Features
Jungles, ruins and shipwrecks
by Somasiri Devendra
Jungles fascinate me. It was a fascination that had been kindled by my father, as well as John Still, both of whom were archaeologists and writers. But, somehow, I never became one who trod the forest ways regularly. The jungle spoke to me in a different idiom – to my heart rather than my head.
Father, a teacher before turning archaeologist, became our teacher in English literature. Our text was John Still’s The jungle tide and, from the beginning, both the teacher and the author held the class spellbound. The slow progress made through the opening chapter describing a rain forest only served to stamp more deeply in my mind the world that was the jungle.
Years later I read Leonard Woolf’s haunting description of the dry zone jungle in Village In The Jungle. I always think of these two kinds of jungle – rain forest described by Still and secondary scrub by Woolf – in their words.
Trips with an archaeologist
Not long after he interpreted Still to us, father joined the Archaeological Survey of Ceylon, as it was then. He loved the work and found every excuse to go on circuit, leaving his desk. Each time he came back, he was brimful of experiences and what we learnt from him round the dining table was more than anything a university could teach.
His interests were eclectic and the tale would flit effortlessly from treasure hunters at a ruined dagoba, to a dung beetle at work, the cult of Aiyanar, a bungalow-keeper’s encounter with a wild elephant, the migrant birds, the gaemi-kavi of village pilgrims seeking male progeny from Kalu Devatha Bandara (the guardian-deity of the Sri Maha Bodhiya), and the man who manufactured sarvagna dhathu.
Being then in the class preparing for an examination, I could go with him only occasionally, but even that was wonderful. Striking inland from Puttalam, on the way to Anuradhapura, the road was, in season, bordered by weera trees in bearing and we would stop to break down the most reachable branches and strip off all the berries. He would nonchalantly remark that this was elephant country and they, too relished these berries.
Passing through the Kurunegala route, we never went past the Aiyanar jungle shrine, a mere tree, without plucking off a twig and offering it to this mysterious deity. The tree-shrine, thankfully, is still there.
Ambitious development schemes were afoot and father went to inspect work at Gal Oya, where bulldozers were turning back the jungle tide. The impact of these behemoths must have made a strong impression on him: I still have his photographs of trees being pulled down. Perhaps, it was this that prompted him to induct us into our fast disappearing cultural and environmental heritage.

Veddha songs
He took us to see the Veddahs, who were old men in the late 1940s. They sang us their songs swaying to a rhythm of their own. It was hardly music to our ears but, definitely, a far cry from what is touted as Veddah music today. Among father’s favourite verses were a gaemi kaviya in praise of Sorabora Wewa (which Seligman attributed to the Veddahs, though this is unlikely).
The verses begin with –
Paalu rata-i Vanni-ye etha-nin oha ta
Golu gene panithi veli-hinniyo aenga ta
Seru avith dive-kelinaa sonde ruwa ta
Yaa-lu thopith giyado horabora weva ta?
“It’s waste land in the Vanni from here onwards, Screaming, the she-bear will pounce on you
And the seruwas sport in the water, pleasing the eye And you, friend, have you, too, been to Sorabora lake?”
and end thus:-
Horabora waevey weva degodey vananrata rey
Kapaa gal kaanu egodata eliya ke ley
Nelaa mal pahan veherata eganthe rey
Horabora wewa n
udutu aes motada pin ke ley?
“Deep in the forest on either bank
Sluices cut in the rock tap the water.
You offer flowers and light lamps at the shrine on the other bank
But of what use is merit to you, you eyes that have not seen Sorabora lake?”
Rantembe
Another jungle trek in Veddah country was from Aluthnuwara, through the jungle to Rantembe. All this must be under water now with the construction of the Rantembe resovoir, but it was thick jungle then and we had to go in single file. If the nade gura or leader found a rock on the path he warned galak (stone), and the one behind him repeated the warning. which went drawn the single file till it reached the last man, our driver, who duly repeated it to whoever was behind him, hoping nobody was!
The rapids of Rantembe were worth every aching muscle to see. The sheer power, the roar of the Mahaveli forced into a narrow gorge was reward enough. You cannot see any of this now: so our induction to the vanishing loveliness of Lanka was something worthwhile.
