Monsoon Notebook:: by Jaliya Fonseka

MONSOON NOTEBOOK:
Exploring Home
by
Jaliya Fonseka
A thesis presented to the

University of Waterloo
in fulfillment of the thesis requirement
for the degree of
Master of Architecture
in
Architecture
Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, 2016

© Jaliya Fonseka 2016
AUTHOR’S DECLARATION
I hereby declare that I am the sole author of this thesis. This is a true copy of
the thesis, including any required final revisions as accepted by my examiners.
I understand that my thesis may be made electronically available to the public.
iii
ABSTRACT
This thesis explores the meaning of home, and the role it plays in my
relationship to architecture. It rests in the transitional space between my native
Sri Lanka and Canada, where I have lived for the last eighteen years. When
I began my Master of Architecture, I attempted to connect with my original
home, but there was no amount of academic research or technical expertise
that could answer my questions. And so, without a clear objective, I followed
an inward calling, that I needed to return to my place of birth.
This thesis records my rite of passage into architecture by undertaking a

journey home, a less traditional interpretation of the Grand Tour. I set off
to find meaning at the source, to the place where home and architecture
meet, always searching through the lenses of everyday life. I began my trip in
Colombo, and soon found myself in a deeply engaging yet rather unplanned
series of experiences that helped define my relationship with my homeland.
It was only by fully immersing myself within the place that I was able to
discover its poetry; the sound, smell and feel of the rain awakened my senses,
entering me and guiding me forward in my journey to finding meaning in
architecture.
This is my monsoon notebook. It records, presents and re-presents my travels

as a means of architectural grounding and self-discovery. My photographs,
journal entries and childhood recollections depict a place of architectural
learning that is now part of me, in my body and my senses.
v
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To my supervisor Andrew Levitt, I am grateful for your guidance, dedication Thank you: Piper Bernbaum, Kimberley Adamek, Bradley Paddock, Mat
and wisdom throughout these past years. The depth and precision of your Winter, Qinyu Lu, Karine Quigley, Benjamin van Nostrand, Saarinen
words have shaped me and my exploration in ways that extend well beyond Balagengatharadilak and Saeran Vasanthakumar for your enduring friendship
my time at school. Thank you for your patience and confidence in me, and and support. I am indebted to you and grateful for the opportunity to share
my meandering search. my journey with you.
To my advisor Robert Jan van Pelt, I am grateful for your mentorship and I am grateful to John McMinn, my M1 coordinator, for helping me plant the
conversation. Thank you for reminding me of the potential a story has to seeds of my explorations and Tracey Eve Winton, for your thoughtful insight
uncover meaning, and encouraging me to share my own. Your thoughtful and guidance.
words have always kept me on course and will continue to point me in the
right direction. I am grateful to the staff at the School of Architecture for their ongoing
commitment and dedication to us.
To my advisor Rick Haldenby, I am indebted to your involvement in this
journey. Your guidance precedes my master’s studies to my undergraduate I am grateful to On Empathy for the opportunity to meet wonderful people
years, and a time not so long ago in Italy. Some of my fondest memories were and be part of such sincere conversation. I have undoubtedly been shaped by
created during this time and continue to inspire my work. each and every one of them.
To my external reader Channa Daswatte, thank you for being part of my Thank you Kru Chris Kew and the MAS Academy of Martial Arts for continually
journey. Your involvement carries decades of Sri Lanka’s rich architectural inspiring me.
lineage and brings my exploration full circle.
Thank you to all of my family and friends in Sri Lanka without whom this
Thank you: Currim Suteria, for your boundless friendship, compassion and journey would not be possible.
commitment to my explorations. Hayley Thomas, for your lasting warmth,
encouragement and companionship. Callan Wilson-Delafield for your enduring Thank you to my family: my mother, Rohini; my father, Srilal and my sister,
friendship, advice and conversation. Steven Zhao, for your patience and diligence Gayani.Your unwavering love, support and encouragement makes me believe
with my writing. that anything is possible.
vi vii
To ammi and thathi.
For making the place of home,
a place in my heart.
ix
TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S
iii Author’s Declaration

v Abstract
vi Acknowledgements
ix Dedication
xi Table of Contents
xv List of Figures
1 Introduction
9 Notebook I: Sitting
11 November 15, 2014

15 Rainy Days
18 On Home
21 The Realm of Home
22 Leaving Home
25 The Home We Carry
30 Home and Body
34 On Memory
35 Body and Memory
40 Locating Ourselves
42 Drawings
xi
47 Notebook II: Reaching 183 Notebook VI: Reflecting
48 November 25, 2014 185 January 07, 2015

51 November 27, 2014 187 A Heavy Storm
190 The Home and the Heart
62 Drawings 192 January 26, 2015
195 January 27, 2015
196 January 28, 2015
65 Notebook III: Climbing 198 January 30, 2015
202 February 03, 2015
66 December 07, 2014 203 Anuradhapura SOS Children’s Village
71 On Climbing 211 Galle SOS Children’s Village
78 December 08, 2014
220 Drawings
85 Notebook IV: Trekking

227 Notebook VII: Painting
87 December 09, 2014
88 On Dwelling 228 February 05, 2015
91 An Early Morning 230 Learning From Memory
92 December 20, 2014 231 A Home over Time
106 December 22, 2014 233 February 06, 2015
237 February 07, 2015
243 February 08, 2015
251 February 09, 2015
255 Healing A Wound
[ In t er lu d e] 123 Notebook V: Bawa Trail
256 Drawings
125 December 23, 2014
126 The Jayawarthena House 259 Notebook VIII: Seeing

130 The Lighthouse Hotel
140 The Triton Hotel 260 February 10, 2015
144 Club Villa Hotel 264 February 11, 2015
152 Lunuganga Estate 282 On Living
166 Brief Garden 283 February 12, 2015
172 33rd Lane
178 Architect’s Old Office 294 Drawings
299 Notebook IX: Beginning
300 February 14, 2015
313 Reflection
317 Notes
323 Bibliography
xii xiii
LIST OF FIGURES
Figure 1: A Map of Sri Lanka. 7

Drawing by author.
Figure 2: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 8

Drawing by author.
Notebook I: Sitting
Figure 3: The view from my aunt’s front veranda, Negombo. 12

Figure 4: The view out of my bedroom window, Negombo. 6:45 a.m. 16
Figure 5: The family property from the front gate, towards my childhood home. 19
Figure 6: A view from the Hamilton Canal bridge towards the property. 23
Figure 7: The Hamilton Canal before sunset. 23
Figure 8: A view of the dock at the Negombo lagoon fish market. 26
Figure 9: In a hair salon near Canal Road, Negombo. 29
Figure 10: The Barefoot Cafe courtyard, Colombo. 33
Figure 11: A frog resting on the planter’s chair one afternoon. 36
Figure 12: The yard from my aunt’s front veranda, before sunset. 39
Figure 13: The back of my childhood home. 5:30 p.m. 39
Figure 14: The original site survey of the family property. 42
Drawing by author.
Figure 15: A sketch of the family property from the front gate. 43
Drawing by author.
Figure 16: The Site plan of my family property. 44
Drawing by author.

