Features
Discovering Ehelepola’s tomb in Mauritius
by Capt. Elmo Jayawardena
The SIA jumbo turned for the final approach on Plaisance International Airport. The night was cloudy and listless, the sky was demanding with a stratocumulus overcast. There was moderate rain over the airfield. My copilot who was flying the aeroplane was an experienced operator and he landed the big Boeing 747 with professional skill that received applause from the passengers.
We taxied and parked in front of the terminal. It was almost midnight; I’ve arrived in the island of Mauritius, not merely as a pilot but to start another one of my wild goose chases.This one was a peach. I was going to look for Ehelepola’s grave. The first Prime Minister of the last King of Kandy, who I read somewhere, was buried in the island of Mauritius.
The story of Ehelepola is a tragedy that Lankans are familiar with. King Sri Wickrema Rajasinghe beheaded the sons and ordered the mother to kill the baby in a mortar by pounding the infant with a pestle. He then drowned Kumarihamy in the Bogambara Lake. All this was done in retaliation to Ehelepola joining the British against the King.
I am no scholar nor historian, just a very ordinary aeroplane driver, or perhaps may be a wild goose chase man. Hence I’ll leave the historical details to those who know better and get on with my chase.The only knowledge I had was that the grave was in a place called Pamplemousse. I thought that Pamplemousse was a place like our Kanatte cemetery and all I needed was to walk around and find the grave. A simple enough task for a lazy morning.
The little conversation I had with the hotel staff convinced me that the search was not going to be easy. My idea of looking for a grave in Pamplemousse was instantly laughed into extinction by the receptionist. Pamplemousse was an area bigger than Colombo, and it had so many cemeteries, and nobody ever heard anything about any Ehelepola, let alone where he was buried. Now things were getting a bit complicated, and I love complications.
Out through the door, into the first taxi and “take me to Pamplemousse” I said to the driver who came out of a yawn. We had the usual bargain for the price, which is more traditional than a necessity, and I let him win. His Cambric shirt and coral bead necklace gave him a left over “flower child” look and the way he crashed his gears and shot out of the palm lined driveway left me in no doubt that I had found my Man Friday to chase rainbows.It was a bright morning, a typical Southern Hemispheric Spring with an Azure blue African Sky. One must have something to do; even if it is something totally stupid like looking for a long forgotten grave in a totally unknown place called Pamplemousse.
Mauritius is a beautiful place especially in the mornings. The air is crisp and clean and the wind has a gentle blowing, the kind that soothes the soul. Pamplemousse was an hour away and I settled to enjoy the scenic pleasantness of the passing landscape and the limited conversation of the driver, who spoke halting English. He of course was totally clueless about cemeteries and Ehelepolas.
Off we went, the minor Fangio flower-child and me – he with his Great Gatsby cap, Walrus moustache, perhaps with thoughts wondering who this passenger fool was, and me in silent contemplation with my hopes on graves hitting cloud nine. Shortly after 10 a.m. we reached Pamplemousse. A cup of tea in a little café, and inquiries as to where the nearest cemetery was and off we went, the driver and I. By now he was my co-wild goose chaser, he voluntarily joined the idiot team, first as a driver, then as an interpreter and quickly got promoted to comrade moonbeam catcher.
The first cemetery was five minutes away. I was out of the car in a flash and walking in the paths between the dead and buried, looking for Ehelepola. Most names were French and it didn’t take me long to traverse the length and breadth and eliminate this cemetery from my agenda. Back to the car, a little conversation with some cemetery visitors (by now my driver was doing yeoman service in the translations) and off we went to cemetery number two, in a place called Pamplemousse alias wild goose country.
The day wore on, and the cemetery numbers were fast approaching the two digits. I was going on without any concession to sanity. The grave searching keenness in my partner was slowly dwindling down and becoming contagious. The sun was up and was beating the hell out of our enthusiasm. Cluelessly walking among the dead, searching for something not even knowing what I am searching definitely added its weightage to the hopelessness of the situation. By now my soul partner had concluded that I had butterflies in my brain box and was content to let me do the walking and watch from the limited comfort of his Morris Oxford.

Only the stubbornness in me kept me going or rather the mule in me. Mule sounds better than donkey – one must take certain liberties of elevation when referring to oneself. A lot of tea, a lot of cafes, a lot of inquiries and a lot of cemeteries later, I gave up. My partner was delighted, and I was, well what can I say, I guess I was disappointed. It was past four o’clock and we had done about six hours of cemetery trudging. I had a flight to operate at two a.m. and it was time to go back to the hotel and get some sleep.
We drove back along another road through the jungle, tall trees and scrub bush. We almost missed it, yet the Gods were kind (They have been known to shed sympathy on clueless clowns like me) and I saw…no I felt…or was it premonition I don’t know, it happened so fast, the next thing I knew I was screaming at the driver to stop.
The monument was there, by the roadside, a little into the jungle, white and serene and standing by itself amidst the tall trees that stood like sentinels. This was a totally isolated place, in the middle of nowhere, a place called Power Mill Forest, Marcellemet, St. Andre, Pamplemousse. I have come to the grave of Ehelepola Wijesoondra Wickramasinghe Chandrasekara Amerakoon Wasala Modianse late First Adikar or Prime Minister to the King of Kandy. The death of death is given as April 24 and not April 4 as in English.
This is the Sinhala version of the legend on the monument. This is written with a stone of some kind. I logically deduce it was done by Ihagama Thera who was a leader of the 1817 revolt and was banished to Mauritius.
(See the book The Last Kingdom of Sinhale by the author for more details)
It was approximately a ten-foot square memorial, clean and beautiful. It had a majesty matched by a sadness. That is the way I felt. It was obvious somebody had cleaned and cared for the monument.
The whiteness gleamed in the shadows of the tall trees. The lettering was clear, one side in English and other side, in my very beloved Sinhalese. I read the epitaph in my own language and felt a strangeness that I find hard to explain. The man, the tragedy, the history, the Sinhalese words in a jungle in a far away land all combined, gave emotions that I normally do not experience.
The strangest of all was a wreath of flowers, dead and withered that lay on the white pedestal. Somebody else did come by this place and not so long ago. Perhaps a week or ten days the most. He or she was no stranger like me. This was someone who took the trouble of cleaning the grave. Someone who carried flowers and laid them for a man who died 165 years ago. Even in this far away land and remote place, someone had cared to remember.
History and folklore branded him a traitor. Yet the truth could be so very different. The English banished him to Mauritius. The English governed our destiny and wrote our history. A century and a half later, it is difficult for us to know what really the truth was. We have no intimate knowledge of the man or the events. We do not understand the reasons, the fears, the actions and the emotions that took place so long ago. We cannot presume and we should not judge.
To us, Ehelepola must not be the traitor nor the hero, but a man, who lived life with moments as bitter as a man could remember. A human being who must surely have suffered at the tragic and gruesome death of his beloved wife and children and grieved at having been banished from his home country by a power that is alien to be buried in a foreign land, not under the soft comforting earth of his beloved Lanka.
I stood before the monument with mixed feelings. Here was a man who was born to a heritage. Noble in birth equaled to the common and unknown in his death and buried in a strange land so far away from his loved ones and beloved homeland.I spent a few moments in contemplation and walked away – making a solemn promise to the man buried in this forsaken corner of the earth that I will bring his story to his country and his own people.
That night I took off from Mauritius to Singapore. A pleasant night to start a ten-hour sector. It had the peculiar beauty of an African night that appeals to aviators. Cool and clear, with a light wind as added flavour. The heavy jet roared down the limited runway and eased into a sky that was beautiful. Somebody had lavishly switched on the whole Milkyway and overhead a million tiny stars twinkled and splashed in a velvet blue midnight sky.
