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Shadows on the wall

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Sunday short story

by Rukmini Attygalle

The fever had left me and I felt much better. I lay under the quilt, facing the wall with my back to the window. I must have slept long, for it was already dark. Our crab apple tree projected its bare branches on to the wall with the aid of the street-light behind it. I looked at the shadow which made an interesting black and white abstract pattern on the wall. I was, of course, looking at the shadow with eyes dulled by knowledge and adulthood.

In my childhood, shadows held a much deeper significance. They had a reality of another dimension. They were scary, menacing, happy, sad – but never abstract. From the crab apple tree in our garden in London, my mind goes back to the mango tree of my childhood in Sri Lanka.

I must have been around six years of age, and my younger sister four, when she and I shared a room in our house at Shady Grove Avenue, Borella. My bed was pushed right up against the wall. As I was sleepwalker, a wet jute hessian sack was always placed at night on the floor by my bed, so that if I tried to get out of bed, I would step on the damp sack and wake up. On the wall opposite my bed, was a large window, outside which was a mango tree. During the day, the mango tree was our friend. My elder sister and I often played hopscotch under it.

There was a rope swing tied on to one of the low branches, on which younger sister and I happily swung. But at night, from my bed, the mango tree took on ominous overtones. It was at this time that our Podimenike’s stories of rakshayas (demons) and yakas (devils), came life. The dark and sombre shapes the mango tree created against the night sky were demon like and scary. The shadow it cast on the wall was even worse. Here, the demon heads were more discernible. Sometimes their I shaped teeth would bob up and down uncannily. Menacingly.

The demons on the wall would go away only after Podimenike put off kitchen lights. I would pull my sheet over my head and roll myself into a ball to get away from these demons. Perhaps if the tree had been a Nuga tree I may not have been so scared, because Podimenike said that c good devathavas (angels) inhabited Nuga trees.

On her nightly visits to our room, Amma had noticed on more than one occasion that I had fallen asleep with my head under the sheet. “Why do you cover your head with the sheet when you go to sleep?” she asked me once, when she came in to kiss us goodnight.

“Because I don’t like the mango tree demons,” I said.

“What demons?” she looked very surprised.

“There!” I pointed to the mango tree with its dark ominous shapes. “When the room light goes off, they even come on, to the wall! They have big teeth, Podimenike said that rakhayas’ teeth are red in colour of bloodstain. But of course, in the night they look black.”

Amma looked quite upset, and for a moment I thought that she was being frightened by the demons herself.

“There are no real demons” Amma said. “They exist only in stories!” But I was not convinced.

“Alright,” she said “Let’s put off the light and you show me your demons. I jumped out of bed and put out the light. With Amma next to me I was not all that afraid of the demons. The demons appeared on the wall. I pointed out the different parts of demon anatomy to Amma without actually placing my pointing finger on the wall.

She listened to me patiently. Cuddling me she said laughingly “They are not demons! They are just shadows on the wall!”

“The shaky teeth over there … ” I pointed.

“They are shadows of mango leaves,” she explained

She touched the wall to prove to me that there was nothing there except shadows. Then she took my hand gently. “Let’s touch these demon teeth, shall we? Just to see whether they will bite us?”

I was reluctant at first but we touched the wall together – Amma and I – demon teeth, heads, nostrils the lot. Our fingers remained intact. After that, the mango tree demons did not bother me too much. Later I heard Amma telling Podimenike off for “filling the children’s heads with nonsense.”

All three of us loved the shadows Thaththa made on the wall with his hands. They were happy shadows. By bending and twisting his hands and fingers he could make animal shadows. The rabbit shadow he made was my favourite. It could run or hop up and down, shake its paws, wiggle its ears. Thaththa taught me how to make the rabbit shadow but my rabbit’s ears would never stick up. They always drooped. The eagle shadow he made would come sweeping down and he made it disappear on the floor. The crocodile shadow was the easiest to make. All you had to do was to put your palms together and hold them parallel to the wall and open and close your hands like a crocodile opening and closing its mouth.

“But it has no teeth” I protested “Crocodiles have great big teeth!” I remembered the picture of the crocodile, which swallowed Captain Hook’s watch in the story of Peter Pan. He had huge teeth.

