Childhood Memories of Bogawantalawa - By Dr Nihal D Amerasekera

Much to my surprise retirement is not the beginning of the end but an opportunity to get on with what I have always wanted to do but never had the time.  Travelling, reading and writing has kept me wonderfully amused and entertained. I keep active during the day by walking and running. But it has always been my desire to emulate my grandfather who spent his retirement on an ebony “harnsi putuwa” in our family home in Nugegoda. As I breathe the noxious car fumes in London, a creaky Edwardian rocking chair is my refuge from the trials of the day.  

My soul delights in the stillness as I rest in the comfort of the chintz cushions and the gracious curves of my rocking chair. As the autumn wind and rain batter my windows, I recline in my chair at peace with myself.

When the mind is idle there is often an urge to return to the dim and distant past. It gives me a soothing warmth to rummage through the archives of my mind in an attempt to recover my earliest childhood memory.

As a teenager and even much later, I was fascinated by the past and my childhood. The transition from an infant mewling and puking in my mother’s arms to a toddler struggling to walk and talk became a catalyst for a multitude of stories which my parents took great delight in reminiscing. This gave me enormous pleasure to stitch together my disconnected recollections to an accurate and continuous narrative.

My earliest memories are of Bogawantalawa. It is a magical small town in a valley in the Central Province surrounded by mountains of tea estates. In 1869, when the pioneering British planters came across this valley and its unique climate, realised its potential and grew tea in the surrounding hills. Now it is called the Golden Valley producing some of the finest high grown teas in the country famous for their distinctive flavour and aroma.

From 1940-44 my father was a Government Servant in Bogawantalawa. Those were turbulent times with WW2 raging across Europe and the Far-East.  Somehow, my little town nestling beneath the hills remained untouched by the inhumanity and the horrors of war.  As a kid, I was bemused to see the occasional convoy of jeeps and trucks carrying military men waving rifles.

We lived in a quaint upstairs house with a small rear garden.  At the front, there was a wooden fence draped in purple Bougainvillea. Our neighbour was a friendly Tamil family. Their little girl was about my age. She came over to play with me. It seems I was more fluent in Tamil than Sinhala. I wish I had kept up my language skills. The house backed on to a hill.  The village school on the hill had a large playground where I often played with my little friend. Next to the school was Mr Cherian’s house. He was the Headmaster. Although he had a stern look, Mr Cherian was a kindly man, often seen clad in a brilliant white verti. His wife was a skinny lady with a Colgate smile. She was my mother’s closest companion.

Bogawantalawa weather was wild being served by easterly and westerly winds. The rain was never far-away. I remember the cloudy skies and the rolling mist that covered the surrounding hills. But whenever the sun shone it was closer to heaven than any place else I know. People always wore mufflers and sweaters and carried umbrellas. The raincoat was a ‘must-have’ accessory. There were many British planters rushing on their noisy motor bikes. The only shop I remember is Maskeliya Stores on the High Street. It had lots of sweets on display. This was also the biggest shop in town where the great and the good did their weekly shopping. It gives me great pleasure to see the shop has survived the ravages of time and is still open for business.

It was a daily ritual for my mother and Mrs Cherian to go for walks on the gravel road in front of our house. I often tagged along with them. The road meandered through a lonely pine forest. I recall the primaeval silence of the forest except for the chirping of the cicadas. On my way, I picked up pine cones that littered the floor. My mother spoke in fluent Tamil to her friend. The deserted winding road went up to Kehelgamu Oya. This is a fast-flowing river with a simmering rage. The views were dramatic with a deafening noise of a multitude of rapids, waterfalls and swirling currents. The charming wooden footbridge across the river stood as a lone sentinel bringing calmness and serenity to the mayhem down below. The birds that bathed and frolicked in the pools perched in tandem on the wooden railings of the bridge. The striking tranquillity of this wilderness breathed freedom and peace. One cannot get any closer to nature than this.

The nights were peaceful beyond belief. There was the occasional eerie howl of jackals that broke the silence. We had a maid to look after me. She was a kindly woman with a huge repertoire of fairy tales. In those days there was the early to bed early to rise culture for kids. Before I slept there were the nightly stories of kings and queens and wicked witches. The mornings were often dank and chilly. The dew on the grass lasted until the sun shone.

I remember with such clarity my first introduction to the concept of death when I saw a funeral procession in the High Street.  The car bearing the coffin was covered in flowers. This with the procession of wailing mourners was enough to upset a 4 year-old. Death is hard to define even for an adult. My father tried his best to explain. I found it bizarre and disorientating. I kept thinking about for the rest of the day. Now, as a septuagenarian, I understand the concept of death. It’s finality however still remains shrouded in mystery. Over many centuries religions and philosophers have tried to unravel its perplexities without much success.

When so much time has passed it is hard to find my earliest memory. A myriad of memories emerge at random but they lack date stamps.  A single vivid memory, however, stands out. It was a stormy evening. I was then about 4 years old and seated by an upstairs window fascinated by a storm that blew across the valley. Streaks of lightning lit up the darkened sky. This was followed by deafening peals of thunder that was frightening. The rain fell in bucket loads. I watched in awe as the road was turned into a river. The water went rushing and crashing into everything in its path. This is such a simple childhood memory of the magical splendour and the formidable and destructive power of nature.

Those who served the Government were moved every 4 years what was euphemistically called transfers. All our possessions were loaded into a lorry and we bade farewell to our friends. As the sunset on our lives in the valley, there was a new dawn in Kadugannawa. We never returned to Bogawantalawa again. Since I retired, with time on my hands, there are always flashbacks of times past.  Occasionally those early wistful memories still wake up bringing joy to my soul. I enjoy the hustle and bustle and the bright lights in London. Time and again there are reminders of the peaceful existence in this rural idyll that distils the true meaning of life.

I still visit Bogawantalawa in my waking hours and in my dreams. My only sojourn in real-time is through Google Maps. They are mostly detailed aerial views. The village school still exists and is now called St Mary’s School. This even features on Facebook. Our house down the hill is still standing as is the road leading up to Kehelgamu Oya. I do hope the river has retained its power and dignity. Progress has encroached on the pristine pine forest. Much of it has given way to houses and farms. The roads are crowded with people and vehicles and the High Street cluttered with shops, cafes and colourful billboards. It is such a joy to discover even after the passage of over 70 years some of the old landscape is still preserved. But the peaceful and rural Bogawantalawa of my childhood only exists in a secure corner of my mind. 

I have lived longer in Britain than in Sri Lanka but the memories of home and family and friends seem such a strong pull even after nearly half a century in exile. I have left a part of me in that beautiful island of my dreams.