‘The Doughty Dons of Dowa’ - Kirthie Abeysekera [Sarvodaya Vishva Lekha - Rs. 675.00]
by Tissa Devendra

Reading of the incredible ups and downs of Kirthie Abeysekera’s boyhood and youth I vividly recollect the vicissitudes suffered by David Copperfield and other protagonists of Charles Dickens. It all seemed so familiar - wild swings of fortune from great wealth to utter destitution, orphaned and exploited by villainous guardians and rare interludes of happiness at school or among kind, eccentric uncles. Kirthie writes in an easy, almost conversational, style devoid of artifice or affectation. What shines through his account of the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’ that battered his youthful self is the total equanimity and lack of rancour he shows. I attribute this to the truly Buddhist perspective he absorbed from his long association with learned monks such as Ven. Narada, Piyadassi, Nanasatta and the charismatic Dhammapala/Van Zeyst.

The ‘Dons’ of the title share nothing with the Mafiosi Kirthie moved with later as a crime reporter. They were his father’s family, Southern entrepreneurs who ventured into the hill country in the late 19th century to make their fortunes, and their homes. ‘Don’, borrowed with relish from their Portuguese conquistadors, was the prefix carried by most men from ‘respectable’ families in the Low Country. Kirthie’s grandfather, the pioneer Don, also carried the even more prestigious suffix ‘Appuhamy’. But the passage of time had so sadly degraded its significance that Kirthie’s father dropped it altogether. Little did he imagine that his fortune would go the same way as the suffix!

The father Don David Abeysekera’s glorious, but all too short, life as the laird of Dowa, Bandarawela and its environs is vividly recalled from the viewpoint of a little motherless boy growing up in lonely luxury. It was a strange melange [or ‘mellun’]. The old gent never spoke English but dined off damask and silver on ‘steak and pud’ and rode a horse to inspect his vast tea acres. He was a hot-tempered eccentric who pushed a brand new Buick car to its doom down a precipice merely because it did not start at first go! He even set fire to a bag of cash! His daughters and only son were boarded at a convent - inspiring the girls to flout their father and become Catholics and the son, years later to marry a maiden of that faith. Strangely, he held steadfast to the Buddha Dhamma. The candle-lit singing round the family piano paints a poignant picture of an era long lost. Kirthie the writer has the enviable gift of total recall and remembers the words of every song, the doggerel of his Dharmaraja schoolmates, the initials of his numberless friends and colleagues and even the prices he paid for his bicycles and cars!

For me the most interesting part of the book is the earlier account of the incredible rise and precipitous fall of the last Don of Dowa. To strike a personal note I recall a pre-undergrad holiday spent in Badulla with W.J. [ACLG] and Lionel [Prisons] Fernando in Badulla where Kirthie [whom I never met] flourished. The ‘Mara Vanguwa’, he speaks of, just past Dowa had a red board sign posted ‘A.C.C.’ which stood for ‘Automobile Club of Ceylon’. Once W.J. asked a bus driver what this stood for. He promptly replied ‘Accident Corner. Careful!!’ - a most appropriate interpretation. I’m afraid that’s all Dowa signalled me till I read Kirthie.

Kirthie’s path and mine never intersected. I was always just a step behind [as in Dharmaraja] or in a nearby town [he was in Badulla when I was in Nuwara Eliya]. But our experiences mirrored each others to a great degree whether in school or in Provincial Department. I too remember the end-of-term jingle that invariably appeared mysteriously on black boards "Three days more and where shall we be?// Out of the bounds of D.R.C." Whoever was the laureate who first composed it? Noel? whose acting prowess I remember - though not with Kirthie’s clarity.

Kirthie takes us, without bitterness, through the sufferings and hardships he endured, foully deprived of his Don-nish birthright. Blessed with a quick intelligence, good friends and motherly ladies who ran ‘boarding houses’ he retained an enviable sanity spiced, surprisingly, with conviviality and Buddhist activism. He leads us through his extended career in the Local Govt. Service and the innumerable friends he made and kept. His romantic marriage to Catholic Olga, while remaining staunchly loyal to his Buddhist heritage and intellectual convictions, provides a gently charming undercurrent to his life story. The thrills and tribulations of becoming young parents in the provinces is an unforgettable and enriching experience - that we too have shared. He has had the enviable ability to juggle a [to quote a younger friend] ‘frolicking’ time boozing, dancing and brawling in outstation clubs with a dedication to Buddhist activities and a close friendship with learned Theras.

Sandwiched in between Kirthie’s, amazingly remembered, accounts of his children’s births, transfers, promotions, and club shindigs is an occasional short story presented with pithy brevity. To quote: "P***’s wife taunted him saying his life revolved around ‘Lake House, Bake House and Club House’. He had a passion for poker. One day his wife was found hanging from a beam in their home. The Coroner’s Court ruled it was suicide." I would have preferred more of these slices of life than the rather over long accounts of his administrative tribulations and triumphs.

This is, after all, an autobiography. So Kirthie brings us up to date with his emigration to Canada with his family. Although, once again, I feel that he could have profitably excised the Chapter ‘O Canada’ which is a collection of vague generalisations devoid of personal experiences, and surprisingly [for an ex-Sri Lankan crime reporter] devoid of any reference to the Tigerish doings of many Tamil ex-pats.

The story begins and ends with Dowa, where the Dons were once doughty and from where the last of them left for higher mountains and colder climes — to return, once in a way, with nostalgia for a way of life as long lost as ‘our salad days when we were green in judgement’ — but hot in blood. A truly fascinating book.