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Lesser-known Stories from the Early Days of Sri Lankan Cinema

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2 years ago

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Rio Cinema Slave Island

The Silenced Era

by Hasini Haputhanthri
(From Shared ENCOUNTERS in Myanmar, Sri Lanka and Thailand – International Centre for Ethnic Studies)

A Gentleman from Jaffna

Watching Sound of Music at Rio Cinema, Colombo was an unforgettable childhood recollection for Swarna Pathirage. “My favorite song was ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ where Liesel jumps from bench to bench in the summer house with Rolf,” she says.

Swarna is now sixty-two, a matriarch , and busy with her grandchild. The memory swiftly takes her to her childhood and at the center of this memory is one Mr Dharmalingam, affectionately referred to as Dharme uncle.

Dharme uncle was a paying guest, or ‘a boarder’ in Swarna’s home for many years. They are a Sinhalese Buddhist family from Kalutara, a town two hours South of Colombo and Mr Dharmalingam was a Tamil Hindu gentleman from Jaffna. Dharme uncle was the manager of Rio Cinema, Colombo. This meant royal treatment every time the family visited Rio for a show.

“Dharme uncle always had icy chocs for us at the show. We used to eat it in the airconditioned cinema, with our teeth chattering. He used to tell us that eating ice cream in the AC actually makes you feel warmer. And it’s true!” says Swarna.

In the 1970s in Ceylon, the world’s first woman premier, Mrs. Sirima Bandaranaike was back in power for a second term, and driving even more radical policies; nationalizing industries, pursuing land reforms, restricting imports and changing the constitution and the name of the island from Ceylon to Sri Lanka.

After a while, Dharme uncle married and moved away. “We didn’t have telephones those days. So, we lost touch.” There’s a hint of regret in Swarna’s admission.

Things got much worse in Sri Lanka in the 1980s. It explains why the family perhaps did not keep in touch with their friend. The island nation with a majority Sinhalese Buddhist population sank into a quagmire of ethnic conflict, racism and corruption, the consequences of which are being experienced by everyone sharing the island, presently. Revisiting the political past of her island nation is not as enjoyable as recalling her childhood memories for Swarna. Her brows furrow and her mood swiftly changes.

Post-independent Ceylon had many factors that pushed people apart. In 1956, language, a prime connector of social groups, was made into a divider almost overnight with the Sinhala Only Act. Alternatively known as the Official Language Act, it was a landmark piece of legislation that made Sinhala the sole official language of the island, replacing English, which had been the administrative language during British colonial rule. The Act led to grievances among the Tamil-speaking community, as they felt marginalized and disadvantaged due to the dominance of Sinhala in official matters.

Similarly, religion became increasingly associated with separate ethnolinguistic groups. Though Swarna’s family and Dharmalingam had managed to transcend these differences, the country plunged into a mire of heightened ethno-religious and linguistic nationalisms. Differences became insurmountable divisions. Social connectors weakened as dividers were inflamed through an array of political decisions and cultural movements.

“The world has changed. I can’t remember the last time I was at a cinema. I was horrified to find out that Rio was torched in the ’83 riots.” Swarna’s visible discomfort signals the end of a conversation, as well as the end of an era.

Re-discovering Rio

Today, Rio Cinema huddles amidst the bustling Slave Island quarter of Colombo. The area is now officially known as Kompannavidiya, but the name Slave Island, which reflects the area’s colonial legacy, is still used by many who inhabit the neighborhood. According to popular belief, there was a slave uprising in the 17th century, which resulted in them being confined to an area that subsequently became known as Slave Island.

However, according to researchers, the area’s name most likely originated from the fact that slaves working for the VOC had resided there at least since the early 1700s. Thus the area is a historian’s paradise, brimming with stories old and new, with and several visual layers easily detectable for anyone with an eye for detail: There are the bo trees, temples and kovils, serene and detached from the present chaos.

