Features
Maashooga (meaning beloved), my housekeeper in Sindh, Pakistan
by Jayantha Perera
A young man was waiting at the wide-open gate of the university guest bungalow. The driver drove the van through the gate to the back foyer. The young man recognised Parvez, who was with me and smiled. When Parvez introduced me to him, he shook my hand and pronounced my name correctly. Parvez introduced him as Maashooga and smiled. He said Maashooga means ‘darling’ or ‘beloved.’ He was a charming young man, about six feet two inches tall, with a light moustache and penetrating eyes. His long hair partially covered his face, which had a few pimples. I thought he was in his early twenties. He wore a salwar kameez and a colourful Sindhi cap decorated with beads and threads. He looked like a polio victim as his right leg was about two inches shorter than his left leg.
Maashooga carried my suitcase to the master bedroom. It had been recently painted and had a brand-new air conditioner. The spacious bathroom had hot and cold water. The bed was large, and a new floral woollen blanket covered it. The room had two panels of large windows. I could see mango trees and several flower beds without any plants through the windows.
Parvez talked to Maashooga in Sindhi and left me at the bungalow, promising to visit me in the evening. I tried to speak to Maashooga; he knew very little English but understood me and responded. Maashooga wanted to prepare chapati, subji (vegetables) and mutton curry for dinner. He asked me whether I eat ‘double roti’ (bread)?’ I told him I like chapati. He understood and nodded with a smile. This was the beginning of our communication, which would later lead to a better understanding of each other’s culture and personality.
I slept two hours, and when I got up, the sun was setting. A cool breeze engulfed me in the large foyer of the bungalow. The front garden was a small mango orchard. The bungalow had a spacious sitting area, a wood-panelled office room and three bedrooms. Maashooga emerged from the kitchen with a hot cup of tea and a few biscuits on a wooden tray. He waited until I drank the tea and showed me the gate, indicating that I should go for a walk. The cool breeze and the lengthening shadows of the children playing cricket on the dirt road in front of the bungalow lifted my spirit.
The Director and several SDSC colleagues visited me in the late evening. Maashooga produced six half-pint bottles of Murray beer for the visitors! He sat on the floor, carefully poured cold beer into six glasses in equal measure and waited to serve the second round. When the six bottles of beer were consumed, my colleagues stopped the conversation. They left the bungalow, promising to revisit me often.
Maashooga served my dinner at 8 pm, and it was tasty. He held each chapati over the gas flame until it was cooked and looked like a balloon. He waited at the dining table until I had my dinner. He said I should buy a big-screen TV to watch Hindi movies. Then, he went to the kitchen, sat on the floor and ate a few chapatis. He gave several chapatis and a bowl of curry to the chowkidar (watchman) of the bungalow, who sat under a tree in the backyard. The chowkidar saluted me when he saw me and said, “Sir, I am your university guard.”
The following morning, I had the best breakfast I ever had. Maashooga prepared an authentic Sindhi breakfast – parathas (unleavened bread) with a generous spread of ghee on top of them, deep-fried bindi (okra) and slices of fried Panna (local salmon). After breakfast, he took me to a grocery shop across the main road. He introduced me to the shopkeeper, who was happy to have me as his new customer. As I browsed through the aisles, I felt a sense of discovery, finding new and unfamiliar items. I bought soap, shampoo, sugar, double roti, garam masala, lentils, salt, and basmati rice. The manager recorded the transaction in a ledger and told me to pay him at the end of each month.
In the evening, Maashooga showed me the university campus and the settlement where he lived. The campus was large and well-maintained. Beyond its boundary walls, I could see the desert I had seen earlier, spreading limitlessly to the dusty horizon. Maashooga’s brother, the van driver who drove me to Jamshoro from Karachi, was waiting for us. He invited me for a cup of tea. They did not have a chair for me to sit on. I sat on a log. I understood that Maashooga lived with his mother, brother, and brother’s family. Their house was just a hut, and the entire settlement looked like an overcrowded slum encroaching on the university park.