Drawing by author.
Notebook II: Reac hing
Figure 18: Zaheer standing proudly next to his diesel rickshaw, Negombo. 50
Figure 19: Entrance vestibule of the Crooked House, Colombo 53
Figure 20: A view into the courtyard of the Crooked House. 54
Figure 21: Architect Anjalendran’s residence, Colombo. 59
Figure 22: Stuck in rush hour traffic, Colombo. 61
Figure 23: First floor plan of the Crooked House, Battaramulla, 2004-08. 62
Robson, David. Anjalendran: Architect of Sri Lanka. Clarendon,VT:
Tuttle Publishing, 2014. Print.
Figure 24: Floor plans and section of Anjalendran’s home/office, Battaramulla, 1991-93. 63
Ibid.
xv
Figure 25: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 64 Figure 55: A vibrant tile detail embedded into the concrete stairs. 110
Drawing by author. Figure 56: Children gathered around the dining area of their family home. 113
Figure 57: Children making faces at the camera. 113
Notebook III: Climbing Figure 58: Children reading and playing on the front veranda. 114
Figure 59: Clothes drying on a rack under the roof canopy. 114
Figure 26: Floating down the Kelani River, Kitulgala. 67
Figure 60: Stairs built into the landscape to connect the family homes. 115
Figure 27: Resting place behind the trees, Kitulgala. 68
Figure 61: The children finding shelter from the heavy rain. 116
Figure 28: Hatton railway station. 9:30 p.m. 68
Figure 62: A view of the SOS Children’s Village from the hillside. 118
Figure 29: Delhouse bus station & mountain beyond. 2:15 a.m. 72
Figure 63: The fleeting clouds from the roads, Nuwara Eliya. 120
Figure 30: A narrow bridge along the footpath. 72
Figure 31: The path lit all the way up the mountain. 74
Figure 32: The steep climb nearing Adam’s Peak. 76 Figure 64: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 122
Figure 33: A view from the platform of Adam’s Peak. 7,359 feet. 79 Drawing by author.
Figure 34: Sunrise at Adam’s Peak. 6:15 a.m. 79
Figure 35: A view from the highest point of the platform. 6:30 a.m. 80 Notebook V: Bawa Trail [Interlude]
Figure 36: A Buddhist monk embracing the sunrise. 7:35 a.m. 82
Figure 65: Southern Expressway towards Galle, Kalutara. 124
Figure 66: The path turning to reveal the Jayawardene House, Mirrisa. 127
Figure 37: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 84 Figure 67: The house, along with the trees, open to the landscape beyond. 127
Drawing by author. Figure 68: Site plan of the Jayawardene House, Mirissa. 128
Robson, David, and Geoffrey Bawa. Geoffrey Bawa:The Complete Works. London:
Notebook IV: Trekking Thames & Hudson, 2002. Print.
Figure 69: Ground floor plan of the Jayawardene House, Mirissa. 129
Figure 38: The view from my aunt’s front veranda in Walahapitiya. 86 Ibid.
Figure 39: The dog cage nested into the yard, nearing sundown, Negombo. 89 Figure 70: A sheltered walkway built around the rocky landscape. 131
Figure 40: My grandparents’ old home through the yard at dawn. 90 Figure 71: The outdoor walkways wrapping around the courtyard. 131
Figure 41: “Drummers’ Hall,” Embekka Temple, Kandy. 93 Figure 72: The building showcasing a tree in the rain. 132
Figure 42: Wooden rafter detail called “Madol Kurupawa,” pinning 26 members without nails. 94 Figure 73: A quaint seating area with a private view onto the courtyard. 133
Figure 43: Wooden beam running through ornate rafters. 94 Figure 74: Rainwater falling into the courtyard pond. 134
Figure 44: Ornate hand-carved wooden pillar detail, each unique. 95 Figure 75: The staircase to the lobby, designed by artist Laki Senanayake. 136
Figure 45: Natha Devalaya Temple Square, Kandy. 96 Figure 76: The swirling mass of Dutch and Sinhalese warriors reenacting the battle of Randeniya in 1630. 137
Figure 46: Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic, Kandy. 6:20 a.m. 98 Figure 77: Cross-section through the Lighthouse Hotel from east to west looking south. 138
Figure 47: Winding hillside roads, Nuwara Eliya. 100 Robson, David, and Geoffrey Bawa. Geoffrey Bawa:The Complete Works. London:
Thames & Hudson, 2002. Print.
Figure 48: A framed view of Horton Plains, Nuwara Eliya. 103
Figure 78: Plan of the Lighthouse Hotel at the main terrace level. 138
Figure 49: The beaten path to World’s End, Horton Plains. 104
Ibid.
Figure 50: A sambar deer blending into the landscape. 104
Figure 79: Plan of the Lighthouse Hotel at the entry level. 139
Figure 51: Looking out from World’s End. 4,000ft drop. 105
Ibid.
Figure 52: A view of the communal stairs to the lower levels. 107
Figure 80: A view through the lobby past the swimming pool towards the beach. 141
Figure 53: The “family houses” framing a view of the mountainside. 108
Figure 81: A view from the lobby looking back at the entry sequence to the building. 141
Figure 54: A view up the communal stairs bridging the homes. 109
xvi xvii
Figure 82: Site plan of the Triton Hotel with the ground floor. 142 Figure 111: A sculpture by Laki Senanayake near the entry corridor. 174
Taylor, Brian Brace. Geoffrey Bawa. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996. Print. Figure 112: The formal sitting room, which looks out onto the far courtyard. 175
Figure 83: First floor plan (below) and second floor plan (above) of the Triton Hotel. 143 Figure 113: The dining area, which shares a view into the far courtyard. 175
Ibid. Figure 114: Ground floor plan of 33rd Lane (above) and section (below). 176
Figure 84: The quaint entry courtyard of Club Villa Hotel. 145 Futagawa,Yoshio. Geoffrey Bawa: 33rd Lane Colombo, Lunuganga Bentota.
Figure 85: A view from the common space into the courtyard. 146 Residential Masterpieces 07. Tokyo: ADA Editors, 2010. Print.
Figure 86: A concrete stairway leading to a bedroom suite. 146 Figure 115: Second and third floor plans of 33rd Lane. 177
Figure 87: The sheltered exterior spaces wrapping around the courtyard swimming pool. 147 Ibid.
Figure 88: The view from the rear garden looking back at the hotel. 148 Figure 116: A view from the veranda towards the front courtyard. 179
Figure 89: Site plan and section of Club Villa Hotel. 150 Figure 117: The entrance courtyard and pool leading to the architect’s office. 179
Taylor, Brian Brace. Geoffrey Bawa. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996. Print. Figure 118: Ground floor plan of Bawa’s old office (below) and upper floor plan (above). 180
Figure 90: Floor plan of Club Villa Hotel. 151 Taylor, Brian Brace. Geoffrey Bawa. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996. Print.
Ibid. Figure 119: Garden elevation of Bawa’s old office (below) and entrance facade to offices (above). 181
Figure 91: A view through the front gates proper into the entrance court at Lunuganga Estate. 153 Ibid.
Figure 92: The Glass Pavilion and guest wing from the back. 154
Figure 93: Looking east towards the watergate, reminiscent of an Italian villa. 156
Figure 94: The art gallery & landscape stepping down to the lower boardwalk, paddy field and lagoon. 157
Drawn by author.
Figure 95: The boardwalk cutting through the water garden in the distance. 158
Figure 96: Looking down Cinnamon Hill from the south terrace. 159 Notebook VI: Reflecting
Figure 97: Built-in steps connecting the art gallery (now guest room) to the upper level. 160
Figure 98: The view from the east terrace toward the hen house and art gallery beyond. 161 Figure 121: Evening sunset at Negombo beach. 184
Figure 99: Looking through the raised Glass Pavilion porch towards the Entrance Court. 162 Figure 122: The coconut trees in the yard swaying to the impending storm. 186
