Every Government that comes into power has included in its programmes large inputs for improving the mobility of the Nation. Successive Governments have, however, failed to adequately assess and take counter measures to contain the damage caused by the wanton misuse of these benefits. Accident prevention has been regarded as of low priority.

CESPA has as its guide lines the well known adage ''Accidents are caused, they don't just happen''. The most effective and well proven remedy for the reduction of road accidents is the strict enforcement of the traffic laws. However in this country this segment of Police duties has, for a long period, not been given the consideration it deserved although there were compelling reasons for enhancement. The approach has usually been of a compassion at or conciliatory nature, without coming down hard on errant drivers. Expecting self-disciplining to curb the wanton lawless drivers is absolute fantasy. A jingle on the radio or TV will not blunt the aggressive intent of a kamikaze driver. The horn is used as a battering ram. Parking on the pavement is tantamount to spitting in the face of the Traffic Police. A few days ago, in the midst of traffic jam in Kollupitya, a fully loaded private bus was driven over the pavement just to get ahead by three vehicle lengths.

Statistics
Considering the statistics provided by the Police Department in their Annual Report for 1993, the records show that 41265 accidents involving 63008 vehicles had been recorded. Of the injuries, 1492 were fatal, 2592 grievous, and 11212 non-grievous. The cost of repairs to the 63008 vehicles at a conservative estimate of Rs. 5000/- per vehicles is beyond my 8 figure calculator. To rub salt into the wound, a large portion of this money goes out in foreign exchange.

The crime statistics for the same period show 1286 homicides, 1779 grievous injuries, 7105 non-grievous injuries. There were 1693 burglaries over Rs. 5000/-, 82 thefts above Rs. 10000/- and 829 other robberies, with a total of 43990 cases reported. The personal loss and injuries in both sectors are similar and cannot be quantified but the financial losses in the former category far exceed those in the latter.

Victims
I am not for a moment denigrating crime prevention to be of less consequence but I would like to point out that in almost very fracas, the injured have contributed in some way to the altercation resulting in their injuries. In the traffic scene, however, the injured are invariably un-involved victims, who have an indisputable right to demand from the Nation, protection from careless and reckless drivers.

Going back to road accident statistics, in 1993, 34.1% of drivers involved were in the age group 18-30 yrs. The balance 65.9% of drivers involved were over 30 yrs old. To add to the disparity in statistics, according to figures from the Department of Motor Traffic, there were more drivers in the age group 18-30, (826307), than those over 30 yrs. (630339). Besides, quite a few veteran drivers are not on the roads. The ratio of mileage covered by young drivers compared to those of senior drivers would be similar in most countries. Almost everywhere else young drivers cause more accidents and have to pay higher insurance premiums. It is obvious that in Sri Lanka, due to lack of superintending Traffic Police, older drivers have learnt that they can drive carelessly and get away with it, well, until they come a cropper.

In Colombo, apart from directing traffic during rush hours, the Traffic Police seldom make their presence felt. I have never heard of anyone being charged for not giving a turn signal. However, in spite of all their disabilities and shortcomings, they spring to life at any time of the day or night if a motor cyclist dare pass by without a helmet. That infringement does not add to the chaos on the roads. Hawk eye for one, blind eye for the dangerous and infuriating other.

Pavement Parking
Harking back to parking on the pavement, the offence is so common and disruptive of pedestrian, traffic that the Municipal Council, a more concerned and responsive authority, knowing that a more appropriate and much cheaper solution would not be forthcoming, is planting 5000 concrete bollards. 1 metre apart on the edge of the pavements of the more frequented roads in Colombo. What a solution, concrete though it be?

In fairness to the Traffic Police, they, no doubt, are aware of and are concerned about their duties and strive under difficult conditions, to keep traffic moving smoothly. However, theirs is an uphill task unless traffic law enforcement which is now relegated to rear-guard action is brought to the fore. In confirmation of their concern, I quote from the same report.

''If traffic laws are to be effectively enforce there is a dire need for manpower and mobility. There is also the need for the Police to set the right example in their road behaviour. 'Law enforcers should not be law breakers''.

