1940 Esala Festival in Kataragama

By M. Chandrasoma

1935 archival photo (left to right): Ganapati Kovil, Maha Devale, Teyvani Amman Kovil gate

arly in July 1940 the Chief Secretary ordered me by telegram to report within theweek at Badulla. Here too I was to be Office Assistant, but OA in a provincialas opposed to a districtkachcheri, which I persuaded myself wassomething of a lift-up. The next day I had a telegram from the GovernmentAgent, Uva, which revealed the real reason for the sudden move.

He ordered me to go direct to Kataragama, get there by the eleventh and assumeduties as Supervising Officer of the Esala festival pilgrim camp. The festivalwas due to start on the twelfth. I was also told that I would be relieved onthe nineteenth by a more senior officer who would assume charge for the moreimportant, largely attended final week culminating in the fire-walking andwater-cutting ceremonies.

Though born in the south and knowing of the Kataragama shrine by hearsay and local legend,this was the first I had heard of the Esala festival. I had not the faintestidea what it was and, more to the point, what I was supposed to do as supervisingofficer. My chief at Puttalam whom I consulted had never seen Kataragama butknew there were two annual festivals there on the analogy of Munneswaram ofChilaw in our own district.

But Esala at Kataragama was as important in its own way, he said, as the Kandyperahera. The gathering of from ten to twenty thousand pilgrims in a village inthe middle of the jungle that housed about two hundred people living a simplelife was a far cry however from the urban spectacle of the Kandy perahera.

In sole charge

As supervising officer, he told me, I should be in sole charge of the camp and beresponsible for everything that happened there. With typical Britishinsouciance he told me, “Rather you than me, old boy.”

I had then been in service just over two and a half years of which the first twowere spent as a cadet without specific responsibility. I had hardly found myfeet in what was to be my life’s work to be sent to a jungle shrine, miles andhours from the centre of what then passed for civilisation to fend for myselfand from ten to twenty thousand pilgrims was daunting enough. When these weresingle-mindedly god-seeking not to say fanatical beings with hardly a thoughtfor mundane things and without adequate shelter, sanitation and most otherneeds, the prospect did not bear thinking of.

And to be sent there without one single word of briefing was the typical Britishway of doing things. Thrown in at the deep end, you took a deep breath andhopefully swam.

So I railed my household goods, packed a few bags and drove south in my old car withmy wife, child and ayah. My wife had no intention of braving the rigours ofjungle life with an infant in arms. So I left her with friends in Colombo, wentto Cargills, bought some quinine and aspirin and two dozen pints of Beck’s beerbefore heading for Kataragama.

Foot pilgrims en route from Tissamaharama to Kataragama, mid-1940s

The rest house was a cozy island in a sea of pandemonium. Here was the end of theroad. Beyond all of ten miles to the shrine was what the British called abridle path. Every year, before the Esala festival, this rude track was roughlyhacked on either side to permit a bullock cart to make its way.

In places, the gradient, the terrain, stumps, stones and declivities together withthe danger of meeting wild animals made the cart journey bone-shaking and hazardous.

The resthouse keeper gave me dinner, some insight into local conditions and arranged for abullock cart to take me and my baggage to Kataragama. Leaving my car in hiscare, I boarded the cart for what turned out to be a journey I can stillvividly recall.

Sleepy village

Outside the resthouse hundreds of pilgrims milled around preparing for the final andmost rewarding, because the most arduous, lap of their pilgrimage. At that timeKataragama was nowhere in sight of becoming the sort of religious touristresort it now is.

It was a shrine in the middle of the jungle and prized and venerated as such.Pilgrims came there only during the two festivals: a trickle for the minor andan avalanche for the major. It was not unusual for devotees from afar to spendmonths on the journey. For the rest of the year, Kataragama was a sleepy,forgotten village making valiant efforts to stay alive, unvisited and unaidedby the outside world.

The first of the pilgrim borders was now on the march to the major festival.Torches flared, cook fires, smoked and newcomers kept swelling the crowd. Garbedvariously, they made such a multitude as I had never seen before. Most were insaffron, yellow or white, bare bodies streaked with varicolored holy ash.Kavadi bearers of both sexes danced with other-worldly eyes, drums throbbed andflutes shrilled.

