Jampettah Jazz

By Randima Attygalle

Once a journalist, always a journalist says the traditional idiom. To add to it: ‘once an Islander, always an Islander-at least in the heart’…..

Dilanthi (Dilu) and I met at Upali Newspapers many years ago. While Dilu was with the Daily Island, I was with the Sunday Island. We were nevertheless part of the same editorial and above all, part of the same madness in Bloemendhal, where we both spent our most memorable journalistic years…

Many waters have passed under the bridge since we first became buddies at the Island. We have moved on to different papers, yet Island, Bloemendhal and its nearby haunts in Kotahena, Jampetta Street, St. Lucia’s Street continue to live in us. If Island ignited the dormant ‘eccentric scribe spark’ in us, its environs fueled our Bohemian character.

Of saivara and Akka’s delights

Kotahena, Armour Street and alleys of Wolvendhal and Jampettah are a distant world or rather an existence that more ‘plush’ quarters of Colombians prefer to keep away from. Ironically, Dilu and I both having had our entire education in Colombo  7 schools, were overwhelmed by the trappings of Bloemendhal translating to ‘valley of the blooms’ in Dutch. Blooms have been long replaced by other frills.

Fridays at the Island were almost a ritual- the day we both looked forward to. With our ‘guardian’, Clifford Hieler (old school journalist) whom both Dilu and I fondly called ‘Sir Cliff or Hieler Master’ to chaperon us, we would hit the signature saivara joints of Kotahena- Vani Villa and Ambal Café. Alas! we gained most of our calories during Island days- savouring a Kandos delight, conveniently located at the Upali Group’s entrance after lunch and nursing a chilled Kanvita after an assignment! Come the evening tea time, announced by Simon aiya with his toothless smile and the unmistakable kettle, Dilu and I would trot to Akka’s canteen for a Friday special delicacy of hers.

Classical journalism and more

Then in between there were those who muttered to themselves, those who sipped off their evening tea off empty Marmite and Grapejuice bottles long before glass goblets of these shapes became fashionable at plush Colombo cafes to serve juices and those who would release a litany of curses for making fun of them and jesters at 70 putting young fellas to shame!

At Island, we learnt not only classical journalism under the old masters, but learnt of life, to make the most out of the worst- it was the survival of the fittest there.

Jasmine garlands and plastic bangles

Come December Christmas time, Dilu and I would hit the street of Kotahena to relive our sunny-scribe days, to be nostalgic and walk down the leafy lane behind St. Lucia’s Cathedral which towered over the gardens of Upali compound and to sip a cup of coffee at the old Kotahena Cream House.

2022 December was extra special for the two of us. COVID having robbed two such jaunts of ours, we were anxious to make the most of it. We would make our auspicious start at the St. Anthony’s shrine in Kochchikade. We would light a candle and seek the blessings of its hallowed grounds and cross the street for jasmine garlands. Manjula’s nimble fingers move making a string of fresh jasmines which she offers me with a smile. I would bring it home for my God Ganesh idol. I would tuck a few buds in my hair wishing I was in the 1950s Ceylon when the ‘beehives’ adorned with a few buds were in vogue.

The ‘thorombal kada’ on Jampettah Street are among our favourite indulgences. We would try glittering plastic bangles, gypsy ear loops, a few nail colours, oblivious to the din outside. Having spent a good one hour rummaging among the goodies, patiently waited on by our Tamil-speaking brothers and sisters, Dilu and I would hop into a tuk heading to St. Lucia’s Street. With colourful fabrics, fake brands boldly sporting  themselves, watch menders and much more, it is a flea market in its own way.

Vaishnavi Vihar

On recommendation by another friend, Dilu and I would step into New Vaishnavi Vihar on St. Lucia’s St, relatively new to the area. It was a gastronomic delight with both North and South Indian savouries boggling our mind. We would eventually settle down to North Indian Thali sipping lemon and mint complementing the master chefs of neighbouring India. Time would fly and the two of us would recap our wild paththara days in Bloemendhal. It was bitter-sweet reliving the life and laughter and throat tightening over the loss of so many colleagues- some gone forever and others like the two of us, left for greener pastures..

We would wrap up a full meal with an authentic Indian chocolate delight.

Paththara mahagedara

For old time’s sake, Dilu and I would turn to the 6^th Lane and stop by at our ‘glass bottle’ haunt to sadly find the business closed down. We would cut across the ‘old tea collecting yard’ which we dubbed ‘Dickens’ Yard’ reminding us of the dark alleys of Charles Dickens’ Victorian London underworld.

We would stop by at Majid Nana’s kade and memories would gush in. We could not resist stopping at too familiar gates of Upali Group. Our heart would ache over a lost existence, an era gone forever with its fading ‘rasa lowakata oba gena yayi’ placard and Delta chutta and chutti somewhat looking sad, probably missing us.

With its blemishes and pot holes, incomplete construction and abandoned structures, Bloemendhal is still our paththara mahagedera. The ancestral home from yesteryear which instilled character in us, to walk with our heads held high and adjusting our crown, never faltering in step.

 With mismatched business along its thoroughfares, the stench of fish stalls and aroma of frying kadala on Jampettah, with people of different creeds and languages, this is still home- where the best in us come alive….