It is hoped the dominant position held by the Traffic Police on the pace of discipline in the National fabric is realized and their shortcomings and inhibitions addressed if they are to fulfil their obligations.

Annual Report 1993

Road Traffic
Data on road traffic accidents is collected islandwide by the Research & Development Division and forwarded to the Department of Census and Statistics for processing in their computers. The information thus generated are disseminated to all ranks on a quarterly basis through the medium of the police gazette.

1. Accidents
During the year under review 41,265 accidents have been reported. A decrease of 3,488 or 8.45% accidents as against the previous year. Of the reported accidents 11,024 (or 26.71%) have been reported from the Colombo Division alone. Kelaniya, Gampaha, Kandy, Galle, Mt. Lavinia, Kegalle, Ratnapura have each recorded more than 3,000 accidents. Negombo, Kalutara have each recorded over 1,000 accidents.

1.1 Description of Accidents - Of the total number of accidents, 1492 were fatal, 2,595 were grievous and 11,212 non-grievous. Damages have been caused to 26,056 (or 36.85%) vehicles without injury to persons, fatal accidents record show a considerable decline of 190 (or 12.73%) when compared with the year 1992.

In 1993 an average of 3.1 persons have been killed and 6.1 persons were grievously injured per day when compared to 4.3 persons killed and 6.2 persons grievously injured in 1992.

1.2 Vehicles - 63,008 vehicles have been involved in road accidents during the year under review. This indicates an increase of 1,236 or 4.3% when compared with same period the previous year. The number of vehicles involved in accidents in Colombo were 20,989. This is 33.31% of the total number of vehicles involved in accidents. The total vehicles involved in accidents in Colombo Division has increased by 1,839 or 2.9% when compared with the corresponding period for 1992.

The number of persons killed in accidents per 100 vehicles was 2.5 in the year 1993 as against 2.4 in 1992.

1.3 Drivers - 18,005 or 32.1% of the drivers of vehicles involved in accidents were in the age group 18-30 and 805 or 2.1% were below the age of 18. 19,115 or 35.01% were in the age group of 30-39 and the balance were in the age of 40 and above. It is apparent that 2/3 or 65.9% of the drivers involved in accidents were in the age group of over 30, while 1/3 or 34.1% were young drivers.

1.4 Road Conditions - 90% of the accidents recorded have taken place when the road surface was dry. This has been the feature since 1981. 7.1% of the accidents have taken place when the roads were wet.

1:1:8 Suspects - During the year under review, 41,653 persons were suspected to have been involved in Grave Crimes, of this number 39,836 were males and 1,817 were females.

Homicides
Homicides recorded during the year - 1,286 cases, of them true cases 1,230 cases, a decrease of 137 or 9.62% compared with the previous year.

1:2:1 Victims - Victims of homicides totalled 1,517 with 1,351 being males and 166 females. The highest number of victims were from workers not classified by occupation amounting to 496.

1:2:2 Suspects - Homicide 2,188 suspects, of them 2,069 were males and 119 females.

1:2:3 Relationship - In 751 cases there was no relationship between the victims and the suspects, while in 67 cases it was the spouse, in 37 cases co-inhabitants, 120 cases were blood relations and in 214 cases other relationship.

1:2:4 Frequency - The highest number of Homicide cases were reported between the hrs. of 2000 and 2100 hrs. with 401 cases. The day on which most number of cases were reported during the week was Friday with 191 cases and the month in which most number of cases were reported was in April with 148 cases.

1:2:5 Weapons - The weapons commonly used were pointed knives in 333 cases and other cutting weapons in 298 cases.

1:2:6 Areas - The Division which recorded the highest number of Homicides were Ratnapura with 82 cases and Kalutara Division next with 68 cases. The least number of Homicide cases recorded was Nuwara Eliya Division with 16 cases.