“It’s a crocodile with no teeth!” Amma said pulling a nightdress over my younger sister’s head.

“Then it must be a dying crocodile,” my elder sister conjectured. “If it has no teeth it can’t eat. If it can’t eat it will die.” She was four years older than I and very wise.

“Maybe,” I said changing my earlier stance, “maybe it has a pair of false teeth.” Amma and Thatha looked at each other and smiled.

“Where does it keep its false teeth?” asked my younger sister. Thaththa tousled my hair.

“Ask this Bola Vatuwa,” he was in the habit of using this name he made up for me. It was a type of bird he said, small and round. She should know the answer.”

Remembering my grandmother’s false teeth standing in a glass of water on her bedside table, I said in an authoritative tone, “in a large glass III size,” and stretched out my hands as far as they would stretch to indicate the size of the glass receptacle.

Thaththa said that he used to know how to make an elephant shadow but, he had now forgotten. He said that he would remember it eventually. The animal shadows Thaththa made were always happy shadows.

Once I noticed that the shadows that fell across my parent’s room had bars just like those on the windows. I pointed this out to Thaththa. “Yes,” he said, “they look like bars in a prison cell.”

“What is a prison cell?” I asked.

“It is a room where people who have done bad thing are locked up in,” he said.

“Has it got bars all round like the mynah’s cage?” I persisted.

“Well,” he said, rather thoughtfully “Yes, I suppose it could.”

Thaththa was fascinated by birds. One evening he had turned up with a cage with a mynah bird in it. The mynah cage was in the kitchen veranda and always stank of over ripe fruit.

“Is the mynah in prison then? Did he do something bad?”

“No,” Thaththa said, “Mynah has not done anything wrong.” The next day Thaththa took the mynah cage to the garden and called out to the three of us. We ran out and Amma joined us.

“Shall we let the mynah out of its prison?” he asked.

“He shouldn’t really be in jail because he has done nothing wrong.”

He put his hand in and brought out the mynah from the cage and set it free. It did not fly away immediately but hopped around the garden for while before it took off. Amma looked delighted. I don’t think she liked the mynah very much, so no sadness for her. But Podimenike cried because she said that her “putha” (son) had gone away.

Shortly after Thaththa fell ill, all of us were sent off to our grandmother’s home. Only Amma and Podimenike stayed behind to look after Thaththa.

Aachchi’s

house was very large and had a number of rooms. I liked her house but not all of its rooms. Some rooms were dark and shadowy even during the daytime. I liked the room we slept in because it was large and full of light.

In what seemed a long time, Amma joined us at Aachchi’s house. She somehow looked different. She seemed to have changed. She was very quiet. She hardly laughed or smiled. She did not play with us or tell us stories. She stayed in her room most of the time. She was in one of the gloomy rooms, which I disliked.

Aachchi said that Amma was very tired and needed to rest. Also, that she needed to be on her own. But Aachchi would go into her room and spend a lot of time with her quietly. Even when it was evening Amma stayed in her room, very often in darkness. One evening Amma’s room door was half-open and I peered in. The room was full of shadows of varying intensity. They were all sad shadows and they made me uneasy. It took me awhile to see Amma lying on the bed because the darkest shadows seemed to have swallowed her up.

“Amma,” I said creeping up to her, “are you awake?”

I sat on the bed. She did not answer but put her arm round me and drew me towards her. I bent down and kissed her. Her cheek was wet. It was too dark to see her face properly. I looked around the room. The shadows seemed to have got deeper. I didn’t like this room. I didn’t like the shadows They were sad shadows.

I wished Thaththa would come back soon. He always made Amma laugh. They used to laugh a lot together. Most of the time I did not know what they were laughing about, but their laughter always made me happy.

I said, “when is Thaththa coming?”

“He is not coming back vasthuwa,” she said. She often called us “vasthuwa” -she said that we were her three ‘Treasures’. Her voice was hoarse. She blew her nose into a handkerchief, which she seemed to take out from under her pillow.

