Opinion
‘Ingreesi Mahattaya’
– Two years a village schoolmaster
Continued from yesterday
By GEORGE BRAINE
The Namunukula (nine peaks) range loomed 3,000 feet above where we sat. Even from 10 miles away, it dwarfed the surrounding tea plantations, it’s craggy visage forested a verdant
green. As darkness fell, the peaks were covered in mist. For me, born and bred in the coastal plains, these massive mountain ranges were awe inspiring.
The village had clear divisions along political and caste lines. The leftist Sama Samaja Party (LSSP) had deep roots in the Uva, and there was a sprinkling of Communists Party supporters, too. Mainly, villagers were Sri Lanka Freedom Party (SLFP) supporters. The post office was next to the school, and the postmaster was the most prominent UNPer in the village. Whatever their political affiliations, they seemed to get along with each other.
The caste differences were more apparent. The residents of a nearby village belonged to a caste which was considered ‘low’. Some teachers and even a few older students from Kendegolla village would point this out to me, although I didn’t care one way or the other. In fact, an underlying attitude seemed to be, “Are they seeking an education to be our equals?”
On one occasion, I saw this discrimination descend to cruelty. One day, an emaciated, poorly dressed man turned up, complaining that his son, in the primary school, had been mercilessly trashed by a teacher. The accused teacher stood there with a silly grin, and no one offered a word of sympathy to the father and son. Someone whispered that they were from the lower caste, perhaps meaning they deserved what they got.
Sports
One day, Mr. Senaratne, the principal, spoke to me: “I say Braine, shall we have a sports meet?” (He knew about my sports background). I agreed, but soon learned that there had never been a sports meet at Kendegolla, meaning we would have to start from scratch. A second challenge was the lack of a proper playground; all we had was a bare space between buildings, too narrow even for a 100-yard sprint.
A number of friends from Maharagama training college were now teachers at Badulla Maha Vidyalaya in town, and they helped and advised me in planning the sports meet. The first step was to form three “houses”, and Wijeya, Perakum, and Gemunu, named after three legendary monarchs, were the obvious choices. Next, leaving the principal, headmaster and the organiser (me) aside, the remaining 18 teachers were assigned to the houses. My roommate Gunaratne was put in-charge of Gemunu house, a decision that led to numerous accusations of favouritism as the sports meet approached.
The sports meet was scheduled for July 22, 1972.
Once the events were announced, the teachers got to work with passion. Previously, the school would be deserted by 2pm, after classes were over; perhaps a stray dog or two would be left. But now, within a few days, the school was transformed. With no background in sports, finding the most suitable students for each track and field event from each house was no easy task. So, both the teachers and students stayed back for hours, running, jumping, the school becoming a hive of activity as never before. A dance performance was planned and the students trained by the two step-children of a teacher; both had been trained in song and dance.
As the sports meet neared, the inter-house rivalries became almost uncontrollable. Heated arguments would break out between teachers during school hours, as students watched in embarrassment, and I feared physical fights. Mr. Senaratne, who traveled from home in Welimada 40 miles away, taking two buses, was not always around to settle disputes, and that fell on me, the youngest member of the staff. I hadn’t bargained for that.
Meanwhile, fund raising, requests for trophies, invitations to track and field judges, all written by senior students under my directions, went out. The programme was typed by my Badulla MV friends.
For the cross country race, acting on the advice of local teachers, I planned the route through Telbedde Estate, and then walked the route with a couple of senior students.
If Namunukula mountain dominated the area in altitude, the vast Telbedde Estate covered the surroundings as far as the eye could see. The estate was managed by Mike Boyd-Moss, a legendary planter and ruggerite. He was, indisputably, the local monarch, but a benevolent suddha (white man) whom people respected. Apparently, he spoke Sinhala and Tamil fluently. I needed his permission to run the cross-country race through the estate, and also needed a back-up vehicle to pick-up struggling runners.
