.

People and Events
Anger/fury

by Nan
You open the daily newspapers and its all about aggression, war, exploitation. Watch the TV news and again its treachery and warfare. The cinemas hardly ever show a sit-back and-enjoy film of love and lovely people. The video rental outlets are full of bang-bang, scream-shoot films and in homes too there’s loud gunfire and screech of tyres and roaring of vehicles. Children drool over this sort of film and those overgrown kids - husbands - too share the ken for chaos. My husband moved on from quality films to murder and war films and wanted full sound effects. Fortunately a discerning nephew gifted him an earphone set.

My neighbour, the most placid of women with a kind heart and gentle manner likes action films - the more fighting the better, she says. To counteract the evenness and quiet of her life she injects film horror and excitement. Two sweet girls in the flat below put on their nightly show of sound and fury.

Road Rage

Road rage has been with us for some two decades; I mean the commonly encountered phenomenon. Road rage has subsided in the developed world with their wider, broad highways, flyovers and by passes. Not so in Sri Lanka where road rage increases as more cars get on the roads and more unsuitable people sit in the driver’s seat. My husband was both a road racer and a road rager. He was an excellent driver but could not tolerate anyone who did not know trafffic rules and road manners. So it was a constant case of shouts out of the window of gona, boorawa and even bulla. He’d overtake and block a driver who had not given him room to pass the moment he tooted his horn. I tried to remonstrate but learnt soon enough to subside and remain silent. Air conditioning mercifully put paid to the shouts and with age he became the nicest of drivers.

Private van drivers are of course in a class by themselves - unmannerly to the core and consumed by road rage. No wonder the ever increasing number of road accidents. It has been found, probably proved, that many men get extra aggressive the minute they sit at the wheel of a vehicle. Its instinctive and of course men give into their instincts.

Excessive alcoholic drink will make a man silly or angry. Put him behind the wheel and you are set for a bad time. The side sitter is consumed with angst while the driver drives on as if he is lord of the road.

Flyer Fury

The type of anger shown by airline passengers is a fairly recent phenomenon. It was recognized globally and given the name when a pop group in a Cathay Pacific ‘plane misbehaved atrociously. Not only did they upset the passengers but they attacked physically the stewards and stewardesses. Cathay Pacific has banned the group from ever flying with them. Another instance of fury was when a passenger bit the nose, I believe, of an air hostess.

Reasons are adduced to too much free liquor, too high expectations of servile service of the stewards and expecting it just because you pay a high price for an air ticket. It is also said that airlines advertise so extravagantly that passengers expect to be treated with velvet gloves even if they behave atrociously. What can you do with a recalcitrant passenger, specially in flight? Air France, reportedly, have come up with the idea of carrying on board plastic handcuffs!

Territorial Terrorism

I’ve just read an article that adduces the trouble in Kosova to " territorial imperatives." It says that the crisis in the area is so profound it largely defies explanation. So the one plausible explanation is that the Serbs, led by Slobodan Milosevic, are driven by an innate human aggression inherited from our animal ancestors, to possess territory believed to be their own.

Can we apply this explanation to the horrendous actions of Prabhakaran and his Tigers?

Robert Ardrey, playwright turned anthropologist, proposed the notion in the 1960s in his book The Territorial Imperative. He argued that the territorial instincts of animals apply equally to man.

According to Ardrey, animals are compelled by instinct to possess and defend territory they believe belongs exclusively to them. Animals such as prairie dogs and tigers, cats, even birds and fence lizards make and defend their territory. Territory enhances an animal’s prestige and improves chances for survival.

To the Serbs, Kosova is imbued, it seems, with such significance that it unleashes aggressive territorial instincts. The province is considered the Serbian heartland. The Serbs lost their independence in Kosova to the Turks in 1389. By the time Serbia recaptured the region from Turkey in 1913, the ethnic Albanians were dominant, making up 90 percent of the population. This was intolerable to the Serbs, hence the war, the hordes of suffering refugees with babes being born on the run as it were, and the NATO air strikes.

"What we call patriotism" wrote Ardrey, "is a calculable force which released by a predictable situation, will animate in a manner no different from other territorial species."

America engaged itself in World War II once Pearl Harbor was bombed. American soldiers fought in alien territory but the underlying reason was to save America. So also in Vietnam. How fiercely the Vietnamese fought against the might and power of American forces to ultimately force them to withdraw, admitting they had made a mistake.

This territory business would be good if turned from aggression to non-violent resolution of conflicts. Pride of territory is good and proper, but no excuse for fighting and killing and maiming.

It is the same instinct, I suppose, that drives the man of the house crazy if an intruder — robber or unwelcome visitor - comes in. What the world sorely needs, our own Sri Lanka included, is tolerance and co-operation.

Sigiriya, the rock castle of Kassapa, the God King

by Elmo Jayawardena
The two armies stood on either side of the grass plain that was dotted with water logged swamp. The men, some with spears raised, some with drawn sword, awaited the order to advance. A mere two hundred paces separated the long awaited call of destiny. The brothers sized up each other, across the open space. One, forced into battle to save himself and his kingdom, the other to avenge the death of a father who had sired them both.

A conch shell call split the silence. King Kassapa and Prince Mogallana, spurred their mounts and charged at each other, followed by the men who screamed and went into battle.

That was the end, now let me take you to the present, and then, maybe perhaps, to the beginning.

The fortress of Sigiriya lies nestled in bucolic beauty, surrounded by thick green jungle. The rock itself is drenched by a sun that is crawling across a cobalt blue sky, canopying to the edges of the horizon. The road that leads to the base of the rock is clear, dusted brown, patched by the shade of the enormous trees that bend to give shelter to the visitor. There is a parking lot of sorts, where tourist coaches stop. Little boys from the nearby village run around for customers, promising to ensure the safety of vehicles till the travellers return from the climb. The ancient fortress awakes to another day, to pawn its beauty to the Kodak and the Nikon, to be trampled by men and women from far away lands who listen to the litany of the tourist guide and take Coca Cola breaks to write the post card home.

