, “He i­ sn’t sleeping deeply enough to stay asleep if you move him,” and indeed the baby woke up when his m ­ other lifted him. Watching his d­ aughter take the sleepy child away, Lalith said affectionately, “This boy must be a reincarnated old man from our ­family.” Care for elders who have died passes seamlessly on to care for the newest members of the ­family. Buddhism teaches ­people to treat all beings with kindness and to focus on what is truly impor­tant: mindful and ethical action. One should care for relatives as guests in one’s life who cannot stay forever. Knowing that ­people have connections and ties that transcend this lifetime takes some of the sting out of parting with loved ones.

9

On Beginnings and Endings

Two deaths have bracketed my work on this book. I began the proj­ect during the summer of 2009, when Siri and I gathered scenario data and visited old folks’ homes in the Naeaegama area. Then my ­mother, Gerry Gamburd, who had moved in with me in Portland, Oregon, in 2008, began to suffer health issues that precluded my being away from home for long periods of time. My ­mother was a brilliant anthropologist who introduced me as a child to the village of Naeaegama and linked my life to t­ hose of my research associate Siri and his f­ amily. “­Children are debtors,” as they say in Naeaegama. I cared for her for six years, and her credit never ran dry. As one small silver lining to the dark clouds of her death in September 2014, I was again f­ ree to travel. I learned a ­great deal from caring for my m ­ other, and her final years provided the “open parentheses” for this research proj­ect. When I returned to Naeaegama in 2015 ­after a hiatus of six years, I found that Siri, my key in­for­mant and local “­uncle,” was suffering from the progressive predations of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, likely induced by years of smoking unfiltered local cigarettes. Siri and I worked around his lung disease as best we could, with our mobility growing more ­limited as his breathing capacity declined. At first he biked slowly to locations while I walked briskly beside him. Then both of us walked and neither of us got very far from home. Fi­nally, I ventured forth on my own while he remained ­house­bound due to severe shortness of breath. In April 2018, when I visited for a month during the Sinhala and Tamil New Year holiday period, my 171

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FIG. 12.  ​Siri having a nebulizer treatment in his easy chair.

“research” consisted of visiting village h ­ ouse­holds on my own and having conversations with old friends rather than conducting formal interviews with a list of questions and an interpreter. Siri set himself up in his room by the porch in a cane easy chair. Within arm’s reach from the chair, he arrayed all the small items that he might need: his medi­ cations, a cup and a thermos with hot ­water, his back-­scratcher and fly swatter, his comb, and his cell phone. From his “command center” (Loe 2017, 219), he managed his life and health as in­de­pen­dently and comfortably as pos­si­ble. Siri’s health continued to decline. Soon a­fter the end of my visit in April  2019, he gave up liquor and reconciled with his son, who showed his closeness by bringing delicacies for Siri to eat, even though Siri’s incessant coughing greatly ­limited his appetite. Siri also turned ­toward religion, asking Telsie to read the Buddhist verses that he had scorned before and even chanting pirith on his own. “Who would have thought it?” Telsie reminisced with a fond smile, claiming her b­ rother as a witness to Siri’s unexpected be­hav­ior. In the stories that Siri chose to tell me and ­others about his life, he often portrayed himself as a trickster figure, the clever one who gets away with breaking the rules, who outwits the plodding police officer or the harassing wife. In this case, perhaps he planned to jump over some karmic flaws in action and character, to pole vault to a better rebirth based on how he managed his last

