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Blackouts in those days

by Geoff Wijesinghe

A few nights ago as I sat on my old armchair in the front veranda of my home along with the rest of the household during the power cut, my mind went back to the compulsory blackouts we experienced during World War Two.

I was a tiny tot at the time, but I well remember the blackout, which was in operation to prevent bombing raids by the Japanese on Colombo.

The roads, streets and lanes were in total darkness, for lights were taboo. All vehicles had to have their lamps covered with dark blue paper, with only a slit in the center to identify them moving on the roads. Despite this, accidents were few and far between as there were very few cars and lorries in those days. We were not allowed to have our lights on in the front veranda. The windowpanes had to be well plastered with black paper. If there was the slight of light appearing outside, it was a common occurrence to have a British soldier or a Air Raid Prevention (ARP) warden knocking ominously on the front door and giving the chief occupant a severe warning.

Despite having no fans, it was nice and cool in those days, often, with an invigorating breeze wafting in from the sea. This was due to the fact that there were fewer houses, no high rises and a comparatively thin population. No sweat.

Inside the house, we had to have long black or dark brown papered shades around the bulbs, so that the light fell directly onto the floor. Most lanes including Edward Lane where I lived and Palmyrah Avenue where I now reside had air raid shelters.

In the event of a bombing raid, all of us were required to rush to the air raid shelter at the bottom of the lane and wait there till the all-clear siren was sounded. But, there were times when the air raid warning siren, which whined like a banshee sounded so suddenly that instead of running to the air raid shelter, the family of my Uncle Hugh who lived two doors next to our house, would rush in and follow instructions that if we did have no time to get to the air raid shelter, we should get under a table until the all-clear siren sounded.

I don't know how we managed it, but both families, huddled together under our dining room table, which is rather large and still I have. It has now become a family heirloom.

I well remember my Uncle Hugh saying, "if we have to die, let us all die together."

The main RAF Base was located on the Race Course Grounds which was relatively a little more than a stone's throw away from our house. We would gaze in awe as Spitfire and Hurricane fighter when taking off literally skimmed the telephone wires in front of our house, and often we would get a glimpse of the pilots in the fighter planes.

The roads and streets were almost deserted. I used to be highly thrilled when I accompanied the elders and my cousins in Uncle Hugh's large windowless Austin-12 Tourer with its canvas hood occasionally drove at nights to visit our relations, the de Alwis family at Templers Road, Mt. Lavinia. It was one long enjoyable crawl from somewhere near where the Roxy is now located at Wellawatte, the road was a dust track like the A-9 highway to Jaffna is today. Of course, there were no landmines or craters to be afraid of. There was hardly any traffic and the road was nice and wide.

The de Alwis family did not have electricity and my cousins there had to study with lamps.

We did not have a radio at the time, neither a refrigerator, so used those of Uncle Hugh two doors next. I well remember even as a 7-year-old that I used to go with my father to listen to the night news bulletin over the BBC at 9.30 p.m.

My aunt Mildred de Alwis had a well-equipped dairy with many "Cape cows". Early each morning she visited the dairy while it was still dark, at milking time. One fine morn, all of us were jolted awake by shrieks and screams which cut through the morning air. We heard our aunt crying out, "Hitler is coming, Hitler is coming". And she fell in a faint to the ground near the front doorstep. She was fortunately revived in a short time and all ended well. Later, the milkmen who believed in a ghost, whom they fear very much and called "Gopalla" was responsible for putting "the fear of Moses" into my aunt.

Incidentally, due to a shortage of rice we had to forego one of our favourite morning dishes, the Kiribath (milk-rice), and had to be satisfied with boiled Bajiri, a locally grown sticky grain which smelt of glue. This we had with Lunu Miris, which is the usual side dish for kiribath.

At seven years, in 1942, I left Lindsay Girls School and joined S. Thomas' College Colombo branch, which we shared with the Milagiriya Girls School at Bambalapitiya. The girls studied until around one o'clock if my memory serves right and the STC boys took over with school closing at 6.30 p.m. (World War time which was half an hour in advance of the usual Indian standard time which we used). After the war, we returned to the old time, but since a few years ago, it has been advanced by half an hour as during the war years.

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