“Elephant” at Tantirimalai
Another day, we were following a footpath to Tantirimale, a temple in the jungle which was famous for its unfinished reclining Buddha statue, pre-historic drawings in a cave and an ancient bo tree growing out of a crack in a slab of rock.
We were about to climb up an incline, which was really the bund of an abandoned tank, when we suddenly saw a man on a bicycle atop the bund. He was wearing sunglasses in the jungle gloom. Seeing us, he let out a yell, dropped his bike and took to the trees! When we had rescued him still trembling, he had an explanation to offer: “I thought your jeep was an elephant”. Therein lay the moral: do not wear sunglasses in the jungle!
Farewell circuit
The year I graduated from Peradeniya and started work as a teacher at Kegalle father gave me HCP Bell’s Kegalle report to make me get my historical bearings. He also decided that he would retire from the Department – though not archaeology. He set about planning a long circuit, a final good-bye to all his beloved sites, as well as to follow up reports of some new finds. This time, I went with him.
Again, I remember the barely cleared monastic site of Arankele with its long, long sakinan-maluwa (pathway for meditation). On the way we stopped at a living forest hermitage, Ruwangirikanda, where we saw many a hermit and understood what moved a man to seek the solitude of the forest. Near Arankele was Gala-pica-gala (rock-upon-a-rock) where I learnt the principles of wind erosion. And so we went from one jungle ruin to another.
Off Polonnaruwa, we went towards Dimbulagala, which was dubbed Gunner’s Quoin by sailors at sea who used to take their bearings from it. On the way we trekked to a group of boulders entirely surrounded by forest, but not yet excavated. This was Pulligoda Gal-ge (gal-ge = cave). On one of its sides was a beautiful fresco of a group of celestial beings. I was told that these were either the earliest or the only examples – I forget which – of the use of the halo on beings other than the Buddha.
Walking back to where we had parked the car, we came upon a site called Kos-gaha Ulpotha. It was a jungle spring of beautifully clear water.
At Dimbulagala, a man seeking a place for meditation had come to live in a cave. His mission was to destroy the paintings. He would comb the forest for buffalo dung and, in the nights dissolve it in water into a paint-like consistency and using a broomstick as a brush, paint over all the ancient paintings. By the time his act became known, it was impossible to remove the offending layer without destroying the paintings under it. The chemists were yet working on the problem. We saw the damage, but what could one do?
A lucky escape
I had another adventure in those parts. It was twenty years or so later, when I was working in Trincomalee. Kantalai was fully colonized by then. One day, friends visiting my brother, then the Government Agent, offered me a ride to Colombo. Gallantly, they gave me the front seat of the absolutely new car. We had passed Kantalai tank and the light was beginning to fade. There was a wide curve in the road and Joe, who was driving, asked me to switch off the tape-recorder so that he could switch on the lights.
I did not know how to do it, so he leaned over and did it. At that moment, an elephant thundered out of the jungle, where people were clearing a chena, and ran across the road. Joe promptly stood on the brakes but, before he could bring the car to a dead halt, another elephant, only about six6 to seven feet in height, ran in front of us. We hit him broadside, between the front and hind legs.
Caught in mid stride, he fell over; legs rolling up under the impact. Joe did a quick gear change and we took off like a rocket, swerving round the prone animal, just as the rest of the herd ran out of the jungle behind us. We kept going at top speed for about ten minutes, before getting out to assess the damage The radiator grill had caved in but, luckily the headlight and radiator itself were unharmed and we could go on. We reported the incident at the Habarana Police Station and carried on.
Flood relief
In 1958, we had torrential rains and floods in the country, including the least expected areas in the dry zone As was usual in such instances, all and sundry began collecting contributions for the flood victims and we teachers at Ananda College, too collected a sizeable stock. We were advised not to hand over the money but to adopt one of the affected villages and rehabilitate it. Our village was Hiriwadunna, some miles before reaching Habaran from Colombo. Apart from looking after the immediate needs of the villagers, we teachers in the upper forms used the village as a field laboratory, taking groups of student on various surveys that brought to life history, geography, botany, and the way of life in a village. What an experience it turned out to be! Probing old men’s memories turned out to be a great learning adventure.
