Features

NU’S SOCIAL MILIEU

Published

1 year ago

2025/05/18

Thilina Walpola

Beeralu lace-makers

CHAPTER II

(Excerpted from N.U. JAYAWARDENA The first five decades)

I am proud of my humble beginnings. My earliest memories are of my parents, humble people. My father was in charge of the resthouse at Hambantota and held the conferred rank of arachchi, and later he farmed a rather large but unproductive extent of paddy land.

(N.U. Jayawardena, interview with Roshan Pieris, 1987)

Religious Background

NU’s parents, born in the 19th century, were essentially people of the South who had never travelled beyond the Hambantota and Matara districts, until their old age when they moved to Colombo. They were devout Buddhists who had lived through the Buddhist Revival Movement in Sri Lanka, which occurred from the middle of the 19th century onward. The South also had a regional consciousness as being the “Gods’ own country” (deviyange rata), since Kataragama, the pilgrimage site of Buddhists and Hindus, was in the region.

There was also a historic memory of former greatness in the South of Sri Lanka. The people of the Matara and Hambantota districts were steeped in the early history of the Ruhuna region, when Tissamaharama was a powerful kingdom associated especially with King Dutugemunu (c.100 BC), his father King Kavantissa and mother Vihara Maha Devi. The region abounds in important historic and religious sites, in places such as Mulkirigala, Tissamaharama, Kirinde, Sithulpawwa and Kataragama. In Devundara (Dondra) was the ancient Vishnu devale, revered by both Hindus and Buddhists – with its rituals and annual perahera (procession).

Buddhist monk with acolytes

An important challenge to the colonial establishment had come from the Buddhists, who opposed Christianity as being the religion of the foreign rulers and challenged Christian missionaries, who dominated education. The Buddhist Revival Movement of the 19^th and early 20th centuries was concerned with religious and national identity, also promoting modern education and temperance in the context of Buddhism. Support for it came from the new class of Sinhala Buddhist merchants who had earlier made fortunes in trade, the liquor business, plantations and graphite.

Many Buddhists from rural areas and small towns were also galvanized into supporting Buddhist grievances and demands. Some Buddhist revivalists – especially Anagarika Dharmapala and Colonel Henry Olcott – travelled by cart from village to village all over the South, promoting a resurgence of Buddhism and collecting funds for Buddhist schools.

Although the various communities had lived harmoniously, there were some occasional rumblings of religious discord. The Sinhala Buddhists thought of themselves as ‘sons of the soil.’ There were clashes in Colombo in 1883, when there was conflict between Buddhists and Catholics over Easter celebrations. In 1915, a more serious clash broke out between Buddhists and Muslims, beginning in Gampola and quickly spreading to other parts of the island. These and other flare-ups were a reflection of both the religious and economic discord of the period.

School drill

The young NU would have been keenly aware of the existence in the Hambantota area of both Buddhists and Muslims. Leonard Woolf had reported that “the races and religions have lived amicably side by side,” but that there were also occasional outbursts. Woolf records a riot occurring in Hambantota town in May 1911, when, allegedly, the drumming from a Buddhist procession outside the mosque was objected to by Muslims, resulting in a fracas.

Woolf (1962, pp.241-42) relates how he settled the matter: “I fined one side for disturbing a religious procession and the other for tom-tom beating without a licence, the Mohammedans Rs. 35 and the Buddhists Rs. 60.” Adding that the penalties were light, he said that it was done “as a matter of expedience” in order to allow the “religious ill-feeling to die out at once” (ibid). According to Woolf, “even in the quietest place, peace was precarious” (1961, p.242).

NU’s elder sister Rosalind witnessed this event, and years later recalled to her daughter Chandrani, how at the age of six she had the frightening experience of peering through the door into the street and seeing the commotion and bloodshed. NU would have been only three at the time. Even if he did not recall this riot, he may have been aware of the more widespread riots between the Sinhala and Muslim communities that occurred later in 1915.

Education and Illiteracy

During a period of expanding education in the early 20th century, the Hambantota district (as noted in Chapter 1- https://island.lk/unchanging-hambantota/), was among the least-developed in the island. The Superintendent of the 1911 Census, E.B. Denham, referred to the district, in terms of literacy, as “undoubtedly the most backward Low-country District during the decade” (Denham, 1912, p.407, emphasis added).

Transitions in dress reflecting two cultures

Among the Sinhala community of Hambantota, the literacy figures in 1901 were 27% for males, but only 1.7% for females; and by 1911, the males were still only 31% literate, and the females, 2.2%. Even in the more developed neighbouring districts, Sinhala female literacy was low. For example, the Matara district had 7% female literacy in 1911, while the Galle district rate was 14% (ibid, pp.404-7). By contrast, in the same year, 26.8% of women in Colombo were literate (ibid, p.412).

