Peace at Last in Paradise

By Ananda Guruge

In this volume Guruge returns to present us with a spellbinding sentimental story that displays the full range of human emotions. A story born of tragic circumstances of the demise of the World Trade Center, encompasses all the strains of race and class that pervaded through the fabric of Sri Lankan society in recent times. It is transformed in to an engaging story by the author's exceptional wit, sensitivity and sharp social observation. Author also returns to offer the reader with fascinating verse that brings to life people, events, places and emotions that are vividly presented in the book.
Through out his trilogy, Guruge has demonstrated the value of recording recent history that is mostly oral or confined to individual experiences. In volume three, he has set out, meticulously, and in great detail, the history of the period 1915 to 2009. The more recent part of history, is largely based on his own exceptional knowledge and experience, and recorded as only a true historian -- an accolade he richly deserves, can document. What is fascinating is that he narrates Sri Lankan history within a compelling story of a multiethnic Sri Lankan family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 28, 2011
• ISBN: 9781463418380

Ananda Guruge

There are few people in the world who can claim anything near the experience of Professor Ananda Guruge. From childhood under colonial rule to his early adulthood as a government official for the emerging nation of Sri Lanka and finally to mature years on the international stage of UNESCO, he has witnessed the shifting social, political, economic and religious patterns. It would be misleading to say that he has only “witnessed” because his imprint can be found on many of the institutions of his home country, the influence of UN in international agreements, the representation of Buddhism to the world community and a host of educational centers around the globe. Moving in the highest ranks of prime ministers, presidents, kings and ambassadors, Professor Guruge has tirelessly pursued his intention of service to society. At the same time, he can be seen working with at-risk youth in Los Angeles, developing strategies for lessening violence when it erupts in cities, devoting time in helping rescue students who need a mentor, and speaking day after day to service groups, university classes, and leaders of society. With a background such as this, he has credentials to appraise the role of Buddhism in the contemporary scene, whether it is in social programs or scientific and technical research as well as to trace the political evolution of Sri Lanka from its struggle for freedom to the restoration of peace after its recent insurgency. Professor Lewis Lancaster of the University of California, Berkeley, USA

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© 2011 Ananda Guruge. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/21/2021

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1837-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-1838-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011909747

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

INTRODUCTION

PEACE AT LAST IN PARADISE concludes the trilogy, which commenced with FREE AT LAST IN PARADISE and continued with SERENDIPITY OF ANDREW GEORGE. This historical Trilogy from Freedom to Peace on modern Sri Lanka seeks to tell the story of the evolution of the nation with its numerous trials and tribulations from 1848 when a rebellion sought freedom from the British to 2009 when peace was secured with the end of the terrorist menace.

But the story is projected in the Epilogue to 2041 to visualize how freedom and peace would lead to a gentler and kinder society of the future.

The purpose of my effort in presenting this story in the form of a continuous historical novel has been to share my love for the country, my appreciation of its achievements over two and a half millennia and my personal approach to meeting the challenges it faces.

I recognize history to be extremely subjective. Each historian is guided by his or her own preferences and positions and interprets the same event or incident in diverse ways. So I do not claim any special virtue as regards my own choices of content and its interpretation.

But to demonstrate how different interpretations are possible and different conclusions can be drawn from the same facts, I have tried to present as many of the divergent approaches that could have been followed.

Therefore, the repetitions, which a reader will notice over and over again, are deliberately resorted to as I intend to show how my different characters, real and fictional, discuss and draw their own conclusions from the same events and statements.

The real historical characters are indicated by having their names in bold font when they are first met in the text.

I apologize for my personal intrusion into the story. I have been deeply involved in many of the situations that are dealt with in the story, I had to be a character and present my own sentiments and opinions. I have also made it a medium to share my thoughts on education, government polices and interfaith and intercommunal relations. If I reveal in the process the exciting life and career I had been fortunate to pursue both in my Motherland and in the world scene, I hope it would inspire my readers that there is nothing beyond one’s reach with a little effort, sincere dedication and hard work. I am always proud that I am entirely a product of Sri Lanka.

The reviewers of the first two parts, which had been published in 1998 and 2003, have noted that my novels seek to educate the reader as much as to entertain. This part, which is devoted to the analysis of the sensitive issues of intercommunal relations culminating in three decades of an armed conflict, shares the same objective.

The project commenced as a leisure time activity since my retirement from the position of Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of Sri Lanka to the United States of America at the end of 1994. It would have been completed earlier if not for the academic responsibilities I took over especially as the Dean of Academic Affairs of the Hsi Lai University (now University of the West). Leading it to its final accreditation has been an extremely strenuous but exceedingly rewarding task.

But the resulting delay in writing this part proved to be providential. The last part of the Trilogy, therefore, actually ends with the restoration of peace in Sri Lanka with the military defeat of the separatist movement on May 16-18, 2009 and the Address of His Excellency Mahinda Rajapaksa, the President of Sri Lanka, to the Parliament on May 19, 2009.

A discerning reader will find that I have attempted to portray my multi-lingual characters as speaking English in their own specific styles. I have done so purposely as a part of characterization. In the same way the Romanization of Sinhala and Tamil words differ according to variant usages. It is to be noted that documents in the Internet as well as print media have two spellings with regard to the Tamil State for which the separatist movement had carried on its armed conflict as Eelam and Ealam.

I am deeply indebted to my wife Darshanika and my extended family of Anura, Mardhavi Sakuntala, Nisala Abhimana, Danielle, Matthew, Dewani and Tieschan for their affection and cooperation. I am also obliged to Mr. Nandasiri Jasentuliyana, President Emeritus, International Institute of Space Law and Former Director-General of the United Nations Office in Vienna and Director of the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs, for contributing a Preface on the entire Trilogy for inclusion in this volume. I am thankful to Samantha Arambegedara and Prashanthi Narangoda for their assistance in typing the text.

I am extremely grateful to the authors of many works (electronic and printed), which I have consulted in the course of writing this novel. Documents dealing with this period of Sri Lankan history are too many to be listed. Nor have I made references to sources, as this is primarily a work of fiction though historical. Particularly useful were K. M. de Silva’s History of Sri Lanka and K. T. Rajasingham’s Sri Lanka Untold Story (on Internet). Both are well-researched treatises, which have examined the issues of communal relations in Sri Lanka since the British introduced the Legislative Council in 1833. Rajasingham has been described as a dissident Tamil writer (?!). His incisive but balanced and objective comments are thought provoking and have led me to a wide variety of sources of information.

