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Elephant-Human Conflict: Sweet and sad moments frozen in time. A Requiem

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Mother shot dead, metres from her fatally hit calf

This story about humans and elephants was told to me by my late mother, Beta Leelawathie, in 1980. It is not a folktale.  This story really took place nearly seven decades ago, when the phrase ‘elephant-human conflict’ did not tango in the same sentence.

Back then, humans and elephants lived in harmony. By most measures, there was more forest cover for elephants then. Now, satellite images reveal that over 70% of the forest cover, once a haven for elephants, has been lost. As a result, they are at risk of harm, and land disputes between humans and them have become daily occurrences. This story is not about the daily iterations of wounded tuskers, electric fences, elephants decapitated by Yakada Yaka, or drowning in agri-wells.

This episode took place on a small chena clearing near Kidapolagama village, abandoned sometime around 1911, situated near Getalagamakanda by Galkulama, along the A9 highway in the North Central Province.   Hundreds of teledrama episodes, or Dr. R. L. Spittle in Holly/Bollywood, could not have imagined such a tale.

I paraphrase here my mother, one of the four protagonists in this story of two babies – a human and an elephant – and their mothers coming into contact under extraordinary circumstances.

The Setting

It was a 2-hectare chena clearing, located two kilometers from the village. It had been formatted a couple of weeks ago after slashing the virgin forest and burning. Two solitary figures, my mother and father, were tilling millet, kurahan, on the charred soil. They were engaged in this task at a deceptively relaxed pace in the middle of this desolate space. Their frail frames were slightly bent as they scraped the topsoil. In front of them lay a series of grids by nera, the oldest form of geometry known to humans, drawn on the cleaned-out chena floor, the nawadella, to facilitate the easy broadcasting of seeds.

The man was wearing only a tamarind-coloured loincloth. He wrapped a piece of cloth around his head. His sweaty body shone in the sweltering midday sun.  The woman was wearing a faded muslin cloth with floral designs wrapped around her waist, paired with a short-sleeved blouse.  To escape the sun, she covered her head with a piece of rag that looked more like a compressed sunbonnet.  Sweat dappled her blouse, a testament to her labour since morning. Occasionally, metallic clanks chimed as the iron blades of their mamoties struck pebbles on the soil.

A lone eagle’s high-pitched call to a mate from a tree-top at the edge of the chena clearing interrupted the jingle of the mamoties.  A cuckooing avuncular pigeon shared his thoughts while sitting on a burnt-out tree stump nearby after helping himself with a few kurahan seeds.   A clay pot of water with its mouth covered with a coconut shell sat dutifully under a tree that escaped the man’s axe a few weeks ago.  Often, hot air let out its variant dispositions breezing across the chena, and eddies of ashen air climbed from its floor spinning like flying tops and dancing away, dying in the atmosphere.

From time to time, the woman paused and straightened up to check on a bundle of clothes in the shade under a grandfatherly Palu tree about two netball courts out.  On a reed mat under its shade was her newborn son, only six months old, sleeping, half-covered with a few folds of clothing.  That baby was me.

She brought her breastfeeding baby to the chena because she had no help with babysitting. She had to help her husband finish spreading seeds soon, as for a few days now, pregnant rain clouds of the Maha season had begun to pack the horizon. Her only choice was to introduce the baby to the drudgery of Chena life.

For the nursing hour, the mother often checked her one-arm clock, a short, blackened tree stump, and its slanting shadow—the gnomon of her impromptu sundial.  After reassuring herself that it is not feeding time yet, she resumed tilling.

Visitors

In the meantime, from the other side of the clearing, a muted procession of six elephants, padding through the forest, entered the chena.  In front walked a baby elephant, not taller than a kindergarten chair, struggling to stand still like someone coming out of a tavern. The calf’s prickly hair swayed in the light wind wafting through the chena.  He moved aimlessly and sniffed at every tree stump of his size on his path.  He wobbled but moved with a proprietary air, trying to do the job of being the big guy, supposedly.   The mother who was right behind him watched his every step, though, ready to help if he ran into trouble. The other four family members obediently followed the matriarch in chronological order of age.