NU, who was very attached to his mother, frequently referred to her inability to read and write. Of his mother, who was from Devundara in the Matara district, he said:

My mother was very warm-hearted. She was not literate. She could not even sign her own name. But she created for her children a loving home where all of us were equally important and each one of us received the same measure of concern and affection. She had the time to spend with us, and it was this aspect of my home life that made me, years later, when I married, spend time with my children even though I was often busy and tired, because I wanted them to feel that I was concerned about every aspect of their lives. (interview by Manel Abhayaratne)

NU’s daughter Neiliya remembers her paternal grandmother as a ‘carbon copy’ of her own mother:

The only difference was that the former could neither read nor write. She was, however, the moving spirit behind her family and children, seven of whom lived into their eighties and beyond. (Neiliya Perera,2006)

In spite of her illiteracy, NU’s mother had a sharp mind and, according to all accounts, was the brains in the family. Thrifty and enterprising, she lent money informally, on the security of gold sovereigns, to women of the neighbourhood, many of whom were Muslim. Her method of calculation was based on a measurement of time from one poya (full-moon) day to the next. She would mentally calculate the interest and would waive part of it if the item was redeemed before the end of this period (Chandrani Jayawardena, quoting her mother’s recollections). This was not uncommon, as women from low-income groups had, and continue to have, their own means of survival, which could also include the seettu (a system of saving), lace-making, coir-spinning, mat-weaving, and other income- generating small ventures.

The Consciousness of Caste

In Sri Lanka, caste and kinship networks – originally based on occupation – formed the basis of society, reinforced by traditional obligations to relatives. Southern Sri Lanka was a multi-caste region where a range of Sinhala castes were present. There were, however, clusters of persons belonging to specific castes who, historically, were concentrated in certain areas. The Durava caste, to which NU’s parents belonged, was one of the smaller but more important castes of the Southern and Western provinces.

In the 1824 Census, in which caste was recorded for the first time, the Durava were reported as forming around 5.6% of the low-country Sinhala population, with pockets of the Durava caste in specific areas – Tangalle 9.5%, Colombo 4.7%, Galle 3.7% and Chilaw 4.1% (Ryan, 1953, p.264). During the 19th century, however, changes took place with the development of the colonial economy and the increased migration of people to Colombo in search of employment. Bryce Ryan, writing in 1953, noted that the economic backgrounds among the Durava ranged from “rich to very poor” in urban areas, but the majority, in rural areas, were “peasant cultivators and labourers.”

. Humorous depictions of the “Resthouse experience,”

From the time of Dutch occupation onwards, this caste had moved from traditional occupations at village level into other areas of activity available under the colonial economy, especially benefiting from education, economic opportunities and urban expansion during British rule.

By the early 20th century, a significant number of the Durava were part of the middle and lower- middle class of Colombo. Through the education process, they qualified for government positions in clerical and other white-collar employment, and many became lawyers, doctors, teachers and academics.

In a caste- and class-conscious society, the family of NU (like many others of the region) were aware of the limitations of caste-based rural life and would seek to move into the modern world where status was judged on education, merit and achievement, and not solely on caste.

Inevitably, bright males in the family were supported and financed by relatives, so that they could achieve success and thereby elevate the status of the whole family. The key to success was education in the English language, and studious boys often moved from small missionary or government schools to the larger, more prestigious schools in the provincial capitals, and even on to major schools in Colombo, which provided a superior academic education.

Chandrani and her mother Rosalind, NU’s elder sister

Verandah of Hambantota Resthouse

The Resthouse Culture

At the time of NU’s birth, his father U.J. Diyonis was the resthouse keeper at Hambantota. He also possessed a buggy cart and some acres of paddy land in Tangalle. It had been his wife’s uncle, Richard Gunasekera, a clerk to the District Mudaliyar of Magampattu, who had advised him to apply for the post. Diyonis, of an independent frame of mind, was also, as NU’s daughter Neiliya describes him: “a man who had a similar temperament to my father, but without his brilliance.” By ‘temperament,’ she was referring to Diyonis’ and NU’s quick temper and impatience.

Resthouses, which were a colonial innovation, served as places where government officials could lodge during their field circuits. They were located throughout the island, mainly along public roads – often at attractive sites. In 1911 there were 193 resthouses (Denham, 1912, p.5). Resthouses were also used by a few local residents who could afford them, to spend a quiet holiday or as a place of sojourn during a long journey (de Zoysa manuscript, p.42). The post of resthouse keeper was a respected one, usually being conferred the title of arachchi. The job carried the responsibility of providing congenial accommodation and food, mostly for colonial officials and tourists.

: NU’a father, UJ Diyonis

: NU’s mother, Gajawirage Podinona

In their architecture, resthouses generally conformed to a set style. A partially enclosed verandah ran along its entire length; from this, doors led to the dining room in the centre, and to bedrooms on either side. Behind the dining room was a space that served as a reception room, which also had a liquor bar. The kitchen and the rooms of the waiters and other employees were still further toward the back (de Zoysa manuscript, p.42). The professional attributes of a resthouse keeper were civility, knowledge of English sufficient to communicate with British officials or other visitors, and an ability to ensure their comfortable stay, as well as to handle the staff under his authority.

Diyonis, on these counts, was much praised by the visitors to his resthouse, which overlooked the beautiful bay of Hambantota. In the course of his work, he had to show courtesy, and provide efficient service, clean accommodation, good western and local food, and to be deferential to foreign guests, colonial bureaucrats and important locals who visited the resthouse. Leonard Woolf, who spent three years in Hambantota – living in the AGA’s house near the resthouse – would have been a frequent patron with his guests, interacting closely with U.J. Diyonis. (1. Interestingly, decades later, while studying in Britain,

NU’s son Lal interviewed Woolf several times on British land policy and the chena system of cultivation.)