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month, weeks, days, and minutes. I think he gambled every­thing on the high-­ risk, low-­probability route to a win, living without fear and then making a Hail Mary pass at the end of the game, an all-­eggs-­in-­one-­basket, last-­minute, last-­ ditch, flat-­out, all-in Buddhist effort to die the type of good death that leads straight to nibbana. Siri passed away rather suddenly in July  2018, with ­little suffering, a­ fter spending only two days bedridden. I spoke with him on the morning of his death, and although the ­family felt the need to call me with an update, I do not think at that time anyone i­ magined the finality of the situation. With the ­little breath he had to spare, Siri asked me to write his next pension check in his son Sujeewa’s name, “So that he can pay for the hospital charges.” Although Siri usually somewhat enjoyed his trips to the hospital, and his words to me in the morning suggested that he envisioned seeking medical care ­there, Telsie and Sujeewa both in­de­pen­dently told me that Siri absolutely refused that day to go. Perhaps he recognized that his decreased mobility had generated a turning point in his ability to “do his own work.” D ­ ying is something that one has to do, and it can be managed deliberately and with dignity if one is forethoughtful, lucky, and brave. Instead of taking yet another palliative trip to the hospital, the willful trickster Siri fearlessly orchestrated what Telsie, Sujeewa, and their neighbor Indrani’s husband all in­de­pen­dently assured me was “a good death,” at home, surrounded by f­ amily, friends, neighbors, and village dignitaries. Around noon, Mahanama Thero came to chant pirith. Sujeewa drove so quickly from Negombo to Naeaegama that his cousin scolded him for risking a car accident. Telsie’s b­ rother, nephew, and nieces arrived from Ambalangoda; Siri’s ­brother and his cousins Wasantha and Kanthi gathered as well. Neighbors dropped by throughout the morning; Indrani and her husband came and went, as did Dharmadasa and his ­family. Perera and his wife, Chandrani, came and stayed. A wealthy local businessman and Siri’s medical doctor rounded out the crowd. Telsie told me that “every­one was h ­ ere,” so many ­people that they overflowed the room and clustered outside at the win­dow. Siri passed away at 1:15 that after­noon, embedded in the heart of the community and listening to Buddhist verses play on his niece’s phone. Like many l­ abor mi­grants, I could not return home for the funeral. Telsie’s niece sent photos of the crowded event, including an image of Siri, clad not in the usual white but in a beautiful blue suit and tie, lying in state in a coffin in the dining room. Years of accumulated joy and love make me feel the loss most keenly. Siri’s death provides me with the “close parentheses” on this topic of aging and care work. In Naeaegama, care for elders does not end with a funeral. In early October, Siri’s son Sujeewa phoned me via WhatsApp to let me know that the ­family was holding Siri’s three-­month daana the following day. “We w ­ ill have

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fifteen monks [the maximum number that fit comfortably in the living room] and 150 guests,” he told me. They had hired two ­people to do the cooking. Sujeewa was in Naeaegama with his wife and ­daughter (who had just passed her fifth-­year scholarship exam, Sujeewa told me proudly). Sujeewa passed his phone to Telsie, and I asked about the servant who now lived in the h ­ ouse to keep Telsie com­pany. “I like the lady who is staying with me. We are ­doing fine,” Telsie assured me. “This eve­ning she even reminded me to take my medicine!” Turning to other care obligations, Telsie said, “Every­one is asking w ­ hether ­you’re coming to the daana.” She thanked me for sending Siri’s pension. “We got robes and other gifts for the monks with the money you sent, and we paid for the food.” I promised that I would without fail come to the one-­year daana the following July. Telsie passed the phone back to Sujeewa. I asked him if he had taken a look at the leak by the bathroom; some ­water had been seeping through the wall when I visited in April. He said he had contacted a contractor to look at the prob­lem but that Telsie had asked him to defer it for a few days, ­until a­ fter the daana. He let me know he had planted several new mango trees in the yard to replace the two old trees the ­family had cut down the prior year. “Are the monkeys still jumping on the roof?” I asked. He assured me that with the old mango trees gone, the monkeys had found a dif­fer­ent route through the garden and no longer threatened to break the roof tiles with their power­ful leaps and forceful landings. I felt reassured that the f­amily was investing in the ancestral h ­ ouse, not abandoning it. ­A fter the call ended, I started to cry. I wanted to be t­ here. I wanted to show my re­spect for Siri, I wanted to see every­one, and I wanted to help with the daana. I am attached to both the ­people and the h ­ ouse; I care that the old walls are weeping and I want someone to fix them. I am glad that my younger ­brother is taking care of ­things. For this nomadic American anthropologist, that ­house is the maha gedera, and I miss my fictive kin.

What’s Unique about Care Work and Aging in Naeaegama? One might rightly ask what a book about aging in Sri Lanka can reveal about aging in general or about challenges that aging populations the world over might face related to the demographic transformation and population mobility through urbanization, cyclical l­abor migration, or emigration. In answer to ­these questions, I note that ­people in other cultures often do ­things differently, and ­these patterns can shed light on prob­lems that we face at home. I started this book by presenting six points about care: that it is culturally constructed, relational, gendered, time-­consuming, moral, and emotional. I argue that all of t­hese ele­ments of care apply universally but that p­ eople around the world instantiate care in dif­fer­ent ways.