As the procession drifted towards the Palu tree, the calf suddenly stopped and straightened its ears. His pencil-like tail danced behind him, as if to make him look tall, long, and strong. To check the scent in the air, he raised his trunk, which wriggled like an enormous caterpillar stuck in the middle of his face. When his eyes fell on the bundle of clothes, the calf inched closer and stopped a few feet from the reed mat.  Meanwhile, the baby on the mat woke up and began to move his limbs, trying to roll over while babbling a primordial form of pre-kindergarten talk.

Then, ever so gently, the calf took a step forward and tried to place his trunk on the baby, probably out of curiosity to know whether he liked to join him. Lacking deftness, the baby elephant’s sloppy efforts missed the target a few times. He shuffled his feet and tried again.  Although this scene was unfolding in private in the open arena under the Palu tree, its full luminance had not yet reached the mother and father, who were hurrying to get to lunch break.

Meanwhile, no more than 20 meters behind the two babies in the conclave under the Palu tree, the matriarch and her entourage hardly had time to react.  All five stood frozen, watching their little one and his dance with discovery.  The only thing moving was the tip of the mother’s trunk, which hung loosely straight down. The baby elephant continued to engage his newfound pal on the reed mat.

Mother and Father

The mother or father had no idea of the silent visitors trying to improvise a dance under the Palu tree.   Then, the mother stopped tilling and casually raised her head to check on her baby.  The first thing that caught her weary eyes near the Palu tree was a line of large, earth-colored boulders that were not there before. She shook her head, brushed away her eyes, and her grip on the mamoty tightened. She was stunned, inert, and a knot formed in her throat.  By her side, unaware of her conundrum, her husband had the world to himself, tilling to end the session.  Slowly, the woman reached out and grabbed his arm and squeezed, nearly breaking it.  As the husband turned, he too saw the audience under the Palu tree.

The mother closed her eyes and then opened them to ensure she was not in a deep dream. The midday sun caused her to see stars in the shaded area under the Palu tree. Mothers always dream good dreams about their babies.   But this was no dream. As she clung to her husband’s forearm for support, she felt his pulse too, beating like drums at the temple.

Four years later, she would have another instance of a similar dimension with the same baby. One day, her son, a toddler then, stood in an alley between two houses directly in the path of a salivating dog with rabies, trotting through the same alley in the gammedda.  Her son escaped the threat only when a thoughtful neighbour clubbed the dog squarely and broke its back a few meters from the toddler.

Here in the chena, the mother was choking with horror and could not send out a plea to the other mother to take her baby back.  Had she asked, the other would not have understood it anyway – they spoke different languages. Besides, she feared any cry would alarm and create panic among elephants, and her baby would be in grave danger of being run over.  She was sweating profusely, and her vision began to taunt her.  In her view, the elephants were turning into swelling boulders. She feared that it would trample the baby.  Her one-arm clock, the tree stump sundial, had hid its gnomon shadow, announcing the midday hour.  At that moment, a tsunami was crashing into her oasis under the Palu tree, and she was drowning in delirium.   She prayed to all the gods known and advertised.  But they were not in hearing distance.

So incredible was the union in the middle of nowhere, without any forewarning, everything around her stood still as if to preserve that pristine yet intense moment.  Both mothers stood still, hoping their instincts would take over during this once-in-a-lifetime encounter. The woman’s only hope was that an elephant mother would recognise that the other baby was just as vulnerable as her own.

Suddenly, as if awakened from a siesta, the mother elephant broached. Fearing her baby would be harmed or mixed up with other ‘things’ lying on the mat, she eased forward. With her extended trunk, she wrapped him and gently pulled him out towards her.  The calf balked, but his mother’s silent insistence was too strong for him to break free.  She shoved her son underneath her chin and nudged him away from the mat. When the matriarch began to move with her baby, her family fell in line and followed her towards the edge of the chena.

After reaching the edge of the clearing, the mother elephant paused, looked back, and, as if to sum up the brief meeting, blew a hissing sound at the two frail figures staring at her. Then, the boughs of the primeval forest opened to welcome her.  With the grace of a tsarina walking into a Romanov ballroom, she disappeared into the woods.  The last elephant, probably not weaned out from its incorrigible self yet, briefly stopped and looked at the bundle of clothes and wriggling baby, before hurrying to catch up with the rest.