In those days of strict dress codes and protocol, the personal appearance and grooming of the resthouse staff would have been important. From many accounts, both NU’s mother and father were conscious about their appearance, and paid great attention to detail – traits NU shared. NU’s daughter Neiliya recalls the great pride that her grandfather Diyonis took in his appearance, and how he was always dressed in a white cloth and coat with gold buttons.

Sinhala women dressed in typical ‘southern’ style

Neiliya also describes how her grandmother would always be immaculately dressed in a white blouse with wrist-length sleeves styled in the southern fashion, with delicate lace-inset panels. With this she would wear a light-coloured cloth, which would ‘glisten like silk.’ Being practical, her grandmother would wear a darker cloth when doing housework, but would change into a better cloth when receiving guests. Confirmation of this fastidiousness on her grandmother’s part, as regards her person and abode, can be gleaned from Neiliya’s interesting childhood impression:

[My grandparents’] house itself was spotlessly clean, the cement floor gleaming, just like my grandmother, who was always dressed in a white blouse, edged with lace and with detachable gold buttons down the front and a self-coloured cloth.

Sri Lankan ‘Moor’

For those who knew or encountered NU in his later life, it is apparent that he reflected this upbringing. Many who met him were struck by his meticulousness and disciplined approach to his physical appearance, grooming and dress, in his surroundings and in his work. Indeed, many of those who came into his presence would witness how his eye would immediately hone in on anything out of place. He was an extremely orderly person who liked everything in its place, and many people have remarked upon the style and grace in which he entertained people at his home or in his office.

One can trace these qualities in NU back to his childhood. Being an observant and bright child, NU would have watched all the comings and goings at the resthouse, and the organizational problems his father coped with, including catering, accounting, and keeping the system running efficiently. He would have keenly watched the colonial officials, foreign tourists and dignitaries and members of the local elite – their lifestyles, mannerisms and eating and drinking habits – and had more than a glimpse of how the privileged lived.

His father may have shown him the names in the visitors’ book; and NU probably decided, early in life, that he would emancipate himself from his social origins and become part of the elite whom he had observed at close quarters in his father’s place of work. But he did not have many illusions about the difficulty of achieving such ambitions. The gulf between ‘them’ and ‘us’ was wide, and he would have sensed that the one possibility of social mobility and of finding a way out of Hambantota was through education.

Out of the disparate and contradictory tendencies, which were produced during colonial rule, two cultures developed in Sri Lankan society, which were not mutually exclusive. One, disdainful of colonial influence, emphasized traditional values and loyalty to ethnic, caste and kinship group and the extended family.

Hambantota coastline with boats

The other, a modernizing culture, required a rational worldview, western education, more individualism and knowledge of English. The educated youth embodied these different trends in their outlook. They looked forward and back. They wanted to modernize and to better themselves economically and socially. The majority looked for white-collar jobs, a few gaining membership in prestigious professions.

‘Modernization’ was conceived by them in the image of the colonial rulers (though those rulers never accepted them as their social equals). Yet, those who wanted to move on were also, like the mass of society, rooted in the past.

It was an interesting case of the coexistence of tradition and modernity, and a hybrid ‘two-culture’ society. NU mirrored this combined development. He was a man of two worlds – a Sinhala Buddhist, and a Durava, but educated in English – conforming in his later life to a westernized lifestyle and universalistic outlook, while also remaining conscious of ethno-religious and caste issues. An Indian writer once said that, people in India may have left the village, but the village never left them.

This was true of many Sri Lankans from a rural background, who never forgot their roots and held onto certain traditional practices, one of them being the obligation to help family members and relations. There are many anecdotes that show how, throughout his life, NU engaged in the traditional practice of helping others: his parents, sisters, brothers, nieces and nephews, along with many others who appealed to him for assistance.

By Kumari Jayawardena and Jennifer Moragoda

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Features

Day of Judgements and Political Fallouts

Published

18 hours ago

2026/09/27

Thilina Walpola

Supreme Court

Rajan Philips

The second anniversary of Anura Kumara Dissanayake’s election as President has come and gone, but not before getting marked by a spate of judgements delivered and announced on a single day following the anniversary. Far away in New York, it has been a week of speeches by state and government leaders making their pilgrimage to the 81^st Annual Sessions of the United Nations that is entering its ninth decade. President AKD did not make the trip this year to the UN Sessions, which are now reduced to being a convenient meeting place for world leaders to hold sideline meetings on bilateral as well as other contentious matters.

Sri Lanka is not in the crosshairs of any such contentions, but there are enough internal crosshairs that the NPP government and a feckless opposition are constantly trying to avoid. The day of judgements too has come and gone. All in all, it was a good day for the NPP government, at least in the sense that the government suffered no reputational damage from any of the three judgements. There were two Supreme Court rulings, one on the bill for the 22^nd Amendment to the Constitution and another on the constitutionality of the Anti-Corruption Amendment Bill. The third court ruling was the verdict given by the Colombo Permanent High Court following the Trial-at-Bar of 24 people accused for their role in the 2019 Easter attacks.

Easter Justice

The three trial-at-bar judges, Navaratne Marasinghe, Ramanathan Kannan and Sujeewa Nissanka, reached a unanimous verdict and found 15 of the accused guilty and found the other nine not guilty and released them forthwith. The accused were spared of the death sentence, but the lengths of rigorous imprisonment sentences are just as bad. One was sentenced to 260 years, four got 240 years each, five 220 years, and another five 200 years. In addition, the court ordered the instant confiscation of the movable and immovable assets of all 15 found guilty.