Something the villagers said would have made eminent sense today. They were able to trace the water that came to their tank from its source: “When a tank overflowed, that water came to another tank, and when that too overflowed, it went to a third” and so on, tracing the route traversed by the water in their own tank from the beginning to the very end.
Decades later, when the cascade system was understood by our irrigation engineers, I related this concept to some of them and they admitted that they had never tapped the villagers’ reservoir of oral history.
When I asked the old folk whether there were ruins in the jungle around them, they undertook to show them to me. So I trekked with them to a thickly forested spot not far away, and came upon the remains of a small monastery. There were columns and slabs pushed aside by the living trees as they grew, and yet untouched by the archaeologist. I could not find any inscription to copy, but came upon a stone cistern, made of four slabs of stone, about waist high. Three of these were still upright, forming three sides of a square, and the fourth was lying flat on the ground. It showed two grooves chiseled for the other slabs to fit in snugly. This fit was good enough to last many centuries. I wonder how many ruins, like this one, are hidden in the forest.
Pooneryn
In the 1960s when I was in the Navy, we were called upon to open a new camp in an area totally unknown to us, but which is familiar to many now. There was an operation on to combat illicit immigration from India to Sri Lanka.
The Navy went to reinforce the Army and the sector allocated to us was Pooneryn, off Vavuniya. It was a forested, sparsely populated area just beyond an old Dutch Fort. The base camp, which was a collection of aluminium sheds, was set up in a clearing. We had a string of small outposts along the seashore to watch for incoming boats. Small groups of men would patrol those lovely, lonely beaches. There was only the main road, but none leading to the outposts until jeeps crashed through the undergrowth making tracks that later became roads.
So little was happening there and game was plentiful, that everyone became a hunter or fisherman. Driving through the open villu, we often came upon jackals, who were not in the least perturbed by us, peacocks and elephants. I remember seeing my first Ceylon magpie. The open stretch near base camp was like a slate on which was freshly written every night the tracks of all kinds of animals which had wandered there.
The outposts had to be visited day and night. During the day, we found it easier to drive along the beach from one point to another. There was no sign of anybody else or animals, but there was plenty of bird life. The most intriguing animals were fish, which swam in the very foam of the waves. As we roared and skidded along the beach, we could see before us fish after fish diving back to the deeper waters as they sensed our approach.
At night we kept to the roads. Driving through patches of arching forest alternating with open villu, one could predict which of the two he was passing through with his eyes shut. The skin was the sensory organ, for one felt warm while traversing forests and cold in the villu. It was exhilarating to go from warmth to coldness, from bright moonlight to “tunnels of green gloom”. As always, it is the sights, sounds, smells and other physical phenomena that spell “jungle” to me.
Elephants were plentiful. We had unknowingly built one post under a large tree the elephants used to scratch their backs on. The entire tree would start shaking in the night and the human inhabitants would seek refuge on the beach! One night I remember driving back along an abandoned tank bund, which was blocked by branches torn down by elephants. There was no way of reversing, so we had to get down and clear the way. Steaming piles of elephant droppings were around us and we could hear the culprits pulling more branches. But they were not worried by our presence and both animal and man went their separate ways peacefully. Pooneryn was a wonderful place then.

Mansions of the sea
The year was 1930. The scene was Dodanduwa, the last home of the traditional three-masted sailing ships of the Sinhalese, the yathra dhoni or maha-oruwa. The occasion was the launching of a ship. Two friends, one an entrepreneur and the other a seaman, had joined forces to build and launch this vessel that, though no one knew it at the time, was fated to be the last of her breed.
Kariyavasam Patuvata Vithanage Don Siyadoris de Silva, land owner, and Punchi Sinno Marakkalaehe, mariner, hoped that their freighter, by now named Amugoda Oruva, would do brisk business with South India and the Maldives. To mark her maiden voyage to Male, verses were composed, among which was:-
Gaman yanna naekatin oruva baa geney
Saman deyiyanta puda panduru baenda geney
Viman sagarey kanu mul soya geney
Apit yamuva haema deviyanta vaenda geney
“Auspiciously have we launched our vessel
And made our offerings to the god of Adam’s Peak
Let us now worship all the gods and go In search of the mansions of the sea.”