Beta Leelawathie Tillakaratne

The woman and the man made no sound to alarm the elephants, not only because their mouths were dry, but also because they feared the worst if the elephants became cranky. So frozen were the two that someone could have mistaken them for two shabbily dressed clay figures.  With measured steps, they then hurried to the mat.  The woman impetuously picked up the baby with shaking hands and pressed him to her bosom. She could not spoil her relief by saying anything.  But soon, a few tears rolled down her cheek. They stood stunned at this remarkable moment they had just witnessed, filled with fear which had no bottom.

Her husband closed his eyes, and images of his last watch hut on the tree in another chena, a howl away from here, flashed through his eyes.  One evening last year, he came to his watch hut, located up on a ledge of a tree, to find that an irate elephant had pulled down its cabin after getting the scent of a small container of jaggery. He ate the contents of it and tore down the pillow and other paraphernalia to shreds.

My parents had no more desire to work and called it a day.  Fearing there might be a tardy and unglued concatenation of elephants in the herd who might drop by soon they hurried home.

Recollections

In 1980, my mother remembered the lyrics of that near-deistic rendezvous. Each time she recalled it, I saw her eyes filled with tears. Even after rearing five more children of her own, that little quadruped devil still held a special place in her heart regardless of the panic he produced.  She thought that by 1980, the calf must have grown to be an old statesman, leading his band through wide naked spaces that his ancestors had known as rank forest, and now had lost the war against the multiplying tracts of the human census.  In her wistful thinking, in retrospect, she felt she owed something to that playful calf, which was ready for some mischief, who knows.

But she never thought of that family as intruders or a threat.  She rightly believed that she was the intruder in another’s habitat. Those elephants had the right of way, which is needed now more than ever.   However, we are encroaching on their space by clearing forests out of necessity and circumstances.  Elephants, like in this mother’s story, lost the space that was theirs all along, where they could take their babies for safety when humans stood between them and that refuge, which Omar Khayyam called their Wilderness Paradise.

In 1980, my mother had the foresight to tell me that the inertia of population explosion (bowenawa, her words) and dwindling land brought us to today’s conundrum, which requires urgent population control of both humans and elephants.

Despite the danger to her baby’s life at that time, my mother would cherish that moment to the end, because it was another baby trying to charm the other in that most poignant time and place. She longingly wished she could see that baby one more time.

She told me this remarkable cross-cultural encounter, though unquestionably dangerous and unavoidable due to circumstances forcing both parties to an unwelcome council, was beautiful, nonetheless.  Two babies, precious to their mothers and respective clans, but completely unrelated to each other in so many ways, found themselves extemporised in a blessed moment and thrust upon them by the very nature of the orchestral environments they rightfully owned, shared, and lived.

Dedication and a Requiem

I dedicate this story to the memory of another mother elephant and her baby, both killed by humans on a November 2019 night on the road near Habarana. Around 2.30 a.m. on that fateful, a Colombo-Trincomalee bus hit and killed the baby elephant standing by his mother on the edge of the road. As the mother stood grieving for hours by the body of the calf, heedless vehicular traffic and onlookers flustered her. However, thinking she would become a danger to people and vehicles passing by her lost world, the police took control of the scene.

Without ever trying to call the experts and sedate the mother to remove her dead calf from the road so that she could grieve undisturbed and alone, they shot her dead.

She took her last breath staring at the lifeless body of her calf.   That mother did not have to be killed.  May this be a requiem for her and her calf, and may both attain Nibbana!    

Lokubanda Tillakaratne ✍️
(This essay is adapted from the writer’s Echoes of the Millstone (2013).  