The more devout had spikes and hooks driven into their cheeks or the fleshier partsof their bodies. In paradisial ecstasy, with the blood in their untendedwounds miraculously stanched, they gave no sign of feeling the slightestdiscomfort. Indeed their predominant emotion was one of elation. Shouts of “HaroHara” rose up on all sides.

There were some who had vowed to crawl and some to roll along the ground all of thislast stretch from Tissa to Kataragama. And they set out on their grotesquelydevout journeys encouraged and urged on by their well-wishers.

There was yet some thirty-six hours before the festival would begin. As we made ourslow way in the bullock cart, the road was as a mass of slow moving, seethinghumanity in every stage of religious fervour. So passed a night in which, whileI fitfully dozed in the cart, reality and dreams, one no stranger than theother, merged.

I remember that the cart stopped for half an hour on a rumour of wild elephantshaving attacked two villagers in a chena some distance from the road. Longbefore dawn we reached the banks of the Menik Ganga, in which devotees whomeant to go to the pre-dawn pooja were already taking their baths.

There was then no bridge. We forded the river and struggled up the steep, deeplyrutted incline of the further bank, all of us literally putting our shoulder tothe wheel. And so we reached the main street of Kataragama village.

Isolated village

At that time Kataragama was an isolated village connected to other humanhabitations only by jungle paths. The chief ones of these were the track toTissa and that to Buttala, the path that Duttugemunu took on his way north tofight the Tamils. It had two parallel streets, the inner main on leading to thedevala and the outer skirting the further side of the village.

Courtyard of Kataragama Maha Devale, mid-1940s

The streets were lined with the villages’ wattle and daub huts which transformedthemselves into exotic bazaars during the festival. On the left of the mainstreet, separated from the devala premises only by a path leading to the river,was one of the few brick built houses in the village. This was the office andhome when he was in residence at Kataragama of the Basnayake Nilame who, at thattime, happened also to be the Ratmahatmaya.

Another brick building fronting the outer street was a madama built and run by areligious body. This gave shelter and food to all comers up to the limit of its resources.

The circuit bungalow behind the devala in which I was to live was a wattle and daubwhitewashed building with mud floors. The dispensary at the further end of thevillage was a half-walled building backed by two rooms, one the dispensary andthe other the living quarters of the dispenser, while the half-walled dormitorywas the single patients’ ward.

Another building at the same end of the village but on the main street was thetemporary police station. Officers’ quarters located to one side of the bareland between the devala and Kirivehera had permanent cement flooring on which cadjanhuts were erected for use during the festival.

Arrived at the circuit bungalow I was greeted in kindly fashion by the bungalow keeperwho, however, was not sharp enough to suppress a start of surprise at mycolour, for hitherto the camp had been supervised only by Britishers.

Forgotten guru

He showed me round the bungalow, proudly exhibited the English bath in the bucket-type lavatory and bathroom and offered me hot water for my bath. I asked himwhether I could not bathe in the river. He said of course I could and when Igot into a sarong and set out for the river with a towel across my shoulder allrestraint between us vanished and we became friends.

That morning I received a thorough and imaginatively realistic briefing on thefestival: its purport, the many potential difficulties and dangers, how best toavoid them and what my general duties were. This was given me by the bungalowkeeper in a sensible and convincing manner.

He was prepared to answer my questions and not think them silly. No high officialhowever knowledgeable and experienced could have been as sympathetic,perspicacious and relevant.

During those two hours I learnt more about how to be an administrator than in a wholeyear before or since. Apart from educating me, this man born and bred in avillage saw to my every personal need without my having to raise a finger.

And though I went back on duty for three successive Esala festivals, I cannot nowrecall this gentleman’s name. Such is the sum of man’s gratitude to his best mentors.

Later the village headman came to see me and with him I called on the BasnayakeNilame. He, poor man, was busily donning his ceremonial dress to go and pay hisrespects to the newly arrived supervising officer and was visibly upset that Ihad ignored normal protocol.

I explained that it was my place to call on the Basnayake Nilame and in any caseI was twenty-six to his fifty. He was pleased and this first meeting blossomedinto a lifelong loyal friendship.

On returning to the bungalow, my friend the bungalow keeper had a pint of Beck’sready to alleviate the thirst of the hot day. I opened the beer and one swallowconvinced me that the beer was flatter than a flat tyre and about as welcome. Ido not know who was at fault: Becks or Cargills or me for daring to bring adrink beer in hallowed precincts.