The verdict marks a substantial milestone in the search for justice on behalf of the victims of the Easter attacks. The government can claim some political credit for the conclusion of the trial after seven years of fits and starts, and high level stymying under three presidents who preceded President AKD. Much greater credit of course belongs to the hundreds of law enforcement officials who built up a mammoth case of 23,270 charges against 25 suspects (one of whom died in hospital during the trial) and won convictions of 15 of them.

But this is not the end of the journey for those seeking Easter justice based on the whole truth. There are other trials going on and the elusive mastermind is yet to be found. Mohammed Ibrahim Mohammed Nawfar (alias Naufar Moulavi) is one of the 15 convicted by the Permanent High Court. Naufar Moulavi was identified in May 2021 as the mastermind by the Gotabaya Rajapaksa government. The government claimed that FBI investigation had confirmed it. This claim is not supported by the FBI affidavit filed by agent Merrilee R. Goodwin in a US Court in California, in December 2020.

The purpose of the FBI affidavit was to support the indictment of Mohammed (Moulavi) Naufar, Mohamed Anwar Mohamed Riskan and Ahamed Milhan Hayathu Mohamed “for conspiring to provide, providing, and attempting to provide material support to a foreign terrorist organization, namely ISIS” (Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham), in violation of US laws. But neither Naufar nor the other two were identified as masterminds. The only mastermind identified in the affidavit is “Jahran Mohamed Cassim, also known as (“aka”) Mohamad Cassim Mohamad Zahran, aka Zahran Hashim (“Zahran”). Zahran killed himself in the suicide bomb he detonated, along with scores of victims, and spared himself from earthly trials.

To close the loop on this, the three men identified in the FBI affidavit, namely, Moulavi Naufar, Mohamed Riskan and Ahamed Milhan, are among the 15 convicted by the trial-at-bar High Court. But their conviction does not bring closure to the enduring question whether there was a political mastermind(s) behind the 2019 Easter attacks. There is still no clarity on what the former Attorney General Dappula De Livera publicly alluded to as evidence of “a grand conspiracy behind the attacks that killed 269 people and injured over 500.”

That was on 18 May 2021, and the statement was a follow up to the letter that Mr. De Livera had written on the state of the police investigations, to then Inspector General of Police (IGP), the late C. D. Wickramaratne. Mr. De Livera soon went on to retire after a remarkable prosecutorial career, and reportedly turned down the government’s offer of appointment as High Commissioner to Canada. Mr. Wickramaratne himself has since died under rather tragic circumstances.

Those who allege that the Catholic Church is making unproven allegations about Easter attacks masterminds, conveniently gloss over the fact that the Church is not accusing anybody of being a mastermind, but is only asking for a thorough inquiry that will put to rest, once and for all, the perennial question about the Easter mastermind. The difference now is that after suffering frustrations with three presidents and their governments, the Church is experiencing a positive response from the current president and his NPP government.

Amendment Politics

Aside from the lawfare politics of the Easter attacks, the politics of the 22^nd Amendment to the Constitution is running its course after the Supreme Court ruling that a referendum is not required for the amending bill to become law, but only a two-thirds majority in parliament. The ruling was widely expected but not because of some ‘fix’, but because it would have been silly to find a judicial reason to have a referendum on the retirement ages of judges. This is not to absolve the government for its missteps on this matter and for putting everyone through months of constitutional contortions. Rather it is to highlight the absurdity of getting exercised virtually over every constitutional amendment and insisting that enacting the amendment without a referendum is tantamount to an assault on democracy. The referendum requirement has become a constitutional curse.

The 1972 Constitution of the First Republic had a very straightforward amending procedure with no referendum requirement, so straightforward that JR Jayewardene was able to throw out a whole (1972) constitution lock, stock and barrel, and replace it with his new constitution of a totally different (presidential) persuasion, simply through a parliamentary select committee process and a two thirds majority in parliament. No one called for a referendum to justify so momentous a change, but now a referendum is required to determine at what age a superior court judge can retire. Nonetheless, as President Jayewardene’s admirers and followers celebrate his 120^th birth anniversary, there is no gainsaying that regardless of whether one agrees or disagrees with his presidential achievements and legacies, JR Jayewardene was without question the most consequential political leader of Sri Lanka in the 20^th century.

In the 21^st century and on the 22^nd amendment, with no referendum required, the Bar Association is changing tack and calling on parliamentarians to vote with their conscience, without toeing the party line. After Friday’s vote, it may want to poll the MPs to find out who among them voted listened to their conscience, and who toed the party line. The Association may be having a difficult time going through the withdrawal syndrome after months of heightened exertions. As for the opposition and Sajith Premadasa, the latter has simply promised that a future SJB government will repeal the 22^nd Amendment. To what end? To reenact another episode of confusion and distraction.

An Economynext commentator has described the Supreme Court ruling on the referendum requirement for 22A, as being “surgical in its constitutional analysis.” Well said. The ruling plausibly addresses every good and bad argument that was flung at the judges and demonstrates, citing copious precedents, that at the end of the day, no matter who the individual judges and their abilities are, and what anyone thinks of them, the ‘Court’ can find its collective voice and express itself with clarity and authority.

The same Economynext commentary interprets the 22^nd Amendment as “a foundational prerequisite for operationalizing the newly enacted, stringent Anti-Corruption Act, which is a key commitment of the government era for the IMF.” The commentary suggests that “multiple clauses in the 22nd Amendment are designed to satisfy governance and anti-corruption structural benchmarks within the ongoing IMF Extended Fund Facility (EFF) agreement.” While noting the risk of scaring investors who might view 22A as being anti-democratic and antithetical to judicial independence, the commentary goes on to opine that the passage of 22A combined with a strong and systematic anti-corruption drive could be a boost to investor confidence, especially in the critical sectors of logistics, renewable energy and technology.

The above is an interesting interpretation even though I am not sure whether anyone associated with the government has formulated the intentions of the 22^nd Amendment quite this way. Objectively, the argument is plausible and will justifiably rile the ire of the left opposition to the NPP government and its inclination towards the IMF. At the same time, there is no mistaking the government’s intention and determination to fight corruption in politics and public life. Apart from, or rather as part of, its arresting politics, the government is also going ahead with the passage of the Anti-Corruption (Amendment) Bill, which too has had its determination by the Supreme Court, albeit by a different three-judge Bench, almost concurrently with the 22A ruling by the five-judge Bench. The Supreme Court’s determination on the Anti-Corruption Bill was triggered after it was challenged by Transparency International Sri Lanka.

But unlike the SC ruling on 22A, the ruling on the Anti-Corruption Bill singles out a provision as requiring approval in a referendum for its enactment. The provision involves Clause 17 of the Bill which elevates the bail granting threshold for determination by a High Court and not a Magistrates Court as currently practised. The subject offence involves a bribe not less than Rs. 100,000, or causing a government loss of not less than Rs. 500,000. The Court held that such a change infringes the fundamental rights of citizens against arbitrary detention and will require a referendum approval. The Bill of course could be passed without a referendum after removing the specific provision. Remarkably, the government argued that the proposed amendments to the Anti-Corruption Act are necessary to remove current bottlenecks, achieve conformance with UN standards, and comply with the IMF program in Sri Lanka.

Features

Father’s horoscope reading on the worst time in my life seemed coming true

Published

18 hours ago

2026/09/27

Thilina Walpola

Vidyodaya University

Little breathing space between papers at the final exam and my mind goes blank answering Sinhala paper

(Excerpted from The Art of Governance, autobiography of MDD Pieris)

Then came the final blow. When the time table for the final examination was out, I discovered that I would have to answer all my nine papers, of three hours each at one continuous stretch without even a half days break! I was due to answer the European history paper one afternoon; then go on next morning to British history; afternoon to Ceylon history; the next morning to English Poetry; afternoon to English drama; the following morning to English prose; and that same afternoon to suddenly switch from thinking and writing in English to thinking and writing in Sinhala, answering the first of the three papers in Sinhala, with the other two coming morning and afternoon the following day! Several of my friends urged me to go and speak to the university administration about a change, but at the same time, others who had had difficulties and sought recourse reported that they were rather rudely treated by the officers concerned.

This deterred me from going. I was a polite person by nature and just as in the case of Mr. Athulathmudali about whose insistence on politeness I have already written about, I too resented the prospect of being treated rudely. Therefore, I decided, quite foolishly no doubt, and come what may to go through and sit for the nine papers in four and half continuous days. Thus began the most difficult and harrowing period of my life, a period even worse than the experience at the university entrance examination.

In that instance, there was certainly disappointment and frustration but since I was attempting a near impossibility, there was less stress because mentally I was prepared for failure. This was reflected in a reasonably good appetite, and the ability to sleep. This time, at the final examinations, I lost both. Normal eating was impossible. My stomach was in knots. I just went through the motions and nibbled something and basically sustained myself with a combination of powdered milk and Ovaltine. Sleep became disturbed. After six hours of strenuous concentration a day answering question papers, there was little the mind could absorb by way of preparation for the next day.

During the day, nothing was possible since the morning’s paper was over at noon, and by the time you walked back from the Arts block to Marrs Hall just to look at the food and freshen up and then walk back to the examination hall to be there about 10 minutes before the 2 p.m. start of the next paper, there was neither time nor inclination to look at or absorb anything. I did try to look through whatever I could for the next days two papers during the night whilst keeping in mind the necessity to get some rest and sleep. Therefore, I did try to get six hours of sleep in the night. But it turned out to be an unhealthy and disturbed sleep leaving you not fresh, but jaded in the morning.

The mind was overactive. By this time, the numbers in the hall had dwindled due to the vacation. Only the few sitting for their final examination were in residence, and they were busy with their studies. There was therefore also a sense of loneliness and isolation prevailing. Added to all this was the horrible thought of failing and having to repeat all nine papers the following year. One had very much to try to find some degree of good cheer from within one’s own resources. Given my predicament I had precious little of that.

In these almost nightmarish conditions, I struggled through eight of the nine papers. The last paper during the final afternoon was the third paper in Sinhala literature, which was on prose. I still have a vivid memory of that afternoon. Rain clouds were building up and as we got down to answering the paper, it was getting quite dark. The lights shone brightly in the examination hall. There were five questions to be answered and I had just finished answering one, and had barely started on the next, when my mind went completely blank. I have never experienced such a thing before or since. The thinking processes suddenly stopped as if a plug had been pulled out from an electricity supply. I was in the middle of a sentence, I found impossible to complete. It was total disconnection.