One evening, while having dinner, I heard several gunshots nearby. Maashooga got excited, grabbed me by my arm, and took me to the bungalow’s backyard. He asked me to climb over the boundary wall to the neighbour’s garden. I hesitated. I could have climbed the wall but was scared to jump onto a stranger’s land. He understood my predicament and took me back to the bungalow. Parvez visited me later to tell me that a group of dacoits (armed robbers) had tried to abduct two doctors from the hospital, but university security guards foiled their attempt. He instructed Maashooga to make a step ladder, which I could use to climb the wall in an emergency. He told me that my neighbour was a university professor and promised to get his permission to keep a raised platform in his garden so I could escape in an emergency through his garden.
Three months later, I collected the Land Cruiser jeep, my official vehicle, from the Karachi Customs Office and moved with Maashooga to my apartment in Hyderabad. I was happy as the apartment was in a gated community in a high-end residential area. The apartment was two-storied with five bedrooms and ample space for a front garden. I boiled milk in a new aluminium pot in the sitting area, following the traditions of Sri Lanka. I watched happily when boiled milk overflowed in all directions. I thought it was a good omen.
In the afternoon, Maashooga and I shopped to buy a TV, radio, cleaning material, cutlery, and crockery for the new apartment. He was very proud to oversee a big house. When I assigned him a room, he told me he would sleep on the rooftop during the summer and autumn. I bought him a charpoy (light bed), and he kept it on the rooftop. One night, I went with him upstairs and was mesmerised by the clear sky, cool breeze, and total darkness. One could gaze into the universe for hours; only an occasional shooting star might disturb one’s trance.
One night, Maashooga came down from the rooftop, wholly covered with dust. I could not recognise him and thought a ghost was visiting me! White dust covered his face and hair. He started laughing. That night, a nasty dust storm had hit the area, covering everything with dust. Dust looked like ash and clung to anything. Maashooga took about two hours to remove the dust from his body, especially from his thick, curly hair.
When I returned to Hyderabad after my home leave, I was delighted to see a beautiful garden in front of the apartment. Maashooga had planted cannas of different colours and several red rose plants. But I was shocked when I went up to my bedroom. It was a mess. Thousands of tiny beads were strewn everywhere with different coloured yarns and long needles. My bedsheets and pillows were dirty. My toilet was messy and smelly. Maashooga came upstairs with a cup of tea. I asked him why he had used my bedroom and bathroom.
He smiled and said he watched TV while weaving Sindhi caps and garlands on my bed. He showed me two exquisite Sindhi caps he had woven for me. I asked him to change the bedsheets and pillowcases and clean the bathroom, which he did diligently. He did not come up to watch TV for a few days. When I invited him to watch TV, he did not bring beads and threads to my room or sit on my bed. He smiled and told me not to tell anybody about his “bad work.”
One day, he wanted to go with me to the old fort in Hyderabad. We took a public bus to the city and walked 30 minutes to reach the entrance of the Pakka Qilla Fort, an 18th-century structure. I was amazed to see thousands of people moving in the fort. There were small cubicle-type rooms and houses. Residences could not be distinguished from shops. We walked to the interior of the fort. But we could not go far because thousands were walking on narrow roads or flocking to small business places. Maashooga knew some people at the fort, and we had tea with them. He brought six Sindhi caps for his friends. When I told my SDSC colleagues about my visit to the fort, they were dismayed. They said that the fort was notorious for sudden clashes among militant groups. Being a foreigner, I could have become a target for abduction.
At the periphery of Hyderabad city, there was a private hospital known as the American Hospital. Three Sri Lankan Catholic nuns ran it. It was well-known for its excellent patient care. Several Catholic organisations in the USA supported it by supplying free medicine and equipment and sending specialists on short-term visits. Every year, the hospital trains about 100 young rural women in midwifery. After the training, they returned to their villages as dais (midwives) to serve their communities.
I discussed with the hospital’s mother superior the possibility of correcting Maashooga’s polio-affected leg. At that time, a well-known American orthopaedic consultant was visiting the hospital. After examining Maashooga’s leg, he told me that the length of the twisted short leg could be adjusted by surgery. He explained that at least 1.5 inches could be regained after resetting his ankle bones, leg ligaments, tendons, and affected leg muscles. It was good news. The surgery would cost about US$ 800. The sisters agreed to give Maasooga a room and food at the hospital free of charge. I wrote to my supervisor in the UK requesting him to contribute. He sent $500 as a contribution.