But I made a quick decision and asked the bungalow keeper to do what he liked withthe rest of the beer and have not, to this day, partaken of intoxicatingdrinks even to the extent of a beer at Kataragama or on my way there.

Within the week, though, I had authentic reports from the police that illicit liquorwas freely sold and consumed in the scrub jungle surrounding the village.

My day at Kataragama started with a dip in the river. Before breakfast every otherday I went with the public health inspector to supervise the closing of theused trenches, which provided the lavatory facilities for the pilgrims, and thedigging of fresh trenches.

These had to be measured and vouchers certified for payment to the contractor. Thetrenches were on the perimeter of the village away from the river. This dutyrarely whetted my appetite for breakfast.

After breakfast I went to the police station, examined the books, looked atprisoners locked up in the cells who usually were petty larcenists andpickpockets, listened to anything they had to say and then to such intelligenceas the inspector had to give me. Then across to the dispensary and a look atthe inmates of the temporary hospital warded in the half-walled part of the building.

A chat with the dispenser if it was the Hambantota doctor’s visiting day anexhaustive evaluation of the health of the camp followed. A tour of the mainpilgrim centres which were out in the open and the madama ended with a visit tothe Basnayake Nilame who regaled me with a glass of orange juice.

Back to the police station and a special room which was the temporary magistrate’scourt. Here I heard the cases and within the hour the work was done, verdictsgiven and appropriate sentences handed down to the guilty.

While the court clerk collected the fines, I became the fiscal and offenderssentenced to gaol were entrusted to fiscal’s officers to be taken and deliveredto the gaol at Hambantota.

If there were no complainants or petitioners awaiting me at the circuit bungalow,my routine for the day was over.

Every third morning or evening I crossed the river and did a six mile walk and backdown the path to Tissa with the village headman. I took with me two officialbooks: a form of permit to occupy crown land and a receipt book.

I inspected every patch of land on which a stall had been erected, measured it,wrote out a permit for its occupation for a specified period with a rough planidentifying its situation, decided what rent to charge and collected themoney for which I issued an official receipt. As new stalls kept coming up everyday, periodical walks to the boundary between Uva and the Southern Province becameobligatory.

Apart from the main devala of Lord Kataragama in which kovils to several otherdeities have sprung up in outbuildings, there are two other temples. On theleft almost adjoining the main devala is the temple ofTheivanai Amma, GodKataragama’s consort. At the further end of the village is the temple ofValliAmma, who is the god’s girl friend.

The purport of the procession, which takes place every evening of the festival, issimple. God Kataragama comes out of his abode in the evening, makes his way tohis consort’s temple and disports himself there making all the noise he can toimpress on his wife’s mind the fact of his presence.

When he has established a convincing alibi, he sneaks quietly down the outer streetto the temple of his mistress. Then after a suitable interval, with flute, drumand fanfare, he comes jauntily down the main street and triumphantly enters his temple.

Apart from the dignitaries of the temple, the kapuralas and the people bound torender specific services such as drumming and piping, the procession iscomposed of devotees fulfilling vows for favours received or suppliants forfuture favours.

They may be persons walking sedately in contemplative mood or kavadi dancers orthose interceding with or giving thanks to the god in extraordinary ways suchas crawling, prostrating themselves in the dust every few yards, dragging cartswith hooks driven into the meagre flesh next to their spines or in mortifyingtheir flesh in strange ways.

There was a man who year after year hanged himself on a mobile scaffold and followedthe procession to give thanks to the god for saving him from the gallows. Allthis made for a distinctive, colourful... after all, the god’s mount is thepeacock ... and never-to-be forgotten spectacle.

Before the end of the week I had a telegram from the Government Agent. I shouldcontinue at Kataragama for the second week, wind up the camp and report atBadulla as soon as I reasonably could. There was a war on and I hoped theletter of explanation I wrote my wife would persuade her to view my predicamentwith sympathy and understanding.

On the Second Week

Though annoyed at the moment of receiving the telegram, I am thankful that I had theexperience of that second week. The crowds grew practically to the twentythousand mark and the fire and fervour of the pilgrims knew no bounds. Therewas magic in the Kataragama air and those who have not felt it cannot imagineit.