The run-down shop houses and derelict residential buildings, still pull off star presence without a lick of paint in years. Colonial structures, offices and warehouses add another distinctive layer. The old and new melt into each other in Slave Island, creating a heady mix that can easily throw you off your trail and pull you into colorful, competing anecdotes. The bright murals from the 2022 protests and the rising skyscrapers ambushing the neighborhood beckon with their stories.

But for now, let’s stay with the Rio.

When the cinema opened in February 1965, a journalist from the Ceylon Daily News raved: “As for being an average theater, the Rio is not…The seats are unobstructed, large and comfortable, upholstered in foam rubber and creamy-beige rexine, with satinwood arms…the vertically operated screen is a beauty.” Starting with the screening of the movie South Pacific, the Rio went on to create many memorable moments for its audiences, regaling them with classics such as Sound of Music and West Side Story on a 70mm screen.

The cinema is currently owned by Mr Ratnaraja Navaratnam. “It was my grandfather Appapillai, who started Navah Cinema in 1951 and then Rio. The theater is still in the same family,” he reminisces. Memories are bittersweet for the Navaratnams; the glory days when Rio was a plush venue for the crème de la crème of Colombo came to an end by the late 70s.

The National Film Corporation, established in 1972 with the aim of promoting ‘truly local cinema’, took over film distribution. International studios such as 20th Century Fox started boycotting the country. Navaratnam’s business started faltering. The deepest blow, however, came in the ugly form of Black July in 1983, the racial riots that sparked a long-drawn civil war, during which Rio, together with several other film halls owned by Tamils, were set ablaze by mobs of Sinhalese thugs as the Navaratnams were Tamil.

“My father was very hurt. More than the financial loss, he felt betrayed. He had done so much for the community and for this to happen in his own neighborhood was very saddening,” says Navaratnam. In the grim aftermath of the ’83 riots, the Navaratnams migrated to Australia, following the exodus of many Tamil families from all over the island. The silver screens of Colombo lost their glow.

However, the third son of the Navaratnam family held on to the charred building. “I never left Slave Island. I was born here. These days it is more harmonious. Slave Island has a vibrant population, with Sinhala, Muslim and Tamil people all living together. You find the mosques, temples, and churches all within each other’s reach. People coexist without any problem at all,” says Navaratnam.

Today, Rio Cinema wears a tragic air, with fading memories of glamor echoing in the empty hall. The dark corridors remind one of the murky skies filled with smoke; remnants of the fires lit during the riots. The cinema still makes it to Colombo’s social calendar once in a way, when a pop-up exhibition, a musical gig or an art festival seeking a venue off the beaten track takes place, and for a fleeting moment, Rio breathes.

Cinema in Colonial Ceylon: Pioneers

Today, many are unaware that cinema in Ceylon drew in the strengths of all its communities as well as its neighbors in its early days. It is a story of how new technology created space for harmony leading to immense creativity and beauty, and how nationalist politics eventually spelt doom for a thriving industry.

The most overlooked yet indomitable pioneer of the industry comes from the Bohra community. The Bohras are a small but affluent denomination within Sri Lanka’s Muslim community; one of many such smaller communities that blended into the social fabric of Ceylon, while maintaining their own distinctive identity. We have forgotten and lost a lot to history, but by what little is documented we know that T.A.J. Noorbhai was a force to reckon with.

He was referred to as a ‘general merchant’ in official colonial documentation. Noorbhai seemed to have made his wealth through his other business ventures, by the time he got feverishly invested in show-biz. He was a man of importance in the Colombo business community, dominated mostly by merchant families with Indian origins at the turn of the 20th century. For instance, he was called upon to deliver a vote of thanks at the opening ceremony of the Chalmers Warehouses in Pettah, declared open by Governor Robert Chalmers in 1915. Noorbhai was one of the first to set up a cinema hall and go into local film production.

Some accounts indicate that Noorbhai set up a cinema named London Bioscope, even before he moved to Southern Road in Maradana, transforming a former theater hall named Criterion to Olympia Cinema which opened on July 5, 1918. According to advertisements placed in Daily News, it was declared open by the Acting Governor at the time. The Eastern Theatre Company, which Noorbhai established, is one of the earliest film production companies of Ceylon.

