Longing for Home by Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

Longing for Home by Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

"Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,

 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home!"

by John Howard Payne (1823)

Deep within each of us is a longing for home. Soon after I arrived in the UK in the early 1970’s, I experienced the gnawing pain of homesickness. After several months, the grief, sadness and distress of homesickness gradually waned and disappeared. I was left with an occasional yearning to return to my roots either physically or mentally.  The latter being just a daydream or a nocturnal dream in my sleep. Longing for home, or homesickness, is a universal and wistful yearning for a familiar place we belong. Homesickness is defined as a feeling of longing for one's home during a period of absence from it. If there is no anxiety or unhappiness it is not a sickness. It is just a longing for home which is a normal phenomenon. Perhaps it is a feeling common to all emigres living in exile. They all have the freedom to return home if they so wish.

I retired from an active professional life many years ago. I now live amidst the hustle and bustle of London. I love life and where I live. I remain ever thankful for the gift of my family. Longing for home is a natural emotion that descends occasionally out of the blue.  The passion and the desire are to recall and remember people and places of the country where one was born. There comes a certain compulsion to reminisce those nostalgic memories of my parents, the extended family and the many images of the country and growing up. After having lived abroad for over half a century, I have learnt to deal with homesickness.

When homesickness pulls on my heartstrings, I take to the luxury of my rocking chair and turn to music that has sustained me through the peaks and troughs of life. There is a vast collection of Sri Lankan music now available on Apple music, Spotify and YouTube. Listening to the likes of Sunil Santha and C.T Fernando transports me closer to home. The composition “Returning Home” by John Barry, played on the clarinet by Emma Johnson, is so very expressive and evocative. The title and tone reflect a certain tenderness and a universal feeling of returning, longing, and revisiting the past.

My mother, with her Kandyan ancestry, lived and schooled in Kandy. My parents were married at St Paul’s Church and I was born in that great city in the hills. Despite its loveliness and the salubrious climate, I never had the good fortune to live there. But over the years, I have enjoyed many visits to Kandy. The mere thought of the scenic lake in the heart of the city and the spiritual atmosphere of the Temple of the Tooth brings peace to my soul.  The serene grandeur of the surrounding mountains that pay homage to this beautiful city provide a tranquil escape from the modern world. There is often a passionate desire and a craving to return to my place of birth.

There are times my mind takes me to our ancestral home in Kegalle. Ashley Hall was built like an English Manor House. This was where our entire clan of Amerasekeras gathered for family occasions. There were many lavish parties at Ashley Hall. The fun and laughter of my extended family still echo in my mind and will continue to linger for many years to come. The elegant rose garden evoked a sense of romance, beauty, and serenity. Even now, whenever I smell roses, it takes me back to those happy times. The generosity, love and affection of my uncle and aunt who lived there will always remain a wonderful memory.

I began schooling in the late 1940’s and stayed with my grandparents in Nugegoda.  This is the house that was most precious to me as a child. It was a quiet dignified house opposite the Anglican Church of SS Mary & John. The landscape was green and its beauty touched us with grace. The mornings were magical as the light glowed on the green leaves and the dew on the grass shone so brightly. With the passage of years the soul of the house died with my grandparents. In the new millennium the house was sold and finally razed to the ground to become a car park. The house of my childhood only exists in a secure corner of my memory but its every room tells a story and every picture and piece of furniture is laden with memories. I do visit the house in my dreams. Although many who lived there are no more, I can still picture them with their traits and mannerisms.

There are times I wish to return to my school where I spent my formative years. I was a boarder. Being there day and night those memories of my life are deeply etched in my memory. The school has had its ups and downs but have survived the rigors of time. The boarding sadly does not exist anymore. Despite the years, friends I made there remain close to me today.  I love to walk its long corridors and visit the classrooms. Although much has changed in the landscape and the buildings, I still see it as it was during my years of the 1950’s.

The faculty of medicine in Colombo was where I learnt my trade and made many friends for life. Its lively common room and canteen and the many lecture theatres were home to me for 5 long years. I recall the stress and strain and the anxiety of examinations, but its agony and torment left me many years ago. The wards and the long corridors of the General Hospital Colombo were so much a part of my life that I still think and remember those happy years.

It is the people that make a country. They bring cultural richness, create traditions, and establish the nation's identity. Working at the General Hospital in Kurunegala I came across the people of the Wanni. Despite their poverty and harsh lives their humility, kindness and generosity have been a beacon to me. I still remember the tears, smiles and all the human emotions in between, of those who were my patients. I do hope the passage of years and the efforts of successive governments have made their lives better and easier.

Food is one of the most powerful triggers for memory making it a primary way people remember home and significant life moments. Sri Lankan cuisine is well known the world over, but my memory is of the wonderful food cooked at home by my mother. The cooked young Jak fruit called “polos ambula” is the one that comes easily to mind. When I am in a Sri Lankan restaurant in London the smell and taste of food transports me across the vast oceans and swathes of land to where I was born and to my beloved mother.

It was in 1960 that the French chanteuse, Edith Piaf sang “Non, je ne regrette rien” (No regrets). She did so with so much passion and feeling. But regrets, sadly, are just a part of life. The few regrets I have do surface from time to time, but the years have mellowed them to be just another memory. I am happy I have made a good life for myself in the country of my choice. The country where I was born and its many images of its people and places will continue to remain an important part of me.

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. 

LEAVING HOME TO RETURN HOME: Srianee Dias

LEAVING HOME TO RETURN HOME

Srianee Dias

What is the definition of Home? During the past few months, this question has been swirling in my mind, searching for answers.  

No doubt the place where one is raised, however humble, is always home. But often, with time, this home becomes a memory, and it is not possible to return. Is it always a place? A geographical location?

Home is also defined by the people who nurtured and protected us, as well as the childhood companions who populated our childhood. Some of us were lucky to have a few of these childhood friends accompany us all the way to adulthood.  I have been lucky that way.

       Several of us left these familiar places and our families to work in other distant lands.   We established roots, made new friends, and raised our families in these places, which in time became home to us. As our children grew we became involved in the overlapping circles of their lives and our lives. In my mind the home I raised my daughters gradually ceased to be “home” after they moved away and established homes of their own.

