Cherished
memories of my homes in Sri Lanka
Dr Nihal D Amerasekera
"A house is made with walls and beams;
a home is built with love and dreams." - Anonymous
Sometimes, as the night falls and peace descends on my world,
there is a wish to turn back the clock. Those early years spent with my parents
were a rich gift. Their presence in my thoughts brings me great joy and warmth.
Although they have now left this world, their memory remains very much alive.
Leaving the country of my birth has left me with many scars
and regrets. Losing much of the rich Sri Lankan culture, music and language is
often hard to bear. I am now a stranger to the new generation that has grown
up in my absence. Even to my family and friends, so much has happened in our lives since I left Sri Lanka that it is now impossible to match the closeness we once enjoyed. Above all, not being with my parents at their hour of need still
brings me great sadness that is hard to console. I have paid a heavy price for
my professional ambitions and achievements.
As a government servant, my father led a nomadic life. He
was frequently moved from one place to another every four years and these
disruptions were euphemistically called transfers. My earliest memories are of
Bogawantalawa—a small valley town in the Central Province, surrounded by misty
mountains and endless tea estates. We lived there between 1942 and 1946, during
the turbulent years of World War II. Though the war raged across Europe and the
Far East, our little town seemed sheltered from its cruelty and chaos. As a
child, I was fascinated by the occasional convoys of jeeps and trucks rumbling
through, filled with soldiers waving their rifles. We lived in a charming
two-storey house with rose bushes at the front and a small garden at the rear. Behind
the house rose a hill crowned by St. Mary’s School, which had a large
playground. In Bogawantalawa, rain was a constant companion. I still remember
the cloudy skies and the rolling mist that drifted over the hills. There was
often a chill in the air. People were always wrapped in mufflers and sweaters
with umbrellas in hand. I acquired my most vivid childhood memory as a four-year-old,
looking through my bedroom window seeing the monsoon rain transform a road into
a river. European planters often roared past on their noisy motorbikes, a
familiar sight in town. I never returned to Bogowantalawa again. Even now I
sometimes revisit the place in my
dreams.
I was born in Kandy, that enchanting citadel nestled in the
hills. Although I never had the good fortune to live there, the closest I came
was when my parents moved to Kadugannawa. In 1946 it was a sleepy little town, charming and at times
beguiling. It prided itself on its unique middle-class appeal and the sheer
good-natured generosity of its people. We lived in an old house called
Roydon on Alagalla Road. Wide glass windows surrounded the house, allowing
sunlight to stream in throughout the day. The locals fondly called it the
“Glass House.” The place carried an air of colonial nostalgia, its architecture
reminiscent of an upcountry estate superintendent’s bungalow. Far from the
bustle of town, life there was peaceful. Our home stood atop a hill, offering
breathtaking views of the blue Alagalla mountain range. I still remember how
quiet and dark the nights were at Roydon—the chill in the air, the eerie chorus
of frogs, and the rhythmic hum of crickets. The garden would sparkle with
fireflies lighting up those dark corners. Nature was like a living
masterpiece. On nights of the full moon, the silvery glow transformed the
landscape into a dreamlike wonderland. When my parents went out to visit
friends, I often stayed behind with our maid, who was a gifted storyteller. I
still cherish those evenings, listening wide-eyed as she spun her old tales,
rich with vivid details and imagination.
In 1948, my father was transferred to Nugegoda. Even now,
countless vivid memories of its past fill my mind. Back then, it was a sleepy
little town on the outskirts of the big city, far removed from the grime and
bustle of Colombo. My grandparents lived in a large house opposite the Anglican
church. It was a sprawling home with a tall roof and a spacious garden. Built
of solid kabook stone, the house stood firm and dignified. A wide verandah
faced north and west, welcoming both light and breeze. Painted magnolia yellow,
the house glowed warmly in the sun. The front garden was alive with colour—rows
of Cannas and Coleus bordered a circular patch of grass around a generous Jambu
tree that bore fruit in abundance. The house was solid, simple, and
unpretentious, much like its owners. My extended family of uncles, aunts and
cousins all lived here where I enjoyed a sheltered and privileged existence. It
still amazes me how we could all fit into that house. I loved this communal
life as there was never a dull moment. The wooden inscription above the front
door read "Doris Cottage 1930". We lived there happily together until
1952. In later years, whenever I returned, every room in Doris Cottage seemed
to tell a story. Every picture, every piece of furniture carried the weight of
memory. My grandparents had aged gracefully and their faces were marked by the
joys and hardships of life. Though their movements had slowed, their love,
humour, and warmth never faded. When they passed away, the house too seemed to
die with them. Around 2012, Doris Cottage was demolished, and a large car park
took its place. Today, the cottage of my childhood exists only in a quiet
corner of my memory. It pains me to think of its lost beauty and of the people
who once made it so special.