I sat there in the dimly lit flight deck lulled by the big jet engines thinking of the day and the events I left behind. I had come to find a grave, merely as a fancy, but I had found much more. I had found part of history, a tragic part of history that told the tale of a man accused and judged by society, long forgotten by his people buried in isolation in a scrub jungle in a place called Pamplemousse. Yet someone remembered and that someone cared, because the flowers on this grave were most certainly not the work of sympathetic angels.
My mind kept wandering back to the withered wreath of flowers. I set course and settled for the long night, and as I lost sight of Mauritius under the blanket of stars, I kept wondering who the flower bearing angel was, and would have given anything to know why the remembrance after so long.
Editor’s note: I was delighted to run this article in the Daily News where I was editor over two decades ago. Meeting the writer at his idyllic Moratuwa home a few days ago, he told me that President JR Jayewardene had called him when it first appeared and said he had enjoyed it very much, He offered Capt. Elmo the use of his library if he planned any more historical articles. Then living in Singapore, he had the call from Colombo saying the president wished to speak to him. He found it was no practical joke as he initially suspected. Elmo added that since he first wrote the story, he had learned that there were many Lankan garment workers in Mauritius and wondered whether one of them was responsible for the flowers on the tomb.
Features
Combining local resources,traditional knowledge and science to build a food-secure Sri Lanka
World Food Day 2026: Innovating today for a better food future
by Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
What will be on the Sri Lankan dinner table ten years from now? Will our children be able to get nutritious food at a price their families can afford? Will farmers be able to grow enough despite changing weather and rising costs? And how much of the food we produce will actually reach the consumer, instead of being lost or wasted along the way?
These questions can’t wait. A farmer faces unpredictable weather. A family faces rising food costs. Fruit goes unsold after a good harvest. Some children do not get enough nutrition. The future of food is tied to the future of Sri Lanka itself.
World Food Day 2026 is a chance to look beyond the immediate problems and ask whether we can build a food system that feeds our people well, gives farmers better opportunities, protects the environment and makes better use of what we already have. The answer can be yes, but we will have to think differently.
We are not starting from zero. Sri Lanka has diverse crops, fisheries, traditional food knowledge, indigenous varieties, research institutions, universities and a young generation able to create new solutions. What we need is to bring these together and act. Producing more will not secure our food future on its own. It will depend on how intelligently we produce, process, preserve, distribute and consume food.
Making more of what we already have
Innovation does not always mean inventing something new. Often it means finding better uses for the resources we have.
Sri Lanka grows traditional rice varieties, kurakkan, green gram, cowpea, jackfruit, breadfruit, cassava, sweet potato, coconut and palmyrah. All of them have great potential for modern, nutritious, value-added foods. Jackfruit and breadfruit can be made into flour and other convenient products. Traditional rice varieties can go into new foods that suit changing consumer needs. Palmyrah, with its strong cultural heritage, can create new income through better processing, packaging, quality assurance and market development.
The aim is to connect our traditional food knowledge with modern consumer needs and technology, while keeping our food heritage.
Stop wasting the food we produce
Reducing food loss and waste should be a major priority. Seasonal fruits such as mango, banana, papaya and pineapple can be lost in large quantities when production exceeds demand or when storage, transport and processing facilities are inadequate. With suitable technology, these fruits can become dried products, pulps, powders, beverages and other shelf-stable foods.
Agricultural and fisheries by-products are resources too. They could be turned into food ingredients, animal feed, bio-based products and other useful materials, which would move us toward a more circular food economy.
Technology alone is not enough. We need stronger local processing facilities, cold storage, efficient transport, collection centres and market information systems, especially close to where food is produced. Cutting food loss raises the value of what our farmers and fishers already produce.
Nutrition and food safety come first
Food security means more than having enough food. People also need food that is safe and nutritious.