No god, alas, heard their pious prayers and the proud ship foundered on the reefs of Male, leaving those left behind in Dodanduwa to sing her dirges:
Metaenin oruva baa laa gati varaayata
Diyamba porn sata divve tharangataya
Kopamana ruval aedalaa divvat sondata
Amugoda oruva tava naeta aave gamata
“From here was the vessel taken to the port
And many a league did she race along under sail,
But however many sails were hoisted, and however fair she sailed
Amugoda Oruva never made home again.”
Sixty years or so later I was in Galle, organizing an international group of maritime archaeologists who were training a clutch of our young archaeology undergraduates and, at the same time, compiling a data base of shipwrecks in Galle Bay. Among the group was Tom Vosmer, an Australian boat ethnographer, with whom I discussed the Amugoda Oruwa and the large 100-year old model of a yathra dhoni at Kumarakanda Pirivena, Dodanduwa, that I had been privileged to photo record.
Tom was enthusiastic, for this was the last of a type of large outrigger-equipped sailing ships which could be traced back to the time of Borobudur. Days were spent in examining the model, and measuring, photographing and making detailed drawings of structural details. Built by the young son of a ship-owner, around 1890, it had been awarded a gold medal by the Governor. Tom considered that its accuracy, both in scale and detail, made it a fairly reliable source for (????????)
Features
Silence of the majority keeps West Asian conflict raging
With no military quick-fix in sight to the ongoing, convoluted West Asian conflict it ought to be clear to the rationally inclined that there is no other way to a solution to the blood-letting other than through a negotiated one. Unfortunately, there are not many takers the world over for such an approach.
Consequently the war rages on incurring the gravest human costs to all relevant sides. Whereas it should be obvious to the Trump administration that Iran wouldn’t be backing down any time soon from its position of taking on the US frontally and with the required military competence in the Hormuz Strait and adjacent regions, the US demonstrates a stubbornness to persist with war strategies that are showing no quick, positive results on the ground.
Clearly, the virtual ‘lock down within a lock down’ situation in the Strait is not proving beneficial for either party. Instead, the spilling of civilian blood in particular continues with unsettling regularity along with an all-encompassing economic crisis that carries a staggering material toll for ordinary people all over the world.
From this viewpoint it is commendable for Pakistan to offer itself as a peace mediator and go ‘the extra mile’ to keep the principal parties engaged in some sort of negotiatory process. But its efforts need to win greater support from the world community. It is a time for peace-makers the world over to stand up and be counted.
It is also a time for straight-talking. To his glowing credit Pope Leo XIV is doing just that and he is the only religious head worldwide to do so. Very rightly he has called on President Trump to end the war through negotiations and described it as ‘unjust’ and ‘a scandal to humanity’.
May this crucial cause be taken up by more and more world leaders, is this columnist’s wish. Instead of speaking fatalistically about a ‘Third World War’, decision and policy makers and commentators, and these are found in plenty in Sri Lanka as well, would do better to help in drumming-up support for a peaceful solution and the latter is within the realms of the possible.
Incidentally, the commonplace definition of the phrase ‘World War’ is quite contentious and it would be premature to speak forebodingly about one right now. The fissures within the West on the Middle East conflict alone rule out the possibility of a ‘World War’ occurring any time soon.
Instead, it would be preferable for the international community, under the aegis of the UN, to take the ‘straight and narrow’ path to a peaceful solution. As implied, this path is no easy avenue; it is cluttered with obstacles that only doughty peace makers could take on and clear.
However, the path to a negotiated peace is worth taking and no less a power than the US should know this. After all, the US ‘bled white’ in Vietnam and had to bow out of the conflict, realizing the futility of pursuing a military solution. A similar lesson should have been learned by Russia which bled futilely in Afghanistan. It too is in an unwinnable situation in Ukraine.
The Pope’s observations to President Trump on negotiating peace have earned for him some snarls and growls of criticism but with time these critics would realize that peace could come only by peaceful means and not through ‘the barrel of a gun.’
