Free at Last in Paradise

By Ananda W. P. Guruge

FREE AT LAST IN PARADISE is a historical novel on Sri Lanka. It is the first part of A SRI LANKAN TRILOGY FROM FREEDOM TO PEACE and deals with the period 1848 to 1948 when the country evolved into a modern nation and regained independence.

It 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 was a strong nationalist, deeply involved in the movement most of his adult life.

Though a work of epic proportions, 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!

“The book will be read with pleasure," says David Vickery of Britain, "by those who love Ceylon and introduce those who have no knowledge of the country to a fascinating society."

Leslie Gray M.D. of

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 8, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452021300

Ananda W. P. 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 is 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. Meanwhile, he is seen working with at-risk youth in Los Angeles, developing strategies for lessening violence when it erupts in cities, devoting time to 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.   Only a person of his caliber, 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. 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 histor in to phenomenal work of unique distinction.

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2010, 2000, 1998, Ananda W. P. 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 01/23/2021

ISBN: 978-1-4520-2129-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4520-2130-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010906651

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

FREE AT LAST IN PARADISE is a historical novel on Sri Lanka. It is the first part of A SRI LANKAN TRILOGY FROM FREEDOM TO PEACE and deals with the period 1848 to 1948 when the country evolved into a modern nation and regained independence. The second part SERENDIPITY OF ANDREW GEORGE, published in 2003 and 2008, deals with the best of times in recent history when peace and prosperity prevailed. The concluding part PEACE AT LAST IN PARADISE, published in 2010, covers the period of the recent armed conflict and traces the inter-communal relations from 1853 to 2009, besides projecting anticipated developments up to 2041.

This Island nation of great antiquity had been known to the Greeks and the Romans as Taprobane and Salike, to the Arabs as Serendip, to the Portuguese as Ceilao, to the French as Ceylan and to the Dutch as Ceylaan. A British Colony from 1796 to 1948, it has been known as Ceylon until, as a republic in 1972, it reverted to its age-old nomenclature of Sri Lanka, meaning the Resplendant Island. Its rich culture as reflected by an astounding heritage of monuments, literature, art, religious traditions and social values has merited many scholarly works.

This is a pioneering work in that a reputed scholar-diplomat of Sri Lanka has chosen the medium of fiction to share the highlights of this heritage with the worldwide English-reading public. It is a fictography or a fictional biography, which draws aside curtains and allows the reader to enter a world to which other authors had not been privy - one of the central character growing to adulthood and death.

Portraying Sri Lanka’s march to Independence over well nigh a century, the novel highlights the role of Colonel Henry Steel Olcott, Madame Blavatsky and other Theosophists of USA who spearheaded the struggle of this British Colony for liberation through the revival of Buddhism and nationalistic sentiments. The key characters are renowned protegés of Olcott, who continues to be hailed and honored as a foremost national leader.

The book will be read with pleasure, says David Vickery of Britain, by those who love Ceylon and introduce those who have no knowledge of the country to a fascinating society.

Leslie Gray M.D. of Denver, Colorado, USA, in his review published in the Journal of Theosophical History, says, "a magnum opus, a masterpiece from any angle. Elegant style, eloquent language, relentless tempo, exciting and almost galloping."

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, says Nandasiri Jasentuliyana in Sunday Observer of Sri Lanka.

Ceylon is really a Paradise of natural beauties for one who can appreciate them..

Ernst Haeckel (1882)

Ah! Lovely Lanka, Gem of the summer Seas, how doeth thy sweet image rise before me as I write the story of my experiences among thy dusky children, of my success in warming their hearts to revere their incomparable religion and its holiest Founder.. Happy the Karma which brought me to thy shores!

Colonel Henry Steel Olcott (1899)

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A SRI LANKAN TRILOGY FROM

FREEDOM TO PEACE

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.

Preface

By Nandasiri Jasentuliyana

ANANDA GURUGE: SRI LANKAN TRILOGY

ON FREEDOM TO PEACE: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.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The author is deeply indebted to his wife Darshanika Guruge for her unfailing assistance and encouragement and to Mr. David J. Vickery of Langrick, Boston, Lincolnshire, Britain, who read the manuscript as it was written and made invaluable comments and suggestions on the basis of his excellent knowledge of the history and culture of Sri Lanka.

To Darshanika with love

Contents

PROLOGUE

Book 1: All Too Brief A Childhood And

Mentorless Meandering

Book 2: A White Messiah

Book 3: How Does Your Garden Grow?

Book 4: Oft A Little Morning Rain

Foretells A Pleasant Day

Book 5: Path And Fruit Of Freedom

EPILOGUE

Names Of Persons And Places

FREE AT LAST IN PARADISE

Prologue

Thrice have I begun in earnest to write the story of my life and times. On each occasion, a formidable obstacle was the thought that so much was happening around me and I needed to be in touch with new developments. After almost a year since the last aborted or rather abandoned start, I am obsessed with a persisting urge to make one more attempt. At the ripe old age of ninety, I have no alternative. It is now or never.

