Let’s Preserve Our Street Name Heritage by Asiff Hussein

Street-names are as much a part and parcel of Sri Lanka’s heritage as any other aspect of our intangible culture. Changing names simply because they are thought to be a colonial hangover is a futile one born of an inferiority complex. One might as well insist that all our Pereras, Fernandos and De Silvas change their Lusitanian names for vernacular ones, or fill up the canals built by the Dutch or dismantle the railways laid by the British. Whether we like it or not, the colonial past is part of our national heritage. Likewise, street names, like place names in general, reflect the history of these places, and are, in a sense, heritage.

Unfortunately, the misplaced nationalist fervour that gripped the country shortly after independence and took it back by several decades also had an impact on our street names. This was especially in Colombo where a good many streets with short and sweet names which had come down from colonial times had to face the ignominy of being saddled with long unpronounceable jaw-breaking names So hard on the tongue are they that people are known to curse under their very breath the personalities after whom they have been named.

No really great man would want his name forced down another’s throat, but unfortunately this was not what happened in the zeal of nationalist snobbery. Hero-worshippers of every ilk and others of a pettier mindset obsessed with their ancestors canvassed hard to have a road named after someone or the other. The culture vultures raised their ugly heads during the previous regime to put the country a few more decades back. Fortunately most people do not bother with the new names at all, preferring to use the old ones instead, such as Union Place for Colvin R.De Silva Mawatha, Alexandra Place for C.W.W.Kannangara Mawatha, Green Path for Ananda Coomaraswamy Mawatha and Flower Road for Earnest De Silva Mawatha. Thus renaming streets after personalities, be they politicians, religious figures or artistes is really counter-productive. In fact they take a toll on their legacy.

The rot, needless to say, began in 1956 and shortly after a good many streets were renamed in keeping with the nationalist agenda of the then government. That was when Flower Road became Sir Ernest De Silva Mawatha, Turret Road became Srimath Anagarika Dharmapala Mawatha and Stanley Place became Piyadasa Sirisena Mawatha. The 1960s saw another spate of renaming with Armour Street becoming Sri Sumanatissa Mawatha, Bloemendahl Road becoming K.Cyril C Perera Mawatha, Darley Road becoming T.B.Jayah Mawatha, High Street becoming W.A.De Silva Mawatha, Thurston Road becoming Cumaranatunga Munidasa Mawatha and Wolfendahl Street becoming Sri Ratnajothi Saravanamuttu Mawatha Thankfully the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s were relatively free of the scourge though there was the unfortunate exception of Messenger Street in Maradana becoming M.J.M Lafir Mawatha in 1981.

That odious trend commenced once again with the previous regime, beginning from 2009 with Reid Avenue becoming Philip Gunawardane Mawatha and Norris Canal Road becoming Professor Nandadasa Kodagoda Mawatha. Guildford Crescent became Dr. Premasiri Khemadasa Mawatha in 2010 and Havelock Road became Sri Sambuddathva Jayanthi Mawatha in 2011.

That was when streets were even being named after living people. A notable example was Dickman’s Road becoming Dr.Lester James Pieris Mawatha. Here was a man I respected very much for his contribution to the arts, but was sad to note that his ego had got the better of him when he consented to have that road named after him, or who knows even canvassed to get it named after him. Then there was Thimbirigasyaya Road in Narahenpita, now called Muruththettuwe Ananda Nahimi Mawatha after the chief incumbent of the Abhayarama Temple located down the road. Interestingly he happens to be the President of the Public Services United Nurses Union. It seems the road was so named because the powers that be wished to curry his favour. Those with bloated egos desiring roads to be named after them deserve no respect from their fellow men and this should be conveyed to them in the strongest terms.

Leafing through Geoff Ells recent book on the origin of the city’s place names, Colombo Jumbo, I was surprised to learn that Union Place was so called because in the olden days, Slave Island, formerly an island, was connected by a road to the mainland by filling in a section somewhere where the present Union Place stands. I had earlier believed that it was the place where the trade unions of old picketed for the rights of the working class as they do even today. There is so much history the original place name preserves. Unfortunately it has been renamed after a political personality who had nothing to do with the place, except perhaps participating in the picketing activity that went on there. It is nevertheless heartening to note that hardly anyone, whether ordinary people or the commercial establishments lining the street, uses the new name. Old habits die hard and hopefully never will. After all, only a moron would take the trouble of using the new five-barreled name in lieu of the much simpler earlier one.

Yet another notable instance is Mosque Lane in Hulftsdorp which has been given the ludicrous name of Ghouse Mohideen Mawatha. The original name, needless to say, signified a religious edifice, a house of God, and a very important and historical one at that, the Colombo Grand Mosque. And now we find that it has been desecrated by the name of an individual whose only ‘merit’ was serving as a trustee of the mosque committee in the 40s and 50s.

Let’s pray those bad days are no more. But what if some moron started this nonsense again. What, one may ask could we do about it? The answer is plenty, provided there’s a strong civil movement with the residents of the road in question having all it takes to oppose the change. The residents of Bagatelle Road led by Former Supreme Court Judge, Dr.A.R.B. Amarasinghe took a bold stand when it was proposed to rename it Dr. Wijayananda Dahanayake Mawatha. This proposal, no doubt at the whims of a bureaucratic ignoramus, had emerged despite the fact that the former premier had never lived there. Galle whence he hailed would have been a more appropriate place to have a road named after him. Thankfully the change never took place because the residents stood united in the face of the proposed move. In this case, objections, if any, from residents of either side of the road, were requested to be submitted. But I was informed by a trustworthy resident of Guildford Crescent that they were never informed of the proposed name change to Premasiri Khemadasa Mawatha. Many are still said to be furious about it and will not content themselves till their road reverts to its original name.

Besides sentimental reasons - for Bagatelle Road has a very long history - Judge Amarasinghe cited practical reasons how street name changes affect people. And not just their addresses which are the sole means of guiding people to one’s residence and which have a long history of association with a particular place. Such changes also have legal implications since addresses figure in legal documents like treasury bonds, title deeds, lease agreements and mortgage bonds. Further they are registered with the Central Depositary System dealing with stocks and shares, Inland Revenue and Municipal Assessment Authorities.

Furthermore, renaming roads will not at all be conducive to the promotion of tourism, especially at a time when the country is keen on attracting foreign tourists. The short English names are easily pronounced and remembered by foreign tourists, wherever they come from. Moreover changing names due to some inferiority complex about a colonial past will send the wrong signals even to foreign investors, who might have second thoughts about investing in a country that is obsessed with regressing to a state detrimental to progress as it once did with disastrous consequences. To an intelligent mind, the mood of a nation could be ascertained by something as trivial as a street name change.

