Chronicles from Wattala’s Schoolyard
In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
“In the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost,” we chanted the sacred words with all our strength, bowing our heads.
I attended pre-school in 1960 in Wattala, a village dominated by farms and fields where the majority were Catholics. Despite living in a country primarily of Buddhists, I found myself raised with a deep-rooted Catholic faith. I harboured a love for God and a fear of the devil, the embodiment of evil. My upbringing was steeped in faith, prayers, hymns dedicated to Mary, and regular church attendance. Remarkably, I possessed my rosary at the tender age of five, fostering a determination to resist the dark forces while seeking the presence of a guardian angel with wings. I often looked over my shoulder, hoping to glimpse of the guardian angel, my celestial protector.
Each morning, a chorus of boys in white, eager to learn, echoed the sacred words with fervour, our heads bowed in unison. Our school bags sparkled in the sun, reflecting our smiles. The contents revealed carefully packed snacks, biscuits, and sandwiches.
Mrs. Cooray, our stern teacher with a seemingly cold heart, commanded our attention with a steely gaze, holding a cane and peering through thick glasses. In our pursuit of knowledge, we wrote letters and numbers on black stone slates, resembling tablets, using white chalk pencils that allowed easy erasure. Mrs. Cooray, unyielding in her commitment to excellence, chastised any poorly written work in front of the entire class, compelling us to erase and rewrite until perfection was achieved. Her ruler was not spared on any student whose handwriting fell short of her standards.
The school’s head, Brother Sylvester, a figure wielding authority with a cane in hand, would address the assembly, proclaiming, “You are God’s children, the special ones. You are our finest,” despite the contradiction evident in his punitive actions behind closed doors with his cane, hidden inside his robe.
Our preschool, nestled in the corner of the two-story primary building, enjoyed some seclusion, surrounded by bushes on one side and a shrine dedicated to St. Joseph on the other, where our morning prayers echoed. Brother Sylvester’s office, adjacent to the sports ground, was a constant reminder of the school’s hasty construction during the tumultuous times of World War 2.
The expansive school grounds, steeped in history, harboured a mysterious tale of a horseman haunting the premises. Legend had it that the land once belonged to a wealthy nobleman who loved riding horses. His life tragically ended with a self-inflicted gunshot, and his spirit allegedly never departed. Locals swore they heard the eerie sound of horses galloping in the dark.
Amidst this backdrop, my friend Ajantha, characterised by a permanent smile and a head full of hair, was comforting beside me. During the challenging lessons of the Sinhala alphabet, he silently aided me in avoiding Mrs. Cooray’s reprimands and the potential wrath of her ruler.
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