Worship atop Katiramalai, 1940s

Devotees climbing Vedahitikanda, mid-1940s

This second week gave us time to make trips to Sella Kataragama a few miles upstream,the romantic spot where the god met his young and pretty mistress for the firsttime, and to Vedahitikanda, the most hallowed of the seven peaks of theKataragama range. Bathing at Sella Kataragama in the swift-flowing clear andcool boulder-strewn river followed by a picnic lunch was an exhilarating asbreakfasting on thosey and sambal on Vedahitikanda at dawn after aninvigorating climb in the dark with torches to light our way up.

Fortunately no disaster struck the camp and responsibilities lay easy on my inexperiencedshoulders. Day succeeded eventful and exciting day and we approached theclimax of the festival: the fire-walking ceremony in the early hours of thelast night which was also the night of the full moon.

The high spot of staying the second week was the opportunity of seeing thefire-walking. This was something I had heard about but never seen. I listenedavidly to what everyone had to say about it and gathered all the information Icould. But on the day itself it exceeded all our expectations because of a mostunusual, unscheduled event that has remained inexplicable to this day.

But let me tell the story as it happened. By three o’clock in the morning we hadtaken the station allotted to us by the Basnayake Nilame. This was a high standto the left of the devala as we looked towards the entrance. On this threechairs had been placed for us: the doctor, the superintendent of police and me.Other officials were grouped round us.

We could see everything above the heads of the calmly and patiently seated crowdof massed pilgrims who were in two half circles on either side of thefire-walking pit. This was about twenty feet long by six wide. At the time wetook our seats, flaming logs were lying higgledy piggledy covering the whole ofthe pit.

It was explained to us that those who had the call to walk the fire, and theseincluded women and children, would already have reported to thefire-walker-in-chief. This position was held for a number of years by a man whohad been chosen by the god who came to him in a dream. Apart from him theothers were ordinary people who had no experience of fire-walking.

Led by the chief they would in a short time go in procession to the river for aritual bath. They would return in their wet garments, make their obeisances tothe god at the gate, walk to the edge of the pit, salute the glowing coals andwalk the length of the pit to the entrance of the devala. While they bathed thenow flaming logs would be reduced to lumps of burning embers and evenly spreadfull to the brim of the pit.

Unresolved mystery

The procession of fire-walkers had formed themselves and had just left for theriver. A hush of expectancy fell on the crowd. And then it happened.

The logs were still flaming, some of the tongues of flame sporadically rising ashigh as a man’s waist in the moonlight and the soft early morning breeze. A manstanding among those at the entrance to the devala suddenly broke away from hisfellows, walked purposefully to the pit and without hesitation walked over thelength of it towards the gate. I saw him clearly as did all the others besideme.

He was a dark, somewhat gross man, bare-bodied and I could see the folds of fleshin his underbelly just above theverti he wore. Sweat glistened on hisbrow and chest as he stepped on the flaming logs. I actually heard the crunchof the crackling, burning wood as the logs took his weight. In a moment he was across.

Calmly he turned right, walked unhurriedly to the first row of pilgrims seated on theside away from us and sat down. We jumped out of our chairs immediately weovercame our momentary stupefaction and pushed across to where all of usclearly saw the man sit down. But no such man was there. Only a lean, greyhaired pilgrim who said he had been sitting there for the best part of an hour.

The fire-walking that year had to await the subsidence of the considerable hubbubthis unusual event created. Various opinions were expressed but the mysteryremained unresolved. To this day I have heard no feasible explanation of what Iundoubtedly saw.

After that the fire-walking, at least to me, was something of an anti-climax. All theelect, men, women and children, walked over the smouldering fire with resolutionand without mishap. The doctor examined the soles of those who walked the fireand saw only bare feet with not a vestige of singeing.

We talked to some of them and found them simple folk starry-eyed with the wonderof what they had done in humility and faith.

What remained of the festival up to the water-cutting ceremony later that morningwhich brought to an end that year’s Esala festival was done with due decorum.

I stayed behind a couple of days in a fast emptying camp until the last of thetrenches was filled and Kataragama reverted to something like its drowsy normality.

Then giving thanks to god Kataragama for helping me face my responsibilitieswithout mishap and resolving to return next year, I crossed the river and gotinto my bullock cart.

FromVignettes of the Ceylon Civil Service 1938-1957
This article also appeared inThe Daily News(Colombo) of Wednesday, 16August 1995