I am thankful to Mr. Sirisumana Godage of the International Godage Publishers for undertaking to publish the Sri Lankan edition and to Narada Karuantilake and the staff for seeing it through the press.

Ananda W. P. Guruge

8351 Snowbird Drive,

Huntington Beach, CA 92646

United States of America.

November 11, 2009

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Contents

PROLOGUE

Book 1: Dictates of Fate?

Book 2: Life And Times of Dr. Timothy De Lanerolle

Book 3: My Self-Imposed Missions

Book 4: A Fervent Search for Peace and Harmony

EPILOGUE

PREFACE

By Nanadsiri Jasentuliyana

GEMS OF HISTORICAL NOVELS

The encyclopedic novels tracing the Sri Lankan history of the century leading up to the nations independence in 1948, six decades of its aftermath, and predicting the country’s future in the next three decades, will rank among the best of literary classic produced by Sri Lankan authors.

Only a person of the caliber of Dr. Ananda Guruge, diplomat, national and international civil servant, academician, scholar and renowned author could have given life so vividly to the social and cultural milieu of Sri Lankan society in the last century and half. His own experiences from a village school to the highest levels of academia in the West, stands in good stead as he weaves every aspect of Sri Lankan history, politics, culture, geography and psyche in to phenomenal work of unique distinction that is presented as historical novels that exemplifies the best of historical fiction. Without doubt, this monumental work now bestows on him the additional honor of ‘historical novelist par excellence.

Volume one: Free at Last in Paradise is a gripping novel tracing the path of the freedom movement, in then Ceylon from the 1848 rebellion to Independence in 1948. It features a Buddhist boy; a young novice in a temple, later educated in missionary schools, becomes a government functionary, a forest monk and still later an erudite scholar, whose life parallels the freedom movement driven mainly by the Buddhist revival led by Colonel Henry Steel Olcott and his followers Anagarika Dharmapala and Sir Baron Jayatilake. The hero acted as interpreter to Olcott and was a strong nationalist, deeply involved in the movement most of his adult life. At age 91, he completed his biography and gave for safekeeping with instructions that it not to be published for several decades. The revelation of the manuscript several years later, leads to Guruge’s sequel to this heroic story.

Though a work of epic proportions (740 pages), full of information masterfully dissecting every aspect of social and family life, with all its strains of caste and class, as well as the political and cultural scene of Ceylon at the time, it is a triumphant love story, that is by turns dramatic and powerful, romantic and tender that makes you want to keep reading. Displaying the author’s dexterity, the most readable prose is appropriately laced with exhilarating verse. This is an extraordinary novel that exemplifies the best of historical fiction. Somehow he has managed to make the story both educational and, dare I say it, fun!

Volume two: Serendipity of Andrew George chronicles the best of times since independence—the decade of the sixties, a time of peace and development in the country. It features the great grand son of the scholar monk (hero of the Free at Last in Paradise). He is an American Anthropology Professor on a Fulbright research scholarship who accidentally ended up discovering his roots in Ceylon, that were otherwise unknown to him. The story step by step unravels his ancestry in a masterful manner keeping the reader at edge.

In the process of his discovery he is exposed, as is the reader, to every aspect of the geography, history, and the culture of the country. As he travels around the country, Andrew George savors the marvels of historic cities and religious places of worship (Buddhist, Christian, Hindu, Islam), and the life style of every segment of the society (Sinhala, Tamil, Muslim, Burgher). Drama, literature, poetry, cinema, and rituals of every community (including weddings, funerals, mask and devil dancing, black magic, puppetry, perahara and fire walking) are authoritatively explored in great detail. Great Lankan personalities and their work are introduced to Andrew George and thus to the reader.

Through extensive discussions of his traveling companions and people encountered during his sojourns, he is immersed not only in the life and times of the people, but, every nuance thereof and the reader is treated to an education that no university course combining politics, economics, sociology, and psychology would offer. Yet, it encapsulates a very readable and exciting adventure that can be considered as a historical novel at its best. Equally voluminous as part one (566 pages), the story is as engaging as the first. Ironically, it could also be considered as about the best and most extensive travel guide that explores the country in great depth. One can only marvel at a serious social essay that presents itself as a travelogue as well.

Volume three: Peace at Last in Paradise, final part of the trilogy is presented through the adult life of the great, great grandson of the patriarch of the family, Udaya, a professor in England, who returns to Sri Lanka to complete recording the oral history of his family that his father had begun, but soon distracted in to establishing and operating an institute on peace and harmony, in honor of the patriarch. It covers the worst of times since independence,—the recent three decades, a time of war and destruction in the country. It offers a unique perspective of the genesis, progress and end of the conflicted era. It then continues on to project a scenario, of peace and progress, that is to ensue in the three decades to come.

In volume three, Guruge returns to present us with a spellbinding sentimental story that displays the full range of human emotions. A story born of tragic circumstances of the demise of the World Trade Center, encompasses all the strains of race and class that pervaded through the fabric of Sri Lankan society in recent times. It is transformed in to an engaging story by the author’s exceptional wit, sensitivity and sharp social observation. Author also returns to offer the reader with fascinating verse that brings to life people, events, places and emotions that are vividly presented in the book.

Through out his trilogy, Guruge has demonstrated the value of recording recent history that is mostly oral or confined to individual experiences. In volume three, he has set out, meticulously, and in great detail, the history of the period 1915 to 2009. The more recent part of history, is largely based on his own exceptional knowledge and experience, and recorded as only a true historian—an accolade he richly deserves, can document. What is fascinating is that he narrates Sri Lankan history within a compelling story of a multiethnic Sri Lankan family.