On Beginnings and Endings • 175

In Sri Lanka as elsewhere, care is relational. Naeaegama is a close-­knit community—­truly a “village of relatives.” When elders have had many c­ hildren and some of them live nearby, care work can be distributed between them. Sympathetic long-­term neighbors and kin often step in with easy-­to-­give but much-­needed support to allow elders to live in their homes safely and comfortably for longer. In the United States, by contrast, kin often live long distances from each other. And stranger sociality (the dictate that one should not pry into neighbors’ business) greatly reduces community cohesion in cities, where an increasing proportion of the population lives. Scattered families and lack of community cohesion force elders to turn to market proxies for social support. All around the world, care work is gendered. But ­people in Naeaegama “do” ­family and gender in locally specific ways. For example, the imperative to guard the chastity of unmarried teenage girls drives migration decisions for transnational domestic workers; many ­mothers give up lucrative jobs abroad to stay home and care for their ­daughters during ­these crucial and dangerous years. Inappropriate marriages threaten f­amily and caste identity; therefore, families invest time and money in arranging suitable matches for their offspring. And b­ ecause care for elders takes place in f­ amily homes inherited by the youn­gest son, the pro­cess of selecting a daughter-­in-­law is also often the pro­cess of selecting one’s f­ uture caregiver. Gender roles and marriage practices affect care work in Sri Lanka in unique and culturally distinctive ways. Care work in Naeaegama is tied to the inheritance of property, and cultural norms provide a clear standard pattern for who ­will care for elders, as well as clear expectations around when that pattern can or should be abrogated (and what happens in ­those nonnormative cases). Every­one expects that the youn­gest son ­will inherit the ­house and that he and his wife ­will take care of the elders who have looked ­after the son when he was a child and who have provided him with the land and building. When multiple generations inhabit the same property, elders can age in place while contributing significant material assets to the f­ amily as a w ­ hole. This book therefore emphasizes the importance of the ancestral home in understanding care relations and social reproduction in Naeaegama. In Naeaegama, p­ eople hold clear concepts of what constitutes appropriate care. ­These culturally constructed norms guide ­people’s be­hav­ior and help them interpret and evaluate the be­hav­ior of o­ thers. As ­people strive to reproduce ­those ideals, they do so within changing and challenging contexts. In Sri Lanka, the wider context includes two key ongoing trends: l­abor migration (particularly of ­women who meet a demand for care work in the Persian Gulf and the Global North) and population aging (resulting in fewer ­children, more elders, and greater burdens for individuals in the sandwich generation). Individual and f­amily practices emerge in conversation with wider social, po­liti­cal, and economic structures.

176  •  Linked Lives

Care work is also time-­consuming and, if done by market proxies, can be quite expensive. Thus, relatives who care for or arrange care for elders decide how to spend time and money on care work in a global economic context. Families innovate, changing their established patterns to accommodate care demands at home and care-­related work opportunities abroad. Through their everyday actions, they both reproduce and transform the culturally constructed ideals surrounding care, ­women’s work, and social reproduction. This book provides baseline data for how ­people in Naeaegama currently juggle the challenges and opportunities they face. Care work everywhere is moral. In Sri Lanka, Theravada Buddhist concepts of merit (pin), demerit (pavu), and karma govern not only conceptions of good and bad be­hav­ior but also understandings of current suffering (dukkha), desirable deaths, and f­ uture rebirths. Local understandings of moral be­hav­ior include the obligation to generate merit for deceased relatives. Caring for deserving ­others (monks and residents of old folks’ homes, for example) is part and parcel of expressing care for the dead. The widespread practice of giving alms is a cornerstone of Buddhist philosophy and caring in Naeaegama; the material gifts support the needy, while the merit generated from the gifts provides ongoing care for t­ hose who have passed away. Fi­nally, care work is emotional. In July 2019, I spent two weeks in Naeaegama to prepare for and attend the religious observation (pin kama) and almsgiving (daana) held in honor of Siri’s one-­year death anniversary. We gathered, we worked, we laughed, we quibbled, we reminisced, we listened to pirith and bunna, we caught up on news, we cried, and we celebrated the life, the accomplishments, and the good death of R.  B.  H. “Siri” de Zoysa, my ­uncle and longtime research associate. May he obtain nibbana.

