I remembered Mr. Upali Munasinghe
I’ve communicated for some time now with Anura Buthpitiya, an
ex-Naval Officer now working overseas. A voracious reader on all
subjects, he finds time to read what I write too and even comment
occasionally. I met him for the first time a few days ago at his
residence in Athurugiriya. He had invited a couple of old friends,
Priyantha Weerasinghe and Vajira Kasturiarachchi, who had been with him
at Ananda College from Grade three or four. There was a lot to talk
about and much reminiscing too.
Among the topics that came up was the switch to Sinhala. They were
the first ‘Swabhasha’ batch of students, apparently. The conversation
meandered to teachers. One Mr. Thanabalasingham was mentioned. ‘One of
the best English teachers,’ Anura said. Teaching skills as well as
commitment to vocation was mentioned. Reminded them of another teacher:
C.M. Weeraratne, who had been the Vice Principal at Ananda.
Class teacher
‘One of the best Maths teachers!’ Anura opined.
‘What do you mean “one of the best”? He was The Best!’ Priyantha
interjected.
We spoke about teachers and how they are remembered. And how they are
forgotten. I observed that people tend to attribute success to a lot of
things but remember teachers last.
‘That’s wrong, we owe everything to teachers!’
It was late, so I left. All the way back from Athurugiriya to
Mattegoda, I thought of teachers and among my teachers, the one who made
mathematics fascinating for me. Upali Munasinghe.
He was my Grade eight class teacher. He was also the Master-in-Charge
of Under 13 cricket. He lived in a place called Gonaduwa. There weren’t
many buses going that way during those days in the late seventies. If he
got late after cricket practices, ‘Upali Sir’ would get off at Pamankada
and stay at our place.
Simplest examples
The man loved to teach. He would tutor us (my brother and I to begin
with and later our sister). The previous year (Grade seven) I had scored
17 and 42 at the Mid-Year and Year-End exams respectively. He turned
things around.
In school, he taught us from scratch, ensuring that those who had for
whatever reason lagged behind were able to catch up and follow the
lessons as they got more complex. It was very simple because he started
from the simplest examples and gradually worked towards the more
difficult exercises, making sure that everyone was on the same page. My
performance, like those of my fellow students and my siblings improved
remarkably, so much so that I was fooled into thinking that
‘Mathematics’ was made for me and vice versa.
At the age of 15, I was not in a position to figure out what would
sustain my interest. It took me a year into the A/L to realize that as
much as I liked numbers, I liked literature and social sciences more. It
was however thanks to Mr. Munasinghe that I remained in the Mathematics
stream for the A/Ls and in the following year, when I switched to
‘Arts’, retained Pure Mathematics as a subject. It is because of him
that I opted to take Pure Mathematics as a ‘Main Subject’ in my first
year in the Arts Faculty, University of Peradeniya.
Flying kites
That was not the time to think about extra exams, but he got my
brother and I to sit for the ‘Old O/L’ exam (Pure Mathematics). We both
got distinctions and that’s because of his effort, mostly. It was fun
and neither of us complained. Neither were we upset about the
encroachment into ‘free time’ which could be spent flying kites or
playing cricket and French cricket.
Upali Munasinghe was single. He opted to remain so, because he was
devoted to his mother, whom he looked after until she passed away, I
believe in her late eighties or early nineties. By that time he was past
marrying age. He was devoted to his vocation, like Mr. Weeraratne, I am
sure. He just wanted his students to do well.
It was the same in the cricket field. Back then there were no
assigned coaches. The senior boys helped. Upali Sir knew enough cricket
to handle the coaching at that level. He attended every practice session
of all three teams he was in charge of. That was a tragic year. One of
the most talented cricketers, Harith Nanayakkara, who played in the
Under 15 ‘A’ team at the age of 11 and was the automatic choice for the
captaincy of the Under 13 ‘A’ team, was hit by a vehicle when he was
crossing the road, returning after the first match of the season. Harith
had been a step ahead of Upali Sir. He had seen it all. The boy spent a
few days in the Intensive Care Unit and succumbed to his injuries.
Tragic death
I still remember Upali Sir addressing the ‘B’ team just before the
toss of their first match. He reminded us that it was the first match
following Harith’s tragic death. It was the first time I saw a teacher
cry. It shook me all the more because Upali Sir was not one who wore his
emotions on his face. He was strict.
Although he was a close family friend since he stayed at our place
quite often and was a colleague of our mother, who also taught in the
same school, Upali Sir didn’t treat us differently. We were all
students. All children. I was too young then, however, to understand
what those tears meant and why he choked over the words. I am old enough
now to understand how soft this man who looked so stern that students
fell silent whenever he appeared anywhere, in the school corridors or in
the playing field.
Years later, as is always the case with special teachers, he became
friend. Eventhough he was such a huge influence and therefore a giant,
he treated me as an equal. I had no hesitation in inviting him to sign
as witness when I got married. He died a few years ago, in Gonaduwa, as
he was about to take medicine for a heart condition. It had been a
matter of a few seconds. A simple man. Few wants. Gave so much and asked
for nothing in return. Always, always neatly dressed. A no-nonsense
teacher who, simply by doing his job and being an exemplary human being,
made the world a little better. At least for me.
We all know of an Upali Munasinghe. A Mr. Thanabalasingham and Mr.
Weeraratne. Let us take a moment. Let us honour them with a moment’s
silence. Let us be better than we are, by way of making tribute
meaningful.
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