FROM RAGS TO RICHES_Pandols, Punches & a Police Strike June 1977

Hostel life, once the ragging scars healed and our legs stopped aching from crawling, was actually… pretty fantastic.

Well — except for the food.

Every mealtime meant standing in a long, serpentine queue that tested both patience and appetite. The food was cooked under the stern gaze of Sub-Warden Mr. Dharmaratnam, who ran the kitchen with the efficiency of a military mess hall and the flavor profile of cardboard. A group of student volunteers helped him, but I don’t think any of them had met a spice in their lives.

Still, we made the most of it. In our dormitory of six, we built a little kingdom of laughter and music. We had a guitar (slightly off-tune, but loved), and our “drum kit” was literally an old creaky bed frame. Every evening turned into a jam session — from Sunil Perera hits to made-up songs about exam stress and food riots. If MTV had existed in 1977 Sri Lanka, we’d have had our own unplugged session. Hardy Dorm Sessions: Volume 1.

Then came Poson Poya — and with it, the festive lights of Ampara.

The town lit up like a Sinhala New Year fairground. Musical shows, glowing pandols, and stage dramas pulled in the crowds like honey draws bees. For us Hardy boys, heading to town that evening was a mission. Missing it wasn’t an option.

But sometimes, the wrong kind of drama finds you.

On the 15th of June, a few of our own — three or four of our batchmates — got into trouble. And not the “oops-we-missed-curfew” kind. No, this was a full-blown scandal involving some girls from a prominent business family in the town. Nobody really knows what was said or done (and those who do are suspiciously silent to this day), but whatever it was, it didn’t go down well with the girls’ family.

So they did what all “respectable” people with too much money and too little patience do — they hired thugs.

Yup. A literal hit was ordered… on students.

That night, hell broke loose in Ampara.

Thugs swarmed the streets, looking for anyone wearing a Hardy Institute shirt. Chaos erupted. A few of our batchmates got caught and were beaten so badly they had to be taken to hospital. The rest? They ran — barefoot, panicked, through the streets — all the way back to the hostel like a scene out of an action movie.

By some cosmic stroke of luck (or maybe sheer laziness), my group had decided to stay in the hostel that night. Our idea of excitement was singing a slightly off-key version of “Dilhani Duwani” by torchlight. That decision probably saved us from a hospital visit.

But it wasn’t over.

The police, as expected, took the side of the rich family. But one man — Inspector Senaka Silva — refused to sell out. He stood up for us. He told the truth.

So of course, they transferred him. Overnight.

That was our breaking point.

On the 17th of June, something extraordinary happened. The students of Hardy Institute — including us wide-eyed freshers — joined hands with local government servants and organized a general strike in Ampara. It wasn’t just a protest. It was a statement. We weren’t just students — we were citizens, with a voice.

That day, Hardy didn’t feel like just an institute. It felt like a revolution.

They could try to silence one inspector. But they couldn’t silence 200 Hardians with sore knees and broken guitars, standing up for what was right.

Ashoka Jayarathne

Agri(77/80)