Acknowl­edgments First and foremost, my thanks go to the many ­people in Sri Lanka who took time from their busy days to speak with me about the topics covered in this book. I am deeply grateful for their willingness to welcome me into their community and tell me about their lives. I owe a g­ reat debt to the friends who have hosted, fed, sheltered, and nurtured me when I visited the village of Naeaegama. Specifically, my thanks go to R. Sujeewa de Zoysa, D.  Telsie  M. Karunaratne, and R.  B.  H. “Siri” de Zoysa, in whose home I have lived and worked for many years. They have welcomed me into their lives and included me in their f­amily with the utmost generosity. With Sujeewa and Telsie, I deeply grieve the death of Siri, who passed away in July 2018. The Anthropology Department and the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences at Portland State University generously supported the sabbatical leave during which I crafted the bulk of this manuscript. I am indebted also to the faculty and staff at the Asia Research Institute at the National University of Singapore for three months of support that I received as a visiting se­nior research fellow during the winter of 2018. Who could ask for anything more than a place to stay, an office to work in, and outstanding colleagues with whom to talk and learn? Two anonymous reviewers provided helpful feedback and comments on a prior draft of this manuscript, as did Bambi Chapin and the Global Perspectives in Aging series editor, Sarah Lamb. I am grateful to the editors and staff at Rutgers University Press for their time, care, and attention to producing and marketing this volume. Perhaps appropriately for the topic, this work on aging has taken a long time to reach fruition. I started researching and writing on the subject in the

177

178  •  Acknowl­edgments

mid-2000s. Segments of this book have been published in other locations and reprinted with permission from the presses. Chapter 3 first appeared in Danely and Lynch (2013). Chapter  4 first appeared in Hoang and Yeoh (2015b). I am grateful for feedback from panelists and discussants with whom I have shared versions of several chapters at the American Anthropological Association annual meetings (in 2008, 2010, 2011, and 2015); at the National University of Singapore’s Asia Research Institute (2018); at the International Centre for Ethnic Studies, Colombo (2018); at an American Institute of Lanka Studies Research Workshop in Colombo (2017); at the Association of Social Anthropologists of the UK and Commonwealth in Durham (2016); at the Annual Conference of Asian Studies on the Pacific Coast (2010); and at the Annual Meeting on South Asia (2019). Comments, questions, and suggestions have strengthened the argument and brought my attention to new areas of inquiry.

Notes Notes to Chapter 1 1 ​The place name “Naeaegama” is a pseudonym, as are the personal names used to refer to nearly all of the ­people introduced in this book. With their permission, I have used real names for Siri, his wife, and his son. 2 ​I have had the privilege at vari­ous points to read and study about Buddhism. I do not claim to be any sort of an expert. If readers wish to learn more, I recommend What the Buddha Taught (Rahula 1959) for an approachable introduction to Theravada Buddhist beliefs as practiced in Sri Lanka. 3 ​For information on the role of mi­grant ­women in filling the global care deficit, see Chang 2000; Ehrenreich and Hochschild 2002; Hondagneu-­Sotelo 2007; Ibarra 2002; Pratt 2012; Sassen 2002. 4 ​Scholars have written extensively on transnational female domestic workers; for example, see Asis 2005; Constable 1997, 2014; Frantz 2008, 2011; Huang, Yeoh, and Rahman 2005; Hugo 2005; Lan 2006; Parreñas 2001, 2002, 2005. 5 ​For trenchant discussions of care strategies created for mi­grants’ families, see Cole and Durham 2007, 12; Kusakabe and Pearson 2015; Magazine and Sanchez 2007; McKay 2015; Parreñas 2001; Rao 2015. For migration’s effects on mi­grants’ ­children, see Athauda, Fernando, and Nikapotha 2000; M. Gamburd 2008b; Nicholson 2006; Parreñas 2002, 2005. For effects on elders, see Lamb 2009; Liu 2014; Lloyd-­Sherlock and Locke 2008; Locke, Seeley, and Rao 2013a; Zhou 2017. 6 ​In July 2009, US$1 = Rs. 114; in July 2016, US$1 = Rs. 146; and in July 2018, US$1 = Rs. 160. Of course, the US dollar also depreciated during this time, making it an unstable though familiar reference.

