An Inspirational Prefect

The next year, the school selected Nalaka as one of the Scribes. But this happened the year before, when he was still popular among us, the younger boys.

Nalaka was smart and pleasant. He had a smile and carried himself in a gentle and manly way. Like your average Prefect, Nalaka was by no means a thug or a ego-maniac. For such people – and such people were plenty – there were other names. Nalaka was not one of them.

In our time, the Grade 7 classes were housed in Kingswood’s Siberia. 7A, 7B, 7C, 7D. To get to 7E, you had to go behind the building from the side of the slope. One day, during a period where the teacher was absent, Nalaka walked in and made the routine inquiries — What subject did we have now? Who was the teacher? Was the teacher present?

To keep the class occupied and in order, Nalaka drew two shapes on the board that looked somewhat like:

And then, Nalaka wrote two words on the board: ඌබුලුබු. කයිකරික.

Looking at the class with that pleasant smile he always had, Nalaka challenged us to connect the shapes with the words. The expected answer to the exercise came as follows:

It was the “bubble feeling” (බුබුළු ගතිය) in the texture of the word ඌබුලුබු (Nalaka explained) that made us feel the round shape corresponded with that word. කයිකරික, he explained further, had a “spread effect” (පැතිරුනු ස්වභාවයක්) of sorts.

In a word, it was how our mind made connections with sounds and what we saw. A tiny page from how olfactory principles and human cognition worked in the way we construct our realities. Of course, Nalaka didn’t explain all that. Much later, remembering Nalaka’s quaint demonstration, I made the connection when I sufficiently grew up.

From what I learnt many years later, Nalaka became a creative arts practitioner. He also worked for a media enterprise and began (as I heard) a co-curricular education institution. When he drew diagrams on our classroom blackboard and made us connect them with the best-suited nonsensical word, Nalaka was probably only 19. We were most of us 11+. The children of his mini education programme.

When he became the Scribe the next year, we were most of us happy that Nalaka was thus promoted. Now we saw him with an important-looking badge pinned between the second and third buttons of his shirt, walking about school doing what Prefects’ Scribes do. He no longer came to teach ඌබුලුබු. But, he continued to be a pleasant and humble person — a dynamic presence and a lovable senior student.

Still from Chariots of Fire

The sports meet that year was – as usual – on a rainy day. In the 1990s, it was customary for it to rain on the school’s sports meet day. Our playground would turn into a mud bath where the grass was few. For a good 2-3 days we had built play-house like structures: shaded with thatched coconut leaves or hay, to the best of each other’s ability, the four houses. We watched as item after item unfolded. As it often happened in the 1990s, Eton and Rugby houses seemed in close competition. As it often happened in the 1990s, one house that started with the letter “H” was clearly not going to win.

Then, it was announced over the sound system: “Prefects’ Race”. The Prefects lined up at the starting point and, when the sign was given, began to trot in a herd. Suddenly, we were all excited. The Prefects we liked and the ones we rather died were coming down the track — not too ungentlemanly either. Nalaka was there right in front. He was touching shoulders with the Senior Prefect who led the pack. As the herd neared the finishing line some of us actually shouted for Nalaka to go through and win.

But, of course, since it was a race of goodwill it was the Senior Prefect who finished first. It was a show and an act, and Nalaka himself was a half-decent actor in school plays. But, as children we didn’t know it then, and were actually somewhat disappointed he didn’t win. [KC].

The Deputy and the Skinhead

In 1997, the school’s Principal resigned unexpectedly. Unexpectedly, the reigns of the school fell in the hands of the Lanky and Tall Deputy whom we all feared with respect. L.T. Deputy was by then a seasoned campaigner. He had joined school in the late-1970s and grown firm as a part of Kingswood’s own vegetation.

L.T’s initials were well earned. He was the lankiest and tallest thing in the 11 acre Kingswood premises. With his family, he lived in a humble abode to the interior of the school. L.T spoke very little, and never seemed to be excited or hurried. Him walking down the long steps that led from the Hostel-side passing the college bell to the school’s office complex was a familiar sight every morning between 7.00 and 7.10. L.T always wore black or dark brown lanky trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt with almost-invisible stripes. When he lost his temper (as a School Deputy must) his outreach was quick, menacing, and made the sound of whip cracks heard in the Maligawa Perahera. The composure would be lost only for a moment. The next moment, it would be restored – the inscrutable, unexcitable, eagle-like exterior of L.T.

Batman is just a child. Comparatively speaking.

And now, when the Principal resigned, L.T was in charge. Leading Kingswood in the mid-90s must have come with its own set of pressures. For one, everyone knew Kingswood – the school Blaze bore, the Methodist Mission carried as its burden, which was taken over by the state in 1958 – lost its gloss somewhat in the 1970s and the early-80s. This was not Kingswood’s fate alone, but that of many old private schools that were transferred to the government system in the nationalization rush. For Kingswood, the 1980s were years of resurrection. In 1985, a man who took it on himself to restore the school with a view of its ancient heritage was appointed as Principal. In later years, some sentimental souls even called this Kandy-born, Anthonian-educated, UK-qualified man a Second Blaze. From 1989 to 1997, until his untimely resignation, it was this gentleman’s legacy the Principal with the brush-mustache took forward.

And now, the L.T. Deputy was entrusted with the smooth operation of holding the fort together until a suitable successor came along.

One morning, the First XI was about to leave for an important fixture. For sports teams leaving, it was customary to gather near the Main Hall or the gate and to meet the Principal who – as was the age old practice – sent them off with a word that suited such occasions. When L.T.D came to speak to the team he noticed that an important player had shaved his head in an unbecoming manner. This player, to L.T.D’s displeasure, had turned into a skinhead.

Jack Leach, an English spin bowler without hair

L.T.D pulled the player up and raised issue about his skinhead. In no uncertain terms, the Deputy made his anger and disappointment shown. He revoked permission for the team to go with the player, turned around and walked back to his office room.

Unlike in the case of hair too long (which could be cut to the right size at the nearby Mulgampola barber salon), a skinhead couldn’t plant the missing grass on his turf. Perplexed, everyone looked on. Packed with gear, the team’s bags lay on the side. [RR]