Today, the fourth of February 1948, is a day of dual significance - one personal and the other national.

It is my ninetieth birthday. For a long time, my birthday has become an occasion for reflection rather than celebration. I recall the vicissitudes of a life through eventful times less for the joy of having survived them all but more for the confirmation that all phenomena, the good, the bad and the indifferent, are evanescent and impermanent. Life is but a sequence of fleeting images, voices and impressions.

Of far greater importance, however, is that today the land of my birth regains independence after centuries of foreign domination. It is the culmination of a persistently peaceful two-track process: one of national self-conscientization to become a modern nation with a proper appreciation of its cultural heritage and history; and another of progressive constitutional evolution based on agitation, consultation and negotiation and guided by a deep commitment to democracy.

I have had a ringside seat in the national arena. It is true that for the most part I have been an interested, if not concerned, observer. But I also had the rare privilege of making a few humble contributions. For well nigh seven decades, less three decades of voluntary isolation, have I been active in one way or another to usher in this day of joy.

Therefore do I begin to dictate my memoirs with a sense of fulfillment, tinged though not tainted, I must frankly admit, by a feeling of pride and jubilation.

The island whose recent history I propose to recount in these pages has been home to many peoples over several millennia. Fascinating discoveries of its pre-historic past speak of cultures long forgotten. A megalithic dolmen and cave paintings, urn burials and Stone Age implements predate a recorded history of at least twenty-five centuries.

Legends and literature confirm the nation’s antiquity. The Ramayana, the popular epic poem of the neighboring subcontinent, calls this island Lanka and describes its location off the southern tip of India accurately. The mythical demon-king Ravana of Lanka is portrayed as a villain who abducts the consort of Rama, a prince of Northern India. The line of tiny islands and sandbanks which dot the eighteen miles of the sea separating it from the mainland is believed to be the vestiges of a bridge or rather a causeway which Rama constructed to invade Lanka with his army of monkeys. The vanquished demon-king, however, continues to be celebrated in legends and poems of India as a scholar, poet, expert in medicine and inventor of the violin! Both the Jains and the Buddhists claim him as a pious adherent!! Buddhists of China, Korea and Japan believe that an important philosophical text, which they hold in high veneration contains a sermon preached by the Buddha to this demon-king in Lanka. In their scriptures both Ravana and his brother Vibhisana are mentioned as pious adherents to the Greater Vehicle of Buddhism, namely the Mahayana tradition.

The country still bears the name Lanka, which, some scholars posit, means simply an island. About a thousand years ago, the prefix Sri had been added as an honorific. Thus came the usage Sri Lanka, meaning The Resplendent Island. This name may still be unfamiliar to my readers who know our island home only as Ceylon or its other European equivalents Ceylan, Ceylaan and Ceilao.

Do we like any of these names? No one has really asked us.

My preference, of course, is for Sri Lanka.

Like Australia or New Zealand, it has only a geographical connotation. For the same reason, I would have even liked the ancient name by which Greeks and Romans knew it. Taprobane, which Ptolemy in his map magnified to many times its size, was called by us Tamraparni or Tambapanni. Signifying Copper-colored Palms - palms of the hand and not the trees - it refers to the fertile soil of the Island’s coastal plain.

Ceylon, on the contrary, has an ethnic sense like England, the land of the Angles or France, the land of the Franks. Ceylon comes via Latin, Persian and Arabic corruptions, Singaldivi/Seren-Devi/Serendib, of Sanskrit and Pali appellations Sinhala-dipa /Sihalanam dipa - the Island of the Sinhalas.

The Sinhalas of Northern Indian origin, speaking a language of the Indo-Aryan family of Indo-European languages, continue to be the majority. Yet, several other distinct ethnic groups claim as their home this charming island with its salubrious climate and breath-taking scenic beauty.

Book One

ALL TOO BRIEF A CHILDHOOD

AND

MENTORLESS MEANDERING

I. My Birth and Early Learning

The pear-shaped Island rises to a triangular central massif, which at the highest point is over eight thousand feet. Well-watered by both monsoons from southwest and northeast, three mighty rivers flow through the highlands carving out a medley of fertile valleys. They form ideal homelands for the rice-growing peasantry. Where the longest of these rivers cuts through a deep and noisy cataract for several miles is a historic hamlet.

Commemorating a royal grant of its rice fields to the Sangha (that is, the Buddhist Clergy), it was called the Hanguranketa. Hanguranketa protected by the mountainous terrain but yet accessible through the winding valleys of the Great Sand Mahaveli River, this hamlet had seen better days. The kings of Kandy, the last capital of the hilly kingdom, escaped to it when forced by the invading armies of the Portuguese, the Dutch and the British from the sixteenth to early nineteenth century.