Lacking even a bicycle, I walked all the way to meet him at his office, passing meticulously maintained swathes of tea bushes, the pluckers and kanganis going about their work. With endless blue skies above, and the green hills and valleys below, this was picture-postcard country. The aroma of pine and eucalyptus scented the air. The office was on a hillock, surrounded by lovely flower plants. Mr. Boyd-Moss graciously agreed to my requests. As promised, a van turned up early morning before the race started and followed the runners. The winner arrived a good 5-minutes before the others, but most runners arrived in the van, having given up. I invited Mr. Boyd-Moss as a chief guest of the meet (the other was the local Member of Parliament from the ruling party), but he did not attend, although he donated a trophy. At that time, the government was nationalising plantations, and his absence was understandable; sitting alongside the MP would have been awkward.
Field events were held in advance, and, on the day of the sports meet, the march past, dance performance, track events, the speeches and the award of trophies and certificates worked off smoothly. My friends from Badulla MV, and Fawzia, turned up to officiate, and the local MP, who happened to be a junior minister, promised a playground for the school in his speech.
In the aftermath, Kendegolla athletes performed remarkably well at the district schools sports meet. They won nearly 20 top-three places, competing against athletes from more established schools like Uva College, Dharmaduta, Badulla MV, Vishaka, and others.
Subsequently, for a teachers’ sports meet, we did not have enough female teachers with athletic abilities. So, we cheated, getting some sturdy senior students to compete, pretending to be teachers. When we got caught, Mr. Senaratne’s nonchalant excuse was “I say, they are going to become teachers”.
More about Mr. Senaratne
In 1973, Fawzia and I married at Badulla. Gunaratna and Nawalage, the ex-monk, signed as witnesses. Because Fawzia now taught at a school in Badulla town, we rented a house there, and I began to travel to Kendegolla by bus.
This leads to the first of two anecdotes about the Principal, Mr. Senaratne, whom we fondly called “Bosa” behind his back. At most, he turned up at school about three days a week, staying at the newly built staff quarters. With me travelling from town, he found a way to send the teachers’ salaries to school without having to go there. So, we would meet at the Badulla post office to collect the salaries in a lump sum, Mr. Senaratne would deduct his pay, and return home to Welimada. I would take a mid-day bus to school, trying my best to hide the large amount of cash I carried; the school had about 25 teachers by then. This was certainly not part of my teaching duties.
The second anecdote has to do with bathing. When “Bosa” was staying overnight at the teachers’ quarters, Gunaratne and I would go by in the afternoon, inviting him to bathe at the stream with us. He declined, saying that his wife prepared a warm bath for him when he was at home in Welimada. One day, when Gunaratne and I visited him at home, Mrs. Senaratne told us that her husband refused to bathe at home, saying he preferred the nice stream near the school. Later, Gunaratne and I had a good laugh. Obviously, “Bosa” never bathed!
Fifty years have gone by, and I recall those carefree days at Kendegolla with nostalgia. I was young, energetic, idealistic, and in love. Like one’s first love, the first appointment stays in one’s memory for a lifetime. In my reveries, those men and women I met at Kendegolla, the pastoral life I led, come alive. I was almost an alien being – a Christian, with an unusual name and a skin colour – but they took me in. Wherever I went, whoever I met, I was simply the “Ingreesi mahattaya”.
Postscript
In December, 1995, I drove up to the school with Fawzia and son Roy, who was by then a college student in America. The school was closed for the holidays, a thick layer of dust covering the desks and chairs, and fallen leaves on the ground. It looked bleak and abandoned. I was too tired after a long road trip, and made no attempt to meet anyone I had known.
More recently, I found that Kendegolla MV now had a Facebook site, and managed to contact the current principal, Mr. Ratnayake. He is from Kendegolla, a former student of the school, and, over two lengthy phone calls, updated me on the news. The school now had 49 teachers. Most of the teachers I knew had passed away, Rajapakse, the headmaster, living to a ripe old age. Gunaratne became the principal, a strict one, but, sadly, had also passed away. The village is more prosperous now, and a bus drove by the school on a good road. In the photos uploaded on the FB site, the students were well dressed, the males in blue shorts and white shirts, the females in white uniforms and tie. The buildings were colourful, and a science lab dominated the scene.
The bougainvillea bush has now grown into a tree.