The location is a two hour drive from the capital, Colombo. Everyone knows where it is. Sigiriya has now been nominated as the eighth wonder of the world. It is a fortress built on the flat top of a sheer rock, in the year 479 AD by King Kassapa who reigned as the ruler of the island of Lanka from 477 AD to 495. Sigiriya, which had laid dormant from 495 AD, was rediscovered, quite by accident, in 1835 by an enthusiastic English army officer, who fancied himself an amateur archaeologist.

The rock looms massive, steep on all sides and stands a little over a thousand feet above sea level. The base of the rock is covered by a wide moat constructed to act as the main protection against any intruder attempting to scale the granite walls. Between the moat and the rock were the pleasure gardens of the King, filled with fresh water ponds of varying dimensions. There are empty spaces, where the flower beds had been, now smothered by scanty grass and unkempt weed, somewhat a sad replacement. The paths that criss-crossed between the gardens and the ponds were paved with limestone and had fountains sprouting water which had an intricate pressure reduction system that created a jet effect. The constructions still remain, battered and broken by time, yet clearly visible in evidence of a once revealed fascination of art and architecture.

The area on top, where the palace was built covers roughly an approximate measurement of three acres. The path to the summit is carved out of sheer rock and at the base, begins with steps that are constructed between the paws of a huge man made lion. The name Sigiriya possibly had been coined from the majestic animal that guards the entrance to the fortress. Sigiri deriving from Sinha Giri, meaning, the rock of the lion. The climb is hard, even to the modern day traveller who is given assistance by ladders that are hinged to the rock wall. Midway through the ascend one passes the world famous Sigiri frescos, the only one of its kind, painted on the rock wall, 1500 years ago by some unknown and unsung genius. These magnificent paintings had weathered wind and rain and had survived to adorn the walls of King Kassapa’s fortress to the absolute amazement of the archaeological world. Would be seemingly meaningless for me, even to make any attempt to describe the lovely ladies on the walls of Sigiriya. Their beauty far surpasses what limited ability I have in the wisdom of words. Hence, I shall refrain, and leave it to the eyes of the beholder.

The summit of the rock is where King Kassapa had his palace, which he shared with a few trusted court officials and his many queens. The view from here is panoramic. A carpet of green extends as far as the eye can see, the hood of the thick jungle where elephants still roam and the leopard stalks the sambhur. The distant hills fade in the haze and a few scattered lakes mirror the landscape with sunlight. The wind blows strong, perfumed by the virgin land, unspoiled by man and machine.

A wall still remains, broken at places, that runs along the periphery of the almost flat surface of the rock. Within the enclosure, on the northern side, lies the king’s palace, now in ruins. There are traces of an audience hall, and large ponds that may have served the occupants of the fortress in their amusement. A throne still remains, carved out of sheer rock facing the East and the rising sun, where perhaps, King Kassapa held court. All the construction on top of Sigiriya had been made of limestone, which would have been cleaved from places distant to the location and had been dragged up to the summit with an almost super human effort.

Sigiriya is a wonderful place to sit and look around. The remains of Kassapa’s rock fortress. One thousand five hundred years come between the visitor and the reality. It is a place where one has to have imagination, just to perceive some conception of the grandiose and the majesty that would have been when Sigiriya was alive.

The beginning was with the father, according to the Mahavamsa, the epic historical chronicle of the Sinhala people.

King Dhatusena who reigned as the ruler of Lanka from the ancient city of Anuradhapura had three children from different wives. A daughter and two sons. Kassapa was the first born from a lesser queen and Mogallana the second born, by the chief queen. The daughter was given in marriage to Prince Migara, the son of Dhatusena’s sister. Prince Migara was the Senpathy of King Dhatusena, the chief of his soldiers.

The king’s choice to succeed him to the throne was Prince Mogallana.

Having heard that Prince Migara was ill treating his daughter, King Dhatusena, in punishment, arrested Migara’s mother, his own sister, and burnt her alive in retaliation. The way was paved for an alliance between Kassapa and Migara and they plotted to take the kingdom away from Dhatusena and Moggallana.

The soldiers came, and Mogallana escaped. King Dhatusena was captured, and subsequently pasted alive to a wall, and left to die.

Prince Kassapa became the King. Mogallana left the shores of Lanka and sailed to India in search of allies to fight and win back his kingdom.

The fear of Mogallana’s return made King Kassapa seek an alternate to the unprotected city of Anuradhapura He wanted to build an impregnable fortress to withstand the vengeance and the onslaught of his brother.

Hence, the birth of Sigiriya.

King Kassapa constructed his new capital and reigned from the rock fortress for a period of seventeen years. Mogallana returned.

The news reached the King that his brother was marching to Sigiriya with a large army. For reasons unknown Kassapa, who built the unscalable fortress to defend himself, left the very same protection and came down to meet Mogallana in battle.

The charge had begun. The two brothers directed their men, leading the attack. Arrows whistled and spears flew; thrown by men running to meet the enemy. Swords clashed and soldiers fought, mired in a fear of death which knew no quarter. The battle was fierce, fought in the grasslands that seemed with the blood of both horse and man.

The tide turned. Kassapa’s men began to scatter and run in defeat. The King stood alone astride his elephant shouting vainly at his receding columns.

It was the end. Kassapa, the God King of Sigiriya, drew his dagger and stabbed himself to death.

Mogallana never stepped into Sinha-giri. The rock fortress was left to decay. It died with its creator, and no one wanted any part of King Kassapa’s magnificent legacy that he left to the remaining centuries.

Sigiriya slept, in pastoral isolation, soft and silent, undisturbed by man, for a thousand and more years, till it awoke again, to fascinate the modern world. Perhaps, to be classified, as a man made wonder of planet earth.