     After they moved out, I found myself rattling around in a rather large house, which required care and maintenance.  I found these chores took time away from the things I really enjoyed doing. This got me thinking and finally acting on “downsizing,” as many other wise people do, after retirement.  I began to taste the freedom of a simpler life and was able to escape the unpleasant, sometimes hazardous New England winters. 

    Spending the winter months in Sri Lanka got me thinking about what it would be like to move back, although it was still a remote possibility.  This idea kept cropping up in family conversations for many years until my younger daughter finally said, “Mom, you’ve been talking about moving back to Sri Lanka for a long time, what’s holding you back?” My thought was, “It’s a lot of work and planning, that’s what is holding me back!”  Her question, however,  prompted me to do some soul searching, working out the logistics, and finally, the hard work began.

     The hard reality was that my daughters lived far away from me, and in the event of an emergency, it would take more than 24 hours for either of them to reach me.  Thankfully, my siblings are still living in Colombo and the suburbs. In addition, I have a whole tribe of cousins, nieces and nephews, as well as many friends, some going back to my days in kindergarten!  I felt lucky to have such a supportive network.  Even though the places of my childhood had changed, not always for the better, many of the people who made it “Home” are still around, older and wiser.

     My friends in the US will be sorely missed, but thanks to WhatsApp, they are just a phone call away.  Visits are being planned, and it is possible that I will boost the tourist industry in Sri Lanka by a few decimal points!

  Aside from my friends, there are many things that I will miss about living here.  I will definitely miss being able to drive myself whenever I please to wherever I please.  The day I returned my leased car was a very sad day for me. Perhaps, at 81, it was time to turn in my car keys anyway. I know several older friends who only stopped driving after they had minor accidents - thankfully just “fender benders.”  So far, Kangaroo Cabs has worked out well for me.

  I will miss the small theatre that shows independent movies, where the lobby had artwork by local artists, where one could easily pop in alone to see a movie without feeling awkward.

    On the positive side, it is a great source of comfort to know that I have family members living just one floor below me in the same apartment building. If I hadn’t moved, I would be growing older, alone in Connecticut, and that thought is rather depressing!

     Yesterday, while enjoying the Indian Women’s Cricket Team's victory over the South Africans, I realised another benefit: I now have access to a lot of cricket on TV.  Something I did not have in Connecticut!

Memories: Nihal D Amerasekera

Memories: By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

Memory, all alone in the moonlight
I can smile of the old days
I was beautiful then
I remember the time I knew what happiness was
Let the memory live again  

- From the popular musical CATS by Andrew Lloyd-Webber -

As an only child, I have always been a dreamer. I enjoyed my own company. Retirement gave me the luxury of free time to think, reflect and delve into the archives of my memory. When I need solitude, solace and sanctuary my rocking chair has become my silent companion. The chair must have some magic to bring peace to my soul. There are times I reflect lazily on the twists and turns of my life, and there were many. It is a perfect posture to meditate, ruminate and cogitate. I am partial to a glass of wine to help lubricate my thoughts.

Memories of Sri Lanka where I grew up are always with me. What stands out is my deep and lasting gratitude to my country for giving me the education at school and University. I couldn’t have had a better education anywhere else in the world. It is some comfort and consolation that I worked as a doctor for 7 years in Sri Lanka.

My mind often returns to our ancestral home in Kegalle. My earliest recollection of this remarkable abode is of the late 1940’s. Ashley Hall, as it was called, was built on the side of a hill and was akin to an English Manor House. This dignified house was hidden away from the road by a tall well-trimmed Hibiscus hedge. There was a lovely, manicured lawn in front. The elegant rose garden evoked a sense of romance, beauty, and serenity. Even now whenever I smell roses it takes me back to those happy times. The lounge was beautifully carpeted and had a couple of chandeliers and a grand piano. It was a standard ritual to gather round the radio in the evenings. Amidst the hiss and the crackle, we listened to the Ashes cricket via the BBC World Service. There was a His Masters Voice (HMV) winding gramophone which played 78 RPM vinyl records. That was a symbol of affluence in those days. I have always considered Ashley Hall as my spiritual and ancestral home.

After moving to England, it was not until 1988 when I revisited Ashley Hall again. With the passage of years, the older folk had passed away. The young owners had moved away to the metropolis.  Ashley Hall was rented to a Government Department. It was sad to see the house and garden in such decline. The turf had been dug up and the roses were gone. As I stepped into the house, there was an all-pervading eerie silence. It broke my heart to see the dereliction. The caretaker took us round. It was all too much for me. I told the man I spent my childhood there. He seemed to know the past too. The caretaker has seen apparitions in the house and hears music and voices at night. They all say that of old houses. Many yesterdays of my youth are buried in Ashley Hall.

As a teenager I was an avid reader of the Doctor series of books authored by Richard Gordon. He glamorised the lives of young doctors beyond measure. The story was focused on the trials of medical students at St Swithin’s hospital, London, taught by the egocentric and irascible chief surgeon Sir Lancelot Spratt. As I look back, although ‘Doctor in the House’ was a part comedy, there were many similarities to our lives at medical school. It is hard to quantify how much of this flashy and enchanting depiction of a doctor’s life influenced me to take up medicine as a career.

The University Entrance examination for entry into medicine was one of the toughest of all tests. I like to think only the very best cleared the hurdle and those who were successful were the crème de la crème!!

My life changed forever as I entered the Faculty of Medicine in Colombo. Much of 1962 remains a haze. I recall with great nostalgia that life then was a dream. It was hard to handle the adulation and keep my feet on the ground. I developed a sinister arrogance and an assured sense of entitlement. I dreamed of living happily ever after. But life always has ways to bring us back to reality!! The rest as they say is history.

Ours was the golden age of medical education in Sri Lanka. The General Hospital Colombo (GHC) with its iconic long corridors was our workshop where we learnt our trade. I feel greatly privileged to have been taught by some remarkable teachers. It was indeed a hard grind. The tough life gave us self-reliance, confidence, grit and determination. The great heights our batch-mates have reached in almost every sphere of medicine reflect on the quality of teaching we received. 

