Features
Hard times and finally making the grade
Anna Maria worked as a cleaner to help tide us over
I was admitted to practice as a barrister and solicitor of the Supreme Court of Victoria on December 1, 1971. My dear friend, Ronnie de Kretser, was a partner in the firm of Weigall and Crowther, and he arranged for my admission to be moved by Robert Brooking Esq., QC, later Justice Brooking, and a young barrister by the name of Tim Smith, later Justice Smith.
I arrived for work the following Monday and was shown into my office. This was the second shock I received in the space of just over one month. It was not a room but a little cubicle about 10 feet long and six feet wide. It was the space between the boardroom and the main office complex. A large filing cabinet was placed by its entrance and next to it was a small desk and chair for me to use. The only redeeming feature of the cubicle was the large window to the left of my desk which ran all the way from floor to ceiling and looked down onto Lonsdale Street. Little did I realise that I was soon to spend many an unhappy hour looking disconsolately at that view.
Shortly after I settled down, Max bustled in with a dictating machine and several files. He opened the filing cabinet, popped several of the files onto my desk and gave me one to peruse. Each file contained a letter from the insurance company together with an accident report and an investigator’s report. I proceeded immediately to advise. Things were really beginning to look up.
One drawback was that neither Max nor Oscar had told me what they wanted of me, nor what I was required to do. As an advocate/ barrister in Ceylon, my advices were long and learned. I analyzed the facts in detail and wrote learned advices on the law when I was briefed to advise clients. I decided to follow my Ceylonese practice and provided the managers of these insurance companies with a comprehensive advice with regard to each file.
I was completely unaware that all the managers of these insurance companies wanted was to know whether they were liable to indemnify the insured, and what amount they had to pay. Neither Max nor Oscar told me that my advices were completely inappropriate to the extent that I was spending far too much time on each individual report. Instead, they tore my letters of advice to shreds. They even corrected my English in ways that were almost impossible to comprehend.
Let me give you an example of how pedantic these gentlemen were. On one occasion I had written: “The duty of an occupier to take care is …” The letter came back with my words scored off and replaced with the following words: “An occupier’s duty to take care is …”
I thought to myself, “Good God, I took Second-Class Honours in law at Cambridge, and had to come out to the colonies to have my English corrected!” This happened every day and my letters of advice came back completely mutilated so I had to rewrite them in my principal’s English. A few years later I showed these mutilated advices to my dear friend Louis Voumard QC and he was horrified.
But this was the least of my worries. Max treated me with contempt from the commencement of my employment. There was nothing racist in his treatment of me, for Max treated all his employees with contempt. He was a second-class bully (it would be insulting to call him a first-class bully). Many years later I was discussing my experiences of Max with a Queen’s Counsel at the Victorian Bar, who told me that when his son was employed under Max, he suffered a nervous breakdown and had to leave the firm.
On my first day at work when Max had brought me a dictating machine and files, I thanked him and called him “Max”. He remonstrated with me and informed me that I was just an employee in the firm and that I had to call him “Mr Williams”. A week later, I met him in the lavatory, got onto the little platform and stood beside him at the urinal. I looked down on him for he was only 5’4″ tall and said, “Mr Williams, I am sorry we haven’t had a chance to talk to each other.” He brushed past me muttering, “What is there to talk about?”
When I occasionally walked into a room to discuss a problem I had with a particular file, he would look disdainfully at me, pick up the telephone, swivel around in his chair, dial a telephone number and carry on a conversation with an unknown person for many minutes while I stood there looking up at the ceiling and counting the tiles. When he had finished, he would swivel around, glare at me and abuse me for disturbing him. This happened regularly and repeatedly; after some time my soul was completely battered and bruised, my confidence shattered and my mind in turmoil.
I was now at my wits end. I was too proud to go back to Ceylon and face the humiliation of having failed in Australia. My misery was compounded by the fact that I would go to the common room to have lunch every day, as I knew no one in the city of Melbourne. Occasionally, a vicious young employee solicitor would join us for lunch. He paid no heed to the fact that I was a stranger in a foreign land and needed to be treated with kindness and consideration. Whenever I joined in the conversation, he would make a point of humiliating and ridiculing me. I remember one occasion when I brought in some photographs of our tea plantation in Ceylon, this solicitor asked me where I had got these photographs from and why I was pretending to “skite over other people’s property.”
