Opposite the Nattandiya railway station, between the Buddhist temple and the Milk Board collection center, is a narrow road that winds down out of sight. I believe it used to be called the Gansabawa Road, but my memory may be wrong here. In 1960, my father served as the superintendent of a small coconut estate about a mile from the station along this road.
Ratmalewewa Estate wasn’t large--it must have been a little over one hundred acres during those days, and it was split into two by the road. For a child growing up in rural Ceylon, the estate and the life surrounding it held many memories.
Not much traffic passed down the road. There was no bus service and cars were infrequent. Lorries loaded with coconut husks, transporting them from estates down the road to coir mills further afield, passed occasionally. The most frequent sight were bullock carts carrying raw coconuts or thatch, their slow clop clop interrupted by carters’ occasional shout, urging the bulls to hurry along.
We lived in a large whitewashed bungalow a few yards from the road. The roof was thatch, the walls were of clay, and there was no electricity or water service. A long, uncovered verandah faced the road and to a side was father’s office. The kitchen was a separate structure parallel to the house connected by a corridor, forming a sort of “meda midula” where my brother Roy and I played frequently.
Because the roof was low and thatched, the house was in semi-darkness all day. But it was also cool, a welcome relief from the scorching heat of the day. Not that we ever complained about the weather, except when it rained and we were not allowed to play outside. By about six o’clock every evening, the lamps would be lit. In the living room, the bright Aladdin lamp was suspended in its bracket hung from the roof. In other rooms, we had smaller lamps, with brass bases and bright chimneys that would be soon covered with soot. Insects of all types would hover around the lamps, many falling in to the flame to be scorched.
Dinner was always early. The forbidding darkness loomed from all sides and the radio with its music and the news broadcast provided the only distraction. After dinner, the night watchmen (the watchers, as they were called) would drop by for a chat with my father. They would sit in the verandah, the watchers on the steps leading to front yard and father lounging on an easy chair, and lazily discuss the events of the day, the local gossip, and life in general. Roy and I would listen to the talk, joining in occasionally but mostly absorbing the grown-ups’ ideas and local gossip. Before long, the lamps would be extinguished and we would be tucked into bed.
Roy and I studied at Maris Stella College in those days, a good twenty miles away by train. Every morning, we would be taken to the railway station by bullock cart. School began early, around 7.30 am, so we had to leave home with the morning light. The bullock cart that took us to the railway station would arrive early, and we would sleepily climb into the cart, dressed in white shirts and blue shorts, carrying a small suitcase filled with books and wearing a khaki pith helmet.
We took the office train to school. The train started in Chilaw and picked up school children and office workers in Kakkapalliya, Madampe, and Walahapitiya before it reached Nattandiya. We would stand on the curving platform in front of the signalman’s box, in which we could see the signalman standing behind a line of controls. We would hear the whistle of the steam engine long before we saw it. The sound would also send the signalman into a frenzy, pulling or releasing various controls using all his strength.
The train would stream into the station, pulled by a sooty engine belching smoke. The engine driver would be leaning out of the cab holding out the “tablet” for the stationmaster. We could see the fireman, stripped to the waist and covered in grime and sweat, shoveling coal to the engine. Despite the crowd, we always found seats. Leaning out of the carriage to watch the passing scenery, we would invariably get coal dust in our eyes.
When we returned to Nattandiya in the afternoon, the cart would be waiting at the station. The journey home was always more interesting than the one to the station in the morning. If the carter was in a good mood, we would be allowed be given the reins and allowed to drive the cart. The narrow road went over the bund of a village tank and Roy found the various storks and waterfowl irresistible. He never gave up trying to catch one, jumping off the cart almost every day to chase a bird into the bushes.
In those days, my mother worked at the Negombo hospital and would also travel by train. She would return from work late in the afternoon, so father would take me and Roy to the station to meet her. We would park the car across from the railway station, watching engines shunting goods wagons. The engines bore the names of former Governors such as Sir Edward Barnes and Sir Hercules Robinson, if my memory is accurate. On one memorable afternoon, father persuaded an engine driver to lift us onto the floor plate and peer into the firebox.
