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Starting my nursing training in beautiful Birmingham

Published

3 years ago

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Excerpted from Memories that linger….

by Padmani Mendis
Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder
(Continued from last week)

There are some who knew Birmingham in the 1950s who would be amused to hear me say that Birmingham was beautiful. It was in physical appearance faded, dull and uninteresting. It was as devoid of culture as it was of green public spaces. It was the second largest city in the UK but it had not been bombed during World War II. As a result, no urgent rebuilding and accompanying redesigning had been called for.

The city stood as it had stood for decades before, spewing smoke from its many factories as the industrial heartland of England. That smoke, spreading out to rest on the many buildings in this congested location, and on the few trees that lay in its path, gave Birmingham a “forever grey” look. After I left Birmingham more than five years later, that look would go. Smoke-free fuel and modern design and architecture would invade. Birmingham would change with my departure and be truly beautiful to the eye.

My use of the adjective “beautiful” describes the city for the full and fulfilling life that it gave me during those five years and four months. The adjective “beautiful” I use to describe the inner heart of the city, deep within its deceptive exterior. It describes the people, their warmth, their friendliness and their unlimited kindness and the resulting impact those had on me. I do believe that much of these experiences lay with the fact that I was one of the first dark faces to be seen in the city.

Later, as with its appearance, so did these beautiful qualities of friendliness and kindness go into reverse gear. After I left, as well as architectural change, racial and ethnic tensions emerged. The Asian and Caribbean invasion had begun. Had I stayed much longer I would not have been able to describe Birmingham as being “beautiful”.

The journey to Birmingham is hazy in my mind. My brother Shatir had spent the night with Emdee in Holland Park. He had come to his bed-sit where I was by taxi and taken me to Paddington in time to catch the Dawn Express. But before we left the room he lifted his mattress and took out a hidden five-pound note which he would use to take me to Birmingham.

A Novice in a Hospital

The rest of the day, 64 years ago I recall as if it were yesterday. Here we were, Shatir and I, standing in the Matron’s office at the Royal Orthopaedic Hospital, or ROH, Northfield, in South Birmingham. Matron Galbraith was a buxom woman and one that looked formidable, sitting at her desk in her deep blue uniform and white flowing cap. This is the first I had seen of a hospital matron. I learned later that the Matron is the boss of the whole hospital. She ran the hospital and all its staff were answerable to her. The doctors looked after their medical responsibilities. They dared not venture beyond that. The hospital was the Matron’s business.

Without even knowing all that, I could not help but see that in her demeanour as she got up from her seat to come forward and welcome us. “Oh”, she said to Shatir, “You must be this young lady’s brother.” My mother had informed her before that he would bring me to the hospital, how and when. She was expecting us. “Well you can go back to London now. We will look after your sister.” I noticed she dare not say my name. Later she would ask me to pronounce it to her many times and learned to say “Wijeyesekera” quite well.

That desolate feeling I had in the pit of my stomach I neither felt before nor since. I was to be all alone in this strange place with these strange, unfriendly looking people. That I was petrified is too mild a word to use. My brother looked at me and turned to leave the room. Wanting to do that without delay I guess before either of us got too emotional.

As he left the room I ran after him and asked him for his pen. In the middle of all this I remembered that I had forgotten to bring a pen. What would I register my name with if I had to?

Matron was a professional through and through. No time wasted on smiles and trivialities. She called her secretary and asked her to take me to “Miss Burr” in the Nursing School. So the lady did, chatting as we went, feeling for my discomfort and trying to make me feel at home. Miss Burr was the Principal of the Nursing School of the ROH. As we were introduced she smiled in greeting, asked about my journey and whether, “my brother was on his way back to London”. It seemed that they had all been informed of the arrangements.

Miss Burr appeared to be much more pleasant than Matron, I thought. But later, after I had been in her awesome presence more than a couple of times, I found that Matron was an extremely kind and concerned sort of person. I think she had developed this exterior to go with her job.

How it Was in the School of Nursing

Before I knew it, I was standing in a classroom meeting a group of young women dressed in nurses’ uniforms – caps and all. I was in my saree selected specially for this day. The thought came to me that soon I would be just like one of them. The Nursing Course had really started on 20 October. I was a day late to join these young women who would soon be my colleagues and many of them later my friends. Some of us would be together for two years, while some of us would be together for another three. And a few of us still remain friends. Miss Burr then called out to “Nurse Turner” and “Nurse Smith”. A blonde and a brunette with shiny faces, both rather pretty, stood up.