My only friend in the firm was Ian Robertson (now Judge Robertson). He had left the firm to go to the Victorian Bar and I had no one to turn to. I seriously contemplated taking my life, but I could not leave my dear sweet wife alone and friendless in Australia. I would look down at the people walking in Lonsdale Street. They seemed so happy and carefree. Did they know the turmoil in my heart and in my soul? I could not get another job: Eva Mahlab, who ran a legal employment agency and had obtained this job for me, bluntly told me that she could not find me any other employment.
I felt lost, I was desperate. In my hour of darkness I turned to valium. I started taking five mg at night in March 1972. By June I was taking another five mg at lunchtime. Looking back over the years, I cannot comprehend how I managed to drive to work and return-home driving down the South-Eastern Freeway, let alone do a day’s work. My wife was desperate. I had lost all interest in life. I would return home after work and sit in front of the television, staring blankly at the screen until it was time to have dinner and go to bed. The only pleasure I had in my life was at weekends when I could forget for a while about my employment.
One morning in the middle of September 1972, Oscar called me into his room. Max and Oscar had divided the bullying between them over the previous nine months, with each one unwittingly outdoing each other. Oscar smiled sarcastically and said, “Nimal, Max and I have been discussing your future in the firm. We have decided that you have no future in this firm. You are of no use to us because you have no brains.” This was a body blow. I sat there in a state of shock, fearing what was coming next. My sorry little world was about to disintegrate completely. He continued: “We realize that working in a firm doing defendants’ work is far too complicated for you. We thought you ought to join a firm doing personal injuries work for plaintiffs.” I looked down at the floor.
“Another alternative for you would be to go to the Victorian Bar. One of our articled clerks who was a complete fool went to the Bar and we heard that he is doing quite well. That may be your answer, for you don’t need any brains or ability to be a success at the Victorian Bar.” This was the last straw. I went back to my little cubicle, lay my head on my hands and burst out crying. Even 10 mg of valium a day was no help. I was lost, living in a foreign country with no one to turn to for help. That was the longest day of my life. I drove home as I usually did in a daze, but on this occasion I was completely shattered. I have no recollection of how I got home; all I can remember was cars flashing past me.
I drove into the garage. I could not get out of the car. My limbs were frozen. After some time, Anna Maria came to the garage to see why I had not come in. She opened the passenger door and got in. I fell into her arms sobbing and crying. Anna Maria had come from a little village in Northern Italy called Asolo. She had left school at the age of 15 to work, and had worked until we got married. I then told her that she would never have to work again as I would provide for her. Now when I told her what had happened, she said quite firmly that I had to go to the Victorian Bar.
I asked her sarcastically what she knew about the Victorian Bar. I told her that this was impossible, for no Australian solicitor would brief a coloured man. I asked her how we were going to manage. Where was the money to come from? I couldn’t get money out of Ceylon due to stringent exchange control regulations. She looked at me and smiled. She told me that every morning for some months, she had been walking along Glenferrie Road, Malvern to do her shopping. About a month before, she had met two Italian nuns. She heard them speaking in Italian and joined them in their conversation. They asked her whether she was working, to which she replied, “yes’ They then asked her whether she would like to work at the St Francis Xavier Cabrini Hospital as there was a vacancy for a cleaner, cleaning floors at the hospital. Anna Maria said yes, but she could only work part-time as she had to return home before her husband got home from work. She did not want him to know that she was working.
She had now been working for a few weeks as a cleaner at the hospital. The little extra money she earned from cleaning floors would come in useful for us. Anna Maria told me that she could now work-full time as a cleaner so that I could go to the Victorian Bar. She reminded me of the fact that I came from one of the great legal families in Ceylon and I had been on my way to the top of the legal profession in Ceylon before we left for Australia. She was the only one who had confidence that I would be a success at the Victorian Bar.