For far too long the ‘silent majority’ of the world has allowed politicians to take the sole initiative on working towards peaceful solutions to conflicts and wars. As could be seen, the results have been disastrous. The majority of politicians speak the language of Realpolitik only and this tendency runs contrary to the ways of the selfless peace maker.
Power, which is the essence of Realpolitik, and peace are generally at loggerheads in the real world. Power and self-aggrandizement have to be shelved in the pursuit of durable peace anywhere and it is a pity that the likes of Donald Trump and his team are yet to realize this.
At this juncture the ‘peace constituency’ or the silent majority would need to take centre stage and play their rightful role as the ‘Conscience of the World’. If the latter begins to take on the cause of peace in earnest everywhere, the politicians would have no choice but to pay heed to their cause and take it up, since a contrary course would earn for them public displeasure and votes.
An immediate challenge would be for the ‘peace constituency’ to come together and act as one. Right now, such a coordinating role could be played effectively by only the UN and its agencies. Practical problems are likely to get in the way but these need to be managed insightfully and resourcefully by all stakeholders to peace.
In fact the time couldn’t be more appropriate for the backers of peace to come together and work as one. Right now, economic pressures are increasing worldwide and no less a public than that in the US is beginning to feel them in a major, crushing way.
Going ahead the US public, along with other polities, would find the economic consequences of war to be intolerable. There would be no choice but for governments and peoples to champion peace. Peace makers would need to ‘strike while the iron is hot.’
The success of the above endeavours hinges on the importance humans attach to their consciences. The danger about prolonged wars is that they deaden consciences; particularly those of politicians. The latter deaden their consciences to the extent that they prove impervious to the pain and suffering wars incur.
Thus, the ‘peace constituency’ has its work cut out; it cannot rest assured that politicians would prove sensitive to their demands. The latter would need to be constantly dinned into the hearts and minds of politicians and decision-makers if peaceful solutions to conflicts are to be arrived at.
Likewise, the publics of war-torn countries would need to demand the activation and sustaining of accountability processes with regard to those sections that are suspected of committing war crimes and like atrocities. Those publics that cease to demand accountability from powerful sections among them which are faced with war-time atrocity charges are as good as condemning themselves to lives of permanent dis-empowerment and enslavement.
Features
Don’t take the baby: In the quiet night, mother always returns

Chaminda Jayasekara
There is a particular stillness in Sri Lanka’s forests, after dusk — a kind of hushed expectancy where shadows lengthen, cicadas soften their chorus, and the night begins to breathe in its own rhythm. It is a world that does not reveal itself easily. You have to wait for it. You have to listen.
And then, suddenly, you see them — a pair of luminous, unblinking eyes suspended in the dark.
The Grey Slender Loris, or unahapuluwa, emerges, not with drama, but with quiet precision. Small, slow-moving, and almost impossibly delicate, it is one of Sri Lanka’s most enigmatic nocturnal primates — a creature that has survived millennia by mastering the art of stillness.
Yet, during these months — from late March through July — the forests hold a more tender story. It is the breeding season of the slender loris, and with it comes a scene that is often misunderstood by those who encounter it for the first time: a tiny infant, alone on a branch, barely three inches long, its fragile body silhouetted against the night.

Grey Slender Loris with twin babies
To many, it appears to be a moment of abandonment.
To nature, it is a moment of trust.
“People often act out of compassion, but without understanding what they are seeing,” explains Chaminda Jayasekara of the University of Hertfordshire. “A baby loris left alone is not necessarily in danger. In fact, it is part of a natural process that is critical for its survival.”
According to Jayasekara, when a baby loris is about a month old, the mother begins a remarkable routine. As darkness settles, she gently places her infant on a secure branch and moves off into the forest to forage. Her journey can take her hundreds of metres away — sometimes close to 800 metres — as she searches for insects and other small prey.
In those hours of solitude, the infant is not abandoned. It is learning.
Clinging to the branch, it begins to explore its immediate surroundings. Tentatively, almost hesitantly, it reaches out — testing balance, grip, and instinct. It may attempt to catch tiny insects, mimicking behaviours it will one day rely on entirely. This is its first classroom, and the forest its only teacher.