Figure 100: Seating shelter at the Entrance Court.The Glass Pavilion porch behind. 163 Figure 123: The view out of the veranda of my childhood home. 2:30 p.m. 188
Figure 101: Site plan of Lunuganga. 164 Figure 124: My cousins before we set off on an adventure through the yard. 191
Futagawa,Yoshio. Geoffrey Bawa: 33rd Lane Colombo, Lunuganga Bentota. Residential Figure 125: My grandfather watching the rain from the front veranda. 5:40 p.m. 193
Masterpieces 07. Tokyo: ADA Editors, 2010. Print.
Figure 126: Gamini hanging from the mango tree, from my bedroom window. 8:10 a.m. 197
Figure 102: One of the many stairways throughout Brief Garden. 167
Figure 127: My cousin throwing dried shrubbery into the garden pyre. 6:30 p.m. 197
Figure 103: A view towards the estate bungalow at the top of the garden. 168
Figure 128: A view through the entrance veranda towards the village, Anuradhapura. 204
Figure 104: A seating area along the garden path. 168
Figure 129: “Family houses,” on either side of the promenade, each with its own mango tree. 205
Figure 105: The outdoor patio at the estate bungalow, overlooking the landscape. 169
Figure 130: A typical “family house” interior with the bathrooms at the far end. 206
Figure 106: A view from inside of the bungalow looking out into the garden. 169
Figure 131: Roof structure holding clay roof tiles. Colours chosen by Barbara Sansoni. 206
Figure 107: Site plan of Brief Garden. 170
Figure 132: The community house veranda at the far end of the village. 207
Robson, David. The Architectural Heritage of Sri Lanka. London: Laurence King
Publishing, 2008. Print. Figure 133: A window looking onto the entrance veranda from the administration offices. 207
Figure 108: Sections of Brief Garden. 171 Figure 134: The sheltered hallways adjacent to the kindergarten courtyard. 208
Ibid. Figure 135: A view through a wooden lattice window into the kindergarten classrooms. 209
Figure 109: A view from the carport entry towards the interior. 173 Figure 136: The kindergarten courtyard and children’s play area. 210
Figure 110: The stairwell leading up to the upper terrace. 174 Figure 137: A view through the entrance pavilion towards the central Plumeria Avenue, Galle. 212
Figure 138: A view of the distant Plumeria Avenue and open area leading to the “family houses” on the right. 213
xviii xix
Figure 139: The “village street” between family houses, ending at an “ambalama” or shelter. 214 Figure 167: Painting the back face of the building as it continued to rain. 253
Figure 140: The front veranda of a two-storey community dining space. 215 Figure 168: Painting the final bits of the interior classroom space. 254
Figure 141: A typical “family house” dining area. Staircase leading up to the bedrooms. 216 Figure 169: Applying the final touches to the black, varnished floor trim. 254
Figure 142: Vibrant tile details embedded into concrete staircase. 217 Figure 170: A drawing illustrating the transformation of my grandparents’ old home over time. 256
Figure 143: A view from a double storey building towards the village street. 218 Drawn by author.
Figure 144: An alleyway between two family houses accommodating an outdoor cooking area. 218 Figure 171: The ground floor plan of my grandparents’ old home as it is now. 257
Figure 145: The “ambalama” and Plumeria Avenue towards the entry pavilion. 219 Drawn by author.
Figure 146: Sketched site plan of the Prasanna Children’s Orphanage, Negombo. 220
Drawn by author.
Figure 147: Site plan of the Anuradhapura SOS Children’s Village. 222
Drawn by author.
Robson, David. Anjalendran: Architect of Sri Lanka. Clarendon,VT:
Tuttle Publishing, 2014. Print.
Notebook VIII: Seeing
Figure 148: Section (above) and elevation (below) of a typical “family house,” Anuradhapura. 223
Publishing, 2008. Print. Figure 173: A view towards the dining & office area of Anjalendran’s home, Colombo. 261
Figure 149: Site plan of Galle SOS Children’s Village. 224 Figure 174: A view of the courtyard looking into the office veranda. 262
Ibid. Figure 175: Tree-covered road near Kurunagala after four hours of driving. 265
Figure 150: Plans, side elevation and section of the typical “family houses” (bottom to top), Galle. 225 Figure 176: The entrance gate into “Diyabubula” from a narrow gravel road, Dambulla. 266
Ibid. Figure 177: A large horse sculpture along the entry path. 266
Figure 178: A small bridge leading to Laki’s pavilion. 269
Figure 179: A view from the outdoor platform towards Laki’s planted pavilion and pond. 269
Figure 151: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 226 Figure 180: Laki Senanayake on the outdoor platform overlooking his pond. 272
Drawn by author. Figure 181: Laki’s beaming metal owl sculpture near the entry. 273
Figure 182: A view of Laki’s pavilion disappearing into the surrounding forest. 274
Notebook VII: Painting
Figure 183: A kingfisher eyeing its prey seconds before diving towards the pond. 276
Figure 152: A view of my grandparents’ old house through the yard, where the original path was. 229 Figure 184: A wild boar sculpture rummaging near the pond. 276
Figure 153: A view of the back of my grandparents’ old house. 229 Figure 185: An owl sculpture appearing out of the distant forest. 277
Figure 154: The front of my grandparents’ old home from the street. 7:15 a.m. 235 Figure 186: Looking towards the front entry and the decorative concrete path detail. 277
Figure 155: The front entrance from the living room of my grandparents’ old home. 236 Figure 187: A view from across the pond towards Laki’s pavilion as the sun sets. 278
Figure 156: The front porch after scraping off old paint. 238 Figure 188: The sun setting behind the illuminated forest. As seen from Laki’s platform. 280
Figure 157: The living room space after scraping and applying putty. 238 Figure 189: A view back at the Kandalama Hotel from its outdoor terrace, Dambulla. 4:45 a.m. 284
Figure 158: A view of the progress from the street. 5:30 p.m. 239 Figure 190: The view from the terrace towards the Lake. 5:45 a.m. 286
Figure 159: Gamini covering dried concrete patchwork with putty. 240 Figure 191: The view from the terrace towards the lake after sunrise. 7:00 a.m. 289
Figure 160: Wrapping up the last bits of scraping on the interior. 240 Figure 192: A view through the lounge to the landscape beyond. 290
Figure 161: Taking an evening tea break near the front entrance. 242 Figure 193: A stairwell framing a view of the landscape. 290
Figure 162: Gamini painting the smaller classroom walls. 244 Figure 194: A view from a stairwell landing with an opportunity to sit. 291
Figure 163: Marking the front exterior before painting. 6:10 p.m. 246 Figure 195: A metal owl sculptor by Laki, wings spanning the columns. 292
Figure 164: The Montessori school colour palette, inspired by the SOS Children’s Villages. 247 Figure 196: The hallway spaces leading to the rooms, facing the hillside. 293
Figure 165: Continuing to paint the exterior after nightfall. 248 Figure 197: Site plan of Laki’s Diyabubula. 294
Figure 166: Relocating to the back of the house to complete the last facade. 252 Publishing, 2008. Print.
xx xxi
Figure 198: East-west section looking south (above) and north-south section looking east (below). 295
Ibid.
Figure 199: Site plan of Kandalama Hotel with entry level floor plan. 296
Robson, David, and Geoffrey Bawa. Geoffrey Bawa:The Complete Works. London: Thames
& Hudson, 2002. Print.
Figure 200: Sectional elevation through Kandalama Hotel showing the relationship of the building to the cliff. 297
Ibid.