Furthermore, people are sentimental beings and changes like this cause residents immense pain of mind. They are very possessive of the places where they live and will not brook outside interference if they can help it. Indeed this is trespass of another kind. If not for their being on the wrong side of the law, they might even go on a spray paint campaign. Moreover nobody in their right mind is going to switch to these new names in preference to the old ones they are used to. And since such names are painfully long, they’ll just be confined to the name boards or municipal council minutes.

As such, it is best at least at this late stage that there be a concerted campaign to impose a moratorium on renaming street names, or better still introduce blanket legislation to revert back to the original street names, which are after all part of our heritage.

All Game

Here’s another extract from my book Accha House & Umma House which deals with our sporty father, Auctioneer Wazir Ghany Hussein of 555 Auctions and his three sons, myself, my twin brother Asgar and our little brother Altaf

   We three merry fellows loved play. We had home for a playpen and one another for constant playmates. Classroom type formal study we looked upon with scorn as there was so much one could do than being cooped up in a room and being drilled on subjects one was not interested in.

   Our school environment little doubt contributed to the attitude, plucked out as we were from that fairy playground called Bishop’s in our tender years and unceremoniously dumped into Mahanama College, a conservative Sinhala Buddhist affair, to have our secondary education Almost everything about the school was drab and boring, from the daily assemblies in the mornings where the boys of all ages had to line up to chant Buddhist stanzas - during which Muslims like us kept silent - and listen to a principal who simply loved to hear his own voice. So utterly boring was the entire culture of the school that it even rubbed off on its extra-curricular activities. Even the Boy Scouts we joined for a few weeks was monotonous as ever with the lady teacher in charge more interested in getting the boys to line up and hold their hands out to see for herself if they had trimmed their nails than instructing them on how to pitch a tent or make a camp fire.

  Little wonder we looked upon our entry to Stafford College, an English medium school located in the plush Cinnamon Gardens Ward of Colombo, from the Eighth Grade, as a welcome change. We were schooled in this country manor like building with a lovely porch that led to a creaky old flight of wooden steps with the air of a haunted house such as one finds in the movies, so different from the imposing yet faceless building that stands in its stead today. Boys in white trousers and girls in blue pinafores added further colour to school life. And they all spoke our language.

  Here was a place where study and play went hand in glove, sometimes even beyond reasonable limits, such as in English literature class. That was when we were reading Wuthering Heights. A naughty classmate named Shane seated next to me drew a sketch he titled Adam’s Apple. It showed the father of man reaching out for the forbidden fruit tantalizingly hanging from a bough of a tree which oddly enough happened to be the testicle of a monkey sitting atop it. The teacher Ms.Fonseka was so aghast on discovering the sacrilegious scrap of paper that she almost lost her head. Cheeee… she started and yelled and screeched at the poor fellow like a banshee, a combined brew of anger and shame contorting her face in full view of the class, for she was a tall graceful woman. The culprit looked on sheepishly as she berated him mercilessly.

  We loved sport, but only those that gave us the greatest thrill. Cricket, father’s favourite sport, which he tried to foist on us, was a different ball game altogether. Indeed so infatuated was he with the game that he named us after cricketers, me being named after that dashing cricketer from the subcontinent Asif Iqbal. Though we liked playing softball cricket with our friends, we certainly did not share his keenness for the organized game with leather ball grown-ups used to play. Even today I fail to see why grown-up men should, in front of thousands of cheering spectators including women, go chasing after a ball if they already had a couple. It is understandable if Hitler loved it as he is said to have had only one. As a well known song sung by British Tommies to the tune of the Colonel Bogey March went:

                                Hitler has only got one ball

Goering has two but very small

Himmler’s is somewhat similar

But poor Goebbels has no balls at all

   Father thought otherwise. He dragged us to regular cricket classes in the hope that at least one of us would emerge a top gun. Needless to say, the grueling practices in the sultry afternoons, with the sun beating down on one like a cop’s baton was no fun. Batting and bowling practices came only once in a while since all had to do their turn, while on the field it was still worse when all that was expected of us was fielding like numbskulls under the blistering sun. We were far too hyperactive for this kind of thing and it told in our negative attitude towards the game.

   Father got us the finest coaches of the day. First it was Dooland Buultjens, a seasoned cricketer and top umpire at the Nomad’s Grounds opposite Victoria Park where the Nelum Pokuna Arts Centre now stands; then it was Muttiah Devaraj, father’s good friend and one-time cricket captain of Zahira College at the Oval Grounds, now more commonly known as P.Saravanamuttu Stadium; and thereafter it was Ranil Abeynaike, a first class Ceylon Cricketer, at the Sinhalese Sports Club.  So utterly boring were these practice sessions that I don’t remember much about them, but for a few interesting incidents that for some reason clung on to my memory. Our Nomads days stand out for two incidents I recall to this day. One was when our coach, an oft-swearing, balding, mustachioed Burgher gentleman named Buultjens. At our very first practice session, the man inquired whether we were wearing ball guards, those unmanly V-shaped plastic props fit only for pussies batsmen were supposed to wear to guard their balls. Despite our replying in the affirmative, he did not take our word for it and coming over pulled our shorts forward from the topmost elastic band to satisfy himself that we were indeed equipped with the gear. We sure were and he took our word from that day onwards.

   Another was when we lost our cricketing gear. Father was furious. This was too much for him to bear. While driving us home he stopped at a cane shop in Slave Island or thereabouts and having returned home he rushed in before any of us and stationed himself at the doorway. As we came in he gave us each a whack on our butts. It was the first occasion he ever caned us. It was also the last.

  Softball cricket we played in the evenings with bats and rubber balls that came in a variety of colours, usually red. Anushal, mother’s cousin who was almost our age and who lived next door joined the three of us, making a foursome and so there we were playing the game, either in his spacious front garden or in the lane behind our house that opened out to Turret Road, much to the annoyance of our neighbours like the fair but irritable Doctor Cader and Tissa, the tall, balding caretaker of the Carmen Gunasekera Montessori. The ball sometimes went over to their well-kept gardens and we would clamber over the parapet wall to retrieve it, often disturbing the foliage. Sometimes when the good doctor irked by our constant annoyance refused to toss the ball over, we would burst out loud:

Doctor Cader, the Proctor’s father

Doctor Cader, the Proctors father

  Tissa too found us to be a constant thorn, but only because he had the added burden of tossing the ball over to us. Though his garden was well kept, the ball often found its way to the dense clumps of yellow bamboos closer to the lane which, like his bald head, did not need much tending.