A Buddhist temple reputed for its remarkable repository of invaluable palm leaf manuscripts and a Hindu temple with exceptional works of art in sculpture and mural paintings suggest an age when this sleepy hamlet was a center of national culture.

On the fourth of February 1858, recorded in my horoscope as 1780 of the Saka Era, I was born in this hamlet. It is a date few people in the neighborhood had forgotten. In a freak landslide of gigantic scale, the hillock bearing our cottage of wattle and daub with cadjan or coconut frond roofing slid a quarter of a mile to settle on the meager rice field on which the family subsisted. A good part of what was once our high land of mixed cultivation of exotic tropical fruit trees was washed down the Great Sand River in an unprecedented flood. I do not know how welcome my birth was.

With seven older children, my arrival would have normally meant an additional mouth to feed, at least till I was big enough to become economically active for the family unit. But the disaster, which coincided with my birth - to the very minute, as the midwife never failed to remind me - left my position somewhat dubious.

Some blamed the catastrophe as a misfortune, which I had brought with me to a family which deserved better. They commiserated with my father who had been a proud and independent cultivator of his own freehold. Now he was doomed to forego his dignity and become a hired hand or a share-cropper in other’s fields. That applied to all his children too.

Others thought differently. They attributed to my luck the fact that our cottage alone survived the slide, which had taken a toll of a dozen men and children in two similar cottages nearer the rice field. The midwife and two women who came to help her from these cottages were the only fortunate survivors.

The midwife who was a cousin of my mother had declared that I was born with an impressive destiny. Her proof was that I was nearly strangled by the umbilical cord, which circled my neck. Even before she or any one else in the house was aware of the catastrophic landslide, she is said to have declared, The baby brings a lot of merit from his previous births.

According to the prevailing belief of the Buddhists, one reaps in this world the reward or retribution for one’s good or bad action from any number of previous births. Good action leads to the accumulation of merit. The midwife easily convinced my mother and her maternal uncle who was the chief monk of the village temple. Later, the monk confirmed his conviction with a horoscope, which he wrote on an ivory-colored palm leaf.

Hardly a day passed in my childhood without being reminded of the fateful night. Some children would refuse forthright to let me join their teams in competitive games. Others would beg me to join them, especially when luck had turned against them. I have often heard myself being called black-eared. To be called black-eared is to be rated good-for-nothing. In our native idiom, a pun on this pejorative term also had the meaning of devourer of time.

As disconcerting as being called names were equally frequent occasions when I was pointed out in a crowd by strangers who seem to be impressed by what they considered a miracle.

It was worse when people asked me for details of the night’s happenings and expected me to know all answers. The strict code of conduct, which was ingrained in us by home, temple and community and, later school, required children to be always polite, obedient and obliging to adults. There were times when I wished I were never born.

Few could attribute a miserable childhood to a natural disaster from which one escaped miraculously!

I have no idea when the family took the decision that I would be a monk. Perhaps it was a vow taken at the time of my birth or shortly afterward. If so, it could have been taken by my father. Mother had been in pain for almost the whole day and in shock for long hours after my birth.

As I came to know later from different accounts, it was an unusually dark night. Heavy unseasonable rains had lasted over three days and nights with intermittent thunder and lightning.

As was the custom, our neighbors had taken turns to bring us meals from the time mother was incapacitated. Father had asked a few of our closest relatives and friends to be in readiness to carry her to the house of the village physician if the midwife felt incompetent to handle any unexpected situation.

The males huddled together in the leaking verandah around an imported chimney lamp whose flame threatened to blow out with every gust of wind. As the night grew and no encouraging news came from the women inside, someone suggested that they should chant a particular religious text. Associated with a ferocious bandit named Angulimala (Finger-Garland) whom the Buddha converted to a saintly life, this short text is believed to be significantly efficacious in easing the pain of childbirth.

An elderly relative of mine who was a teacher by day and an astrologer/witch-doctor in his spare time used to describe most dramatically the events of that night which he remembered from his teens:

"That bout of lightning literally lasted hours. The clap of thunder, which followed, was the loudest. The lamp was about to blow out and I reached for it. But I failed and the glass broke into smithereens even as the oil on the unpaved earthen floor caught fire. I was stamping on it when my knees plopped. I felt as though I was in a boat shooting the rapids. I was groping in the dark for any available support when an eerie crushing and scraping noise deafened us. In the cacophony of voices, shrieks and wailing, the voice of uncle Big Banda was the loudest asking us to take cover from what he described as ‘an enormous earthquake’ and the next was the distinct cry of a new born baby from inside.