From 1952 to 1956, we lived in Gampaha. My
parents had found a charming old house at No. 230, Colombo Road, just across
from the General Hospital. Gampaha was the ancestral heartland of the Dias
Bandaranaike family and Horagolla was only a stone’s throw away. In those days,
Gampaha was home to prosperous middle-class landowners and their estates
stretched endlessly across the countryside. Even into the 1960s, many still
fancied themselves part of the British Empire, modelling their habits and
manners after the English gentry. On Saturdays, the
market in the centre of town came alive with a multitude of stalls, witch
doctors and fortune tellers. It is a dramatic spectacle,
if you can put up with monkeys and snakes.
That was the social fabric of Gampaha in the mid-twentieth century. The town’s
only real distinction lay in its Botanical Gardens, where Ceylon’s first rubber
tree was planted. Its gently undulating lawns, vivid hedges, and open vistas
had long captivated visitors. I never went back to Gampaha or to that house
again. Years later, a doctor purchased the property, tore down the old home,
and built a two-storey surgery for his medical practice.
Despite the rigours of our nomadic life, our
family had the privilege of seeing much of the country. From 1956 to 1958, we
lived in Katunayake, where my father had the enviable task of “electrifying”
the town. They say that moving house is as stressful as a divorce, yet our
family, accustomed to having “no fixed abode”, managed to weather the emotions
and upheavals remarkably well. In 1956, Katunayake was a small fishing hamlet,
little more than a dot on the map just below Negombo. It felt a world away from
the cares of modern life. The tropical heat and sea breeze seemed to lull its
people into a state of pleasant torpor; no one was ever in a hurry. The town
was a strong Methodist enclave, deeply shaped by its religious traditions. Two
churches—Methodist and Anglican—served the small community, and Sundays saw
nearly everyone gather for worship and spiritual sustenance. Katunayake was
already known for its Royal Air Force Base and its small airport, called the
“Aerodrome.” Built by the British in 1942, it had served as a vital supply
point for their Far Eastern operations. By 1956, the base had been handed over
to the Royal Ceylon Air Force. Our house stood beside the Colombo–Negombo road,
its elegant front lawn leading up a few steps to the entrance. Behind it
stretched a vast coconut plantation, reaching all the way to the lagoon. At the
edge of the property lay the blue waters, bordered by mangroves with their
pungent smell and bubbling black mud. From our lounge, the view of palm trees
mirrored in the lagoon’s still water was simply breathtaking. Across the water
lay the palm-fringed beach of Pitipana. The 3,000-hectare Negombo Lagoon was a
treasure trove of fish, crabs, and prawns—sustaining hundreds of fishermen and
feeding countless families. When I returned to Katunayake in 1995 and stayed at
a nearby hotel, I tried to find my old haunts. But the landscape had changed
beyond recognition, transformed by “progress and regress”. Our house, and those
of our neighbours, had vanished—replaced by posh apartments, curio shops, and
hotels.
In 1958, my father moved once again—this time to Kolonnawa,
where we stayed until 1962. We settled at No. 3, Gunatilleke Road, an old house
that had been renovated to give it a fresh look. The road itself was a gravel
track that ended right at our doorstep. Along the edge of our property stood
the tall perimeter fence of the Kolonnawa Oil Installation. For the next three
years, we lived beside this potential time bomb—one spark away from disaster. In
those days, we believed our elected government always knew best and acted in
the people’s interest. Today, we view the world with far more scepticism.