Sri Lanka can develop affordable, nutritious foods from local pulses, grains, vegetables, fruits and fish. Children and other vulnerable groups should get particular attention. Schoolchildren in particular deserve a focus: safe, nutritious, locally sourced products for school feeding programs would support child nutrition, local farmers and domestic food industries at the same time.
Food safety must stay at the centre of food innovation. Good hygiene, quality control, laboratory testing, traceability and appropriate food safety systems are what make new products safe as well as attractive and nutritious.
A food system that can cope with climate change
Climate change is already affecting agricultural production, water availability, crop yields and food prices. We need food systems that can handle changing conditions. That means climate-resilient crops, efficient water use, soil and water conservation, better storage and resource-efficient food processing.
Traditional knowledge matters here. Generations of Sri Lankan farmers have developed practices suited to local climates and ecosystems. Combining that experience with modern science can give us solutions that fit local conditions and are sustainable. Technology alone will not build the future of food. Science, experience and local knowledge together can.
Give young people a bigger role
Sri Lanka’s universities have an important part to play in shaping our food future. Young people should be encouraged to identify real problems in the food system and work on practical solutions in areas such as food waste, sustainable packaging, nutrition, food safety, modernising traditional foods and digital technologies.
A good research project should not always end as a research paper. Where appropriate, research should be supported to move on to products, technologies, enterprises and community solutions. That needs stronger partnerships between universities and industry, along with mentoring, research funding, business support and market connections. If young researchers and entrepreneurs can turn their ideas into viable food innovations, both consumers and producers will benefit.
A pathway designed for Sri Lanka
We do not need to copy food-system models from other countries. We can build a pathway that suits our own resources, culture and needs. It would bring together local resources, traditional knowledge, scientific research, appropriate technology and entrepreneurship, with farmers, fishers, universities, research institutions, food industries, entrepreneurs and policymakers working side by side.
The goal goes beyond selling raw materials. We need to create more value, reduce waste, improve nutrition, generate jobs and strengthen rural livelihoods. This matters especially for small and medium-scale food enterprises, which can drive local economic development when they get the right technical, financial and market support.
The choices we make today
The food future will not create itself. It will be shaped by what we grow, what we research, what we process, what we consume and what we choose not to waste.
So, the question for World Food Day 2026 is this: what can we do today so that every Sri Lankan has safe, nutritious, affordable and sustainable food tomorrow?
The answers are already around us, in our farms, fisheries, food businesses, universities, laboratories and communities. We have the resources, the traditional knowledge, the scientific expertise and talented young people. What we need now is to connect them and act.
A better food future begins with the choices we make today.
Dr. Kaushalya Wijayasekara
Senior Lecturer, Department of Biosystems Technology, Faculty of Technology, University of Ruhuna
Features
20th Anniversary of Digampathana blast – the day Sri Lanka Navy cried
By Admiral Ravindra C Wijegunaratne
WV, RWP and Bar, RSP, VSV, USP, NI (M) (Pakistan), ndc, psn, Bsc
(Hons) (War Studies) (Karachi) MPhil (Madras)
Former Navy Commander and Former Chief of Defence Staff
Former Chairman, Trincomalee Petroleum Terminals Ltd
Former Managing Director Ceylon Petroleum Corporation
Former High Commissioner to Pakistan
The Digampathana suicide truck attack on 16th October 2006 remains the deadliest single strike in Sri Lanka Navy history, leaving scars that time cannot erase.
It was a seemingly ordinary Monday morning on 16 October 2006, but the calm of that day would soon be shattered in a way none of us could have imagined. As the Commandant of the Naval and Maritime Academy and Flag Officer Commanding Naval Fleet at Trincomalee, I was aware that a number of my cadets were travelling that morning, part of a convoy of fifteen buses carrying naval personnel from Trincomalee, Colombo, and other bases, heading toward Dambulla to rendezvous with another group. The convoy also included trucks and escort vehicles, a routine movement planned and coordinated with the army to ensure the roads were clear. The morning started quietly. Some personnel greeted friends, handed over their weapons, or strolled to a nearby tea shop. It all seemed so ordinary—too ordinary for what would come next.