"Within minutes everything was calm. An oil lamp was found and lit. The joy of a new arrival made everybody oblivious of what had happened outside. Only the village headman who was among the adults who recited the sacred text worried that the roar of the river rose suddenly to a high pitch. ‘This is very funny. I hear as if the river has come to our doorstep,’ he said.

My uncle’s thoughts were elsewhere. He had expected to have a daughter after seven sons. He looked relieved but not happy. None of us dared to ask him how he felt.

I had heard this account in varying versions on all kinds of family occasions. As time went by, more and more embellishments came to be added. From the earliest moment of my life, which I can recall, that is, from about the third or fourth year, I suffered inside with the impression that I was an unwanted child. My mother would always comfort me.

You are born with a mission, a destiny. There are great things in store for you, she would tell me referring to predictions made in the horoscope which her own uncle, the Chief Monk of the temple, had cast on my birth.

The monk himself repeated them as often as he could. He would stroke my head and say,

You will bring so much fame to this hamlet that people from all over will come here.

I do not know how he was so sure. I also did not know what such fame meant to me or what benefit I would derive from it.

I would have been happier if I was not called names or pointed out as a wonder. As I grew up, either affected me less and less.

The extensive slab of granite, which was exposed as the hillock with our cottage slid down to the rice fields, had become the playground of the village children. The terrain suited our rural games such as ‘dodging the bear or capturing the enemy." But I was hardly there. When children refused to play with me, which was more often than not, I would go to the temple where I found a lot of solace and fun in the company of young novices.

Novices in a Buddhist Monastery were not allowed to play. But when senior monks were not around, their boyish pranks could be as boisterous and noisy as those of their lay counterparts. They had a flare to return with baffling rapidity from such behavior to perfect calmness and serenity. It was a game by itself. The senior monks felt flattered that their presence could instantly turn shouting brats into saintly hermits.

In the company of these novices, I learned almost seven hundred letter forms of the Sinhala alphabet with twenty vowels and thirty-four consonants from an illustrated palm leaf book and practiced writing on a sand board. It was an ingenious device. Letters were formed by writing on a thin layer of sand with the index finger. One could try over and over again until one mastered a letter with all its forms. The senior monks apparently watched my progress. One of them in his early twenties called me one day and led me to a nearby tree. Every shady tree seemed to have a few boulders carefully arranged to benefit from the shade of the tree right through the day.

The monk spread a leather prayer mat and sat on a rock. I was asked to stand before him slightly to the right. From under his flowing yellow robe, he produced a slim palm leaf book with profusely illustrated wooden binders.

This was to be my first book. I was a bit disappointed. I remembered how at least two of my elder brothers were introduced to their first books. Reading the first letters was an elaborate ceremony. Milk rice, oil cakes and new clothes were indispensable to it. I felt cheated. But I had learned to expect the unusual - all because I was born with the landslide. The monk must have read my thoughts. He explained that there would be no such ceremony for me because I had already learned to read.

You have read your first letters long before anyone could introduce them to you at an auspicious time with all the rites involved, he said.

I wondered whether I was being punished. I had been too eager to emulate my friends among the novices. And, worse still, I had pre-empted my parents from finding an astrologically auspicious time to get me to read my first letters.

Was it a good thing? some lurking superstition prompted me to ask. Any one with the slightest claim to an education, particularly monks and physicians, were expected to be well versed in astrology to answer such a question.

There is no good thing or bad thing when it comes to learning. The earlier you learn anything the more time you will have to learn something else. Any way, learning the alphabet is a very boring thing. Now you can begin to read. That could be pleasanter and more rewarding.

He was correct. I felt elated as I read the list of place names in the palm leaf book. Sagama Pasgama Arattana, I read aloud and the nodding head of my teacher confirmed that I was correct. I had read more than half the book before I met my first difficulty with the bane of pedantic complexity of written Sinhala - contorted single symbols for syllables like ksa, jna, jjha, nkti. Back to the sand board.

For several weeks I looked forward daily to this hour-long session under the flowering ironwood tree. Then did my granduncle, Chief Monk, hear me out reading the entire text in one session. He stroked my head as he always did to express his affection or appreciation and produced from the refectory a plateful of the most delicious sweetmeats. So my sweets came at the end of my first book. It was typical of many things, which happened in my life. Mine has always been a case of the cart before the horse.

With neither ceremony nor pre-warning, I was thus introduced to a traditional course of literacy and memory training. It was challenging but in no way threatening. Instruction was on a one to one basis. Repetitive drill and memorization were at one’s own pace. The setting was invariably informal: under a tree, on the doorstep or in a corner of the preaching hall.

