FROM RAGS TO RICHES_The Rag Week Wars May 17–24, 1977

If I thought the cigarette-snatching beard-bandit was the worst of it, I was tragically mistaken. That was just the trailer. What followed was the full-length feature film: Rag Week — directed by Sumith Batangala, produced by pure sadism, and starring 200 unsuspecting freshers.

Yes, two hundred. We were like new recruits at a military bootcamp, except there were no uniforms, no salutes — just lots of crawling, yelling, and very confusing orders like “Recite the Hardy Anthem backward while holding a chair above your head.”

Our seniors had transformed into what I can only describe as well-dressed, well-spoken maniacs. They weren’t just doing it for fun — no, this was a fully organized operation. There were scheduled “sessions,” strategically planned “missions,” and even a medical unit on standby. I’m not kidding — Sumith Batangala, our designated Rag Leader, ran this thing like he was training us for a covert mission into enemy territory.

Looking back now, it was almost impressive. Terrifying… but impressive.

Sumith was a legend — tall, composed, and a master of psychological warfare. You’d think he was a military general in disguise. He didn’t need to shout. One look from him and people would straighten up and start hopping like frogs, just in case he asked.

And yet, for all the madness, no one was seriously hurt. Their discipline was brutal, yes, but almost scientific. The medical unit (likely made up of the most “sympathetic” seniors) made sure we didn’t collapse, at least not physically.

Emotionally? Well, that’s another story. You try singing love songs to a ceiling fan at 3 a.m. while someone records your performance on a black-and-white Kodak just to show the next batch.

But like all storms, Rag Week too came to an end.

On the final day, we were marched — no, escorted — to what the seniors reverently called “The Holy Bath.” Think of it like a baptism into Hardy life. We stood in rows, water was poured on us (mercifully warm, thank heavens), and we were finally allowed to smile again.

Then came the Rag Oath. Hand on heart, sweat on brow, we swore to never forget this week… and, more importantly, to carry the sacred tradition forward when our time came.

I stood there, wet and worn out, grinning like a madman. I’d survived the jungle. I was no longer just a boy who left Colombo — I was a Hardy man now.

And I still hadn’t figured out where the dining hall was without crawling.

Ashoka Jayarathne, Agri(77/80)