Sri Lanka Navy sunk LTTE Ships carrying arms, ammunition and warlike materials thousand miles away from Sri Lanka in Indian Ocean in September and October 2007.
By late morning, both convoys had reached the small ground at Digampathana, near the Sigiriya junction, and personnel mingled briefly, unaware that a carefully orchestrated act of terror was waiting. Then, suddenly, an empty half-truck veered directly into the convoy. It exploded with a ferocity I can still recall as if it were yesterday. Nuts, bolts, and high explosives tore through the air. Pandemonium erupted instantly. I later learned that 107 of our naval personnel were killed on the spot and another 153 critically injured. The scene was indescribable—bodies scattered, vehicles mangled, personal effects strewn across the ground. I remember later hearing that the head of the suicide bomber was recovered more than 100 meters away from the blast, a grim testament to the sheer force of the explosion.
I was in my office at the Naval and Maritime Academy when my mobile phone rang. A young midshipman from the 21st intake called, his voice trembling: “Sir, there was a huge explosion at the convoy point! Many are dead … my batch mate Wijesundara is among them.” I immediately jumped into my jeep with my escort Chief Petty Officer and driver and rushed to Digampathana, relying on every ounce of my driving skill to reach the scene. The journey, which usually took little more than an hour, felt endless that day, each passing mile weighed down by dread.
When I arrived, I was confronted with a sight that no training can prepare you for. The injured were being rushed to Dambulla Hospital, where doctors and nurses worked tirelessly, improvising in ways that saved lives despite the overwhelming chaos. I went back to the site after visiting the hospital. The remains of our naval personnel were scattered across the ground, and someone had begun collecting weapons and protective gear. I immediately contacted Surgeon Rear Admiral Nico Jayasekara and received his instructions: collect all body parts in separate bags and transport them to the Trincomalee Naval Hospital mortuary. This gruesome work had to be done with care and dignity, and it filled the icebox in my vehicle. Through DNA testing initiated by Rear Admiral Nico, we were able to identify every naval personnel lost that day, bringing some closure to grieving families.
The Navy Commander at the time, Vice Admiral Wasantha Karannagoda, was devastated. I had worked closely with him and knew how deeply he cared for his men. He ensured that the fallen were honoured with full ceremonial naval funerals at Welisara Naval Base, attended by families and comrades. Sixty-seven funerals were conducted in a single day—a number that still haunts me.
The Digampathana attack remains the largest single loss of naval life in our history. It was a day of sorrow, but also a day that reinforced our resolve. The tragedy galvanized the Navy to target the LTTE Sea Tiger wing with renewed determination and reshaped our maritime operations forever. Every time I think of that day, I remember not just the lives lost, but the courage, professionalism, and dedication of those who survived, those who treated the injured, and those who ensured the fallen were honored properly. May the souls of our naval hero’s rest in peace, their sacrifice guiding us and inspiring generations of naval personnel to come.
Features
‘Murder at Whitby Abbey’
Tales of Mystery and Suspense – 24
I was intrigued by the title of a book I found in a book drop at the condominium of a friend, Murder at Whitby Abbey, and I brought it home with me though I will not be able to return it in the near future. It was described on the cover page as ‘a standout in the crowded medieval mystery field’, though I fear I do not know of other books in this field, apart from the Cadfael series, which I have dealt with earlier.
The book, by Cassandra Clark, is set during the reign of Richard II and has as a backdrop his precarious position, which led to his being replaced, and murdered, by his cousin Henry, who reigned as Henry IV. It is a gloomy book, the action taking place in the twelve days of Christmas leading up to the Epiphany. And the gloom is pervasive, even though this is supposed to be a time of festivity, with mummers performing, and many of those in the guest house where the heroine stays going to town to enjoy themselves, with much drinking and much music, which also fills the guesthouse.