I could come to the temple any time in the afternoon. Any monk who was free would be my teacher for the day. I would read the text, which was in Sanskrit verse, along with the word-to-word Sinhala translation and recite the verses, which I had to memorize. The teacher would correct mistakes, if any, and set work for the next day. In less than an hour I would be back, unless, of course, novices were inclined to fool around.

I progressed from book to book. It was all rote learning. Some of the verses that I had committed to memory provided material for reflection. They were meant to summarize for you the values and ideals upheld by society. Among them were beautiful verses in Sinhala in praise of learning:

What no thief could steal from wherever you keep,

What no flood of boundless water would ever wash away,

What no angry king or minister could ever snatch from you

That learning should one acquire for one’s good in the future

Gnomes in Sanskrit verse embodied rare gems of wisdom:

Devoid of malice, sound in health and senses restrained,

Compassionate, forbearing and popular with all persons,

Generous, giving and free from fear and grief,

These ten qualities the learned do define.

II. A Peep into Changing Times

The routine changed when I was eleven. One day I was given a tiny stylus and a polished palm leaf. I had seen other novices scratching letters on palm leaf. It required skill to hold the leaf between the thumb and index finger of the left hand and to cut circular letters with the fine point of the steel stylus, held firm with the right hand. The nail of the left thumb was used as the fulcrum for the stylus.

Go home and practice all letters of the alphabet including conjunct letters was all the instruction.

It must have been some form of promotion or graduation. My mother was thrilled to see my stylus. Father who was rarely demonstrative of any emotion was visibly pleased as he held me out as a model for several of my older brothers. Three of them had still to graduate to writing. They were slow learners and showed little enthusiasm. Of the other four, the eldest two had dropped out from studies and were helping the father in a project he had started by himself seven years ago.

Taking advantage of the sliding of our high land toward the river, he had been converting its lower reaches into terraced rice fields. Every year he added a few narrow ribbons of paddies. Watering them profusely to grow rice demanded ingenuity.

Water was tapped from a stream flowing down a nearby hill slope to the river and diverted to his fields through a miniature aqueduct made of massive green bamboos slit into halves and mounted on a procession of tripods. This curious contraption, which snaked along the slope of the two hillocks and spanned the tiny valley at the narrowest point provided gallons of water day and night to the highest terrace and filled in succession each rice-field to the level determined by the break in the little dyke.

I have never seen anything like this anywhere, said the village headman, who, apart from being a distant relative of my father, was a much-loved friend of the family. How ever did you think of it?

This chap’s mighty brain, my father replied pointing to my eldest brother.

Both my eldest brothers who were rapidly lapsing to illiteracy had their own skills. They were wonderful with their hands. They could hoe and plough, saw and plane, and make things with wood and metal. They were helping father to convert our cottage of wattle and daub into a burnt brick structure with a roof of flat clay tiles. They knew a lot of the river and mountains on both banks.

I was their most fervent admirer. They took me out on some of their adventures. But all did not turn out well. Once we returned red and swollen from a honey gathering expedition. When the parents remonstrated them for taking me on these wild escapades, they had a ready answer:

The Tiny One is too involved with novices in the temple and is becoming too lazy. He should learn some things that are not in books.

By this they meant the plants and animals and the fantastic secrets of nature that an observant eye could unravel at every step in the lush vegetation of our environment.

For some reason, which I never understood, my father endorsed their view. When mother stressed the need for safety and discouraged our excursions to the roaring river and the jungle of the mountain slopes, he would cut her short sternly,

These children have to live their lives in this place.

Both parents and all my brothers were there when I brought home the stylus and the palm leaf.

I must have been at least fourteen when I was taught writing, said my eldest brother.

Then I must have been only thirteen because we began writing with the same stylus, said the next brother in a note, which assumed that he had a claim to some additional respect. But see the Tiny One. He is hardly eleven.

There was no doubt that I was a little hero that night. We had two special guests at dinnertime. Eating in our home, as was the custom at that time, was a very private affair. Mother would cook a huge pot of rice and a number of curries in earthenware pans. Pumpkins both golden and silver, a variety of gourds of different sizes and tastes and all kinds of edible leaves went into these curries, besides such favorites as young jak fruit, purple taro leaves and tender shoots of the madu palm. Tiny cubes of dry fish, deep fried with onion were a special delicacy.

My mother’s uncle, junior by twelve years to Chief Monk of the temple, had dropped in to consult my parents on a marriage proposal received from a nearby family for his daughter. My father’s younger brother was a frequent visitor and this evening he had come as usual to spend a few leisurely moments with his nephews. Mother insisted that they should eat with us.

Deftly she filled large clay bowls, which served as plates. Each found a quiet spot in the house and the verandah to deal with the mountain of rice and the selection of curries. Mother’s cooking had quite a reputation in the village. Tonight the food was unusually good. She must have thought of asking her uncle to eat with us. She went in turn to each of us with seconds, which she served directly from the cooking pots.