There was just nothing I could do except to lay down my pen and gaze out of the window. There were two things in my favour at this critical moment. I possessed a temperament that didn’t panic easily or once embarked on a course, give up easily. I therefore calmly decided to stop trying to struggle, and relax. I was aware that precious minutes were ticking by. But I knew that what could not be cured must be endured, and that any attempt at force and struggle would only serve to aggravate the situation. That part of my mind was clear and rational. I spent almost 20 precious minutes doing nothing. Then gradually I found that I was able to focus once again.

I cautiously and with a degree of fear took up my pen and leaving room to complete the question I had begun to write on, started on a new question. The ideas flowed once again. I had however to be careful. There was no guarantee that everything would not come to a stop once again. I had already lost valuable time. Any further problem now would be the end of the paper and the end of perhaps the whole examination. I therefore deliberately slowed down my pace of writing and wrote slowly and steadily not pushing myself.

When the time came for the papers to be collected I had been able to answer only three out of the five questions in full. For the balance two, I was only just able to write down a few points. Answers in continuous prose were not possible. Up to this time, I had hope of at least passing the whole examination and obtaining my degree. Now, I was not so sure. There was a distinct possibility, I would fail the last Sinhala paper.

The next day I went home to Colombo, utterly drained. It appeared that my father’s prediction after reading my horoscope was not only accurate but frighteningly so. I too believed with him that there could not possibly be a worse period in the future. Starting from the stress of suddenly having to change schools in mid university entrance course to the end of my participation in school cricket through contracting measles, to the enormous trials and tribulations of the university entrance, to the disappointment of not being able to read for English “honours,” and now this situation at the final examination was almost too much for one person to take.

I was in a state which perhaps verged on a nervous breakdown, For a good two weeks at home, I was listless, unable to concentrate on anything. I could not read anything. Even the newspapers repelled me. The sound of music was irritating, and sleep desultory. I was taken to see the doctor, who advised complete rest. He did not give medicine. It was clear that I had severely overtaxed the system, and time would be the healer, as indeed was so gradually much to the great relief of my parents and myself. The newspaper once again began to interest me, and gradually books. Even then, I could not read for long periods for some time. I used to lose concentration and the mind began to wander.

In due course, I received a letter from the university, inviting me to teach an English course to the new batch of students about to enter the university. This was the vacation course in English for them. But I was just in no mood to teach. I was now back to normal, but did not wish to take upon myself the responsibilities of a teaching assignment. Therefore, I wrote back politely declining. But the letter from the university was a boost to my confidence. I knew that I would not have been called unless I had fared reasonably well, at least in my English papers, and got at a minimum a “B.” But what of the rest? I was still apprehensive. What came to mind was the unfinished Sinhala paper, and its possible impact on the whole examination.

Assistant Librarian Vidyodaya University

When the results came in due course, to my great relief I had passed. There was no question of a class. Nor was I expecting one. What I dreaded was sitting for the whole examination once again. I could now get this episode of my life out of the way and decide how to proceed. By this time the new Vidyodaya University had just begun to function. My father was a member of the Governing Council of the Vidyodaya Pirivena, the Vidyadhara Sabha and for long an associate and a friend of the renowned scholar Ven. Weliwitiye Soratha, the head of the Pirivena, who was the first Vice Chancellor of the new university.

Our family had many connections with Vidyodaya, including my maternal grandfather Mr. C. Don Bastian Jayaweera Bandara, himself a renowned scholar, writer, publisher and social worker, having had his higher education there. I for my part, for a period studied Sinhala under Ven. Soratha. Busy as he was, he found the time to teach me because of these family connections. I must have been a good student in his opinion, because he very graciously presented me a two volume set of his monumental work of the Sinhala dictionary, a task which he undertook and completed all by himself, a set which is one of my valued possessions even today.

When it became known that I had passed out, Vidyodaya was keen to have me and my father was equally keen that I should help out in whatever capacity. Finally, I was appointed as an Assistant Librarian and along with others, plunged into the task of setting up a proper library for the new university. At this time, the university functioned in the premises of the Vidyodaya Pirivena at Maligakande and it was rapidly becoming apparent that space was becoming a serious problem.

One of the most important tasks of a librarian is to classify knowledge accurately and correctly and this had to be carefully done. The system of classification adopted at the time was the Dewey Decimal System, and I spent much time at home poring over the volumes containing the system, so that during the working day classification and the typing of the card indexes, etc., could proceed with speed. Accuracy and speed were both necessary, accuracy, because a misclassified book is a lost book, speed because hundreds of books were lying on the floors, in cartons, in crates, on windowsills and all over the place.

I found the wide reading that I had done whilst at Peradeniya now of great assistance. With a quick perusal I was able to determine the classifications and sub-classifications. This was important. For instance, if one took up a book on European history, one had to determine whether it should be classified and appear on the shelves as general history; a history of a period; diplomatic history; economic history; social and cultural history; military history; a history of important treaties, and so on. This was so for all subjects and the wider your reading the easier it was.

But always at the end of the day was a general conference at which we took up for discussions amongst other matters, certain books which were exceedingly difficult to classify, partly because their contents approached the borders of many different subjects. Titles were frequently misleading. For instance, the book “Two eggs on my plate,” had nothing to do with cuisine. It was a tense memoir of certain military activities during World War II.