The heroine Hildegarde is a nun, sent to try to acquire a relic being sold by Whitby Abbey, though this was also a penance set by the Abbot of the monastery that governed her abbess because she had had sex with a man. Soon after she and her companions reach the Abbey set high on a cliff, she finds that there are other bidders, and soon suspects that the hierarchy, not perhaps the Abbot who seems a weakling, but his rapacious bursar, is determined to make money, and not above creating false relics to sell to several aspirants.
After Hildegarde and her Cistercian companions – Whitby is a Benedictine Foundation – two monks, Gregory and Egbert, and a young priest Mark, reach the abbey, they find that Aelwyn, a monk they had met on their way to the guesthouse had died. This was in the apple store, and they realize, when they find the surplices of novices stuffed into the air vents, that he had been left to suffocate in the overwhelming scent of apples.
The Cistercians are asked to look into the death, perhaps because they are likely to get no cooperation from the Abbey folk, but perhaps because those in charge are keen to know what happened. And the infirmarer, an old monk, suggests Hildegarde talk to a man called Edred who worked for the bursar, and had been a friend of Aelwyn’s. But Edred too is killed, before he can keep an appointment he had made with Hildegarde, drowned in a pool near the farmhouse of the Abbey.
Meanwhile tensions arise between the fisherfolk and the abbey for the bursar wants to charge them for using the beach that technically belongs to the abbey to dry their fish and their nets. This leads to physical battles, when the guards used by the abbey, under the command it seems of the bursar whose determination to make money is not resisted by the abbot and the prior, try to storm the area where the fishermen live.
Hildegard finds out more about what had happened through two youngsters, one of whom Torold is the son of Aelwyn by a woman who worked as a prostitute for a cartel, and with whom Mark fell in love. The other works on the farm and had seen Edred meet someone near the pool, after which that someone left the place by himself. And the boy had also found in the pool a sort of dagger with the seal of the abbey.
He and his dog, and Torold who follows her, rescue Hildegarde from a man at arms who has waylaid her and tries to rape her earlier. Escaping into the abbey she was nearly been raped then by the bursar, but she managed to escape, in the process setting fire to him and the muniments room, which led, when he was rescued, to the discovery of a box with the money he said had been stolen, blame being cast on both Aelwyn and Edred.
Matters come to a head when the fisherfolk try to storm the abbey, being resisted by the men at arms stationed on the towers. But then Hildegarde realizes that behind the murders was the bursar’s clerk, whom she pursued to the cathedral. There is great drama then as she escapes from him when he tries to kill her, and then from the man at arms who had tried to both rape and kill her, but they both fall from the scaffolding she had climbed, the latter coming from a tower where he had been stationed.
Both of them think they run the rapacity of the abbey, the latter claiming to work for the nobles opposed to Richard, who is presented throughout the book as devoted to his subjects, not to power or money. But though the villains die, the bursar continues, having got over the hysteria the fire had caused and his acknowledgment then of guilt – and though the abbot and the prior seem less vicious, whether they will be able to assert themselves is questionable.
Before the climax, when the others in the guesthouse were leaving, Hildegarde found that two of them were in possession of the relic, for which they seem to have paid well. Hildegarde herself had made a derisory offer, but before she leaves the abbot gives her the relic, perhaps in gratitude for what she and her fellow Cistercians had discovered, the abbey having made as much money as it needed and more from the gullible other buyers.
Mark’s inamorata is saved from the stews because she moves in with Edred’s widow whom the bursar had thrown out of the rooms he occupied when her husband was found dead. Hildegarde had paid for lodgings, in a house run by the man who ran the brothels, but he had a kindly side and was going to finance them to make nets for the fishermen.
So, the Cistercians set off for their home as swiftly as they can to get there on the day of the Epiphany, having stopped en route to pray for King Richard whose birthday it was.
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