“Why not?” I asked in surprise because Thaththa always came back even when he went to ‘a-far-away-country-called-India’, or to “a-place-called-Narammala”. In fact, when he went to ‘a-far-away-country-called-India’ he always brought us presents.

“Why is Thaththa not coming back Amma?” I asked again. I felt her body momentarily stiffen.

“Because he died,” she said very softly, almost in a whisper.

I remembered Podimenike saying that when good people died, they were reborn in the heavenly worlds as ‘devathavas’ who would sometimes come down to the human world to help us, and rest in Nuga trees. When bad people died, they went to hell where devils and demons lived. Some people, she said, were born again in the human world. I hoped that father would be born in the human world so that he could come back and live with us. But I had a sinking feeling that he would have been born, as a `devathava’ because I had heard people say that he was a good man. How I wished that we had a Nuga tree in our garden so that he could come and live in it!

“Amma,” I said softly. We seemed to be almost whispering as if telling secrets. “Will Thaththa live in a house in heaven? Will it have walls like in our house?”

“l don’t know vasthuwa,” she said sitting up and kissing the top of my head. She wiped her face with her handkerchief and pushed back her hair, “Let’s go and see what your sisters are doing shall we?”

She got up and put the light on. The dark shadows disappeared and I felt much happier. As we walked out of the room hand-in hand I wondered whether Thaththa had remembered how to make the elephant shape shadow. Perhaps he was already making the elephant shadow on the wall of his house in heaven.

Realization of the finality of death came to me only much later.

The wind was howling outside. I stretched out, pushed the quilt aside and got out of bed. I walked to the window and looked out. It had begun to snow. The tall dark conifer across the road towering above the shrubs stood like a giant witch with a pointed hat. I drew the heavy curtains together shutting out the witches, demons, and the shadows on the wall and switched on the light.



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Revolt in the Temple: Poverty as Structural Control

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The underlying issue in Anuradhapura is a struggle between a few families who, for years, have waged a quiet cold war over control of the Udamaluwa. Similar situations exist in Mihintale as well. These places, among others, are treated as treasures of Buddhism but, in practice, function as tightly controlled economic centres. The same pattern repeats in Kandy around the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic and in Kataragama at the shrine of God Kataragama. Variations of it exist across religious spaces of Islam, Catholicism, and Hinduism too, where institutional authority becomes indistinguishable from localised power networks. What is presented as sacred order often operates as inherited control.

It is indeed devastating to see situations where parents have no alternative but to expose their children to predators in robes for survival. This has nothing to do with religion itself, but with human pathology in the context of survival. These are the questions that demand answers, not superficial responses that treat symptoms while ignoring the conditions that produce them. What is more shocking and disturbing is not the tragedy itself, but the reactions to it. Social media has overwhelmed us, not towards understanding, but towards a fragmented cognitive state with no exit route.

A friend of mine in Nairobi used to keep all his electronic devices at home and go into the forest once a month, spending days there before returning. He called it “detoxification”, but in reality it was an escape from a system that no longer allows uninterrupted thought. Daily life is now saturated with unnecessary content, and attention itself has become a commodity extracted, processed, and sold back to us. This is where we have become unable to understand what really drives certain tragedies we endlessly react to, while remaining blind to the systems that quietly manufacture them.

Multi-dimensional poverty

Poverty is structural, poverty is political, and poverty is functional; it is a tool and a manoeuvring force of power. The question is no longer whether poverty exists, but who benefits from its persistence, and who is forced to survive within it. From education to medicine to basic food supply chains, countries like Sri Lanka are not simply mismanaged; they are structurally captured by a small number of actors who remain stable regardless of who is formally in power. Small-scale enterprises and NGO circuits that circulate foreign funding to “solve structural issues” often operate as hollow administrative performances, producing reports rather than transformation.

Poverty is not merely the absence of money. It is the absence of bandwidth, absence of protection, absence of time, and absence of cognitive stability. As Sendhil Mullainathan and Eldar Shafir state, “Scarcity captures the mind. Just as the starving subjects had food on their mind, when we experience scarcity of any kind, we become absorbed by it.” This is a description of how human cognition is structurally reorganized under constraint. Scarcity does not sit outside the person; it occupies them.