With all the political misinformation that has been the steady diet of the Sinhala & Tamil communities in the recent past, this volume stands out as an essential tool in dispelling much of the mutual ignorance that pervaded both sides, and resulted in a tragic conflict. It provides a complete and balanced account of the events and underlying reasons that brought about those events. Historical evolution of the problem, beginning in the latter part of the British era, is traced complete with all the intended and unintended twists and turns. In the process, a significant section is devoted to highlighting the often forgotten role of leaders of both communities and their positive or negative impact on the ethnic relations that eventually led to the recent conflict.

Part played by Tamil luminaries of the caliber of Sir. Ponnambalam Ramanathan and Ponnambalam Arunachalam, as outlined in the text, is revealing and vital to an appreciation of the many nuances involved in the ethnic problem of modern Sri Lanka. The author has thus performed a significant national service, by offering a fresh perspective of the ethnic conflict, that should have a positive impact on national integration and reconciliation. He concludes the publication, with an important epilogue, outlining a scenario blending constitutional, political, administrative, social and cultural elements required for nation building in the aftermath of the war. Guruge has prescribed the right medicine, if dispensed righteously, the patient Sri Lanka will once again rise to heights of its glory days.

In the Trilogy, Dr. Guruge has created a unique body of literature that leads the reader to an appreciation and understanding of the Sri Lankan society, to the extent that no other author has done. This is, of course, to be expected from a person who has served for many years in every part of the Island, speaks the vernacular of every ethnic group, a scholar of Asian languages and literature and an internationally recognized personality, with a world view.

He has blended all these experiences in bringing forth a captivating trilogy. The highly gifted writer blends a well researched, extremely detailed factual account with an artistic, almost poetic, tale of great emotional complexity. The result is an absorbing and highly readable masterpiece, which is both enjoyable and educational.

Nandasiri Jasentuliyana,

President Emeritus,

International Institute of Space Law (IISL).

Former, Deputy Director-General,

United Nations Office at Vienna and Director

United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs.

Los Angeles,

2 January 2010.

About the Author

Professor Lewis

Lancaster of the University of California, Berkeley, USA:

There are few people in the world who can claim anything near the experience of Professor Ananda Guruge.

From childhood under colonial rule to his early adulthood as a government official for the emerging nation of Sri Lanka and finally to mature years on the international stage of UNESCO, he has witnessed the shifting social, political, economic and religious patterns.

It would be misleading to say that he has only witnessed because his imprint can be found on many of the institutions of his home country, the influence of UN in international agreements, the representation of Buddhism to the world community and a host of educational centers around the globe.

Moving in the highest ranks of prime ministers, presidents, kings and ambassadors, Professor Guruge has tirelessly pursued his intention of service to society.

At the same time, he can be seen working with at-risk youth in Los Angeles, developing strategies for lessening violence when it erupts in cities, devoting time in helping rescue students who need a mentor, and speaking day after day to service groups, university classes, and leaders of society.

With a background such as this, he has credentials to appraise the role of Buddhism in the contemporary scene, whether it is in social programs or scientific and technical research as well as to trace the political evolution of Sri Lanka from its struggle for freedom to the restoration of peace after its recent insurgency.

Padmal de Silva

Institute of Psychiatry, University of London,

United Kingdom:

Only an author with exceptional talents, skill and wisdom can write such a book. One never ceases to marvel at the talents, skill and wisdom of Ananda Guruge. To say that one waits eagerly for his next novel is a gross understatement.

Dr. A. D. Priyanka Baddevithana

in Sunday Observer, Colombo,

Sri Lanka

Professor Ananda Guruge has produced this masterpiece with such ingenuity that surpasses the art of the possible by painting a believable and credible picture with multi-colors of facts and fiction to illumine and entertain the reader’s intellect. Professor Ananda Guruge’s love for Sri Lanka has inspired this extraordinary literary work and he has performed his duty to the utmost as a model citizen. It remains our responsibility to make maximum use of this masterpiece to develop an understanding in our emerging generation for the unique strengths of our cultural diversity.

PROLOGUE

I am Udaya de Lanerolle, the great-grandson of Dr. Timothy de Lanerolle LMS, FRCS and Dr. (Mrs.) Chandra de Lanerolle (née Vikramasinha) LMS.

My father, Keerthi de Lanerolle of UNESCO, was Timothy’s grandson. The dying wish of my father was for me to fulfill a request of Timothy to have a book written on the life and times that Chandra and he had gone through. My father, a documentalist by profession, has amassed a heap of archival material including Timothy’s notes. I promised to do it and came to consult my uncle, Professor Andrew George of New Jersey.

The tragic terrorist attack of 9/11 in New York from which I had a narrow escape, became my life-changer. While I could do my father’s bidding, I also embarked on an exciting life of adventure, which has been filled with infinite happiness of fulfillment and achievement and, of course, anxiety. What a mission I was thus able to accomplish.

It is to unfold the many mysteries of my life that I write these pages. I wish my readers would have as much joy from reading it as I have had by living it.

To clarify the dramatis personae of my life-story, I present the following notes on the family relations:

(1) DE LANEROLLE FAMILY: The family tree of the de Lanerolles commences with Corneille de Lanerolle who sent his two sons Don John and Don Aloysius from hill country to Baddegama C. M. S. School. On completion of their studies, they married two sisters from the Goonetilleke family. Don John remained in Baddegama while Don Aloysius moved to Galle.

Don John had ten daughters and no sons and one of his youngest daughters was Leonora.

Don Aloysius had four boys and two girls. His eldest son was Don Nicholas.

Don Nicholas’ eldest son was Don Thomas, who became a schoolteacher in Galle.

Leonora and her sister came to Galle to go to school from the home of Don Nicholas who was their first cousin. So, Leonora was really Don Thomas’ Aunt but that did not prevent them from falling in love and ultimately marrying. The relationships of the family were very confusing to Don Thomas because his grandfather’s brother (Don Aloysius) was his father-in-law.

Timothy was the only child of Don Thomas and Leonora and he was quite confused as well.

Timothy met Chandra, actually a niece but also the stepdaughter of Mudaliyar Vikramsinha, in Medical School and eventually married her.

(2) VIKRAMASINHA—GEORGE FAMILY: Chandra’s parents, especially her adoptive father Tikiri Banda Vikramasinha, were exceptional people.

