Friday Sep 20, 2024
Friday Sep 20, 2024
Saturday, 15 August 2015 00:00 - - {{hitsCtrl.values.hits}}
By Kamilka Perera
Quaint hamlet, the east, a train ride – threefold concoction; a marvellous recipe that helped unravel a great story. Before the words of the book and I were acquainted, the story was a mere back in the head vague information stored in the mind’s rusted corner.
Colombo Museum, a commonly-visited place as part of the primary school curriculum, houses dusty old things; discoloured and lacking their former glory, hence not many would remember the crudely stuffed leopard in a glass box, nor would many believe that this preserved leopard devoured over 20 people 95 years back in the 1920s.
From alive and killing to be stuffed and still is a story many would believe to be folklore. The truth is that it did happen, and after a public plea was put out calling forth anyone who could shoot and hunt the leopard, a well-to-do British captain took up the task, relieving the tiny village of its terror. This is the story in gist. Punanai is the village, the focus and the background of this blood-curdling incident.
Between now and then, this span of over nine decades has changed and transformed the landscape of the country. Whilst time does indeed create metamorphosis of place and its people, the most poignant change was because this small village located in the east close to the coast was very much a casualty to the civil war; having being in the shadow of the strong holds of the SL Army on one-side, and the LTTE on the other. Its canvas made barren and sparse and old stories buried, shackled under its rubble.
Had it not been for one enigmatic writer, and his quest to return to his birthplace, Ceylon, and trace the footsteps of his own personal demons and go after the legendary story of the leopard, the entirety of what took place in Punanai in 1924, would have laid hidden in old newspaper cuttings, without ever being heard.
‘The Man Eater of Punanai’ by Christopher Ondaatje takes the reader through a compelling journey of confronting his own troubled past whilst recording the details so rich and unique to our island country as he voyages through the jungles of Sri Lanka.
The book is evocative in its description that it weaves the island’s splendour as if you were right there, in the very helm of things and walking through the forest together. Whilst the island’s exotic escapes are open to any traveller seeking to experience Sri Lanka, the true magic however lies in the most mundane of things, the quieter experiences, perhaps like the wind on your face as you hang on the train’s edge, soaking in the infinite stretch of paddy as you pass by.
Tracing Christopher Ondaatje’s footsteps
It’s randomly, after having read the book, that the thought of tracing the footsteps of Christopher Ondaatje came to life, and swiftly with passing moments, the curiosity and sense of wonder was fuelled. There is a certain thrill in unplanned journeys; the focus is more of how you get there, and not much about the destination. There certainly is an uncanny thrill about taking a train, without the certainty of where to go or stay, marginally planned and meagrely packed and yet brimming with excitement.
The Udaya Devi operates on the Colombo Batticaloa Line and takes her voyager to Punanai in under eight hours. For a traveller who often seeks comfort and the securities of a personal vehicle, these eight hours on the steel machine was an experience in itself; one that started with trepidation – public washrooms not being a personal favourite, to add to the matter, one that moved. I felt the old fears of my nostrils being unable to hold a breath as the carriages jostle. Alas, with my bundled fears, the journey began.
The train departs the Fort Railway Station at 7:30 a.m.; if one books in advance, whether it’s first class or not, you are guaranteed a seat, and if lucky a rather empty carriage for yourself. The train ride was long due having a void of over six years since I last saw the insides of a train. My expectations were rising. This was no Expo Rail.
Quite surprisingly, the train was clean, bare, yet unthreatening to my sense of smell, which was a welcome relief. Minor delays and the morning sun were already allies, as we settled in the seats, and the familiar sound of the train departing flared far back.
I’ve taken the liberty to change tense from single to plural because I wasn›t a lone passenger. Next to me was an avid traveller who had the map of Sri Lanka etched in his soul. It is since knowing him that the curiosity to travel and to seek gained new life in me, his drive for quests oozing into my being, for which I am ever grateful.
For months I›ve heard stories and been an avid listener, at times a fan, in awe of what he shared. From Nihal Fernando, to Amardeva to Ondaatje, he rooted jewels of knowledge that is so very intricately woven into the depths of this country, which are now gleaming, the seeds of stories planted; now blooming. He brings back with him, frozen moments, which the viewer in return is then able to be part of the photographs and live the tales vicariously.