 



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Features

Another Christmas, Another Disaster, Another Recovery Mountain to Climb

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In line with its overall response to Cyclone Ditwah that devastated many parts of Sri Lanka, India has undertaken to set up temporary Bailey Bridges at selected locations. Work on the first such bridge has begun in Kilinochchi on the Paranthan–Karaichi–Mullaitivu A35 road. Indian Army engineers are working with their counterparts. The Indian HC said that 185 tonnes of Bailey Bridge units were airlifted to restore critical connectivity, along with 44 engineers (Pic courtesy IHC)

The 2004 Asian Tsunami erupted the day after Christmas. Like the Boxing Day Test Match in Brisbane, it was a boxing day bolt for Indonesia, Thailand, Sri Lanka, India and Maldives. Twenty one years later, in 2025, multiple Asian cyclones hit almost all the old victims and added a few more, including Malayasia, Vietnam and Cambodia. Indonesia and Sri Lanka were hit hard both times. Unlike the 2004 Tsunami, the 2025 cyclones made landfalls weeks before Christmas, during the Christian Season of Advent, the four-week period before Christmas preparing for the arrival of the Messiah. An ominously adventus manifestation of the nature’s fury.

Yet it was not the “day of wrath and doom impending … heaven and earth in ashes ending” – heavenly punishment for government lying, as an opposition politician ignorantly asserted. By that token, the gods must have opted to punish half a dozen other Asian countries for the NPP government’s lying in Sri Lanka. Or all those governments have been caught lying. Everyone is caught and punished for lying, except the world’s Commander in Chief for lying – Donald J. Trump. But as of late and none too sooner, President Trump is getting his punishment in spades. Who would have thought?

In fairness, even the Catholic Church has banished its old hymn of wrath (Dies irae, dies illa) that used to be sung at funerals from its current Missals; and it has on offer, many other hymns of peace and joy, especially befitting the Christmas season. Although this year’s Christmas comes after weeks of havoc caused by cyclonic storms and torrential rains, the spirit of the season, both in its religious and secular senses, will hopefully provide some solace for those still suffering and some optimism to everyone who is trying to uplift the country from its overflowing waterways and sliding slopes.

As the scale of devastation goes, no natural disaster likely will surpass the human fatalities that the 2004 Tsunami caused. But the spread and scale of this year’s cyclone destruction, especially the destruction of the island’s land-forms and its infrastructure assets, are, in my view, quite unprecedented. The scale of the disaster would finally seem to have sunk into the nation’s political skulls after a few weeks of cacophonic howlers – asking who knew and did what and when. The quest for instant solutions and the insistence that the government should somehow find them immediately are no longer as vehement and voluble as they were when they first emerged.

NBRO and Landslides

But there is understandable frustration and even fear all around, including among government ministers. To wit, the reported frustration of Agriculture Minister K.D. Lalkantha at the alleged inability of the National Building Research Organization (NBRO) to provide more specific directions in landslide warnings instead of issuing blanket ‘Level 3 Red Alerts’ covering whole administrative divisions in the Central Province, especially in the Kandy District. “We can’t relocate all 20 divisional secretariats” in the Kandy District, the Minister told the media a few weeks ago. His frustration is understandable, but expecting NBRO to provide political leaders with precise locations and certainty of landslides or no landslides is a tall ask and the task is fraught with many challenges.

In fairness to NBRO and its Engineers, their competence and their responses to the current calamity have been very impressive. It is not the fault of the NBRO that local disasters could not be prevented, and people could not be warned sufficiently in advance to evacuate and avoid being at the epicentre of landslides. The intensity of landslides this year is really a function of the intensity and persistence of rainfall this season, for the occurrence of landslides in Sri Lanka is very directly co-related to the amount of rainfall. The rainfall during this disaster season has been simply relentless.

Evacuation, the ready remedy, is easier said than socially and politically done. Minister Lal Kantha was exasperated at the prospect of evacuating whole divisional secretariats. This was after multiple landslides and the tragedies and disasters they caused. Imagine anybody seriously listening to NBRO’s pleas or warnings to evacuate before any drop of rainwater has fallen, not to mention a single landslide. Ignoring weather warnings is not peculiar to Sri Lanka, but a universal trait of social inertia.

I just lauded NBRO’s competence and expertise. That is because of the excellent database the NBRO professionals have compiled, delineating landslide zones and demarcating them based on their vulnerability for slope failure. They have also identified the main factors causing landslides, undertaken slope stabilization measures where feasible, and developed preventative and mitigative measures to deal with landslide occurrences.