Chandra’s widowed mother, Heen Menike (Slim-Jewel), married her late husband’s younger brother, Tikiri Banda Vikramasinha (Tiny Banda Valor-Lion) also known by his monastic name Venerable Hanguranketa Vimalajnana (Pure-Wisdom)

They adopted Chandra’s half brother Judge Dingiri Banda Vikramsinha ICS of the Judicial Service of Burma, and his half-brother Professor Vijayadasa Vikramasinha alias Vickie Wickie of Illinois, USA, and nurtured a far-flung extended family of Vikramasinha-de Lanerolle-George.

The family tree of those who figure in my narrative is reproduced below for easy reference of the readers. Those not mentioned in my story are simply indicated as son or daughter.

GENEALOGICAL%20TABLE.jpg

BOOK ONE:

DICTATES OF FATE?

I. To Fulfill a Solemn Filial Promise

September 11, 2001 was another sunny Indian summer day in New Jersey. I had been with Uncle Andrew and Aunty Seeta for a week. Still the jet lag was in my favor. I awoke closer to London time around five in the morning. It was a tremendous advantage. The quiet morning hours were ideal for the project, which brought me to New Jersey.

I had a vast volume of documents to peruse and analyze. I was engaged in writing the family history to satisfy a whim of my long-departed great-grandparents, Dr. Timothy and Dr. (Mrs.) Chandra de Lanerolle.

My readers who are already familiar with the published annals of my illustrious ancestors need no introduction to them. They will recall Dr. Timothy de Lanerolle as a pioneering medical luminary at the turn of the nineteenth century.

With a coveted FRCS (Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons of Great Britain), he was at the height of his lucrative career. His peers in the far-flung British Empire over which, it was claimed, the sun never set, held him in high esteem and recognition. To everyone’s surprise—excluding, perhaps, his wife and her adoptive father—he joined the nationalist movement contributing to the advancement of Sri Lanka towards self-rule and ultimate independence. That was in 1915—the centennial of the Island’s capitulation as a whole to the British. He thus became a part of the national saga of constitutional agitation to regain Sri Lanka’s political independence without bloodshed or disruption.

His mentor, Sir Don Baron Jayatilaka, was the highest-ranking national leader of the time. The ambitious and impatient young Turks of the national political hierarchy kicked him upstairs ignominiously and sent him to India to the minor diplomatic position of Commissioner for Sri Lanka. Timothy, who for over three decades had been his voluntary Man Friday, was disappointed, dismayed and disgusted. He eschewed politics altogether.

His wife, Chandra—known to readers of Free at Last in Paradise as Moonbeam—met Timothy in Medical School, where she was herself a pioneering non-conformist. She chose a career in Public Health, as preventive medicine was then called, in preference to the better paid and better recognized curative medicine.

I am like the generals who prevent rather than win wars, she is said to have told her adoptive father, who was also the younger brother of her biological father.

On being reminded that such generals win no medals, she is reputed to have responded, No, father, that’s not correct. They wear their medals unseen on their hearts.

Timothy and Chandra chose to retire in England, where their two children had settled down. Timothy devoted his time and energy to his dual missions of agitating for better health services in Britain and British Colonies and espousing the cause of Sri Lankan self-rule and independence. The remarkable wife-and-husband team combined their scientific and public communication talents to campaign in a variety of ways for immunization of kids, environmental sanitation, pre-natal care of pregnant women and nutrition issues in poor and less advantaged populations of Great Britain and elsewhere.

We are now in medical and health politics together, she had told the family, reminding them of the days when Timothy was in national politics and she fought her battles with colonial administrators alone.

Together they nurtured their children and grandchildren to choose careers with strong elements of public service rather than those that would make them rich.

Lanerolles are a family of idealists, our friends have often told us.

My father, Dr. Keerthi de Lanerolle, their only grandson, had made a beginning with the history of the Lanerolles; but his multifarious engagements in political and social activities of both Sri Lanka and United Kingdom had prevented him from doing anything very much. Nevertheless, his contribution was remarkable. He had put together a substantial array of documentary resources. I thought of my father as the archivist of the family.

History emerges from documents. An undocumented event recedes into oblivion as if it never happened. The collective memory of the most salient event in a life degenerates into legend and myth, he had stated at a UNESCO Seminar on Archives.

My father believed strongly on the validity and importance of oral history. He was often a consultant to African nations where the only history was what the elders remembered. He would rush to remote corners of Nigeria, Mali, Niger, Ivory Coast, Kenya, Uganda and Lesotho when he heard of a potential source of oral history.

When an old man dies in any of these places, an entire library is lost for ever, he used to tell my mother, whenever she was reluctant to let him go to little known places in an unmapped continent.

As rapidly advancing Parkinson’s disease made his right hand useless and his memory proved to be increasingly capricious, he showed me the stack of files, audiotapes and a score of notebooks.

Udaya, he called me in a serious tone. I made a solemn promise to my grandparents that I would write the family history. They were very keen on doing so not so much as a means of gaining a measure of immortality but more because the family had witnessed the steady, bold march of Sri Lanka as a new nation. But, son, to my great regret and disappointment, I delayed too long. As you know, son, I am a victim of my own relentless pursuit of perfection. I should have known that the better is the enemy of the good. You are my only hope to see their wishes fulfilled.

I was, no doubt, touched by his emotional plea and I agreed. Or to be more precise, I gave him my sincere filial promise. I am relieved I did so. Within a week of this conversation, my father passed away peacefully in sleep, ending the agony of a long debilitating illness. The family was relieved that he was spared the indignity of a mindless vegetable as the wages of a productive public career with spectacular achievements.

My task had since become simpler. Great-grandmother’s adoptive father was Venerable Vimalajnana (Pure-Wisdom) of Hanguranketa. As a layman in between two long periods as a monk, he was known as Mudaliyar Tikiri Banda Vikramasinha (Tiny Banda Valor-Lion). He had written in 1949 the story of his life and times, named "Free at last in Paradise." Translated into English, it was published about three years ago—fifty years after his death as directed by him. I read it avidly and had a copy interleaved and bound. I have made numerous notes—comments, queries and exclamations. It was wonderful to know his story in all its fantastic details. The best compliment I could pay my exalted ancestor was to decide on imitating him in every possible manner.