    Being of a bellicose spirit, we also took to more aggressive combat sport, from which father too got a kick. First it was karate. We were only about six or seven years when we enrolled in Grandmaster Bonnie Roberts classes conducted at the Girls Friendly Society where father also had his auctions. Our trainer, a whiskered, ruddy looking man from the eastern town of Kalmunai was a good martial artist in the best Japanese tradition and we would often hear the floorboards of the hall resonate with a thud as grown-ups were thrown about. We would have too had not our parents put a stop to it within a a couple of months, fearing perhaps that one black-belted brat in the brood might get too hot to handle.

    A couple of years later father caught the boxing bug and passed it on to us, especially to Asgar and me, who being of the same age, could, equipped with boxing gloves, afford to trade punches without any scruples. A favourite punch father loved was what he called the ‘upper cut’, a vertical rising punch to the opponent’s chin. We could not go on pummeling one another indefinitely and so father got us a great punching bag, which suspended from above, would swing to and fro, while we let go, punching it left, right and centre. Father was so besotted with the sport that it seemed at one time even to supersede his love for cricket. His favourite boxing hero was Muhammad Ali, the heavyweight champion from Louisville, Kentucky who had become a Muslim and even given up his earlier name of Cassius Clay for a more Muslim sounding name. He often used to describe how Ali would tire his opponent by his fancy footwork before delivering the knockout for which he used the slogan fly like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Although father was no avid reader, I remember this compendious yellow-jacketed book, a pictorial history of boxing profusely illustrated sitting near the head of his bed. It traced the bloody beginnings of the sport from pugilism, its now obsolete predecessor where the contestants fought one another bare-knuckled without boxing gloves to cushion the impact.

   Father, the fitness freak he was, or perhaps because he missed out on the horse races he loved so much, also took us outdoors to run against one another, presenting the winner a trifling gift of money or sometimes a mere pat on the head. If in the mornings, this was at the Galle Face Green, which was then even less green than today. He would get the three of us into his car and drive us to the spot. We would take up our positions towards the northern end nearer the old English cannons, keeping close to the promenade, and upon father’s hand signal, would run as fast as we could southward toward him. These were not very long runs as we had to see father’s upraised hand quickly moving downwards before we could take off. Had he placed himself at the starting point and said get ready, set, go! he would not have been able to see the winner. He had to be physically present at the finishing line, which was where he was, he himself being the finishing line, so to say. If in the evenings it was at the sports ground at independence Square which unlike Galle Face had a circular track and meant longer runs. It was in the course of one such race that I was suddenly seized with a burst of energy somewhat midway, which came like a rush of wind. Within a matter of seconds it drove me to victory. Father was thrilled and when I told him how I felt like Six Million Dollar Man when I got that sudden boost he remarked that I had something called stamina, whatever that meant.

   Father could not content himself with our outracing one another. Competition was most welcome and it came in the form of mother’s cousin Chamira who visited during the holidays. A village lad who had grown up in Matara, he romped to victory, only to be handsomely rewarded with cash by father. He once brought home a tin of condensed milk, tin-kiri, with which mother treated us all to a delicious pudding of her own making like the old song goes:

You find the milk and I’ll find the flour

And we’ll have a pudding in half an hour

   We also devised a number of warlike outdoor games. During our Oval days when we were coached by father’s good friend and Schoolmate, Muttiah Devaraj, we would, at the end of the practice or during a break or two, go over to the surrounding area overrun with weeds. There we would pluck these stalks of wild fountain grass that terminated in a cluster of prickly little balls that stuck on to one’s clothing like a leech. Returning home with a considerable stockpile, we would tarry until evening when we would use them as darts in a game of hot pursuit around the neighbourhood, where hiding or lying in ambush in the dark, or simply facing off in a frontal attack, we would hurl the darts at one another, the victor being he who flung the first dart that stuck on to his opponent’s clothing. Another game we played was by forming our fingers into a catapault. That was by placing on the tips of thumb and forefinger a couple of rubber bands, one linked to the other by a knot. With it we would shoot little V-shaped projectiles made by folding square or rectangular pieces of cardboard and bending these into two. They went quite a distance and hurt when they hit.

  We also enjoyed playing board games with dice and counters whenever we had resident visitors at Accha House such as mother’s little cousins Chammi and Anushi. There was Snakes & Ladders, Ludo and a somewhat similar board game called Super Track which came with our Superman Giant Games Book, an old bumper issue containing a story about Superman thrashing a hobo and a few board games that probably dated back to the 1960s but had somehow fallen to our hands perhaps as a result of the auctions. The game called for four players representing Superman, his close friend Jimmy Olsen and his arch foes, the baldheads Luthor and Brainiac.

   At Umma House it was usually cards played with uncle Fazly and aunt Shanaz, the younger and more playful members of our paternal Ghany clan. The game they taught us was called War, which went down well with our bellicose spirit. It involved shuffling the pack of cards and distributing it around between two to four players, each of whom would reveal the topmost card in his stack, the player with the highest value taking it all and adding these to his lot. If at least two of the cards being the highest were of equal value, the players would go to ‘war’, each laying down four cards and the one with the highest aggregate taking the rest for himself, it being understood that besides the usual numbers of 1 to 10, Jack was 11, Queen 12, King 13 and Ace 14. The game was played till a player collected all the cards to win the war.

Holidaying in the hills by Asiff Hussein

   Holidays come but once a while; but when they do, they simply refuse to go, for they cling on to one’s memory as if they have nowhere else to go, so that even in later times one could always relive those happy days that stand out so clearly from the rest that the mists of time have befogged and are but a haze. No truer can this be than the holidays one spends in the hills, amidst natural piles, heaps and mounds that soaring high like colossal cones peak hither and thither and seem to know no horizon, hemming in one’s memories as they do their surroundings.

   Some of the happiest days of our childhood we spent holidaying in the hill country, in the midst of mountain fastnesses the Sinhalese of old called giri-durga ‘Rocky Fortification’. The mountains were, after all, an almost impregnable natural barrier that made foreign forays into the Kandyan Kingdom, the last independent Sinhalese kingdom, an extremely difficult one, which is the very reason why the jealously independent highlanders were able to hold out against the might of three European colonial powers well upto 1815, when it fell to the British, not due to the superior arms of the Imperial Raj, but because of the internal intrigues of the Kandyan chiefs.

   Although my twin brother Asgar and I were highlanders by birth as we were born in Kandy and even spent the earliest part of our lives there, we would soon grow to be strangers to our natal land and eventually come to look upon it as an exotic place, rather enchanting really, like the cold countryside of a Hesperian fable, encompassed by virgin hills draped in sylvan raiment and caressed only by that whitish nebulous ether we called mist that seemed so strange and outlandish; a far cry from the tropical urban jungle that was Colombo where we spent the greater part of our childhood.