With everyone’s attention directed to the food, she had a silent audience. Whether this was by accident or design, I could never guess. That was the time when she would address the family on whatever she had in her mind. Tonight she was happy.

The monks in the temple seem to think that our Tiny One is cut out to be a learned Buddhist monk, she began. Our Chief Monk would like to have him in the temple as soon as possible. He spoke to me on the last full moon day also.

Let the Tiny One enjoy his childhood, said my paternal uncle, whom we called Little Father.

He was about ten years older than my eldest brother. Yet, he played with us and confided in us his little secrets. He was once a candidate for monkhood. He was held up as a role model to the children who came to the temple for their education. Sometimes, he supervised their studies. But he never entered the Order. We wondered why he changed his mind. Now that he was well past twenty years of age, he could no longer be a novice. Will they admit him to the Order without the obligatory period of acolyte and novice? Perhaps, he did not see much fun in monastic life.

He continued in a gloomy tone,

Times are changing. It is not like in olden times. What future is there for a monk? What future is there for Buddhism in this country? I wonder whether there will be enough Buddhists even to give a monk his single square meal for the day.

My seventh brother who was seated with me on the kitchen floor laughed and whispered,

That’s the best thing that can happen to you for all your gluttony. You go to the temple because the monks give you those nice things to eat, you gluttonous pig. You think that you can have the best of everything without working one bit, you lazy good-for-nothing. I will wait for the day you starve and come home begging for food.

A scuffle resulting from my throwing a handful of hot curry on his face distracted us for some time. In the semi-darkness of the kitchen lit by only a one-wick coconut oil lamp, no one saw us fighting. We also settle our quarrels very fast. That is something you learn in a household of eight boys. If a petty fight is not settled soon, it becomes a veritable melee.

Meanwhile, mother has gone on to elaborate her plans for me. I could only hear the last part.

He is not even eleven. He has read the entire ‘Century Books’. Chief Monk tells me that he has memorized many verses in Sinhala, Pali and Sanskrit. Now he wants him to learn writing. In fact, he was given a stylus today.

What an auspicious day I have chosen to come here, said my maternal granduncle. So, we have another budding scholar in the family. We have to think of a successor to our brother Chief Monk some day. Maybe, that is what they are thinking of Tiny One.

Me! To be Chief Monk of the temple! Not just any temple!! The Royal Monastery of Hanguranketa!!!

The very thought amused me. Will the novices and even the other monks take me seriously? But the prospect appeared a pleasant one. Perhaps, my brother was right. I had a fascination for the lazy life of comfort and luxury, which I saw in the temple. Suddenly a cold shiver went down my spine.

What will I do when all these adults, my parents, grandparents, uncles and aunts and even the village headman fall at my feet, worship me and await my benedictions?

My reverie was broken by the grave voice of my father who said, I think there is a lot of truth in what my younger brother says. One does not give one’s son to the Order only to get merit. One looks forward to the prestige of the family. See how much we all gained in recognition by having someone from our family as Chief Monk here and as Abbot in my own village. But if Buddhism declines as all the present signs show, will there be temples? Will there be monks? It will be terrible to see the brightest child of the family leading a life useless to him and useless to society.

That is what I thought, elder brother. I want to see what other avenues exist for a diligent and hard-working young man in an evolving society.

What followed was a long and intricate discussion among the three adults to which mother gave ear and contributed a few sporadic remarks. But the whole thing was beyond us.

One by one the eight boys got up, rinsed the clay bowls, drank a little water from the pitcher kept outside the house, placed the bowls upside down on the little bamboo platform for pots and pans and melted into the darkness of the compound. We formed little groups to while away the rest of the evening.

There were many things we could do. We solved riddles and puzzles, narrated stories, sang carter’s and boatman’s working songs or committed to memory the verses set by our teachers in the temple. The last to join us was the eldest brother. He placed his hands on my shoulders and made a cryptic statement.

You are going places, Tiny One. They are thinking of sending you to study in some far off place.

When and where? I asked him.

I have no idea at all.

Reverend Thomas Blake was not a stranger in our village even though he lived in Bopitiya (Bo-tree Plain) a few miles down the hill track. The village was so named because an ancient Pipal (Ficus Religiosa) tree, renowned for its association with the enlightenment of the Buddha, was the centerpiece of the temple.

The padre was seen frequently at the temple of Hanguranketa as he was a close friend of my granduncle, Chief Monk. Within days of his arrival in the area, he had called on the then Chief Monk and established good relations with monks and important supporters of the temple.

An enthusiastic evangelist and dedicated church-worker, he had since made it a point to come in contact with practically everyone from every walk of life in the neighborhood.

He is a gregarious go-getter by inclination or training or both, was the assessment of Chief Monk.