Gunatilleke Road began near the Kolonnawa cemetery, and we witnessed cremations
and burials almost daily. Lamps flickered by the gravesides late into the
night. At first, I was terrified to walk home after dark; even the faintest
rustle would send me running. More than once, I sprinted the entire length of
the road, much to the amusement of onlookers. I have never returned to
Kolonnawa since, but I’m told that our
old house has long been demolished, replaced by a block of modern
apartments.
In 1962, my father was employed by the local government in
Weligama. My parents lived on the outskirts of the town, some distance from the
sea, along the Akuressa Road. On either side stretched paddy fields, banana
groves, and palm trees, with a distant backdrop of purple mountains. Our newly
built home stood on a hillside, surrounded by tall jak, breadfruit, and mango
trees. It was an idyllic place, with a gravel path leading up to the house. In
the evenings, we often visited the old Rest House by the sea—a beautiful spot
at the edge of Weligama Bay. Its tall cylindrical columns and long verandas
gave it a distinctly colonial charm. Many times, I sat on the rocks, watching
the waves roll in. At sunset, the view was breathtaking as the fishing boats
sailed out to sea, their shimmering lights appearing like stars scattered
across the bay. In that tranquil paradise, heaven and earth seemed very close. When
I returned to Weligama in 1995, the roads were no wider than before, but the
number of vehicles had multiplied many times over, bringing with them noise and
pollution. The Weligama I had known was unrecognisable. Familiar landmarks had
vanished, and I found our former home only with great difficulty. The tall
trees that once surrounded it were gone—perhaps turned into furniture in some
plush Colombo hotel. The lovely gravel path had become a muddy track, scarred
by lorries and bulldozers. Worse was yet to come. An old man sat on the steps
of the house. He looked puzzled but greeted us kindly. The property had been
bought by developers and left to decay. The front door creaked as I opened it,
and my heart sank at the sight within: long cobwebs stretched from wall to
wall, the wooden windows had rotted away, and cockroaches and mice had made the
place their home. In some places, the roof had caved in, and the plaster had
fallen from the rain-soaked walls. A sense of doom and desolation filled the
air. As I walked from room to room, I felt a deep unease—haunted by memories of
the laughter, life, and joy we had once known there. I said little as I left,
heartbroken to see my home in ruins and my memories in tatters.
My father moved to Wattala in 1965, and we lived there until
1970. For a time, we stayed on Station Road before moving to a house next to
the Urban Council in Wattala. It was a small but comfortable home. I was a
medical student then and used to travel by train from Hunupitiya to Maradana
with Razaque Ahamath and Bernard Randeniya. The trains were always crowded, and
we rarely managed to find a seat. During my many visits to Sri Lanka in the new
millennium, I’ve often searched for our old house in Wattala. However, the new
highway has erased many familiar landmarks, and I’ve never been able to locate
it. The locals tell me that our former home was demolished many years ago.
The final year examination hit us like a typhoon. As the
dust settled I was making plans to move to the Kurunegala General Hospital for
my internship. This was my time to fly the nest. By now I had lived comfortably
at home for 25 years. It wasn’t any hardship to live by the rules set out by my
parents. Thus far I have lead a sheltered existence protected from the storms
of life. I distinctly recall the day I left home to take up my new job. I feel
deeply regretful for the lack of feeling and sensitivity I had shown for the
occasion. It never occurred to me to reflect on the 25 years of care, love and
generosity. Casually I said " I am going". There was a brief moment
of stillness and silence. I remember their glistening eyes when I waved my hand
and stepped out of the house. They kept looking at me until I disappeared into
the street.
My father retired in 1970 and lived for another twenty-five
years before being called to his final rest. My mother carried on bravely,
finding joy in the company of her grandchildren. Of course, there were moments
of loneliness, boredom, and despair. At times, lying awake at night, memories
of the past must have come back to her. We all hope that old age will not take
away our dignity or independence. She remained cheerful, content, and
remarkably resilient. Sadly, she passed away in 2009 at the age of eighty-seven.
It was only after I had children of my own that I truly understood the
sacrifices and dedication my parents had shown. I will always cherish their
love and affection. May they rest in peace.
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