by Tissa Devendra
'Old memories crawl out, like lizards from under stones...''

We were intrigued that Kandy's oldest residents yet called it ''Ladan Veediya'' -Horseshoe Street-although its official name was Cross Street. Only the name was left, no memories remained of sturdy blacksmiths forging horseshoes for spirited steeds of yore. We moved into No. 22 Cross Street sixty years ago. It was quite a change for our family of four children. An upstair house gave us plenty of room for romping around, and the new pastime of stair-jumping. It was also our first house without any garden at all. We stepped out of our verandah right on to a wide concrete pavement and found ourselves located in a long unbroken line of adjoining houses-each interestingly individual in size, style, decor and occupants. Mother was highly relieved that Cross Street was a quiet, very, by water. Hardly any cars drove down it and our pavement was the street playground.

Our verandah had two half-walls, punctured by oval apertures, and topped by trellis screens. A wide strip between wall and trellis was good for people-watching a fascinating introduction to the verandah way of life. Our first chore was to yell to Mother whenever a particular vendor passed this way each calling out his/her wares in a unique chant. Those were the days when the market came the verandah.

Necessities
We rose every morning to the clattering bullock cart of the seller of coconut husks with his high decibel yodel of ''Pol leli! Pol-leli! Pol-aaiiee!'' Kussi-ammas (not yet an endangered species) rushed out to hail him, quarrel over quality, reject the damp and collect a basket load of dry husks for kitchen fuel.

It was a lucky day for us if the baker arrived while we children were yet at home. He carried, on his head of course, a large basket covered with shiny oil cloth and topped with a conical tin lid. He whipped off the lid to present us with a tray of mouth watering crisp and gingery bread fingers, sponge-cakes, sugar cakes and, occasionally, hot-cross buns (for we lived in the shadow of St., Anthony's Church and many neighbours were Catholics). Once we had our ration of goodies, this tray was removed and the belly of the basket was full of soft loaves of white bread and curly crusted ''seeni paan''. These were for tiffin-the daily evening spread of bread, butter, jam and cakes. Our bread was yet warm and smelt sweet as it came from the bakery round the corner in castle Street, watched over by its owner, the capacious Mrs. Sproule.

For Mother, the most important walking ''stall'' was the lady who carried a wobbling tower of vegetable baskets on her head. As she gingerly lowered herself we hastened to assist her to off-load her basket-tower and spread the baskets around for selection. Refrigerators were but a distant dream and green vegetables from the villages around were bought almost daily. After the selection and ritual bargaining the ''amme'' tucked her earnings into her blouse and stood up with a deep sigh as we fetched her basket-tower back on to the cloth pad that cushioned her suffering head. Her straight back and tower of baskets never ceased to amaze clumsy me who could not run two yards in an egg-and-spoon race without smashing the egg!

An interesting ritual involved the buying of eggs from the wizened old ''thamby'', with a handkerchief deftly knotted round his head, who walked the streets with a sawdust basket full of eggs. A basin of water was brought on to the verandah and eggs were gently placed in the water. Fresh eggs were heavier and sank to the bottom. These were bought. Those that floated were judged to be ''off'' and rejected. There were some dubious ones that never quite sank, nor did they float on top. Old Thamby exercised all his wiles to off-load these for a lower price, but Mother firmly refused to be won over by a dubious bargain.

The milk-man delivered a standing order and called over daily on his bike with bottles chinking in khaki pouches slung from the cross bar and pillion. Mother once suspected him of ''improving'' the milk with water and scared the man by producing an old friend who was a Public Health Inspector. From the very next day a contrite milkman produced milk of an infinitely superior quality.

The ''moru''-man was an occasional, but welcome, visitor, a dark and sturdy man whose minimal Sinhala was matched by our even more minimal Tamil supplemented by mine. His stock-in-trade was curd in cigarette tins, and sweet-sour butter-milk ''moru'' which he poured out into our jug from a large brass pot he carried on his head. With the war and restrictions on imported butter moru-man rose to the occasion and bridged the gap with a rather greasy butter he churned out and sold packed in green banana-leaves.