The NBRO has been around since the 1980s, when its pioneers supplemented the work of Prof. Thurairajah at Peradeniya E’Fac in studying the Hantana hill slopes where the NHDA was undertaking a large housing scheme. As someone who was involved in the Hantana project, I have often thought that the initiation of the NBRO could be deemed one of the positive legacies of then Housing Ministry Secretary R. Paskaralingam.

Be that as it may, the NBRO it has been tracking and analyzing landslides in Sri Lanka for nearly three decades, and would seem to have come of age in landslides expertise with its work following 2016 Aranayake Landslide Disaster in the Kegalle District. Technically, the Aranayake disaster is a remarkable phenomenon and it is known as a “rain-induced rapid long-travelling landslide” (RRLL). In Kegalle the 2016 RRLL carried “a fluidized landslide mass over a distance of 2 km” and caused the death of 125 people. International technical collaboration following the disaster produced significant research work and the start of a five-year research project (from 2020) in partnership with the International Consortium on Landslides (ICL). The main purpose of the project is to improve on the early warning systems that NBRO has been developing and using since 2007.

Sri Lankan landslides are rain induced and occur in hilly and mountainous areas where there is rapid weathering of rock into surface soil deposits. Landslide locations are invariably in the wet zone of the country, in 13 districts, in six provinces (viz., the Central, Sabaragamuwa, Uva, Northwestern, Western and Southern, provinces). The Figure below (from NBRO’s literature) shows the number of landslides and fatalities every year between 2003 and 2021.

Based on the graphics shown, there would have been about 5,000 landslides and slope failures with nearly 1,000 deaths over 19 years between 2003 and 2021. Every year there was some landslide or slope failure activity. One notable feature is that there have been more deaths with fewer landslides and vice-versa in particular years. In 2018, there were no deaths when the highest number (1,250) of landslides and slope failures occurred that year. Although the largest number in an year, the landslides in 2018 could have been minor and occurred in unpopulated areas. The reasons for more deaths in, say, 2016 (150) or 2017 (250+), could be their location, population density and the severity of specific landslides.

NBRO’s landslide early warning system is based on three components: (1) Predicting rainfall intensity and monitoring water pressure build up in landslide areas; (2) Monitoring and observing signs of soil movement and slope instability in vulnerable areas; and (3) Communicating landslide risk level and appropriate warning to civil authorities and the local public. The general warnings to Watch (Yellow), be Alert (Brown), or Evacuate (Red) are respectively based on the anticipated rainfall intensities, viz., 75 mm/day, 100 mm/day; and 150 mm/day or 100 mm/hr. My understanding is that over the years, NBRO has established its local presence in vulnerable areas to better communicate with the local population the risk levels and timely action.

Besides Landslides

This year, the rain has been relentless with short-term intensities often exceeding the once per 100-year rainfall. This is now a fact of life in the era of climate change. Added to this was cyclone Ditwah and its unique meteorology and trajectory – from south to north rather than northeast to southwest. The cyclone started with a disturbance southwest of Sri Lanka in the Arabian Sea, traversed around the southern coast from west to east to southeast in the Bay of Bengal, and then cut a wide swath from south to north through the entire easterly half of the island. The origin and the trajectory of the cyclone are also attributed to climate change and changes in the Arabian Sea. The upshot again is unpredictability.

Besides landslides, the rainfall this season has inundated and impacted practically every watershed in the country, literally sweeping away roads, bridges, tanks, canals, and small dams in their hundreds or several hundreds. The longitudinal sinking of the Colombo-Kandy Road in the Kadugannawa area seems quite unparalleled and this may not be the only location that such a shearing may have occurred. The damages are so extensive and it is beyond Sri Lanka’s capacity, and the single-term capacity of any government, to undertake systematic rebuilding of the damaged and washed-off infrastructure.

The government has its work cutout at least in three areas of immediate restoration and long term prevention. On landslides warning, it would seem NBRO has the technical capacity to do what it needs to do, and what seems to be missing is a system of multi-pronged and continuous engagement between the technical experts, on the one hand, and the political and administrative powers as well as local population and institutions, on the other. Such an arrangement is warranted because the landslide problem is severe, significant and it not going to go away now or ever.

