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Lessons my father taught me
By Dr. Sriyanie Miththapala
Whoosh... the wind tears past my ears as the train speeds along the tracks towards Jaffna. Barely four years old, I sit on my father's lap as he, in turn, sits on the steps of a train, in an open doorway, firmly holding me with one arm, while he anchors us to the train with his other. My nine-year-old brother stands in the open doorway behind us. "Chestnut-headed Bee Eater!", "Pied Kingfisher!", "Red-vented Bulbul!", "Common Drongo!" we shriek, each trying to name the birds perched on electricity cables. The 'game' was to spot birds and identify them as the train went past.

At that time I saw nothing strange about sitting in an open doorway of a moving train or that aged four or five, I could identify with ease more birds than an average adult. At that time I saw nothing out of the ordinary that our family would have dinner table conversations about Shakespeare and Shakeer Falcons, Robert Kennedy's assassination and Red Backed Woodpeckers, Dendrobiums and drongos and that at a very young age, I could distinguish between scarlet and vermilion or burnt sienna and Vandyke brown.

I do now.
At a crossroad in my own life, wondering whether to go back into the world of conservation or stay in education or perhaps, blend the two, I realize with sudden clarity, that my father lived his life practising an exquisite balance of conservation and education.

Scientist by nature
Long before 'biodiversity conservation', 'conservation education' and 'making biodiversity accessible to the public' became catch phrases, before Michael Soule made conservation biology a science, dad practised conservation education.
He had not read ‘The Silent Spring’ nor anything by E.O. Wilson. He was not a scientist by profession, he was a cartographer.

He was trained to make maps that were not only precise and accurate, but also pleasing to the eye. His talent for painting gave him an eye that could spot subtle differences in colour and make detailed observations. His training allowed him to be meticulous in recording what he saw. His love for the natural history of Sri Lanka provided a driving force. His belief in practising what he believed meant that he automatically disseminated information. His zest for life and enjoyment of it, made learning from him effortless and fun.

Dad painted. We hung round him while he painted, watched and mimicked him. While doing so, without knowing that we did, we learnt to observe and record our observations meticulously. Whenever he designed and painted stamps we would faithfully paint the same picture and cut our gigantic stamps with pinking shears. It was only as adults that we realized how many stamps he had designed, how much he was valued as a designer and how many of his designs were collector’s items.

As a fully-fledged zoologist returning to Sri Lanka after completing my tertiary education, I watched with awe when he designed the stamps for the centenary celebrations of the Wildlife and Nature Protection Society and the Orchid Circle. At 78, his background research would have put most graduate students to shame. Initially, he had to see real specimens of the animals or flowers he painted.

After making detailed sketches, he would carefully read all that was written about each species and check each drawing for accuracy - going back to the specimen if he had made a mistake. I accompanied him to the Botanical Gardens and the Zoo when he went to look at specimens and often, his enthusiasm and energy would leave me panting to catch up with him, both physically and mentally. Next, he would supplement each sketch with several photographs.

Finally, when he had painstakingly collected all the data necessary to him, he would sit in his study with photographs, sketches and annotations strewn on his table. He would then fill several pages of yet another sketch book with detailed drawings of various poses or views of each animal or plant which he had to draw, going back again and again to the information available. When he had several pages of sketches, he would choose one, transfer it onto the final plate and proceed with the final painting. Feather after feather, or scale after scale was painted on with accuracy and precision.
Watching him during these assignments, I learned that when one accepted an assignment, one did it thoroughly. His attention to detail taught us to give of one's very best.

Giving your best
I remember when he worked on an assignment basis, for the then Mahaweli Development Board, making topographical models of the dams and tanks of Mahaweli schemes. I sat cross-legged on the floor, assisting him as he placed one dab of plaster of Paris at a time, leaned back, looked at the effect, and then added another dab. Dab, lean back, look, dab, lean back, look, while Mahaweli engineers smoked nervously and paced our verandah as the hands of the clock raced towards the deadline for the completion of the model; when Queen Elizabeth would open it ceremoniously and lay the foundation for the dam.

What gave the engineers peptic ulcers and what my father was supremely unconcerned about was that the Queen was already in a motorcade to Kandy while the model was still being finished. Finally, dad picked up his brush, added a few judicious strokes and the model was complete. The harried engineers carefully loaded their precious cargo onto a van that would take them to the Ratmalana airport from whence they would be transported by helicopter to the site. They expected dad to join them so that he could be introduced to the Queen, but dad yawned, declined, and slept through the nationally televised opening ceremony.