The weekends were the most interesting. The laborers would line-up on Saturday morning in front of the bungalow for roll-call (muster) and to be allocated work for the day. We missed witnessing it on weekdays because we were off at school. Roy and I would wonder the estate, following groups of laborers and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. I remember a disused “gal wala” (rock quarry) especially well. It was in the middle of the estate, with a pool of green water at the bottom. Although we were under orders to never enter the quarry alone, we would occasionally do so, scattering polecats and monitor lizards as we descended the quarry. Around noon on Saturday, the laborers would return to the bungalow to be paid, lining up for their names to be called.
Sundays began with church. Before father bought a Morris Minor, we would go to church by a bullock cart, dressed in our Sunday best. We would clop clop along the Gansabawa Road, turn left at the Bo tree on Marawila-Kuliyapitiya Road, cross the Dutch Canal and enter the spacious church grounds on the right. On the way, we would see and often pass other churchgoers in their bullock carts.
Among the churchgoers was the local MP at the time, Sir Alfred F. Peiris. I believe he was also the Speaker of Parliament at the time. He and his family occupied the same pew every Sunday. Simple and unassuming, Sir Alfred would linger after service for a chat with parishioners. I was awed at his presence; father always wished him a Good Morning.
The most memorable character at Ratmalwewa Estate was Charlis hewerala, the senior watcher. Charlis, with his walrus mustache, graying hair tied at the back in a little knot, his sarong half-raised and tucked at knee-level, was a common sight around the bungalow. He would be present at muster in the morning, run various errands for father at all times of the day, and, during his evening rounds, drop by for a chat with father. Despite his forbidding appearance, he was a kindly man, patiently answering our endless questions and guiding Roy and me as we explored the estate. Charlis was the natural leader of the laborers. During Sinhala New Year, when the laborers put-on a musical and dance performance, Charlis hewarala sang numerous Nadagam songs from Tower Hall musicals. Seated on mats laid on the ground, lit by a few Petromax lamps, Charlis played the keyboards and sang late into the night while one of his sons pumped away at the organ.
Father served at Ratmalwewa for only a year. The only tangible evidence of our stay there is the farewell group photograph taken at his departure, in which our family and the laborers pose stiffly in the front-yard. I sometimes wonder what the estate and the Gansabawa Road looks like now. Although I drive through Nattandiya occasionally on the way to Chilaw, I prefer to live with my memories from the 60’s. The changes may be difficult to accept.
Ratmalewewa Estate wasn’t large--it must have been a little over one hundred acres during those days, and it was split into two by the road. For a child growing up in rural Ceylon, the estate and the life surrounding it held many memories.
Not much traffic passed down the road. There was no bus service and cars were infrequent. Lorries loaded with coconut husks, transporting them from estates down the road to coir mills further afield, passed occasionally. The most frequent sight were bullock carts carrying raw coconuts or thatch, their slow clop clop interrupted by carters’ occasional shout, urging the bulls to hurry along.
We lived in a large whitewashed bungalow a few yards from the road. The roof was thatch, the walls were of clay, and there was no electricity or water service. A long, uncovered verandah faced the road and to a side was father’s office. The kitchen was a separate structure parallel to the house connected by a corridor, forming a sort of “meda midula” where my brother Roy and I played frequently.
Because the roof was low and thatched, the house was in semi-darkness all day. But it was also cool, a welcome relief from the scorching heat of the day. Not that we ever complained about the weather, except when it rained and we were not allowed to play outside. By about six o’clock every evening, the lamps would be lit. In the living room, the bright Aladdin lamp was suspended in its bracket hung from the roof. In other rooms, we had smaller lamps, with brass bases and bright chimneys that would be soon covered with soot. Insects of all types would hover around the lamps, many falling in to the flame to be scorched.
Dinner was always early. The forbidding darkness loomed from all sides and the radio with its music and the news broadcast provided the only distraction. After dinner, the night watchmen (the watchers, as they were called) would drop by for a chat with my father. They would sit in the verandah, the watchers on the steps leading to front yard and father lounging on an easy chair, and lazily discuss the events of the day, the local gossip, and life in general. Roy and I would listen to the talk, joining in occasionally but mostly absorbing the grown-ups’ ideas and local gossip. Before long, the lamps would be extinguished and we would be tucked into bed.