Those were our formative years, and we were all in it together. The common room was the social hub of the faculty. It was also our retreat and shelter from the storms of faculty life. I still remember with nostalgia the booze, the baila and the bawdy songs at those parties in the Men’s Common Room. Our sojourn in the faculty ended with the final year trip. After being wined and dined most lavishly by medics we returned to Colombo with croaky voices and sore heads. Those wonderful few days of merrymaking will never be forgotten. In 1967 came our great dispersal. We started our internships that went as swiftly as a hurricane. We then began the enormous task of building our careers. 

Politically the country was in turmoil. “Go West young man” was the mantra that appealed to many. The country’s sagging economy did not give us much faith or hope. One of the greatest triumphs in life is to pursue one's dreams. Many dispersed far and wide in search of work and opportunity. Those who left the country entered the Darwinian struggle of survival of the fittest. 

I was one of the few in our batch that didn’t want to leave Sri Lanka. My aim was to be a DMO far away from the big city. The Department of Health in their wisdom, gave me a post in the Central Blood Bank, Colombo. Although these were considered as dead-end jobs, its attraction was the luxury of being in Colombo. This great institution then became the centre of my universe.  I accepted its quirks, idiosyncrasies and oddities as a part of working life. Here, I was happy to be close to my parents. 

This was also a time of great turmoil in my life. I recall with overwhelming sadness the personal problems that made me run away from the country of my birth. For a time, I was a drifter and found solace in the Health Department Sports Club. On evenings, there were many regulars who joined me. We talked politics, philosophy, careers and a multitude of other fascinating subjects. Those discussions were made immensely compelling by the amber nectar. I did value their friendship. 

The qualifying examination for physicians is the Membership of the Royal College of Physicians (MRCP). Holding the part 1 of this examination for the first time in Colombo gave me the impetus to study again. With great difficulty I buckled down to some hard study. With my personal problems behind me I looked for a fresh start to my life and a change of environment. I left Sri Lanka to complete my part 2 of the MRCP. I was successful in the examination much sooner than I thought. This changed my outlook and gave me a new life.

It was in 1960 that Edith Piaf sang “Non, je ne regrette rien” (No regrets). She did so with so much passion and feeling. But regrets, sadly, are a part of life. I still have deep regrets for not being there for my parents in their time of need. I do miss my extended family in Sri Lanka enormously and have paid a heavy price for my desire to live and work abroad. I wasn’t present for the births, weddings and deaths of those most dear to me. I am now a stranger to the new generation born during my absence. I feel a foreigner in the country of my birth as Sri Lanka has moved forward in leaps and bounds, despite the destructive forces of a long ethnic conflict and the endless economic crises. Although I live happily in England, I have left my heart in that beautiful island of my birth and the land of my fore-fathers.

Meanwhile in London, I chose to become a Radiologist. After my arduous training I found a job in a leafy suburb in rural Hertfordshire. My wife and I moved into a brand-new house and we became its first occupants. We created a little "Walawwa", far from the madding crowd. The backyard that was a muddy patch was converted to a fine lawn. Elegant flowerbeds gave us colour all year round. As the years rolled by, I spent many long summer evenings seated in the garden sipping wine and allowing my thoughts to drift into those happy times of my childhood.

Chiu was born in Hong Kong and arrived in England before me to complete her training. It is said marriages are made in heaven. Perhaps they are, but we live our lives on this earth surrounded by disputes, disagreements and difficulties in amongst a great deal of love, laughter and contentment. Chiu and I have managed to be together for 49 years. Our cultures could not be more divergent. We spoke different languages and ate different food. As is often said, marriage is a compromise - and we both had to change, and we did. Our differences strengthened our relationship. We have given life to our boys, bringing them up the best way we knew. Our love for them made many of our differences melt away. Chiu is a loving wife, mother, grandmother and friend to many - and much, much more.

When Steve and Andrew were babies, Chiu was a wonderful mother. She still is. The love, care and attention, given at all times of the day and night, remain so fresh in my mind. I remember the deep love that Chiu showed the boys when they were babies - helpless, mewling, and puking in her arms. I still can feel the warmth of those melodious Chinese lullabies Chiu sang to them, as they fell asleep. Thinking about parenthood brings back a spectrum of emotions and a myriad of memories. Although this happened only a couple of decades ago, it is like being caught up in a reverie of times now long gone.

My professional career and the children’s education took precedence. My wife gave up her own career as a Nursing Sister to care for the kids. She ferried them to school and back. Children’s activities usurped our time and energy. Both boys worked hard to complete their education at Cambridge University. Their success was our joy which we recall with great delight.

Chiu and I have travelled the world together and been to every continent. Wherever we went on holiday it was our ritual to bring back a memento. A collection of those adorned the mantelpiece and the windowsills. Reading has been my joy since I was a kid, a habit which has passed on to my offspring. The resultant collection was a fine library. Computers have been my hobby. Apple Macs whirred away deep into the night. Their detritus filled every corner of my study.

When the children left home we had an empty nest. A "Walawwa", however magical it may sound, is not the place for an ageing couple in their retirement. Keeping such a place in good shape even with help is tiring and time consuming. Moving to live in a smaller space is euphemistically called downsizing. We took the hard decision to move into a small apartment just enough for the two of us. It is often said moving house is as traumatic as a divorce. I wouldn’t disagree. Downsizing helps to concentrate one’s mind to what is important in life. Much of what we owned were given away to charities. We come into this world with nothing, and we leave with nothing. What happens in between is a journey and its memory evaporates into thin air as it ends. After all the next move, will be our final rest.

London is a place of fun, which we can still enjoy. Visits to the museums, galleries, concerts and the theatre fills our time with joy. It is said if you are tired of London you are tired of life - how very true. There is so much on offer.

It was more through luck than judgment I found my nest for life. Living in an apartment requires a different mindset. The block is a community, although not a close one. Everyone is busy with their own lives. We hardly know our neighbours. There are house rules - some written and others implied. There are also civic and social responsibilities. We must respect others’ privacy while sharing the space. Looking through the window at night, I see the geometrically arranged lights of the surrounding blocks. This creates its own beauty. Each light represents people with their own lives, joys and sorrows - all a part of the rich tapestry of life.

Que Sera Sera - Whatever will be will be. Since Doris Day sang this song in the Alfred Hitchcock film of 1956 its poignant lyrics have stayed with me for its glaring honesty of the uncertainties of life. I have often attributed this curious twist of fate to the awesome force of destiny. This my narrative ends as I started, reaching for my glass of wine to end my day dizzy and delightful.

Adventures in Transport. Suriyakanthie Amarasekera

Adventures in Transport by Suriyakanthie Amarasekera

(This is really interesting, and I urge you to read it right to the end. Speedy)

Suri - then and now

Hi Everybody, I do not have Lama’s fantastic recall of my “Graduation in Transport”. So instead, I thought I would share some of my experiences in transport over the years, which you may find interesting.

Pajero Jeep

"Our first car was a Skoda, which we bought second-hand in 1972". I remember that it broke down at Bambalapitiya junction, when we were on our way to watch a Sinhala Drama at the Elphinstone ( I think it was “Suba saha Yasa”) I was heavily pregnant at the time, but I got down and attempted to push the car, with Mahendra at the wheel. In no time at all, about five males rushed up and helped me. They pushed the car into Laurie's Road, where Dr Kumar Fernando lived, and we proceeded to our destination with time to spare, in a taxi.

"When we went to the UK in 1975, our first car was a Vauxhall Victor with a bench seat in front". I was able to keep my daughter Manique beside me and put the seat belt across both of us while Mahendra was driving. We were delighted to receive an invitation to the Buckingham Palace Garden Party in July 1978. Mahendra drove to Buck House in our trusty old Vauxhall Victor to the allotted car park, and parked among Rolls-Royces, Jaguars and other gleaming posh vehicles. As we got down, steam started pouring out of the bonnet! The cop who was there was very nice and asked if we had come a long way. He said it happened to two other vehicles as well.

He advised us to let the engine cool down and then top up the radiator. We were carrying water in our boot, so we were not worried

"I wanted to get my British Driving License, so I took the U K Driving test" To my utter consternation, I failed it twice! The first time, I admit I was not up to standard. But the second time, I did what I was sure was a perfect run and failed again! The reasons given for failing me were “not keeping well over to the left” (It was a time of closure of schools, and there were children walking on the edge of the road) and “not looking sufficiently in the driving mirror !” I have a wider visual field than usual, probably due to my bone structure, and I don’t have to swivel my head to look in the driving mirror. I found out that this was the same guy who had failed me the first time. Then, to my fury, I found that on the same day, this same chap had passed my British white skinned fellow Anaesthetic Registrar from King's College, who confessed to having driven over the curb, hit a dustbin, and completely fouled up the 3-point manoeuvre.

I also recalled that this chap also asked me whether I can speak and understand English, in spite of the fact that I had been chatting to him while I escorted him to my car, which was parked a little distance away from the test centre, apologising for making him walk in the hot sun! So, I wrote to the Motor Traffic Department, naming him and requesting that they avoid allocating me to him again, as I have reason to believe that he was racially prejudiced. I was so upset that I didn’t want to take the test again, but on second thought, I had never given up on anything in my life, and I didn’t want to do so now. Thank God I passed on my 3^rd attempt. Incidentally, the British Driving Test is the only test\ exam that I failed to pass on the first attempt!

"Mahendra bought me a bright red Datsun 100A (Cherry) in 1978, from another Sri Lankan". I loved it because it was so easy to drive and park. It was a two-door car, so I could put Manique and Shaan in the back seat and not worry that they would fall out. Mahendra meanwhile was given an official car by his company a gleaming black Daimler Sovereign which I was not allowed to touch!

"We had decided to return to Sri Lanka in 1981 and were thinking of disposing of the Datsun, when fate took an unexpected turn". Mahendra used to drive to Kings to pick me up whenever I was working late, and the children loved to jump into the car in their pyjamas. On that fateful day, they were glued to the TV watching one of their favourite programs and refused to accompany Mahendra. On the way to KCH , Mahendra met with a nasty crash . 

A motorcyclist driving in the opposite direction at high speed,

Datsun smash

completely on the wrong side of the road, crashed head-on with our car. The rider was flung up towards the windscreen, bounced off the roof and fell off at the back. Just imagine if his trajectory was just 6 inches lower, a booted, helmeted missile travelling at about 60 mph would have struck Mahendra full on his face and probably broken his neck! The motorbike rider escaped with just a fracture of his Femur, but the car was a right off and had to be towed to the graveyard! I shudder to think what would have happened to the kids had they been in the car, because they would have been thrown forward violently. It was a blessing in disguise, as we got full insurance payment.

"Back in Sri Lanka, we had several vehicles, and in 1985, Mahendra bought a red Pajero Jeep with the distinctive registration number 41 Sri 222 from the then Minister of Sports", Mr. Vincent Perera. It was the very first batch of Pajeros imported to Sri Lanka. It had been registered as a lorry, but I was able to drive it as my British Driving License permitted me to drive heavy vehicles. I remember the first time I drove it to Jayawardanepura Hospital; all the consultants came to the car park to admire it. During the height of JVP activity when they banned public transport on certain days, I used to pick up hospital workers on the way, and once had 15 passengers with me driving, which must be a record. It’s a wonder that I was not shot at!

Suri and Mahendra and red Pajero

"I recall that in the late eighties, St Thomas College had a fundraiser Sponsored Triathlon". They walked from College to SSC, swam a couple of lengths in the pool and cycled back to college. We had a Video Camera (again, one of the first models to be available in SL. It was a huge contraption with a separate battery pack that had to be slung on the shoulder). The Warden, Mr. Neville de Alwis, asked Mahendra to Video record the event. So, I had the privilege of driving the Pajero, with Mahendra sitting at the back with the rear door open, filming. We were able to get a lovely video of the event, which we were privileged to present to the Warden.

"Recalling an amusing anecdote, I remember driving along Alan Avenue (Zoo Road) at 5.00 am to attend to a Caesarian Section", in my Trad Sunny when my headlights caught a huge dog running in the middle of the road. It galloped in front of me for about 100 yards, and suddenly it turned into a garden by the side of the road. The next day, the Newspaper headlines declared that a bear had escaped from the Zoo early in the morning!   Imagine the shock of the house owner when he opened his front door to see a bear in his verandah!!

"As I have mentioned in an earlier entry, I have trouble remembering car registration numbers". Mahendra used his connections as the Chief Legal Officer of the CTB to get me numbers that could be easily remembered, like 6393, 2020, 0505,0606 over the years, whenever we purchased a car using the Doctors Import Permit.

"During the 30-year separatist war, the Jayawardanepura Hospital was identified as the hospital to treat all war casualties". The soldiers were brought on a fixed-wing craft to Ratmalana, and then taken by Ambulance to our hospital. As this caused an unacceptable delay in treating the critically wounded, a Helipad was built on the hospital grounds. 

"One day I got an urgent call around 10.00 pm that several critically injured soldiers had been air lifted and asking me to come asap". I managed to drive to SJGH in Kotte, from Hill Street Dehiwela in 14 minutes flat! Don’t ask me how! The worst injured was a young soldier named Ramawickrama, who had horrendous injuries to his right arm and leg. Everybody present was of the view that the limbs were beyond salvaging and advised the surgeon to amputate both. But we were determined to do better than our best, and after 22 operations, including multiple wound debridements, bone grafting and plating, skin grafting, he walked home with just a slight limp and a 30-degree flexion deformity of his right elbow. The surgeon and I were jubilant! A human side to this saga, Ramawickrama’s girlfriend, fearing that he would end up a cripple, deserted him. Needless to say, he was devastated and became depressed, refused to eat and became suicidal. It took our combined efforts to keep his spirits up. It had a beautiful, happy ending. His Physiotherapist, Renu, fell in love with him, and they got married. With the help of the then army commander Nalin Seneviratne, who was my friend, they were able to emigrate to the USA.

"On the 31st of January 1996, the Tamil Tigers drove a lorry full of explosives into the Central Bank building", in broad daylight, causing extensive damage to it and killing a total of 80 persons, of which 41 were Central Bank employees, and seriously injuring a couple of hundred others. We watched in horror as it was telecast on TV. I was so worried about the safety of my older brother, J ED Karunaratne, who was a Thomian and the Head of Bank Supervision CB . Having failed to contact him by phone, I decided to drive to NHSL to search for him. The scene at NHSL was chaotic. After looking for Aiya in the wards, corridors, and OT lobby in the ETU for almost half an hour, I began to feel desperate. A nurse at the reception of the ETU said, "There are several brought in dead; they are behind that curtain ".

I was summoning up courage to look when I heard a shout, "Madam!" I spun round to see a  Surgical Registrar running towards me. He said that he had met my brother in a medical ward and had been asked to send me a message. I was so relieved. I rushed to the ward to find Aiya, with his face and left axilla covered in bandages, looking rather dazed but conscious and rational. He said he had been sutured by a young doctor, without local anaesthesia, who kept apologising for hurting him, and who said that he has not sutured any patient for many years!  I had no hesitation in deciding to take him to J Pura. So, having failed to get an ambulance for transport, I borrowed a wheelchair and took him to my car. I reclined the passenger seat as far as it would go, and having strapped him in, started driving back to Kotte, with my hazard lights blinking.

"Again, the traffic was unbelievable, but many vehicles gave way, and two young chaps on motorbikes even escorted me part of the way". My colleagues at Jpura, including the surgeon, radiologist, and haematologist, were waiting to help me. Aiya was taken straight to the OT. I anaesthetised him, and it took the surgeon 2 hours to stitch the multiple lacerations on his face. Then he thought it best to have a look at the axillary wound, and to our horror, found that a sharp splinter of glass, triangular in shape and about 4 inches in length, was sitting on his brachial artery, pulsating with every heartbeat. My blood ran cold, to think that just a few mm deeper, would have cost Aiya his life through a massive haemorrhage... and it could have happened even while I was transporting him in my car!

"One Sunday in church during intercessory prayers", the Worship Leader suddenly mentioned our names Mahendra and Kanthie and said that he was moved to pray for our safety in the coming week. Needless to say, I was embarrassed and was actually annoyed that he drew everybody’s attention to us. The very next day Monday, Mahendra picked me up from hospital around 10.00 am (it was a day of the Provincial Council Elections).

"We were driving home along Alan Avenue (Zoo Road)", when a car driven at high speed cut across from a side road (de Sampaya Road ) and hit the passenger side of the car. Mahendra lost control as the steering got locked, and the car was heading straight at a lamp post on the opposite side of the road. I was thrown against the wind screen (silly me I was not wearing a seat belt) I was dazed, and my last conscious thought was that I’ll never see my children again. The car got entangled in the stabilising wire, which cut through the engine and came to a halt just a few inches from the lamp post. I was rushed to SJGH by ambulance and admitted to the ICU unconscious. But thank God, recovered completely with no serious side effects except recurrent headaches which lasted a couple of months. The car was only six months old and was a right off. But we got full insurance payment and were even allowed to import another car using the same import permit. Who says miracles don’t happen!

"I have accompanied critically ill patients needing transport by ambulance several times, both here in Sri Lanka and in the UK." Of these, two instances are worthy of mention. One evening I was gardening, wearing rather tatty clothes and rubber slippers, when I got a frantic call from a Paediatrician, asking me to come asap, because one of his patients had collapsed while in consultation. In those days, I always carried resuscitation equipment in the boot of my car. So, I grabbed my car keys and drove to the Medical Centre Dehiwela in just a few minutes. I found an unconscious cyanosed child who was not breathing. I was able to intubate her, and soon she picked up and became conscious. We decided to admit her to LRH, so I accompanied her in the ambulance (inappropriately dressed as I was). I kept tabs on her over the years and, to my relief, ascertained that she had normal mental and physical development.