   Little wonder that our adventurous little family looked upon the central highlands as a getaway from it all, a cooling bower for a sultry summer. It certainly did not disappoint us, especially the spot we resorted to most – Nuwara Eliya, a peaceful little town nestled in the hills of a rugged country known to the Sinhalese of old as Kanda-uda-Rata ‘The Country on top of the Hills’, a name perhaps more suited for a fictitious tale set in some celestial realm beyond the clouds than the sun-kissed tropical island we lived in. This picturesque little town sat comfortably perched like a gigantic eagle’s nest on a mountain top, upon a huge, rather flat table-land that could only be reached by driving cautiously on long winding serpentine roads that traversed precipitous hillsides, vigilantly navigating countless hair-pin bends sculpted into the crowns of soaring mountains; mountain after mountain till the rugged terrain carpeted here and there with patchworks of almost every imaginable tinge of green gave way to a vista of rolling hills densely clothed with tea bushes before lending itself to be groomed and garbed with the vestments of what men call civilization.

   Nuwara Eliya was arguably the fastest developed metropolis in the country. Lost to the world and quietly reposing in an uninhabited tract of land visited occasionally only by hunters looking out for elks or sambhur, it was accidently discovered by a shooting party in 1828 during the governership of Sir Edward Barnes. Impressed with its cool climate which no doubt would have reminded him of his English countryside, this far-sighted British Governor of Ceylon decided to convert it into a sanitarium for sick British soldiers. Within a century or so, the spot, with its scenic Lake Gregory and other breathtaking natural features had been transformed into a typically European landscape with pinus trees and country houses in typical English style dominating the architecture. Little wonder then that it came to be known as ‘Little England’ to locals, a name perhaps originally bestowed by Englishmen who would have looked upon the spot as a home away from home.

   Our earliest visit to the place was when I was four years old. That was when father’s friend and regular auction customer Sena Kavikara offered us his bungalow complete with caretaker for a holiday stay. We we were soon on our way to the hills muffled in some sweaters mother had sewn out of flannel, blue with pink collar for me and Asgar and pink with blue collar for little brother Altaf. This old country style house in Glenfall Road even had an apple tree growing in its garden which the caretaker warned mother not to let us approach, inspired perhaps by the biblical story of our first parents. Of our stay there, I can recall only a few incidents and that too faintly. For instance, being huddled around mother on the side steps of the house one evening while she regaled us with a pretty tale like Cinderella, Goldilocks or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs from a little book she had brought along with her.

  One day we found that the caretaker, inspired again perhaps by the biblical story of our first parents fall from grace at the whims of a serpent, had killed a snake and was burning it in a bonfire he had formed of the dead leaves and twigs from the garden. This somehow excited our curiosity and we would learn later that burning dead snakes was necessary to prevent other snakes being attracted to the spot, it being the general belief that these snakes arrive on the scene to avenge the death of their fallen fellow. The belief had a scientific basis nevertheless, for serpents, even dead ones, are known to emit powerful scents known as pheromones which attract their kind of the opposite sex to the spot though the object of their desire lies lifeless. 

   Also memorable were the pear trees serving as hedges, the light green fruits of which mother would point to us as our car passed by. These famed pears, little doubt the descendants of those introduced by English planters a century or more ago, would, within a decade or so, disappear from Nuwara Eliya’s home gardens, the result, it is believed of some fungal rot that came riding on the wings of the 1978 cyclone, wiping out the entire lot, just like the coffee blight a century earlier had destroyed the region’s thriving coffee plantations.

   The results of this earlier blight we could see around us in the vast tea estates that had taken the place of coffee. Tea certainly did better than the bitter berry and put Ceylon on the world map once again. Few could do without tea, especially Englishmen. And so there we were with the same old bushes of tea surrounding us whenever we rode up hill country. Mother would explain to us that it was only two leaves and a little bud that was used for making the black tea our country was so famous for and we would lend her our ears rather half-heartedly.

   One night while driving upcountry mother looked up and saw a flare in the heavens; it was a shooting star streaking across the dark sky, and she quickly pointed it out, but we could not as much as catch a glimpse of it. Even if we had it would not have impressed us. She could have at least spiced it up a bit, like telling us that hoary old Arabian belief held that these were the stones by which the angels pelted the jinn who had eavesdropped on the conversations the heavenly hosts were having on the fates of men. But nay, she had not yet mastered the art of winning our hearts. She seemed to be so obsessed with tea and other such trivia we had absolutely no interest in.

   There were certainly much more interesting topics to talk about when on an adventure like this. For instance about the famous outlaw Saradiel whose mountainous hideout of Utuvankanda or Castle Rock near Kegalle father would point out to us while on the road to Nuwara Eliya, informing us that they called him Ceylon’s Robin Hood because he waylaid the wealthy and distributed the loot to the needy. “Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor. Is that a good thing or a bad thing ?”  he would ask us. Now, that was a difficult question to answer and so we kept mum, leaving dad to brood over it.

   Little did we know it then, but Saradiel’s victims were Moorish merchants plying uphill and downhill in their caravans loaded with merchandise. Strangely, his accomplice Mammalay Marikkar who assisted him in his banditry was also a Moor. The British, staunch enforcers of law and order in the tradition of the Sheriff of Nottingham eventually tracked them down and hanged them at Gallows Hill in Kandy. The local Robin Hood was perhaps no match for the famous English outlaw of Sherwood Forest, whom he is often compared with, but like him lived on in folk memory well after his death, his exploits being told with such relish and flourish by storytellers that one would imagine he were a virile muscular hero in the manner of Hercules or Conan. The real Saradiel in contrast was a rather lean effeminate-looking man - strange indeed for one who leeched off others.

   Talking of leeches, we had plenty of them in Nuwara Eliya. The little saradiels swarmed in the glades of certain parts of the town, especially in its outskirts, lying in wait till an unsuspecting stranger rich in red gold came their way, whereupon they would, somersaulting stealthily, fall upon him. We would take care to evade the bloodsuckers by treading ever so briskly or scurrying over the blades of grass or undergrowth they had made their hideout. The villains had made their presence felt to us rather early in our visits to the place for I remember an occasion when mother once ordered me to put my leech-infested foot into a potty in a house we were staying in, pouring over it some eau de cologne, lime juice or salt to dislodge the blighter.

   Stories of the little terrors gorging themselves on human blood to their heart’s content till they dropped off, fully sated, the size of a rubber ball, did not make it any easier to allay the lingering fear we would sometimes be seized with when traversing leech-infested territory. Fortunately for us the bloodsuckers did not frequent the more central parts of town where the human population was denser and the wet undergrowth in which they thrived sparser.Nay, here grew taller trees less conducive to their way of life; pinus, cypress and eucalyptus that perfumed the cold air with their mentholated fragrance amidst old English style Tudorbethan houses with gabled roofs and bow and dormer windows. This was no leech country, but one more attuned for an English spring with carefully kept gardens decked with blooms of various hues. Man was master here and he intended to keep it that way.