They also state, “Scarcity leads us to borrow and pushes us deeper into scarcity.” That is the mechanism that must be confronted without euphemism. Poverty is not only deprivation; it is a self-reinforcing trap in which survival decisions generate the next layer of crisis. Once a society crosses a certain threshold of scarcity, it stops producing long-term reasoning as a default condition. It produces short-term survival logic, often mistaken by outsiders for irrationality.

It is precisely here that public discourse becomes intellectually dishonest. Everything is translated into moral language because moral language is easier than structural analysis. But morality without structure becomes theatre. It produces outrage, not understanding, and repetition, not reform.

It is indeed brutal when an individual wearing religious insignia—whether robe, symbol, or institutional identity—is accused of acts that fundamentally contradict the moral authority attached to that position. It is equally brutal when institutions that depend entirely on trust begin to function as shields rather than safeguards. But the deeper question is not shock. The deeper question is what kind of social condition produces families who see placement within such institutions not only as devotion, but as a survival strategy under constraint.

Ethical decision-making

That is where the argument collapses into its most uncomfortable form. Poverty does not produce ethical decision-making environments. It produces constrained optimization under pressure. When food insecurity, debt, and social instability converge, institutional spaces that appear stable become transactional destinations for survival rather than moral choices. To interpret this as purely cultural failure is to deliberately ignore the structural compression of options.

Mullainathan and Shafir describe this clearly: “Instead of saying that scarcity ‘focuses,’ we could just as easily say that scarcity causes us to tunnel: to focus single-mindedly on managing the scarcity at hand.” That tunnelling effect is not abstract. It is visible wherever long-term planning collapses under immediate pressure. Systems then misread this as irresponsibility, when it is in fact cognitive overload produced by structure.

What is rarely acknowledged is how deeply this extends into governance itself. Institutions increasingly operate as if they are managing rational, unconstrained individuals. In reality, they are interacting with populations whose cognitive bandwidth is already structurally taxed. The result is policy failure interpreted as public non-compliance, enforcement interpreted as moral correction, and reform interpreted as communication failure rather than design failure.

Social media has intensified this distortion. It does not merely spread information; it destroys sequencing. Structural problems require temporal depth. Social media removes that depth and replaces it with instantaneous judgment. Every event becomes a surface object, detached from causality. The outcome is a society permanently reacting and never diagnosing.

Poverty, in this environment, becomes invisible in its real form. It is not seen as a continuous structural condition but as episodic failure. A scandal appears, is consumed, and disappears. Another replaces it. Nothing accumulates into understanding because attention itself is exhausted before synthesis can occur.

Modern Condition

The modern condition reflects a reversal of earlier social organization, where human relationships are embedded within abstract systems of finance, law, and administration that often fail to recognize the lived constraints of those they govern. In this disembedded state, institutions increasingly misinterpret human behaviour as their capacity for structural understanding weakens. At the same time, attempts to resolve systemic failures through expanding administrative complexity produce diminishing returns: more regulation, oversight, and reporting generate less coherence. Over time, institutions shift from functional effectiveness to symbolic performance, maintaining the appearance of control rather than achieving it.

This is why public outrage repeatedly fails to translate into structural change. Outrage is not a tool of reconstruction. It is a signal of system fatigue. It circulates, intensifies, and dissipates without altering the underlying architecture. Meanwhile, the conditions that produce repetition remain intact.

The most persistent illusion is that these are separate problems: poverty here, institutional misuse there, media distortion elsewhere. They are not separate. They are expressions of a single condition in which scarcity, complexity, symbolic authority, and fragmented enforcement interact without coordination. The system does not fail in one place; it fails in the gaps between these layers.

Symbolic systems

What makes this condition more severe is that symbolic systems continue to operate at full strength even when structural systems degrade. Religious identity remains powerful. Political rhetoric remains strong. Cultural symbolism remains intact. But enforcement capacity, institutional coherence, and social trust degrade beneath them. That gap is where instability grows. Until that gap is addressed at the level of structure rather than sentiment, repetition remains inevitable. New scandals will emerge, new interpretations will circulate, and new cycles of outrage will follow. Nothing resolves because nothing is being reconstructed beneath the surface of reaction.