Drawn by author.
Notebook IX: Beginning
Figure 202: The morning of the Montessori school reopening, Negombo. 301
Figure 203: Shelves stocked with children’s belongings at entry. 302
Figure 204: The children waiting patiently in the main classroom. 303
Figure 205: Children singing and dancing in the main classroom space. 305
Figure 206: Children playing in the main classroom space during their recess. 306
Figure 207: The children holding up the beautiful drawing they gifted me. 307
Figure 208: Emma playing with the children on the front porch. 308
Figure 209: The back of the Montessori school. 309
Figure 210: The Montessori school from the street during the lunch break. 310
Figure 211: A Map of Sri Lanka. 312

Drawn by author.
All photographs are taken by the author, with the exception of

figures 9, 158, 160, 163, 165, 166, 167, 169, which were
photographed by my cousin Rivindu De Silva.
All drawings are credited according to the original source referenced.
xxii xxiii
Introduction
To know where one belongs, and to know oneself is often a good beginning.
—Anjalendran, Sri Lankan architect.
1
I was born in Negombo, Sri Lanka and spent my first seven years there before
uprooting with my family to begin a new life in Canada. After immigrating,
my family moved frequently, and our sense of home was constantly disrupted.
Most of my extended family, including my grandparents, still reside in Sri
Lanka, and continue to be the bridge to my homeland that I knew so briefly.
Even after so many years, I still feel an intimate connection to my native
country—an acute yet intangible pull that beckons me to rediscover what I
have left behind.
My growing interest for Sri Lanka did not emerge out of a conscious
desire to reconnect with my heritage. It originally arose from a childhood
memory of attending an elementary school in Negombo. These memories
were not grim, but I was never able to escape the feeling that my school
environment was inadequate. This feeling travelled deep within me and it
persisted throughout my education.When I began my Master of Architecture,
these memories triggered a much deeper yearning to know my native Sri
Lanka. Although my original intent was to explore the implications of my
childhood school on my education as an architect, the emerging interest in
my birthplace awoke in me an irrepressible longing to return to the place
where I was born. With only my initial studies on schools and a handful of
childhood memories, I decided my architectural education required me to fly
14,000 kilometers from Toronto, Canada to Colombo, Sri Lanka. I booked
my flight, departing on November 15th, 2014, and returning February 14th,
2015.When I left, I took my laptop, sketchbook, camera, voice recorder, and a
few items of clothing. The rest of my two large suitcases were filled with gifts
for my family.
In writing the thesis, I hope to reconstruct Sri Lanka as I know it,
drawing from my trip as well as from my earliest recollections.This document
is a gesture of gratitude to the land and its people, who have enriched my
journey and made it both pleasurable and memorable. It is my attempt at
unlocking the underlying connection between myself and my birthplace and
what this means to my education in architecture.
2 3
Monsoon Notebook
Sitting
Reaching
Climbing
Tr e k k i n g
B a w a Tr a i l
Reflecting
Painting
Seeing
Beginning
4 5
In 1754, Horace Walpole coined the term ‘serendipity’ in reference to the heroes of his
tale The Three Princes of Serendib, who had the unique faculty of discovering things by
accident, and of finding things without seeking them.
Serendib is actually the Arabic name of Sri Lanka. As the island is now called, a
name which in Sinhalese and Tamil conveys the idea of resplendence or natural
richness. Sailors, because of the favourable winds which warm the island; merchants,
because of its prices and gems; and artists from Walpole to Neruda, because of its
‘natural and poetic charm’—all have felt the sense of bliss and blessedness which the
island seemed to offer, and all have felt the sense of tranquillity and equanimity which
none sought but all seemed to find. 1
“A Place Called Serendib”—Darren C. Zook.
Figure 1
6 7
Notebook I
Sitting
Figure 2
8 9
November 15, 2014
It’s great to have roots, as long as you can take them with you.
—Gertrude Stein
I was uncertain of whether I had made the right decisions as I boarded

the plane and prepared for my long flight. Resigning myself to the
uneasy self-assurance that comes with many years of preparation, I
attempted to give my thoughts and eyes some respite and settled into a
restless sleep.
As the plane descended into the thick morning fog, all sense
of the ground vanished, as if we had overshot the tiny island completely
and were headed for the dark ocean. The plane shook violently before
the wheels abruptly made contact with the runway. As the plane rolled
to a stop, I took a deep breath of relief, exhaling months of built up
anxiety. I couldn’t identify the exact feeling that had developed inside
of me as I planned my trip to Sri Lanka. I wondered whether it was a
question of belonging that I struggled with, a fear that the place I once
knew would no longer be the same one from my memories. I peered
through the porthole of the plane, wondering if I would still recognize
this place, and whether it would still recognize me.
Before leaving, I had attempted to sort out what I would do
in Sri Lanka. Most of my conversations revolved around this question,
to which I did not find an answer. Perhaps, because of this uncertainty,
I sensed an eagerness growing inside of me, a feeling that left me
incredibly motivated to face whatever it was that awaited me on the
island.
And for the next month it rained…
Figure 3 (following page): The view

from my aunt’s front veranda, Negombo.
10 11
12 13
Rainy Days
The whole assortment shall be lightly stitched together by a single thread.