1.2:7 Disposal - Of the 1,286 Homicide Cases reported, plaints were filed in 781 with 10 ending in convincing and 13 in acquittals or discharges. In 133 cases accused were unknown, 59 cases were otherwise disposed of 347 cases are pending investigations, 627 are pending in MagistrateÕs Courts, 19 are pending with Ag and 72 pending in High Courts.

Detailed statistics regarding homicides appear in Appendix 03 Table 01 to 08.

1:3 Reportable Crime
A list of serious crime reported to Police Headquarters appear below; Major crimes committed by terrorists are appended in Chapter IV under Terrorists Activities.

1:3:1 Homicides - 1,286
1:3:2 Burglaries over Rs. 5,000 - 1,692
1:3:3 Theft over Rs. 10,000 - 82
1:3:4 Robberies from residence/institutions - 779
1:3:5 Highway Robberies - 50
1:3:6 Co-operative the

About the author E.C.T. Candappa was one of Sri Lanka's been feature writers in the mid-fifties till the seventies. He was an outstanding journalist at Lake House and distinguished himself as a reporter and feature writer. He is now domiciled in Australia but still very much interested in his country of origin. He visited Sri Lanka last year and interviewed many of the personalities featured in this book.

Continued from yesterday

The key to this movement was the peon, or office boy, who knew where a file was at any given moment, which clerk had to do what with it, which clerk was in a position to give it to which executive whose signature alone could get the necessary action.

The required consideration varied in amount and nature. If it wasn’t money it could mean anything, literally anything between the firm earth and the firmament: computers of the most complex order could not work out the computations of such bribery, for that’s what it was, dirty word though it was. It could be a bag of fruit, a car lift, a favourable news item in the newspapers (if one happened to be a journalist), a copy of a photograph taken at some important function of the subject with a VIP, a word "put in" with a VIP to obtain a favour, a child admitted to an exclusive school, a bank loan, and as one ascended the ladder, where it was a very big favour involving a very big person with very low moral standards it could even be a sad and sordid matter involving the bribe giver’s own spouse, such being the tragic nature of ambition and avarice.

The hour of seven chimed with a tinny solemnity with a furry wheeze and whirr between the chimes. It came, Raj knew, from the clock tower of the Medical College just across the road. It was more than a century old and could be excused the wheeze, alas, beyond the reach of medical science.

The ward was suffused with a pale orange glow from the weak electric bulbs, naked in their semi-proletarian austerity. There was a low hum of conversation outside, nurses and other staff communicating the humdrum banalities that cover the deeper issues of life and death, disease in between, and human misery. Occasionally there would ring a tinkle of girlish laughter at once out of place and welcome.

Raj, for a few instants, felt the ward recede from him into an infinite distance and himself cocooned in a conch shell of humming. When he reached the zenith of an unbearable, non-physical pain, he was back again with a psychic thud.

Cautiously he looked about him. Everyone and everything was once again held in due proportion and a sense of relatedness returned.

Two nurses, crackling with starch and wide-awake efficiency walked in. Their smiles came first, like the Cheshire cats.

One of them, the same who had ushered him in on his admission, paused at the foot of his bed, and smiled. He noted once again her slim figure, gawkish gait and frail form. It seemed as though, while her face radiated warmth and light, her eyes and ears waited upon some unspoken wish in Raj, some need, some request. She thus moved on in silence, similarly reassuring the men missing the women in their lives.

Chapter16
The clock struck three, the clock in the ancient tow of the Medical College just outside the ward; struck three in ponderous strokes, marking in accents of wheezy senility the age of a hallowed institution, the seconds marking the pulse of time, discarding the deceased quarters and hours.

F-r-r-o-n-g! F-r-r-o-n-g! F-r-r-o-n-g!

It was a warm and sticky afternoon. Sounds fell on the silence like insects on glutinous fly paper. A clatter of pans proclaimed the preparation of the evening meal. A different kind of clatter. Cold, steel surgical instruments placed on the steriliser. A gentle snore from the neighbouring bed. Varied horns – Vespa scooters, buses, ice cream vans, raised voices of vendors hawking fruit, cigarettes, betel leaves: "suruttu, cigarette, buluth vitti" a familiar, reassuring landscape of sound.