She continued, “Could the two of you take Nurse Wijeyesekera to Mrs. McIntyre in the sewing room now? She is waiting for you and she will fit Nurse Wijeyesekera with her uniform, apron and cap. Then in the afternoon would you take her in to the city and show her where she could purchase her shoes and stockings and any other things that she may like? Don’t forget her tie-pins.” These would be required to hold my apron onto my uniform. The uniform was a pin-stripe in blue and white. Subdued as a nurse’s dress should be.

Off we went to the sewing room. Everybody called her Mrs. Mac it seemed, except the formal Miss Burr. She took all the measurements she required and then said to me, “Come in an hour dear and we will have all these ready for you.”

My response was the typical Ceylonese one – a shaking of the head from side to side to say yes. But in that part of the world this movement is taken as a no. So she said, “Oh she can’t understand English. Isn’t she lovlay?” That is how she said the word lovely in her “Brummie” for Birmingham, accent, At which Val and Jane took cover to hide their giggles. I was probably the first brown face that Mrs. Mac had seen. Also, the first saree for that matter. And it surely would have been so with many of my colleagues at the school and others around the hospital.

While we were being introduced in the classroom Miss Burr took care to point out to me that Lyda and Mahin both came from Persia and Barbara from Jamaica. I noticed that the two Persians were light skinned. So was Barbara because, she told me later, her father had Scottish ancestry and she had his skin colour. So I was the only one with a dark skin.

But then in Birmingham it mattered not at all. Except when, as I will share later, the dark skin was admired and liked and I was the beneficiary of special attention and kindness tinged with a distinct touch of favouritism.

Miss Burr had told us that it was the first time the hospital had accepted young ladies from foreign countries as student nurses. She said that both she and the hospital were happy to have us. She hoped we would be happy at “Woodlands”, as the ROH was referred to fondly.

Making Friends

It was Val Turner and Jane Smith of course who would show me the ways of being a student nurse at Woodlands. We would remain close friends for the rest of our training. What amazes me to this day, however, is that the four of us who had come from lands far away bonded with no delay. Before long the four of us would be inseparable. Lyda has now passed on. Mahin and Barbara and I still communicate frequently. More frequently now. Because earlier it had to be “Skype”. Now “WhatsApp” makes it so much easier. That is not to say that we do not communicate with the British friends we made during those early days in Birmingham. We do. But that special bond the three of us made in Birmingham, not forgetting Lyda, still holds firm. I will come back to them again when I share with you my journey in Jamaica thirty years or so later.

The difficulty of saying my name was too much. So my colleagues soon asked if they could shorten it to – guess what – Padi, just as I was called back home. From my first day at Woodlands as a student I was officially “Nurse’ and soon “Nurse Padi” to all who had to use my name, including the staff and patients at the ROH.

I was a Nurse. I had made a temporary stopover on my way to becoming a physiotherapist. More than that, I had entered the World of Disability. I had started on my life’s journey.

On being a Nurse

The next two years as a student nurse was the most intensive learning period of my life. Real life lessons to teach me to be the human being I wanted to be. Being a nurse in a hospital for disabled people as I was, taught me soon enough that my life’s learning until now was largely background. That background learning was the preliminary which pushed me forward. Pushed me into the practice of acquiring learning and that would take me to the core of knowing what I wanted to be and how to be that person.

Being a nurse to others would teach me to reach the depths of my humanity so that I could reach the depths of another’s distress. To learn the value of the life of each human being as she or he saw it; and the value of working with others at all times so that the person who was in need of care always had of the best. And I gobbled all this learning and put it into practice with a constant hunger for more. This is partly from whence came my enjoyment of being a nurse. And of being with disabled people.

Experiences of a Ward Nurse

After the preliminary two months in the school-learning the basic theory and practice of nursing, we went to work in the wards. I was to start in ward twelve, a long-stay ward for females. I can’t help thinking that Matron would have had me placed here. She would quite likely have thought that starting with old ladies was better for me than starting off with the men.