Book Review
Gripping account of an art that is fast dying in Japan

‘MEMOIRS OF A GEISHA’
BY ARTHUR GOLDEN
Publishers: Vintage, Canada
Soft cover - 428 pages - $ 17.95

by Kirthie Abeyesekera
Madonna is wearing a Kimono and is practicing the arts of a Japanese courtesan. Oscar award-winner, Steven Spielberg is directing the movie - an adaptation of Arthur Golden’s ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ that has been On ‘The New York Times’ best-seller list for 58 weeks and is heading for top ranking in Canada. Madonna will play ‘Sayuri,’ a celebrity geisha in World War II Japan - the heroine of Golden’s debut novel published in 26 languages. It is now being translated into Japanese, for publication later this year. The book has sold 600,000 copies. The American author’s interest in Japanese culture was sparked when he studied Japanese art at Harvard. He graduated in Japanese history from the Columbia University. In Tokyo, he met a young man whose mother had been a geisha. The research and writing of the book took nine years. This is a first-person, gripping account of an art that is fast dying in the Land of the Rising Sun. Golden, 42, speaks through his heroine with a brilliance that takes the reader along with Sayuri on her adventurous journey from poverty to prosperity. The story begins in 1929 when Sayuri, the daughter of a poor fisherman in Yoroido, a small village, was sold by her father when she was only nine.

Mr. Tanaka, the buyer, took her on a long train ride to Gion, a town near Kyoto, well-known for its geisha. The traditional age for a Japanese girl to start her training as a geisha is three years and three days. They are mostly the daughters of geisha. In Gion, Sayuri begins her lessons in an ‘okiya,’ a preparatory school for geisha, under the strict tutelage of Mameha who learnt the tricks of the trade from Mametsuki, a famous geisha linked to a Japanese prime minister. Mameha herself, had performed for Charlie Chaplin and Sun-Yat-Sen. Ernest Hemingway got so drunk on ‘sake’ (he thought it was tea), while being entertained by Mameha, that he saw the "beautiful red lips on her white face like blood in the snow."

Being a geisha was the traditional profession for young Japanese women in an era gone by. Sayuri learned to play the ‘shamisen’ - a Japanese guitar, the ‘tsutsumi’ - drum and the ‘fue’ - flute. She trained in dancing and ‘nagauta’ - a form of singing. But most important in the arts of geisha is the tea ceremony - a laborious ritual in which the performer uses her feminine charms, while deftly angling the loose sleeves of her kimono to allow sake-soaked elderly men a peek at the artisan’s arm-pits - an erotic area of the female anatomy.

‘Gei’ means arts. Hence, artisan or artist. Basically, geisha is an entertainer and a performer - the dance being the most revered of her arts. The author says that what separates geisha from prostitutes is their training in the arts - really, the gaisha upper-class counterpart of a prostitute. Yet, he says, it is not the custom for geisha to have casual relationships on a nightly basis, after the performance of a dance and tea ceremony. The kimono, fastened by the ‘obi,’ - sash - is a chastity belt, so to say - whose key is available to the highest bidder. Geisha spend several hours on their make-up, before a performance. They take special care about the neck and throat to which Japanese men are attracted the same way Western men react to a woman’s legs. The geisha wear the kimono collar low at the back, revealing the contours of the spine - like a woman in Paris would wear a short skirt to show her legs. Eroticism is roused by such exposure of the back - creating a spine-tingling effect, if you will. The geisha’s high, wooden shoes - ‘okobo’ - and her ‘split-peach’ hair style - ‘momoware’ enhance her seductive powers. Her success in the trade is measured by the number of kimonos she owns, because Japanese men love variety. Who doesn’t? During her training, Sayuri was told that the eyes are the most expressive part of a woman’s body. She used her bedroom eyes to the best advantage. Ancient Japanese custom required men to bid for a virgin’s first sexual encounter - ‘mizuage.’ Thereafter, a geisha, who seldom marries, becomes the property, or mistress, of her benefactor - ‘danna,’ - the equivalent of a husband to a wife. Sayuri was only 15 when she was deflowered. Golden’s detailed portrayal of the geisha life in Japanese society has not been challenged hitherto. Indeed, last January, the Japan Foundation sponsored a Toronto reading of the book by the author Golden’s is an intruiging story of a dying art that was once a way of life in Japan - a life style often misunderstood and misrepresented.

The author vividly captures a young woman’s innermost feelings, her emotions, her thoughts, her dreams - as she performs and pours tea, while revealing her body, yet hiding her soul. For, beneath the seductive kimono she swirls around so skilfully, is a heart that often beats only for one other soul - just as every woman’s does. Sayuri lived through Japan’s ‘Great Depression’ of World War II, which she calls ‘kuraitani’ - Valley of Darkness. Fortunately, she and some of her peers had the attention and affection of cabinet ministers, service commanders and other men in high places. AFTERMATH; In the late ‘eightees, there lived in New York, a geisha. Shortly after World War II, she had come from Japan with her ‘danna.’ As a young geisha-trainee, she had fed on ‘umeboshi ochazuke,’ a concoction of left-over rice and pickled sour plums soaked in hot tea. She drank ‘amakuchi,’ a light and sweet brand of sake. Now, she was luxuriating at the Waldorf-Astoria, feasting on New York sirloin steak. Enchanted by the city’s exotic life, she persuaded her ‘danna’ to take her on more visits. Then, leaving a son in Tokyo, she settled down in the Big Apple. In the declining years of her life, in her exclusive suite at the Waldorf Towers, she was still in her kimono, serving tea for ‘customers’ - like all good geisha do, long after the best years of their lives are behind them.

An eye witness recounts the Kataragama Beauty Queen Murder

by E. Desmond White
(Ex Dept. of Wild Life Conservation)

It was in the early 1960’s as a Game Ranger attached to the Dept. of Wild Life Conservation that I first met Guruwela Manamperige Pemawathie. Game Guard A. M. D. Hendrick Appuhamy was a subordinate officer working with me and was the father of Pemawathie Manamperi, who was his eldest child. I could recollect Pemawathie and her younger sister as small school girls in Kataragama. It was Pemawathie, who later on in life had been crowned "Avurudu Kumari" at a village beauty pageant, and who was ignominiously killed following the abortive insurgency of 1971, in a manner in which I could never forget.