“Those early nights are crucial,” Jayasekara says. “The baby is developing motor skills, coordination, and the ability to interact with its environment. These are things that cannot be replicated in captivity.”
And yet, this is precisely where human intervention often disrupts the process.
Across rural and even semi-urban Sri Lanka, stories circulate of well-meaning individuals who come across a lone baby loris and assume the worst. Driven by concern, they pick it up, take it home, or attempt to hand-rear it — believing they are saving a life.

Grey Slender Loris
But the reality is far more complex — and far more tragic.
“When a baby is removed unnecessarily, it loses something fundamental,” Jayasekara emphasises. “It loses the chance to learn how to survive in the wild. Without that, even if it survives in the short term, its long-term prospects are extremely poor.”
The forest, after all, is not just a habitat. It is a living, evolving system of lessons — how to detect predators, how to navigate branches, how to hunt silently, how to recognise territory. These are not instincts alone; they are behaviours refined through experience.
And the mother, contrary to assumption, is rarely far away.
“If people simply waited — even for several hours — they would often see the mother return,” Jayasekara explains. “She knows exactly where she left her baby. Her absence is temporary, purposeful.”
The advice from conservationists is clear and consistent: observe, but do not interfere.
If you encounter a baby loris, watch quietly from a distance. Avoid using bright lights or making noise. Give it time — at least 10 to 12 hours — before drawing conclusions. In most cases, the situation will resolve itself, just as nature intended.

35 days old Grey Slender Loris
Only if the animal is clearly injured, or if there is strong evidence of abandonment after prolonged observation, should intervention be considered — and even then, it must be done through the proper channels, particularly the Department of Wildlife Conservation.
Attempting to care for such a delicate animal at home is not only ineffective but often fatal.
Sri Lanka is home to two species of slender loris — the Grey Slender Loris and the Red Slender Loris — each adapted to specific ecological zones across the island. Both are protected under national legislation and recognised internationally as species requiring urgent conservation attention.
Their threats are many: habitat loss, road mortality, illegal pet trade, and, increasingly, human misunderstanding.
Yet, in the midst of these challenges, there are also signs of hope.

In recent years, the slender loris has become the focus of a unique form of wildlife tourism — one that values patience over spectacle. Night walks, conducted with trained naturalists and strict ethical guidelines, offer visitors a chance to witness the loris in its natural environment without disturbing its behaviour.
At places like Jetwing Vil Uyana, this approach has been refined into a model of responsible eco-tourism. Over more than a decade, the property has developed a dedicated Loris Conservation Project, recording thousands of sightings while educating visitors and supporting local communities.
Here, the loris is not handled, chased, or exploited. It is simply observed — a quiet presence in a carefully protected landscape.
“The success of such initiatives shows that conservation and tourism do not have to be at odds,” Jayasekara reflects. “When done responsibly, tourism can actually support conservation by creating awareness and value for these species.”
There is something profoundly moving about encountering a loris in the wild. It does not roar or charge. It does not demand attention. Instead, it exists — quietly, deliberately — as it has for millions of years.
And perhaps that is why it is so easily misunderstood.

In a world that often equates visibility with importance, the loris reminds us that some of the most extraordinary lives unfold beyond the spotlight.
It also reminds us of something else — something simpler, yet harder to practice.
Restraint.
Because conservation is not always about stepping in. Sometimes, it is about stepping back. About recognising when nature does not need our help, but our patience.
So if, on some future night, you find yourself walking beneath the trees, and your light catches a tiny figure sitting alone on a branch — do not rush forward.
Pause.
Watch.
Let the moment unfold.
Because somewhere, moving silently through the darkness, guided by instinct and memory, a mother is already on her way back.
And by morning, the forest will be whole again.
By Ifham Nizam
Features
Kumar de Silva: 40 years of fame and flair
We first saw him on the small screen in January 1986 – a relatively raw, totally untrained and a very nervous 24-year-old presenting ‘Bonsoir’ on ITN.
And now, 40 years later, and as one looks back, one realises what a multi-dimensional journey Kumar de Silva has navigated across the small screen yes, from your television screens to your laptops, and iPads, tabs, and mobile phones.