I went into the house, had a shower and felt like a new man. I telephoned several Ceylon-born solicitors in Australia who were practicing in Melbourne, including Ronnie de Kretser. Ronnie had been instrumental in helping me get my employment with Max as he was one of my referees. Every single Ceylon-born solicitor, without exception, cautioned me about going to the Bar, and advised me that no Australian solicitor would brief a coloured man. A few days after I made my decision to go to the Bar, I went to a friend’s son’s wedding. It was a Ceylonese affair. One cantankerous, nasty old Ceylonese-born solicitor, told the assembled guests that he had an announcement to make. In loud stentorian tones, he told the assembled gathering that I was going to the Victorian Bar and that there were easier ways of committing suicide. Great stuff, that.
The night after I made my decision, I threw my remaining valium pills in the bin. The next morning I strode into Oscar’s office and told him that I would take his advice and go to the Victorian Bar. One interesting feature of my employment was that during the nine months I had been there, I would be regularly called upon to contribute 20 cents for presents for employees who were leaving
the firm, even though I did not know any of them. I must apologize for this pettiness, but when I left, I did not receive a present, nor did Max and Oscar wish me well.I can now look back years later with considerable satisfaction. Although the early years were difficult, I am the author of Voumard: The Sale of Land, a work of recognized excellence in Australia, listed in the top twenty legal books in Australia. I am an authority on land law and a Queen’s Counsel. I was also appointed as a judge on the Court of Appeal in Fiji. I wonder what would have happened if I had not gone to the Victorian Bar?
My story has a happy ending. Supposedly it is Talleyrand who said, “Revenge is a dish best served cold” In 1986, I saw Oscar wandering around in Owen Dixon Chambers. He looked extremely sheepish when he saw me, for I was now a successful barrister. I had been invited to write a conveyancing manual and I took a leaf out of what Damon Runyan did when he wrote his first book: he dedicated it to his employer “who fired him with ambition”. I told Oscar that I was going to dedicate my work to Max “for firing me with ambition”.
I did write the conveyancing manual but certainly did not dedicate it to Max. I will be eternally grateful to Max and Oscar for giving me a helping hand to climb the rungs of the ladder of life in Australia.
Features
Combining local resources,traditional knowledge and science to build a food-secure Sri Lanka
World Food Day 2026: Innovating today for a better food future
by Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
What will be on the Sri Lankan dinner table ten years from now? Will our children be able to get nutritious food at a price their families can afford? Will farmers be able to grow enough despite changing weather and rising costs? And how much of the food we produce will actually reach the consumer, instead of being lost or wasted along the way?
These questions can’t wait. A farmer faces unpredictable weather. A family faces rising food costs. Fruit goes unsold after a good harvest. Some children do not get enough nutrition. The future of food is tied to the future of Sri Lanka itself.
World Food Day 2026 is a chance to look beyond the immediate problems and ask whether we can build a food system that feeds our people well, gives farmers better opportunities, protects the environment and makes better use of what we already have. The answer can be yes, but we will have to think differently.
We are not starting from zero. Sri Lanka has diverse crops, fisheries, traditional food knowledge, indigenous varieties, research institutions, universities and a young generation able to create new solutions. What we need is to bring these together and act. Producing more will not secure our food future on its own. It will depend on how intelligently we produce, process, preserve, distribute and consume food.
Making more of what we already have
Innovation does not always mean inventing something new. Often it means finding better uses for the resources we have.
Sri Lanka grows traditional rice varieties, kurakkan, green gram, cowpea, jackfruit, breadfruit, cassava, sweet potato, coconut and palmyrah. All of them have great potential for modern, nutritious, value-added foods. Jackfruit and breadfruit can be made into flour and other convenient products. Traditional rice varieties can go into new foods that suit changing consumer needs. Palmyrah, with its strong cultural heritage, can create new income through better processing, packaging, quality assurance and market development.
The aim is to connect our traditional food knowledge with modern consumer needs and technology, while keeping our food heritage.
Stop wasting the food we produce
Reducing food loss and waste should be a major priority. Seasonal fruits such as mango, banana, papaya and pineapple can be lost in large quantities when production exceeds demand or when storage, transport and processing facilities are inadequate. With suitable technology, these fruits can become dried products, pulps, powders, beverages and other shelf-stable foods.
