A wistful reflection of times past

The Colombo Medical School batch of 1962

By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It’s not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything.”  — Muhammad Ali

Remembering Medical School and friends takes me back to my roots and those distant days. I am deluged by a deep sense of déjà vu as I time travel to the 1960’s. Those of us who live abroad may see those early days in a certain fuzzy sepia light. But our emotional attachment remains undiminished. The quiet Kynsey road, the familiar façade of the grey administrative building and the sentinel Clocktower stand unchanged. I am simply mesmerised by the elegant sweep of those majestic buildings. In that dreamy state it is so easy to be enchanted by the constant whirr of the Vespas in the dusty parking bay behind the Milk Booth and be overwhelmed by the smell of smoke that fills the air. In our mind’s eye the faculty will always remain as we left it in 1967.

We were a batch of around 150 students and in those days the faculty of Medicine felt like an enclave of privilege, and it was. Entry into the Faculty was the culmination of years of toil and sacrifice. We still had the security of home and our parents paid the bills. There was such a great sense of myopic optimism, we lost ourselves in the adulation. We dreamed it was our passport to fame and fortune. The idyll soon faded as the harsher truths of real life intruded. Life being like a game of snakes and ladders, always has ways to end that utopian vision and bring us back to reality!!

The Faculty was our Temple of Wisdom and also our gilded cage. There was an air of confidence and a touch of vanity which came from being a medical student. Life then was a dream. I developed a sinister arrogance and an assured sense of entitlement. I dreamed of living happily ever after. It was not long before part of that charm and fantasy began to wear thin.

The common room with the canteen was the social hub of the faculty and a very special place. That was our own retreat and shelter from the storms of faculty life. Many friendships were made and firmed within those walls. It was a vital place, where we could gather informally to talk, gossip and pass the time. Racy jokes and saucy humour filled the air. We gathered there to listen to music, play billiards, table tennis and carrom. Cupid was actively busy slinging his arrows in the faculty. The canteen was a haven for couples to whisper those ‘sweet nothings’.

There were evening sing-songs in the common room. These were ever so popular and simply unforgettable. I can still feel its pleasure, hear them sing and even picture the dancing. The echoes of our communal past litter our memories. After the passage of half a century much of faculty life has changed. The lively and vibrant common room with its unique ambience would now seem like a dream from a lost world. A dream that can only exist in our memories.

The stormy dynamics of the ‘Block’ were a baptism of fire. Detailed study of anatomy, physiology and biochemistry filled our days and nights. We were weighed down by signatures and revisals that generated a toxic atmosphere. But there were the Colours Nights and Block Nights to imbibe the spirit of the swinging sixties and liven up our lives. There was also a certain wildness, colourful antics and downright mischief that was associated with being a medical student. Sometimes this badness and madness became tabloid fodder. We did transgress the red line and pay the price. The good, bad and the ugly are well described and documented in the faculty chronicles. Despite our occasional rascality we were blessed with a sympathetic public image.

Then we embarked on our jagged path from the dissection rooms to the ward classes and clinical appointments across Kynsey Road. My abiding memory of those years are the long walks along those airy hospital corridors in search of patients and knowledge. We strolled like a ‘peacocks’, swinging those knee hammers and proudly wearing the stethoscopes around our necks. Meanwhile in the third and fourth year we had a profusion of subjects to comprehend. I still convulse thinking of the sheer volume of facts we had to commit to memory. From all that knowledge what remains now are the daringly prophetic lines of a poem from Clinical Pharmacology by D.R Laurence:

“Doctor, goodbye, my sail’s unfurl’d, I’m off to try the other world”.

We were immensely fortunate to belong to a generation taught by a plethora of dedicated and gifted teachers. Like us many called it the Golden Era of Medical Education. Under their influence and tutelage life was not always a bed of roses. In the ward classes and teaching appointments there were some exchanges too painful to recall. Although seemingly omniscient and more than a tad egocentric, they inspired us. They gave of their best to the students. We remember with affection and gratitude the dedication and commitment of our clinical teachers, professors and lecturers on this our special day.

Then like a never-ending storm came the Final Examination. Seeing the name on the notice board was an iconic moment to savour. Success is where preparation and opportunity meet. Success was also our liberation and the passport to freedom. From the glowing embers of those undergrad years a new era was born.

“Go West young man” was the mantra that appealed to many. The political turmoil and our sagging economy did not give us much faith or hope. One of the greatest triumphs in life is to pursue one’s dreams. Many dispersed far and wide in search of work and opportunity. Those who left the country entered the Darwinian struggle of survival of the fittest. Amidst the fierce competition for the plum jobs, there were the many unwanted prejudices to contend with.

The many who remained in Sri Lanka reached the top of their careers in the fullness of time. I acknowledge the patriotism, loyalty and resilience of those who remained in the motherland to serve the country. They lived through some difficult times. The émigrés too played their role professionally to serve society and the communities wherever they lived and worked. Those who lived abroad made donations to a multitude of Sri Lankan charities. They also provided financial support to Medical institutions and Medical education back home.