The nuns contacted a surgeon in Karachi and fixed a date for the surgery at the American Hospital. Maashooga’s brother told me that his mother was distraught but respected my decision on the surgery. I consoled and assured him that the surgery would not harm Maashooga but enable him to walk without much limping. He asked me to sign the declaration as Maashooga’s guardian.
After the operation, Maashooga and his family brought sweets to thank me. His brother told me he could not have even dreamt of his brother’s leg recovery. I took them to the hospital to meet the nuns and the medical staff. We all enjoyed the sweets Maashooga’s mother had brought as we basked in a glorious sunset in the hospital compound.
Maashooga started cycling regularly to regain the strength of his legs. Six months later, the surgeon checked his leg and told me the surgery was successful, although the leg was about ½ inch short. Maashooga was happy with his new appearance. I bought him a pair of orthopaedic sandals to correct the length of the leg.
Soon after the northeast monsoons, Maashooga’s brother invited me to Maashooga’s wedding. I was happy but surprised. He had never mentioned his wedding plan to me. I asked him about the wedding after his brother had left. He just coyly smiled and went away. His brother borrowed money from me and promised to repay the loan over two years. The wedding was a grand affair. There were two separate tents for men and women, and about 80 invitees attended the wedding.
The bride was a young woman with a pretty face and dark complexion. She was in a saree draped in Sindhi style and wore some head jewellery linked to her nose by a gold chain. She was with her parents and never raised her head during the wedding ceremony. All those who attended the ceremony stayed for lunch. Lunch was served at 2 pm when mutton biriyani in giant cauldrons were brought in. Two elders served food first to the men. Women waited patiently in their tent for their turn to get biriyani. After lunch, young men and women danced separately and sang Sindhi songs until the evening.
Maashooga did not turn up at the apartment for three days after his wedding. He had arranged for one of his colleagues to prepare my food in his absence. Maashooga returned on the fourth day as if nothing had happened in his life. He smiled and started house cleaning and cooking. I told him he could go home after preparing my dinner early. He said he would stay at the apartment and go home to his wife for one night on Fridays. I increased his salary by 50 per cent so he would have enough money for himself and his wife. I tried to talk to him about his new life. Still, Maashooga was reluctant to engage in a conversation on the topic. On several occasions, he brought some sweets prepared by his wife. I watched him, and I thought he was happy. I also thought he was too shy to discuss his wife and family matters.
One early morning, Maashooga’s brother informed me that Maashooga’s wife had died while giving birth to twins. Maashooga had never mentioned to me that his wife was pregnant. I went to his hut where the body of the wife was. I looked for Maashooga and found him helping several women in preparing tea. At 11am, the body was buried at the public cemetery. Maashooga stood next to me with a blank and pensive look on his face. He looked tired and confused. He watched the rituals and the closing of the grave. At that point, he rested his left elbow on my right shoulder. He shivered briefly and told me, “We go to Hyderabad.” His brother told him to take me to their home for lunch before going to my apartment.
Maashooga continued to be with me and never discussed his wife’s death and the loss of two sons. He stopped going home on Fridays. Instead, he paid more attention to his flower beds in the front garden. He stopped playing football. I heard from his brother that Maashooga had assaulted two men in the village over an argument. He started sleeping on the rooftop and doing his favourite hobby – weaving Sindhi caps. I found him asleep several times with beads and threads on his lap. He lost weight and looked depressed.
I consulted the nuns at the American Hospital. They said that he needed counselling, and the hospital could get a therapist. They cautioned me that his relatives might interpret such therapy as a way of converting young people to Christianity. He attended several sessions at the hospital. I dropped him and collected him from the hospital. The nuns told me he had shown good progress in returning to everyday life.
When I left Sindh in 1996, after living in Hyderabad for five years, Maashooga came to the airport to see me off. He had never been to Karachi. His brother drove us to the airport, and we stopped for tea at a roadside kiosk. While tea was prepared, I walked around the kiosk. Suddenly, I remembered my arrival in Jamshoro from Karachi. Then, I had thought I would not survive five years in a desert. But now, sand dunes and the blurred horizon looked enchanting. I felt sad to leave Jamshoro. Maashooga held his brother’s hand and cried. His brother explained that Maashooga was very sad to see my departure. He wanted to know whether I would return to Jamshoro. I did not have the guts to tell him that I might not. I wondered whether I would ever see him again.
Features
Making ‘Sinhala Studies’ globally relevant
On 8 January 2026, I delivered a talk at an event at the University of Colombo marking the retirement of my longtime friend and former Professor of Sinhala, Ananda Tissa Kumara and his appointment as Emeritus Professor of Sinhala in that university. What I said has much to do with decolonising social sciences and humanities and the contributions countries like ours can make to the global discourses of knowledge in these broad disciplines. I have previously discussed these issues in this column, including in my essay, ‘Does Sri Lanka Contribute to the Global Intellectual Expansion of Social Sciences and Humanities?’ published on 29 October 2025 and ‘Can Asians Think? Towards Decolonising Social Sciences and Humanities’ published on 31 December 2025.
At the recent talk, I posed a question that relates directly to what I have raised earlier but drew from a specific type of knowledge scholars like Prof Ananda Tissa Kumara have produced over a lifetime about our cultural worlds. I do not refer to their published work on Sinhala, Pali and Sanskrit languages, their histories or grammars; instead, their writing on various aspects of Sinhala culture. Erudite scholars familiar with Tamil sources have written extensively on Tamil culture in this same manner, which I will not refer to here.
To elaborate, let me refer to a several essays written by Professor Tissa Kumara over the years in the Sinhala language: 1) Aspects of Sri Lankan town planning emerging from Sinhala Sandesha poetry; 2) Health practices emerging from inscriptions of the latter part of the Anuradhapura period; 3) Buddhist religious background described in inscriptions of the Kandyan period; 4) Notions of aesthetic appreciation emerging from Sigiri poetry; 5) Rituals related to Sinhala clinical procedures; 6) Customs linked to marriage taboos in Sinhala society; 7) Food habits of ancient and medieval Lankans; and 8) The decline of modern Buddhist education. All these essays by Prof. Tissa Kumara and many others like them written by others remain untranslated into English or any other global language that holds intellectual power. The only exceptions would be the handful of scholars who also wrote in English or some of their works happened to be translated into English, an example of the latter being Prof. M.B. Ariyapala’s classic, Society in Medieval Ceylon.
The question I raised during my lecture was, what does one do with this knowledge and whether it is not possible to use this kind of knowledge profitably for theory building, conceptual and methodological fine-tuning and other such essential work mostly in the domain of abstract thinking that is crucially needed for social sciences and humanities. But this is not an interest these scholars ever entertained. Except for those who wrote fictionalised accounts such as unsubstantiated stories on mythological characters like Rawana, many of these scholars amassed detailed information along with their sources. This focus on sources is evident even in the titles of many of Prof. Tissa Kumara’s work referred to earlier. Rather than focusing on theorising or theory-based interpretations, these scholars’ aim was to collect and present socio-cultural material that is inaccessible to most others in society including people like myself. Either we know very little of such material or are completely unaware of their existence. But they are important sources of our collective history indicating what we are where we have come from and need to be seen as a specific genre of research.
In this sense, people like Prof. Tissa Kumara and his predecessors are human encyclopedias. But the knowledge they produced, when situated in the context of global knowledge production in general, remains mostly as ‘raw’ information albeit crucial. The pertinent question now is what do we do with this information? They can, of course, remain as it is. My argument however is this knowledge can be a serious source for theory-building and constructing philosophy based on a deeper understanding of the histories of our country and of the region and how people in these areas have dealt with the world over time.
Most scholars in our country and elsewhere in the region believe that the theoretical and conceptual apparatuses needed for our thinking – clearly manifest in social sciences and humanities – must necessarily be imported from the ‘west.’ It is this backward assumption, but specifically in reference to Indian experiences on social theory, that Prathama Banerjee and her colleagues observe in the following words: “theory appears as a ready-made body of philosophical thought, produced in the West …” As they further note, in this situation, “the more theory-inclined among us simply pick the latest theory off-the-shelf and ‘apply’ it to our context” disregarding its provincial European or North American origin, because of the false belief “that “‘theory’ is by definition universal.” What this means is that like in India, in countries like ours too, the “relationship to theory is dependent, derivative, and often deeply alienated.”