Raj was awaiting the arrival of his surgeon. He recalled the time he visited him in his rooms.

On the day that Raj met him, and after he had discovered that he was a journalist, Dr Juriansz had sounded off on the recent introduction by Bandaranaike’s socialist government of a professional tax, which amounted to twenty per cent of the usual fee.

"Well, we are not going to pay that," he said, "we are passing it on to you, the patients. Maybe unfair. Can’t be helped. You can take that up with the government. You see, the whole point is that these chaps are envious. They don’t like our lifestyle. Look, we didn’t become surgeons by chance. We had to spend six years studying. The skills that we acquired didn’t come like magic. We worked hard, a damned sight harder than some of these fellows in the public service, who get paid almost for nothing.

"So we are entitled to some extra rewards. We have to maintain a certain standard. Even if a blooming list comes round, we have to put more. I mean I like to go to the club when I am free, take a decent drink, entertain a couple of friends..." and so on, while Raj kept saying "that is so" until the time came for the examination, the diagnosis that it was, indeed, a hernia, that it was advanced, the sooner it was done the better, and to what nursing home did he want to go, he would recommend such and such. Ah, well, if he was able to get a bed in the General Hospital that was all right. The fee, please.

That afternoon the surgeons of three patients accompanied by their house officers and the train of staff, matron, nurses, came round and set the dates of the operations. Murrel, the dark, gaunt man with the cancerous prostate gland, Haniffa, the gambler with hydrocele and the A.S.P with a kidney ailment. Raj was annoyed that his surgeon had not turned up.

He sulked about it that afternoon. With evening came the welcome visiting hour. Strangely he awaited the arrival of his family to communicate the lack of news. They came through the golden shafts of the afternoon, their smiles preceding them, his father in his white, cotton suit, straight from his city job, his greying hair slightly tousled, his strangely grey blue eyes alive with a gentle awareness, his mother maternally expansive and correctly clad in sari, with a black spot on her forehead and a little wrinkle between her brow which was the sign of her constant solicitude, and his sister, yet in school, a radiant young maiden, her eyes alight with dreams, a short fringe of jet black hair over her face aglow.

He saw her first, tripping lightly ahead, bearing a sheaf of flowers in one hand and a bag full of books in the other.

She placed the flowers on the side of the bed.

Raj’s eyebrows met in a dark scowl. His eyes clouded over. They’re not bought. They’re cut from a friend’s garden. The evil thought sprang like a rank weed.

Some of the other patients had flowers in vases, barbuttons, carnations, roses, all with suitable greenery.

"What’s this?" he asked.

"Irises," said his sister, her teeth flashing whiter than the flowers, "from the convent. Mother Matilde sent them."

"Well, can’t you take them back?"

The smile clouded over. The flowers seemed to wilt.

"Well, put them under the bed," he said, a little embarrassed by their presence.

For a long time to come, later, while his ears burned at the memory of that unforgivable act of ungraciousness, he could still recall the defeated back of that young girl as she bent to place the flowers in their place of shame.

The moment having passed, almost unnoticed by his parents whose only thought was for his well being, they talked of the visit of the surgeon. He expressed his annoyance over his being delayed, asked how things were at home, at school. They brought some mail, some books to read and the time passed; and an attendant passed by ringing a large bell, like doom. Feet began to shuffle along the corridor, the lights came on, the dinner trays were being cleared, goodbyes were said and at length a measure of quiet descended on Ward 37 as it did on that motley gathering of buildings.

The night staff appeared; the nurses powdered and neat in freshly laundered uniforms, some smiling, some not but looking busy and keen and all looking part of the equipment, a little sterilised and functional, dropping here and there a formal "hullo" or "good evening" or a "kohomada?" in Sinhala.

Old Mr Murrell invariably had some cheeky greeting, uttered in a sepulchral tone from his dark skeletal face but which invariably stopped a nurse in her tracks, drew her to his side, made her arrange his bed sheet or ask him if he needed anything. To which question also he had, sometimes, a cheeky reply. The nurses then flushed and pinched him.