Another equally important document was about to be released by Uncle Andrew. Professor Andrew George, the illustrious American Anthropologist hailed as the father of Anthropological Futurology, had gone to Sri Lanka as a Fulbright Scholar and made a serendipitous discovery of his own roots. He found himself to be a grandson of an adopted son of the renowned Mudaliyar-cum-scholar-monk. Dr. George’s account of his adventurous search, called "Serendipity of Andrew George," was due to be published next year.

I was impatient and did not want to wait so long. Hence my special trip to New Jersey to meet Uncle Andrew George and his equally famous wife, Aunty Seeta, the historian. They were walking encyclopedias or rather living websites on Sri Lanka, in general, and the Vikramasinha-de Lanerolle-George clan, in particular.

Armed with my bulky annotated copy of "Free at Last in Paradise" and a selection of voluminous files, I came to their home on the fourth of September 2001, coincidentally my fortieth birthday. It was my first visit to their home even though the Georges had been regular guests in our home outside London since my fifth or sixth birthday. I still treasure the ebony Buddha image from Galle, which Aunty Seeta gave me as a birthday present.

See who’s here already, shouted Uncle Andrew who, in striped boxers and a white undershirt, was tending his roses. Aunty Seeta stepped out from the house in a Batik Kaftan. They were a magnificent couple in their late sixties—erect, slender, and statuesque, as fresh and inviting as the rose blossoms in their garden.

I went on my knees and paid my respects to them. Two generations in England had not robbed us of the family tradition. They touched my head in silent benediction and hugged me in an affectionate embrace.

My plane came early and the baggage arrived quite fast. And the car was ready. Besides, Aunty, your directions were perfect, I told them in explanation of my arrival at least two hours earlier than they had expected me.

Pure luck, Udaya, or the benefits of frequent first class flying, said Uncle Andrew.

Happy birthday, Udaya, said Aunty Seeta as she kissed me on both cheeks. I just finished icing a cake I made for the special occasion."

It is special, Udaya. Your entering mid-life and for me the thirty-fifth anniversary of my reunion with my long-lost family, added Uncle Andrew. Unmistakable in his tone was a tinge of emotion evoked by memories.

They carried my bags to the well-appointed guest-room overlooking Hackensack River and the variegated foliage of on-coming autumn, called Fall in the USA. We were soon at breakfast enjoying egg-hoppers and fish curry and reliving many memories we had learned to share.

I was happy to be with people whom I loved as family members and esteemed as scholars of great repute. It was also a relief to me because I needed their soothing and reassuring company. Mine is an agonizing story—a saga of valiant efforts to save an issueless marriage of infinite regrets and, utter failure to maintain a modicum of sanity.

What are your plans now? asked Aunty Seeta paving the way to unburden myself.

There’s nothing that needs to keep me in England anymore, I began. Devi got the house in the divorce settlement. We shared our assets and she refused alimony. In a way I am free now. I opted for early retirement with a golden handshake. I will be OK for several years if I choose to live in a less expensive place. I thought I’d go to Sri Lanka, buy a little house in Kandy or Nuwara Eliya and write the book.

Both of them were visibly excited when I mentioned Sri Lanka.

You know, Udaya, Uncle Andrew started, The residence of the old scholar-monk—our illustrious ancestor—is out for sale. We are planning to have it bought and developed into a cultural center in his honor. Why not take over the project?

Aunty Seeta added most enthusiastically. No one can do a better job than you can.

That I can do, I assured them.

Within barely three hours of my landing at JFK Airport in New York, my future for at least the next couple of years was already set. Was it destiny? Was it a grand design of some higher being or power somewhere? Whatever it was, it had a beneficial impact on my mood.

It was a productive week. It was an orientation I sorely needed to straighten my life. I had a goal and my loving relatives spared no pains in equipping me to achieve it.

I was up early in the morning and was reading the morning newspaper, replete with tragic and boring news of murders and sexual assaults, corporate dishonesty, bureaucratic bungling and political innuendos. Aunty Seeta joined me with a pot of tea. We chatted as we savored the unique taste of the golden pecko of two tender leaves and a bud of Sri Lankan mountain tea, better known as Ceylon tea.

Morning breeze sweeping over the river was soothing and made life worth living. We talked about our recent visit to World Trade Towers. Aunty Seeta said,

As my eyes wandered over the ever changing scenery of nature and industry and their incessant competition as far as eyes could see, I was very happy. Andy and I go there quite often because we both like heights and panoramic views.

She was thanking me for taking her with me to the Twin Towers a couple of days ago. It was business for me. But we added some pleasure by spending an hour in the observatory. My business there was to get my travel plans altered. The suggestion that I could go to Sri Lanka via Los Angeles and Tokyo came from the General Sales Agent of Sri Lankan Airlines who attended a party, which Georges gave in my honor. Going to Los Angeles had an added bonus: a day or two with Dr. Ananda Guruge to discuss my project would be most helpful, the Georges assured me.

No one knows the history of our family better than he does, concurred Aunty Seeta, That includes my own relatives.

I knew it myself. I had not seen Uncle Ananda for nearly a decade. Since retiring from the post of Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary in Washington DC, he had reverted to a full-time academic career in California.

Aunty Seeta and I went to the airline office on the 85th floor of the Northern Tower to get new tickets issued for me to travel to Sri Lanka via Los Angeles and Tokyo. Today I was due to collect them.

Today, I would drive to Tribeca, have breakfast with Philip and Vincent in their apartment and walk up Manhattan to the Twin Towers.

I envy your going there a second time in one week, Aunty Seeta said, as she cleared the patio table of the teapot and cups.

Taking the long route not simply to avoid the rush hour traffic of George Washington Bridge but more to enjoy the morning scenery, I drove over Tappan Zee Bridge and reached Tribeca in time. Philip and Vincent have been my friends since we met in Greece a few years ago.

They had been de Sallian brothers in training at the seminary and responding to tender feelings of affection for each other, which many people neither understood nor condoned, they decided to go in their own chosen way. I found time for them, as they were always stimulating company and purveyors of enlightening information. As usual, it was an hour well spent and described memorable by each of us in unison.

My rented car safely parked in a shady lane a few blocks away, I trudged across to the Tower. I refused the ride offered by Vincent. This is my only way to shed a few pounds gained by eating rich Sri Lankan food of my Aunty, I explained.