In a somewhat similar critique in his 2000 book, Provincialising Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference Dipesh Chakrabarty points to the limitations of Western social sciences in explaining the historical experiences of political modernity in South Asia. He attempted to renew Western and particularly European thought “from and for the margins,” and bring in diverse histories from regions that were marginalised in global knowledge production into the mainstream discourse of knowledge. In effect, this means making histories of countries like ours relevant in knowledge production.
The erroneous and blind faith in the universality of theory is evident in our country too whether it is the unquestioned embrace of modernist theories and philosophies or their postmodern versions. The heroes in this situation generally remain old white men from Marx to Foucault and many in between. This indicates the kind of unhealthy dependence local discourses of theory owe to the ‘west’ without any attempt towards generating serious thinking on our own.
In his 2002 essay, ‘Dismal State of Social Sciences in Pakistan,’ Akbar Zaidi points out how Pakistani social scientists blindly apply imported “theoretical arguments and constructs to Pakistani conditions without questioning, debating or commenting on the theory itself.” Similarly, as I noted in my 2017 essay, ‘Reclaiming Social Sciences and Humanities: Notes from South Asia,’ Sri Lankan social sciences and humanities have “not seriously engaged in recent times with the dominant theoretical constructs that currently hold sway in the more academically dominant parts of the world.” Our scholars also have not offered any serious alternate constructions of their own to the world without going crudely nativistic or exclusivist.
This situation brings me back to the kind of knowledge that scholars like Prof. Tissa Kumara have produced. Philosophy, theory or concepts generally emerge from specific historical and temporal conditions. Therefore, they are difficult to universalise or generalise without serious consequences. This does not mean that some ideas would not have universal applicability with or without minor fine tuning. In general, however, such bodies of abstract knowledge should ideally be constructed with reference to the histories and contemporary socio-political circumstances
from where they emerge that may have applicability to other places with similar histories. This is what Banerjee and her colleagues proposed in their 2016 essay, ‘The Work of Theory: Thinking Across Traditions’. This is also what decolonial theorists such as Walter Mignolo, Enrique Dussel and Aníbal Quijano have referred to as ‘decolonizing Western epistemology’ and ‘building decolonial epistemologies.’
My sense is, scholars like Prof. Tissa Kumara have amassed at least some part of such knowledge that can be used for theory-building that has so far not been used for this purpose. Let me refer to two specific examples that have local relevance which will place my argument in context. Historian and political scientist Benedict Anderson argued in his influential 1983 book, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism that notions of nationalism led to the creation of nations or, as he calls them, ‘imagined communities.’ For him, unlike many others, European nation states emerged in response to the rise of ‘nationalism’ in the overseas European settlements, especially in the Western Hemisphere. But it was still a form of thinking that had Europe at its center.
Comparatively, we can consider Stephen Kemper’s 1991 book, The Presence of the Past: Chronicles, Politics, and Culture in Sinhala Life where the American anthropologist explored the ways in which Sinhala ‘national’ identity evolved over time along with a continual historical consciousness because of the existence of texts such as Mahawamsa. In other words, the Sinhala past manifests with social practices that have continued from the ancient past among which are chronicle-keeping, maintaining sacred places, and venerating heroes.
In this context, his argument is that Sinhala nationalism predates the rise of nationalist movements in Europe by over a thousand years, thereby challenging the hegemonic arguments such as those of Anderson, Ernest Gellner, Elie Kedourie and others who link nationalism as a modern phenomenon impacted by Europe in some way or another. Kemper was able to come to his interpretation by closely reading Lankan texts such as Mahawamsa and other Pali chronicles and more critically, theorizing what is in these texts. Such interpretable material is what has been presented by Prof. Tissa Kumara and others, sans the sing.