Roy and I studied at Maris Stella College in those days, a good twenty miles away by train. Every morning, we would be taken to the railway station by bullock cart. School began early, around 7.30 am, so we had to leave home with the morning light. The bullock cart that took us to the railway station would arrive early, and we would sleepily climb into the cart, dressed in white shirts and blue shorts, carrying a small suitcase filled with books and wearing a khaki pith helmet.
We took the office train to school. The train started in Chilaw and picked up school children and office workers in Kakkapalliya, Madampe, and Walahapitiya before it reached Nattandiya. We would stand on the curving platform in front of the signalman’s box, in which we could see the signalman standing behind a line of controls. We would hear the whistle of the steam engine long before we saw it. The sound would also send the signalman into a frenzy, pulling or releasing various controls using all his strength.
The train would stream into the station, pulled by a sooty engine belching smoke. The engine driver would be leaning out of the cab holding out the “tablet” for the stationmaster. We could see the fireman, stripped to the waist and covered in grime and sweat, shoveling coal to the engine. Despite the crowd, we always found seats. Leaning out of the carriage to watch the passing scenery, we would invariably get coal dust in our eyes.
When we returned to Nattandiya in the afternoon, the cart would be waiting at the station. The journey home was always more interesting than the one to the station in the morning. If the carter was in a good mood, we would be allowed be given the reins and allowed to drive the cart. The narrow road went over the bund of a village tank and Roy found the various storks and waterfowl irresistible. He never gave up trying to catch one, jumping off the cart almost every day to chase a bird into the bushes.
In those days, my mother worked at the Negombo hospital and would also travel by train. She would return from work late in the afternoon, so father would take me and Roy to the station to meet her. We would park the car across from the railway station, watching engines shunting goods wagons. The engines bore the names of former Governors such as Sir Edward Barnes and Sir Hercules Robinson, if my memory is accurate. On one memorable afternoon, father persuaded an engine driver to lift us onto the floor plate and peer into the firebox.
The weekends were the most interesting. The laborers would line-up on Saturday morning in front of the bungalow for roll-call (muster) and to be allocated work for the day. We missed witnessing it on weekdays because we were off at school. Roy and I would wonder the estate, following groups of laborers and generally making a nuisance of ourselves. I remember a disused “gal wala” (rock quarry) especially well. It was in the middle of the estate, with a pool of green water at the bottom. Although we were under orders to never enter the quarry alone, we would occasionally do so, scattering polecats and monitor lizards as we descended the quarry. Around noon on Saturday, the laborers would return to the bungalow to be paid, lining up for their names to be called.
Sundays began with church. Before father bought a Morris Minor, we would go to church by a bullock cart, dressed in our Sunday best. We would clop clop along the Gansabawa Road, turn left at the Bo tree on Marawila-Kuliyapitiya Road, cross the Dutch Canal and enter the spacious church grounds on the right. On the way, we would see and often pass other churchgoers in their bullock carts.
Among the churchgoers was the local MP at the time, Sir Alfred F. Peiris. I believe he was also the Speaker of Parliament at the time. He and his family occupied the same pew every Sunday. Simple and unassuming, Sir Alfred would linger after service for a chat with parishioners. I was awed at his presence; father always wished him a Good Morning.
The most memorable character at Ratmalwewa Estate was Charlis hewerala, the senior watcher. Charlis, with his walrus mustache, graying hair tied at the back in a little knot, his sarong half-raised and tucked at knee-level, was a common sight around the bungalow. He would be present at muster in the morning, run various errands for father at all times of the day, and, during his evening rounds, drop by for a chat with father. Despite his forbidding appearance, he was a kindly man, patiently answering our endless questions and guiding Roy and me as we explored the estate. Charlis was the natural leader of the laborers. During Sinhala New Year, when the laborers put-on a musical and dance performance, Charlis hewarala sang numerous Nadagam songs from Tower Hall musicals. Seated on mats laid on the ground, lit by a few Petromax lamps, Charlis played the keyboards and sang late into the night while one of his sons pumped away at the organ.
Father served at Ratmalwewa for only a year. The only tangible evidence of our stay there is the farewell group photograph taken at his departure, in which our family and the laborers pose stiffly in the front-yard. I sometimes wonder what the estate and the Gansabawa Road looks like now. Although I drive through Nattandiya occasionally on the way to Chilaw, I prefer to live with my memories from the 60’s. The changes may be difficult to accept.
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