Features

The Cinnamon Captain’s Circuit

Published

18 hours ago

2026/09/27

Thilina Walpola

Three Maps of Ceylon Cinnamon

From the Pathfinder Collection

By Jennifer Moragoda
jennifermoragoda787@gmail.com

A remarkable Dutch map of Ceylon made in 1719 allows us to follow cinnamon through the country almost village by village.

Part of a series of thirty-six maps showing territories of the Dutch East India Company, it was drawn by Joannes van Campen and shows mainly the south-western portion of the island then under Company control. The twelve korales or provinces are distinguished by colour and extend, in the map’s description, from the river Caymelle to the Valave. Brohier notes that Caymelle was the Dutch name for the Maha Oya. A brown line marks the boundary of the Kandyan king’s territory. Within this political geography, a red line encloses what might otherwise be described simply as ‘Canelle Landen’: “the expanse of the luxuriant cinnamon bushes from the Chilaw river to the hook of Dondra.”

What makes the map extraordinary, however, is its detail. It marks the old administrative divisions through which the cinnamon country extended; villages and places associated with the seasonal work of the peelers; the forty-six numbered points along the annual route of the Cinnamon Captain; and the five coastal places to which the peeled bark was delivered.

Two further Dutch maps narrow the lens. A plan of Salpiti Korale maps cinnamon gardens and grounds among localities that are now part of greater Colombo and its suburbs. At an even more microscopic level, three drawings of a single chena near Hanwella represent individual trees by letters and colour and enumerate them.

Together they preserve an unusually detailed geography of Ceylon cinnamon and the enterprise built around it under the Dutch.

Van Campen’s map in facsimile M. F. N. Rotteveel’s 1901 facsimile of Van Campen’s 1719 map.

Much of that detail can be recovered today through the meticulous work of R. L. Brohier and J. H. O. Paulusz. Their descriptions and translations of Dutch maps and records provide the context that makes otherwise cryptic routes, symbols and localities intelligible.

A Circuit Through Cinnamon Country

Van Campen’s map immediately provides an overview of the country from which cinnamon was obtained. It is divided according to the old Sinhalese territorial and administrative divisions of korales and pattus. Many of their names, and the places associated with them, remain recognizable today, although their old boundaries are now less familiar. The map may surprise modern readers who are unaware that its cinnamon country extended as far north as the Chilaw River and south to Dondra.

The map also makes clear that the geography of cinnamon did not coincide neatly with political boundaries. It marks the limits of Dutch territory and the adjoining lands of the Kandyan king, while cinnamon also grew beyond Dutch-controlled territory. Access to cinnamon in Kandyan territory could therefore depend upon relations with the Kandyan court.

The most striking feature of the map is the minute detail with which this cinnamon geography is recorded. Forty-six numbered points trace the ordinary land route followed by the Cinnamon Captain, head of the Mahabadda or Cinnamon Department, on his annual general visitation at the commencement of the harvest. Starting from Colombo, his circuit took him north and then through a succession of korales to the south before he returned along the coast to Colombo.

The route recorded in Brohier and Paulusz runs through Negombo, Pittigal Korale, Hapitigam Korale, Sinna Korale, Rayigam Korale, Pasdun Korale, Wallalawiti Korale, Galle Korale, Beligama Korale, Morawa Korale and Dolosdas Korale, the latter embracing the Gangaboda and Welaboda Pattus of Matara and the eastern and western Giruwa Pattus of Hambantota.

On the map, the numbered stations allow that journey to be followed across the country. Even where individual names become difficult to decipher on a reduced reproduction, the extent of the circuit can be grasped.

But another set of small red circles gives the map an even more unusual human geography. In the words of its description, these indicate the villages and places “in which and near which” the cinnamon peelers commonly pitched their tents during the peeling season “in order to gather that costly bark.” These temporary encampments belonged to the older system of harvesting in which parties of peelers travelled through the cinnamon country, cutting suitable stems and bringing them back in bundles to be peeled and fashioned into quills.

The red circles are scattered through the cinnamon country densely enough that the map gives a visual impression of the scale of the seasonal harvest before one has deciphered every locality. J. H. O. Paulusz considered the map “of unusual value, indeed indispensable for studying the history of the Salagama community because it illustrates their manner of life, the districts in which they lived, and the hardships and dangers they endured.”

The Captain’s numbered route and the peelers’ encampments therefore record two related geographies. One is the official circuit of inspection. The other is the far more dispersed geography of the people actually gathering and preparing the cinnamon.

The map completes the picture by identifying five coastal delivery points—Negombo, Colombo, Beruwala, Galle and Matara—to which the peeled bark was “carried on their shoulders and transported with great labour.” Taken together, these details allow the old cinnamon enterprise to be visualized almost in motion: the Captain moving between his 46 stations; peelers establishing seasonal camps in and near particular villages; cinnamon being gathered and prepared in the surrounding country; and the finished bark moving towards five points on the coast.

The map also bears the letters A–H on a smaller circuit associated with Maradana, “where the best of that fragrant bark is peeled.” Brohier’s explanatory note identifies the area within this orbit as including Maradana, Wellicadde, Kirilepona and Bamblepitie—names recognizable today as Maradana, Welikada, Kirulapone and Bambalapitiya. These are now parts of a densely built city; on Van Campen’s map they belonged to the geography of cinnamon.

