I read in the papers your lament that gang members released on bail return, ad vomitum, to sinful ways. Two options are available for you. First, get the law amended to make gang violence a non-bailable offence. Second, re-arrest the outlaws and bring them back in front of the magistrate who granted bail.
You were not even born when C H “Spiro” Gunasekera was teaching the University Entrance students Chemistry at St Joseph's College, Colombo. His lessons were boring monologues, once telling me to get out of the class if I find his lectures stale and uninteresting.
When I tried to leave, two of my friends, Lucian and Drahman, seated on either side restrained me whispering don't, you will fall into trouble with the headmaster, Fr Peter Pillai. I remember them with grace and gratitude because their wisdom saved the day for me, without which perhaps I would have ended my life as a gravedigger. Lucian later left for England to be a much heralded thoracic surgeon. Drahman stayed behind to be a devoted ENT specialist.
Athlete and a cricketer
Spiro, in cricket, was the Master of Discipline and a Selector. His word was final, hence feared by the pool of players from where the team was selected. He was much liked by Fr Peter Pillai. His spare time he spent praying in the chapel, while others, including myself, not that religious, spent the spare time either in the tuck shop or in a corner gossiping, or just loafing around within the walls.
I was lying in bed that Saturday afternoon, half dozing in the dormitory, after a heavy lunch of yellow rice, beef, vegetables and mixed pickle, a gourmet delight that occasionally replaced the boring daily staple, by the grace of the Bursar Fr Smidt, a German Oblate, and dreaming about the effort I should put to get into Thurstan Road, when the cricket captain Balthasar barged in and barked, an infringement of the rules, since no one was allowed to talk loudly in the dormitory - a singular fault of the Burgher community which l often had to tame because some believed, due to the colour of their skins, they were the cat's whiskers. I too have burgher traits which some use behind my back to call me Lancia - that Spiro wanted me immediately on the grounds. Before I came to Colombo my reputation had already arrived from Kurunegala and it was common knowledge in the corridors of St Joseph's that I was a talented athlete and a cricketer.
When I heard the name Spiro I galvanized. Into action went to the baths to wash my face, quickly gathered my gear and went to the grounds, where Spiro ordered me to wear my pads. He wanted to find whether I am suitable to open batting with Balthazar’s did as ordered and took my guard to face the coach G M Spittel, a fiery bowler who was then the Captain of Ceylon. The ball Spittel showed me was brand new.
The first was a bouncer which I ducked and allowed to pass harmlessly. I was wearing a cap. No helmet. The second was a wayward delivery which I hit for a six. The ball flying over the giant willow trees planted along the boundary and landing on the roof of the Home for the Aged rattling not only the tiles but also the nerves of the Revd Sisters into believing that the end of the world has begun, so written in the Gospels.
What took place inside Spiro's thick head was another matter. He was convinced I was an indisciplined buffoon. A wild, uncouth, barbarian from the rocks of Kurunegala and went into a hysterical frenzy. A retired cardiologist watching the scene would have summoned an ambulance immediately, believing Spiro had suffered a cardiac arrest.
He was trembling, frothing and shouting ordering me to remove my pads and get the hell out of the grounds. His immediate concerns were two-fold. First, what he wanted was a disciplined; opening bat not a wild jackass and my arrogance which he thought was ingrained, disgusting. Second, the loss of the new ball which had disappeared into the bowels of the Home for the Aged.
Strict boarding rules
The following year entered Thurstan Road, and in the three months between selection and entrance, was one of my happiest. The strict boarding rules did not apply and were enjoying the special food often given to boarders representing the school in any sport. In the morning after attending a late Mass, always the Roman rite, long before it was destroyed by the wretched reforms and listening to the Gregorian chant played on the pipe organ by Fr Ignatius Perera, had breakfast and till lunch I was in the library reading magazines like Newsweek, Punch or seated along the long table reading so-called smartbooks written in Latin. After lunch getting ready to go to the grounds for batting and fielding practice.
Spiro, perhaps a victim of a bout of amnesia, forgetting the nasty incident that took place on the same grounds just a year ago, had selected me to open the batting with Wilson, a steady bat. That year I topped the batting averages scoring an unbeaten century against Trinity College Kandy, led by Lala Wordsworth who was then a much-feared left-arm spinner. I am relating all this to demonstrate life is not easy and as an example to you, now fighting solo cum solo - hand to hand in the North, with the sword gangs, that obstacles are overcome with a determined spirit.
After I left for Thurstan Road, Spiro left for Royal College to take the post of Vice Principal. Later after he had retired, like Mr Chips into solitude, he met me at the BOC branch at Wellawatte where he told me your father came with you to see him to get you admitted to Royal College and he took you after he was told you are a first cousin of mine.
I had by then steadily climbed and was holding a formidable post on top of the pole and married into an influential family. I believed Spiro was giving this juicy morsel after many years to compensate for the fracas he had on the Josephian grounds that fateful day, which all lovers of cricket in school were aware. I warmly shook his hands and thanked him. By then I had taken the dispute as Damon Runyon, the American newspaperman often said as a part of the “dodge” called life.
In some mysterious way, we continued to be in touch. In old age he sent a daughter of a grandniece with a brief note, a scrawl, written in a feeble, shaky, hand, recommending the young girl for an advertised job. After the interview the few additional marks I gave her for deportment, clinched the job for her. When the candidate arrived to take up the job, she brought another note which simply stated: “thank you, Spiro”. A couple of days later he was gone, a victim of Parkinson’s. A sad end to a glorious beginning.
Often I feel sad for giving the impression to Spiro that I disliked his lectures. I know I am crying over spilt milk. Still, the sadness lingers because my actions lacked respect for a teacher. The year l sat for the university entrance examination, l failed in Chemistry. Did very well in Physics, Applied math and Pure math and managed a place in the 12 that were taken that year from the whole island, into the Faculty of Engineering. Lectures were in prefabricated sheds still producing engineers that were an envy of foreign universities, some enticing them as lecturers. With fabulous salaries.
Today the Faculty of Engineering built at a great cost is in shambles. Students and parents are dancing on the streets. If my father came to know my actions led to the closure of the Faculty he would certainly have given me a whipping, not dance with me on the streets. He had to sweat for the meagre necessities I needed.
He was a widower and with his salary, he had to care for my younger brothers and sisters, one at St Joseph's the other at St Benedicts and the girls in the convent. Today the people are heavily taxed to give the lotus eaters handouts like Mahapola scholarships. Jeffry’s withering cartoons exposing the vulgarity, buffoonery, tomfoolery of these jackals are worth a 1,000 words.
When you left Royal College and joined the Police as an SI your father told me he would be happy if you become an ASP. Your father is no more and you are now the senior DIG in charge of Jaffna. Recently the Chief Minister boasted that if he is given police powers he will bring the gang violence in Jaffna under control in two months. Demonstrate you can perform the task in less than half that time. Clean the place and let the people of Jaffna lead a peaceful life. If the Judiciary knocks you down, stand and be counted because the floor is not the place for champions.
Confiscate the rusty swords promptly. It is easily said than done. But it can be done. Include a Miss Maples, the inquisitive old lady in Agatha Christie’s novels into the intelligence system in major towns and infiltrate like the Opus Dei, aka Octopus Dei, and find the swords and turn them into ploughshares, the cutting blades of ploughs. You owe that not only to the IGP who has faith in you but also to the memory of Spiro. Keep on your desk a piece of wood on which is inscribed the Latin motto attributed to Claudio Acquaviva, a Jesuit General of the late sixteenth century: suaviter in modo, fortiter in remaining, gently in manner, strongly in deed.
Add new comment