Note to Chapter 4 1 ​Sarah Lamb relates a similar tale, in which the f­ ather’s friend gives him a large locked chest and advises him always to keep the key with him. Lamb (2009, 34–35) notes, “The expectation of an inheritance frequently serves . . . ​as a major motivator of filial ser­vice” (2008, 34).

179

180  •  Notes

Notes to Chapter 7 1 ​Public health inspectors in the United States would object strongly to the practice of laypeople cooking and serving food to residents in an old folks’ home. The benefits of restricting food preparation to ­those trained in professional food-­handling methods, however, might not offset the loss of community participation in almsgivings in Sri Lanka. 2 ​Lamb (2000, 124; 2009, 39) suggests that cultivating detachment t­ oward worldly concerns is seen in Hinduism as an impor­tant stage in the dharmic life cycle. As I discuss further in chapter 8, el­derly Buddhists in Sri Lanka also begin to distance themselves from ­people and possessions.

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Index adoption, 15, 29–30, 33–34, 62, 151, 160 aging: dementia, 45, 48, 67, 84, 101, 103, 113; emotional suffering, 3, 6, 120, 140; financial issues, 3, 42, 45–46, 59–61, 73; gender role accommodations, 101, 104–105; healthy food benefits, 103–104, 120; in­de­pen­dence needs, 105–106, 118, 140; inevitability, 5–7, 102, 106, 118, 147, 149; intimate bodily care, 113–117; personal responsibilities, 103–104; physical suffering, 3, 6, 105; productive activity extensions, 104–105; ritual observations, 5; Western healthy aging ideals, 11, 102, 105, 118, 121, 133. See also elder care alcoholism, 25–26, 36, 75, 89–90, 94, 97–100, 109, 119, 153 almsgivings (daanas): aged poor worthiness, 121, 125–130; anniversary commemorations, 131; Buddhist doctrine, 127–128; death commemorations, 157–158, 160–164, 169; food donations, 126–130, 162–163, 166–167; hospital donations, 127, 130, 161; land and building gifts, 126–127, 140–141; merit bestowment, 127, 141, 161, 166–167; old folks’ homes donations, 121, 125, 127–131, 134–141, 161–162, 164, 176; orphanage donations, 127, 130–131, 161; structured activities, 164–167; t­ emple donations, 121, 125–131, 134–136, 140–141, 161–164,

176; villa­ger attitudes, 121, 131. See also Buddhism Ambalangoda old folks’ home, 121, 139–140, 173 ancestral gardens (maha waththa). See homes ancestral homes (maha gedera). See homes Anuradhapura, 36, 65, 107, 152 Australia, 1–3, 55, 76, 88, 93, 146, 167 Ayurvedic medical treatments, 65 Bangladesh, 42 Berava caste, 22, 24, 36, 40, 53–54, 61, 78, 85, 98, 111, 124, 131 Boosa, 149 Brijnath, Bianca, 101 Buddhism: almsgivings (daanas) doctrine, 127–128; blessing verses (pirith), 137, 144–146, 151–152, 157–158, 166, 172–173, 176; care obligations framework, 4–6, 23; demerit (pavu) princi­ples, 17, 143, 147–151, 153, 168, 176; enlightenment (nibbana) attainment, 5–6, 173, 176; Five Precepts (pansil), 146–147, 162, 165, 169; food restrictions, 147; Four Noble Truths, 5; impermanence (anicca) recognition, 5–6, 102, 143–144; Jataka stories, 166; karma princi­ples, 6, 24, 44, 126, 143, 147–149, 152, 167, 169, 176; local shrines, 144–145; Lord Buddha, 126–127, 145, 148, 164; merit (pin) princi­ples, 6, 17,