   With time, our visits to Nuwara Eliya became more frequent, especially during the April holidays, the season when Colombo’s elite deserted the sun-beaten city with its heat and humidity and beat a hasty retreat to the colder climes of Little England like the colonials of an earlier age did in times like these. Cold it was no doubt, so much so that whenever we went outdoors and huffed and puffed into the heavy air, we could see little gusts of mist-like cold air emerging from our lips, though there were occasions we had to muff our little hands in woolen mittens as the prickly cold almost numbed our fingers, though this was very likely on some very chilly December morn than a more temperate April day.

  But there was an added draw. Nuwara Eliya had by the early 1980s emerged as a popular horse racing destination in the tradition of Ascot in England and father lost no time in throwing in his lot with the Turf Club that had revived it in 1981, taking a number of its stables and filling them with a dark handsome horse and a pack of demure brown ponies. Not that there was any money to be made in it. It was all about winning cups and boasting about it for a year. Father’s interest in the sport of kings was prompted not just by the opportunity it gave him to hobnob with the local landed elite who owned horses or patronized the sport, but perhaps also a desire, born out of sentiment to revive the faded glory that was once his family’s before an earlier regime, roused by nationalist and socialist fervour, clamped down on the sport due to its obvious colonial associations.  The last horse race held in Nuwara Eliya had been a decade earlier, in 1971, following a series of measures the government of the day took to kill the sport including a ban on horse imports in 1965. The acquisition of land belonging to the Colombo Racing Course for the Colombo Campus were among other measures that effectively killed the King’s Sport in the country.

  And so there we were in the horse racing season which happily coincided with the April vacation, lodging in holiday homes, visiting the stables and walking the turf of the racing course. One of the earliest such chalets we stayed in was called The Prairie in whose spacious lawn we would, at eventide, shoot up a toy helicopter one of us received as a gift. Strolling around, we could not help but notice the distinct vegetation of these colder climes like the neat rows of blue-green cabbages growing in hillside gardens.

  When indoors, it was reading that kept us occupied and one such book I recall taking along with me was Enid Blyton’s The Castle of Adventure which told the story of a bunch of kids Jack, Phillip, Dinah and Lucy-Ann on holiday in the Scottish highlands who solved the mystery of a castle perched high up in the mountains. The book made wonderful reading, given the mountainous setting of the story with its grand castellated rock, especially in a place like Nuwara Eliya nestled high up in the hills, so much so that there were times I would be lost in thought wishing I was there with that adventurous foursome, perhaps even as one of them.

   Nuwara Eliya was however no place for mysteries, though a scene we came across almost seemed like one. That was when, one fine morning, while strolling to the Turf Club we came across a large number of dead serpents, a foot or two in length but no bigger, lying on the road or wayside, some with belly turned up and others as if crushed lightly. How they had perished I cannot say though looking back I reason that some would have been run over by vehicles and others trampled by heavy boots or perhaps the hoofs of horses. Back then though it was almost like a mystery to us; so many dead in one day, or rather night; now that was reason for suspicion. Had we cared to delve a bit deeper we may have revealed a killer on the prowl, an aspiring Jack the Ripper perhaps, starting with the smaller victims as many mass murderers do.

  The stables where our hoofed friends were housed we also visited on occasion. The horse, a thoroughbred of an almost black colour was a rather tall sturdy fellow who seemed to have this bad habit of looking down on us. The steed, originally called Sita Jaya was renamed Diasis by father after the famous American racehorse of that name. Asgar had suggested the name Black Bullet and father quite impressed with it even seriously considered using it. He had purchased the horse from millionaire industrialist Upali Wijewardane, it is said for a song as the magnate, in order to encourage the sport here, imported horses and sold them at ridiculously low prices for any takers. He nevertheless kept the best for himself, including among others Kandos Man, Cornwall Garden and King of Zulu who won many a race.

  The more demure brown ponies including one named Alties Girl after little brother Altaf were not as impressive but were nevertheless a thoroughly spoilt lot. One, perhaps a health freak, even refused to eat a carrot it had seen falling on to the ground when one of us kids attempted to feed it for the first time, obviously with trembling hands. The finicky fellow would not as much as take a nibble however much we tried to pass it down its throat. Animals too could be conscious of their health.

   Father could obviously not afford to lodge his ponies in the stables at Nuwara Eliya for long, and so when the racing season was over, he would have them banished to his seaside resort, Sihina Beach Village where they would entertain his foreign guests offering them rides on their backs, accompanied by our regular jockey Farook. A humble, small-made fellow with a swarthy complexion and an odd squint, Farook was the son of the family horsekeeper Ramalan who had so faithfully served our great grandmother Rukiya in her horse-riding school. In keeping with family tradition, he served father well and wished we would also have him, for I remember the usually jocund chap seeming rather sentimental one night after having accompanied us into a cabana in Kosgoda where we were to stay during a vacation, inquiring whether we would look after him the way father did when we grew up.

   And when the big day came it was one grand show at the circular race course. We could see from the stand the sleek swift-footed steeds racing against one another, till, taking the curve, they disappeared into the distance, only to make their appearance once more while the crowds cheered. Most of the races, needless to say, were won by the steeds owned by Upali Wijewardene, though there were occasions when our Diasis came close to the cup.

   However, galloping to glory on a horse was no easy task as father would find out. Upali, a tycoon whose vast business empire included aviation, chocolates and newspapers and who had been instrumental in reviving horse racing in the country mysteriously disappeared when the Learjet in he was traveling went missing in early 1983 somewhere off the islands of the Indonesian archipelago. With him the sport lost its greatest benefactor. The dull economic climate that followed in the wake of the ethnic riots in mid-1983 only made matters worse. This was further complicated by the disappointing performance of Sihina Beach Village which was going from bad to worse as tourist arrivals plummeted due to the terrorist threat that followed in the wake of the riots.

   Father, seeing the writing on the wall, quickly gave up on his equestrian antics, selling or gifting his steed and ponies and calling it quits. It had cost him dear and never again would he entertain the idea of owning a horse or a pony for that matter.

Extracted from Accha House & Umma House. A Mixed childhood in Sri Lanka by Asiff Hussein

Moor Nicknames of Yore

Extracted from Sarandib by Asiff Hussein

The Moors of yore unlike those of today commonly bore nicknames. M.M. Thawfeeq (Muslim Mosaics. 1972) refers to the practice of calling individuals and later their families by nick-names in the Theruv area (Old Moor Street, New Moor Street, Messenger Street, Barber Street, Grandpass, Wolfendhal and environs in Colombo) in the early part of the last century. Some nick-names, he says, may appear derogatory, some flattering, but none, he is certain, were given with malice. “It just happened that there were scores of Hamids, Yoosoofs, Haniffas, Mohideens etc in that concentration of Ceylon Moors”.

