Brush-stroke of botany

By Ransiri Menike Silva

We are seated in the lab, facing our Botany teacher, whose table is overflowing with greenery, pilfered from our own, and other people’s gardens. She smiles appreciatively as it shows that we are interested. She calls out the chosen chapter for the day, and we open ‘A Text Book of Botany’, recommended by the Education Department, to the relevant page, while readying our sketch-books, pencils and erasers.

All have new books, but mine is a bulky green baize hard-backed one, that has come down the family, and I am proud to own, it at last. A revered tome to me if ever there was one. We are facing ‘Puli’, our Principal, Susan George Pulimood, who has Co-authored the text book, along with her sister, Anna K. Joshua.

However, long before I become a ‘scholar’ of botany I had been acquainted with the subject, at grass-roots level. My earliest recollection of greenery was in Cross Street, in Kandy, where, at the junction, on the left, was a large shady tree that sheltered the rickshaw stand, and dark Udawatta Kele loomed distantly, to the right.

Nawalapitiya, where we moved to next, was even more barren. Its only concession to Nature, as far as I can remember, was the rear compound, common to all the houses on that side of the street. The hill-side, behind the common drain carrying flotillas of excreta, was covered by a wild rambling rose, enhanced by clusters of lovely white multi-petalled blossoms. A refreshingly beautiful sight, indeed.

When later we drove into ‘Mul Idama’, in Tirivanaketiya, off Ratnapura town, we found ourselves in a veritable Botanical Garden. Our rambling garden was dotted with every imaginable and, so far, unheard of trees, bushes, foliage and flowers. There were Coconut; King coconut; and Areca palms; two varieties of Jumbu – one bitter; a wood-apple and an orange tree, both straggly and struggling along on their death throes; and a lone guava tree which, in my private view, was shaped like the continent of South America, which become our favourite perch, collectively, or otherwise.

Two enormous ‘Kos’ (jak) trees, at the unapproachable end of the garden, yielded us delicious ‘Vela’ not ‘Varaka’. When fully ripened, the fruits would fall, with a loud thud, and we would make a pathway of ‘Habarala’ leaves and bring it cradled in a ‘kola-potha’. This would be deposited in the rear verandah, outside the kitchen, and squatting around it, we gorged on it, like crows. The most impressive of all was the majestic ‘Del’ (bread-fruit) tree that dominated the garden with its regal bearing. We found the leaves quaintly shaped and the colours of the fallen leaves, ranging from yellow to orangish brown – most interesting. There was a lone ‘Ranavara’ tree, always in bloom, the bright yellow clusters of which were sun-dried and brewed into a medicinal drink.

The unapproachable rear garden was a mini-jungle, with the most outstanding and prolific being the giant ‘Habarala’, the leaves of which served as pathways across leech and ‘dimiyo’ infested scrub, and an umbrella on rainy days. Particularly delightful were the tall ‘Pinna’ plants with their very dark leaves and exotic flower – a brilliant reddish – orange inflorescence that resembled an upside-down chandelier. The undergrowth was carpeted by differently coloured ‘Koodalu’ flowers; a variety of balsams and purplish ‘Bovitiya’ immortalized by Sunil Shantha. We also had ‘Idda’ and ‘Rathmal’, but surprisingly, no ‘Pichcha’ (Jasmin).

In the adjoining garden, near the clump of plantain trees – property of, ‘Kehel-hora’ – was an enormous ‘Pini-jumbu’ tree, with its deep pink stamens strewn beneath, making a delicious secret snack. Near the gate, across the half-wall, was the property of Podi Mahathmaya where there were coffee-berry trees with clusters of sweet smelling white blossoms and bright red berries. Clambering up tall ‘Kapu’(cotton) trees were pepper vines with droopy clusters of green berries. We were thrilled to see both varieties in their natural form as we had previously encountered them as dried black seeds.

We collected the dried pods of cotton fallen on our side, for Mother to stuff pillows with and observed with delight their tiny wisps being blown away by the wind. Beneath the ‘Pera’ (guava) tree was a miniature Botanical Garden. Clusters of a small onion- type wild crocus produced tiny pink flowers on the long upright stems in May, along with the larger trumpet shaped orange coloured lilies that clustered at the base of coconut palms.