"In another rather unusual situation, I was asked by a Neurosurgeon to fly out to the Maldives", to accompany a French Tourist who had had a black out, with a suspected ICH, keep her overnight in the ICU at SJGH, till they organised the Swiss Air Ambulance to take her back to her homeland. So again, I had to accompany the patient with airway equipment on the ready from the Maldives to Sri Lanka and hand her over to the Air Ambulance crew the next day.    

As most of you know, I had a fall in June 2018 and needed a left Total Hip Replacement. I had always had cars with manual gears, but found it difficult to drive after my surgery, so I bought a Toyota Vitz with automatic gears, which is so easy to drive, though it is a much smaller car than I’ve had before.

"Though I’ve had several rides in ambulances, I never bargained that I would be a patient needing Ambulance transport one day". In 2021, I slipped and fell heavily on my operated hip and dislocated my prosthesis. The pain was excruciating, and I just had to lie on the floor till the ambulance came. When the ambulance crew found my BP to be 200/180, they were alarmed and wanted to take me to Colombo South Teaching Hospital, which is only about a 10-minute drive away. I managed to persuade them to take me to SJGH, which is like my second home. I only needed an MUA, though, unlike the first time, I now have a slight limp and a dull ache in my Left hip towards the end of the day. But I can still drive, and I am so happy to be able to help with the transport of the grands, particularly to STC which is so close. 

"However, I’ve given up driving after dark except in an emergency like last month". Shaan gave me a frantic call from the Lionel Wendt Theatre at 6.50 pm asking me to bring in a prop he had left behind - a milk can which he needed to sit on at the start of the song “If I Were a Rich Man” from “Fiddler on the Roof”. The show was due to start at 7.30 pm. I just leapt into the car and drove as fast as I could, praying that I won’t meet with an accident as there was heavy traffic at that time, and praise God, I managed to get to LWT by 7.25pm!

Suri

A Blast from the Past. Nihal D Amerasekera

A Blast from the Past

Nihal D Amerasekera

1962 seems like a long time ago. My life changed forever as I entered the Faculty and much of what happened then remains a haze. There are a few memories that still remain. Life then was a dream. It was hard to handle the adulation and keep my feet on the ground. I developed a sinister arrogance and an assured sense of entitlement. I dreamed of living happily ever after. Life always has ways to bring us back to reality!! The rest, as they say, is history. 

Those were our formative years and we were all in it together. The hard toil and the trauma of those five years brought us closer. Our batch of 150+ students showed tremendous unity and loyalty to the batch. Most of what I remember now are the good times. I still recall with nostalgia the booze, baila and the bawdy songs at those MSU parties in the Common Room.

As I snuggle up in my rocking chair by the heater, I can hear the wind howling outside. It’s a bitterly cold -1C.  In the warmth of my chair, many memories of the past flash through my mind. One that stands out this foggy morning is our very first evening booze-up in the common room, perhaps to iron out, forgive and forget the indiscretions of the rag just completed. The Common room was common only to the men in those distant days. The booze flowed freely the singing became louder and the dancing became more vigorous as the evening wore on. We were then raw green freshers enjoying the event when a final year student R.L Tambyraja walked in through a dark corridor. He was smart, charismatic and eloquent. He ushered in a group of us into the corner by the billiard table and started to singing “Come and see the wild west show, Elephant and the kangaroo, never mind the weather as long as we are together, come and see the wild west show.”  And he went on and on with his beautiful singing voice.

This is an episode I have remembered since those halcyon days 63 years ago. I have always wondered what happened to RL Tambyraja and how life panned out
for him. Life was hectic with marriage and bringing up children and pandering to my new career in radiology. When finally I was relieved of my onerous duties, I managed to find out more about RL Tambyraja. He was a fine product of that school by the sea, St Thomas’ College Mt Lavinia. During an illustrious school career, he was appointed as the Head Prefect of the school. After a fine academic career at the Faculty of Medicine  Colombo, he proceeded to the UK and qualified as an Obstetrician and Gynaecologist.  After some years in Sri Lanka, he emigrated to Singapore, where he worked as a Consultant.  He became a greatly respected Obstetrician who contributed enormously to the maternity services in Singapore.  He made many erudite contributions to the academic journals. Dr R.L Tambyraja became Professor in Obstetrics and Gynaecology in Singapore. He was better known as Ranjithan Tambyraja. He passed away aged 70 years in 2008. 

Photo from The 2nd AGM of the Perinatal Society of Singapore, Executive Board Members 1990/1991, held on 24 Feb 1990

The wistful musings of a reluctant émigré by Nihal D Amerasekera

The wistful musings of a reluctant émigré

By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

It has been a cold and wet winter in London. As I snuggle-up in my rocking chair to write my thoughts I can hear the wind howling outside. The raindrops are carried horizontally by the strong south-westerly wind battering the window panes and dripping down in torrents.

I still have grateful memories of a happy 12 years at Wesley College. The school on Karlsruhe Hill was established with missionary zeal and some colonial vigour but it catered for all Ceylonese. The school became the cradle of multiculturalism. Protected from the polarised world outside, it remained secular and was driven by merit. Since the very beginning, Wesley has strived hard to become a modern, forward-thinking school. The school has a strong record of academic achievements and a full programme of wider life activities, including the arts and sports.

The school’s sesquicentennial anniversary has come and gone. One hundred and fifty years of life of a school is a huge achievement in this era of survival of the fittest. Longevity arises partly from good fortune but mostly from sustained effort. I left school in April 1962 to seek that elusive fame and fortune. They both have eluded me since!!

I was unable to attend any of the functions and events of this great occasion. Living in London, the journey, including a long flight, was too arduous to attempt. Age-related infirmities have caught up with me. I have done the next best thing, to watch on social media the unfolding of a prodigious chain of events. There weren’t many from my generation present as some have departed this world. The dinners and dances were vibrant, colourful and full of fun. The young enjoyed it to their hearts content. Many of my contemporaries boogied the night away taking longer breaks to catch their breath. There is a message in all this. Do what you can when you are fit and able.

