Lankadeepa Sundays:
A Portrait of Community in 1966
In the golden glow of the morning sun, after the church bells had faded, a familiar ritual unfolded on our verandah. Father, a gentle giant with kind eyes, would return from Sunday mass carrying a treasure trove of stories — the Sinhala weekend paper, Lankadeepa. This wasn’t just any newspaper, but a window to the world, a shared experience that transcended generations.
Like a child drawn to a flickering flame, I’d curl up at his feet, captivated by the crinkling symphony of the newspaper unfolding. The scent of fresh ink mingled with the sweet aroma of jasmine wafting from the nearby garden, creating a sensory tapestry unique to those Sunday afternoons.
Once Father finished his perusal, the paper would become mine, a passport to a world of words and illustrations. I’d devour the news, both local and international, marvelling at the way it connected our little corner of Ceylon to the vast tapestry of human experience.
But the true magic resided on the final page. Tucked amongst the classifieds and advertisements lay a portal to another realm — the fantastical world conjured by Susil Premaratne’s illustrations. Each week, I’d be transported back in time, witnessing the courage of local warriors battling Dutch invaders, all thanks to Susil’s masterful strokes. He wasn’t just an artist; he was a fellow villager, the uncle of my classmate Pradeep, and a source of immense pride for our small community.
Lankadeepa, unlike its flashier counterparts, held a certain elegance. It mirrored Father himself — unassuming, rooted in tradition, yet brimming with life. The news it carried sparked lively debates around our dinner table, weaving a web of diverse viewpoints and shared experiences.
Newspapers in those days transcended the solitary act of reading. They were threads binding families and neighbours together. In the lazy afternoons, Lal and Linton, our neighbours’ sons, would appear at the fence, their purpose as clear as the midday sun — to borrow the paper for their families. Sharing wasn’t just a courtesy; it was the lifeblood of our community. Even strangers on buses, finished with their papers, would readily offer them to fellow passengers, a silent pact forged in the ink and newsprint.
Within the hallowed walls of the church, another publication found its devoted readers — the Gnanartha Pradeepaya, the Catholic weekly. This paper held a special place in my heart, for it often featured the poignant poems and stories of my beloved Uncle Wilson, Neeta Aunty’s husband. Like gentle brush strokes, his words painted vivid scenes and imparted wisdom that resonated deeply within me.
Newspapers, then, were more than ink on paper. They were storytellers, conversation starters, and community builders. And in the quiet corners of our home, amidst the rustling pages and the warmth of family, they painted an unforgettable portrait of life in 1966 — a time I hold close to my heart.
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