191

192  •  Index

Buddhism (cont.) 24, 44, 61, 102, 125–127, 134, 141, 143, 146–153, 161, 166–169, 176; old folks’ homes under­pinnings, 121, 125; rebirth (samsara) concept, 6, 143–144, 146, 148–152, 161, 167–170, 176; sermons (bunna), 5, 145–146, 151–152, 162, 166, 168, 176; Siddhattha’s ascetic journey, 5; suffering (dukkha) concept, 5–6, 143–144, 147, 176; ­Temple of the Tooth, 163; Theravada philosophy, 5, 143, 146, 176. See also almsgivings Cayman Islands, 94 China, 7 Choedup, Namgyal, 120–121, 153 Chris­tian­ity, 84, 143, 147 chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD), 97–99, 171 cinnamon industry, 2, 12, 29, 36, 40, 45, 48, 61, 106, 128, 154 coconut industry, 2, 9, 12, 67, 153 Colombo, 1, 3, 13, 49, 55, 81, 86, 91, 94, 103, 107, 132, 140, 149, 160–161 cousins/cross-­cousins, 1–2, 22–26, 32, 89, 93–94, 117, 145, 154, 160, 173. See also families cultural constructionism, 3, 6–8, 55, 101, 121–122, 174–176 Cyprus, 10, 46, 161 Davis, Coralynn, 31, 126, 161 dementia, 45, 48, 67, 84, 101, 103, 113. See also aging demerit (pavu), 17, 143, 147–151, 153, 168, 176. See also Buddhism divorce, 24, 34, 36–37, 62, 85–87, 91, 96, 139, 154 Douglass, Mike, 11 dowries, 9, 23–24, 26–27, 32, 42, 52, 58, 67, 70, 79, 83, 86–87, 94 Dravidian kinship, 15, 22–23, 34, 89, 154 Dubai, 35, 94 elder care: acute illnesses, 44–45, 48; being ­there as care mode, 100, 106–108, 113, 118; emotional aspect, 4–5, 120–124, 140, 176; Employee Provident Fund support, 60–61; financial concerns, 3–4, 11, 42, 45–46, 59–61, 73, 176; food as

care mode, 100, 108–110, 118, 120, 150–151; gender roles, 4, 6, 101, 104–105, 175; intimate bodily care, 113–118; kin responsibilities, 3–4, 35, 47–48, 54–55, 71–74, 120, 175; market proxy usage, 4, 8, 19, 175–176; marriage implications, 28; medical treatment as care mode, 100, 110–113, 118; medi­cation levels, 102; mi­grant ­labor, impact of, 4, 7, 10, 39, 42–43, 45–51, 54; moral obligations, 4–5, 59, 62, 73, 170; pension support, 4, 11, 16, 37, 46, 57–62, 73–74, 141, 173–174; privatization efforts, 8; prop­ erty owner­ship, role of, 57, 62, 66–70, 73–74, 82–83, 91–92, 96; servant usage, 47–48, 50–51, 56; social reproduction strategies, 19–22, 42; World Bank report, 41, 55–56, 141 Elders Week, 138 Employee Provident Fund, 60–61 enlightenment (nibbana), 5–6, 173, 176. See also Buddhism families: adoption, 15, 29–30, 33–34, 62, 151, 160; caste structures, 22–23, 25, 32, 37, 50, 89–90, 175; childcare, 10, 32–34, 48–51, 56; cousins/cross-­cousins, 1–2, 22–26, 32, 89, 93–94, 117, 145, 154, 160, 173; ­daughters, importance of, 19–22, 28–29, 49–50, 83, 85–88, 91, 116–117, 175; divorce, 24, 34, 36–37, 62, 85–87, 91, 96, 139, 154; dowry contributions, 9, 23–24, 26–27, 32, 42, 52, 58, 67, 70, 79, 83, 86–87, 94; Dravidian kinship system, 15, 22–23, 34, 89, 94, 154; extended families, 3, 22–25, 28–34, 41–42, 47, 56, 71; gender roles, 19–22, 28–29, 54–55; grandchildren, 1–2, 10, 34, 41, 51–55, 79, 83–84, 92, 103, 105–106; grandparents, 3, 10–11, 21, 34–36, 41–42, 52–55, 62, 78, 112; kin terms, 30–34, 37–38; lineage, role of, 22–25, 28, 34, 37; marriage, 15, 20, 22–23, 25–28, 32, 35–37, 49–50, 77, 83–85, 142, 175; mi­g rant ­labor, impact of, 10–11, 19–21, 39–43, 45–56; reciprocal inter­ generational obligations, 11, 15, 20–25, 28–30, 44, 52, 66, 70, 74, 106–107, 167; servant care, 29–30; social reproduction strategies, 19–23, 32–34, 37–42, 56, 106, 114–115, 123, 126

