KAHI NA JAYE [GOING NOWHERE]
37 years ago, on July 23, 1983 a group of LTTE rebels ambushed the Four Four Bravo military patrol in Tirunelveli killing 13 of its soldiers. This was the spark that ignited the fire, on the night of 24 July 1983, spreading the flames of hatred in a series of anti-Tamil riots throughout the island of Sri Lanka.
While I leave you to surf the net and read a jillion articles about the infamous riots, I am here to add my own hairy episodes of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, during the “Kalu Juliya” — comedy and pathos galore.
DOUBLING WITH SATHA
On Sunday 24th July 1983, I had gone to the Sports Ministry grounds for my usual athletics practices. As I parked my bicycle, our athletics coach Mr Sathasivam or ‘Satha” as we called him, came running to say that practice has been cancelled.
“some rioting going on near the Kanatte cemetery… all of you need to rush back to your homes fast” he told us.
I had barely started out to peddle my way back home when Satha came running to ask if he could hitch a ride on my bike to the Bamba flats.
Within seconds we were on our way.
Then as I took my usual right turn to Bullers Road at the top of Maitland Place, I realized to my horror that I had pedalled right into a mob of enraged men, who were shouting what sounded like “Sinhala Rata — (something something) — Para Demalata — (something something)”.
The moment I heard “Para Demala” I didn’t pause to think.
Making use of the chaos I whizzed past the mob, pedalling as fast as possible to Jawatte road and lickety-split onto Keppetipola road. Sticking mostly to byroads I finally ended up at the Bamba flats, with Satha enduring the entire ride perched on the rear pannier rack, his legs stretched out and clinging on to my shoulder blades for dear life!
ERASING THE M
The next morning, on Monday July 25th, however, there was nothing on the news. Everything was quiet and normal down our lane. Assuming that the previous day’s fracas was an isolated incident, mum asked me to do a quick run to Royal bakery Wellawatte.
Just as I reached Galle Road, Mr ‘Carnival’ Perera at the top of Davidson Road shouted at me “Where are you going? Are you mad to cycle like this? Wellawatte is burning… hurry and get back home”
Cycling back past aunty Avanthi’s house, I saw her scraping off the ‘M’ in Amarasingha(m), on their gate name plate.
“Why aunty? What’s the problem?” I asked her.
“Can’t get killed because of an M child” she responded nonchalantly. Avanthi is Sinhalese and her husband Jacob a Christian Tamilian.
Just then, uncle Jacob came out to say that some Tamil prisoners at the Welikada jail have been killed and that ‘organized’ mobs have started spreading to all parts of Colombo.
That evening our former neighbour Mrs Akthar called to inform us that our old home down Davidson Road was being looted. Fortunately, we had moved our worldly belongings, lock-stock-and barrel, to our new home except a library full of books and music records, which were awaiting to be relocated. The mob had tossed all the contents of the library on to the lawn, ignited a flame, and watched in glee as three decades of valuable literature and wisdom burnt to ash. The old garage section was razed to the ground and a 1958 Mercedes-Benz 220S which we had restored caringly was also set ablaze.
LOOT AND SCOOT
Tuesday 26 July, 1983 was my worst nightmare. Although there was an all-island curfew, violence continued in Colombo. False information was spreading faster than the flames of fire that were still burning in Wellawatte and Dehiwala.
I was sweeping the balcony outside my room when I heard the commotion. Flag-Waving “Jaathi Aley” mobs had turned into our alcove down Layards Road! I watched as they systematically walked from house to house.
Then they came to our gate.
“Meka sinhala geyakda”? (Is this a Sinhalese home) looking up at me one guy demanded to know.
“Ou” (Yes) I said.
“Nama mokakda?” (What is the name?)
“Abhayagunasekara” I partially lied.
Disappointed, they moved to other dwellings and ended up at the Stanislaus residence. My gaze was fastened on the mob.
After what seemed like ten minutes, a bunch of female mobsters came out of the Stanislaus residence, with TVs, Ceiling fans, and a host of other kitchen appliances and household items precariously perched on their heads!
Another bunch of disgusting remorseless perpetrators followed them carrying with them heavy refrigerators, washing machines and even doors and windows! Oh! how the looters prided themselves upon their exploits! Loaded with booty, they marched away as if they had conquered Normandy!
SAVED BY THE ROBES
By now we were receiving a barrage of calls from different sources, ominously informing us that the mobs were in possession of voter registration lists, which helped them easily identify Tamil residences.