Such an engagement will also provide for the technical awareness of the problem, its mitigation and the prevention of serious fallouts. A restructuring could start from the assignment of ministerial responsibilities, and giving NBRO experts constant presence at the highest level of decision making. The engagement should extend down the pyramid to involve every level of administration, including schools and civil society organizations at the local level.

As for external resources, several Asian countries, with India being the closest, are already engaged in multiple ways. It is up to the government to co-ordinate and deploy these friendly resources for maximum results. Sri Lanka is already teamed with India for meteorological monitoring and forecasting, and with Japan for landslide research and studies. These collaborations will obviously continue but they should be focused to fill gaps in climate predictions, and to enhance local level monitoring and prevention of landslides.

To deal with the restoration of the damaged infrastructure in multiple watershed areas, the government may want to revisit the Accelerated Mahaweli Scheme for an approach to deal with the current crisis. The genesis and implementation of that scheme involved as many flaws as it produced benefits, but what might be relevant here is to approach the different countries who were involved in funding and building the different Mahaweli headworks and downstream projects. Australia, Britain, Canada, China, Italy, Japan, Sweden and Germany are some of the countries that were involved in the old Mahaweli projects. They could be approached for technical and financial assistance to restore the damaged infrastructure pieces in the respective watershed areas where these countries were involved.

by Rajan Philips ✍️

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Feeling sad and blue?

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Rowan Atkinson

Here is what you can do!

Comedy and the ability to have a good laugh are what keep us sane. The good news to announce is that there are many British and American comedy shows posted up and available on the internet.

They will bring a few hours of welcome relief from our present doldrums.

Firstly, and in a class of its own, are the many Benny Hill shows. Benny is a British comedian who comes from a circus family, and was brought up in an atmosphere of circus clowning. Each show is carefully polished and rehearsed to get the comedy across and understood successfully. These clips have the most beautiful stage props and settings with suitable, amusing costumes. This is really good comedy for the mature, older viewer.

Benny Hill has produced shows that are “Master-Class” in quality adult entertainment. All his shows are good.

Then comes the “Not the Nine o’clock news” with Rowan Atkinson and his comedy team producing good entertainment suitable for all.

And then comes the “Two Ronnies” – Ronnie Barker and Ronnie Corbett, with their dry sense of humour and wit. Search and you will find other uplifting shows such as Dave Allen, with his monologues and humour.

All these shows have been broadcast in Britain over the last 50 years and are well worth viewing on the Internet.

Similarly, in The USA of America. There are some really great entertainment shows. And never forget Fats Waller in the film “Stormy Weather,” where he was the pianist in the unforgettable, epic, comedy song “Ain’t Misbehavin”. And then there is “Bewitched” with young and glamorous Samantha Stevens and her mother, Endora who can perform magic. It is amazing entertainment! This show, although from the 1970s was a milestone in US light entertainment, along with many more.

And do not overlook Charlie Chaplin and Laurel and Hardy, and all the Disney films. Donald Duck gives us a great wealth of simple comedy.

The US offers you a mountain of comedy and good humour on Youtube. All these shows await you, just by accessing the Internet! The internet channel, ‘You tube’ itself, comes from America! The Americans reach out to you with good, happy things right into your own living room!

Those few people with the ability to understand English have the key to a great- great storehouse of uplifting humour and entertainment. They are rich indeed!

by Priyantha Hettige

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Lalith A’s main enemy was lack of time and he battled it persistently

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Athulathmudali

Presidential Mobile Service at Matara amid JVP terror

Like most Ministers, Mr. Athulathmudali over programmed himself. In this respect his was an extreme case. He was an early riser and after his morning walk and the usual routines of a morning, was ready for business by 6.30 a.m. In fact he once shocked an IMF delegation by fixing the appointment with it at this hour. The delegation had to be persuaded that they had heard right, and that the appointment was indeed for 6.30 a.m. and not 6.30 p.m. This desire to get through much as possible during a day inevitably led to certain imbalances. Certain matters which needed more time did not get that time, whilst at the level of officials, we felt that we needed more time with him, and quality time at that.

