FROM RAGS TO RICHES_The Night Train to a New Life, May 15, 1977

The night air in Colombo was unusually still. The city, though never fully asleep, felt like it was holding its breath — maybe for me. I stood at the Fort Railway Station with my suitcase in one hand and my future in the other.

I had just finished my G.C.E. Advanced Level exams, and ahead of me was a brand-new chapter: three years at Hardy Senior Technical Institute in Ampara, studying Agriculture under the National Diploma in Technology program. I was eighteen, full of nerves, and freshly heartbroken — leaving behind my school-time sweetheart was the first bitter taste of adulthood.

Thankfully, I wasn’t going alone. My elder brother Tissa — a calm, composed government surveyor — accompanied me, like a silent guardian on this maiden voyage away from home. We boarded the night train to Batticaloa, our heads resting against the rattling window panes and our hearts full of unsaid things. Tissa mostly dozed off, while I stayed awake thinking of her, of Hardy, of ragging stories whispered like ghost tales among senior schoolboys.

We arrived in Ampara around 10 a.m. on the 16th of May, 1977. The sun beat down hard — dry and merciless — like it was testing me already. Tissa helped me find the Hardy Institute office, gave me a firm handshake (which in big brother language meant “You’ll be fine, just don’t mess up”), and left on the next bus back to Colombo.

Once my registration was complete, I was instructed to head to the hostel and report to the warden, Mr. Nanayakkara. With my bag in hand, nerves fluttering in my chest like trapped birds, I entered the main hostel building — and that’s where the real story begins.

No sooner had I stepped inside than a tall figure appeared before me, blocking my path like a scene straight out of a western film. He had a wild beard, faded jeans, and the gruff confidence of someone who’d eaten first-years for breakfast.

“You got any cigarettes?” he growled, eyeing me like a tiger with a taste for nicotine.

Trying to stay calm, I fumbled into my pocket and offered him one from the half-full packet I carried, hoping to gain some favor. Without a second thought, he snatched the whole pack, smirked, and said, “Get lost, freshie.”

That was my grand introduction to senior Mohan Anthonipillai.

At the time, I hated him. Later, I’d come to call him my best friend. Life is funny like that. He’s now living in Canada, probably still scaring first-years in his dreams.

But back then? Back then, the ragging had only just begun.

For the next week, we were put through a boot camp of absurd torment. We crawled from our first-floor dormitory to the dining hall — on our knees. We did pushups until our arms gave up. One guy had to recite the Hardy anthem while doing jumping jacks. We laughed, we grumbled, we bonded. We were being broken down — not cruelly, but thoroughly — in the peculiar rite of passage Hardy boys knew well.

I went to bed that night exhausted, homesick, and aching in muscles I didn’t know I had. But somewhere deep inside, I knew the boy who left Colombo wasn’t coming back the same. And maybe, just maybe, that wasn’t a bad thing.

Ashoka Jayarathne

Agri(77/80)