After a lull of about an hour, my mum’s three young cousin brothers dropped by to check if we were safe. One of the brothers, a monk, was attached to a temple somewhere in the suburbs of Colombo. (We were too lazy to remember his long tongue twisting ‘Dharma name’ thus we had christened him “Sadhu Mama”). The second fellow Jatila was a ‘green’ officer in the Sri Lanka Army, and the youngest Rahal, the rascal, was a student at the Kelaniya University. They were on their way to Kandy — their home town, and had made a last-minute decision to whiz past our place.
Since we had a monk as a visitor, mum commissioned me to search for a white sheet to cover his chair. Just then, we heard a commotion outside our gate. Peering through the gap in the gate, I saw that our alcove was deserted except for a mob right outside our gate, armed with machetes, clubs and steel chains.
Rahal and Jatila opened the wicket gate and walked out to confront the mob. I was right behind them. Most of the mobsters were drunk. Plastered. They all looked like hardcore criminals.
“mokakda prashne?” (what is the problem) Jatila asked the mob.
“Apita mey ge puchchanna oney” (We want to torch this place) came the response.
“Mokak kiwwa?” (What did you say) Rahal burst in.
“Api dannawa meka Demala geyak kiyala” (We know that this is a Tamil house) the mob leader said.
“Kawda ‘ootige pooto’ kiwwe bota meka Demala geyak kiyala?” (Who told you that this was a Tamil house) Rahal again.
The entire mob turned their heads in unison, 90 degrees to their left.
“Anna araya thamai kiwwe meka Demala geyak kiyala” (THAT is the person who said so) the mob chorused.
As we followed their gaze, a blue checked sarong disappeared in a flash, through the partially-opened door of our immediate neighbour.
Sadhu mama walked out, with a part of his robe tucked under his arm and immediately initiated peace talks. The mob dispersed peacefully after worshipping him.
KAHINA JAYE (කහින ජයේ)
My story will not be complete if I fail to mention the prime mover, the instigator of my story.
‘Kahina Jaye’ (Coughing Jaye), the rightful wearer of that blue checked sarong, was an influential, educated, affluent, yet morally bankrupt old fart. This Sinhalese Buddhist, former ambassador was a racist to the core and never masked his contempt for racial and ethnic minorities. However, the deep-rooted animosity between Jaye and us began not with our ethnicity , but— a barking dog!
Jaye suffered from chronic cough syndrome, hence the endearing term ‘Kahina Jaye’.
Now the dilemma.
Whenever Jaye broke into a coughing fit, our half-baked Beagle ‘Archie’ would invariably harmonize his barking with Jaye’s coughing. This lengthy passionate aural cacophony persisted until Jaye’s coughing ceased. It was a 24/7 Opera filled with coughing and barking overtures with brief interludes in between.
One day Jaye’s driver delivered a folded piece of note paper — from his boss. It read “Your dog’s barking is disturbing my peace. Kindly make him shut-up”
I threw the note in the bin.
A few days later the driver delivered yet another piece of paper. Same message. I tossed it away.
The following day the driver brings yet another note. This time it was the same message, but written in Sinhala.
“Obalage ballage bireema mage nindata baadavak vee atha. Uge bireema vahama navathvanna katayuthu karanna”
My mother who was totally impervious to all these threats asked me to respond immediately.
So, I wrote on behalf of mum:
“ඔබේ නොනවතින කැස්ස, මගෙත්, මගේ පවුලෙත්, මගේ බල්ලගේත්, අනික් අසල්වැසියන්ගේත් නින්දට ඉමහත් බාධාවක් වී ඇත. ඔබේ කැස්ස නැවතුනු ට අපේ බල්ලාගේ බිරීමත් ඉබේම නවතිනවා ඇත. එවිට අප සියලු දෙනාට සුවසේ නිදාගත හැක”
Obey nonavathina kassa, mageth, mage pavuleth, mage ballageth, anik asalvasiyangeth nindata imahath baadhaavak vee atha. Obey kassa navathunu vita ape ballage bireemath ibema navathinava atha. evita apa siyalu denaata suvase nidaagatha haka.
[Loosely translated the message meant to say that once his coughing stops, the barking would stop]
My response put a stop to any further written communication between us.
A few years later, when Jaye passed away, my Aththamma (Grandma) was the first to cry.
“Why the hell are you crying?” I asked her. “Mathaka nadda oya miniha apata karapu hathurukam?” (Can’t you remember his evil doings?) I reminded her.
Aththamma sniffed away dolefully … “Aney ithin hathurukamak hari karanna apata hitiye ochchara neh!” (After all, he was all we had even to do evil things to us!)