I had spoken to him several times on this subject. He always had good intentions and wanted to give us more time. But with his political, social and even intellectual responsibilities in regard to speaking engagements of a highly professional nature, it was not often possible to find this time. This situation was highlighted in a comic way, when one day on hearing that the minister had arrived in office for a short time, I grabbed some important papers which I wanted to discuss with him, and made for his room. When I entered, I found three officers, with files in their hands milling outside the door of the washroom. The minister was inside.

I suggested that we might as well form a queue outside the door, a queue which I also joined. An official who came after me also joined the queue. When the minister opened the door, to his great astonishment, and then to his amusement, he found five senior officials, including his Secretary lined up outside the bathroom door! It was funny and we made it funny. But the underlying intentions were quite serious, and we wanted to send him a message that we wanted more time with him. We had to however grab moments such as these in order to keep the flow of work going.One day he good humouredly said, “You all swamp me as I come in,” to which I lightly replied “As a distinguished lawyer you should know that possession is nine-tenths of the law, and now we are in possession of both your room and your attention.” Mr. Athulathmudali chuckled.

An important requirement under Mr. Athulathmudali was a report that had to be submitted to him if any official under his Ministry went abroad on official business. The report had to be reasonably brief, more analytical than descriptive and wherever possible or relevant contain specific recommendations in regard to the betterment of the officer’s area of work. Since the Ministry was quite large, a considerable number of officials went abroad for seminars, study tours, research collaboration, conferences, negotiations and so on. There were, therefore a significant number of reports coming to him. Many of these he read, and on some, he commented or asked questions or sought clarifications. What amazed us was how he found the time. His main enemy was time and he battled it with persistence and determination. Most of us were also in a similar position, and in this, his powerful example was a source of encouragement.

Duties not quite pleasant

As mentioned in several places in these memoirs, a senior public servant’s or a Secretary’s job is not always a pleasant one. At the level of the hierarchy of officials the buck stops with you. Thereafter, when necessary, battling the minister becomes your business. I used to insist to my officials that I needed a good brief. I was not prepared to go and start an argument with a minister unless I was in possession of the full facts. Interpretation was my business. But I needed verifiable facts and authentic figures. Officers who worked with me were soon trained to comply with these requirements. After that was done, if there was any flak, it was my business to take it upon myself. On one such occasion, I had to speak rather firmly to the acting Minister, Mr. G.M. Premachandra. He was young, energetic and even aggressive and was somewhat of a “stormy petrel.” He was an effective speaker in the Sinhala e and could be a formidable debater.

When he became State Minister for Food, he took it upon himself to probe everything. He started getting involved in administrative matters, the implications of which he did not understand, and the details of which he had no time for. During the course of these he not only started criticizing officials liberally, but also employed innuendo to suggest that they were corrupt. When interested parties got to know this, they fed him with halftruths and sometimes plain lies. This naturally confirmed the suspicions in his own mind. He blindly felt around and got hold of some tail and thought that was the elephant. The State Secretary, Mr. Sapukotana, an experienced and balanced official tried his best to advice the minister of the consequences of his actions.

Senior officials in the Food Department were being kept off balance much of the time. Paralysis as creeping into the decision making process. No one was taking decisions because taking decisions risked misinterpretation, suspicion and innuendo. The Deputies were pushing papers up to the Food Commissioner, and soon the Food Commissioner was pushing papers up to the State Secretary. Matters were getting really serious, because delays in calling for and deciding on tenders, attending to commercial disputes and so on were bound to have a serious effect on the availability of timely food supplies, and the maintaining of food security.

Mr. Sapukotana kept me informed from time to time of the developing situation. He tried his best to handle it without disturbing me. But it gradually came to a point that we were both of the view that my intervention was necessary. I took an opportunity that presented itself after a “mini cabinet” meeting which Mr. Premachandra chaired as Acting Minister. I asked him whether he would stay back for a moment. His Secretary seemed embarrassed to stay, but I asked him also to sit. Thereafter, I politely but firmly explained to the minister, the consequences of his actions.