The company imported and screened silent films to local audiences. Eventually, Noorbhai built a new cinema in Wellawatta. In 1923, Noorbhai was embroiled in a court case, against a so-called American filmmaker, Captain Salisbury, alias Duke Zellers. In his enthusiasm for film production, Noorbhai was swindled out of a large sum of money and film equipment he had invested in. Although the court ruled in favor of Noorbhai, the funds and camera equipment stolen were never recovered.

One might think this bitter experience may throw Noorbhai off film production forever. But we find him two years later, producing the first ever Ceylonese feature film, Rajakeeya Wickramaya (The Royal Adventure, also known as Shanta, 1925). When looking back on film history, the island mostly talks about the talkies, beginning with Kadadwunu Poronduwa (The Broken Promise, 1947), and Noorbhai’s attempts seem to get lost.

In a twist of fate, The Royal Adventure, though completed successfully and screened in Singapore and India, never made it to the island’s silver screens. On its way to Ceylon on a ship, the reels were destroyed in a fire. Some say that it was deliberately set on fire, by those who resented the success of Noorbhai. It is difficult to trace a verified sequence due to disparities in different sources, but what is clear is that Noorbhai shaped the early film industry, by setting up theater halls, filming studios, importing film equipment and investing in both film production and distribution.

There are other stories that may never be fully recovered. For instance, who was the beautiful Burgher actress cast as the heroine of the show? Some sources mention her name as Sybil Feam, others Sybil Pete. We will never really know who this mysterious first-ever Sri Lankan actress of the silver screen was. But what we do gather from all the silenced, erased and forgotten stories is the unmistakable narrative of how Bohras and Burghers, Sinhalese and Tamils, Ceylonese and Indians shaped the early days of cinema in Sri Lanka.

Newcomers from Jaffna

As the magic of cinema grew by the second decade of the 20th century, generating lucrative profits, film production and distribution became exclusively the domain of the rich. Those who entered it earlier tended to monopolize the industry. In a colonial world where hierarchy was the order of the day, the rich were the colonial powers themselves. Local entrepreneurs, like Noorbhai, though affluent by local standards, still had to hustle with foreign distribution companies and compete with bigger Indian film Moghuls like J.F. Madan with his film circuit flung across the empire from India to Indonesia. Setting up locally owned production and distribution companies required people cut out for the big game.

It was into this arena full of sharks that two local boys from Jaffna entered and made their name. Chittampalam Abraham Gardiner and Alfred Leo Savarimuttu Tambiah were both born in Jaffna and came from the educated Tamil upper class. They were both in their twenties when they changed the scene for Sri Lankan cinema. In 1928, Gardiner and Tambiah formed Ceylon Theatres, a turning point in the film industry in Ceylon. Today, Ceylon Theatres or CT Holdings is one of the largest conglomerates in the island, managing many cinemas, including Majestic City Cineplex, banks and several other subsidiary ventures.

Ceylon Theaters played a critical role in establishing local film production and distribution, directly financing many early Ceylonese films such as Asokamala, which was the second talkie to be released after Kadawunu Poronduwa. Gardiner went on to support Lester James Peiris’ Rekhava, considered the first realistic Sinhala film that broke the mold of commercial cinema, paving the way for films to become not just mass entertainment aimed at profit-making but a form of art. Language and ethnicity did not limit the worldview of the likes of Gardiner and Tambiah. For them, contributing to a thriving local film industry, strong enough to compete with the regional powerhouses of Bollywood and Kollywood, was the aim.

Knighted by the Pope later in life, Gardiner was universally acknowledged as the father of the Sri Lankan film industry. When he passed away in the 1960s, all cinema halls across the country closed down in mourning, and Parson’s Road where Ceylon Theatre’s first cinema Regal was established, was renamed Sir Chittampalam A. Gardiner Mawatha in his memory. He was luckier than Noorbhai in that regard, whose pioneering work is barely acknowledged.