With the passage of time and the usual Govt. transfers, I found myself in the Yala National Park in the year 1971. In the meantime, Game Guard Hendrick Appuhamy had been transferred to the Panama Range in the Eastern Province. He had left behind his family, who continued to live in an allotment house in Kataragama, situated behind the monument that now stands in memory of the late Pemawathie Manamperi .

On the 17th of April 1971 we heard that insurgents had taken control of the Kataragama area forcing our staff there to abandon their stations. To escape they had taken to the jungle and arrived at Yala the following morning with the Dept. firearms, radio transmitters and whatever they could carry on foot. As Yala H.Q., Palatupana, was easily accessible through jungle paths, I lost no time in contacting the Govt. Agent, Hambantota and explained the existing situation. On his advice we covertly transported all items, which could be of value to the insurgents, to the Hambantota Kachcheri using devious routes to get there.

However this move did not allay-the fears of some of the staff confined to Palatupana H.Q., as they were almost certain that insurgents would come looking for guns, radio transmitters, etc., which they thought we had with us. These personnel decamped despite my assurances and also my warnings regarding the prevailing situation in the country. Fortunately for those of us who stayed behind, the anticipated invasion did not take place, and after a few days we had news that an Army Volunteer Unit had advanced to Kataragama and had taken over the area from the control of the insurgents.

A few days later my friend Eric de Kretser, who was Manager of the Browns Beach Hotel at Amaduwa, invited me to join him to Hambantota to meet the Co-ordinating Officer of the Army for the District, Colonel Derek Nugawela. As I was anxious to meet the Army authorities and as Eric informed me that Col. Nugawela had been a classmate of his at Trinity College, Kandy, we travelled together and met the Colonel there. Brimming with confidence, he informed us that the Army was in total control of the Kataragama area and that the Govt. was keen on restoring order in the country as early as possible. Accordingly, I was told to take adequate steps to re-open and man all departmental stations, and that I should meet and talk to a Lt. Wijesuriya in this regard as he would be in charge of the Kataragama Army Unit.

On this fateful day, the 17th of April 1971, I left Palatupana in the Dept. jeep, with some of the Kataragama and Katagamuwa staff, with Kataragama as our destination. Eric de Kretser and his son accompanied us in the Motel jeep and when we reached the temporary Army H.Q., housed in the former C.T.B. Pilgrims Rest, it was about 10.30 a.m. As Eric had met Lt. Wijesuriya earlier, he made the necessary introductions, and the officer who was seated on an arm-chair gestured towards two vacant chairs which we occupied. Seated on the floor beside him was a girl, who to my surprise I recognised as Pemawathie Manamperi, whom I was seeing after about ten years. Asked if I knew her and whether her father was an employee in the Wild Life Dept. I replied in the affirmative. When I inquired as to why she was here I was informed that she was a captured insurgent. I also saw a group of about another six or seven girls seated on the floor by the entrance to the toilet. During the brief period I was there I observed these girls using the toilet quite frequently. I was informed that all these girls had been captured the previous day and had been detained in the Army camp overnight.

After a while I reminded Lt. Wijesuriya of my mission and left for an inspection of Dept. Qrs. and property. The Game Ranger, Kataragama had abandoned station and I saw that his Qrs. had been looted and burnt down. When I returned about an hour later and was walking back into the Army camp, I met Lt. Wijesuriya, machine gun in hand, herding Pemawathie outside. I moved aside and they both walked past me to the compound where the Officer went up to a jeep parked nearby and cocked his leg on the buffer of the vehicle. He had his rifle pointed towards Pemawathie whose back was towards me’ The two faced each other within view of the civilian drivers of the commandeered vehicles, a few Govt. servants including my staff, the other soldiers and a few bold and curious loiterers. The other spectators included a visiting Army Officer and his staff, who had brought mails, and who later on gave evidence in this connection.

Lt. Wijesuriya now started abusing Pemawathie for having taken part in insurgent activities and I felt that his speech was mainly for the benefit of the onlookers. Next he ordered Pemawathie to remove her clothes and when she hesitated he made as if to hit her with his gun, whereupon the girl removed her frock over her head and dropped it on the ground as ordered. She was left with a brown coloured brassiere and a black skirt.

Lt. Wijesuriya then ordered her to remove her brassiere which she didn’t do at first but under the threat of the gun slowly and unwillingly unfastened her brassiere and dropped it at her feet as ordered. Finally the girl was ordered to remove her skirt too. Again she did nothing and I heard her mumble some words to Lt. Wijesuriya to which he replied "what are you waiting for remove the rest". When there was still no response he rushed up to her and again very nearly hit her with the butt of his gun whereupon the helpless girl took off her skirt as well and dropped it at her feet as ordered. She was now stark naked and used her hands to cover up her nakedness, whilst hanging her head in shame. The poor girl was now ordered to walk up to the main road and she slowly moved towards it.

Thereafter, walking as in a trance, I could see her cross the main road and move in the direction of Tissamaharama, closely followed by Lt. Wijesuriya, who had his machine gun pointed at her back, and behind them went two other soldiers with rifles in hand. They hadn’t gone far when the stillness was punctuated by a burst of about five or six gun shots and I saw Pemawathie pitch forward and fall on her face. I sensed what had happened and thoroughly disgusted at what I witnessed I quickly walked back inside the building.

A few moments later Lt. Wijesuriya and Eric de Kretser walked in and occupied their seats. We were seated in silence when a soldier rushed up and in hushed tones informed Lt. Wijesuriya that the girl was not dead as yet. Summoning a soldier referred to as Sgt. Ratnayaka, he ordered him to ‘finish the job’, and a few moments later we heard the crack of a rifle shot and presumed the ordeal over. Lt. Wijesuriya then walked to the front of the building and hailed a man walking along the road and ordered him to engage some labourers and bury the girl he thought dead. I recognised this man as one Aladdin from Kataragama. Many minutes passed, mostly in silence, before Lt. Wijesuriya was once again informed, by a dejected looking soldier, that the girl was still alive. At this Lt. Wijesuriya seemed annoyed and in loud tones ordered any one of the soldiers present to ‘finish the job’ After a while another rifle shot rang out and I prayed the tragedy had ended. I was utterly disgusted of these events but had not voiced my feelings as the Army seemed all powerful at the time.