That juxtaposition is one of the pleasures of reading the old maps. Familiar names survive, but the landscapes attached to them have changed almost beyond recognition.

Salpiti Korale, Plot by Plot

A second map sharpens the focus further.

Where Van Campen’s map provides an overview of the geographical reach and movement of the cinnamon enterprise, the detailed plan of Salpiti Korale attaches cinnamon more closely to individual grounds and localities in and around what is now greater Colombo. Similar detailed plans were drawn for other korales and areas in which cinnamon grew.

The plate itself carries a striking collection of names familiar to a modern resident: Kotte, Mirihana, Welikada, Nawala, Pepiliyana, Kollupitiya, Wellawatte and Galkissa, or Mount Lavinia, among others. They appear beside or among numbered and outlined cinnamon grounds. The importance of the map is not that all of modern Colombo lay within Salpiti Korale—it did not—but that it allows particular 18th-century cinnamon localities around the expanding city and its eastern and southern approaches to be set against places we know today.

A related survey shows how closely Dutch mapping followed Colombo’s expansion. Brohier notes that, as settlement spread beyond the Fort and Pettah, a map made about 1766 by Lieutenant C. D. Wentzel surveyed the Colombo district for a radius of five miles in all directions from the Fort. Particular care was taken to mark the cinnamon-growing districts, partly for the information of the authorities and partly as a warning to inhabitants.

The records preserve some striking glimpses of areas we do not normally associate with cinnamon. A Dutch governor deplored the number of valuable bushes being “pitifully cut down for firewood especially near Liveramentu (Thimbirigasyaya-Narahenpita) where it grows luxuriantly.”

It is difficult now to associate Thimbirigasyaya and Narahenpita with luxuriant cinnamon, yet that is precisely why this cartographic detail matters. Pepiliyana, Nawala, Welikada, Wellawatte and other familiar names cease for a moment to be simply modern suburbs and become part of an older cinnamon geography.

In this sense, the Salpiti map performs a different task from Van Campen’s. The first shows the astonishing geographical reach of the cinnamon enterprise. Salpiti brings us down almost plot by plot.

Down to the Individual Tree

A third example reduces the scale to a single piece of ground. Three charts dated 1720 depict a chena called Katugalavila in the village of Degambedda in Hevagam Korale, about half an hour’s journey from the fort at Hanwella. The original survey was by L. Boomgart; the version reproduced by Brohier and Paulusz is an 1899 facsimile by M. F. N. Rotteveel.

The three drawings show the same ground before clearing, after cutting and burning, and after planting and regrowth. Seventeen kinds of tree are identified by letters, with their Sinhala names recorded in Dutch spelling. Before clearing, the plot contained five cinnamon trees; in the third stage it contained 229 cinnamon shoots and young trees. Brohier called the plan both “a picture of the ground” and a “working-plan,” and remarked on its striking representation of detail and use of colour.

This small survey is useful here chiefly because it shows just how far Dutch cartographic attention could descend: from an extensive cinnamon country, to individual grounds, and finally to individual trees.

The 1719 map shows the cinnamon country extending from the Chilaw River to Dondra. The Salpiti Korale map brings us into recognizable localities around Colombo and its suburbs. At Degambedda, near Hanwella, the cartographic lens descends to a single chena and finally to individual cinnamon trees.

Taken together, the three maps turn the broad designation Canelle Landen into something much more precise: a country of rivers, political boundaries and old administrative divisions; roads, villages and seasonal encampments; identifiable cinnamon grounds; and, finally, individual plants.

They also help explain the practical appeal of later attempts to concentrate cinnamon production in more accessible and systematically cultivated grounds. Van Campen’s map makes visible the enormous geographical reach of the older, dispersed system—the distances travelled, the seasonal encampments and the labour required to bring the prepared bark to the coast. The hardships of that system are less visible on the map itself, but they are amply recorded in the contemporary documentation. The later transformation of cinnamon cultivation is another chapter. These maps preserve the geography that preceded it.

Retracing the Circuit

There is a modern postscript to this story. In recent years, the Pekoe Trail, a long-distance walking route through the tea estates of the hill country, has offered a new way of experiencing Ceylon’s montane landscape and tea heritage. The Cinnamon Captain’s circuit suggests the possibility of a low-country counterpart.

It need not be a walking trail. Selected stages of the forty-six-point circuit could be retraced largely by road, linking surviving place names and old cinnamon localities with places where cinnamon is still cultivated today. The korales no longer function as administrative divisions, roads have changed and much of the old cinnamon country has been transformed or built over, but enough of the underlying geography survives to make the old route intelligible.

Three centuries ago the circuit was travelled at the commencement of the harvest by an official inspecting the cinnamon country. Retraced today, it could offer a way of rediscovering a geography that these extraordinary maps have preserved in remarkable detail.

Notes: This article draws extensively on Volume II of R. L. Brohier and J. H. O. Paulusz’s Land, Maps & Surveys: A Descriptive Catalogue of Historical Maps in the Surveyor General’s Office, whose detailed descriptions, annotations and translations of Dutch maps and records make it possible to reconstruct much of the geography discussed here.

Images 3–5 reproduced from R. L. Brohier and J. H. O. Paulusz, Land, Maps & Surveys, Vol. II (1951).