Haniffa, the Moslem gentleman, covered from head to toe and apparently reciting his unending prayers, would then shake his feet under the sheet vigorously as a mark of his approval.

At seven the matron came round with a pupil nurse following a discreet distance away.

She walked with head erect, the arch of her ample bosom beautifully balanced by the curve of her bottom, the wimple of her head-dress as rigid as her manner.

Heads turned toward the doorway from which she made her entrance, and wisps of conversation withered in the air.

Everything had to be spotless for her inspection not only visually but, as it turned out, by the probing of her other senses as well.

Raj hoped desperately she would not notice the flowers under his bed. As she entered, she stood awhile and sniffed the air.

"What’s that smell?" she enquired, like a doe sniffing danger. She stopped as she passed Raj’s bed and sniffed again.

"These flowers" she said, "my, these are irises. They should be in a vase. Nurse, go and bring a vase with water and an aspirin in it." She bent down, overpowering Raj with talc and cologne, picked up the flowers and looked lovingly at them, letting fall a little of that admiration and affection on Raj in passing. And when the vase was brought, she arranged the flowers deftly and took them to the head of the room, and climbing on a chair, placed them on a ledge to dominate the room and all the other flowers beside other patients’ beds, now clearly downgraded to their commercial vulgarity. And there they glowed the long night long and shed their celestial perfume from the hands of the saintly nun who had thought of him and gathered them, with love, from her own garden.

The Saturday after Raj was admitted, he was eager to find out how he could attend Sunday Mass.

When Miss Hapangama came into the ward that evening, Raj enquired about this. She said that she did not know and that was really the answer that he had expected. Now it was after seven in the evening and the only other staff due were the male attendants from whom it was futile to hope for any extra service. Mr Jayasinghe who had overheard Raj’s enquiry walked up to him and said, "She’s a Buddhist, you know. She won’t know anything about Mass times. Anyway she won’t bother. Catholics are now hated by Buddhists. Like pork to Muslims."

"Oh, surely not. I have plenty of very good Buddhist friends. We have no problems."

"Yes, yes, that was before this government came in. I can tell you, after all I’m in the Ministry of Health, the minister is planning to send all these nuns away from the hospitals."

"Yes, I heard about that. But why? Surely they cannot get that kind of service from others. What about the leprosy hospital?"

"Yes, she wants them out of there also."

"But why? The patients love them. The hospital authorities are grateful to them."

"That’s politics, son. This government wants to show that it is nationalistic. That means pleasing the majority of the people to stay in power. As long as they please the Buddhist monks, the vedamahattmayas and the school teachers, the peasants and the workers."

"That’s a lot of people."

"That’s a lot of votes. You wait and see. The strikes have started already. This weakling Prime Minister or probably crafty man, will keep giving in to the leftists and the union leaders and the Sinhalese Buddhist extremists until he himself will be destroyed by them."

"And the country as well."

Raj had a word with a few of the other patients, returned to his bed, and lying there, staring at the ceiling, let his mind wander down some familiar haunts.

Parliament would be in session and he missed the urgency and strain and unmatchable camaraderie of reporting there. A fortnight’s session followed much the same pattern. Early rising and late night and rushing in between.

In the press room on the ground floor, at the long table, other reporters would be waiting, almost compulsively with their feet on the table, uttering in voices made guttural by too much liquor and tobacco, the scraps out of which the next day’s headlines would be made. The air, needless to say, would be murky with smoke and mild obscenities. There was the occasional saint among them whom also they accepted as they did all the other foibles of life, with cynicism.