The camaraderie was there for all to see with smaller reunions and gatherings prior to the main dinner and dance at the Shangri-La Hotel. When old boys come together, they move into recollection mode, recalling those beautiful, quirky moments of their youth. There is never a dull moment. Voices are imitated, mannerisms mimicked, and idiosyncrasies enhanced. Long forgotten episodes of school life suddenly spring to mind, bringing laughter, affection, and sadness. As the wine and conversation flowed, they are transported back many decades bringing forth those warm feelings of the lost years. The last to leave often provided a lusty rendition of the old school song.

We spend our formative and impressionable years at school. It has created an Aladdin's cave of wondrous memories. The sands of time have moved on as I have progressed from youth to middle age and beyond. Those memories of friends and fun seemed to be stored and archived to last a lifetime. The stored memories resurface each time I visit the old school and walk the long corridors again. The Great Hall is a remarkable place for nostalgia. When I sit in silence beneath the high teak ceiling surrounded by gorgeous Victorian stained-glass windows, the school song seems to resonate in the distance. It is not easy to hold back the tears. The intensity of the occasion is often overwhelming. As I live so far away beyond the horizon, this for me is a special treat.

It was cricket that unified us all. Playing and watching the game was one of the most enjoyable things of my time at Wesley. A tangle of emotions tumble through my mind as I reflect on watching cricket under the mara trees at Campbell Park. For the students at Wesley College, Campbell Park has been the cradle of all sports. But the school has never owned the park. It is on a short lease reluctantly extended, each time, by the Colombo Municipal Council. During the Anniversary Dinner at the Shangri-la, successive speakers pleaded with the President of Sri Lanka, who was an honoured guest, to handover the park to the school. It is true these are not issues that could be resolved over dinner. The promise was to say “I will see what I can do”. However, we can but dream of a good outcome.

We all hate change and often hear the laments "the school is not what it used to be" or “It is not as good as it was”. This is more a nostalgic vision of a mystical, non-existent past. Schools are places of endemic change. Every year new students join and those who have left go farther on life's journey outside the school gates. We must change with time. The school has changed and have done so maintaining our links with our glorious past. We have kept the old traditions whilst embracing the innovative and modern. Rejuvenation and modernisation are a continuous process. It would be dismissive to say that the changes thus far have procured no benefit.

Since my time the landscape surrounding the school too has changed beyond recognition. The narrow Baseline road of my day of Morris Minor cabs and red Leyland buses has given way to a busy dual carriageway of faster traffic. The view of the Welikada Prison and its perimeter fence seem to be unchanged. Being so close to the prison for over a decade I had often peered into the distance allowing my mind to wander inside. For many of us the prison is a dark and mysterious place. Very few knew what happened behind those grim iron gates. To us the inmates were criminals, desperate and dangerous. Being a place of punishment, the isolation and the years of incarceration was a burden to endure. The humiliation, suffering and the lack of privacy must have been soul destroying. The solitary confinement could have broken their spirit. At the end of their ordeal how on earth did they face the world again?

While living abroad it is much harder to keep abreast of all the changes taking place in an ever-evolving school. Much of the lawns, shrubs and trees have disappeared to give way to the new buildings and a swimming pool. Although these changes were needed, to old fogeys like me it seems like a desecration of what we knew and remembered of the old school. I wish I could turn back the clock, just for a brief moment, to enjoy what it was like in the 1950’s to see the well-manicured lawns and the colourful flowers in pergolas. The flamboyant trees in full bloom in the month of May was a sight never to be missed.

In this fractured and troubled world, what we seek more than anything is a sense of belonging, a feeling that we are part of a community of like-minded souls. Despite this it is ironic how many of the rising generation of students after having received a fine education, leave the school never to set foot on those hallowed grounds ever again. It amazes me that even those old boys who live in Sri Lanka and some living in Colombo have never been to the school premises as past students. In the endless whirr of 24/7 life of the 21st Century it is perhaps easy to forget our formative years. Some must have jolly good reasons to do so.

The school has thus far survived the rapids of two destructive World Wars and many political and economic upheavals. I shudder to think what the next 100 years will bring to the school and to us humans. With artificial intelligence there may not be a need for a school!! People will most certainly live longer and may even emigrate to distant planets. With the current trends and the serious consequences of global warming, there are doubts about the existence of life on our planet that far ahead. That distant future is beyond anyone’s comprehension. Meanwhile, let us take care of our planet and be happy and content with what we have now. 

Note from Speedy: There were a total of 166 in the batch (including 11 who came from Peradeniya). There were 107 gentlemen and 59 ladies (including 4 from Peradeniya).

Musings in the winter- Nihal D Amarasekera

Musings in the winter – a compilation of thoughts

Nihal D Amerasekera

It is once again the time of the year when the winter storms batter my windows. I snuggle up in my rocking chair allowing my mind to wander. Those thoughts reflect lazily on the twists and turns of my life’s fandango. It is also a time to appreciate the good things in life also to be critical of the things that are wrong. The chair provides a perfect posture to meditate, ruminate and cogitate about the world around me. I am partial to a tot of whisky, in medicinal amount, to help lubricate my thoughts, just taken neat as the makers recommended. 

This is my second stint in London. After spending eight gruelling but fulfilling years studying Radiology in the 1970’s I moved away to a leafy suburb in Hertfordshire. As my professional tenure ended, leaving my rural idyll was a heartbreak. Still, there is fun to be had in the big city with a kaleidoscope of culture, museums, art galleries and music venues. In the words of Wordsworth: “An eye to perceive, a heart to enjoy.” Being retired I now live in an apartment in a block of flats. Living in a flat requires a different mindset. The block is a community, although not a close one. Everyone is busy with their own lives. We hardly know our neighbours. There are house rules - some written and others implied. There are also civic and social responsibilities. We must respect others’ privacy while sharing the space. Looking through the window at night, I see the geometrically arranged lights of the surrounding blocks. This creates its own beauty. Each light represents people with their own lives, joys and sorrows - we are all a part of the rich tapestry of life. 