The train, it sang again, and the journey quietly unfolded. No sooner you leave the immediate vicinity of the city limits, the threads of passing landscape begins to turn greener, and the air kissing your face cleaner. From gleaming white stupas against the lush paddy to, lazy buffalo soaking their mud ridden hide in the sun to little children waving, the window view becomes studded with memorable passing, as its frames memories like a camera in slow motion.
Having not been accustomed to frequent train rides, I marvelled when the first vendor walked in, for my scepticism of having to survive solely on my meagre packs of food in the bag was soon dissuaded. From tea to coffee to warm salt-sprinkled corn, to achcharu to wade to kadala-gotu, an endless flow of people graced the aisles and offered the many little treats all for fewer than Rs. 30. Having a piping hot coffee for Rs. 25 was indeed a steal.
One vendor though stole the show, if circumstances were different he may have been leading a top marketing team in the corporate world, for in this sarong cladded simpleton was a high-spirited man who strove to great lengths in convincing the people to buy a vegetable peeler. I stared at him in wonder, he wore an ear to ear grin yet bore no heed to the dust lathered fatigue driven face. His enthusiasm permeated the entire carriage. A few minutes later, and the wallet a Rs. 100 note lighter, there was a red peeler in my bag.
Grandson of a man who was part of the group that helped Capt. Agar kill the leopard
The journey to Punanai
Between the city that I call home and this quaint village, that has a rather pun intended name «Punanai» is a distance of 301 kilometres. If one were to say that every one of them had in its place a gift for us, it would do the journey justice. Yes, there were moments of intense heat that spared you no sympathy, and moments where time stood still warm and sticky, and yet, these moments were outnumbered by the countless number of times I put my head out, to see more of what passed us by.
At times, far away in the middle of paddy was a tiny temple, with its sudukodi in a soft lull. There was a mother with a laughing child, children’s laughter, wattle and daub houses, well-manicured gardens and small patches of farm land, everyday wonders.
The train moving amidst these lets you experience the surrounding, and take with you its tales. I›ve long since wondered, giving into thought about the things I saw, of the people with whom I shared a smile; mine from a train window, theirs from a place of their lives. Nostalgia comes and gnaws you.
The surrounding shades of green turned to earthier shades. The lush turned to arid or perhaps an in between. Lotus covered pockets of reservoir. He tells me that during the war, at this stretch of the journey the passengers were asked to pull the glass of their window down and crouch low, as the passing train was often a target for gunshots. I find it hard to imagine. At this very moment, the news was offered to me I was hanging by the train’s door, craning my neck to see the outside, the wind riding my face.
There is an infinite strength in how you emit the energy within you to the outside world; from my being I sent out thanks for giving me the gift of being able to access a part of the country which was for decades hidden and inaccessible as the war raged on. The few seconds spent in prayer, I indulged and soaked myself in that moment.
Welcome to Punanai
Hungry, maybe stiff from an eight-hour journey, Punanai welcomed us with its setting sun and solitude. We were the only two people getting out of the train. As I waited for the steel mammoth to depart, I noticed how faces by the window watched us with a mixed sense of curiosity, as it gathered speed to reach Batticaloa, and eventually disappeared.
Solitude is that one word which comes to mind; Punanai with its quietness so tangible. Eerie, and yet so soothing. Almost time freezing, lethargic, sparse and in my mind, beautiful.
A small station, simple walls, with the name board hanging. Just beyond the overhang, a red steel bridge built in the 1800s, boasted of engineering skills, as it seemed to not have been touched by war. The lack of presence in this place was a welcoming gift. Puts you in a trance, as we city dwellers are hardly void of noises.
The lone palmyra that reached the skies was the first in testimony to your vision of the bygone war. It is only then as you step down from the bridge you see hidden and forgotten the bullet-ridden former residences of the station master; closed and no longer fit for human use.
In the book Ondaatje notes: “At the edge of the road there was a stall offering ginger tea. Raja got out and talked to some villagers at it. Explanatory gestures, questioning looks, fingers and eyes aimed at us…” To our pleasant surprise, not far from the bridge lay a wattle and daub structure. Before my vision could perceive, my stomach has already understood that the yellow shapes were indeed bananas, and hunger screamed and turned in cartwheels.
This probably was the second most wonderful find, as our quest felt validated; to be able to find similarity of place as described by Ondaatje himself.
A young mother, sturdy in the eye and yet malnourished in body with a suckling baby in her lap; two other children, perhaps eight and 11, greeted us. The younger boy looked at the sky and warned us of the approaching rain and above us, pregnant grey clouds gathered in a party, ready to come down in raptures.