Agricultural and fisheries by-products are resources too. They could be turned into food ingredients, animal feed, bio-based products and other useful materials, which would move us toward a more circular food economy.
Technology alone is not enough. We need stronger local processing facilities, cold storage, efficient transport, collection centres and market information systems, especially close to where food is produced. Cutting food loss raises the value of what our farmers and fishers already produce.
Nutrition and food safety come first
Food security means more than having enough food. People also need food that is safe and nutritious.
Sri Lanka can develop affordable, nutritious foods from local pulses, grains, vegetables, fruits and fish. Children and other vulnerable groups should get particular attention. Schoolchildren in particular deserve a focus: safe, nutritious, locally sourced products for school feeding programs would support child nutrition, local farmers and domestic food industries at the same time.
Food safety must stay at the centre of food innovation. Good hygiene, quality control, laboratory testing, traceability and appropriate food safety systems are what make new products safe as well as attractive and nutritious.
A food system that can cope with climate change
Climate change is already affecting agricultural production, water availability, crop yields and food prices. We need food systems that can handle changing conditions. That means climate-resilient crops, efficient water use, soil and water conservation, better storage and resource-efficient food processing.
Traditional knowledge matters here. Generations of Sri Lankan farmers have developed practices suited to local climates and ecosystems. Combining that experience with modern science can give us solutions that fit local conditions and are sustainable. Technology alone will not build the future of food. Science, experience and local knowledge together can.
Give young people a bigger role
Sri Lanka’s universities have an important part to play in shaping our food future. Young people should be encouraged to identify real problems in the food system and work on practical solutions in areas such as food waste, sustainable packaging, nutrition, food safety, modernising traditional foods and digital technologies.
A good research project should not always end as a research paper. Where appropriate, research should be supported to move on to products, technologies, enterprises and community solutions. That needs stronger partnerships between universities and industry, along with mentoring, research funding, business support and market connections. If young researchers and entrepreneurs can turn their ideas into viable food innovations, both consumers and producers will benefit.
A pathway designed for Sri Lanka
We do not need to copy food-system models from other countries. We can build a pathway that suits our own resources, culture and needs. It would bring together local resources, traditional knowledge, scientific research, appropriate technology and entrepreneurship, with farmers, fishers, universities, research institutions, food industries, entrepreneurs and policymakers working side by side.
The goal goes beyond selling raw materials. We need to create more value, reduce waste, improve nutrition, generate jobs and strengthen rural livelihoods. This matters especially for small and medium-scale food enterprises, which can drive local economic development when they get the right technical, financial and market support.
The choices we make today
The food future will not create itself. It will be shaped by what we grow, what we research, what we process, what we consume and what we choose not to waste.
So, the question for World Food Day 2026 is this: what can we do today so that every Sri Lankan has safe, nutritious, affordable and sustainable food tomorrow?
The answers are already around us, in our farms, fisheries, food businesses, universities, laboratories and communities. We have the resources, the traditional knowledge, the scientific expertise and talented young people. What we need now is to connect them and act.
A better food future begins with the choices we make today.
Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
Senior Lecturer, Department of Biosystems Technology, Faculty of Technology, University of Ruhuna
Features
20th Anniversary of Digampathana blast – the day Sri Lanka Navy cried
By Admiral Ravindra C Wijegunaratne
WV, RWP and Bar, RSP, VSV, USP, NI (M) (Pakistan), ndc, psn, Bsc
(Hons) (War Studies) (Karachi) MPhil (Madras)
Former Navy Commander and Former Chief of Defence Staff
Former Chairman, Trincomalee Petroleum Terminals Ltd
Former Managing Director Ceylon Petroleum Corporation
Former High Commissioner to Pakistan
The Digampathana suicide truck attack on 16th October 2006 remains the deadliest single strike in Sri Lanka Navy history, leaving scars that time cannot erase.
