Childhood memories of Batticaloa and working there in the fifties

(Excerpted from Fallen Leave, an athology of autobiographical memoirs by LC Arulpragasam)

I have happy memories of Batticaloa as a boy. My father was posted there as Medical Officer of Health for a period of five years in the late 1930s, when I was between eight-12 years of age. Since I was attending school in Colombo, my days in Batticaloa were confined to the school holidays. But these were days which made a great impression on me, drawing me to my love of water and to the jungles and the great outdoors. In 1955, I was posted as Assistant Government Agent of the Batticaloa District, which gave me a wider view of the district’s problems and possibilities.

General Overview

The first thing that strikes an independent observer is the spatial distribution of population in relation to overall land availability in the district. Almost 80 per cent of the population is settled along the narrow (north-south) coastal littoral, sandwiched between the lagoon on the west, and the sea on the east. This is somewhat strange for two reasons: first, because this coastal land is relatively poor and sandy, except for places where a few rivers spread their fertile silt; but secondly, because this has resulted in some of the greatest population densities in the country, especially in the areas of Kattankudy and Kalmunai.

This settlement pattern may have been convenient because of the relative ease of communications along the coast, while also providing a stable livelihood from farming, fishing and trade. In the long run, however, it has had the negative consequence of not utilizing the most fertile lands of the district for cultivation. This in turn has enabled the subsequent appropriation of these lands by the Government for settlers from other parts of the country.

The second most striking feature is the abundant availability of land compared to the rest of Sri Lanka – especially compared to the miniscule holdings in Jaffna or to the very small holdings in the hill districts (except for the large tea estates). I was amazed and amused when a farmer asked me for more land, saying: ‘I am a poor man, your honour sir, I have only six acres and need more land to feed my family.’ It is true that the land is relatively sandy and receives rain in only one season; but it is also true that the Batticaloa district does have a more favorable land-man ratio than most other districts in the country.

This relative abundance of land has served, in my opinion, to inhibit, first, any great desire to intensify agricultural production. If one wanted more income, one merely had to acquire more land. Second, it inhibited enterprise, including a search for higher education or for higher jobs outside the district.

This is in sharp contrast to the situation in the Jaffna district, where the shortage of land forced the Jaffna Tamils to actively seek education and government jobs in other districts – or even other countries. The same applied to business or commercial ventures. There was no major industry in the district in 1956. Even the two top general stores in Batticaloa town were owned by Sinhalese merchants from Galle and Matara. More remarkable was the relative lack of higher education among the Tamils and Muslims of the district at that time.

A real anomaly and grievance during the 1950s was the near-monopoly of top government posts in the district by Jaffna Tamils. This was partly due to their higher education levels and seniority in the government service compared to the Battticaloa Tamils and Muslims at that time, while their Tamil-speaking skills gave them an advantage over eligible Sinhalese officers.

For instance in 1956, whereas there was one senior Sinhalese staff officer (the DLO) in the district, there was not a single staff officer who hailed from the Batticaloa district. Few Batticaloa Tamils or Muslims bothered to seek higher education or higher government positions at that time; they seemed to prefer to look after their own lands rather than to work outside their district. This near monopoly of higher government posts by Jaffna Tamils was naturally resented by the rising intelligentsia in the district.

Fortunately the balance has been rectified by the increasing number of graduates from the Batticaloa district who have since assumed high staff positions. This was greatly helped by the establishment of a University in the Eastern Province. This was neither the case in my father’s time in the 1940s, nor in my time in the 1950s.

Exaggerated Respect for Government Officials

Another related trait was the over-dependence on the government bureaucracy in times of need. There were no NGOs to speak of. This dependence manifested itself especially in times of crisis, such as during the communal riots of 1956 and 1958, as well as during the devastating floods of 1957/58. Whenever there was a crisis, they always looked to the Government Agent for a solution. This also led to the overly high respect accorded to high government officials – which is not so common in other districts. I know that this sounds patronizing now, but this was the situation in 1955, around 65 years ago when this was written.

Even the form of address to these higher government servants was usually overdone. At inquiries, I was often addressed as ‘Your honour, Sir’, while even senior clerks would address me in the respectful third person. This exaggerated respect for government office was also reflected in the local population. The Batticaloa Kachcheri happens to be located in the old Dutch Fort. When I drove through its portals each day, all the people in the large courtyard would stand up, although I was only 26 years old at that time, and was only passing through to park my wheezing old Morris Minor! They would continue standing as a show of respect for my official position, causing me to cringe past them guiltily, to reach my own office!

