Duncan White, and the returned Trinity Lion

 

Duncan White, and the Returned Trinity Lion

For the 125^th anniversary of Trinity College, Kandy, The Old Boys Association published a 135-page commemorative volume titled Memories of Trinity, containing short pieces written mainly by old boys. Consisting mostly of humorous anecdotes about teachers and students, the volume was edited by five old boys, including Lakshman Kadiragamar, who also happened to be the President of the OBA at that time. Kadiragamar also wrote the Foreword. The cover depicted a water color painting by Stanley Kirinde of the Hantana peak seen through the college chapel.

Kadiragamar also wrote a piece titled “The school we knew” for the volume, in which he recalled the visit of Duncan White, the Olympic silver medalist, an old boy of Trinity, to the school. This was in 1948. A holiday was declared, and a general assembly was held. White walked down the school hall, to quote Kadiragamar, “dressed in his Olympic blazer and grey slacks, the silver medal around his neck … The Principal made a speech, and then, … he took from his pocket and presented to Duncan White the Trinity Athletics Lion. Duncan White was speechless, visibly moved and tearful”.

The Lion had been awarded to White in 1938, when, still a schoolboy, he had been selected to represent Ceylon at the Empire Game in Sydney. Later, the Lion had been withdrawn over a disciplinary matter. Kadiragamar wrote that “we felt the Lion in his pocket meant more to him than the medal round his neck”.

The Trinity Lion is the most prestigious award a sportsman can achieve at Trinity College, Kandy. Being a rugby school, most Lions have been awarded to rugby players. Many cricketers, too, are Lions. The very first Athletics Lion was Duncan White’s in 1938. Kadiragamar himself won the Athletics Lion in 1948; like White, he was a hurdler. He captained Trinity at cricket and also played rugby for the school.

On 4^th February, 1948, when Ceylon’s independence was proclaimed, four young men - Duncan White, Lakshman Kadiragamar, M.A.M. Sherrif and Oscar Wijesinghe - representing the Burgher, Tamil, Muslim, and Sinhalese communities, brought scrolls to Independence Square to be presented to Prime Minister D.S. Senanayake.

As for the “disciplinary matter” that nearly cost Duncan White his Lion, I have no clue.

Maris Stella College in the 1950s and 60s

 Merrick Gooneratne’s recent article on the centenary of Maris Stella College, Negombo, rekindled my memories of the school from the late 1950s and early 60s.

Maris Stella had classes from Standard Two. For lower and upper kindergarten (as they were called those days), all boys attended Ave Maria Convent, along with girls, of course. One teacher I recall is Sr. Mary Imelda, diminutive but a formidable force. As she taught, her two dogs, spoiled rotten by the children, roamed the classroom.

Maris Stella sits on the road that extends from Colombo to Chilaw, and beyond to Puttalam and Anuradhapura. Despite the heavy traffic on the road, the school displays a somewhat serene ambience because of the large, well maintained playground, and the lovely main building set some distance from the road. Two storied, with a lengthy Italianesque facade, the main building is reached along two narrow roadways lined by long, single storied classrooms. In the center, shaded by massive mara trees, is a smaller playing field - for soccer, softball cricket and gymnastics- in the 50s and 60s. These buildings, the trees, and the playing field, now a lush green, have been well preserved.

My father recalled that, during World War II, when Allied troops were stationed at the school, these mara trees were covered with camouflage nets to hide the anti-aircraft guns mounted below.

Teachers and students

My father had been at Maris Stella in the 1930s and 40s, and when I entered in 1957, some of his teachers were still there. Elias, dark, wizened, and with a tousle of grey hair, taught me in Standard 2. Capt. Jayamanne, a big man, tough as nails, had been the cadet platoon commander during my father’s time, and still was. Bro. Jonas had been in charge of sports for years. Obris, who taught English, had become the vice-principal. My father also recalled Bros. Nizier, Valentine, and Xavier, a Spaniard. Mahaboob, physical training instructor and Bro. Gerard had been his classmates. Undoubtedly, the most unusual teacher was Johannes, who taught Sinhala. The only teacher who wore a sarong to school, worn high up on the waist and held up with a broad belt, he had an owlish, scholarly air; our textbooks on Sinhala had been authored by him. Ms. Wallace, lustily playing the piano, taught us singing. Two younger teachers were Dabarera and Kurera.