It was a seemingly ordinary Monday morning on 16 October 2006, but the calm of that day would soon be shattered in a way none of us could have imagined. As the Commandant of the Naval and Maritime Academy and Flag Officer Commanding Naval Fleet at Trincomalee, I was aware that a number of my cadets were travelling that morning, part of a convoy of fifteen buses carrying naval personnel from Trincomalee, Colombo, and other bases, heading toward Dambulla to rendezvous with another group. The convoy also included trucks and escort vehicles, a routine movement planned and coordinated with the army to ensure the roads were clear. The morning started quietly. Some personnel greeted friends, handed over their weapons, or strolled to a nearby tea shop. It all seemed so ordinary—too ordinary for what would come next.

Sri Lanka Navy sunk LTTE Ships carrying arms, ammunition and warlike materials thousand miles away from Sri Lanka in Indian Ocean in September and October 2007.
By late morning, both convoys had reached the small ground at Digampathana, near the Sigiriya junction, and personnel mingled briefly, unaware that a carefully orchestrated act of terror was waiting. Then, suddenly, an empty half-truck veered directly into the convoy. It exploded with a ferocity I can still recall as if it were yesterday. Nuts, bolts, and high explosives tore through the air. Pandemonium erupted instantly. I later learned that 107 of our naval personnel were killed on the spot and another 153 critically injured. The scene was indescribable—bodies scattered, vehicles mangled, personal effects strewn across the ground. I remember later hearing that the head of the suicide bomber was recovered more than 100 meters away from the blast, a grim testament to the sheer force of the explosion.
I was in my office at the Naval and Maritime Academy when my mobile phone rang. A young midshipman from the 21st intake called, his voice trembling: “Sir, there was a huge explosion at the convoy point! Many are dead … my batch mate Wijesundara is among them.” I immediately jumped into my jeep with my escort Chief Petty Officer and driver and rushed to Digampathana, relying on every ounce of my driving skill to reach the scene. The journey, which usually took little more than an hour, felt endless that day, each passing mile weighed down by dread.
When I arrived, I was confronted with a sight that no training can prepare you for. The injured were being rushed to Dambulla Hospital, where doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, improvising in ways that saved lives despite the overwhelming chaos. I went back to the site after visiting the hospital. The remains of our naval personnel were scattered across the ground, and someone had begun collecting weapons and protective gear. I immediately contacted Surgeon Rear Admiral Nico Jayasekara and received his instructions: collect all body parts in separate bags and transport them to the Trincomalee Naval Hospital mortuary. This gruesome work had to be done with care and dignity, and it filled the icebox in my vehicle. Through DNA testing initiated by Rear Admiral Nico, we were able to identify every naval personnel lost that day, bringing some closure to grieving families.
The Navy Commander at the time, Vice Admiral Wasantha Karannagoda, was devastated. I had worked closely with him and knew how deeply he cared for his men. He ensured that the fallen were honoured with full ceremonial naval funerals at Welisara Naval Base, attended by families and comrades. Sixty-seven funerals were conducted in a single day—a number that still haunts me.
The Digampathana attack remains the largest single loss of naval life in our history. It was a day of sorrow, but also a day that reinforced our resolve. The tragedy galvanized the Navy to target the LTTE Sea Tiger wing with renewed determination and reshaped our maritime operations forever. Every time I think of that day, I remember not just the lives lost, but the courage, professionalism, and dedication of those who survived, those who treated the injured, and those who ensured the fallen were honored properly. May the souls of our naval hero’s rest in peace, their sacrifice guiding us and inspiring generations of naval personnel to come.
Features
‘Murder at Whitby Abbey’
Tales of Mystery and Suspense – 24
I was intrigued by the title of a book I found in a book drop at the condominium of a friend, Murder at Whitby Abbey, and I brought it home with me though I will not be able to return it in the near future. It was described on the cover page as ‘a standout in the crowded medieval mystery field’, though I fear I do not know of other books in this field, apart from the Cadfael series, which I have dealt with earlier.