November 16, 2014 Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her
needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither.We know not what comes
next, or what follows after. —Virginia Woolf
There is no other experience like being in the middle of tropical
rainfall. I had experienced blizzards and hail storms before, but none A single recollection of a rainy day was compiled of many days of rainfall that overlap
could compare to the torrential deluge that I witnessed in Sri Lanka. and amalgamate. The only constant in these recollections is my home, the yard that it
Tropical storms unfolded quickly like an invading army, fiery of rested on, and my vivid imagination. I see my younger self standing impatiently on
temperament and completely unpredictable. The rain fell dark and the edge of the back porch, clutching a pair of large plastic buckets, waiting for the rain
furious, like a volley of arrows blotting out the sun above an ancient to stop. The rain is so close that its mist lightly tickles my skin, and its pulsing beats
battlefield, drowning the landscape in a cacophony of drumbeats. resonate through my arms and hands.
Everything had grown lush, green and unmanageably wild Once the rain subsided, the yard was submerged in two feet of water, often
due to the heavy downpour. The only way to dry clothes during the overflowing the front steps of the veranda. The sound of rain gave way to the uproar
monsoon rain would be to hang them on a clothesline in between the of hundreds of frogs and other creatures alike that emerged from their hidden crevices
columns on the front veranda. If this were not sufficient, they were within the yard. My sister and I left the shelter of our home, submerging ourselves knee-
placed under the ceiling fan indoors. deep in water. Step-by-step, we scavenged the yard, imitating the cranes that had already
Everyone retreated to their homes. Birds and butterflies were arrived in number.We paused once we reached a suitable location, allowing the sediment
nowhere to be seen. Even the unruly crow had disappeared out of sight stirred up by our feet to settle in the murky water and reveal glimpses of life.
and into the cavernous tree canopies. Doors and windows remained Eventually, our buckets were filled with crabs, crawling around frantically. I
open and nowhere, not even in the deepest sanctuaries of our homes, attempted to uncover the mystery of their sudden appearance in the yard. Had they
were we able to escape the roar of the rain. crawled up from under the ground? Did the rain flood their network of tunnels, forcing
In these moments, the rain was as much a part of our lives as them to reach for the surface?
the beads of sweat on our weary bodies that continued to drip even in My parents found us soaked from head to toe and demanded we return the
the temporary absence of the sun. One thing became predominantly creatures back to their natural habitat. “The yard is as much theirs as it is ours,” my
clear from within the warmth of our homes: when it began to rain, mother had said, when we returned to the warmth and safety of the house. Outside, the
everything stopped. murky rainwater gradually disappeared into the earth or into channels that led to the
I stared at the rain as it crashed against everything in sight, my Hamilton Canal, leaving no trace of its transient creatures.
ears deafened by the inescapable noise. While I sat alone on the front Any time it rains, I am taken back to the memory where two feet of water
veranda, memories of past showers flooded my mind as quickly as water submerged my knees. I feel the mist on my cheeks, and the hesitation before taking
filled the yard. As the drumming of raindrops gained tempo, I couldn’t another step into the murky, uncharted water.The thrill of snatching crabs with my bare
help but bathe in these memories for the moment. hands rushes through my body just the same as in the rains of my childhood, more than
a decade ago.
14 15
November 17, 2014
I witnessed everything. One morning I would wake and just smell
things for the whole day, it was so rich I had to select senses.
—Michael Ondaatje
If I didn’t wake up to the sound of our neighbour’s rooster, or the

chatter of birds, the sound of my aunt sweeping leaves off the moist
morning earth would always gradually rouse me. The morning mist felt
surreal, like a dream-scape slowly fading and giving way to the waking
world.
I beheld this scene from a room in the aunt’s family’s newly
built house. A short distance away was my childhood home, which my
grandparents had moved to some years after my family’s departure.
Once I had wound up my mosquito net each morning and sat
up in bed, I would gaze out the window at the back of that old house.
Its presence instilled in me a sense of belonging to the place I had
been away from for so long. Every inch of the walls were bursting with
memories, escaping through its cracked surface. Some devoured me
for minutes while others derailed my entire morning. The house was
named Rohana, the male counterpart to my grandparent’s oldest child:
my mother, Rohini. And like my mother, what a warm and loving
childhood that house gave me.
My desk overlooked the courtyard space where my
grandparent’s caretakers bustled throughout the day, hanging washed
clothes and picking coconuts and herbs from the yard. Seeing them
reminded me that the time I spend with my grandparents would
be limited by my travels. I struggled with this thought, but even the
glimpses of their caretakers going about their daily rituals gave me a
sense of assuredness for their well-being—an impalpable closeness to
my grandparents.
My ears had not yet adjusted to the concoction of sounds
that persisted in the yard. As nightfall approached, the sounds entered
the room and reverberated around me as if walls and windows did not
exist. I had memorized the particular cry of the three geckos that found
refuge in the window openings above my work table. They were like
tireless sentries, eagerly devouring the mosquitoes that thirsted after my
foreign blood when I sat down to write in my notebook.
Figure 4: The view out of my bedroom

window, Negombo. 6:45 a.m.
16 17
On Home
Home is an embodiment of us and all that surrounds us. It is as much the physical
space we reside in, as it is the nuances of the built and sensory world around it; the
sounds that surround it and reverberate from every corner of the yard; the trees that
extend their roots under it, slowly breaking and entering its brittle foundations; the
reaching over of frail branches and leaves, shading it from the relentless sun; the breeze
that trickles its way into the back doors and across the living room, taking with it dusty
old newspapers that float gracefully through the openings in the front veranda. The
relationships between home and the greater world fundamentally depend on the other
for each to exist. The idea of home as a place of our own remains true only because
there is a greater world just outside our doorstep. And conversely, the world wouldn’t be
foreign if we hadn’t extended our roots in attachment to a specific place. It is relative to
the wider world, that home is the place we know best. This dependency helps to define
home as a reflection of everything that we are and simultaneously everything that frames
us. The latter could include our yard, our town, our country, the vast ocean, or even
the entire globe. It may also include the dried leaves that land on the white sand just
outside our windows, precisely raked each morning into a herringbone pattern marking
the arrival of a new day.
In his writings on the phenomenology of home, Juhani Pallasmaa expresses
that the “reflection on the essence of home takes us away from the physical properties of
a house into the psychic territory of the mind. It engages us with issues of identity and
memory, consciousness and the unconscious, biology motivated behavioural remnants as
well as culturally conditioned reactions and values.”2 Pallasmaa’s ideology suggests that
our connection with our childhood home is more closely tied with the immaterial rather
than the physical. He reveals an attachment to the experience of home more than the
intricacies of its built form. This is because we leave a part of our mind permanently
housed in our childhood home.
The extents of our homes are delineated by whimsical allotments and
boundaries but the spaces of home are filled with things of deep sentiment.The essence
of home is distinguished by both our material possessions and our human relationships.
The removal and placing of slippers, back-packs and our neatly wrapped school books
are all ritual to the home, as are the times spent in conversation under the dim yellow
light of the kitchen table. Our home celebrates the act of sleeping, dreaming, and waking,
just as much as it commemorates the rampant dark clouds that sporadically clash in a
frenzy, rattling the panes of glass held between old, wooden window frames. And with
each raindrop the red clay roof tiles sing to a song that only our home remembers. The
red pigment left on our bare feet from wandering on the cool, concrete floor is a mark of
home, as is the feeling of white sand on the underside of our feet that we bring in from
the yard, soon to be swept away.
Figure 5:The family property from