One hilarious memory is that of Bro. Jonas, coaching the football team even during matches, running up and down the sidelines, grey hair and cassock flying. He was strict, liberal with the cane and slaps. Another is of Mahaboob, the PTI, in his impeccable polo shirt, pants, and tennis shoes, all in spotless white, taking us through various drills on the playground.

The principals during my time were Bros. Stanislaus and Peter, and the headmasters Bros. Nizier and Gerard.

We were living near Ave Maria Convent when I joined Maris Stella, which meant a walk of more than a mile, crossing a railway track and walking along Main Street till I reached Copra Junction along the Colombo – Chilaw road. The street is chock-a-block with shops now, but, in those days, I only passed houses with well-maintained gardens, a couple of boutiques, a dispensary and a dental clinic. A well-off classmate was driven to school and passed me on the way, but never offered me a lift.

Most students walked to school, or rode bicycles, in wave after wave. Others came by train or bus. The only person who drove was a senior student named Jayakody from Dankotuwa. This was extraordinary, when no teacher owned a car, and some rode rickety bicycles. His Peugeot 203 was parked under a mara tree while he attended classes and later stayed for football practice.

At Marist Stella, a Catholic school, most students were Catholic. But, ethnically, we were an eclectic band, marked by the Bharatha community and Burghers. The family names of schoolmates I can recall is evidence of this: Siriwardena, Jayawardena, Abeysekera, Swaminathan, Bolonghe, Salgado, Leitan, Tissera, Hettiaarachi, Jayamanne, Franke, Croos-Dabarera, Dabarera, Jayamaha, Coonghe, Aserappa, Rodrigo, Fernando, Pereira, Costa, Gomez, Mirando. Ives Swaminathan had immigrated from Mauritius, and sang French songs in a lovely voice.

 

After my brother entered Maris Stella, we were five cousins there: Roy and Lloyd Chelvaratnam, George Wambeck, George and Roy Braine. Roy C and Lloyd were in the Tamil stream. Two Georges and two Roys.

 

Latin was compulsory from the Junior School Certificate (JSC) class. All that memorizations were intimidating, so I was relieved when the requirement was taken off when I reached the JSC class. But, Latin prevailed in the daily mass conducted at the chapel, and in the hymns sung there. I recited prayers and sang those hymns, without any idea of what was being said or sung.

 

Sports

Mention Maris Stella and sports during my time, and the name that springs to mind is Melvin Mallawaratchi. Tall and good looking, with a ready smile that lit up his face, Melvin was already legendary when I entered school. Our age gap was more than 10 years, so I had no opportunity to know him personally. All I knew was that, whenever he batted, he lit up the cricket field. I, along with other schoolmates, simply hero worshipped him.

 

Home games were thronged with enthusiastic spectators. When Melvin came to bat and took his stance, a collective hush fell on the ground.  Soon, we were cheering wildly as the ball sailed over our heads, over trees, onto the main road, or sped along to the boundary in a flash. In his stride, Melvin was unstoppable.

 

In one game with St. Anthony’s College, Wattala, I watched as he scored a blistering 96 in the second innings, having scored an unbeaten century in the first.  In 1957, playing Ibbagamuwa Central, Melvin had scored 96 in only 20 minutes, which included two sixers and 18 fours.

 

Melvin’s flamboyance did not stop at cricket. He was also a champion sprinter. Maris Stella’s rival school in Negombo, St. Mary’s, had a champion sprinter named Mello. At every meet where they met, he dueled it out with Melvin in the 100-yards sprint, running neck to neck. We stood near the finish line to see Melvin triumph every time.

 

Fate can be cruel, and I eventually ended up at the receiving end of a Melvin onslaught. By 1968, I was at St. Mary’s College, Chilaw, and playing First XI cricket. An inaugural big match was planned with Maris Stella, and, a week in advance, an old boys team from Maris Stella came to play us, obviously to check us out. That morning. Before the game, I saw Melvin and another formidable Maris Stella cricketer, Gladstone Dias, in the visiting team. Knowing what was to come, I became a nervous wreck.