Luxuries
On week ends and holidays we looked out for the fruit vendors singing out their wares. While mother's interests were in such nutritious, but boring, stuff as papaws we children preferred the luscious mandarines-''narang'' which came to us yet tangy from the tree and the delicious bunches of rambutan during Perahera season. We were also huge consumers of ''hakuru bola'' (juggery balls) a permitted indulgence as they were sold by our Ayah's father. Barely tolerated, however, though much desired, was Bombay Mutai-that sticky sweet candy floss mysteriously spun in a glass box by yet another old Thamby.

The Chinaman was the great purveyor of real luxury. Once in a while mother used to succumb to his tangy cry of ''Chaiinaa Seeelk!'' and call him. He leant his bike on the verandah wall and off-loaded his large bundle, neatly wrapped in Khaki cloth. As a boy, I must confess the man's exotic appearance, and nasal accent intrigued me more than the goods he sold. But I do have hazy recollections of brilliant kimonos printed with prancing dragons and swirling chrysanthemums, beautifully hand embroidered linen and swatches of lustrous silks of incredible softness. Intricate little knickknacks of ivory-fans, combs and serviette rings were also temptingly on display. Once selections were made the silks were measured out, under mother's watchful eye, with the cubit long baton the Chinaman carried both for measurement and self-defence. This baton was useful to threaten the scallywags who often ran behind him yelling ''Cheenaa Booku, Booku''-which war-cry was reputed to enrage all Chinamen.

My favourite verandah salesman was the bookseller, neatly dressed in verti, who travelled around on his bike with used books piled on his pillion. He had an uncanny knowledge of a reader's tastes and budget and was perceptive in the books he offered you-and also generous to a book-hungry browser like me.

Surprisingly, father too discovered a little tapped stratum of traditional crafts when an itinerant vendor unwrapped before him beautiful lacquer ''bulath-heppuwas'' and necklaces of ancient design in blackened silver and agate. Our man who came from a village of traditional craftsmen, was a good raconteur. To our amazement this shabbily dressed man had travelled all over Germany and France.

The famous German circus impresario Hagenbeck had hired a band of Kandyan craftsmen, dancers and jugglers with whom he toured Europe, as side-shows to his menagerie of exotic beasts. Old Elaris was introduced by father to all his friends up from Colombo. The traditional craftsmen he promoted have long since faded away. but their richly coloured and beautifully crafted lacquer objects yet gleam quietly in the family homes of father's many friends.

Alms and processions
Beggars were among our verandah visitors-but only on Thursdays. This was an account of the Meera Makkan Mosque which dominated the skyline not far away-and had set apart Thursday for alms-giving. On their way back from Muslim generosity the beggars also visited other homes on Horseshoe Street. We children sat on the verandah presiding over a large basket of coarse rice. Every beggar came equipped with a long sling-bag into which we doled out rice with an empty cigarette tin (It is only now that I realise how ubiquitous, these little objects were in daily life of yore-as a scoop, a measure of grain and oil, a container of curd, and in infinite guises in children's games.

Occasionally we had a colourful bearded gent in orange dhoti, festooned with seed rosaries, with a brass pot on his head. He always performed a dainty pirouette tinkling a little brass bell. This pilgrim, walking to Kataragama, was the only mendicant honoured with a coin. The rest get rice. And if our basket ran out, in that gentler age, we never brusquely said ''Nothing'' instead ''Samaa Venna''-Pardon us please.

I have written earlier about the processions that wound their colourful way down Horseshoe Street. Corpus Christi always fascinated us Buddhists with the spectacle of richly dressed ''English-speaking'' Catholics kneeling humbly in the asphalt street to pray. A wonderful Muslim procession originated from Meera Makkan Mosque. We called it the ''Koodu Perahera'' where enormous pagodas of paper and cloth were carried on the shoulders of the faithful and followed by dervishes whirling in a trance to the throb of a hypnotic drum and religious chants. The glory of the Perahera needs no description. But we on Horseshoe Street shared a brief moment of ownership when the elephants, dancers and chieftains passed but a few feet away from our very own verandah casting a transient spell of enchantment over us, goggle-eyed children.

...Memories of a way of life long gone the way of the phantom horses whose hooves were once shod on Horseshoe Street.