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Two
Aussies arrive in Colombo (Contd. from yesterday) About the author Chapter 3 Raj Indra watched the heat rise from the tarmac of the Ratmalana airport. It rose in visible squiggly waves, causing the narrow green backdrop of coconut palms to shimmer. This was Ceylon’s only international airport. It lay a few miles away from the island’s capital. All major airlines called here. The major shipping lines, too, made Colombo a port of call for Ceylon was at the crossroads of the West and the Orient and further on to Australia. The major daily newspapers had special harbour and airport correspondents for among those who passed through were representatives of all stations of humanity, from the drug peddling dregs who used the Southampton-Hong Kong run regularly and the colonials who were on their way home after service in the tropics or coming out to the mysterious Orient, to the more interesting personalities who would hit the headlines the following day. Divulging the reason for their visit or uttering some nugget of wisdom or dropping a sensational tidbit was the staple diet of the afternoon papers. It was always a rush. It was one of the jobs, like the morgue, given to the cub reporter - unless it was something special. Raj sat with Don, a portly photographer, bespectacled and belted, and - being an ex-army man - given the occasion, quite bellicose. It was a dull routine day, and the flight manifest indicated no one special. Raj was very much a rookie - just two months at the office of the Clarion. Sometimes he wondered why he took the job: a monastery might have suited him better with his tendency to brood on abstract issues. The habit had lent an intensity to his black eyes and the beginnings of a frown between his thick black eyebrows which nearly met in the middle. ‘A sure sign of stubbornness,’ his mother never tired of remarking, along with another sage comment about his iron stiff hair: ‘No wonder he wants to have his own way all the time!’ He pondered in silence the shimmering tarmac while awaiting the next arrival, unwittingly imbibing the patience proper to his trade. It was a Qantas flight that was due next coming in from Sydney, Melbourne and Singapore on its way to Berlin, Paris and London. In twenty minutes the plane would land. There was time for refreshments. They ordered hot, crisp pastries, freshly made sandwiches and tea from the tiny cafeteria. Don was always good company and came up with ripping good yarns. He glanced at his watch over his rimless glasses. ‘Should be here in four minutes if the buggers are on time,’ he said. They were. Half a dozen people trickled across. Don steamed into action. ‘Excuse me, Sir,’ he said addressing an elderly man most incongruously dressed for this spot on the globe and this time of day. ‘I’m from the Clarion. We make a big noise every morning. May I know what brings you to our beautiful country?’ ‘Just personal. Coming to see my son who works with a tea firm here.’ ‘Ah, that’s great. What do you think of our tea?’ Oh no, groaned Raj. Why did every interview have to begin like that? It was not Don’s business to start interviews, anyway. He was just supposed to take pictures. Ray resented his interfering bumptiousness but dared not risk his ire. Don left him and headed for a stocky red haired man burdened with two heavy suitcases. He looked like a youthful Mickey Rooney. Raj moved tentatively to him. He was always nervous at airport interviews. As he came alongside, the stranger grinned broadly. ‘G’day,’ he said. ‘Beautiful weather you got here.’ ‘Not bad,’ said Raj. ‘We’re from the Clarion. May I ask what brings you here?’ The man laughed out, a nice hearty gut laugh. ‘Look mate,’ he said, ‘I’m real small fry. You’ll get no story from me. A tall story, perhaps?’ he grinned. I’m going to like this guy, story or no story, thought Raj. ‘My name’s Raj Indra,’ he said. ‘Mine’s, Bill. Bill Wilberton. Sorry I can’t shake your paw.’ ‘Can I take a bag?’ ‘Not to worry.’ ‘You must be from Australia?’ ‘Right, from Melbourne.’ ‘Where are you putting up?’ ‘With the YCW. Bloke called Pat. He’s supposed to meet me.’ ‘I know him,’ said Raj. ‘Pat Silva. Look I’m in the YCW myself.’ ‘Fair dinkum?’ ‘Sorry?’ ‘Oh. Is that right?’ ‘That’s right. Don, meet a mate from Melbourne.’ ‘G’day mate,’ he said effusively. ‘I’ve been to your beautiful city. On a C plan schol. I shacked up in Malvern.’ ‘Oh. Not far from where I lived, in Caulfield.’ ‘Yeah, I’ve been to the races there. Lost twenty bucks on a nag.’ Don then turned to Raj and said, ‘Nothing doing today, junior. Let’s scout around the hotels and see what we can find. Well, nice to have met you, Bill. Come and have a beer with us sometime.’ By then Pat had arrived and came up smiling. Pat never stopped smiling. Even when he was in the middle of an overheated argument. He won many that way. ‘Good story for you here, Raj,’ he said, ever on the lookout for a PR plug for the movement. ‘Sure, I’ll come around sometime.’ And they left. Chapter 4 As Bill sped along in the rickety delivery van seated beside the driver, he kept up a truncated conversation with Pat who had bundled into the back with Bill’s baggage. The driver kept silent throughout the journey. Either he spoke no English, or kept his eye on the road and his thoughts to himself. He had not even responded to Bill’s hearty ‘G’day.’ The man in fact had not heard the expression before, and besides had been quite uncomfortable seated by the suddha, the white man. Pat, however, kept drawing attention to prominent landmarks along the ten-mile long, nearly straight road called Galle Road, which linked the capital, Colombo, with the ancient seaport town in the South called Garl-ler in Sinhalese, but contracted into Galle, the e being silent, by the British. ‘We are passing Ratmalana,’ Pat said conversationally. ‘Many Tamils were massacred here.’ Bill’s spiky red hair stood on end. ‘Massacred? Why?’ ‘During the communal riots last year. That’s the Maliban biscuit factory,’ he added breathlessly. Bill was amazed at the casualness with which the matter of the massacre was dropped. He took it up again. ‘Why were they massacred, mate?’ ‘Because they were Tamil. There, on the left is the big bus depot. It belonged to the South Western bus company. Mr Bandaranaike’s government nationalised it.’ Bill fell silent. There would be no point trying to conduct a coherent conversation while Pat was in tourist-guide mood. He observed the road ahead. Even though it was a main arterial road, it was lined with houses and shops and occasional churches. He was surprised not to see any Buddhist temples. He expressed the view to the invisible but ever vigilant Pat. ‘Ah, you don’t see them from the main road. There are several of them just behind. Many of them are very small.’ ‘The churches we passed were pretty big.’ ‘Four hundred years of Christian influence,’ Pat called back, and Bill could sense the wide toothy grin. Bill already knew of that. He had done his homework. He knew the Portuguese arrived in Ceylon in 1505 and introduced Catholicism, some said by the power of the sword. Had that been the only factor, the converts would not have suffered and endured intense persecution and martyrdom at the hands of the Calvinistic Dutch, who followed the Portuguese, several generations later. The British conquerors who had followed had restored the freedom of worship, and Bill had to admit, so many other freedoms. Political freedom, however, had to be coaxed out gradually, until in 1949 independence within the Commonwealth had been granted by the British. But Bill’s history lesson had stopped short of the period after Independence, for the local library contained only basic information on Asian countries - and even that was ten years old. And that was why the massacre was news to him. They were now passing a large building fronting the sea. Before it was a large expanse of vacant land with red sand showing through parched patchy grass. ‘That’s the Galle Face Hotel,’ Pat explained. ‘What’s it doing in Colombo?’ Bill wanted to know. ‘It faces Galle,’ said Pat briefly. ‘Fair enough,’ said Bill, satisfied. If he had looked hard, he would have noted that the antiquated structure had its back squarely to the southern port town. ‘And this,’ said Pat, evidently pointing to the expanse of land, ‘this is where Senanayake, our first Prime Minister had a bad accident and died.’ The driver, probably picking up the name of D†S Senanayake, slowed the vehicle almost to a halt so that Bill could trail his gaze along, which he did, without comprehension. ‘Died? Here?’ ‘He fell off a horse,’ Pat said, then receiving only a silent pause, added helpfully, ‘He was riding here one morning. He used to come here every morning with some friends for exercise. His horse tossed him.’ A few moments later: ‘That’s our House of Representatives, the lower House of Parliament. And this is the Central Bank. It caught fire one day. Nobody died. That is the only lighthouse in the world in the middle of a city,’ he said pointing to the phenomenon at an intersection. After the mile-long stretch along the Galle Face green with no pedestrians to be seen and little traffic and sea spray in the air with the flavour of salt in it, the narrow road through which they passed now was crowded with parked cars, heavy traffic and crowds darting across everywhere. Bill’s keen nose detected the smells of beer and Chinese cooking mingling with the lingering tang of brine. Pat continued his commentary. ‘That is Queen’s House where our Governor General lives. That’s the GPO, and that’s the Senate, the Upper House.’ They were passing through the Fort, so called since the time the Portuguese fortified themselves in this area and repelled attacks by the Dutch. After Melbourne Bill found the disorderliness of the traffic quite disconcerting. Double-deck buses, virtual discards from London Transport, cars, vans, bicycles and other commercial vehicles all strove to overtake each other. ‘That’s the Times building,’ said Pat indicating a cream, four-storeyed edifice, ‘one of our important newspaper groups. The big one, Clarion Mansions, is on the other side.’ ‘Now we are in the Pettah,’ said Pat as they went over a wide bridge. On the left Pat caught a glimpse of the Colombo harbour with the masts of berthed liners webbing the horizon. On the right, in an inland waterway large, dirty barges were afloat. ‘And that is the Khan clock tower,’ said Pat, but before Bill could take a good look the van beside turned sharply to the right. ‘And now we’re nearly there.’ By now large wagon-like covered carts drawn by bullocks carrying merchandise from the port to the commercial sector had joined the confusion of traffic. Ah, Asia, thought Bill. The van pulled up alongside a grey single storeyed building that looked more like a country church. ‘This is our headquarters,’ said Pat. He got out of the back and came round to open the door for Bill. Pat bowed in an exaggerated manner and swung his arm over his chest in a gesture of submission. Bill extended his right hand according to the prevalent mood, and alighted. Pat told the driver to bring the mahatmaya’s, master’s, luggage round. ‘I can get it,’ said Bill. ‘No,’ said Pat firmly, ‘he will get it.’ Ho, thought Bill, the class system at work. Bill looked at the building closely. The grey painted wall had two doors and three windows. It was defaced by posters, many overlapping. They advertised films, shop sales and numerous political meetings in English and in local languages. Prominent among these posters were those with the drawing of a large hand overprinted or occupying a prominent position. It was a little past noon. The air was steamy and strident with the cries of vendors. They climbed three short broken steps and entered the building. The coolness inside was remarkable. Bill noticed how unusually tall the roof was. It was a building that harked back to Portuguese times. There was no ceiling and Bill noted that the roof was covered with local clay tiles laid on thousands of wooden rafters nailed on long timber beams. Bill had never seen such a roof before and did not know that the rafters were of coconut timber. There was about the place an appearance of activity and idleness. Some people were bustling about. Others were seated at small tables, smoking, talking. Some lounged about on easy chairs or along wooden benches. Most of the people were city clerks, port workers, shop employees, trade unionists among them. There were a few better dressed in expensive terylenes and dacron slacks, nylon shirts, imported ties. Bill noted the contrast. They were, he would learn later, executives in the mercantile sector who, fired with the ideals of the YCW movement, worked towards the upliftment of the working classes. Pat led Bill past what looked like an ante-room to a large room where the crown of the sloping beams met about sixty feet above. There were a few pigeons and crows flying about inside the building. At one end was a raised area like a stage, and at the other end was a balcony. ‘Was this a theatre at one time?’ Bill asked with great interest. ‘No,’ said Pat, ‘that was where the altar used to be, and that is the choir loft.’ ‘Ah,’ said Bill. ‘In fact,’ said Pat, ‘we have our chapel here where the Blessed Sacrament is kept. People come here for a brief visit or to make their Confession. Now you must come and meet Fr Grutzner.’ Bill concurred. It was mainly at Fr Grutzner’s initiative that he was here. They crossed the hall and Pat led the way into a small cubicle made of heavy plywood. He tapped. A heavy European voice bade them enter. Inside, seated at a small desk with a strong table lamp at the height of noon, almost camouflaged by a cloud of thick cigarette smoke, was a large man clad in the garb of an Oblate priest. The only concession to the heat of the day was the absence of the black sash and a button open at the neck of the cassock. As the two men entered, the priest looked up and squinted his eyes. Then recognition came in a warm gust of friendship. ‘Ah, here’s the bloody Aussie,’ he said. Pat grinned, and it was a sign of his discomfiture. It was not the kind of greeting he had expected. But then white people had strange ways. Bill evidently had not minded. ‘G’day, Father. Nice to meet you.’ The priest nodded. ‘How was the trip?’ ‘Pretty good.’ The priest rose from his chair, walked over and extended his arm. Bill looked up till his neck cricked, then grasped his hand. It felt big and strong and warm. The handshake was light and firm with controlled power. How eloquent a handshake could be, thought Bill. He also fended the thought: this hand can break anything. The priest said, ‘Go and freshen up and Pat will get you some lunch. Take a bit of a rest. I’ll see you at five.’ ‘No worries,’ said Bill grinning. He felt certain he would be happy here (Continued tomorrow). |
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