I was still quite early when I reached the Towers. As though the many cups of decaf coffee had failed to satisfy me, I yearned for a hot cup of tea with milk and sugar—a Sri Lankan habit nurtured further in UK and explainable only as an addiction to the cup that cheers. The little café within feet of the Southern Tower served tolerable tea as Aunty Seeta and I found out two days ago. So that is where I sat at a table looking northwards with a paper cup of tea.

It was a surreal experience to a tea lover who drank his tea in flowery porcelain cups, frequently replenished from a matching teapot. Across me sat a pretty petite woman in her early thirties, struggling to keep a naughty little toddler from smearing her snow-white saree with tomato ketchup of his hamburger. I tried to attract the attention of the brat and in minutes I was defending myself from possible taints from his drenched snack.

I am very sorry, Sir, the woman told me but I moved off. Some hidden paternal instinct seemed to prompt my action. I reached for a handful of paper towels and keeping the now docile youngster on my lap, I helped him to eat the hamburger. The woman was amused. She looked at me with eyes full of gratitude.

You seem to know how to handle naughty brats, she told me. You must be a father of several.

I wish I were, I replied casually but the pain of failed marriage and frustrated parenthood was too intense for words.

It was then that it happened. The earth shattered. It was the loudest noise my ears had ever encountered.

II. On Ground Zero at Hour Zero

An earthquake, screamed the woman at the counter.

Look. The tower is crumbling, shouted a man and my eyes followed his outstretched hands. In front of us the top half of the Northern Tower was falling as if it was just a house of cards being smashed by an angry child.

Run, boomed a voice from the back of the café. I carried the child in my left arm and grabbed the woman’s left arm with my right hand and took to our heels. We joined the mass of shrieking, screaming, wailing humanity that ran as fast as they could ahead of a rapidly advancing cloud of murky dust and smoke.

Even as I ran for my dear life and those of the two strangers for whose life I had unconsciously and spontaneously assumed full responsibility, I was conscious of the deafening noise and vibration of a low-flying plane. What followed was a horrendous peal of thunder followed by the crackling noise of disintegrating concrete and the strain of collapsing steel columns. I stopped on my track and looked back. Just long enough to see the momentary vision of a celestial mansion of the Hindu and Buddhist mythology wafting on a cloud of steam and fire.

Oh, my goodness me, I yelled as I realized that the floating mass was no divine Vimana. It was the upper third of the Tower crashing down like a gigantic sledgehammer on its lower floors. Dust, smoke and fire engulfed what was once the cynosure of New York’s posh and fabulous financial quarter.

We ran with the rest of the masses until we emerged from the wall of white dust, which had given all of us a sinister ghostly and ghoulish appearance. If skin-color was designed to distinguish the humankind racially, ethnically and geographically, adversity and catastrophe leveled humanity to a common denominator. The coating of dust and debris did it to thousands who managed to run to safety. Even as we sighed an audible sigh of collective relief, I was deeply moved by the reassuring trot of the courageous firefighters and paramedics who, laden with heavy equipment of their profession, ran into the heart of danger. Theirs, I said to myself, was an ill-fated mission and I wished them safety.

Instinctively, I hugged the child and the woman warmly and enjoyed for a while the unparalleled joy of being alive. With her Kabuki-painted face she kissed me on my cheek and that tender gesture was more than a fervent Thank you. Recalling that moment ever since at times of despair has been an antidote against oncoming depression.

Wasn’t I surprised to see Srinath standing at the crossroad and reassuring the startled children and women that they had reached safety.

Srinath, how are you here? I asked him. I met the young Sri Lankan engineer at the George’s party and gathered a lot of information about his distinguished father who served both the British regime and the first three administrations of independent Sri Lanka with distinction.

I was in my office on the 80th floor and heard the rumbling. Looking out of my office, I saw the other Tower burning. When others in our building started to run down, my colleagues and I decided to follow them down the stairs. I was here before the dust could paint me a ghost.

He was not simply relieved. He was jubilant.

I became conscious of what brought me to Twin Towers that morning. I blew the ashen dust of the cellular phone and dialed the number of airlines office. All that greeted me was the prolonged shrill note of a telephone no longer in service. I had the cellular phone number of the manager of the Sales Agency. My heart missed a couple of beats as several rings went unanswered. At the end of what appeared a century, I was relieved to hear his voice.

Dr. de Lanerolle, I am trying to get you on your cell the whole of the last half-hour, he said with hardly any excitement.

I was running for my dear life, or, to be more accurate, for mine own and those of two strangers. Don’t you know what’s going on here?

No, Doctor. I got up with a splitting headache and a spell of dizziness. So I called my secretary to post a notice and close the office. I am canceling the day’s appointments and that’s why I was trying to reach you.

What a lucky bloke, I said to myself and hoped that the charming young secretary was equally lucky.

I told him briefly of the tragedy of the morning and added, Angels must be hovering over your head..

I had no idea how the Twin Towers crashed one after other. It must be an earthquake, I told myself and explained it so to the child and his guardian.

She received my explanation with loud wailing. Saying something in Tamil, which I had no way to understand, she fell on her knees and grabbed my feet. She was beseeching me to do something. But nothing sounded coherent. A Police Officer came to my rescue and raised her. He led us to a lounge of a nearby office building. The child cried louder. All I could do was to plead with her to tell me what I could do to help her. At length, her hysteria dwindled to sobbing and she found words to tell me what it was.

My sister went to her office at 8:00 leaving me and her son in the café. The little one wanted a hamburger and the café would not serve hamburgers until after eight-thirty. She was to come at ten to take us to show the Tower. Where can she be now? Can you find her for me please? Please, sir. She switched on to Tamil and I didn’t understand a word. But the four year old learned enough to start crying for his mother.

More people were crowding into the lounge and I began asking them for information. A kindly young man was definitely helpful. He had telephoned home to tell his wife what he had seen at first hand. But she knew more. Her Good Morning show had been interrupted and every network had shown over and over again the collapse of the Towers. In fact, the TV had shown how an American Airlines plane plowed into the Southern Tower, confirming that the unprecedented catastrophe was the dastardly act of terrorists. The death toll was estimated to be in the region of seven thousand, at least four hundred of them being the brave and selfless firefighters and paramedics.