The easiest way out, he says, was nick-names emphasizing their attributes, penchant, and failings – even physical defects. He gives as patta-perus as such nick-names were called, Baba (Baby), Colenda (Infant), Echchi (Miserly), Pushana (Indolent), Shoththian (Feeble-handed), Shemata (Brown or Tan), Dada-bada (Noise made when walking), Munda kan (Big-eyed), Poona kan (Cat’s eye), Madayan (Fool), Jemmi (Jewel) and Poo (Sweet). There were others like Karupati (Jaggery), Kochchika (Chillie), Pila kotta (Jak seed) and Porichcha koli (Roast Chicken) though it is not certain whether they were appellations characterizing their tastes for certain items of food. There were yet others like Bembi, Kulla, Gongan, Pangathu, Jadipana, Vengallam, Kappadiar, Kosthapal and Vyra-Ooshi. Some of these were dubious while others possessed a meaning such as Kostapal ‘Constable or gunner’ and Kappadiar ‘ship captain or owner’. Vyra-Ooshi probably means a kind of gem.

  M.M.B.Ansari (Some Nicknames of Sri Lanka Moors in Geneological Tables of Sri Lanka. Moors, Malays and other Muslims by A.I.L.Marikar, A.H.Macan Markar and A.L.M.Lafir. 1981) also gives a selection of interesting nicknames that prevailed among the Moors of yore, among them Aana Bulingi ‘Swallower or Elephants’ (M.L.M.Fauz), Baang Koli ‘Turkey’ (P.L.M.Abdul Majeed), Koli Kunji ‘Chick’ (Sesma Lebbe of Grandpass), Porichakoli ‘Fried Chicken’ (Abdur Rahim of New Moor Street), , Kumbala Mashi ‘Maldive Fish’ (Marikar, father of Mohamed Jamaldeen), Karapothan ‘Cockroach’ (Abdul Aziz of Grandpass), Kochchika ‘Chillie’ (Oduma Lebbe Marikar), Katchcha Karupatti ‘Bitter Jaggery’ (Oduma Lebbe Marikar), Shappatayan ‘Flat Nose’ (Abdul Hassen Hajiar), Velli Baba ‘Silver Baby’ (M.M.M.Ghouse), Vengalam ‘Loud-mouthed’ (Vangalam Noordeen), Poskoapa ‘Large Bowl’ (The father of M.L.H.A.Mohideen of Wellawatte), Bavulthavaly ‘Stomach ache’ (S.M.Hassim Nana’s maternal grandfather) and Anjishazathu Mapulle ‘Five Cents Bridegroom’ “who traveled as such in a decorated tramcar with his entourage” (Father of Falil, at one time assistant at A.M.A.Marzuk’s textile shop).

  There was also Batcha (Said to have originated from the Turkish title Pasha) given to Abdur Rahman of ‘Pasha Villa’ of Dematagoda Road, Colombo 9 and Baas Ootar (from Dutch Baas ‘Chief Workman’ or ‘Work Supervisor’) given to the progeny of A.M.Wapche Marikar, the famous Bas or builder reputed to have built many of Colombo’s landmarks. Indeed, individuals so nicknamed have given their names to entire families such as Pullekutti Sherifdin (Boys and girls Sherifdin, so called after the many children he had), Vellibaba Ghaus (Fair baby Ghaus) and Koli Amin (Poultry Amin). These names are however not borne by these families, but ascribed to them by others. Prominent Moor families, especially in the Colombo area are still said to be known by nicknames such as Shottiyan (People of Property), Poskopa (Waterbowl), Baas (Builder) and Vengalam. In Macan Markar’s Short Biographical Sketches (1977) we come across references to personalities such as Saheed Mohamed of the Goodaku family, Mohamed Ismail of the Shooriyan family and Mohamed Haniffa of the Kushi family. Gudakku literally means ‘hookah’ or ‘hubbly bubbly’, a device for smoking, Shooriyan ‘sun’ and Kushi ‘fart’.

Two Appa's, Umma and Wapamma

It was the best of times in the 1940s in Colonial Ceylon under British rule since 1805. Our parents married in 1943 and moved to #300 Galle Road at Bambalapitiya. Our maternal grandparents, Rasheed Appa & Ummu Thahira (Umma), together with our maternal uncles Zubair (JumMama) and Faiz (FaMama), and aunt Ummu Naseeha, also moved in with us. Our paternal grandparents, Sameer Appa & Wapamma, together with the rest of their unmarried children, our paternal uncles and aunts, lived next door at #298. The married ones had already moved to their own homes in Wekande in Slave Island and Lily Avenue, Wellawatte.

All three of us, Mumtaz, Fazli & Firoze, were born between 1945 and '50 . Growing up in the two sprawling mansions at Bambalapitiya was a truly memorable experience. The extensive land behind both homes stretched down towards the Indian Ocean and encompassed almost an acre. Coconut, fruits, flowers, and vegetables grew abundantly in the rich soil watered by the monsoon rains.

Rasheed Appa, our maternal Grandpa was a very striking human being with an extremely strong personality, kindness, and charm. He ran his own indenting agency business called "Kingston Agencies" from home and represented many famous European brands of food, clothing, soft toys, and other gadgets. All he had was a portable Remington typewriter on which he used to type and send out his mail to his principals in Europe and clients in Ceylon.

Appa, as we called him, was always nattily dressed in his buttoned up shirt, sarong, and jacket. His chiseled face sported a small beard and his hair was always neatly combed sideways. Often he used an umbrella since rains were always a feature of the city in the tropics. His shiny grey Austin A40 bore the registration plate number CN786.

The nature of his indenting business gave him the opportunity to meet and know many British heads of companies in Colombo with whom he had direct dealing in making sure their orders were executed by the principals he represented, overseas. Pearl Barley from Holland was one of his more lucrative products and our garage at the back was always stacked with crates of the stuff awaiting the importers to call over and collect.

It was related to us by Umma (Ummu Thahira), our maternal grandma, that Appa had visited Europe with a few of his friends and relatives sometime before we were all born and had many an interesting story to relate about his sojourn in England, France, Italy, and Switzerland.

On one occasion in the early 50's, one of his principals from Europe decided to visit Colombo. He had to hurriedly convert the front verandah and living room of our home at #300 into a makeshift office to entertain them. The sofas were moved around, writing desks were put in specific corners, his sons and a nephew, were nattily dressed and seated at the desks posing off as employees, and a sign was also put up at the front of the house. Rasheed Appa's maternal first cousin (mom’s sis’s son) Sir Razik Fareed, Kt, OBE, JPUM, who lived a stone’s throw away at Fareed Place in Bambalapitiya, also participated at the discussions. The visitors were extremely impressed at the posh mansion like office that was apparent.

