Cherished memories of my homes in Sri Lanka. ND Amerasekera

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.