From Bradby to Degaldoruwa

By Uditha Devapriya
udakdev1@gmail.com.

The Degaldoruwa Viharaya in Gunnepanne, near Sirimalwatte and Amunugama, forms a crux of Kandyan art, culture, and society. One of the most historically significant temples in the country, it is famous for its murals. These were painted by the most renowned sittara artist of his day, Devaragampola Silvatenne, with the Nilagama family.

In his book on the Ridi Vihare, Dr SinhaRaja Tammita-Delgoda writes that Silvatenne “was responsible for the most brilliant period in Kandyan art.” An unordained monk and a brilliant painter, he had earlier executed the murals at Medawala Raja Maha Viharaya, and had been commissioned the decoration of Dambulla and Ridi Viharaya.

I had wanted to visit Degaldoruwa for a long time. In 2021 I visited the Kundasale Raja Maha Viharaya and was permitted to explore it by the Head Priest, Rambukwelle Sudassi Thera. On my way back I passed Degaldoruwa, but did not have the time.

Earlier this year, Sudassi Thera put me in touch with the Head Priest at Degaldoruwa, Watagamuwe Ananda Thera. A preacher and a scholar, Ananda Thera graciously guided me and my friends through the Viharaya, showed us the murals, explaining their origins, charting their influences, justifying their relevance. Citing both Ananda Coomaraswamy’s Mediaeval Sinhalese Art and Ralph Pieris’s Sinhalese Social Organisation, he observed that Kandyan temple murals constituted some of the most original, one could say, objets d’art in Sri Lankan culture. This is hard to disagree with.

Kandyan art, in fact, was an extension of Kandyan society, the culture and ethos on which it stood, as far removed as it could be from the rest of the island. Remnants of this society are still there, and one invariably registers it when travelling in the region.

The previous day my friends and I had checked into a hotel in Kundasale. It was my interest in rugby that had brought me here. My friends had come to see the First Leg of the Bradby Shield, and I had decided to go watch it with them. On Saturday it seemed like Colombo had invaded the last bastion of the Sinhalese kings, and the town looked as though it had been conquered by a riot of blue and gold. The Esala Perahera would begin in a few days, and until it did, the First Leg looked set to dominate conversations here.

Of course, a rugby encounter with less than 100 years behind it can hardly be considered a microcosm of Kandyan society. But the Bradby Shield is different, and it served for me and my friends as a prelude to our visit to Degaldoruwa.

Unlike in Colombo, in Kandy there is a widespread attachment to old institutions. This is true of schools and universities, hotels, and restaurants: the oldest hotel in town, the Queen’s, is more of a historical artefact than the Galle Face Hotel. There is a widespread, undying loyalty to these establishments. Not surprisingly, from our cab driver to our hotel owner to a random shop owner, I sensed much loyalty to local schools, chiefly Trinity.

In cultural terms, for Kandyan people, the Bradby Shield serves roughly the same function as the Esala Perahera. Their attachment to the latter is rooted in love for tradition, for culture, the rites and rituals of an ancient heritage. I sensed an equally resonant love for their culture in their attachment to schools, particularly Trinity.

Their admiration for Trinity, I believe, has to do with the reforms A. G. Fraser enforced in the early 20th century at Trinity College, reforms that paved the way for the indigenisation of not just the school but also the wider Anglican Church of Ceylon. For these reasons, not surprisingly, whenever Bradby comes up, Kandy lends its support to Trinity in a way which, at the cultural level, transcends school loyalties in Colombo.

This is, of course, an interesting phenomenon. And one can posit different reasons for it. One of my friends contended that Kandy does not have the rugby culture that Colombo does. Temptingly accurate, but not really. In Kandy, rugby remains as popular as if not more so than cricket, and it is rugby which attracts spectators.

Another reason, which sounded more tenable to me, is that school loyalties are much less diffused in Kandy, the result being that unlike in Colombo, where one contends with multiple rivalries, in these parts institutional loyalties tend to be more concentrated, more sharply articulated, more passionately reiterated. The sense of attachment to the past, so evident in Kandy, is thus expressed in terms of school loyalties.

There is nothing surprising in this, since Kandy evokes almost everywhere a past that has almost died in Colombo. The path to the Trinity Stadium, for instance, was long and narrow. Stretching from one by-road to another, it looked as though it would never end.

Even the stadium seemed a world away from the stadiums one frequents in Colombo: standing atop a hill, it took one back to another century.

As the first half ended, the match transitioned to a cultural item from Trinity featuring Sinhalese drums and udarata natum. Colombo had dominated the scores in the first half. In the second half it went down, ending in a final and much expected victory for Trinity. The moment belonged to Kandy, and we felt humbled. As we walked back, though, I could not help but reflect on the drums, and wonder whether they had invoked divine aid. What other rugby encounter, after all, would feature such an item during the break?

I have not been to many rugby matches, and I do not consider myself an afficionado. But there is something intriguing about rugby which distinguishes it from the supposedly more gentlemanly pursuit that is cricket. Coupled with Kandy’s cultural and religious moorings, the First Leg of the Bradby Encounter therefore took on a new life this year.

As I began to leave Kandy with my friends, having explored Degaldoruwa and had lunch at Mulgampola, I reflected on Ozymandias, and wondered how long it would be before these historical associations would fade away. I comforted myself with the thought that Kandy was not Colombo, that the former’s cultural heritage would survive. Then another thought hit me. We are so used to seeing the Southern Belt, from Galle to Matara, as a distinct cultural entity. Returning home, I wondered why this could not be truer of Kandy.

The writer is an international relations analyst, researcher, and columnist.