She’s a godess and she’s a devil - beautiful in white - sexually voracious - she tears the necks of her favourites. She loves to dance and is attracted by music - unfortunately for musicians.
Percy last saw his Uncle Ranaweera in 1965. He remembers him as being a real Singhalese person - very black. ‘Ranaweera’ means ‘expert warrior’ but it was an expert violin player that Uncle Ranaweera was.
In those days, before television and DJs had torn traditional life into shreds, villagers loved the Peduru Party. For occasions like engagements and weddings, mats were spread on the ground near the home of the celebrating family and local musicians were invited along. The villagers did not have to be invited, drawn by the sounds of violin, flute, raban (flat drum), mandolin and tamborine as the musicians improvised for hours in alternate waves of collaboration and competition. (Today young Sri Lankan rock musicians ‘jam’ together on the top floors of Maradena warehouses.) These proud old musicians never asked for money but expected generous amounts of toddy or arrack. It was not unusual for a household organising a Peduru Party to have 100 litres of toddy delivered for the evening event.
That evening as Uncle Ranaweera reached the decorated ‘Thorana’ gateway, that marked the path to the wedding house, he felt particularly thirsty. Tonight he would drink well and not just of the sweet oily toddy made from palm sap. He knew there would be arrack layed on by the doting father of the bride. His singing voice reached mesmeric heights after arrack and his virtuosity with the bow was never available to him sober. His famous trick of playing a frantic jig with the violin on his back, while sawing the strings with his bow arched over his shoulder, was best executed in a near trance induced by the strongest drink. He ambled expectantly down the track, carrying his violin and bow.
The party had gone well. The villagers had crowded in, not to see the bride and groom, but to enjoy the music. It was 2am and Uncle Ranaweera had a mind to return home to his wife. The bride’s father tried to dissuade him from the walk in pitch darkness through the jungle and past the cemetry. “Stay the night! “ they advised. But Uncle set out, weaving uncertainly, clutching his treasured fiddle and bow.
As he passed the cemetry, he saw a beautiful lady in a white sari on the path ahead. She asked him to play his violin for her. Uncle Ranaweera broke out in a cold sweat. He recognized her as Mohinee. Now she ordered him. “Play for me!”
He knew that once he started to pay, he would be unable to stop. If he did, the Mohinee would jump to his neck, tearing his throat with her clawing nails. He also knew that he couldnt refuse - alone in the dark jungle with the Mohinee.
Uncle started to play. The Mohinee began to dance. He was afraid to turn his back on the alluring spectre. So, playing wildly, he began walking backwards towards his home.
It was less than a mile through the jungle, but it felt like a hundred miles. Finally he sensed that he had reached his own front door. Stll the shimmering Mohinee danced before him. Still he played his frantic jig. What to do! He could not stop. He could not turn his back.
With the heel of one foot he clapped on the door loudly. His wife heard the music and the clamour. As she opend the door, Uncle Ranaweera made one desperate step backward, throwing the violin and bow at the dancing spectre, slamming and bolting the door of the house.
Warily peeping through the front window curtain, he could see his silent instrument lying in the dusty moonlight, but there was no sign of the Mohinee. She never troubled him again, not even after the wildest Peduru Party.
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