I would like the achievements of our batch to be remembered as one of the most successful. I am delighted in the academic accomplishments and the professional success of our batch-mates. Although I loved it, mine was a career mixed with grit and glamour in equal measure.

We stepped on the treadmill to carve ourselves a career. Then marriage and caring for our families took precedence. We embraced and adored everything parenthood had to offer. Time passed swiftly and relentlessly. With the passage of years, we met our batch-mates infrequently at reunions. The endless vicissitudes of life have usurped our youth. Our long and demanding professional lives gradually came to a halt. Retirement is not the end but a new beginning. Still sprightly, we hit the golf greens and continue to entertain grandkids as life meanders slowly along. We are now more at peace with our lot in life.

Fast forward to 2022, we are now living on borrowed time. Despite all that sweating and grunting in the gym, we will leave our earthly abode one by one. On this our special Day we unite across faiths, ethnicity and backgrounds to remember our dear departed friends. Despite the mosaic of grief that engulfs us remembering departed friends, we hold back on our grieving. Let the silence and stillness reflect and capture the moment. As a group, we remember and celebrate their lives. There are some with whom we have associated more closely. For them it is much harder to banish the feelings of pain, despite the years. There is a wish to capture the essence of the character of our friends to recall the good times. They indeed have left behind “Footprints on the sands of time”.

We have all lost close friends from the batch. As we remember them, the inevitable regrets will surface too. We could have done much more to meet or to be in touch. Those joyful memories too will fade as we age. So let us cherish and treasure them now.

I take this opportunity to remember our friends who are battling through with dementia or now in long term or terminal care. It is our wish they will remain comfortable in their time on earth and continue to receive the love and care they so richly deserve.

I recall the wisdom of Robert Louis Stevenson: “we are all travellers in the wilderness of the world and the best we can do is to find an honest friend”. So thankful we found so many.

From the faculty staff I chose to pay homage to Prof O.E.R Abhayaratne, the Professor of Public Health and the Dean of the Faculty of Medicine. Amusing and widely respected he maintained the prestige and esteem of the institution as the Dean of the Faculty in a rapidly changing political milieu. Well known for his administrative strengths, by his charm and charisma, he was able to harness the support of some eccentric and egocentric professors and lecturers. His tenure was characterised by his generosity, kindness and sense of humour. The Profs delightfully poetic lectures lit up our Public Health education and also our lives. When we were in trouble after the Castle Street incident, he saved our careers from ruin. While maintaining his dignity and decorum he graced our Block Nights and supported the clean fun we had in the Men’s Common Room.

Larger than life and the monarch of all he surveyed we couldn’t have had a better “Boss”. His sartorial elegance or lack of it, eccentricities, mannerisms and idiosyncrasies have entered the folklore of this great institution. He was so much a part of our lives and of the Faculty of Medicine, his familiar stentorian voice must swirl in the ether of its corridors of power. May his Soul Rest in Peace.

From the dazzling firmament of fine clinical teachers, I choose to pay tribute to Dr.Darrell Weinman. His ward classes were conducted in a room at the Neuro Surgical Unit which was always packed to the rafters with students. With his mercurial personality Dr Weinman inspired, motivated and entertained us. He thrived on the intrigue and captivated us by the way he extracted relevant diagnostic information from patients. Dr Weinman in his theatrical performances played Sherlock Holmes to unravel the mystery and arrive at a diagnosis. His effortless erudition made whole swathes of impenetrable knowledge seem so accessible.

We bowed to his brilliance. He was such a kind man in the pernicious environment of medical education of the time. He treated the students with respect and in turn was held in great awe and esteem. Darrell Weinman had it all – handsome, a fine cricketer, brilliant scholar and a superb neurosurgeon. But these provide no protection from the frailties of human life and the awesome force of destiny. Sadly, when at the height of his fame, fate intervened. Dr Weinman emigrated to Australia. This was a great shock to us all and an enormous loss to Sri Lanka. He gave up his beloved neurosurgery to work in general practice in Sydney. There he was known for his kindness and compassion and was well liked and highly regarded by his patients. Darrell Weinman passed away in 2018. Requiescat in pace

Despite the crowded candles on the birthday cake, some of us are more resilient to ageing than others. But the main problem is that gravity takes over our lives and the body never allow us to forget the passage of years. There are now a multitude of well-heeled pathways to a longer life. A sad consequence of living long is that you have to say goodbye to a lot of people you care about. By now we have all learnt to live with this. We still have much to enjoy. As we end our life’s fandango, those glorious and treasured undergraduate years will always remain “misty watercolour memories, of the way we were”.

“Look not mournfully into the past, it comes not back again. Wisely improve the present, it is thine. Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart”.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow