A glory that has passed away from ‘Old Ceylon’

There is nothing like faded sepia- tinged photographs of ‘ ye olde islande’ to restore a sense of serenity to one’s mental map of Serendip. Just the other day, stumbling across a website dedicated to such memorabilia, my mind began to be bathed in a sense of tranquillity. For here was a treasure trove of “Old Ceylon” as it was then... largely unspoilt, peaceful, seemingly well ordered, quaint in some aspects, charming in certain ancient customs, quiet, clean, shady – and not at all the kind of shady place that mother asked me to avoid when I was a stripling youth. So being a sucker for romance of the nostalgic kind, your scribe headed out to recover, if he could, some of that charm and simplicity and lifeabundant of old – in person, on camera, in whatever shape and form Taprobane the resplendent now offered itself to visitors desirous of tasting her ancient glory.

I didn’t get too far before discovering that nostalgia isn’t quite what the memory remembers it to be!

A brusque encounter with a pith- helmeted commissionaire at a colonial- style hotel by the sea, which had been highlighted on the Internet, was something of a rude awakening. First, the man watched with baleful eye as I drew up to the hostelry’s antique portico before deigning to bestir himself from his Cerberus- like watchfulness. Then, having observed me park my battered jalopy line abreast with three posher vehicles which had been similarly parked, he marched up in a stride that would make a Sandhurst sergeant- major proud and rapped loudly on the driverside window. We then exchanged some cheerful pleasantries. Our conversation was short and sweet – at least on one side:

park, park, the dogs bark...

“You can’t park here... sir.” “Three other cars are parked here, no?” “You can’t park like that way, sir.” “Park like what, men? This is the right angle, no?” “You can’t park at wrong angle in the courtyard, sir.” “I say, tell that to these other fellows also, will you, there’s a good man!” “You don’t worry about the other peoples, I will telling them...” (No sir-ring me now.) “Run along then, sonny, and do that...”

To cut a long story short, we didn’t hang around long enough to recapture the rustic charms of this seaside borough and its much-celebrated hotel. All for the want of a polite enough parking attendant and your humble Sunday columnist’s burgeoning inability to take bumptious, boorish, bureaucratic cheek by turning the other cheek. In comparison, the civility, courtesy, and sense of hospitality that we experienced at the central- province premises of a relative newcomer in the hospitality industry ( it’s been in the trade for less than two decades and is the envy of the sector for its eco- friendly approach – it treats more than the environment well...) was a consummation devoutly to be wished.

But back to the res, this business of tattered snaps and faded glory. Fort Railway Station was my next port of call, as a result of the web- side paean to Ceylon focussing quite a bit on the grandeur of railways in the era of steam. And speaking of steam, there was good reason to build up quite of a head of it there, too.

This time, the b.- ious, b.- ish, b.cratic villain of the piece was a copper. Unlike the bellhop or pip- squeak at the previous property visited, this guardian of the law did not waste a moment after he saw my chariot approach one of the few vacant lots opposite the grand old edifice of the main railway terminus. Sigh...

A beggar is coming to town...

“Aney sir, take – quickly!” “Take what, old fruit?” (Mistook him for a vegetable-seller.) “Your vehicle, sir.” (Managing to work five syllables into vehicle.) “Why?” “Lokka coming now!” “Who, the president?” “No, acting deputy minister only...” “But I got here first, hello.” “But he is coming second, no, sir? Must keep place.” “I say, I don’t care if he is coming fourth like Lazarus out of the grave!” “Not for funeral sir, he coming for soft launch of railway museum.” “Must be a bit soft if you think I am going to give up my precious parking space?” “Giving up is-space, sir, or giving me licence-eka.” “Forget it, you silly fellow, I’ll take and go!” “Quickly sir, be-pour him coming, otherwise scolding for not chasing ordinary peoples so that him and is-security can park without problem...”

So much for the police and politicos being servants of the people, eh?

You know what, dears, a great oafish part of the reason why the ancient beauty of ye old isle can’t be appreciated by the common or garden citizen is the new cultural order. From bellhops who favour posh cars to bungling plainclothesmen who quiver in fear of their political masters. As far as they are concerned, we can go and park ourselves – somewhere else, out of sight, while they blackguard and bootlick their way to mere survival in the new Sri Lanka. So much for nostalgia! I’m surfing the old ways on the new wave... from now on – Old Ceylon on the Information Superhighway, here I come...