Sister Taylor, the ward sister, was young and active and brought to the ward the brightness and energy that it needed, as the ladies on long-stay were elderly or old. Most had fractured or arthritic hips that kept them in bed sometimes for six months or more, or even for the rest of their lives. Some had surgery to enable them to get out of bed sooner than others. Others had joint conditions about which nothing could be done. A few had had strokes as a result of which they could neither speak nor walk. Many of these patients would be bedridden forever. Many slept for the greater part of the day.

Mrs. Miller was one of these. She was 96 years old, had a broken hip about which nothing could be done, hardly communicated and spent most of the day sleeping. In keeping with her situation, she had a room to herself. She would not, or could not, cooperate with the nurses. This made nursing care very difficult. Yet she needed total care. She was reputed to be, “the most difficult patient in the ward”.

Sister Taylor soon found out how best she could use me. It was customary that, as soon as the lunch trolley was brought from the kitchen, Sister, with all the nurses walking alongside, would push the trolley along, she herself serving each patient’s portion on to a plate. A nurse would take that meal to a patient. When her trolley came to Mrs. Miller’s room she would call out, “Nurse Padi.” At this call I would have to emerge. With not another word she would hand the plate to me.

Feeding Mrs. Miller was no easy task. “Mrs. Miller, here is a spoonful. Open your mouth… Mrs. Miller, open your mouth,” I would repeat over and over again. Mrs. Miller would at last decide that she would. She would take in a few mouthfuls. And then, just as I said to myself, “Thank goodness she is cooperating today,” with no warning, Mrs. Miller would spit all the food she had accumulated in her mouth out at me.For a 96-year-old her aim was pretty good. My friends back home called me “a born optimist” and I was one now. Each day I thought I had learned to duck the volley. But then Mrs. Miller would cotton on to that and make sure to take better aim the next time. It became a game between us. Or rather, a competition.

Fernao Godhino

During my three months on Ward Six I made a special friend. His name was Fernao Godhino. He was 16 years old and had come all the way from Lisbon, Portugal to have his legs lengthened. Fernao was very short and he wanted to be closer to the height of other young boys of his age. We had an Orthopaedic Surgeon at the ROH who was world renowned for his success at doing this. I never saw Fernao standing up because he was confined to bed both when I arrived in the ward and three months later when I left it. Bill Scrase, the surgeon had already operated on Fernao.

The surgeon had cut across the tibia and fibula which are bones in the calf region of each leg. A machine was placed on the bed alongside Fernao’s legs. Each leg had fixed to it at the broken ends of the bones, two pins, each with a screw. The pins were connected to the machine in a way that a turn of a screw would move the ends of the bones on that leg apart. Sister had the task of turning the screws on each leg on alternate days. She was very fond of Fernao and carried out this task as gently as she could. But as you can imagine, every turn of the screw was sheer agony to Fernao. He would scream in pain. His screams touched all of us. His determination earned our respect and our love, staff and patients alike.

In me it seemed as though Fernao had found a soul-mate. Me away from home as he was. Much of the little free time I had was spent at his bed-side. We would talk about his home and mine. We would even sing softly together common songs that we both knew. But as this closeness grew so did a problem arise. Fernao started to tease me. It was like my brothers back home. He would tease me about me missing my home and family, about me never going back to see them and so on.

One day this was more than I could take. When he started to tease me, I asked him to stop. When he did not, my tears just flowed over. I just wept buckets. Perhaps I was weeping for both of us. What were the two of us doing here? Sister heard the rumpus. She came out of her office to put her arm around me and admonish Fernao. He was in the dog-house for the rest of the day. But the next day Fernao and I were friends. Fernao never teased me again.

Fernao, who to me seemed to be a youth like any other youth and no shorter than any other, has remained in my memory since then. Just like those others from my past who live in my memory. About two years ago I thought that it would be so good if I could speak with Fernao again. So I went to my computer and Googled “Godhino” in Lisbon.

There were a few popping up. I picked one who had made available his contact e-mail. I wrote to him about the Fernao Godhino I knew in Birmingham. “Do you by any chance know of him?” I asked. I got no response. I could not find Fernao again.

(To be continued)


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Features

We banned phone; we kept surveillance; teenagers noticed

Published

18 hours ago

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2026/04/1

By

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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Features

A Buddhist perspective on ageing and decay

Published

18 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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Features

Partnering India without dependence

Published

2 days ago

on

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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