the front gate, towards my childhood home.
18 19
T h e Rea lm of H om e
There is a sense of liberty associated with home that does not exist elsewhere. It is the
Of Havens domain in which we play the part of but a single note within an unceasing orchestra,
among the ever-changing wilderness, where the tempo is the wind, and the percussion
the rains. I felt the freedom to run aimlessly through the vigorous landscape; the soft
Though we dream of an airy intimacy,
ground that always caught my fall; the endless shrubbery that would devour any tennis
Open and free, yet sheltering as a nest ball that sped away too hastily from the crack of our cricket bats; and the evening light
For passing bird, or mouse, or ardent bee, that made its way through the lethargic leaves of the coconut trees to gently caress the
Of Love where life in all its forms can rest backs of our houses, igniting in its path invisible specks of dust that floated in the warm,
As wind breaths in the leaves of a tree; humid air.
Though we dream of never having a wall against Gaston Bachelard, in his writings of home, establishes that the essence of our
childhood home could never be fully understood and relived except in poetry and dream.
All that must flow and pass cannot be caught,
He explains that “when we dream of the house we were born in, in the utmost depths
An ever-welcoming self that is not fenced, of revery, we participate in this original warmth, in this well-tempered matter of the
Yet we are tethered still to another thought: material paradise. This is the environment in which the protective beings live. We shall
The unsheltered cannot shelter, the exposed come back to the maternal features of the house. […] Our daydreams carry us back to
Exposes others; the wide open door it. And the poet well knows that the house holds childhood motionless ‘in its arms.’”3
Means nothing if it cannot be closed. Bachelard’s reference to home as an environment where protective beings live suggests
the consideration of metaphysical characteristics, but also tangible qualities; the home
not only as the guardian of our bodies, but the refuge for our minds and our soul. He
Those who create real heavens are not free, illustrates that “the house shelters day dreaming. The house protects the dreamer. The
Hold fast, maintain, are rooted, dig deep wells; house allows one to dream in peace […] Without it, man would be a dispersed being.
Whatever haven human love may be, It maintains him through the storms of the heavens and through those of life. It is body
There is no freedom without sheltering walls. and soul. It is the human beings first world.”4
And when we imagine wings that come and go The sincerity of Bachelard’s words fills me with the essence of my own
childhood home, heightening my senses to the things that resonate warmly within
What we see is a house
me. Perhaps, it is not only the material things within our homes which emanate this
And a wide-open window. warmth, but the very idea of an enclosure. If reduced to its simplest form, our house
satisfies a primal need for shelter against the elements. It is the combination of the
—May Sarton two—our emotions and experiences, which add meaning to the place, and a shelter that
appeases our primal needs—that makes home so profound.
20 21
Leaving Home
There is one memory that promptly transcends me to another time—one that began
with an early morning, an ironed two-piece uniform and a perfectly folded handkerchief
that was pinned directly onto my shirt. The air was light and the morning dew once
again met with the sun’s warm rays. In a rush to pack my books and water bottle, I
heard the sound of my father’s 50cc scooter against the sound of waking birds and
distant morning prayers.
I hung tightly onto my father on the back of his scooter.The feeling of the cool
air against my face as the world sped by in a blur was exhilarating. I felt a fearlessness
and freedom that was only possible with my father. I felt a similar emotion when I saw
the tightly strung flags along the walls of the Buddhist temple we passed, that hovered
precariously over each gust of wind, or the elegant descent of the Bodhi tree’s leaves,
free-falling ever so slowly—as if never to land. It was a feeling that I will never forget.
The first thirty meters took us from our garage to the front gate. I jumped off,
released the latch, and pulled open the screeching metal gate. Another twenty-five meters
and we were sputtering over the Hamilton Canal bridge. It was poorly built, constantly
repaired, and covered with markings left from the vehicles that pummelled their way
across.The bridge was only large enough for one vehicle at a time and instigated a race to
the top, which involved long and tense face-offs that only ended when one of the drivers
abandoned their ego.
Canal road, the narrow and rugged street covered in holes, was home to all
sorts: people leaving for their daily excursions, rebellious rickshaw drivers, wandering
stray dogs (often sleeping in the middle of the road), and even the occasional care-free
cow. All had but one things in common other than being in transit: no one considered
the laws of the road or one another.
Any given combination of roads on our morning ride led to the same loud
and chaotic entrance of the school yard. The large gate barely hung to its hinges as
the sea of children in matching attire overflowed the street and marched into the dust,
smoke, and forthcoming afternoon heat.
Figure 6 (top): A view from the Hamilton

Canal bridge towards the property.
Figure 7 (bottom): The Hamilton

Canal before sunset.
22 23
The Home We Carry
The places we have known do not belong only to the world of space on which
we map them for our convenience. None of them was ever more than a thin
November 19, 2014 slice, held between the contiguous impressions that composed our life at that
time; the memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment;
and houses, roads, avenues, are as fugitive, alas as the years. —Marcel Proust
It was 3 p.m. and we were stopped smack-dab in the middle of after-
school traffic. What would have been a fifteen minute rickshaw ride It appears that we do not part from the first world we know. Instead, the context
from the town center felt more like an hour. Children spilled out relative to our first home changes and our relationship with it unfolds differently. Upon
onto the road like water pouring through a broken hose, spreading uprooting, we are left to experience our old home after a long flight across the world,
sporadically in all directions. or irregularly amidst dream. Although we may endlessly reminisce about our childhood
My memories of attending school as a child are bound home in photographs, recollections and daydreams, it seems highly unlikely to physically
within the gates of the dry, dusty school yard. The ground swelled with recapture or replace our oneiric home. We are connected to our childhood home the
heat and even the most minute movement dispersed clouds of dust. I way a child is instinctively connected to its maternal mother. The yearning for our
remember running past concrete walls whose surfaces were cracking, childhood home may also be closely tied with the unceasing affection and lament for
through broken fences, over scattered tree branches and jumping our lost childhood. Although we could never have our childhood back, we can revisit our
over the piles of garbage that were scattered around the edges of the childhood home, to step backwards in time and experience once again the most vivid
schoolyard. Dashing through the crowds of children while playing tag and pleasurable of our earliest memories.
with my friends, I would come across the dreadful bathroom facilities. Like most children, I spent a lot of my time in the my family compound and
None of the students would intentionally go near this space, or even the school yard. I remember running quickly out the front veranda of my home along the
think to use it. In my hazy memory the bathrooms were located far roughly demarcated path towards the front gate of the property, where visitors entered.
from the classrooms, at the edge of the school property. It resembled Although I now welcome guests in through the front door of my Canadian home, at the
the remnants of a ruin, without a delineated space or a function. time they entered into the yard and I accompanied them on a walk back home that was
As I continued to trace memories of my childhood school, most memorable.
I recalled even the classroom spaces to be haphazardly assembled. I have always cherished my distant memories of home, but I am constantly
Termites had chewed their way through the insides of our small reminded of how powerful they are in infiltrating my present-day experiences. Bachelard
wooden chairs. Tables wobbled on the hard concrete floors. Sewage ran resounds that feeling, writing that in the slightest mention of home, one is transported
along the outdoor spaces, adjacent to where children traversed from “back to the old home, to the first home,” and in this transcendental moment “a sort
one classroom to another. The appalling odour of idle sewage made of musical chord would sound in the soul of the reader.” But to fully understand the
its way through the school yard under the scorching sun, wafting over gravity of this sentiment, “one must have lost the house that stood for happiness.
the heads of children standing stiffly in groups reciting their morning So there is also an alas in this song of tenderness.” He expresses that “It is because
prayers. memories are dreams, because the home of other days has become a great image of lost
intimacy.”5
24 25
November 20, 2014
The sounds from the yard awoke me unspeakably early in the morning.
I caught my uncle leaving on his morning excursions and tagged along,
tightly hanging onto to the back of his scooter.
At 7:30 a.m. we arrived amid the complete chaos of the
Negombo fish market. My uncle weaved through the herds of people
before resting his scooter alongside dozens of similar motorbikes. My
uncle understood the fish market inside out. He started at one end and
negotiated his way through the entire market before returning to close
his first deal, having significantly lowered the cost of the morning catch
along the way. I could barely follow his conversation with the series of
fisherman and realized that my foreign presence alongside him only
jeopardized his bargain. I decided to walk towards the water to take a
few photographs, without realizing that I would not find my way back.
Once I realized that I had lost sight of him, it dawned on me
that from a distance all of the men looked more or less the same.Voices
projected in all directions forming a completely unintelligible language,
as if I was listening to a recording of a debate that was sped up. Without
a functioning cellphone (or anyone’s phone number, for that matter) I
stood completely still, stretching my vision in an attempt to look in all
directions at once.
Although I was not able to distinguish him from the crowd,
it turns out that I, on the other hand, was easier to spot. He found me
in a matter of minutes, claiming that my “foreign” appearance and my
“Westernized body movement” had given me away.
Figure 8: A view of the dock at the