The book, by Cassandra Clark, is set during the reign of Richard II and has as a backdrop his precarious position, which led to his being replaced, and murdered, by his cousin Henry, who reigned as Henry IV. It is a gloomy book, the action taking place in the twelve days of Christmas leading up to the Epiphany. And the gloom is pervasive, even though this is supposed to be a time of festivity, with mummers performing, and many of those in the guest house where the heroine stays going to town to enjoy themselves, with much drinking and much music, which also fills the guesthouse.
The heroine Hildegarde is a nun, sent to try to acquire a relic being sold by Whitby Abbey, though this was also a penance set by the Abbot of the monastery that governed her abbess because she had had sex with a man. Soon after she and her companions reach the Abbey set high on a cliff, she finds that there are other bidders, and soon suspects that the hierarchy, not perhaps the Abbot who seems a weakling, but his rapacious bursar, is determined to make money, and not above creating false relics to sell to several aspirants.
After Hildegarde and her Cistercian companions – Whitby is a Benedictine Foundation – two monks, Gregory and Egbert, and a young priest Mark, reach the abbey, they find that Aelwyn, a monk they had met on their way to the guesthouse had died. This was in the apple store, and they realize, when they find the surplices of novices stuffed into the air vents, that he had been left to suffocate in the overwhelming scent of apples.
The Cistercians are asked to look into the death, perhaps because they are likely to get no cooperation from the Abbey folk, but perhaps because those in charge are keen to know what happened. And the infirmarer, an old monk, suggests Hildegarde talk to a man called Edred who worked for the bursar, and had been a friend of Aelwyn’s. But Edred too is killed, before he can keep an appointment he had made with Hildegarde, drowned in a pool near the farmhouse of the Abbey.
Meanwhile tensions arise between the fisherfolk and the abbey for the bursar wants to charge them for using the beach that technically belongs to the abbey to dry their fish and their nets. This leads to physical battles, when the guards used by the abbey, under the command it seems of the bursar whose determination to make money is not resisted by the abbot and the prior, try to storm the area where the fishermen live.
Hildegard finds out more about what had happened through two youngsters, one of whom Torold is the son of Aelwyn by a woman who worked as a prostitute for a cartel, and with whom Mark fell in love. The other works on the farm and had seen Edred meet someone near the pool, after which that someone left the place by himself. And the boy had also found in the pool a sort of dagger with the seal of the abbey.
He and his dog, and Torold who follows her, rescue Hildegarde from a man at arms who has waylaid her and tries to rape her earlier. Escaping into the abbey she was nearly been raped then by the bursar, but she managed to escape, in the process setting fire to him and the muniments room, which led, when he was rescued, to the discovery of a box with the money he said had been stolen, blame being cast on both Aelwyn and Edred.
Matters come to a head when the fisherfolk try to storm the abbey, being resisted by the men at arms stationed on the towers. But then Hildegarde realizes that behind the murders was the bursar’s clerk, whom she pursued to the cathedral. There is great drama then as she escapes from him when he tries to kill her, and then from the man at arms who had tried to both rape and kill her, but they both fall from the scaffolding she had climbed, the latter coming from a tower where he had been stationed.
Both of them think they run the rapacity of the abbey, the latter claiming to work for the nobles opposed to Richard, who is presented throughout the book as devoted to his subjects, not to power or money. But though the villains die, the bursar continues, having got over the hysteria the fire had caused and his acknowledgment then of guilt – and though the abbot and the prior seem less vicious, whether they will be able to assert themselves is questionable.
Before the climax, when the others in the guesthouse were leaving, Hildegarde found that two of them were in possession of the relic, for which they seem to have paid well. Hildegarde herself had made a derisory offer, but before she leaves the abbot gives her the relic, perhaps in gratitude for what she and her fellow Cistercians had discovered, the abbey having made as much money as it needed and more from the gullible other buyers.
Mark’s inamorata is saved from the stews because she moves in with Edred’s widow whom the bursar had thrown out of the rooms he occupied when her husband was found dead. Hildegarde had paid for lodgings, in a house run by the man who ran the brothels, but he had a kindly side and was going to finance them to make nets for the fishermen.
So, the Cistercians set off for their home as swiftly as they can to get there on the day of the Epiphany, having stopped en route to pray for King Richard whose birthday it was.
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