Index • 193

­ amily Background Report, 49, 55 F Five Precepts (pansil), 146–147, 162, 165, 169. See also Buddhism Four Noble Truths, 5. See also Buddhism funerals, 5, 17, 61, 69–72, 116, 132, 142–143, 149–150, 153–161, 164–166, 169, 173 Galle, 106, 131, 133, 149 Gamaniratne, Nirosha, 12, 60 garment industry, 2, 9, 62, 86–87 gender roles: aging, impact of, 101, 104–105; cultural constructionism, 7; elder care responsibilities, 4, 6, 101, 104–105, 175; families, impact on, 19–22, 28–29, 54–55; home life accommodations, 62, 64, 104–105; inheritance practices, 80–91; intimate bodily care, 113–117; mi­g rant ­labor distinctions, 2–4, 9, 43, 47–51, 55, 175; occupational options, 2; ultimogeniture practices, 83–84, 144; wage differ­ ences, 9, 47 grandchildren, 1–2, 10, 34, 41, 51–55, 79, 83–84, 92, 103, 105–106 grandparents, 3, 10–11, 21, 34–36, 41–42, 52–55, 62, 78, 112 Gulf Cooperation Council, 8 Habarana, 89 Halaagama caste, 22, 32, 78 HelpAge International, 137, 141 homes: abandoned properties, 76, 93, 96; alcoholism issues, 89–90, 94; ancestral gardens (maha waththa), 77, 80–83, 86–87, 89–90, 95, 154; ancestral homes (maha gedera), 77–96, 120, 144, 158, 174; caste identity, 77–78, 89–90, 93, 95–96; construction material, 58, 62, 76, 80; ­daughter inheritance scenarios, 85–88, 91; elder care responsibilities, 57, 62, 66–70, 73–74, 82–83, 91–92, 96; ex­ penses, 64; gender norm accommodations, 62, 64, 104–105; identity-­based hierarchies, 64–65, 74, 76–77; inheritance practices, 16, 18, 21, 66–70, 74, 80–91, 96, 175; kinship obligations, role in, 71–74; lineage membership, 77–80, 86, 93–96; material accumulation role, 62, 74; outmigration motives, 93–95; parental obligations, 58, 79; remittance support, 57–58; rental properties, 78, 92;

social reproduction strategies, 58–59, 62–64, 73–74; social status, 62, 76–82, 93; space adjustments, 62–64, 74; ul­ timogeniture practices, 16, 67, 70, 83–84, 87–88, 91, 96, 175; virilocal postmarital residence patterns, 83–84, 96, 117, 144 horoscopes, 25, 27, 91 hospitals, 19, 45, 98–100, 106–108, 112–113, 118, 127, 130, 151, 161, 167, 173 India, 7, 101, 108, 120–121, 126, 153 Israel, 10 Italy, 10, 25, 35, 55 Japan, 8, 60 Kalutara, 79, 140 Kandy, 163 Karapitiya Hospital, 106–107 karma, 6, 24, 44, 126, 143, 147–149, 152, 167, 169, 176. See also Buddhism kinship. See families Kolkata, 121 ­Korea, 10, 40, 54–55, 83, 87 Kuwait, 8 l­ abor. See mi­grant ­labor Lamb, Sarah, 121 Lloyd-­Sherlock, Peter, 42–43, 48 Locke, Catherine, 42–43, 48 maha gedera (ancestral homes). See homes Mahamodera old folks’ home, 119–121, 123, 130–133, 137, 139, 141 maha waththa (ancestral gardens). See homes Malaysia, 10 marriage, 15, 20, 22–23, 25–28, 32, 35–37, 49–50, 67, 77, 83–85, 142, 175. See also families Marxism, 20 Matara, 64, 109, 116, 159 meditation, 42, 95, 103, 146, 162 merit (pin), 6, 17, 24, 44, 61, 102, 125–127, 134, 141, 143, 146–153, 161, 166–169, 176. See also Buddhism mi­g rant ­labor: age demographics, 9, 49; contract stipulations, 46; elder care, impact on, 2–4, 7, 10, 39, 42–43, 45–51, 54;