In the meantime Lt. Wijesuriya had been summoned for an urgent meeting with his Commanding Officer at Hambantota, and he informed us of his intention to leave immediately. When I inquired what he intended doing with the rest of the detained girls, who were by now in tears and on the verge of hysteria, it served as a reminder to him. He ordered these girls to the front compound and abused them for a good minute or so and then raising his gun as if to fire ordered them to run home. Quite unsure of his true intentions and probably aware of Pemawathie’s fate, first one and then all of the girls ran falteringly towards the main road and raced out of sight. The shots did not come but the girls may have had many nightmares of the nasty experience they had undergone, to haunt them for the rest of their lives.

Eric de Kretser’s son was a star witness in the belated Court cases that were instituted following this incident, as he, as a inquisitive youngster had followed all details of the shooting of Pemawathie Manamperi. He gave me details of what had happened after we had gone inside the building.

After being shot by Lt, Wijesuriya the girl had sat up and after a while had begged for some water to drink. The Army personnel present had prevented this but later on had permitted the request. Sgt. Ratnayaka had then arrived on the scene and had fired a shot at her with the rifle, maybe not having the courage to take proper aim. The girl had then been carried away for burial by some men supervised by Aladdin.

After a pit had been dug, the girl was still found to be alive, and naturally Aladdin had refused to bury the girl alive. The girl had sat up and had requested Aladdin to hand over her ear studs to her mother, to be given to her younger sister. The dying girl had also said that this was her fate and that no one should be blamed for her death. At this stage another soldier had arrived at the burial site and had shot the girl through the head, at point blank range. This soldier though known had not been named and therefore was not treated as an accused in the legal proceedings that followed this incident.

The brutal manner in which Pemawathie Manamperi was shot and killed was the talk of the town for some time but not for long. Days after the sordid incident the true picture really came to light when I visited Hambantota and met the D.M.O. There, Dr. Nadaraja, who was a friend of mine. His information, on contacting the co-ordinating Officer, Col. Nugawela had been that just another insurgent had been done away with. After my eye-witness account his views changed drastically and the late Dr. Nadaraja had lost no time in meeting Col. Nugawela and informing him that evidence was available regarding the correct version of this incident and that a reliable Govt. Servant was willing to come forward with this evidence. In the course of this argument the late Dr. Nadaraja had been obliged to divulge my name.

During this period Mr. Eric de Kretser, on one of his visits to Hambantota had paid a courtesy call on his classmate, Col. Nugawela, at the Army H.Q. there. On alighting from his vehicle and walking towards the Army camp he had been confronted by a sentry on duty who had inquired from him whether he was ‘Mr. White ’. Mr. de Kretser had jokingly replied that he was ‘Mr. Brown’ as he was employed by M/s. Brown & Co., Ltd. Whether the Army sentry caught the joke or not is left to speculation, but anyway he had been allowed to meet the Col:, to whom he had not mentioned this ‘joke’. No sooner had he got back he made it a point to see me and give me this information as he had not treated this as a joke. He also warned me to be very careful as at that time the Army had been empowered with maximum authority.

Although I did not take this seriously at first, I had to heed the advice given to me by certain persons who came to know about this incident. Accordingly I left for Colombo the following day and reported the facts to our Director, who in turn contacted the Defence authorities and I was instructed to temporarily work at Head office. After some time I was informed that the Army Volunteer Unit had been removed from the Hambantota District and had been replaced by Air Force personnel. Thereafter, as instructed, I reported at the Air Force unit at Hambantota, met the Commanding officer there and resumed duties in the Yala National Park.

Pemawathie’s father Hendrich Appuhamy, on being transferred to Panama had found a mistress there, thereby neglecting his legal family-at Kataragama. Maintaining a family of about ten children and seeing to their educational and other needs had been too big a task for Pemawathie’s mother, who herself was not that educated. The oblivious rest of this was that the children were neglected due to lack of parental care and supervision.

After my return to Yala I made it a point to visit Pemawathie’s mother at her home in Kataragama. On seeing me she started wailing and I had to pacify her. After she calmed down I inquired from her whether she had been given a pair of ear studs by Aladdin. She informed me that Aladdin had handed over a pair of -ear studs given by Pemawathie before her death, with a request that it be handed over to her younger sister. In the course of conversation, I learnt from Pemawathie’s mother that Pemawathie had sat for the G.C.E. (O/L) examination and had failed to qualify in some subjects, including Arithmetic. She had been taking private tuition in these subjects from a Buddhist monk residing along the Wedahitikanda road in Kataragama, where other students too had been offered private tuition perhaps this may have been how the late Pemawathie Manamperi had got involved in nefarious activities.

Quite some time later belated investigations had been conducted regarding the death of Pemawathie Manamperi where her remains had been exhumed. Thereafter Lt. Wijesuriya and Sgt. Ratnayaka had been charged with the attempted murder of Pemawathie Manamperi. This case was initially heard at the Magistrate’s Court, Hambantota and later committed to the Supreme Courts, Galle, where the evidence of witnesses were recorded. After trial Lt. Wijesuriya and Sgt. Ratnayake had been found guilty of the offences committed and had been sentenced to 16 years R.I. each. It had been reported that Lt. Wijesuriya had died in prison whilst serving the sentence and that Sgt. Ratnayaka had been murdered after his release from prison.

P.S.

Some time back newspapers reported that D. G. Manamperi, who was a Game Guard attached to the Yala National Park, had been knifed to death by a poacher, whilst he was on duty on the outskirts of the Park. He was a younger brother of the late Pemawathie Manamperi. There were 7 boys and 3 girls in this family of 10 children.