We, humans, have caused global warming. Glaciers are melting, sea levels are rising, forests and wildlife are dying. There is a sense of foreboding of an impending apocalypse. Cop26  has come and gone. Humanity is undergoing an existential crisis. As we defer, delay and prevaricate, time is running out. Something has to be done sooner rather than later. The days of being next to the warm glow of a real fire is fast fading.  Burning wood and coal harms the environment. Fossil fuel power stations are being run down. The promise of a better tomorrow is enticing. While the renewable sources of energy take on the slack the cost of heating and electricity have skyrocketed. Whenever I complain about the bitter cold people remind me that I have left the heat and sunshine in the tropical paradise where I was born!!!! 

Politics is the bane of society. But we need politicians. Despite political upheavals, coup d’état and insurrections, Sri Lanka has remained a democracy. The quality of life has improved for the majority including healthcare and education. The villagers now have a voice. But as a country, we are not where we should be and yet much still needs to be done.  The origins of the art and science of governance is not clear. But sleaze, corruption and criminality in politics is old as the hills.  Extreme power and control over people corrupt and destroy societies and lives. But we never seem to learn from history. As I look around there is not a single country in the world where politics is clean as intended. In the West, there is unacceptable political corruption, but it lies below the surface and far less conspicuous. In some countries bribery, deceit and deception are accepted as the norm. This causes tremendous hardship to the people. Some Politicians aren’t true to their conscience. They will in the fullness of time lose their power and with it the respect, recognition and reverence which they yearn and crave for so much. 

There is a high level of economic inequality in the world which is shocking and obscene, and it is getting worse. People have long dreamt of an egalitarian society. Despite human existence for thousands of years, all the religions and philosophies of this world have failed to inspire and encourage us to live in peace and share our wealth. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels’ political philosophy and thinking had a tremendous influence on politics and society. But even Marxism, Socialism and Communism have failed to live up to their tenets. We now accept inequality as a part of life. Covid-19 has brought to the forefront the problems of inequality between the developed and the developing countries. This has indeed deepened the existing inequalities hitting the poorest the hardest. 

Despite the huge numbers of new cases of Covid every day in Europe and so many deaths, people get about their business, with no masks, no distancing and some even no vaccination. This nasty lurgy has been with us for over 2 years and people are tired of the lockdowns, restrictions, and the never-ending government dictates. There is a feeling in the air “we want to be free”. But freedom comes at a price. A new variant, Omicron, has emerged from South Africa. There is mounting scientific worry about the characteristics of this variant. A failure to share the vaccines seem ‘cold and callous’. No one is safe until we are all safe. 

Cricket, the game played by gentlemen, is in turmoil in the country where it all began. Yorkshire Cricket Board is accused of racism. It is alleged the governing body, the England and Wales Cricket Board, has not done enough to stamp out this evil. They got bowled over by a wrong’un from Azeem Rafiq. Now the country seems to have woken up and the government has stepped in to sort out this unholy mess. Religious, ethnic and gender inequality and intolerance are unacceptable although they exist in every country. Although much has improved with the passage of years not enough is done to stamp it out completely. The ethnic trouble that broke out into an all-out war in Sri Lanka was a tragedy to many thousands of innocent people. This remains a stain on the history of our country. Fairness, equality and tolerance should be taught young, in schools. The government must be impartial and provide proper leadership and guidance. Religious leaders should encourage the public to be more tolerant and to show fairness and humanity to prevent another catastrophe and suffering. 

Being a septuagenarian, It is so wonderful to look through the mist of a lifetime of joy and grief and the full spectrum of emotions.  What props up often are those happy days of my youth. Then I had nothing of value to call my own. My future was beyond the horizon and out of view.  The nineteen fifties and sixties now seem like a distant fantasyland. There is now a never-ending desire to make that journey to the past and there is no better vehicle than music. The music of my teenage years and early twenties has a greater and more lasting impact than songs in later life due to the psychological phenomenon called the reminiscence bump. Friday nights remain my music nights when I listen to the music of my childhood. To my mind that was the golden age of cinema and radio in Ceylon. In 1955 we were hit by the typhoon of Rock and Roll music. Bill Haley redefined music and created the magic and we all felt its energy. Then came Elvis Presley the King of Rock and Roll. He mesmerised us all with his songs and his cult. Despite the puritanical warnings, we emulated our icon’s distinctive pompadour hairstyle, Cuban collar shirts and pleated trousers. Post-independence the Sinhala songs and cinema came of age

The stories and songs from the Sinhala films had a dark and dramatic edge to it. There were songs about our country, culture and natural beauty. We sang those songs at school and at home. The best-loved singers of that bygone years were Sunil Santha, Chitra and Somapala, Rukmani Devi, Mohideen Beig, C.T Fernando and several more. Probably none of them are alive today. Many of those old Sinhala favourites have been given a new lease of life.  With clever musical arrangements and sound, those songs retain the magic and the romance of the days gone. When there is a generous flow of the amber nectar, music has the amazing ability to transfer emotions through time. They bring back memories of events and people from long ago and that of my beloved country. As I age tears come far more easily now.  I Just hold fast to those memories and what memories they are. 

In the Northern hemisphere, as the days move towards Christmas, the mellow light of the evening sky soon merges with the darkness of the night. Christmas has morphed into a global festival. It is the season of goodwill, a time for giving and for meeting with family. Selecting presents is indeed part of the fun. In the whirlwind of consumerism, the prestigious shops on London’s Oxford Street have beautiful displays enticing passes by. My needs now are few. I get books as presents. My Christmas shopping is to give some happiness to others. This is also the time we think of the dawn of a new year and what that may bring. 

We are all aware of the lively imagery and the immense power of poetry. I have been so taken up with a poem by Piers Plowright which speaks volumes, more than the 15 lines, it shows on paper. He taught English in Khartoum in Sudan in the 1960s and handed this poignant poem to a friend when he was flying back home to England. I leave it to your imagination to interpolate its deeper echoes to different situations we will face in the future. 

ON GOING

At the corner, I turned

And looked back

There was nothing unfamiliar

Only streets and trees

Which I believed would vanish

When I had gone.

The people no longer moved

They belonged to a frieze

Remembered even as I looked at them

For a particular moment

Which was done

But such going

Needs no tears

It is merely a way of showing

That life is being, not going.