 

Melvin lived up to his reputation, thrashing my bowling over the rope many times. It was humiliating, and I was taken off after only four overs. Not surprisingly, I was also dropped from the team for the big match!

 

Eddie and Rukmani

By 1958, we had moved to a house across the road from Maris Stella; 120 Colombo Road, if memory serves. Now, I only had a 5-minute walk to school. It also meant that we went to Sunday service at the Maris Stella college chapel.

 

Eddie Jayamanne and Rukmani Devi, husband and wife, were at the peak of their popularity. She was the reigning queen of Sinhala cinema, and the nightingale of Sinhala music. Eddie was less flamboyant, somewhat short, with curly hair and spectacles.  He was a comedian. Even to a mere schoolboy, Rukmani’s luminous beauty and grace was overwhelming.

 

So, on Sunday morning, a two-toned Buick convertible would drive up regally, passing those majestic mara trees, Eddie at the wheel, and the couple would walk up to the chapel. They did not put on airs, and behaved just like the rest of us, sitting on the benches, singing hymns, and walking up to the altar and kneeling to receive communion. After the service, they mingled and chatted. And nobody asked for autographs!

 

I think Eddie and Rukmani were fond of Maris Stella. They attended fund raising events, like the Marist Mela carnival and a football match, which I recall vividly. Their nephew, Gamini Jayamanne, was my classmate.

 

Scouting, and a school take-over

Cousin George Wambeck and I were Cub Scouts, Wolf Cubs as they were called those days. The chip-a-job weeks were the best, because we got to roam all over Negombo and beyond, with no adult supervision. Most people treated us kindly, giving 50 cents or even a generous rupee for the odd “job” we did, and also a snack and a soft drink into the bargain.

 

One day, George and I, along with another friend, visited a relative’s house in search of a “job”. He had been drinking, and was stretched out on a hansiputuwa when we dropped-in. Thinking of having some fun with us, he assumed the role of a drill sergeant, lined us up, and put us through military “maneuvers”: attention, right turn, quick march, left turn, halt. Scouting doesn’t teach marching, and we were mere 8-year olds anyway. Our female cousins were watching from behind curtains, and we could hear the giggles. But, the man did reward us well, and also insisted that we have a meal before letting us go.

 

On another day, we walked down Temple Road to “Jaya-Ruk”, the residence of Eddie and Rukmani. But they weren’t home.

 

Perhaps the most memorable event was planned take-over of schools by the government, in 1960. The Catholic church was opposed to the move. The conflict escalated, and, as a final resort, parents of students occupied some classrooms, bringing mats and pots and pans. They cooked, ate, and slept there. They came to “defend” the school, but from whom wasn’t certain. From a new principal appointed by the government, from the police, the army?

 

Classes were suspended, and we enjoyed loitering around the school, waiting for the confrontation to take place. Eventually, the matter was resolved, but, in Negombo, only Maris Stella and Ave Maria Convent remain as private fee-levying schools.

 

When my father moved to Nattandiya for work, my brother and I travelled to school from there, by steam train. We wore khaki pith hats and carried our books and lunch in little, cardboard suitcases. Every day was an adventure. Later, when father moved to Madampe, we were boarded at Maris Stella.

 

What I recall most from the boarding is the constant hunger. We didn’t have much pocket money, so gouging at the tuck shop was not an option. On Sundays, a long line of boarders was taken for a walk, most often to the beach. Going through town, the aroma from the thosai boutiques was irresistible. Despite Bro. Raphael, an Italian, keeping a sharp eye, boys would take turns to dart into the boutiques and buying up the vadais. Our pockets would be stuffed and we salivated at the fest to come.

 

In 1962, my last year at Marist Stella, my brother and I were boarded at a home on Temple Road. Bertram Fernando, a pioneer comedian of Sinhala cinema, also lived there. Every Sunday, a card game went on for hours on the verandah around a round table. A regular attendee was Eddie Jayamanne, who drove up in his Buick convertible.