This respect for government authority may be partly due to the quaint institution called dappu, which requires permission from the GA before any paddy land can be cultivated for any season. Can you imagine that everyone had to get permission to cultivate his or her own paddy land for each season? Not only did this cast a heavy burden on the GA’s office, but it greatly enhanced his authority. Especially in cases of cultivation disputes, lawyers would appear before me for each party, because the winning of cultivation rights was more than half the battle in later winning ownership rights in court. Given the frequency of these disputes, I just put my head down and worked, giving dappu decisions left and right. I must admit that in retrospect, I am now rather embarrassed that I did not question the rationale of this burdensome system – or try to abolish it altogether.

The colonial overhang of exaggerated respect for higher government officials was also reflected in the social scene. In British times, the latter was dominated by the Gymkhana Club, which was open only to higher level officials of the government service; this in practice ensured that it was open only to whites (the British). But in my father’s time in the district (1939-1944), the senior Ceylonese holding high-level government posts (of whom my father was one) were allowed to become members. Even then, as a boy, I wondered why the best tennis players in the district were not allowed into the Gymkhana Club.

When I assumed duties in the Batticaloa District in 1955, I was surprised to find that the Gymkhana Club still insisted on these same arcane and ancient rules. The Government Agent was still the ex-officio President of the Club, while I as Assistant Government Agent (at the age of 26 years) was automatically its ex-officio Vice President! I had no difficulty in persuading the GA at that time, Mr. A.B.S.N. Pullenayagum, an upright and unassuming gentleman, to jointly co-sponsor a motion to abolish the rules that made us automatically the President and Vice- President.

We also proposed another motion to open the Club to non-staff officers in the government service (such as police and excise inspectors), which would greatly increase the number of sportsmen in the Club. It did little, however, to bridge the gap between the higher social status of government servants and the public at large, who were still denied membership, which was reserved for government servants only. Fortunately, because of my work, I had professional and social dealings with lawyers and others in the district, among whom I had some friends.

Moreover, my work in agriculture and lands brought me into intimate contact with the farmers, who formed the backbone of the district: I cannot recount how much I learned from them. I was fortunately able to give something back in return. By working more hours per day, I was able to give out more land to the landless and land-poor than had been given out by any of my predecessors.

The natural beauty of the Batticaloa district

The last impression I would like to leave with you is the beauty and variety of this district: its people, its jungles, lagoons, and beaches, which were especially attractive to me, an outdoors man. To live in an old government bungalow immediately by the lagoon, as was my official residence in Batticaloa, was my idea of heaven. I used to get up to the calm of the lagoon in the mornings and sit up at night just to see the moonlight on the water and hear the lapping of its wavelets on the shore.

I happened to own a small skiff (made of aluminum) in which we used to row out from our house in the moonlight to hear the famous ‘singing fish’ of Battticaloa! I have swum and fished in its rivers and lagoons, and in the changing tides of its seas. I have ventured in my little boat to the farthest ends of lakes and reservoirs in the heart of the jungle, seeing tree upon tree of nesting birds. I have rowed within 30 feet of wild elephants, who although surprised, could not reach me – for I was in my little boat in deep water!.

The theory current in the 1950s was that the ‘singing fish’ could only be heard near the Kalladi Bridge, since the musical sounds were caused by the constriction of the tidal flow of water under the bridge on moonlight nights, and not by ‘singing fish’. But going in my little aluminum boat, whose metal conducted and magnified the sounds in the water, I have heard the notes (like a cacophony of instruments tuning up for a concert) in many other parts of the lagoon, far away from the bridge –and even opposite my own bungalow – but only on moonlight nights.

Although not a keen hunter, I have shot a leopard in the jungles off Arugam Bay. (It was ‘sportmanship’ in the1950s, although I regret it now). I have trekked through the jungles of Panama Pattu into the Yala Game Sanctuary in the Southern Province. I have seen the wild peacocks dance: I have walked to the jungle habitat of the Veddas in Bintenne – and more.

The Batticaloa District thus offered me not only opportunities for useful work, but also opportunities to enjoy life to the full. Both the happiest years of my childhood and the most rewarding years of my professional life were spent in that district – for which I am truly grateful. I find that the gratitude is mutual: I have just learned, after 65 years, (when this was written) that an entire tract of paddy land has been named after me, with the name: “Arulpragasamkandam”.