ECONOMYNEXT – The name was a conversation piece. He was known as ‘Lenin,’ but that was actually an afterthought.
Born Hirohito Edward Jayasinghe to a radical communist—Jones Alexander Jayasinghe—and his Eurasian bride, Myra Nesta Crutchley, my father underwent a name substitution just two days before his first birthday in October 1937.
His parents dropped “Hirohito Edward” and replaced it with ‘Lenin’ and ‘Lindbergh.’
What was Lenin like? How did he influence his family and friends? Did he follow the great Russian leader? For much of his life, he was sympathetic to the communist state.
He embraced leftist trade union activism throughout his career in the postal department. He also became a defence counsel, a legal representative for public servants facing disciplinary action and built a considerable practice. In the true socialist spirit, his services were free—the only fee was the ‘batta,’ the official stipend, he collected as a public servant and a huge reservoir of goodwill.
My brother, Lakal, and I grew up in a home imbued with egalitarian values. The most impressionable time of our childhood was during Mrs Bandaranaike’s rationing regime when each household had ration books—one per person. Among other items, everyone was entitled to a quarter pound (100 grams) of sugar a month. Lenin was a true leftist and embraced the bitter austerity as a necessary hell for a better future.
Early in their marriage, my mother, Latha, feared that Lenin would use all his names in the order they were given—Hirohito Edward Lenin Lindbergh (HELL). Theirs was a love marriage made in heaven, but ‘HELL’ being part of it was not what my mother had bargained for—or so she told us.
My father became better known by his new first name, Lenin. On his first birthday, he was photographed wearing a beret adorned with the hammer and sickle, the symbol of the world communist movement.
This was considered an act of defiance at a time when communists were not tolerated in British-ruled Ceylon. That was six years before the launch of the Communist Party of Ceylon in 1943. Jones Alexander Jayasinghe was reportedly arrested for defying the colonial authorities.
How he escaped trouble is unclear, but family photos place Jones Alexander in the company of many figures at the forefront of Ceylon’s independence movement. Jones Alexander was a friend of the then-young Pieter Keuneman, who went on to become the Secretary of the Communist Party of Ceylon as well as trade union stalwart H. G. S. Ratnaweera.
Lenin was initially named ‘Hirohito,’ apparently because my grandfather admired the Japanese emperor.
I have been unable to verify claims that he was among the first to use a Japanese-made Datsun model ‘DB,’ a 722cc petrol-powered car that was infamous for its lack of reliability, unlike the Western-made vehicles dominating the British Empire at the time.
The second name, Edward, honoured the UK’s King Edward VIII, who had ascended the throne in January 1936, ten months before my father was born. The two later names, Lenin and Lindbergh, were substituted a year later, though the reasons for this change remain unclear.
This was likely because Jones Alexander Jayasinghe had begun to rebel against colonial rule and opposed imperial Japan. The substituted names reflected his leanings towards Red Russia and the global human interest story of Charles Lindbergh after the murder of his baby.
The name ‘Lindbergh’ referred to the American aviator who completed the first solo transatlantic flight in his aircraft, Spirit of St. Louis. The kidnapping and subsequent murder of Lindbergh’s 20-month-old son in 1932 had shocked the world and was widely known in Ceylon at the time of my father’s birth four years later.
My mother may also be the exception that proved the rule that marriage won’t make a man change. A promise to give up alcohol if she married him was kept, and Lenin never touched spirits—until I cajoled him into enjoying a glass of white wine. Giving up alcohol underscored my mother’s spirited determination to instil some discipline in him.
A nasty motorcycle accident that saw him flying over the Dehiwala roundabout (which has since been replaced by a fly over) and narrowly escaping death shortly before his wedding may also have contributed to his temperance.
However, my father’s greatest failing was his inability to give up smoking. Unable to make him quit cigarettes, my mother, in a tit-for-tat move, threatened to cut off her long hair—something my father was ready to accept in exchange for continuing to smoke two to three packets of ‘Three Roses,’ the popular filter-less cigarettes, daily. After a life-changing heart bypass surgery in 1999, he finally gave up chain-smoking—at least in public.
Lenin’s heart and kidney-related health issues later in life were blamed on cigarettes. Neither my brother nor I developed any interest in smoking or drinking.
With my father being a postmaster and my mother a mathematics teacher, we learned to be frugal and count our blessings. Given the country’s economic circumstances at the time, with import restrictions being the norm, there was little pressure to buy things and no one was spoilt for choice.
Most Sri Lankans endured the same miseries.
Replacing a headlamp on my father’s old English motorcycle, which he had bought second-hand before his marriage, required hours in a queue at the State Trading Corporation.
Even then, it was only possible after collecting approvals from several local officials to prove that the Velocette MAC motorcycle had a fused headlamp.
Even in tough times, my parents instilled in us the importance of helping others and sharing—a practice they continued until their dying days. I also owe my driving skills to my father, who would place me on the petrol tank of the 350cc single-cylinder motorcycle and let me take the controls when I was just 10 years old.
Two decades later, he repeated this with my son, Navin on a newer, faster Honda 250N. After an accident that resulted in both my parents fracturing their limbs, my father reluctantly gave up his beloved two-wheelers for the safety of four wheels, though he was never comfortable driving cars.
Looking back, I am amazed at how I used to sneak out the heavy motorcycle for joyrides, even when both my feet couldn’t reach the ground. But those were quieter times when there were few private vehicles on the road, and a 10-year-old on a motorcycle didn’t pose much risk to himself or others.
As the younger of two sons, I rebelled by pursuing a career path that did not align with my teacher mother’s expectations of academic excellence.
“My youngest son is a reporter at the Daily News, but my other son is a graduate,” she would tell her friends and colleagues, underscoring both her disappointment and pride simultaneously.
But as years passed and I became a foreign correspondent, she came to terms with her youngest son’s high-risk but low-paying career, taking comfort in an astrologer’s not entirely accurate prediction that I would be a “writer known overseas.”
Even after her retirement, she continued to teach neighbourhood children as part of her social work until Lenin’s passing in January 2018. With her beloved partner gone, she steadily declined and passed away in her sleep three years later on November 15, 2021.
On 10 January 2025, we marked the seventh death anniversary of Lenin Lindbergh Jayasinghe – a steadfast egalitarian, dedicated public servant, and a man whose influence left an indelible mark on all who knew him.
Amal Jayasinghe
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