194  •  Index

mi­grant ­labor (cont.) ­family care considerations, 10–11, 19–21, 39–43, 45–56; gender roles, 2–4, 9, 43, 47–51, 55, 175; l­ abor force demographics, 8–9, 49, 55; Persian Gulf workforce, 8–10, 41, 46, 48–49, 92, 175; recruitment bonuses, 46; remittances, 7–9, 15, 40–42, 45–46, 51–56; wage levels, 9, 40, 46 Monaragala District, 29 Muslims, 143, 160 Negombo, 90, 110, 117, 160, 173 Nepal, 31, 126 New Zealand, 3, 76, 78–79, 94–95 Nivaasaya old folks’ home, 114, 121, 129–131, 133–134, 137–139, 141 old folks’ homes: almsgivings (daanas), 121, 125, 127–131, 134–141, 161–162, 164, 176; Ambalangoda, 121, 139–140, 173; Anuradhapura, 36; Buddhist under­ pinnings, 121, 125; community support, 121, 125, 127, 137–141; emotional reac­ tions, 121–124; financial support, 121, 131, 137–141; food donations, 126–131, 136, 138, 140–141; for-­pay institutions, 120–121, 123–125, 139–141; institutions, shortage of, 12, 141; intimate bodily care, 114; last resort option, 12, 121, 129, 140; Mahamo­ dera, 119–121, 123, 130–133, 137, 139, 141; Nivaasaya, 114, 121, 129–131, 133–134, 137–139, 141; resident deaths, 132–133; residents as deserving poor, 121, 125–130; se­lection pro­cess, 131–132; social networks, 131–134; social reproduction role, 123; solicitation suspicions, 134–136, 138; stigma associations, 119–125, 140–141 Oman, 54 orphanages, 127, 130–131, 161 Ortner, Sherry, 6–7 Palmberger, Monika, 133 pensions, 4, 11, 16, 37, 44, 46, 57–62, 70, 73–74, 86, 99, 138, 140–141, 173–174 Persian Gulf, 2, 8–10, 41, 46, 48–49, 58–59, 86, 92, 175 police, 39, 45, 54, 60, 74, 138, 161, 172

poverty, 30, 46, 60, 71, 76, 82, 120–122, 124, 127–129, 132, 140, 153 practice theory, 6–8 property owner­ship. See homes Puttalam, 27 rebirth (samsara), 6, 143–144, 146, 148–152, 161, 167–170, 176 remittances, 7–9, 15, 40–42, 45, 51–58. See also mi­grant ­labor Ruwanpura, Eshani, 31–32 Ruwanweli Seya, 152 Sanskrit language, 143, 146 Saudi Arabia, 57 Siddhattha, 5. See also Buddhism Sinhala language, 2, 12, 20–21, 31, 104, 110, 113, 120, 146–147, 153 Sirisena, Mihirini, 4, 31–32 social reproduction, 4, 7, 10, 19–23, 32–34, 37–42, 56–59, 62–64, 73–74, 106, 114–115, 123, 126. See also families Sri Lankan Bureau of Foreign Employment (SLBFE), 8–9 Sri Pada, 103 Stirrat, R. L., 22, 31 Supreme Court of Sri Lanka, 49 tea consumption, 9, 95, 105, 109–110, 115, 137–138, 150, 157, 162 ­Temple of the Tooth, 163 Theravada Buddhism. See Buddhism trishaws, 2, 18–19, 59, 87, 98, 100, 105, 133, 167 ultimogeniture, 16, 67, 70, 83–84, 87–88, 91, 96, 175. See also homes United Kingdom, 93 United Nations, 49 United States, 8, 77, 95, 102, 105, 114, 117, 175 Van der Pijl, Yvon, 4 Vesak holiday, 138, 163 Was ceremony, 126 weddings, 23, 28, 61, 81, 85, 108, 148 Weismantel, Mary, 33–34 Welawatta, 137 World Bank, 11–12, 41, 55–56, 60, 141

About the Author is a professor of anthropology at Portland State University. She received her PhD from the University of Michigan in 1995. A cultural anthropologist, she focuses on issues of power, politics, and identity in a Sinhala-­ speaking village in southwestern Sri Lanka. She writes about gender, f­amily relations, and power strug­gles in The Kitchen Spoon’s ­Handle: Transnationalism and Sri Lanka’s Mi­g rant House­maids (2000) and Breaking the Ashes: The Culture of Illicit Liquor in Sri Lanka (2008). She explores humanitarian aid, class hierarchies, and disaster diplomacy in The Golden Wave: Culture and Politics ­after Sri Lanka’s Tsunami Disaster (2013) and Tsunami Recovery in Sri Lanka: Ethnic and Regional Dimensions, edited with Dennis B. McGilvray (2010). Her current proj­ect addresses issues of aging, demographic transformation, and changing intergenerational obligations in rural families. MICHELE RUTH GAMBURD