Negombo lagoon fish market.
26 27
November 21, 2014
One evening, my uncle, who was otherwise very serious, walked out of
the house with a grand smile. He was on his way to get a haircut. His
barber owned a tiny salon, tucked into a row of small shops at the end
of Canal road.
I ended up paying the barber a visit a week later, as my hair
had grown thick and unbearable in the heat and humidity. After cutting
each strand of hair to a precise length, he poured a few drops of an
alcoholic substance into his hands and massaged it into my scalp. His
hands were incredibly strong and he extended them down past my
forehead and temples, circling them around my eyes.
At times I worried that my head would burst open, but I had
surrendered completely to his strength, and sat powerless on the chair
as he worked.
It was impossible to keep my eyes open. Just as I was brought
to the brink of sleep by the massage, I was suddenly awakened by
the sudden tap of the barber’s fingers against my head. Afterwards, I
struggled onto my feet and stumbled my way home in a daze.
Figure 9: In a hair salon near

Canal Road, Negombo.
28 29
Home and Body
My exploration of home has lead me to the fundamental connection it has to the When I consider Pallasmaa’s ideology, it becomes apparent that our dislocation with our
human body, and the implications of such a connection. Our body is the vehicle through home brings discomfort, no different from the pain associated with physically dislocating
which we experience life, and our homes are the protector of our bodies—the portal a part of our body. It is a kind of separation that leaves us scattered—without a sense
through which we experience the world. In a passage about the house and the body, of grounding. A similar disengagement occurs within our own memories, of places we
Juhani Pallasmaa writes that “we behold, touch, listen and measure the world with do not completely remember. Poet Rainer Maria Rilke remembers when his father had
our entire bodily constitution and existence, and the experiential world is organized taken him to visit his childhood home: the ancient manor-house. Rilke writes in his
and articulated around the center of the body.”6 With age, our senses weaken and our notebook that after his visit he “never again saw that remarkable house,”12 as it had
experience of home changes; our bodies rely on the repetitive rituals that we have shared fallen into a stranger’s hand after his grandfather passed away. He goes on to describe
with our home over the years. the scattered nature of his memories while revisiting the house:
Pallasmaa believes that “our existential world has two simultaneous foci: our
body and our home. There is a special dynamic relationship between the two; they can As I find it in the memories of my childhood, it is no complete building: it is
fuse and provide an ultimate sense of connectedness, or they may be distanced from each all broken up inside me; here a room, and here a piece of hallway that does not
other, giving to a sense of longing, nostalgia and alienation.”7 The latter runs deeply in connect these two rooms but is preserved, as a fragment, by itself. In this way it
my relationship with Sri Lanka and my childhood home—a longing for the place that is all dispersed within me—the rooms, the stairways that descended with such
I parted from at a young age. The countless times my family and I have moved into ceremonious deliberation, and now narrow, spiral stairs in the obscurity of which
a different house in our newly adopted country has only accentuated the acute feeling one moved as blood does in the veins.13
of alienation. This could be because “our domicile is the refuge and projection of our
body, memory and self-identity.”8 In the process of relocating, we carry the sentiments The spaces within Rilke’s recollection of the home are as fragmented as his memories,
of our beloved home with us. It may not easily adhere to a new place; thus, there is a but their ability to live inside of him reminds me of the pieces of childhood memory
discrepancy between body and home, leaving us unsettled.The relationship between the that I carry with me, which will never leave my body. Rilke writes of his emerging
house and the body “is a two-way correspondence:The house is a metaphor of the body, memory vividly, inseparable from his body, describing that “it is as though the picture
and the body is a metaphor of the house.”9 of this house had fallen into me from an infinite height and had shattered against my
In his book “Body, Memory and Architecture,” Author Kent Bloomer writes very ground.”14
that “although we cannot see the inside of our body, we do develop memories of an In his notebook, Rilke goes on to uncover his childhood experiences in
inside world that include a panorama of experiences taken from the environment and the house, piece by piece. His dismantling of memory displays the ingenious quality
etched into the ‘feelings’ of our identity over a lifetime of personal encounters with the of memory to preserve our story. It is most intriguing that Rilke’s memory of home
world.”10 We participate in a more literal process than to Bloomer’s thoughts when unravels relative to his own body; in this process he is the architect of his own memories.
we decorate our homes with found and collected items from our outwardly lives. These “The high and, I suspect, vaulted room was more powerful than everything else.
memorabilia transcend a practical use within the house—they represent our worldly With its darkening height and its never fully illuminated corners, it sucked all images
participation. “We populate our inside world with the people, places, and events that out of you, without giving anything definite in return. You sat there as if you had
we ‘felt’ at one time in the outside world, and we associate those events with the disintegrated—totally without will, without consciousness, without pleasure, without
feelings themselves. Rituals over time leave their impression on the walls and forms defence.You were like an empty space.”15 He expands in detail his bodily experience as
of the interior and endow the rooms with artifacts which give us access to previous a result of the space, claiming that it made him feel nauseated and “brought on a kind of
experiences.”11 We place things inside of our homes where we can view them, hold them seasickness.”16 He only overcame this feeling of disconnection with a bodily response, by
in our hands, and dream with their presence. In these moments, the items are fuel for stretching out his leg until his foot touched his father’s knee. Perhaps, the giant scale of
our body to transport us to another place or time. the space was overwhelming and impossible to relate to as a child.Touching his father’s
leg was a way of relieving the fear and solitude that was brought about by the place—it
was the only tangible connection he had.
30 31
November 22, 2014
It’s a relief to hear the rain. It’s the sound of billions of drops, all equal, all
equally committed to falling, like a sudden outbreak of democracy. Water,
when it hits the ground, instantly becomes a puddle or rivulet or flood.
—Alice Oswald
Rain clouds assembled quickly while I found shelter under the roof
of a stage, where live jazz was performed on Thursday evenings. A few
minutes later it began to pour, and the waiter ran through the courtyard
with his hands over his head as if he wouldn’t get wet. I ordered a
papaya juice and a sandwich.
There was a calming sensation that came from the sound of
rain landing on every possible surface, before making its way through
to the cobble stone courtyard. As I flipped to a blank page in my
sketchbook, I noticed that everything was muted by the rain, even
the brightly coloured table clothes, beautifully tailored and sold at the
Barefoot store. It was like seeing the world through a pair of sunglasses.
When it rained, I felt cloaked by its all-encompassing weight. My
eyes glanced outwards, but I couldn’t help but search deeper inwards,
overcome by nostalgia. I began to realize the limitations of memory
to recover feelings, and that nostalgia is a consequence of memory, not
memory itself—it is memory affected by our emotions.
The word “nostalgia” is deeply rooted between the realm
of home and memory. It originates from a combination of the two
Greek words nóstos (homecoming) and álgos (pain), describing a feeling
of acute homesickness. Although romanticized in the present day, the
word nostalgia was considered a potentially fatal disease that afflicted
sailors at sea, convicts serving sentences, and slaves forced away from
home.
Figure 10: The Barefoot Cafe