My immediate response to this information was to call Uncle Andrew and Aunty Seeta and assure them of my safety. How relieved they were to hear my voice.

Are you O.K.? they asked me repeatedly.

They were glued to the TV and trying to understand how such an attack was ever possible. I told them of my self-imposed mission of finding the mother of a four-year old child who wouldn’t let me put him down from my arm.

I was myself dazed and could not think swiftly. I had no idea where to begin. But not so was Rudolph Giuliani, the Mayor of New York. The reputed attorney-at-law had once again risen to the occasion. Even as we were recovering from the shock, he had established an operations center and was directing the rescue of trapped persons and the removal and treatment of the injured. I approached an officer of his outfit and he assured me that the highest priority was being given to helping concerned relatives. He appealed for patience. He gave me an emergency number to call.

I thought it best to take my frightened wards to a place where their emotional needs could best be served. I couldn’t think of anyone who could do it better than Aunty Seeta and Uncle Andrew. To my relief, they both agreed to care for them: Let us do all we can, they said even though all we know of them at the moment was that they spoke Tamil.

I had to reach my car and the walk was a bit too long even for me. A passing yellow cab obliged to take us to Tribeca simply because he was going there any way. We had just driven down a long block to find ourselves in a gridlock of unbelievable dimensions. Out of nowhere emerged some black angels who guided the traffic. Within minutes the roads were restored to their normal efficiency even without working traffic lights. Tragedy brought out the best of human spirit, I said to myself thankfully.

Once in my car, the boy stopped crying and slipped into deep sleep. Assured of her own safety and that of her charge, the woman thanked me for being there and for being so compassionate. I let her relax and go on her own and asked no questions.

Sir, what could have happened to my sister? was her first question.

I am Professor Udaya de Lanerolle. But please call me Udaya or Uday as my friends do.

I am sorry, she said. I am Rani. Rani Rengarathnam.

The introductions seemed to calm her. She was more coherent and her story was pathetic.

I had chosen to drive southwards to the Verrazano Bridge and weave my way to Teaneck through Newark. More by accident than by design, I found roads with less traffic and our progress was quite satisfactory. Rani became progressively vocal. Talk had a therapeutic effect on her as if she had a couple of Valiums or Prozac. With minimum interruption, I encouraged her to talk. By the time we reached Teaneck, I had picked up enough information on the tragic life of Rani and her sister Pavanee to know the gravity of the morning tragedy on Rani and the innocent little boy.

They were two sisters of a well-to-do family with a home in the chic area of Chundukuli in Jaffna, the capital of the Northern Province. That is where most of the Tamil population of Sri Lanka concentrated. It was there the current separatist movement had its origin.

Their father was a physician and the mother hailed from a family, which played a prominent role in both local and national politics. Rani’s mother’s grand-uncle had once been the Speaker of the State Council of Sri Lanka under the Donoughmore Constitution which was in force from 1930 to 1946. Dr. Rengarathnam was a well-respected citizen and was patriarch to a large family of cousins, nephews, nieces and in-laws.

As living and security conditions deteriorated rapidly following the massacre of thirteen soldiers of the Sri Lankan army by terrorists in July 1983, Dr. Rengarathnam sent her two daughters to a high school in Madras (Now Chennai). They both entered the University of Madras. Pavanee, the elder, proceeded to doctoral studies and obtained a Ph.D. in Economics. Rani had switched on to engineering and got a Master’s Degree from Guindy Technical Institute.

In their life away from home, though in a culturally similar environment, they were less bound by the rigid discipline of a Tamil family. They both fell in love with young men the family would not approve. Pavanee’s choice was a budding novelist from Karaiyur, the fishing village of Jaffna. With a Master’s Degree in Tamil Literature, he was a part-time college teacher whose career as a promising novelist was already predicted by ardent reviewers of his first two works. To the Rengarathnams, the young man’s talents or good looks were of no avail. He had three disadvantages: he came from a wrong caste; he was a Christian by faith; and he was neither wealthy nor professionally equipped to be wealthy.

Rani’s choice had no such obstacles. He was a Hindu from the prestigious Vellala or cultivator caste and hailed from a reputed family. He and Rani were in the same class in Guindy and were due to graduate together. Here the objection for both families was that they had robbed the respective parents’ birthright to choose partners for their progeny.

Dr. and Mrs. Rengarathnam passed away in 1995—father in April and mother six months later. They could not go to either funeral as neither had a valid passport. Pavanee married Indran soon after and within three months she was pregnant. The four year old, nicknamed Tangam, was their baby.

Where is Indran? I asked. Her eyes welled with tears. She took time to collect her thoughts.

To be exact, we don’t know, she said.

About a month before the baby was born, Indran had received an invitation to attend an International Tamil Conference in Dakar, Senegal. He was quite excited. First, because he considered it to be an honor in recognition of his rising reputation as a Tamil scholar. Second, because he was enthusiastic about the theory popularized over three decades by Father Tanninayagam that the language family to which Tamil belonged extended across Sub-Saharan Africa and included the Spanish and the French Basque Region. Third, because he was keen to find out if Wolof, the national language of Senegal, and Bambara of the neighboring region were akin to Tamil, as claimed by some scholars.

Tickets came with money for expenditure in several currencies. He had, however, to do a favor for the sponsors of his travel who, besides supplying him with air tickets and funds, had obtained for him a brand new Indian passport with visas to Afghanistan, France and Senegal. Going to France was understandable as the most convenient flight to Dakar was from Paris. Why Afghanistan, the sisters were worried. But Indran’s explanation had appeared adequate. He had to meet a scholar in Kabul and take a packet of documents to the Conference. The sisters bade him a tearful farewell at Chennai Airport and they had since heard nothing from him or about him. Indran had simply disappeared into thin air.

The next logical question for me had to be about Rani’s own suitor. But I desisted. Recalling one tragedy in her life was bad enough. But after a few moments of sobbing, she told me her story as well.

