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Sleepy Trinco, my first Kachcheri By Tissa
Devendra Glancing through old records I am amazed both at the cool formality of the appointment procedure and at the speedy service of the old G.P.O. No Minister handed over appointment letters with fawning acolytes and press photographers in attendance. The Public Service Commission posted my letter of appointment by Registered Express Post on May 20, promptly followed by a letter from the Land Commissioner on May 25 assigning me to Trincomalee, 160 miles from home, on June 1.The question of palavering an MP to get another station was inconceivable. My mother meticulously packed my sailor grandfather's cabin trunk with loving care and gave me instructions about dhoby accounts, polishing shoes etc. I had never, ever, lived away from home on my own. We drove up to Trinco on May 31, made landfall at the Resthouse and looked around the town I was to call home. Trincomalee
in 1953 In 1953, two
distinct Trincomalees existed side-by-side. One was the old town
of narrow streets and winding byways, of houses crammed together
with quaint low doorways and steep roofs, crowded bazaar, jostling
fish market and dusty 'maidan'. Occasionally the distinctive architecture
of a kovil, mosque or church stood out from the general huddle.
Two unsightly corrugated iron structures 'graced' the town. One
housed a lumbering old fire engine. The other was the 'Lord Nelson'
Cinema. A loud, asthmatically wheezing generator powered the town's
lights. The British
Royal Navy dominated the other Trincomalee. The harbour, Dockyard
and Fort Frederick were exclusively theirs, except for hundreds
of civilian pen pushers and menials who trooped in every morning
and checked out every evening from these enclaves. RN trucks, jeeps
and staff cars of naval top brass, White Ensign fluttering, whizzed
through the narrow streets. Impressive battleships rode at anchor
in the harbour. It was eye-opening
to experience the limitations of the Independence we claimed to
have won in 1948. The Kachcheri My first Kachcheri had many features in common with all other such institutions. To begin with, it was housed in a musty old colonial building. Old cupboards separated its many branches, filing cabinets and desks piled high with files. Clerks and staff officers scribbled away to clear 'In' trays into the 'Out'. Organizationally, a Kachcheri was like a ship - one tight unit with an unquestioned captain, sharing discipline, loyalty and comradeship, especially in crises such as disasters and elections. The head of
the Trinco Kachcheri was designated 'Assistant' Government Agent,
as he was nominally under the jurisdiction of the Government Agent,
Eastern Province, in distant Batticaloa. He was A.R. McHeyzer a
hearty Burgher ex-serviceman, always in khaki shorts. When I recall
the sartorial informality that prevailed in Kachcheris right up
to the mid-1970s, I do not know whether to feel sorry for, or laugh
at, today's officers togged up in ties, like salesmen, tagging along
behind Ministers on field visits. A car and
a bank Typical of
the Kachcheri way of life was the purchase of my first car. A few
days after I had sat at my desk I was taken under his wing by the
E.O.A (Extra Office Assistant) the benevolent Mr. Amirthalingam.
"Do you have a car?" he asked me. "No." "This
can't go on. How can you be a D.L.O. without a car to go on circuit?
Just fill up these forms," he said producing a set of application
forms for a loan to purchase a car. Filling them up I hit a snag.
I had to provide a guarantor, but I had just arrived in Trinco and
knew nobody. "No problem," said Mr. A "Just a minute."
In a jiffy he turned up with a gentleman who was introduced as "Mr.
Chinniah of the Police Office next door. He has agreed to stand
as your guarantor". I never knew what arm-twisting Mr. A had
done to conscript Mr. C, but he signed up without a murmur and slipped
away, never again to be sighted by me. Not long after I was the
proud owner of a spanking new car and ready to embark on my first
'circuits'. Amirthalingam and Chinniah have long since entered 'moksha'
but I always remember with gratitude the unquestioning trust they
reposed in my callow self. Purchasing a car involved the opening of a bank account. And this I did with the (to me) pretty large sum of Rs. 250/- at Trinco's only bank then, the Bank of Ceylon. The genial Manager Mr. Munasinghe shook my hand and gave me my first cheque book, together with a snappy button down plastic cover (which, interestingly, is the only token I ever received from this institution where I have banked for fifty years!). Lodgings
in Love Lane Captain Albert's
deteriorating "cash flow" brought about a corresponding
deterioration in creature comforts and cuisine quality. In desperation
I deserted his establishment and sought refuge at the Resthouse. This cool old
place beneath a spreading banyan was a most interesting hostelry.
Over the lunch table I came to know some of the town's young lawyers
and police officers - with whom I remain good friends till today,
or till they passed away. Evenings brought
the ex-MP, a former Vanniyar (Rate Mahatmaya) and his buddy the
Urban Council Chairman to enjoy their tipple and the non-veg cuisine,
both taboo at their orthodox Hindu homes. They treated me with avuncular
concern and filled me up with useful local lore. Burly Alwis, the
launch magnate, occasionally deigned to spin me a seaman's yarn. Hartal erupts Interestingly,
not a ripple bothered the even tenor of the Kachcheri in our faraway
little town where the daily newspapers arrived only late in the
evening. Our information was gleaned from the 'Daily News', which
predictably assured its readers (with its customary sycophancy)
that the Hartal was a total flop. I only realized
the overwhelming political impact of the Hartal when I was back
in Colombo on leave. It all goes to show how remote the Trinco of
yore was from developments in the nation's capital. Ferries
and launches Driving up the
ramp of a cumbersome ferry, already loaded with traders, farmers,
women and children was a delicate task in which I acquired useful
skills in both man and clutch management. For me, the
most unforgettable experience was being on a ferry as dusk fell.
The only sounds were the quiet splash of the ferryman's paddle,
a tired murmur of conversation and the haunting cry of a 'kirala'
as it flew across the darkening sky where the stars began to glimmer. Crossing Koddiyar
Bay by launch to Mutur, Allai Colony and Seruwila was literally
an overseas adventure. These rickety boats were loaded to the waterline
with sweaty passengers, bulky merchandise and squawking poultry.
It was all so familiar to me, fresh from studying Joseph Conrad
on tramp steamers in the South Seas. My official status won me a
perch on the cabin roof, sunburnt and windblown as the launch chugged
along in the indigo-blue sea passing towering battleships, snappy
torpedo boats, the graceful bellying sails of rice cargo boats and
schools of frolicsome dolphins. Once in a while the engine coughed
to a halt in mid-sea. The launch tossed silently while the boatmen
muddled around with rusty spanners and greasy rags, and the passengers
watched with customary stoicism. To a giant sigh of relief the engine
sputtered back to life and chugged on to our destination - the shaky
pier on the vivid green waters of Mutur's mangrove swamps. Colonization
scheme The nerve centre
of every new colonization scheme was 'The Camp'. In addition to
government offices, it housed the staff of the Irrigation and Land
Development Departments responsible for irrigation and construction.
It was an enclave of privilege - comfortable houses, tennis and
badminton courts, clubhouses and circuit bungalows. It bustled with
official activity by day. By dusk tennis, cards and conviviality
ruled the clubhouses. Gomarankadawela
village Departure
and arrival T.S. Eliot had
it right when he said, "In my beginning is my end…"
Almost twenty years later I came back to Trincomalee, with my wife
and children, to spend six of the happiest years of our lives. My
first Kachcheri was, thus, my last. Half a hundred years (!) now distance me from that green youth stepping hesitantly across the threshold of his first Kachcheri and lost beyond recall, in the mists of fading memory, is that somnolent, peaceful Trincomalee so hospitable to him. |
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