And then the quorum bell would ring and resound on all three floors of the stately building, with its tall gothic columns and teak-panelled walls and floors and in the dignified chamber where some of the greatest orators of the country, if not in the world, had raised their voices in stirring oratory, names Raj recalled with a mellow pride: Sir Ponnambalam Ramanathan, whom the British masters themselves had named The Silver-Tongued Orator, a Tamil from the north who had fought so valiantly, but non-violently, for the Independence of Ceylon, that when he had returned from Whitehall after some measure of success, the Sinhalese leaders had detached horses from his carriage and drawn it themselves on the streets of Colombo; G G Ponnambalam, a criminal lawyer whose heroic fights to save condemned men on the heights of Hulftsdorp, the Temple of Ceylonese Law, a diminutive, Oxford-educated Tamil, also from the north who was in legendary demand across all barriers of race, under whose incisive cross-examination many stalwart liars had wilted to a wisp and even genuine witnesses reduced to tears; Colvin R de Silva, a Sinhalese barrister whose inspiration was the famous London School of Economics where he, like hundreds of Asians, had imbibed their fundamentals of Marxism.

Raj had at one time considered him, and the rest of his party, as the only possible saviours of his country. He had attended every meeting of the Lanka Sama Samaja Party where Comrade Colvin spoke, which was where the young radical discarding the black of the courts would don the bright crimson of the Bolsheviks and mesmerise the enormous crowds with his flamboyant oratory, delivered not merely with his stentorian and gravelly voice and meandering serpentine sentences but with a body language that began from his wildly waving hair, the tossing of his head and the spreading windmills of his arms, the twisting of his torso even down to his dancing feet. It was considered to be the ultimate feat for a reporter to be able to take him down in short hand. Raj’s firm assurance of his own competence lay in the knowledge that he could take down in long hand each meandering, breathless sentence that he had been called upon to report in Parliament.

And, of course, there was the incomparable oratory of the present Prime Minister, the absolutely incomparable Solomon Bandaranaike, whose initials S W R D, resembling a sword, were apt to describe the rapier-thrust of his wit and brilliance. He was the debater whose peer, Raj was convinced, would never be found.

The House was always breathless whenever he arose, either as Leader of the Opposition for a short while or as the Prime Minister, to reply or to make the opening speech on an important Bill. The galleries likewise were packed and no one returned disappointed. He belonged to the greats of all time.

A lull had fallen on the ward as well as upon the entire hospital complex. The other patients too seemed to be wrapped up in their own thoughts, who knew of what? of home, of fears for the morrow, of the work left undone?

The distant sounds of traffic now entered, muted, and somehow comforting. The toot of a horn, the rumble of a bus or lorry, or even the sound of a train. There was a world out there, healthy and moving, and people were about ordinary business.

The light from a few naked bulbs on the ceiling cast a pale brown gloom and little comfort. The day was dying and before the dawn many in this hospital would die with it.

And from the silence Raj heard the sound of urgent footsteps. They were heeled footsteps, and from the way they rang off the hard floor, they sounded like well-heeled female footsteps. As indeed they were.

Two nurses turned smartly into the ward, and one of them was the forever-smiling Miss Hapangama, forever flushed pink with subdued excitement. The other was another pupil nurse whom Raj had not met before. The other patients came alive.

Miss Hapangama came up to Raj and said briefly: "There are two services for Catholics, one at six- thirty in the morning and the other at five in the evening."

"Oh, thank you," he said, almost breathless with gratitude. "Thank you very much. You came specially to tell me?"

She only smiled even more broadly. Her golden face glowed with pleasure but said nothing.

"Good night," she said, and turned to go.

He was reluctant to let her go. He longed to speak to her and ask about a thousand things but he knew very well he could not.

"One minute," he said, and she turned round again. "Do you know where the chapel is?"

"You just go down this verandah, turn left, walk till you come to the administration office, the place where you paid your fees, then turn right and go straight on till you come to the nuns’ ward. It’s in front of that."

Another flashing smile, and she was gone.

From the end of the ward Mr Jayasinghe was looking at him, evidently impressed.

On the next bed, the Indian Lalchand, was staring at him from under his sheet, his black, beady eyes shining with amusement.

"You’re a funny man," he said, grinning. "You asked her about the service so that she can come back to see you, no? Adey, very clever."

At nine, the lights were switched off and Raj went into a deep and dreamless sleep, content with the world and his lot, until he awoke to the hospital din at dawn.

(c) E. C. T. Candappa

(Contd. tomorrow)