Gullible’s Travails - 2
The Pukka Sahib learns a lesson

by Cecil V. Wikramanayake
Batticaloa, when we went there in 1936, had only the Gymkhana Club — for the ‘whites’ and the elite, like the Government Agent, the Assistant Government Agent, and other Civil Servants.

So father, Proctor K. V. M. Subramaniam, Proctor K. W. (Bill) Devanayagam, and a few others started the Batticaloa Town Sports Club, for the not-so-elite who were shut out of the Gymkhana Club. A year later the first East Ceylon Tennis Tourtnament was inaugurated.

Now the Gymkhana Club had the AGA, Bert (W.J.A.) Van Langenberg as a member. He had been their champion tennis player — a tall, fair handsome man, but with a supercilious manner towards lesser mortals.

Dad wrote to Haramanis, laying all his cards on the table and invited his friend to come over, become a member of the Town Sports Club and "teach this fellow a lesson".

Came the finals of the East Ceylon tennis tournament. The finalists were Haramanis Soysa of the Batticaloa Town Sports Club and W. J. A. Van Langenberg of the Gymkhana Club. It was a match never to be forgotten, for Haramanis used his control of the ball while serving, to the full.

In tennis, I had observed that the server generally faces the net and comes down hard on the ball. Haramanis had mastered the art of spinning the ball as he served, the way a spin bowler does at cricket. The way he served the ball, no one could say which way the ball would travel after it hit the ground across the net.

The result was that when Van Langenberg expected the ball to move to his right, it moved to his left, and vice versa. Haramanis scored on every serve and the former champion of the province received the drubbing of his life, and Haramanis won the title in straight sets, 6-love, 6-love.

The happiest spectator was this teenage boy whose hero had once again lived up to expectations.

From the Badulla hospital, Dad was transferred to his ‘hometown’, Galle, not very long after his third son, the one who ‘maintained the family tradition’, was born.

And there we were at ‘Wicklands’ Uluvitike, Galle, a vast coconut estate owned by Dad’s uncle Cyril Herbert, on which stood the Walauwe, where Uncle Bertie lived, and another, smaller house further inside the estate. We settled down there.

Memories of incidents at ‘Wicklands’ are disjointed but clear even now. I remember how, in the evenings, we used to listen to the howling of packs of jackals on the border of the estate at the back of our house. It was a blood-curdling sound, and I never ventured out of the house alone after dark. The hooting of the jackals was enough to scare grown-ups, let alone a six-year old.

Other memories of Wicklands. We, young ones, were too big for the ‘potty’ and too small for a visit to "See Mrs. Jones" as my grandmother would refer to a trip to the ‘toilet’.

I well remember taking a bucket of water and a small mammoty and walking up the incline at the back of the house and down the slope towards the jungle bordering the estate. Once out of sight of the house, one digs a little hole in the soft earth, performs one’s duties and closes the hole, providing good fertiliser for the coconut trees that grew in abundance.

There was a dairy on Wicklands, and Mum, who had a way with animals, was in charge of it. At the crack of dawn she would be there, supervising the milking of the two score cows, often lending a hand at milking. I used to accompany her often, just to listen to the music of the milk shooting through the udder into the pail. The tune "Choong-chaang, choong-chaang" was really music to an imaginative little boy.

The milk was used to be supplied to the hospital at Mahamodera, where Dad worked. I remember he bought a second-hand Standard two-seater car, D-721 for Rs. 200/- and the milk cans were stacked in the dickey while my elder brother and I traveled in the front seat with Dad. He would drop us off at the Sacred Heart Convent, Galle, and then go on to the hospital, having first admonished us "Don’t eat Veralu-achcharu, boiled gram or seeeni-alpay."

We did not need to, for Sister Cuthbert, my teacher in the kindergarten, would reward those who had a "G" or a "VG" against the day’s lesson with small and big sweets called "bull’s-eyes" from a large tin in her cupboard.

One day, however, I yielded to temptation and ate some delicious pink seeni-alpay sold by the old woman at the convent gate.

"I’ll tell Daddy" warned my elder brother. And he did. And the pink lips and tongue confirmed the fact that I had transgressed.

Result? A caning when I got home, for Dad, as a young father, had believed in the adage "Spare the rod and spoil the child". In later years, after the first girl, Rita was born, he mellowed and studied "child psychology".

The two seater that Dad had bought had to be cranked by hand before it would start. I remember, after we had moved to Kumbalwella Road, one evening Dad bringing home a seer fish almost five feet long, tied to the outside of the car. He had bought it at the beach, as the boats came in, for a mere two rupees!

Today, just a thin slice of seer fish would set you back around twenty rupees !

One other memory stands out about the days at Wicklands. Among the many heifers Mum had was one which had a rope tied round its mouth. She was terribly fierce and only allowed Mum to handle her. If one of the men came near her she would jump in a rage and butt the man. My brother and I called her the "jumping and butting cow".

But when Mum went near her she was as docile as ever and allowed Mum to tie her and milk her without any protest.

In those days the one cent coin and the half cent coin - I still have them with me — were the kind of coins that came into the hands of little children. That was a lot of money, for a half-cent would buy you a trouser pocket full of gram, and for one cent you could buy a wood-apple, bigger than a tennis ball, with a "seeni-gotta" ( about a tablespoonful) thrown in free.

Dad’s youngest but one brother Ivon Mark, just out of school and working as a Comptometer operator at the Colombo Commercial Company, often spent weekends with us. He was a great lad with the ladies, tall, dark and handsome, and the belles of Galle were crazy about him for he was an expert dancer, doing the Charleston — then the rage — with the flair of a Fred Astaire.

Ivon had borrowed Dad’s car for the evening and had gone wenching, his favourite pastime. He was returning home at night, when he was stopped by a policeman. His tail-light was not working.

Ivon was very polite to the cop, for he was dressed in his Sunday best, though he had not a red cent in his pockets. Only a half-cent in his coat pocket.