A tiny miniature shamrock with its pink flowers – ‘Ambul-ambiliya’ – enticed us with their sour-tasting leaves which it shared with the very tender leaves of ‘Siyambala’ (tamarind). We got entangled in the rumbling creepers of the wild passion fruit to taste its tiny berries, enclosed in a dainty filigree covering. ‘Theentha-gedi’ (ink berries) were used for writing on discarded scrap paper with twigs for pens. This was a bit risky as the stain produced a more or less permanent and disastrous effect on our clothes.

While exploring the guava tree on my own, I discovered it branches hosting a tiny wild orchid which had a tiny white flower on an elevated stalk that resembled a minute slipper – I privately named it ‘Cinderella slipper orchid’. Surprisingly, I have not seen any pictures of or references to it anywhere since then. Other exotic orchids graced the town – bunches of Vesak and Poson Orchids out for sale during their respective seasons.

The most amazing however were the wide ranging array of grasses, from the dwarf to the giant that sprouted all over – singly, in tufts or creeping – some in our own garden. Of them the one that my brother and I found most intriguing was a rambling pink-stemmed variety with long white aerial roots. After a rain shower we would find them encased in a transparent cool gelatinous sheath which we sucked in greedily straight off the plant without damaging it. We aptly named it ‘ICE’ and I seem to taste it on my tongue even as I write this!

There were also the ‘two-threes’ – ‘thuththiri’ – with dark maroon paddy shaped seeds on long stalks which got stuck on animal fur and human clothing for efficient dispersal. We stuck the entire stalk upside down in our bottles of ink to prevent the liquid from over flowing during walks or bumpy buggy rides to school. I can personally vouch for the efficacy of this phenomenon through the science behind it still eludes me.

The fleshy leaves of ‘Akkapana’ with their scalloped edge was another diversion. We placed them between the pages of our school text-books to watch tiny white worm-like roots emerging from the crevices. When judged long enough we would transfer them to more fertile surroundings, to thrillingly watch them grow into miniature plants.

My early kindergarten days at Dharmaraja College in Kandy had not been completely barren. Our slates were wiped clean with the leaves of a weed sprouting out of crevices that had a rough surface. Begging for ‘Gokkola’ from the neighbouring Nãtha Devãle grounds, our teacher demonstrated how to create a ‘Paththeya’ (centipede).

Most unforgettable is the ‘toku’ season. ‘Toku’ was a variety of giant mimosa denuded of its long cream coloured stamens. The hard head left behind was the ideal weapon for ‘toku’ (head knocks) warfare. Although Banda, our peon, confiscated all the bundles of ‘toku’,enthusiastic boys had brought to school and threw them into the muddy ditch outside, the agile boys reclaimed them even more speedily. I had a brief encounter with ‘toku’ in later years in Ratnapura, when a small section of the fluffy creamy stamens were removed to draw a face on the ‘nut’ to create an Eskimo. Decades later, I was re-united with a ‘toku’ tree in a most unexpected location on – the garden of the BMICH! We had learned early that by stepping bare-footed on a ‘Nidikumba’ (mimosa) plant was not only painful due to its thorns, but put it to sleep as well.

When in later years father joined the Department of Archaeology, he would organize circuits to the ruins as well as jungles during our school vacations. We would return from these with the vehicle loaded with unknown cacti, ferns and orchids which we had collected during our forays into the jungle for calls of nature.

And now, to that unique flower – the ‘Sal-mala’.

This carried an entire story within its structure. The open reddish petals was the ideal stage for this spiritual drama. Right in the centre is a tiny white ‘dāgaba‘, representing the preaching Buddha. He is surrounded by a multitude of white clad devotees crowded together listening absorbedly to his words. Up above are the ‘Devās’ who have floated down from ‘Divya-loka’ (heavenly realms) – represented by a whitish fleshy background – to listen to him. What an absorbing tale and how we children revered that sacred flower, handling it reverently if we ever had to do so.

Who created such a wonderful story? It is my belief that it was not one man, but it was a story handed down from time immemorial in words or song by our wandering story-tellers and troubadours now sadly lost forever. And thus ends my own botanical tale.