(To be continued next week)


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Features

We banned phone; we kept surveillance; teenagers noticed

Published

5 hours ago

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2026/04/1

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THE GREAT DIGITAL RETHINK : PART III OF V

The Teenage Battleground

Secondary school has always been a battlefield of sorts, competing loyalties, volatile friendships, the daily theatre of adolescent identity. But in the past decade it acquired a new and uniquely modern dimension: the smartphone in the pocket, the social media feed refreshing every few minutes, the group chat that never sleeps.

The numbers, when they arrived, were not subtle. PISA 2022 data, drawn from students in over 80 countries, found that around 65 percent of students reported being distracted by their own digital devices in mathematics lessons, and 59 percent said a classmate’s device had pulled their attention away. Students who reported being distracted by peers’ phones scored, on average, 15 points lower in mathematics than those who said it never happened. Fifteen points is not a rounding error. It is a meaningful, measurable, recurring gap that appears consistently across countries with very different education systems.

Governments took notice of the situation. In a pattern that will be familiar to readers of this series, a number of them reached for the most visible, most politically satisfying tool available – the ban in Finland, Sweden, Australia, and France. The UK, in a characteristically chaotic way, involving years of guidance, and pilots, eventually legalised. One by one, secondary schools across the wealthy world have begun confiscating phones at the gate, storing them in pouches, locking them up in boxes, and discovering, somewhat to their own surprise, that this works.

When the Ban Actually Works

A 2025 survey of nearly a thousand principals in New South Wales found that 87 percent reported students were less distracted after the ban was introduced, and 81 percent said learning had improved. South Australia recorded a 63 percent decline in critical incidents involving social media and a 54 percent reduction in behavioural issues. These are striking figures, and they align with what common sense would predict: if you remove the distraction, concentration improves.

What is also emerging from Australian, Finnish and Swedish schools is something less expected and more interesting: the character of break times has changed. Teachers and principals report that when phones disappear from pockets, something older reappears in their place. Students talk to each other. They play. They argue, resolve disputes, make and lose friendships in the ancient, messy, face-to-face way that adolescence has always demanded but that the smartphone had been quietly crowding out. The playground, it turns out, was not broken. It was just occupied.

Sweden’s nationwide policy, coming into effect in autumn 2026, will require schools to collect phones for the full day, not just during lessons. This is the more ambitious intervention, and the one that addresses what the Australian experience has already demonstrated: that the damage done by constant connectivity is not confined to the classroom. It happens at lunch. It happens between periods. It happens in the 10 minutes before the bell when a group of 14-year-olds are supposedly in the building but are actually, in every meaningful sense, somewhere else entirely.

87% of Australian principals said students were less distracted after the ban. The other 13% presumably hadn’t tried it yet.

But Here Is What Nobody Wants to Talk About

Here is the part that the ministers’ press releases do not mention. While the smartphone, the device the student owns, controls and carries, has been banned from the secondary classroom, the institution’s own digital apparatus has been expanding at an impressive pace throughout the same period. Learning management systems now mediate most of secondary school life in high-income countries. Assignments are distributed digitally. Work is submitted digitally. Attendance is recorded digitally. Grades are published on portals that students, parents and administrators can access in real time. The school that bans your personal phone may simultaneously be recording precisely how long you spent on each page of the online reading assignment last Tuesday.

Learning analytics, the practice of harvesting data from student interactions with digital platforms to inform teaching and school management, has moved from a niche research curiosity to a mainstream tool. PISA 2022 data show that virtually all 15-year-olds in OECD countries attend schools with some form of digital infrastructure. Behind that infrastructure sits a layer of data collection that most students and many parents are only dimly aware of: log-in times, click patterns, quiz scores, time-on-task measures, platform engagement metrics. These are assembled into dashboards, fed into algorithms, and used, with genuinely good intentions, in most cases, to identify struggling students early.

The genuinely good intentions do not resolve the underlying problem. Research on learning analytics raises serious concerns about privacy, about the opacity of algorithmic decision-making, and about what happens when a teenager is quietly flagged as ‘at risk’ by a system they never knew was watching. The irony of secondary de-digitalisation is not lost on those paying attention: we have removed the device the student controls, while expanding the systems that observe and score them.

The AI Proctor in the Room

During the pandemic, when exams moved online, a number of education authorities adopted software that monitored students through their webcams, flagging unusual eye movements, background sounds, or the presence of other people in the room as potential signs of cheating. The systems were sold as efficient, scalable and objective. They were, in practice, frequently absurd.

The software flagged students who looked away from the screen to think. It penalised students whose rooms were small, shared or noisy, disproportionately those from less privileged backgrounds. It struggled with students of colour, whose features were less well-represented in the training data. It was contested, appealed, gamed, and eventually abandoned by a significant number of institutions that had initially adopted it with enthusiasm. By 2024 and 2025, the rollback was visible. Universities and some school systems were returning, with minimal fanfare, to supervised in-person examinations, handwritten, on paper, in a room with a human invigilator, partly to solve the AI cheating problem, partly to solve the AI proctoring problem. The wheel had, somewhat dizzingly, turned full circle.

We banned the student’s phone. We kept the webcam that monitors their eye movements during exams. Progress.

The Equity Problem That Bans Cannot Solve

Beneath the headline politics of phone bans lies a more uncomfortable question about who, exactly, benefits from secondary school de-digitalisation, and who pays a cost that is rarely acknowledged. The argument for phone bans on equity grounds is real: unrestricted phone use in schools amplifies social hierarchies. The student with the latest device, the most followers, the most compelling social media presence occupies a different social universe from the student without. Removing phones during the school day levels that particular playing field.

But the equity argument runs the other way, too, once you look beyond school hours. Secondary schools in high-income systems have steadily increased their dependence on digital platforms for homework, assessment preparation and communication. If a school bans phones during the day and then sends students home to complete digitally-mediated assignments, the burden of that homework falls unequally.

There is also the growing phenomenon of what researchers are beginning to call ‘shadow digital education’: the private online tutoring platforms, AI-powered study tools and exam preparation services that affluent families use to supplement and extend what school provides. While secondary schools debate whether students should be allowed to use AI for essay drafts, some of those students’ wealthier peers are already using it, skillfully, privately and with considerable academic advantage. The phone ban, whatever its merits in the classroom, does not touch this market. It may even quietly accelerate it.

Two Worlds, Still Diverging

In Finland, Sweden and Australia, the policy conversation is about how to manage the excesses of a generation that grew up digitally saturated, how to restore concentration, how to protect wellbeing, how to ensure that institutional platforms serve learning rather than merely monitor it.

Elsewhere, across much of Southeast Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa, Latin America and parts of the Middle East, the secondary school conversation remains anchored to a different set of concerns: how to get enough devices into enough classrooms, how to train enough teachers to use them, how to ensure that the smartboard contract does not expire before the teachers learn to turn it on. Vendors are present, helpful and commercially motivated. Development banks are funding rollouts. Government ministers are visiting showrooms. The playbook being followed is the one that Finland and Sweden wrote in 2010 and are now revising.

SERIES ROADMAP:

Part I: From Ed-Tech Enthusiasm to De-Digitalisation | Part II: Phones, Pens & Early Literacy | Part III: Attention, Algorithms & Adolescents (this article) | Part IV: Universities, AI & the Handwritten Exam | Part V: A Critical Theory of Educational De-Digitalisation

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A Buddhist perspective on ageing and decay

Published

6 hours ago

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2026/04/1

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Buddhism is renowned for its profound insights into ageing and decay, known as jara in Pali. Through its teachings and practices, Buddhism cultivates the wisdom and mental clarity necessary to accept and prepare for the inevitability of ageing. The formula jati paccayaā jaraāmaranaṃ translates to “dependent on birth arise ageing and death,” clearly illustrating that birth inevitably leads to ageing and death, accompanied by sorrow, lamentation, pain, grief, and despair. Without birth, there would be no ageing and death. Therefore, ageing is a fundamental aspect of suffering as outlined in the Four Noble Truths.

Buddhism encourages us to confront the realities of ageing, illness, and mortality head-on. Old age is recognised as an unavoidable aspect of dukkha (suffering). Old age is fundamentally and inextricably entwined with the concept of impermanence(annicca), serving as the most visible, undeniable evidence that all conditioned things are in a state of flux and decay. Ageing, illness and death create in us an awareness not only of dukkha but also impermanence. The Buddha taught, “I teach suffering and the way out of suffering.” Here, “suffering” encompasses not only physical pain but also the profound discomfort that arises when our attempts to escape or remedy pain stemming from old age are thwarted. Instead of fearing old age, Buddhists are encouraged to embrace it, release attachments to youth, and cultivate wisdom, gratitude, and inner peace.

Ageing is a complex process shaped by both genetic and environmental factors. From a Buddhist viewpoint, we should perceive the body realistically. Fundamentally, the human body can be seen as a vessel of impurities, subject to old age, disease, decay, and death. The natural process of ageing is gradual, irreversible, and inevitable. Every individual must ultimately come to terms with the reality of growing old, as change is an essential fact of life.

In Buddhism, impermanence (anicca) holds a central position. Everything that exists is unstable and transient; nothing endures forever—including our bodies and all conditioned phenomena. Thus, anicca, dukkha, and anattaā (non-self or selflessness) are the three characteristics common to all conditioned existence. The reality of impermanence can often evoke pain, yet a wise Buddhist fully understands and appreciates this simple yet profound truth.

The Greek philosopher Heraclitus encapsulated this notion when he stated, “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.” Old age was one of the four sights that prompted Prince Siddhartha Gautama to seek enlightenment, alongside sickness, death, and the wandering ascetic. Coming to terms with these aspects of existence was pivotal in his transformation into the Buddha.

At Sāvatthi, King Pasenadi of Kosala once asked the Buddha, “Venerable sir, is there anyone who is born who is free from old age and death?” The Buddha replied, “Great King, no one who is born is free from ageing and death. Even those affluent khattiyas—rich in wealth and property, with abundant gold and silver—are not exempt from ageing and death simply because they have been born.” This interaction underscores the universal challenge of ageing, transcending societal divisions of wealth or status.

Ageing presents one of the greatest challenges in human experience. Physically, the body begins to deteriorate; socially, we may find ourselves marginalised or discounted, sometimes subtly and sometimes explicitly. Some may encounter dismissal or condescension. Ageism remains one of the most persistent forms of discrimination. The physical and social difficulties associated with ageism can undermine our self-image and sense of self-worth. Common perceptions often portray old age as a stage where the best years are behind us, reducing the remaining years to a form of “bonus years” frequently presented in sentimental or patronising ways.

The suffering associated with ageing can serve as a powerful motivation to engage in practices that directly address this suffering, allowing us to gradually transform it or, at the very least, make it more bearable and manageable. We must recognise that this principle applies equally to our own bodies. The human body undergoes countless subtle changes every moment from the time you are born, never remaining the same even for two consecutive moments, as it is subject to the universal law of impermanence.

Whatever your age. However young-looking you try to remain through external means, the truth is that you are getting older every minute. Every minute, every second, our lives are getting shorter and closer to death. Since you were conceived in your mother’s womb, your life is getting shorter. We see external things going by rapidly, but never reflect on our own lives. No matter what we do, we cannot fully control what happens in our lives or to our bodies. With time, we all develop lines and wrinkles. We become frail, and our skin becomes thinner and drier. We lose teeth. Our physical strength and sometimes our mental faculties decline. In old age, we are subject to multiple diseases.

Many people live under the illusion that the body remains constant and is inherently attractive and desirable. Modern society, in particular, has become increasingly obsessed with the quest for eternal youth and the reversal of the ageing process. Many women feel inadequate about their physical appearance and constantly think about how to look younger and more attractive. Enormous sums of money are spent on cosmetic procedures, skincare, and grooming products to remain presentable and desirable. The global beauty and cosmetics industries thrive on this ideal, often promoting unrealistic standards of beauty and youthfulness. But no amount of products available in the world can truly restore lost youth, as time inevitably leaves its mark.

Therefore, in Buddhism, mindful reflection on ageing and the human body is considered essential for overall well-being. This contemplation provides insight into impermanence as we navigate life. Reflecting on the nature of the body—its true condition and its delicate, changing state—is a fundamental aspect of the Buddha’s teachings. By understanding the body accurately, we support both wisdom and peace of mind.

Buddhism recognises forty subjects of meditation which can differ according to the temperaments of persons. Contemplation of the human body is one of them. Of all the subjects of meditation, reflection on the human body as a subject is not popular among certain people particularly in the western world as they think such contemplation would lead to a melancholic morbid and pessimistic outlook on life. They regard it as a subject that may be somewhat unpleasant and not conducive to human wellbeing. Normally, people who are infatuated and intoxicated with sensual pleasures develop an aversion towards this subject of meditation. In Buddhism this mode of contemplation is called asuba bhavana or mindfulness of the impurities of the body. It is all about our physiology and individual body parts and organs internal as well as external. This subject of meditation is unique to the Buddhist teachings.

To appreciate the body as it truly is, we must set aside preconceived notions and engage in a calm and honest inquiry: Is this body genuinely attractive or not? What is it composed of? Is it lasting or subject to decay?

In embracing the teachings of Buddhism, we find the wisdom to navigate the journey of ageing with grace, transforming our understanding of this natural process into an opportunity for growth and acceptance.

When our fears centre on ageing, decay, and disease, we cannot overcome them by pretending they do not exist. True relief comes only from facing these realities directly.

Reflecting on the body’s unattractive and impermanent nature can help us gain a realistic perspective. In an age when the mass media constantly bombards people with sensual images, stimulating lust, greed, and attachment, contemplation of the body’s true nature can bring calm and clarity.

All beings that are born must eventually die. Every creature on earth, regardless of status, shares this common fate. After death, the body undergoes a series of biological changes and decomposes, returning to the earth as organic matter. It is part of the earth and ultimately dissolves back into it.

Understanding this, we can meet ageing, decay, and death with greater wisdom, less fear, and a deeper sense of peace.

by Dr. Justice Chandradasa Nanayakkara

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Partnering India without dependence

Published

1 day ago

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2026/03/31

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President Dissanayake with Indian PM Modi

Indian Prime Minister Narendra Modi once again signaled the priority India places on Sri Lanka by swiftly dispatching a shipload of petrol following a telephone conversation with President Anura Kumara Dissanayake. The Indian Prime Minister’s gesture came at a cost to India, where there have been periodic supply constraints and regional imbalances in fuel distribution, even if not a countrywide shortage. Under Prime Minister Modi, India has demonstrated to Sri Lanka an abundance of goodwill, whether it be the USD 4 billion it extended in assistance to Sri Lanka when it faced international bankruptcy in 2022 or its support in the aftermath of the Ditwah cyclone disaster that affected large parts of the country four months ago. India’s assistance in 2022 was widely acknowledged as critical in stabilising Sri Lanka at a moment of acute crisis.

This record of assistance suggests that India sees Sri Lanka not merely as a neighbour but as a partner whose stability is in its own interest. In contrast to Sri Lanka’s roughly USD 90 billion economy, India’s USD 4,500 billion economy, growing at over 6 percent, underlines the vast asymmetry in economic scale and the importance of Sri Lanka engaging India. A study by the Germany-based Kiel Institute for the World Economy identifies Sri Lanka as the second most vulnerable country in the world to severe food price surges due to its heavy reliance on imported energy and fertilisers. Income per capita remains around the 2018 level after the economic collapse of 2022. The poverty level has risen sharply and includes a quarter of the population. These indicators underline the urgency of sustained economic recovery and the importance of external partnerships, including with India.

It is, however, important for Sri Lanka not to abdicate its own responsibilities for improving the lives of its people or become dependent and take this Indian assistance for granted. A long unresolved issue that Sri Lanka has been content to leave the burden to India concerns the approximately 90,000 Sri Lankan refugees who continue to live in India, many of them for over three decades. Only recently has a government leader, Minister Bimal Rathnayake, publicly acknowledged their existence and called on them to return. This is a reminder that even as Sri Lanka receives support, it must also take ownership of its own unfinished responsibilities.

Missing Investment

A missing factor in Sri Lanka’s economic development has long been the paucity of foreign investment. In the past this was due to political instability caused by internal conflict, weaknesses in the rule of law, and high levels of corruption. There are now significant improvements in this regard. There is now a window to attract investment from development partners, including India. In his discussions with President Dissanayake, Prime Minister Modi is reported to have referred to the British era oil storage tanks in Trincomalee. These were originally constructed to service the British naval fleet in the Indian Ocean. In 1987, under the Indo Lanka Peace Accord, Sri Lanka agreed to develop these tanks in partnership with India. A further agreement was signed in 2022 involving the Ceylon Petroleum Corporation and the Lanka Indian Oil Corporation to jointly develop the facility.

However, progress has been slow and the project remains only partially implemented. The value of these oil storage tanks has become clearer in the context of global energy uncertainty and tensions in the Middle East. Energy analysts have pointed out that strategic storage facilities can provide countries with greater resilience in times of supply disruption. The Trincomalee tanks could become a significant strategic asset not only for Sri Lanka but also for regional energy security. However, historical baggage continues to stand in the way of Sri Lanka’s deeper economic linkage with India. Both ancient and modern history shape perceptions on both sides.

The asymmetry in size and power between the two countries is a persistent concern within Sri Lanka. India is a regional power, while Sri Lanka is a small country. This imbalance creates both opportunities for partnership and anxieties about overdependence. The present government too has entered into economic and infrastructure agreements with India, but many of these have yet to move beyond initial stages. This has caused frustration to the Indian government, which sees its efforts to support Sri Lanka’s development as not being sufficiently appreciated or effectively utilised. From India’s perspective, delays and hesitation can appear as a lack of commitment. From Sri Lanka’s perspective, caution is often driven by domestic political sensitivities and concerns about sovereignty.

Power Imbalance

At the same time, global developments offer a cautionary lesson. The behaviour of major powers in the contemporary international system shows that states often act in their own interests, sometimes at the expense of smaller partners. What is being seen in the world today is that past friendships and commitments can be abandoned if a bigger and more powerful country can see an opportunity for itself. The plight of Denmark (Greenland) and Canada (51st state) give disturbing messages. Analysts in the field of International Relations frequently point out that power asymmetries shape outcomes in bilateral relations. As one widely cited observation by Lord Parlmeston, a 19th century prime minister of Great Britain is that “nations have no permanent friends or allies, they only have permanent interests.” While this may be an overly stark formulation, it captures an underlying reality that small states must navigate carefully.

For Sri Lanka, this means maintaining a balance. It needs to clearly acknowledge the partnership that India is offering in the area of economic development, as well as in education, connectivity, and technological advancement. India has extended scholarships, supported digital infrastructure, and promoted cross border links that can contribute to Sri Lanka’s long term growth. These are tangible benefits that should not be undervalued. At the same time, Sri Lanka needs to ensure that it does not become overly dependent on Indian largesse or drift into a position where it functions as an appendage of its much larger neighbour. Economic dependence can translate into political vulnerability if not carefully managed. The appropriate response is not to distance itself from India, but to broaden its partnerships. Engaging with a diverse range of countries and institutions can provide Sri Lanka with greater autonomy and resilience.

A hard headed assessment would recognise that India’s support is both genuine and interest driven. India has a clear stake in ensuring that Sri Lanka remains stable, prosperous, and aligned with its broader regional outlook. Sri Lanka needs to move forward with agreed projects such as the Trincomalee oil tanks, improve implementation capacity, and demonstrate reliability as a partner. This does not preclude it from actively seeking investment and cooperation from other partners in Asia and beyond. The path ahead is therefore one of balanced engagement. Sri Lanka can and should welcome India’s partnership while strengthening its own institutions, fulfilling its domestic responsibilities, and diversifying its external relations. This approach can transform a relationship shaped by asymmetry into one defined by mutual benefit and confidence.

by Jehan Perera

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