All our teachers named earlier have long departed. One by one, former classmates are also passing away. When I drive by Maris Stella and the memories come flooding in. For some, the past is a foreign country. Not for me.

Even after 60 years, the school anthem that we sang so robustly is fresh in my mind.

“All ye lads of Maris Stella proudly sing

May your voices boldly ring

Face life’s trials bravely

Act upon your motto gravely

Iter para tutum”

circa 1940 School assembly, from my late father's collection

Pandemic travels: To Sri Lanka and back

 At my age, two years is a long time to be away from the people, locations, food and the things I love. I had not seen or spent time with my sister; my favorite cousin, her husband, their son and his family; a 95-year old aunt, her children and grandchildren; my late wife’s sister, her children, and grandchild; the few close friends I still have, some quite elderly, others unwell, some both elderly and unwell. 

I missed “Pondside”, my ancestral cottage, the greenery I had carefully cultivated around it; the shrill cries of the birds, squirrels, and crickets; the croaking of frogs from the pond; the taste of mangoes, avocadoes, plantains, fresh cashew, and katu anoda from my garden; delicious meals loaded with coconut curry prepared by the caretaker Indra. I missed sitting on my verandah and watching the world go by, the con chats with distant relative Ignatius. I missed travels with Gamini, my part-time driver, chatting with him for hours as he drove. I missed the rain on the roof, the fresh water from the well. 

And people started dying. A favorite priest, a neighbor, a distant relative who called me "aiya" (elder brother), his mother, none from covid, but mainly from lack of human contact during lockdowns.

So, I planned a visit to Sri Lanka, initially in August, which had to be postponed due to severe outbreak of covid in SL. I knew it could be the most difficult of my travels; countries were changing covid regulations frequently, and I could be delayed or even stalled somewhere en route. I had read enough horror stories, about hellish quarantine regulations, for instance. At my age, carrying a supply of insulin on ice for my diabetes, air travel was always a challenge to begin with.

So, after the covid situation in Sri Lanka stabilized, I set off on October 19, having undergone a rip off (Yen30,000/Rs. 60,000) PCR test at Tokyo's Narita airport. The immigration officer affixed an "Out of the country on special re-entry permission" stamp to my passport. At that time, I didn't realize how critical this would become.

The Sri Lankan Airlines A320 had only 15 passengers, and the flight attendants, bizarrely, wore protective suits, like healthcare workers. I had received both vaccinations (Pfizer), and, upon arriving at Colombo airport, a public health inspector (PHI) checked my vaccination certificates and the negative PCR report, and, within 30 minutes, I had cleared immigration, done hurried duty free shopping, collected my bags, and caught a ride home with my nephew Charlie.

From Sri Lanka, I diligently tracked the covid situation in Japan. The infection numbers fell dramatically, to about 125 per day for a population of 125 million. (In September, the daily infection rate had risen to 25,000.) But, Japan has a new prime minister, who was acting tough on covid regulations, mainly to look better than his predecessor. He had failed miserably during the pandemic.)  So, when the Omicron variant appeared, I knew it was time to return to Japan before stricter regulations made travel impossible.

Because of high covid numbers, travelers from Sri Lanka are banned from entering Japan. But, that "special re-entry permission" stamp on my passport would allow me to get in. What a relief!

Sri Lankan Airlines charged me Rs. 100,000 for a change of travel dates (another rip off, considering I had paid about Rs. 300,000 for the fare initially), and I took a PCR test. On December 10, I played safe by going to the airport 4 hours in advance, expecting resistance from the sometimes stubborn check-in personnel, who may not accept the re-entry permission applicable to me. I may not even be allowed to board the flight.

However, that resistance did not materialize. Instead, out of the blue, Japan required travelers to access an app, respond to a pre-departure questionnaire, and obtain a QR code prior to boarding. Despite the slow Wi-Fi at the terminal, I managed to get the code.

This time, the flight to Narita had about 60 passengers. The flight attendants no longer wore protective suits. For an expensive fare, the two meals were abysmal.