Reverend Blake whom the villagers called White Padre hailed from Hornby in Kent in England. He used to call it a sleepy town with only one claim to fame. From its bay one looked north onto an open sea, which extended right up to the Arctic Circle. The harsh northern winds brought chill and snow. From there to warm sunny Ceylon was a trip to paradise.

As the second son of an affluent and influential land-owning family, he could have chosen any mission either in the British Isles or anywhere in the far-flung British Empire. He had selected Ceylon for several reasons. In his family library were several books on exotic foreign lands. Taking advantage of a break in his Divinity Studies at the nearby Canterbury Cathedral, he had read them avidly. Two books captured his imagination, he told me once. One was AN HISTORICAL RELATION OF CEYLON IN THE EAST-INDIES TOGETHER with an ACCOUNT of the Detaining in Captivity the Author and divers other Englishmen now Living there, and of the Author’s Miraculous ESACAPE by Robert Knox, A Captive there near Twenty Years, published in 1681. It was a remarkable book, which presented a comprehensive first hand account of the country and the people. No aspect of the life of the people went unmentioned.

The other published in 1837 in Ceylon in two volumes was The Mahavamso in Roman Characters with the Translation subjoined and an Introductory Essay on Pali Buddhistical Literature by George Turnour. This was Sri Lanka’s non-stop epic or rather its first part of thirty-seven chapters.

The Mahavamsa or the Great Chronicle has been described as non-stop because it was periodically prolonged to cover the entire history of the island from 543 Before Christ right up to 1815 of the Christian Era. Few countries in the world could boast of a long history of over two millennia and fewer still would have it written down unbroken.

Young Blake was fascinated by not only the history and the culture, which the epic described, but also the unique role, which Buddhism played in fashioning them. He longed to make a career in Ceylon.

It did not take too long to find that the Church Missionary Society was looking for men like him to open new missions in the central hills of Ceylon, which had become a part of the British Empire only a decade and a half ago. He was given a choice. He could assist a senior padre to set up a prestigious school in Kandy, which until 1815 was the capital of the independent Sinhala Kingdom and engage in proselytizing boys from important Buddhist families. The importance of this project was explained to him as directly related to the future of Christianity in the Island and the stability of British rule.

One boy from the Kandyan Sinhala aristocracy means to the Church more than a thousand peasants. Once he is Christian, his loyalty to the regime will be undivided.

Reverend Blake used to mention this statement from his initial briefing to emphasize what he missed by taking the second option, which was to come to a strange village, find friends and converts, set up a school and eventually build a church. In either case, he would receive the fullest support of the British administration. The British Governor, Robert Brownrigg, who was responsible for the annexation of the hill-country had gone on record with the statement,

"It is not necessary to dwell upon my sincere zeal for a wide extension of the Christian faith, as it were independent of other motives; because it is inseparably connected with my political office."

Reverend Blake had asked for an assignment close to the area where Robert Knox was held captive by Rajsinha (Royal-Lion) the Second (1635-1687).

I have a feel for this place because I have read Knox’s book at least twice. Besides, the people there must have some familiarity with white foreigners, he had urged.

He was fully aware of the advantage of being accepted or at least unobstructed by the people for success in a foreign land. For some curious reason, Rajasinha the Second had held captive at least a score of Europeans who were allowed to settle down and have families. Only Knox is recorded to have not taken that option and escaped from captivity.

As Reverend Blake had guessed, the people in our region had retained a vivid memory of these captives whose life style found mention in our folk tales. In addition, there were their descendants distinguished by a lighter complexion, brownish hair and, in some rare instances, blue or brown eyes. The light and fair skin of practically all members of our family would suggest some connection with one or more captives of the king eight generations ago.

My elders remember the day Reverend Blake arrived in the village. That was eighteen years before I was born. They speak of an erect, handsome and confident young man with an imposing beard and whiskers who walked along the riverbank with his belongings straddled on two donkeys. With a letter from the new British Administrator in Kandy, he met the village headman and was accommodated in a tent in his garden.

Later a modest cottage was built at a spot he chose for his mission in the village of Bopitiya. The land originally belonged to a family who, in terms of the traditional land tenure system, had received it as a royal grant in exchange for some services to be rendered to the Temple in our village dedicated to God Vishnu or Rama, the Hindu god of Sustenance.

The British administration had declared all uncultivated land to be crown property and was thus able to allot a sizeable acreage to the Church Missionary Society on a nominal lease for ninety-nine years.

Within twenty years, Reverend Blake had established a school, a dispensary where an apothecary saw patients twice a week, and an orphanage for boys. The construction of a church was in progress. In comparison with the modest Buddhist temple, Reverend Blake’s establishment was already a grand institution.