Selvan, she told me, was all love—a paragon of all virtues a young girl sought in a life-partner. He was polite, considerate and even protective. He was also the first in the class and had many admirers among girls. Rani felt privileged that he was all hers. That was until the day after the graduating ceremony. That day she received a hurriedly scribbled note through the watcher of his dormitory.

I have to go. Wish me good luck. Pray for our quick reunion, the note said in cryptic Tamil. She wished him good luck and prayed incessantly—but to no avail. She did not hear from him any more. It was more than a coincidence for two sisters to meet the same fate and lose the men of their hearts in the most mysterious manner. But neither had the time or energy to mourn for them. The urgent chores of living overwhelmed the two sisters. The baby was born and the higher-ups of the Bank where Pavanee was employed as a financial analyst and investment adviser were particularly solicitous. They even found a client to employ Rani as a consultant. The baby gave both of them a purpose to live and struggle on.

She couldn’t complete her story as Tangam woke up and was crying piteously. He was hungry and our destination was within minutes. I took the shortest cut while Rani did her best to distract the crying child.

Uncle Andrew and Aunty Seeta met us in the driveway. She had anticipated a hungry child and had some food ready. Rani proceeded to feed him. Aunty Seeta had been on the phone at regular intervals and followed every lead that was given to get information on missing persons. Twice her hopes ran high. But only momentarily. There was no trace of a Pavanee Indran among escapees from the towers or among the injured reporting for treatment.

We’ll continue to inquire, I assured Rani as I led her and Tangam to the room that Aunty had prepared for them.

III. The Day Four

It was the third day since the tragedy. Rani was too exhausted to cry. So was the child. They were dazed and all the efforts of the three of us to console them were fruitless. Like robots, they woke up, ate whatever was served, and lapsed to their private reveries. It was pathetic to see how a four-year old reacted with nature’s defense mechanism. Rani hardly spoke. Every time, the telephone rang, she jumped to her feet and approached the person responding to the call. Then she relapsed to her ever-increasing mood of despair.

That morning’s call was for Rani but she begged me to take it. Could someone come to Ground Zero, was all it said, besides giving the name and place of the person to be contacted. I drove Rani in my car again via Verazanno Bridge and we reached the person by mid-day. This kind lady was waiting for us for over an hour. She was all smiles and I cheered Rani saying:

The news is good.

It was good news. The rescue dogs had signaled life under the rubble and rescuers dug out three persons—two dead and third one an Asian seriously wounded but alive. It was for Rani to identify her. With the head bandaged and the face bloated, Pavanee was no longer recognizable. Subduing her sobs with great courage, Rani asked the nurse to roll up Pavanee’s left sleeve. I was surprised with her reaction. She smiled and then laughed. Tattooed on the upper arm was a line of Tamil letters.

She is my sister, no doubt, she said. She had Indran Tangavelu tattooed to defy my parents and to reassure Indran of her unwavering love.

The motionless figure on the hospital bed was heavily sedated. Rani touched her heaving chest and was ecstatic. I was truly relieved.

I went out of the ward to telephone Aunty Seeta to give the good news. She would know how to tell the child.

While Rani occupied herself with her sister I went in search of the overworked doctor who had stepped out to get bowl of soup from a food stand which volunteers had thoughtfully set up on the street to serve rescuers and emergency workers. He looked a South Asian and quite unconsciously I spoke to him in Sinhala. He reacted with visible enthusiasm. So Rani’s sister Pavanee of Jaffna was being cared for by Dr. Amarasinghe, a reserve medical officer of the US Army who had flown from Atlanta, Georgia at his own time and expense.

What is this? I served in Iraq during the Desert Storm. But here I am not on orders. I do it for my own good, he said as he gulped down the soup and bit into a hard roll of bread.

He rattled off the names of many Lanerolles whom he knew as men of letters. I had to admit ignorance. He walked with me to the ward and met Rani. In precise medical terms, he explained her condition. Her wounds were not very serious but three days of dehydration and resulting kidney complications were too grave for him to be overly optimistic. He shook hands with Rani saying, Don’t worry but keep praying. As long as there’s life, there’s hope.

Rani that I drove back to Teaneck was a chirping bird whose every cheery word was music to my ears. Her chatter was pleasant as she narrated numerous episodes of the happy moments the two sisters had shared.

Why was the tattoo on the left shoulder? I asked when I could slip in a question.

She laughed just as she did at the hospital.

She wanted Indran’s name to be nearer her heart but yet not visible when she wore a shot-sleeved blouse.

We returned home from which a three-day gloom had passed and a happy little boy ran to welcome his aunt. For the first time since the tragedy, we sat together for a late lunch and chatted cheerfully. The manager of Air Lanka had set up temporary office in his home and had reconstructed my air tickets through records in London and Colombo. He had asked for my itinerary and dates. So for part of the time, we discussed Destiny, Fate, Kamma, Kismet and God’s Will and how the tragedy of 9/11 affected me directly in the most unexpected manner. Apparently sensing my growing fondness for not only Rani but also Tangam, Aunty Seeta gave me a sly wink as she said,

Udaya must be glad to have somebody to care for.

Was I? I asked myself. I had somebody to care for and that was Devi, my teenage sweetheart, the girl I grew up with and learnt what love and happiness was. We were inseparables in College. We planned our future together—our careers, home and children. In graduate school we reinforced each other’s will to succeed in life. She had her doctorate in Biology an year before I had mine in International Relations. The University recruited us as tutors and we set our date for marriage. It was a fairy tale wedding. But that was a million years ago.

Aunty Seeta’s question evoked memories of years of invasive medical tests, bickering, accusations and the rapid dissipation of affection and harmony to a point where even a few words of polite conversation were beyond our capacity. Maybe I was the victim of the only son syndrome. Frustrated fatherhood affected me more than childlessness caused pain to Devi. Then years of separation, bickering inside and outside court, manipulation of lawyers and quarrels over who keeps what. How the dreams of two young lovers blew with the wind!

Yes, Aunty, I replied. I do feel responsible for Rani and Tangam. I have to be here until Pavanee is well and the three of them return to the life they knew together.

Rani grabbed my right hand across the table saying, Thank you, Uday. You are a God-sent to us.

It became a daily routine to drive down to Manhattan, spend a couple of ours watching the progress of Pavanee and driving back in