Tired, bleary eyed, and bedraggled 13 hours after leaving home (4 hours at the airport, 9 hours on the flight), Narita airport looked deserted. In July and August, thousands of athletes and officials had gone through Narita for the Tokyo Olympic and Paralympic games. We were shepherded like kindergarten children through various checkpoints (at least 7, if I recall correctly), for another health questionnaire, scrutiny of pre-boarding PCR test results, a PCR test and a wait for the results, installation of an app on our phones, a signed pledge, etc. Japan drowns in bureaucracy, and the assumption is that everyone other than bureaucrats are children or perhaps idiots, who need to be held by the hand and guided at every step. 

After clearing immigration and customs, I came to the stop for the quarantine bus. I live in Sapporo, on Hokkaido island, 900 km from Tokyo. I would have to fly out of Narita/Tokyo to Sapporo taking a domestic flight, forcing me to take public transport. In Japan, during covid, this is a big NO, so I was prepared for the required 14-day quarantine. The bus brought me to my hotel, not far from the airport, where I would spend the next 15 nights. From Sri Lanka to the hotel, the time spent was 18 hours. I was exhausted.

I paid the equivalent of Rs. 400,000, without meals, for my stay.  This is a transit hotel, affiliated with a major Japanese carrier. Guests, including air crews, were checking in and out. During the weekend, the restaurants were packed. Yesterday, I saw a wedding reception. How could this also be a quarantine hotel? Is this a sham?

I was free to wander within the hotel, use the restaurants, and go out and walk around, as long as I didn't use public transport. The hotel is not in an urban area, so there was no chance of walking anywhere. But, the convenience store at the hotel was well stocked, with food and other essentials. Compared to Hong Kong, where the quarantine is for 21 days and the harsh rules are prison-like (travelers must stay in their rooms, and food is left for them at the room entrance), I had little to complain about.

An app, "My SOS", managed by the health monitoring center for overseas entrants in Japan, was installed on my phone, to monitor me. Every day, I am being asked to report my location with the "I'm here" button, my health condition with the next button, and respond to a 30-second video call to confirm my location. Considering I am at a transit hotel, the monitoring seems ridiculous. Time hangs heavy, but I'll have to be here till the 26th morning. Only two more days to go.

During the seven weeks in Sri Lanka, I managed to visit everyone on my list, and distributed cash liberally to those in need, because many are facing severe hardships. My caretaker Indra’s husband had passed away from covid four months ago, so my presence and support lowered the family’s grief somewhat. About ten of my distant relatives in the village had been infected with covid, and they were grateful for my visit and support.  I spent time with my sister, and also walked down to visit my cousin and her family. I sat on the verandah and watched the world go by. I had simple but delicious home cooked meals. With Gamini, I did many trips to Colombo to visit friends and family, chatting freely as usual. I attended his daughter’s wedding.

Despite the travel hardships, the trip was fully worth it. I am rejuvenated, and I may have cheered-up at least some people in these miserable times. All I can say is, if there is a will, there is a way.

A week ago, Sylvie "aunty", a friend of my late parents, who I have known for 60 years, passed away. Her only child hadn't visited her in a month. I visited her with my sister three weeks ago, and we shared old stories and jokes. We made her happy that day.

How many will be there when I next visit? And when will that be?

And to all my readers, be kind, be generous, and take care of each other. In Sri Lanka, perhaps the worst is yet to come.

(24 December 2021, from the Nikko Hotel in Narita)

Desmond Tutu, My Hero

The passing of Archbishop Tutu takes my mind back to 2008, when he, as the Chair of The Elders – a group of "independent global leaders working together for peace and human rights" – found fault with the Sri Lankan government for its conduct during the war with the LTTE. Subsequently, an Opinion piece appeared in the The Island, criticizing Rev. Tutu. According to the writer, "fighting a terrorist group is violence" for Rev. Tutu. Further, Tutu had not spoken a word against Zimbabwe's human rights violations, nor against the Western invasion of Iraq.

In my response, I stated that these outrageous statements regarding Rev. Tutu made me cringe. I further stated that, in a Sri Lanka that was becoming increasingly self-centered, where freedom of information is severely curtailed, where journalists critical of the government are often assaulted or killed, we need to maintain at least a semblance of right from wrong. We need, at least occasionally, to be open-minded and self-critical. We need to speak-up.