I learned that not only did I need to give the very best of myself in whatever I did, but after that, I only needed to step back and let my work speak for itself. I also learned not to hanker after the influence that power brings.

In the process of teaching us how to observe nature and record it meticulously, dad also taught us to understand and appreciate its beauty, as well as to protect it. A butterfly with a damaged wing or a fledgling fallen out of a nest provided fodder for teaching. We would look at the butterfly with a magnifying glass and then pore over encyclopaedias. Perched precariously on a makeshift ladder, I would watch anxiously as dad carefully placed a fledgling back in its nest, and then learn from him about down feathers and contour feathers, shafts and vanes and their functions.

Any animal that could not be rehabilitated was adopted as a pet. I came home from school with a half blind kitten or magpie with a broken wing, until my mother put a cap on this influx of orphans. Those that we were not able to save even with TLC were given a ceremonious burial with dad draped in a tablecloth in his role as the priest and our cook carrying an upended broom as a banner. Dad would solemnly bury each dead animal while my mother muttered about blasphemy.

These elaborate burials, efforts to nurture injured animals and dad's determination to rehabilitate animals instilled in me the fundamentals of conservation biology.
Without realizing it, we also learned the principles of ecology. After we'd moved into our own home, dad decided that the garden would benefit from a pond and so proceeded to make one. We dug and flung earth and built a pond, and by trial and error, found the delicate balance that was needed to maintain a healthy pond: submerged water plants, floating water plants, herbivorous fish, detritivorous fish and the correct mix of water, oxygen and nutrients. By that exercise, we learned first hand that each organism had its place in nature and that we not only had to protect them but also had to maintain the delicate balance of nature.

Dad also taught us the fundamentals of restorative ecology. When he built our house, dad had to cut down 19 coconut trees and was unable to retain even a single one. When we moved into the house, the garden was a barren slash of kabok earth. My parents set about planting trees, shrubs and herbaceous plants. Fifteen years later, our garden was a verdant haven for birds, butterflies and other creatures. It still is.

Watching and learning
Experiential learning was something which dad totally believed in. When a favourite aunt migrated to Australia, we sat round the dining table with a globe and spun it this way and that and learned about relative velocity and the earth's rotation round the sun. When I learned in school about the parts of a flower, I trooped after him peering at hedges and gardens looking for stamens and sepals.

Dad taught us to question and investigate. He never hesitated to open up a machine (a tape recorder, a camera or a radio) and look inside it in order to figure out how it worked. He taught us the process of deducing what was wrong based on what we saw, and thus, taught us analytical and logical thinking. I learned never to fear the unknown as long as I had the ability to think things through.

Dad's enthusiasm for learning and for disseminating information was infectious - but not always at 2 a.m. He would often wake us up in the wee hours of the morning to enjoy the beauty of a night blooming cactus or to hear an owl call. Once, he woke me at 3 a.m., and I stumbled out of bed, scantily dressed and mumbling complaints on my way to the verandah and was jolted awake to find several neighbours - also in their nightclothes - seated on chairs, drinking coffee and enjoying a clear view and discourse on Halley's comet.

Fun games
Dad always made learning fun. Whenever I teach, seeking for means to engage and stimulate young minds, I am reminded of a simple game that my mother and he developed for my brother and me, which we all played with my niece and nephew when they were young children. We would sit on the verandah as the sun went down and one person would start off the game by naming an animal.

The next person would name another animal starting with the last letter of the previous animal's name. It was simple but it tested not only our zoological knowledge but also our spelling capabilities ('Antelope' I would say and my then six-year-old niece would pipe up 'Pig').

An important lesson that one learns in life is that often the world can be vicious. Dad taught us that one of the best ways to overcome the vicissitudes of life was to laugh at them. He taught us that a little lunacy went a long way towards making life easier.
Loving life. Dad taught us that the best way to overcome trouble was to realize that life, with all its pitfalls, was really okay and for the most part, fun, particularly if one accepted that the joke was on oneself.

My father is now 87 years old. His short-term memory is failing him, as are his hands, which now tremble slightly when he paints. These age-related drawbacks greatly distress him, as he tries to adjust to the limitations that they impose. I look at him not only with love and respect, but also with awe. I know that if I can accumulate half his encyclopaedic knowledge or practise one third of his commitment to anything he undertakes by the time I am 60, I could truly make a difference to the lives of others, as he indubitably has.

I am reminded of what Ralph Waldo Emerson said and paraphrase it here:
"(He has) much more experience than I have written here, much more than I will, much more than I can write. In silence we must wrap much of our lives, because it is too fine for speech."

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