Says Kumar: “It is the French language I speak that opened the world of television to me, 40 years ago. It was ‘Bonsoir’ alone, and so to my French teacher at Wesley College, Mrs. BA Fernando, to ‘Bonsoir’, and to the Embassy of France in Sri Lanka, I am eternally grateful”.

Promoting the French language, and culture, in Sri Lanka, in a big way
Kumar went on to say that on the heels of ‘Bonsoir” came ‘Fanclub’, on ITN, describing it as yet another resounding success story which saw him as a music DJ on TV.
His inherent talent saw him handle a range of contrasting programmes across ITN, TNL, Prime TV and SLRC with consummate ease – from News Reading, Business Talk Shows, Celebrity Chats, to Dhamma discussions, on Poya Days, to name a few.

Kumar – the 1986 look
Trained in Paris in television production and presentation, the Government of France, in 2012, conferred on him the title of ‘Chevalier dans l’Ordre des Arts et Lettres’ (Chevalier in the Order of Arts and Letters) in recognition of his contribution to promoting the French language, and culture, in Sri Lanka.
In celebration of his four decades on the small screen, Kumar recently launched ‘Bonsoir Katha’, the Sinhala translation (by Ciara Mendis) of his English book ‘Bonsoir Diaries’ (2013), at a gala soiree. at the Alliance Francaise de Colombo, under the distinguished patronage of the French Ambassador in Sri Lanka, Remi Lambert, and francophone President Chandrika Kumaratunga.
He’s now excited about launching the French version of this book, ‘Les Coulisses de Bonsoir’, in Paris, in autumn this year. It is currently being translated by Guilhem Beugnon, a former Deputy Director of the Alliance Francaise de Colombo. This will, co-incidentally, also be Kumar’s 30th visit to Paris.

Chief Guest French Ambassador in Sri
Lanka Remi Lambert
Says Kumar: “The word GRATITUDE means a lot to me and so I always make it a point to spend time with two very special French people every time I go to France. One is Madame Josiane Thureau, formerly of the French Foreign Ministry, who began ‘Bonsoir’ in Sri Lanka. way back in the mid-1980s. The other is Madame Aline Berengier, the lady who designed the ‘Bonsoir’ logo – the Sri Lankan elephant in the colours of the French national flag”.
Kumar is also a much-sought-after Personal Development and Corporate Etiquette Coach in Colombo’s corporate world. Over the past 15 years, tens of thousands of corporates, have been through the different modules of his interactive training sessions. There have also been thousands of school leavers and undergraduates from national and private universities, many of whom will constitute the corporates of tomorrow.

Guest of Honour francophone President Chandrika Kumaratunga at the gala soiree
at the Alliance Francaise de Colombo
The multi-talented Kumar turns 65 next year, and his journey on the small screen still continues – you see him on the (monthly) ‘Rendez-Vous with Yasmin and Kumar’ on the French Embassy’s YouTube Channel, and (every Friday) on ‘Fame Game with Rozanne and Kumar’ on Daily Mirror Online, Hi Online and The Sun Online.
There’s yet another podcast in the pipeline, he indicated, but diplomatically declined to give us details. All he said, with a glint in his eye, was, “It will hit your screens soon.”
Whatever he has in mind, one can be certain that the new programme will continue to showcase Kumar de Silva’s enduring presence in Sri Lanka’s entertainment scene.
-
News2 days agoRs 13 bn NDB fraud: Int’l forensic audit ordered
-
Business5 days agoHarnessing nature’s wisdom: Experts highlight “Resist–Align” path to resilience
-
News5 days agoGratiaen Trust announces longlist for the 33rd Annual Gratiaen Prize
-
Opinion3 days agoShutting roof top solar panels – a crime
-
News4 days agoFrom Nuwara Eliya to Dubai: Isha Holdings markets Agri products abroad
-
Latest News6 days agoSingapore Zoo’s first Sri Lankan leopard cubs make their public debut
-
News5 days agoHeroin haul transported on 50-million-rupee contract
-
News3 days agoChurch calls for Deputy Defence Minister’s removal, establishment of Independent Prosecutor’s Office