I also presented the following facts. Rev. Tutu was a social and political activist who rose to fame during the 1980s as a non-violent opponent of Apartheid. At the time of my writing, he was primate of the Anglican Church of Southern Africa. He had received the Nobel Peace Prize in 1984 [when it meant something],the Albert Schweitzer Prize for Humanitarianism, and, up to that year, more than 40 honorary doctorates (yet does not use the prefix Dr.). In February 2007, he was awarded the Gandhi Peace Prize by the President of India. Tutu was widely regarded as "South Africa's moral conscience".

I reminded my readers that, as for Zimbabwe, Rev. Tutu has been critical of the human rights abuses there, as well as the South African government's failed policy of quiet diplomacy towards Zimbabwe. He had called  Robert Mugabe, the autocratic, murderous leader of Zimbabwe, "a cartoon figure of an archetypal African dictator". To quote Rev. Tutu further, "We Africans should hang our heads in shame. How can what is happening in Zimbabwe elicit hardly a word of concern let alone condemnation from us leaders of Africa? Do we really care about human rights, do we care that people of flesh and blood, fellow Africans, are being treated like rubbish?"

I went onto state that Rev. Tutu has been equally outspoken about the invasion of Iraq.  In January 2003, he had attacked British Prime Minister Blair's support of  President  Bush on Iraq. Rev. Tutu asked why Iraq was being singled out when Europe, India and Pakistan also had weapons of mass destruction. According to Rev. Tutu, "Many, many of us are deeply saddened to see a great country such as the United States aided and abetted extraordinarily by Britain".  Rev. Tutu has also been a vociferous critic of the Guantanamo Bay detentions.

Later in 2008, I travelled to Cape Town to attend an academic conference. The government was in the hands of the African National Congress (ANC), and the leadership was (and remains) Black. They appeared to be highly corrupt. In 2004, Rev. Tutu had accused President Thabo Mbeki, who had succeeded Nelson Mandela as President, of enriching a tiny elite while “many, too many, of our people live in grueling, demeaning, dehumanizing poverty.” The utterly incompetent Mbeki’s term was ending, and Jacob Zuma was next in line for President. Zuma had been accused of rape and embezzlement of $3 billion. (He is finally in jail now.)

I read that annually, 500,000 women are raped in South Africa (these are only the cases that are reported) and 4 women die every day at the hands of their spouses or partners. The newspapers were full of letters to the editor, complaining incessantly about the deterioration in the living standards, corruption, and crime.

Yet, except for Desmond Tutu, no Black leader appeared to be critical of the falling standards. While Zimbabwe, South Africa’s neighbor, descended into hell (an outbreak of cholera, in addition to a soaring inflation, famine, and a breakdown in law and order), hardly anyone else in Africa spoke-up.

Even more disappointing was the silence of Nelson Mandela. He was over 90 during my visit, somewhat feeble, and did not make speeches, but even a short written statement from him would have had an impact. A South African academic, who faced discrimination under Apartheid, told me that Mandela’s silence was a puzzling to many locals.  

During my time in Cape Town, I made the obligatory tour of Robben Island, where Mandela had been imprisoned. But, to my eternal regret, I did not pay a visit to Rev. Tutu, to thank him for his stand on Sri Lanka, and, on bended knees, to seek his blessings.

Desmond Tutu is known for his impish humor, uproarious laughter, or unashamed weeping, as when he chaired the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and was overcome with emotion. In keeping with his request, he lay in state in the cheapest coffin available, with a simple wreath of carnations on top.

Now, there is no Desmond Tutu to sound a moral conscience. He was open minded and self-critical, saw right from wrong, and spoke-up. Since his passing, I have felt a sadness and emptiness that is hard to explain. In a world lurching towards oppression and totalitarianism, when his voice is most needed, Rev. Tutu is gone. We may never see the like of him again.

I can go on, but I’ll conclude with one of Rev. Tutu’s best known quotes: “When the missionaries came to Africa they had the Bible and we had the land. They said ‘Let us pray.’ We closed our eyes. When we opened them we had the Bible and they had the land.”