This is no longer repairable through adjustment or rhetoric. It is a form of decay that persists until it exhausts itself, because the mechanisms meant to correct it are now part of the same failure. It continues until rupture, not reform. At that point, instability ceases to be episodic and becomes structural. Pressure will accumulate into breakdown, and what follows will not be managed transition but forced reversal. The responsibility lies with those who govern these institutions to prevent that trajectory, not through language, but through change. The drama is ending; farce is over; what we are witnessing is tragedy unfolding with unprecedented consequences.

by Nilantha Ilangamuwa

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Are threats to Buddha Sasana external or from within?

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As Sri Lanka celebrates the birth, Enlightenment and the Parinibbana of the Buddha, almost a month after the rest of the Buddhist-world did so, there is widespread discussion about threats to Buddha Sasana provoked by some recent incidents. Regarding the views expressed about postponing Vesak celebrations in my article ‘May Day and postponement Vesak 2026’ (The Island, 25 May), my very good friend Dr Upali Abeysiri has sent me the following comments: “The Mahanayakas have a good reason to postpone Vesak. The dawning of the full moon has to be on the same constellation (nekatha) as when the Buddha was born and attained enlightenment. Although Adhi Poya is reckoned as the second full moon arising in the same calendar month, this is supposed to be an odd exception.” Though it would have been ideal if a consensus could have been reached prior to the split of celebrations, perhaps, it does not matter very much as celebrations occur on a symbolic rather than an actual date, there being no historical or archaeological evidence confirming exact dates.

Whilst there are no direct threats to Buddha Dhamma, as the expanding horizons of science continue to confirm the fundamentals of Buddha Dhamma, there is no doubt whatsoever that there are threats to Buddha Sasana. However, these threats become important as the Buddha Sasana performs the pivotal role in protecting and propagating the Dhamma and, hence, become an indirect threat to Dhamma itself. Therefore, it should be the concern of all Buddhists and it is in this spirit I am making some comments which some may interpret as disrespectful to the Maha Sangha. I can reassure that my intentions are entirely directed towards the preservation of the Buddha Dhamma and Sasana. Though the Buddha proclaimed that the Sasana consists of Bhikkhu, Bhikkhuni, Upasaka and Upasika, for all practical purposes Sasana had been led by Bhikkhus, often at the expense of others.

There is hardly any doubt that there are external forces at play in Sri Lanka and even some Buddhists seem to object to Sri Lanka being called a Buddhist country. Interestingly, no one seems to object to countries like the UK and the USA being called Christian counties. I

There is no registration or baptism in Buddhism and there are no rewards for Buddhists for conversions. As I pointed out in a previous article, ‘How does the Buddha differ’ (The Island, 1 May) unlike most other religions, Buddhism is not a ‘high-demand’ religion, nor ‘law-based’ religion and is not exclusivist. Perhaps, it is this liberalism, pacifism and gentleness, which are the real strengths, that are being exploited as weaknesses by others.

There will always be external threats and the Buddha too faced many during his lifetime. Before addressing those, is it not more important to address the threats within? One of the most important problems seems to be the breakdown of discipline. Bhikkhus are bound by Vinaya rules, laid down by the Buddha and some recent incidents highlight total deviations. Though there were many previous incidents like unsubstantiated claims of Arahanthood, Bhikkhus attacking each other on YouTube and Bhikkhus conducting YouTube channels, not for the propagation of the Dhamma but for the accumulation of rupees, attention was focused after the detection of 22 young monks carrying narcotic drugs.

Though many commentators were quick to condemn the Sangha on this account, we need to go deeper. Narcotic menace has become a huge problem in Sri Lanka and it looks as if the drug lords would resort to anything to achieve their objectives. Though it looks as if some gullible young monks had been duped by drug lords, we need to question why it was possible. Is it due to the lack of supervision of these novices by their seniors that allowed them to accept a request in a WhatsApp group? Should there be checks and balances on foreign travel by Bhikkhus?

What shocked Buddhists was what followed next; the arrest of the Nayaka of Atamasthana for allegedly having sex with a minor. Anuradhapura was our first capital and Sri Maha Bodhi is the longest surviving authenticated tree in the world. Ruwanweliseya and Jetawanaramaya were among the ten tallest man-made structures in the ancient world, Jetawanaramaya still holding the Guiness record for the largest stupa in the world. Cyberspace is full of theories. Whilst some have condemned the Nayaka Thero even before the conclusion of inquiries whilst others claim that this was a coup by another Nayaka Thera in an attempt of succession.

I was intrigued, reading in a Sri Lankan newspaper about the 80th birthday celebrations of a Nayaka priest, who was convicted in London in 2012 of historical child sex abuse and sentenced to seven years in prison. I remember the case very well as he was the head of the Vihara, we had our first contact on relocating to the UK. I also remember his devotees, who believed that he was wrongly accused, collecting over £50,000 for an appeal. In spite of being represented by one of the top Barristers in the UK, the conviction was upheld but the jail-term was reduced by a year. His name is still on the sex-offenders register in the UK and he is permanently prevented from association with children. One can argue that as he has served the sentence and not reoffended, this should not be held against him but what baffled me is that he is still being referred to as the Chief Sangha Nayaka. Should a person on the sex-offenders register be the Chief Sangha Nayaka?

It is high time we put our own house in order before fighting the external enemies. It is reported that the former president CBK has written to the Mahanayakas requesting urgent reform and we should be obliged to her for taking the lead.

There are many aspects that need urgent reform, the first being removal of caste barriers practiced by some Nikayas, which is the greatest insult to the Buddha who promoted equality. The second is the active encouragement of Bhikkhuni Sasana which has not happened in spite of the landmark ruling by the supreme court. The third is the establishment of proper disciplinary processes under a single Adhikarana Sangha Nayaka with powers and support than allowing the government to take over the control of even non-criminal Vinaya matters.

There are many other issues that need settlement like the controversy of the land of Buddha’s birth which seems to linger on. An expert committee should hear all evidence and settle this issue once and for all.

As I have pointed out on many occasions in these columns, it is high time a Dhamma Sangayana was held, as the last one was 70 years ago. Ideally, it should be different with active participation of lay experts as well. It is the duty of us Buddhists to ensure that the words of wisdom of the Buddha continue to enlighten generations to come.

By Dr Upul Wijayawardhana

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Vijaya Kumar: Academic, Activist & Genial Fellow-Traveller

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Professor Vijaya Kumar

The University of Ceylon, Peradeniya, was in our time, a less-crowded residential university, where everybody knew everybody else or at least knew of everybody else.

I knew of Emeritus Professor Vijaya Kumar of the Department of Chemistry at Peradeniya, or Kumar, as we referred to him fondly, before I got to know him. His dear wife Savitri, also a member of the academic staff of the Department of Chemistry, was nicknamed Kumee, by some of their students (of which vintage is unknown to me) and the duo were thereafter referred to affectionately as Kumar and Kumee.

The Faculty of Science became a regular haunt of mine as I would go there in the company of my batchmates to attend lectures on Basic Mathematics given by Professor Maheswaran, as it was a requirement for our General Arts Qualifying Examinations. I would also go there to listen to some excellent talks under a programme that was held in the auditorium of the Science Faculty referred to as “Popular Science Gossip”. The “gossip” at these talks were not confined solely to science but were broad enough to include Literature, History and other branches of knowledge as well. I would often spot Kumar in the audience at these talks or bump into him in the corridors of the Science Faculty. But I got to know him personally only after he became the Warden of Arunachalam, my hall of residence, during my undergraduate years initially, and later, as a member of the academic staff of the Department of English.

Our Science Faculty undergraduate contemporaries, especially those at Arunachalam Hall and its immediate neighbour, Jayatilaka Hall, both within a stone’s throw away from the Science Faculty, shared many an anecdote about Kumar and their other lecturers. One of these anecdotes, had to do with a spectacular (motor car) driving feat of Kumar’s. Legend has it that he drove from his university bungalow-home to the Faculty of Science deploying only the reverse gear of his car! Kumar, on hearing of this, had told certain of his student friends, including some who became his colleagues later on, that this story is one of the biggest yarns he had heard in his life!

Some of his one-time younger colleagues, now in retirement like Kumar, tell me that Kumar exuded warmth and friendliness in all of his professional and administrative interactions with others in the wider university community. But there was no warmth or mercy for those who indulged in the unsavoury pastime of student ‘ragging’. He was a very strong proponent of the need to ensure to all freshers an environment free of the menace of ‘ragging’. He remained ever-vigilant during the ‘ragging’ season. There are stories of his chasing ‘raggers’ and catching them. Professor Maheswaran, who later became an intimate friend and remains so after more than half a century, was another who was fiercely opposed to ‘ragging’. I was a personal witness to Mahes chasing a ‘ragger’ up and down the stairs of the main library to nab him. Yet another of his students has noted that Kumar’s office room in the Faculty was a total mess at all times. It had tables, piled so high with books and documents that one could not easily spot Kumar at his desk. He, however, had the knack of pulling out from amidst the clutter, any document that he needed at any given time. If anybody were to volunteer to help tidy his desk, Kumar would respond firmly with “Don’t you touch my desk!”.

Kumar, like several of his colleagues in the other faculties as well, had his own eccentricities. According to information received from reliable sources, Kumar who taught Organic Chemistry used to carry his lecture notes in his shirt or trouser pocket with ‘the entire lecture condensed in point form on a half-sheet or half of a half-sheet of paper’. The way he rummaged through his sling bag filled to the brim with stuff to find an item that he needed was another ritual that amused onlookers.

Kumar, interestingly enough is a Royal-cum-Thomian product, in that he had his primary education at S.Thomas’ Prep School, Kollupitiya and the entirety of his secondary education at Royal College, which he entered in 1953. In a note written by Kumar himself, he notes that despite having had excellent teachers at Royal, his was not a notable school career. He goes on to say that “the only achievement I could boast of was my being the joint-winner of the school General Knowledge Prize”. However, he had been active in a Scout Group outside of school (1st Port of Colombo, Sea Scouts) where he “was Queen’s Scout, Patrol leader, and later, Assistant Scout Master”.

Kumar entered the Faculty of Science of the University of Ceylon in 1961 and secured from it an honours degree in Chemistry in 1965. He joined the academic staff of the Department of Chemistry in the Faculty of Science, University of Ceylon, Peradeniya in 1965 and left the following year for Magdalen College at Oxford University, from which institution he obtained his doctorate in Chemistry. His entire teaching career was at Peradeniya, where in the period 2003-2006 he served as the Dean of the Faculty of Science, a position that his late father-in-law had held a few decades earlier.

Among the other highlights of his career are: Chairman of the Industrial Technology Institute (formerly the Ceylon Institute of Scientific and Industrial Research, CISIR); Member (representing Sri Lanka) of the Geneva-based UN Commission on Science and Technology from 1999 to 2007 and its President from 2001-2003; President of the Sri Lanka Estate Workers Union from 1989 onwards; Member of the Politburo of the Lanka Sama Samaja Party from 1988 to 2014 and currently, a member of the Executive Committee of the National People’s Power (NPP).

Vijaya and Savitri Kumar are parents of daughters Shamala and Ramya, who are following in the footsteps of their parents: with the former teaching in the Department of Agricultural Economics in the Faculty of Agriculture, University of Peradeniya and the latter, in the Department of Community Medicine at the University of Jaffna.

(I wish to thank the following who assisted me in the writing of this brief essay: Mr. Bandula Warnakulasuriya, Emeritus Professor Ratnayake Bandara, Professor Mahinda Wickramaratne, Professor Swarna Wimalasiri and Mr. Manik de Silva).

*Editor’s note: Prof. Vijaya Kumar, a member of the NPP’s National Executive Committee and is still active in politics turns 84 today. This article by Tissa Jayatilaka, former Executive Director of the United States – Sri Lanka Fulbright Commission for Mutual Academic Exchange, was written for an upcoming collection of essays on Kumar’s life by his friends.

(Colombo Telegraph)

By Tissa Jayatilaka

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