Now the half cent in copper was of the same size as the silver 25 cents coin, and one could be mistaken for the other on a dark night.

Thinking fast, Ivon pleaded with the cop to give him another chance. He would get a bulb fixed in the morning. "And here is something to buy you a cuppa-tea, Sergeant."

The cop gratefully accepted what he thought was 25 cents, which had tremendous purchasing power at that time, and let Ivon off with a warning. But Ivon could not keep this to himself, and by the time he was due to go back to Colombo, the story was all over Galle how a cop had accepted a bribe of half a cent !

(Next week: Those Richmond days )

f
Why weep over the potato?

by Prof. T. W. Wickremanayake
During the past year there have been many complaints in the media regarding the scarcity of the potato, the high price of the potato and increased imports of the potato by the CWE greatly reducing the profits of the local potato mudalalis. The cry regarding scarcity is mainly from the middle class. Do the rural and estate sectors and the urban poor consider the potato to be an essential item on the menu?

The potato is a native of the Andean slopes of Chile and Venezuela, having been cultivated by the native Americans before 6000 B.C. The potato became a staple of the great Inca civilization, who worshipped potato spirits and fashioned pottery that blended human and potato forms. The Spaniards introduced the potato, along with the brinjal and the tomato, in the 16th century, to Europe, where it soon became a popular food because it could be cultivated during failure of many cereal coops. At first it was considered an evil food because it is not mentioned in the Bible. Leprosy, tuberculosis and rickets were attributed to potato. Lord Byron wrote of "the sad result of passions and potatoes", reflecting a conviction in the early 19th century that potato had unwholesome, aphrodisiac properties.

In Ireland it completely ousted cereal crops and was adopted as the staple, and the tuber was referred to as the "Irish potato". For the peasant it became the "staff of life", an average adult eating 4 to 61/2 kg. a day. In 1845 the entire crop in Europe was destroyed by a fungal disease. Mass starvation throughout Europe was followed by pestilence. In Ireland six years of famine led to over a million deaths and more than a million migrated to North America.

Although the potato was introduced to Ceylon by the Dutch it did not become a popular food with the rural population who found it cheaper to eat indigenous root vegetables. It was cultivated on a small scale upcountry, most potatoes being imported. Local cultivation was given an impetus by Mr. Philip Gunawardane and agriculturists soon discovered that the tuber could be cultivated in Jaffna and Anuradhapura as well.

Most people make a curry of the potato in coconut milk. It is only the middle class that needs mashed potato, potato chips and potato crisps, in addition to using it as a filling in patties and cutlets. All these different dishes could be made with indigenous yams and tubers that formed the traditional foods of Lankans.

What are the traditional root vegetables? There is a long list of them. I shall only enumerate them. They are described adequately in Dr. Udaya Rajapaksha’s book "Traditional Food Plants in Sri Lanka" published by the Hector Kobbekaduwa Agrarian Research and Training Institute, Colombo. They are:

The sweet potato, S. bathala, T. Wattalakklangu
The country potato, S. Innala,
Taro or cocoyam, S. Gahala, Dehiala, T. shamakkilangu
The Elephant yam, S. Kidaran, Rajaala, T. Karunaikkalangu
The Giant Taro, S. Kiriala, Kirihabarala, T. Parunsembu
The Alocesia, S. Desa-ala, Rata ala

and

the numerous Diascoreas, viz.

The greater yam, king yam, asiaticyam, S. raja ala, kirikondal, T. rasavalli, kannai
The lesser asiatic yam, S. udala, T. kodi
The potato yam, aerial yam, S. kukulala, javala, T. mothakavalli
The buck yam, S. katu-ala, katuvala, T. allai

and

the Diascorea spicala, S. gonala.

With such a variety of starchy root vegetable, one wonders why we should shed tears over the potato. All these could be made into curry, mashed, fried, or used for making soups.

Dr. Rajapaksha and his HARTH Collegues organised a seminar at Triton Hotel, a few years ago. Chefs from about 20 Aitken Spence Hotels attended the Seminar, when they were shown the wide variety of green leafy vegetables and tubers that are indigenous to the country, and informed of their nutritive value. The afternoon was spent by the chefs in producing several very attractive and tasty dishes, using yams and leaves on display. One of the tastiest soups I have eaten is the king yam soup prepared by them, garnished with chopped up onion leaves.

All these yams and tubers have more calcium and the B vitamins that than potato. Their cultivation has been neglected on account of the demand for potato. All of them can be conveniently cultivated in home gardens up to an elevation of about 1500 m and need little attention. Most of them could be stored in a cool dry place for months, provided they are not injured during harvest.

All local yams are labelled "treaty", while imported foods (cabbage, potato, carrot, beetroot) are not, because the latter were not cultivated in South Asia during the time Ayurveda developed. At 81, I eat all varieties of local foods, without any ill effects.

Lastly, there is the manioc or cassava.

Manioc

Manioc is one of the most important root crops in the world. Five hundred million people in Africa, South and Central America and some parts of Asia eat manioc every day, some even 2 or 3 times a day. It ranks sixth in the world’s crops in the volume of food produced. It is claimed that manioc gives a greater yield-than all competitive root and grain crops, producing nearly 2.5 x 104 calories per hectar per day, as against 2.1 x 109 calories from maize, 1.76 x 104 from rice and 1.10 x 104 calories from wheat. In many countries it forms either the chief staple or an important subsidiary food. The plant can be grown as a home or school garden crop in most parts of Sri Lanka, up to an elevation of 1220 metres. It can survive under conditions of severe drought and thrive during the rainy season. It grows in clayey as well as in sandy soils, in acidic and alkaline soils. Where other root crops cannot grow, manioc will thrive.

Much has been made of the fact that manioc has linamarin, a cyanogenic glucoside, from which hydrocyanic acid, HCN, can be liberated by an enzyme contained in the plant itself. The "bitter manioc" contains 200 to 300 mg of potential free cyanide per kg of fresh yam. The sweet variety commonly grown in Sri Lanka, contains only about 70 mg per kg. It takes 50 to 60 mg cyanide to kill an adult man, so that eating about 1 kg of raw manioc could be fatal.

Fortunately, no one eats raw manioc, and poisoning by manioc is extremely rare. Such poisoning has not been reported even in Nigeria and Tanzania, where large sections of the population subsist on 3 meals of processed manioc per day, every day of their lives.

In Sri Lanka, the tuber is peeled, washed well, cut into small pieces, allowed to soak in water, and boiled in excess water in an open vessel, discarding the water when the yam is well boiled. Any cyanide liberated, being water soluble and volatile, will be lost in the water discarded and in the steam when boiling. Heat destroys the enzyme linamarase, preventing further liberation of cyanide. Only half to one-third of the original linamarin contained in the tuber remains in the cooked product.

For making manioc crisps, the washed tuber is sliced thin, washed again in excess water, spread out in the shade for about 24 hours and dried in the sun for 5 days, or in an oven at 60 to 70ūC. The dried slices could be fried or converted to flour.

Studies with animals and with children have shown that replacement of about 25% of the rice in a rice-vegetable-pulse diet did not lead to any deterioration of overall growth - promoting value of the diet. There was no difference in the weight, stature, haemoglobin concentration in blood, and plasma protein concentration in children on the manioc containing diet, when compared with a control group receiving no manioc. Rats showed an improvement in growth, with greater nitrogen and calcium retention on the manioc containing diet, probably because of the high calcium content of manioc.

Hydro cyanic acid can be converted in the body to thiocyanate, and thiocyanate is known to inhibit the uptake of iodine by the thyroid gland. A high prevalence of iodine - deficient goitre is seen in Nigeria and Tanzania among those who eat manioc several times a day, every day in the year. Fortunately, thiocyanate is detoxified in the liver. The goitrogenic action of thiocyanate can be counteracted by consumption of iodised salt.

In Sri Lanka there has never been a necessity to eat more than a few meals of manioc a week, so that one need not be worried about its goitrogenic effect, especially as all salt for human consumption is being-iodised.

In the 1970s, 10 adults were fed a meal of boiled manioc along with vegetables and meat, once a day for more than 6 weeks. They showed no increase in the blood serum thiocyanate level and no change in the thyroid hormone level or in the uptake of radioiodine by the thyroid gland. Therefore manioc, correctly processed, could be eaten with impunity, provided an adequate quantity of protein’ and iodised salt are also ingested.

Manioc, like the other root vegetables mentioned above, can be used for all the dishes and preparations made from the potato. The cultivation of all varieties of yams and tubers should be encouraged and their consumption promoted at all levels.

The architecture of an island

Ronald Lewcock, Barbara Sansoni and Laki Senanayake
Published By Barefoot (Pvt) Ltd.

by Suren Wickramasinge
Browsing through "The Architecture of an Island" gave me a new thrill at belonging to Sri Lanka. To feel that a living legacy is available for those who wish to see it is a fantastic experience.

The fact that we have a rich ancient culture and architectural tradition is something we have known from childhood, — and taken for granted.

Going through many pages of lovingly drawn and detailed experiences of buildings meant to be worshipped in, convalesced in, and to be "LIVED — In", shows one that Sri Lanka its colonisers, and mainly its people knew how to enjoy graceful living from the adobe (mud) village houses to the grand Walawwas of Ratnapura and the terraced houses of Messenger Street, one feels the calm, serene, but yet fullness of life in these drawings.

It is very clear that co-authors Ronald Lewcock, Barbara Sansoni and Laki Senanayake and able crew have really enjoyed their labours and convey their happiness the sensitive touch of the nib.

The sheer enjoyment of browsing through this book does not end with a purely insular "one - upmanship". We are even more excited to be reminded that our Island architecture takes it place in history back to the Indus Valley and right through up to the British Empire.

In Sri Lanka we must be happy that having been in the great trade route that every racial type and much of Asian culture has been absorbed leading to Bernard Shaw’s comment that he has not seen so many types of human faces as in Ceylon.

Barbara Sansoni has made a great contribution towards making us want to consciously enjoy the delight of opening out the values of our living built heritage.

Architects of today must have a chance of going through at least some of Barbara’s experience, before venturing on to building their reflections, of our times.

An absolutely delightful book put together not to "teach" but for the pure pleas’ enjoying what is one’s own - but often not realised!

Thank you, Barbara !!!

Melodious mixes of fine music from pianist Beverly Rodrigo
A noteworthy family CD!

by Rohan Jayawardana
The most brilliantly inventive champion of the piano improvisers you will ever hear is probably the courtly Beverly Rodrigo, whose activity is concentrated within the music — forum of Hilton Hotel. There is no other handler of the piano keyboard whose delicacies are so sweetly thrilling and chord-work so instantly thunderous, which is indeed comprehensive evidence of his beautifully controlled imagination at work.

The astonishing fact, however, is that this formidable man was never tutored in music but has a capacity of creative outpouring that outstrips the diploma-holders of music by light years!

In fact, the instant surges of colour plus rhythmic variation, and of the melodic developments may place him at an exclusive position on the overall international forum of light entertainers.

Beverley Rodrigo’s virtuoso brilliance has also led the premier television network of Sri Lanka to record a unique piano recital in a forthcoming exclusive series on musicians. It is a great tribute to High Excellence, the hallmark of personal calibre.

Therefore it ought to warm the hearts of music-loving families everywhere that this exclusive brand of light music is now available on a compact disc released for sale by Beverly Rodrigo titled "Melodious Lingering Melodies".

It is tastefully marketed in a soft-toned blue and mauve cover portraying just his sensitive hands!

The CD is replete with every variation of tempo from the dreamy to the electrifying and pulsating incorporated within the famous all time favourites such as: "Misty, Unchained Melody, Danny Boy, Besame Mucho, Never on a Sunday", and so forth.

It is an item for savouring by all ages too, and a lesson in the exquisite capacity of ear and fine musicianship for all interested learners.

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