The mother made us plain tea; the sister, elder of the children, seemed amused with our wares. Her eyes travelled to my bag to and fro. I asked where she went to school; she proudly claimed that malli and she travel together each morning to go to the same school. Her bright eyes big. Having very little, and yet quick to smile. The stomach devoured the tea in gulps, and the bananas were quick to disappear, and then came the rain.
The little boy dutifully took to his tasks of putting out the water from the bulging polythene, which provided shade to the shop front. An Army truck or two passed us by. The warmth of the tea was rejuvenating; the thrill of the journey was by then gathering strength and fatigue forgotten. The mother exclaimed that herds of elephants would come in search of water, thunder gargled somewhere.
There was a settled pattern in their presence, as if they were meant to be doing exactly what they were doing. The mother, the infant, the girl and the boy, all actors on a stage, purposely positioned each to its unique role; for a masterful play.
The road that lead to Batticaloa spread in a peaceful yarn, droplets of rain washing its surface, inhabited by quaint existence, going about in their rituals – a limping dog, a Samanera in orange robes, chubby-cheeked mouth full of chocolate.
The rail track ran parallel to the road, not too close, two lovers walking side by side, barely touching each other, and yet aware of each other›s presence.
The Pantherapardus-kotiya
It›s this rail track which when being built in the 1920s that became the target of the infamous leopard, colloquially known as Kotiya, «Pantherapardus-kotiya,» decades before the two-legged version became known.
This illusive and majestic beast with its tawny-rusty yellow coat and close-set rosettes crouching in the jungle shrub, silent and maddening in its gaze until the prey is within striking distance where it unleashes a burst of speed to quickly pursue and pounce on its victim. The kill, it is said, is usually dispatched with a single bite to the throat. To think that this road in a span of nine decades ago was terrorised by a man-eating leopard turns your blood cold.
We walked back to the station to quench the thirst of curiosity. He asked the station master about the incident. The short, white-clad man was taken by surprise, his memory not very great. A second and a third man joined our gathering. They were more curious to know why we were in search of a story that happened long years back.
Finally, a thread of memory. A link to a grandfather, who happened to have been either friends with or been part of the group that escorted and accompanied Captain Agar to the jungle in his quest to hunt the leopard. This recollection was rewarding. We pursued further, the exact location about five km from where the station was, no longer in existence, as the makeshift resemblance that was built to mark the place where the leopard was shot has been flattened and erased by war.
Yet to be able to share with these three people a story, and to be able to converse even though we did not speak the same language was remarkable. The station master posed for a picture, next to the manual steel gears that shifts the rail track to its desired course. Christopher Ondaatje has this same photograph, by the same red steel gear, with the back to the then station master. To be able to trace the footsteps of a book put me in awe; what good stories these memories would make.
Heavy with the shared threads of information, we stood by the road, rain subsiding to a drizzle. Air was cool, and void of the sun. The place laced with a grey hue as the rain clouds lingered over us.
The Buddhist monk in the temple close by in conversation with us came to our aid. After having had no luck with an approaching bus to take us further towards Passikudah, we were lucky to be able to befriend the hamuduruwo, whose known three-wheeler person agreed to take us to our next location. I smile at the memory of the passing comment the monk made, “Parissameng gihilla aralawanna”.
There was power and genuine good heartedness in his parting words that was balm to our tired but happy hearts. The tuk tuk journey was cold, we dove into a conversation with the old man who drove us about recent settlements, on either side of us endless shrubs, and dusk blushed in the darkened sky.
At the end, when I reflect, the journey was not about an end destination, nor was it entirely about a man-eating leopard. I realise now, that the experiences gathered in getting to Punanai was to me a catharsis, a means of escape from the everyday life, the race that we succumb to.
There is romance everywhere, if we only stop to open our eyes and see. Discovering a book that fires your curiosity which in return pushes you into taking journeys beyond the established comfort zones was a healing, for you discover yourself in the little hidden surprises you face.
The infinite pleasure of holding hands with someone as you travel, and to seek the new wonders of everyday things makes the ordinary comes alive, and the extraordinary simply takes care of itself. It is the journey that becomes your learning, the balm, the healing. This majestic canvas of an island is at your feet, in plain view at times and yet often hidden, to be found and explored. The captivating natural beauty and treasures of Sri Lanka left the legendary 13th-century explorer Marco Polo entranced, centuries later, as I quest through, it has left me with rekindled spirit of this island magic.
“We travel not to escape life, but for life not to escape us” – Anonymous.