I asked him whether he was aware that nobody was prepared to take a decision in the food sector. I pointed out that should disaster strike, Minister Athulathmudali would certainly ask him for an explanation. I told him further, that in such a contingency, that we as officials will have to tell the truth to the minister. The acting minister listened in silence. I wondered as to what forces of counter attack were gathering in his breast. He did not have the reputation of bowing meekly to a challenge and here I was calling into question his entire approach to his work.

Ultimately when he spoke, he said something that we least expected and which took us completely by surprise. He said that he listened carefully to me; he said that until now he had not realized the gravity of the situation that his actions were precipitating. Then to my great astonishment he said: “You have given me advice like a parent, like a father. Even parents don’t always give such good advice. I will act according to your advice.” Mr. Sapukotana and I were rendered speechless. This was one more of the many experiences I had in public service, where the totally unexpected had occurred.

Through my experience I have been convinced that one should not shirk one’s duty to advice ministers. This duty has to be performed in the public interest and one should not be deterred by possible consequences. However, there is a way and manner of giving this advice. One has to be polite. One should not adopt a confrontational attitude. In my experience, some of these “consequences” which people fear are more imagined than real, and ministers and politicians do not always act according to their perceived public characteristics. On this occasion Mr. Premachandra was a case in point.

Presidential Mobile Service – Matara

The second Presidential Mobile Service was to be held at Matara on November 3, 1989. This was a time of intense JVP activity when the country was gripped by fear. The decision to hold the service in Matara in the deep south was it a sense a challenge to the JVP. Rumours were rife that they would disrupt activities. We were to leave during the early morning of Nov. 3 and this itself was scary. In fact the country had reached a stage where there was very little traffic on the roads after about 9 p.m. We had now to leave for Matara to face an unknown situation leaving home around 4.30 in the morning.

When we left, we noticed that there was hardly any traffic on the roads. All around was in pitch darkness. Even some of the street lights were not functioning. It was quite eerie. We made our way past numerous check points at a couple of which we were stopped.

All this was not a comfortable experience. One felt apprehension. I was booked at the Weligama rest house but when I reached it I found that the power had been disrupted by the JVP during the previous night. We would have to be without lights or fans. But what was far worse was that the disruption of power had affected the pumping of water and the toilets could not be flushed.

The rest house was in short uninhabitable. The authorities there informed us that power would be restored by evening. But none of us had confidence that this would be done or if done, that it would not be disrupted again during the night. Some of us therefore decided to make alternative arrangements, which were not easy to make. Most of the hotels in the vicinity of Matara and even somewhat beyond had already been booked. Eventually, after a diligent search and with the assistance of friends, I found myself a room at Koggala Beach hotel.

This was an immense relief. In fact, it turned out to be much more than mere relief because of the interesting crowd of public servants in occupation. They were a jolly group of story tellers who had a variety of the most hilarious anecdotes to retail, which spared no one. When we reached the hotel at the end of a tiring day, we were able to forget the grim reality outside. Perhaps we really needed to laugh our cares away. Most of us had been subjected to considerable strain for a significant period of time.

At the mobile service itself in the Rahula College premises where the service was held was almost completely deserted on the first day. People were afraid to defy a JVP ban on attending. On the second day however the dam burst. People flocked in from all quarters and directions jamming the space and facilities available. Long queues formed outside areas allocated to all Ministries. The people themselves had suffered due to the disruption of their lives and activities, and when some relief seemed available, one day was all they could contain themselves however dire the threat. They voted with their feet.

On that second day we couldn’t finish at 5 p.m. There were so many people that hours were extended till 6.30 p.m. By the time we got back to our hotels, it was well past 8 p.m. Usually, the third day of the service was a half day, where we finished by 1 p.m., had lunch and started for home. But because of the lost first day and the crowds, the third day was extended to 5 p.m. But that was the official time. Many of us were stuck till about 7 p.m. We did not want to abandon the people still in the queue and who were now looking pretty desperate that they would not be attended to. They had suffered much. This meant once again traveling in the dark, this time to get home.

(Excerpted from In Pursuit of Governance, autobiography of MDD Peiris)

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