Similarly, local texts in Sinhala such as kadaim poth’ and vitti poth, which are basically narratives of local boundaries and descriptions of specific events written in the Dambadeniya and Kandyan periods are replete with crucial information. This includes local village and district boundaries, the different ethno-cultural groups that lived in and came to settle in specific places in these kingdoms, migratory events, wars and so on. These texts as well as European diplomatic dispatches and political reports from these times, particularly during the Kandyan period, refer to the cosmopolitanism in the Kandyan kingdom particularly its court, the military, town planning and more importantly the religious tolerance which even surprised the European observers and latter-day colonial rulers. Again, much of this comes from local sources or much less focused upon European dispatches of the time.
Scholars like Prof. Tissa Kumara have collected this kind of information as well as material from much older times and sources. What would the conceptual categories, such as ethnicity, nationalism, cosmopolitanism be like if they are reinterpreted or cast anew through these histories, rather than merely following their European and North American intellectual and historical slants which is the case at present? Among the questions we can ask are, whether these local idiosyncrasies resulted from Buddhism or local cultural practices we may not know much about at present but may exist in inscriptions, in ola leaf manuscripts or in other materials collected and presented by scholars such as Prof. Tissa Kumara.
For me, familiarizing ourselves with this under- and unused archive and employing them for theory-building as well as for fine-tuning what already exists is the main intellectual role we can play in taking our cultural knowledge to the world in a way that might make sense beyond the linguistic and socio-political borders of our country. Whether our universities and scholars are ready to attempt this without falling into the trap of crude nativisms, be satisfied with what has already been collected, but is untheorized or if they would rather lackadaisically remain shackled to ‘western’ epistemologies in the sense articulated by decolonial theorists remains to be seen.
Features
Extinction in isolation: Sri Lanka’s lizards at the climate crossroads
Climate change is no longer a distant or abstract threat to Sri Lanka’s biodiversity. It is already driving local extinctions — particularly among lizards trapped in geographically isolated habitats, where even small increases in temperature can mean the difference between survival and disappearance.
According to research by Buddhi Dayananda, Thilina Surasinghe and Suranjan Karunarathna, Sri Lanka’s narrowly distributed lizards are among the most vulnerable vertebrates in the country, with climate stress intensifying the impacts of habitat loss, fragmentation and naturally small population sizes.
Isolation Turns Warming into an Extinction Trap
Sri Lanka’s rugged topography and long geological isolation have produced extraordinary levels of reptile endemism. Many lizard species are confined to single mountains, forest patches or rock outcrops, existing nowhere else on Earth. While this isolation has driven evolution, it has also created conditions where climate change can rapidly trigger extinction.
“Lizards are especially sensitive to environmental temperature because their metabolism, activity patterns and reproduction depend directly on external conditions,” explains Suranjan Karunarathna, a leading herpetologist and co-author of the study. “When climatic thresholds are exceeded, geographically isolated species cannot shift their ranges. They are effectively trapped.”
The study highlights global projections indicating that nearly 40 percent of local lizard populations could disappear in coming decades, while up to one-fifth of all lizard species worldwide may face extinction by 2080 if current warming trends persist.
- Cnemaspis_gunawardanai (Adult Female), Pilikuttuwa, Gampaha District
- Cnemaspis_ingerorum (Adult Male), Sithulpauwa, Hambantota District
- Cnemaspis_hitihamii (Adult Female), Maragala, Monaragala District
- Cnemaspis_gunasekarai (Adult Male), Ritigala, Anuradapura District
- Cnemaspis_dissanayakai (Adult Male), Dimbulagala, Polonnaruwa District
- Cnemaspis_kandambyi (Adult Male), Meemure, Matale District
Heat Stress, Energy Loss and Reproductive Failure
Rising temperatures force lizards to spend more time in shelters to avoid lethal heat, reducing their foraging time and energy intake. Over time, this leads to chronic energy deficits that undermine growth and reproduction.
“When lizards forage less, they have less energy for breeding,” Karunarathna says. “This doesn’t always cause immediate mortality, but it slowly erodes populations.”
Repeated exposure to sub-lethal warming has been shown to increase embryonic mortality, reduce hatchling size, slow post-hatch growth and compromise body condition. In species with temperature-dependent sex determination, warming can skew sex ratios, threatening long-term population viability.
“These impacts often remain invisible until populations suddenly collapse,” Karunarathna warns.
Tropical Species with No Thermal Buffer
The research highlights that tropical lizards such as those in Sri Lanka are particularly vulnerable because they already live close to their physiological thermal limits. Unlike temperate species, they experience little seasonal temperature variation and therefore possess limited behavioural or evolutionary flexibility to cope with rapid warming.
“Even modest temperature increases can have severe consequences in tropical systems,” Karunarathna explains. “There is very little room for error.”
Climate change also alters habitat structure. Canopy thinning, tree mortality and changes in vegetation density increase ground-level temperatures and reduce the availability of shaded refuges, further exposing lizards to heat stress.
Narrow Ranges, Small Populations
Many Sri Lankan lizards exist as small, isolated populations restricted to narrow altitudinal bands or specific microhabitats. Once these habitats are degraded — through land-use change, quarrying, infrastructure development or climate-driven vegetation loss — entire global populations can vanish.
“Species confined to isolated hills and rock outcrops are especially at risk,” Karunarathna says. “Surrounding human-modified landscapes prevent movement to cooler or more suitable areas.”
Even protected areas offer no guarantee of survival if species occupy only small pockets within reserves. Localised disturbances or microclimatic changes can still result in extinction.
Climate Change Amplifies Human Pressures
The study emphasises that climate change will intensify existing human-driven threats, including habitat fragmentation, land-use change and environmental degradation. Together, these pressures create extinction cascades that disproportionately affect narrowly distributed species.
“Climate change acts as a force multiplier,” Karunarathna explains. “It worsens the impacts of every other threat lizards already face.”
Without targeted conservation action, many species may disappear before they are formally assessed or fully understood.
Science Must Shape Conservation Policy
Researchers stress the urgent need for conservation strategies that recognise micro-endemism and climate vulnerability. They call for stronger environmental impact assessments, climate-informed land-use planning and long-term monitoring of isolated populations.
“We cannot rely on broad conservation measures alone,” Karunarathna says. “Species that exist in a single location require site-specific protection.”
The researchers also highlight the importance of continued taxonomic and ecological research, warning that extinction may outpace scientific discovery.
A Vanishing Evolutionary Legacy
Sri Lanka’s lizards are not merely small reptiles hidden from view; they represent millions of years of unique evolutionary history. Their loss would be irreversible.
“Once these species disappear, they are gone forever,” Karunarathna says. “Climate change is moving faster than our conservation response, and isolation means there are no second chances.”
By Ifham Nizam ✍️
Features
Online work compatibility of education tablets
Enabling Education-to-Income Pathways through Dual-Use Devices
The deployment of tablets and Chromebook-based devices for emergency education following Cyclone Ditwah presents an opportunity that extends beyond short-term academic continuity. International experience demonstrates that the same category of devices—when properly governed and configured—can support safe, ethical, and productive online work, particularly for youth and displaced populations. This annex outlines the types of online jobs compatible with such devices, their technical limitations, and their strategic national value within Sri Lanka’s recovery and human capital development agenda.
Compatible Categories of Online Work
At the foundational level, entry-level digital jobs are widely accessible through Android tablets and Chromebook devices. These roles typically require basic digital literacy, language comprehension, and sustained attention rather than advanced computing power. Common examples include data tagging and data validation tasks, AI training activities such as text, image, or voice labelling, online surveys and structured research tasks, digital form filling, and basic transcription work. These activities are routinely hosted on Google task-based platforms, global AI crowdsourcing systems, and micro-task portals operated by international NGOs and UN agencies. Such models have been extensively utilised in countries including India, the Philippines, Kenya, and Nepal, particularly in post-disaster and low-income contexts.
At an intermediate level, freelance and gig-based work becomes viable, especially when Chromebook tablets such as the Lenovo Chromebook Duet or Acer Chromebook Tab are used with detachable keyboards. These devices are well suited for content writing and editing, Sinhala–Tamil–English translation work, social media management, Canva-based design assignments, and virtual assistant roles. Chromebooks excel in this domain because they provide full browser functionality, seamless integration with Google Docs and Sheets (including offline drafting and later (synchronization), reliable file upload capabilities, and stable video conferencing through platforms such as Google Meet or Zoom. Freelancers across Southeast Asia and Africa already rely heavily on Chromebook-class devices for such work, demonstrating their suitability in bandwidth- and power-constrained environments.