A costly magazine from Switzerland called Europa Star, which depicted the top wristwatches which included Patek Philippe, Girard-Perregaux, Rolex, Omega, Jaeger-Coultre, Longines,  Blancpan, TAG-Heuer, Tissot, Titoni, Cartier, etc., and another issue depicting exclusive jewellery manufactured in Switzerland, used to arrive alternatively bi-monthly in a year. It is still received by his grandson, Firoze, at his present place of work. 

 Appa was also a very hot movie goer and didn't miss many of the films that were being aired in the cinemas in those times. Tamil movies were mainly his forte and he, accompanied by his sidekicks, Rahman uncle (aka MammaGhouse Uncle), Junaid Appa (JunAppa), and Samsudeen Uncle used to patronize the late night movies that went on till midnight very often.

Gardening was something Appa cherished all his life and he instilled this valuable trait into all of us by getting us to help him in watering, pruning, clearing, and maintaining the massive plantation that encircled the house both, at the front and back. It was fun and we enjoyed it very much and also learned the importance of plant life.

Animal husbandry was another key factor at #300. We had chickens, ducks, turkey, and even a pair of goats, one black and one white, named Laila and Majnoon. Rounding up the hens in the evening and making sure they were all locked safely in their cages, to protect them from the jaws of the polecat and bandicoot at night, was a task we had to deliver diligently every single day. We also had the glorious opportunity to see Laila & Majnoon have kids. Watching the birth itself was a sensational experience for us little kids. An event that will always remain in our minds. At #298, next door, they also had a pair of deer with whom we spent many a time in fun and frolic.

Rattan-weaving was another wonderful task that Appa taught us. We had several armchairs and lounge chairs that were made of wood and rattan. While the task was arduous and painful to the fingers we still enjoyed weaving the defective chairs as and when it became necessary.

Sometime in 1960 Appa decided to make the pilgrimage of Hajj by ship and we were all extremely excited about it. While we missed him tremendously when he was away, his return brought us great joy as he loaded us with so many goodies he had purchased from Makkah and Madinah. The Tahinah Arabic sweet was the most savored by the family. Others received "worry" beads, prayer mats, skull caps, and Zamzam water.

Hameed (deceased), aka Abu, who was almost my age, came to live with us from his village in Rakwana in the 50s. He grew up with us and Appa took care of him like his own grandson. His parents were employed in the tea estate and they had wanted a better life for their son in Colombo. He went on to become a professional electrician and started his own building contracting business, Island Electricals, located on the seaside at the top of Vaverset Place in Wellawatte, Colombo-6.

Abu's brother Sheriff (deceased), joined the family in Colombo and went on to live with Ummu Naseeha, Appa's youngest daughter, in Kiribathgoda. He went on to become a very popular Chef at one of the leading hotels in the North central Province.

Another brother, Zainudeen Marikkar Hassen known as Deen, also came down to Colombo and was raised by Appa until he too went on to join Island Electricals together with his older brother. Deen married a Moor girl from Panadura and moved south to live and run the business from there.

Alvis, our driver, used to work for S S Issadeen, GA at Matara, and had come to live and work for us after he was relinquished of his services there. He was a skillful artist and had some sensational drawings on the garage wall, at the back of the house, which he also used as his abode. He spent many years with us and moved on only in the early 1990s.

Umma, on the other hand was the most patient lady we have ever known. Quiet, unassuming, confined to her little space in the house, she ran the place like a CEO, managing the kitchen help and ensuring that food was always served on the table. She was Appa's first cousin and the family ties, from the "Shothian" family they both belonged to, were very close between the two of them.

During our teen years we were always bailed out by Umma whenever we needed some extra cash for a movie, ice cream, or other delicacy. She used to keep her cash knotted at the end of her Saree fall that was flung over her shoulder from back to front.

A very significant trait of Umma was that she woke up at 5 am every single day, offered her morning prayers and opened all the doors of the house, front and back. They never feared thieves, robbers, or intruders, in those times.

Under Umma's watch the lunch table was ready and served by 12 noon and we had to eat together with the family. In addition the food would be covered up with a large cane basket and left on the table till almost 4pm. During this time many visitors would come in to the house and partake pf the meal. That was her great delight to sit and chat with them while they ate. And then it was tea time. Biscuits and tea properly brewed in a pot. Served in tea cups with saucers. There were no tea bags then. We had to wash before we sat at the table, especially after a sweaty game of cricket on weekends.

During the Islamic month of Ramadan (fasting) Umma would command the house help to have the Cunjee, Dates, Savories, and Curries all prepared and ready by sunset. She even woke up early to cook the early morning meal of Suhur for the family that was usually served by 3:30 am.

Later on all of Mums siblings married and moved on to their own homes in Colombo and the emptiness in the house was most significant.

Appa passed away in the late 60s after suffering a stroke. It was a sad day for the whole family at #300. Umma moved on much later in 1979. They both had 13 grand children from their four children.

Rasheed Appa (Appa) & Ummu Thahira (Umma)

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Right next door, adjacent to #300 and also attached to it by a common wall at the back, was #298 where our paternal Grandparents, Sameer Appa (Appa) and Raliya Umma (Wapamma), lived with their seven unmarried children. Three, including Dad, were already married and had moved to their own residences.

The oldest, Rameela Aunty (BigMaamee), had moved with her husband AWM Ghouse and their children to Wekande in Slave Island. Saleema Aunty (SmallMaamee), with her husband, MM Sheriff, and children had moved to her own home at Lily Avenue in Wellawatte. The ones remaining were Aunts Noor Jazeela, Sithy Ameena, Sithy Rahma, Khalisa, and uncles Ismail, Farooq and Sadiq.

Wapamma (our maternal Grandma) suffered from acute Arthritis and was confined to a bed or wheel chair as far as we can all remember. Yet, she was the live wire of the family and ran the home all by herself with the assistance of her unmarried daughters who lived at #298. Street vendors used to call at our door each morning and Wapamma entertained them in her bedroom, selecting fish, vegetables, and fruits, that were required for the day. Her enthusiasm to make typical Ceylon Moor sweets on a regular basis was relished by one and all. Kalu Dodol was the hot favorite even though it required a massive logistical effort, in terms of preparation, to deliver. Other delicacies were Sheenakka, SurutAppam, Ada, Takbeer Sweet, Awal Cunjee, and Sego Muscat.

Sameer Appa (aka Appa), our paternal Grandpa, used to work as The Chief Clerk at the Colombo Municipality under the British Raj. On retirement he spent most of his days at home involved very seriously in researching Ceylon Moor history, culture, and genealogy. His works have been published by the Moors' Islamic Cultural Home where he was an extremely active member throughout his life.