That was where I found myself in the company of my father and his youngest brother on the morning following the dinner where my mother raised the question of my future studies. We walked down meandering shortcuts and reached the school before it opened. This was not my first visit to this area. I had passed by the school several times when we visited our relatives.

There was something that made the church complex different from a Buddhist monastery. The imposing site on the slope of the hill commanded the view of the approaching traveler and presented an impression of grandeur. The white walls and red tiles, contrasted by dark green window shutters and doorframes, were picturesque. Much thought had gone into landscaping the premises. Flowering and fruit-bearing trees of different sizes were planted at the right places. The rectangular school hall appeared to be more spacious than the square, pavilion-like preaching hall of a monastery. A brick-paved stairway led to a beautiful house at the highest point. Around it were beds of the most exquisite flowers I had seen anywhere. Most of them were exotic and could have been imported from abroad. The place was called the Church School.

My two adult companions must have been equally impressed with what they saw. Little Father was full of praise.

See, elder brother, this is what I keep on saying. Our monks at the temple, however, do not like what I say. They think I am disloyal to them. The moment you come to this place, you see that somebody cares; somebody knows that the environment conveys the very first impression of order, discipline and seriousness. Look at the trees, the flowers, the pathways. Don’t you see how orderly they are? There isn’t a speck of dirt. Don’t you realize that White Padre means business and is doing it really right

I could not discern whether my father agreed or not. His comment was not all that intelligible to me at that time.

The White Padre has an advantage that our monks don’t have. There’s a lady who looks after these finer aspects. All that‘s beautiful here - the trees, the flowers and the garden - is definitely her work. I have seen her working with her own hands, weeding the flowerbeds and watering the plants. I must say that he was very lucky to get a kind and nice wife like her. Specially so because he knew nothing of her when he agreed to marry her.

How was that? asked Little Father who seemed not to know how the Blakes met.

His friends in England were asked to send him a bride. But for several years, they couldn’t find a girl with all the qualifications he has scrupulously listed. One day he heard that a lady who had come all the way from England was stranded in Kandy. The planter to whom she was betrothed had started an affair with the daughter of a recently imported South Indian indentured laborer. White Padre went to Kandy to knock some good sense into the errant planter. In this he failed. But when the padre saw the lady, it was love at first sight for both of them. So they married then and there. What if she was of the wrong type? Or she didn’t like the village? He was taking so many risks. But from what we see, they are getting on well.

That’s what most of the British planters are doing even today. Every horse-drawn state coach to Kandy from the coast brings a couple of brides from Great Britain betrothed to unseen suitors. White Padre, at least, had a choice. She did not come earmarked for him. It’s not very different from our arranged marriages, is it?

Little Father spoke very precisely. He made a distinction between England and Great Britain. I was keen to know how he acquired his wide knowledge of things so far away. My curiosity was satisfied within a few minutes.

Reverend Blake stepped out of his house on the hill and saw us standing by the gate. He waved to us and the gesture was friendly. He was half way down the steps when he spoke to Little Father.

Little Banda, you didn’t tell me you were coming today. I thought you would be here as usual on Saturday.

So Little Father was no stranger to this place or to White Padre. My father was as surprised as I was. We had no reason to believe that he met White Padre regularly on Saturdays.

We approached White Padre as he came to the foot of the steps and made our traditional salutation with clasped hands. None of us went on our knees, as we would have done when saluting Buddhist monks. Little Father, however, was noticeably more deferential than my father.

The padre wore a black cassock with a clerical collar. An inch of white satin showed under his chin. He seemed to be more formal this morning. I had seen him in the village in riding breeches with only the clerical collar as a mark of his calling.

This must be your famous nephew who brought the whole place down the night he was born, he said in perfect fluent, Sinhala. I hear you are a fine student. Your uncles are very proud of you.

If the plural was meant to include Chief Monk, with whom White Father was known to have frequent and friendly visits, it was not quite accurate. That monk was my granduncle. Of course, the Abbot of this village who was a cousin of my father was an uncle.

I am a good friend of your wife’s uncle, Chief Monk of the Royal Monastery, he told my father. I know your cousin who is the Abbot of the temple here but I must say that I haven’t much to do with him.

The comment, which by its tone suggested some sort of rivalry between the temple and the church, was allowed to pass without a reply. Or rather, Little Father changed the subject swiftly.

I brought my elder brother and Tiny One to get some advice on his education.

White Padre pulled a watch from a side pocket, read the time.

Go up to my home. Take your seats in the verandah. I will speak to teachers and children at the school assembly and join you in a few minutes. If Mrs. Blake sees you, you will get something to drink.

III. How Contradictory?

Am I going to be a student in this school? I asked myself. If not, what is the advice that White Padre can give us. I have known my parents as well as all others in the family going to the temple for advice on any matter. This appeared to be a very