A third category involves remote employment and structured part-time work, which is also feasible on Chromebook tablets when paired with a keyboard and headset. These roles include online tutoring support, customer service through chat or email, research assistance, and entry-level digital bookkeeping. While such work requires a more consistent internet connection—often achievable through mobile hotspots—it does not demand high-end hardware. The combination of portability, long battery life, and browser-based platforms makes these devices adequate for such employment models.
Functional Capabilities and Limitations
It is important to clearly distinguish what these devices can and cannot reasonably support. Tablets and Chromebooks are highly effective for web-based jobs, Google Workspace-driven tasks, cloud platforms, online interviews conducted via Zoom or Google Meet, and the use of digital wallets and electronic payment systems. However, they are not designed for heavy video editing, advanced software development environments, or professional engineering and design tools such as AutoCAD. This limitation does not materially reduce their relevance, as global labour market data indicate that approximately 70–75 per cent of online work worldwide is browser-based and fully compatible with tablet-class devices.
Device Suitability for Dual Use
Among commonly deployed devices, the Chromebook Duet and Acer Chromebook Tab offer the strongest balance between learning and online work, making them the most effective all-round options. Android tablets such as the Samsung Galaxy Tab A8 or A9 and the Nokia T20 also perform reliably when supplemented with keyboards, with the latter offering particularly strong battery endurance. Budget-oriented devices such as the Xiaomi Redmi Pad remain suitable for learning and basic work tasks, though with some limitations in sustained productivity. Across all device types, battery efficiency remains a decisive advantage.
Power and Energy Considerations
In disaster-affected and power-scarce environments, tablets outperform conventional laptops. A battery life of 10–12 hours effectively supports a full day of online work or study. Offline drafting of documents with later synchronisation further reduces dependence on continuous connectivity. The use of solar chargers and power banks can extend operational capacity significantly, making these devices particularly suitable for temporary shelters and community learning hubs.
Payment and Income Feasibility in the Sri Lankan Context
From a financial inclusion perspective, these devices are fully compatible with commonly used payment systems. Platforms such as PayPal (within existing national constraints), Payoneer, Wise, LankaQR, local banking applications, and NGO stipend mechanisms are all accessible through Android and ChromeOS environments. Notably, many Sri Lankan freelancers already conduct income-generating activities entirely via mobile devices, confirming the practical feasibility of tablet-based earning.
Strategic National Value
The dual use of tablets for both education and income generation carries significant strategic value for Sri Lanka. It helps prevent long-term dependency by enabling families to rebuild livelihoods, creates structured earning pathways for youth, and transforms disaster relief interventions into resilience-building investments. This approach supports a human resource management–driven recovery model rather than a welfare-dependent one. It aligns directly with the outcomes sought by the Ministry of Education, the Ministry of Labour and HRM reform initiatives, and broader national productivity and competitiveness goals.
Policy Positioning under the Vivonta / PPA Framework
Within the Vivonta/Proprietary Planters Alliance national response framework, it is recommended that these devices be formally positioned as “Learning + Livelihood Tablets.” This designation reflects their dual public value and supports a structured governance approach. Devices should be configured with dual profiles—Student and Worker—supplemented by basic digital job readiness modules, clear ethical guidance on online work, and safeguards against exploitation, particularly for vulnerable populations.
Performance Indicators
From a monitoring perspective, the expected reach of such an intervention is high, encompassing students, youth, and displaced adults. The anticipated impact is very high, as it directly enables the transition from education to income generation. Confidence in the approach is high due to extensive global precedent, while the required effort remains moderate, centering primarily on training, coordination, and platform curation rather than capital-intensive investment.
We respectfully invite the Open University of Sri Lanka, Derana, Sirasa, Rupavahini, DP Education, and Janith Wickramasinghe, National Online Job Coach, to join hands under a single national banner—
“Lighting the Dreams of Sri Lanka’s Emerging Leaders.”
by Lalin I De Silva, FIPM (SL) ✍️
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