Appa used to walk us along Galle Road with his black umbrella held high above us, to Wellawatte, and down to Lily Avenue, opposite the market, to Ms Poulier's Nursery School, when we were very little. His oldest daughter, Rameela (Big maamee) lived right next door to the Poulier's, so he spent the rest of the day there until school was over at 11 am. Then, we walked together along the beach back home to Bambalapitiya watching the trains pass, the birds in the sky, fishermen, vendors, and people. many were the questions we had and he answered them all so very patiently and honestly. The lessons learned were invaluable.

Later on, when we started schooling at Royal Primary School, he used to accompany us by rickshaw every morning to school and back.

A significant activity of his was the monthly trek to the CMC to collect his pension. Usually one of his grandsons would accompany him on this venture as Wapamma was very concerned about his safety and also the safety of his pension. The bus ride to the Town Hall was always a very illuminating one where he would relate many an interesting story about the streets, places, homes, buildings, and businesses that we passed along.

At the CMC, Appa had the grand opportunity of meeting with many of his old colleagues from his working days and enjoyed the chit chat very much. After collecting the pension we would take a bus to the Pettah and go straight to M D Gunasena & Company Ltd. where he would purchase all his stationery needs for his work. Foolscap paper, carbon paper, pins and clips, gum, and other items were his needs. Then we would trudge along to The Bombay Sweet Meat Mart down Keyzer Street and enjoy a cool drink of Faludha while we ordered a whole selection of sweets, Muscat, Halwa, Rose Syrup, Jaggery, and other delicacies for the home. Lunch was always at Pilawoos in he Pettah. The trip back was always by taxi as we had to carry all the purchases and it was also more safer even if it was costlier than the bus ride. I forgot to mention that Wapamma would always give Appa a huge safety pin to attach the pension envelope to his inner jacket pocket for safety, so that pickpockets lurking in the bazaar areas of downtown Colombo wouldn't be able to grab them easily.

On returning home, Appa would give the whole of whatever remained from his pension to Wapamma to manage the domestic expenses. He didnt need any money until his next pension. Their relationship was most exemplary and they lived a grand life until the end. Wapamma was the first to pass and Appa wept like a baby. I can never forget that moment. He moved on a few years later.

Sundays were always family day when all the children and grand children of our grand parents used to gather at #298. We played a game of cricket during the morning while the gals prepared kidu lunch which was always served on long banana leaves on the floor. Sunday Choice in the afternoon was always blaring on the Radio and dessert was Elephant House Family Block Ice Cream. The uncles used to engage in playing cards till the late evening when tea was served with Murukku, Pakkoda, and spicy mixture from Ramjee Lodge, the vegetarian restaurant across the street.


The efforts that Appa executed in researching Ceylon Moor history and genealogy was extensive. Towards the latter stages of his life it was us, his grandsons, who helped him out with the typing as his ageing fingers were getting weary. All his research was neatly typed out on his massive Olivetti typewriter and filed methodically in named archives. Appa and Wapamma had 34 grand children from their ten children.

Sameer Appa (Appa) & Railya  Umma (Wapamma)
It is interesting to note that one of the grandsons, Fazli, has carried on Sameer Appa's genealogy research, after his demise, and all of the data is now available online on the internet in the Sri Lanka Genealogy Website.

See http://www.worldgenweb.org/lkawgw

MCHM RASHEED

Memories of a larger than life Appa

It is more than fifty years since I lost my maternal grand-dad Mohamed Cassim Hajiar Mohamed (MCHM) Rasheed - we affectionately called him “Appa” - on 19 July 1968. I had turned 18 while he made 69.

Born on 11 December, 1898, he stood tall and sturdy at 5-9: a well-built man of powerful stature; a striking personality; always smartly dressed; a leader full of wisdom. A patriarchal figure amongst family who often sought his advice. Appa taught and trained us in many aspects of Islam; of proper speech and conduct; and of patience. The proverbial rattan cane was perched atop his wardrobe as a symbol of discipline, but hardly used. He was the epitome of an exemplary father. He was a landed proprietor and merchant, having established Kingston Agencies, an indenting firm, in the 1950s.

Appa was a great traveller in his heyday, having sailed with two first cousins, Abdul Hameed Mohamed Junaid, Mohamed Ali Mohamed Hussain with his nephew Mohamed Mohideen, through Europe in early January 1930. They journeyed for over 3-months, touring the pyramids of Egypt, sight-seeing Mount Vesuvius in Naples and the vestiges of the Roman Empire, skiing across snow-capped mountains in Switzerland, visiting the Eiffel Tower in Paris, witnessing the dauntless matadors bull-fighting in Spain, and sailing through the rough seas of the Bay of Biscay, photographs of which he brought home. I remember listening to him in rapt attention with my elders, sister Mumtaz and brother Fazli, relating his exciting experiences of his extensive peregrinations, relaxing in his armchair while lighting that rare filter-tipped Bristol cigarette. In 1960, he left home in Bambalapitiya to Ratmalana airport, to perform Haj in Makkah and covered Madhina in Saudi Arabia.

In the 1950s, his compassion extended to having brought three young brothers from a tea estate in Rakwana and raised them like family. Alwis, a brilliant artist seated aimlessly on the street, was spotted and brought home by book-binder Mustafa-nana who was Appa’s button-man of sorts, later became his car driver. All of their progeny are now doing well.

In the evenings, my brother and I helped Appa write the accounts relating to the labour force, which he strictly supervised at his cousin SLM Abdul Rahman Haji’s construction sites in Wellawatte. Appa was meticulous in his financial dealings to the last cent. It was a profound lesson in financial integrity instilled in us.

Appa was also a great environmentalist; planting in our extensive garden a variety of trees, training us to water them regularly, the fruits of which we greatly enjoyed. Into animal husbandry, he reared a slew of poultry and goats. He taught us the finer aspects of weaving a chair with rattan; the art of skinning a chicken; organizing family get-togethers; and treating guests with honour.

Appa used to take our family to late night South Indian Tamil movies screened at the Plaza, Roxy, and Odeon cinemas. He greatly enjoyed especially the meaningful lyrics, which he explained to us, of those memorable songs, which are still popular today.   

He suffered a stroke one morning in July 1968, and was taken to Colombo Hospital in Colpetty. He passed on serenely a day or two later in the presence of his wife Ummu Thahira, whom we affectionately called “Umma.” It was decidedly a heart-rending moment. It was the end of a personality of genuine love, care and concern.

May Allah bless you, dear Appa, [and the rest of your immediate family, my mom Ryhan, Ummu Naseeha, Zubair and Faiz and their spouses, all of whom have departed, Jennathul Firdous (Heavenly Bliss)!]

Firoze Sameer

Wordcount:  603

ST-Plus Publication on 29.07.2018