courtyard, Colombo.
32 33
On Memor y B ody a n d M em or y
I see it—the past—as an avenue lying behind; a long ribbon of scenes, The actual penetrates through the doorways of our body and reaches the brain
emotions [...] I feel that strong emotion must leave its trace, and it is only a where it is stored. Memories are within us, within our inner life; what else can
question of discovering how can we get ourselves again attached to it, so that this mean but in our brain. —Jan Hendrik van den Berg
we shall be able to live our lives through from the start. —Virginia Woolf
It is difficult to understand our existential self without the careful consideration of our
When I look deeper into the archives of my own memories, there are some that repeat, body, the means through which we engage our daily experiences.Author Sarah Robinson
like dreams we revisit numerous times. These memories are characterized by author explores this relationship, finding that “recent neurological research has revealed, the
Virginia Woolf as being “in existence independent of our minds.”17 They are stored mind is fundamentally embodied.”22 Although memory is an occupation of our minds,
deep in our unconscious or imprinted on the insides of our bodies, away from the our most profound experiences are fundamentally linked to our bodily resonance to a
mind’s eye. Through the course of our lives, these underlying memories can invade our place. My travels affirmed that being in the place was essential to recalling my memory
present. Gaston Bachelard shares this sentiment, writing that, “The space we love is accurately. It was the colour, smell, light and texture of the place I experienced that left
unwilling to remain permanently enclosed.” He adds that “it deploys and appears to a lasting impression on my memory.
move elsewhere without difficulty; into other times, and on different planes of dream French writer Jean Cocteau’s diary entries, after a visit to his own childhood
and memory.”18 home, shed light on the connection between body and memory. In 1953, he arrived at
Stephen J. Smith defines these transcendental moments in his exploration of his old house in hopes of revisiting his own childhood memories, only to be rejected by
physically remembering childhood, affirming that “it also seems possible to remember the man who lived in the house. Disappointed, Cocteau left the site, trailing his finger
events from earliest childhood so graphically that one begins to question the psychological along a wall near the house as he had in his childhood. As he performed this habit,
account of forgetfulness.”19 It seems that we always carry our memory with us, stored he remembered that he was smaller at that time and decided to bend down and repeat
away like old photo albums, tucked into the backs of cupboards and cabinets. Memories the act. The result was remarkable, and his memories came flooding back. He writes
fossilize within us and collect years of experience atop them, receding further into the that, “just as the needle picks up the memory from the record, I obtained the memory
depths of our minds, until we have completely forgotten their existence. Certain acts, of the past with my hand. I found everything: my cape, the leather of my satchel, the
rituals and processes give us access to these memories, and we are reminded again that names of my friends and of my teachers, certain expressions I had used, the sound of
they did in fact live within us, all that time. my grandfather’s voice, the smell of his beard, the smell of my sister’s dresses, and of
Smith claims that his “discovery was simply that in writing about these early my mother’s gown.”23 The memory that was stored in his body was released when he
memory images, a vast store of remarkably detailed memories—in fact, an entire world retraced this original gesture, allowing him to remain in touch with his distant past.
of the most intense perceptions and feelings—began to unfold.”20 Writing captures the Cocteau’s experience reveals that the human body is a “physical continuity between
nuances of the past, and gives it an opportunity to be ingrained in our minds.Through past and present.”24 By physically engaging with the original place of my memories,
the act of writing, what is missing begins to take form. Memories in which the body is I am brought closer to the felt experience of the past. It required me to stand on the
predominant are also physically remembered through the descriptions of certain writings, veranda of my childhood home in order to completely recall those memories; I needed to
thus giving us an opportunity relive our lived experiences to the utmost. taste and smell the air after it rained and hear the frogs groan in the hundreds for my
Scientifically, my cognitive functions only recall childhood memories after the mind to call up the heaviest rainfalls of my distant childhood.
age of five, which leaves me with two years of retrievable memories of my birthplace. I Memory is comprised of both the engravings of life on our mind and our body.
always wondered whether the images of Sri Lanka that lived in my mind were accurate A memory could be relived in one’s head, but the experience of a memory that is felt
representations of my time there as a seven year old, or whether they were a figment of within the body is unmatched.The body, where the past is experienced without distance,
my imagination, compiled of years’ worth of photographs, stories and dreams. Richard takes on equal responsibility as the mind, in being the vehicle through which memory
Ellmann reiterates James Joyce’s words that “imagination is nothing but the working is manifested. We draw upon “the body as a memorial container—as itself a ‘place’
over of what is remembered,” and that more crucially, “imagination is memory.”21 of memories [which] furnishes an unmediated access to the remembered past.”25 It
Memory, as an accumulation of our past and present, is integral to the formation of our appears that we do not need to recall the past ourselves. Perhaps, our body unconsciously
imagination, and is essential for us to see ourselves and the world we live in. participates in this process with the outer world, “and it is as a body that one inhabits
the past and it inhabits one’s body.”26
34 35
November 24, 2014
I spent every moment of my free time on the front veranda with my
grandparents. The silence between us was filled with the sounds from
the yard. In these moments, I began to appreciate blissful afternoons
in the tropics. I felt an irrepressible desire to be still, to take a nap. It
was precisely the feeling that overcomes us after consuming a satisfying
meal. And although it was never expressed in words, I knew that my
grandparents shared this sentiment.
When I was young, my grandfather would regularly sit on
his hansi putuwa with a cup of tea. The chair was built in a reclined
position, curving to support his tired body. Two foldable arms extended
out to carry his legs. He had accomplished a lot in the brief morning
and a moment on the chair was his reward, the gateway to reverie.
I gently closed my eyes, my body firmly planted on the
strands of ratan, waved tightly between the chair’s jak wood frame. I
heard the sound of my grandparents’ caretakers bustling through the
home behind me, and tried my best to bring their voices into focus
against the sound of birds and distant vehicles while I drifted in and
out of sleep.
Figure 11: A frog resting on the

planter’s chair one afternoon.
36 37
On Houses
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound,
but an eyelid that guards the eye.
You shall not fold your wings that you may pass through doors,
nor bend your heads that they strike not against a ceiling,
nor fear to breathe lest walls should crack and fall down.
You shall not dwell in tombs made by the dead for the living.
And though of magnificence and splendour,
your house shall not hold your secret nor shelter your longing.
For that which is boundless in you abides in the mansion of the sky,
whose door is the morning mist,
and whose windows are the songs and the silences of night.
—Kahlil Gibran
Figure 12 (top): The yard from my

aunt’s front veranda, before sunset.
Figure 13 (bottom): The back of my

childhood home. 5:30 p.m.
38 39
Locating Ourselves
In some aboriginal cultures, there is a shared belief “that the future is behind us and Revisiting my childhood memories and sharing them with others reminds me
we are really moving towards the past.”27 In an interview that formed an article titled of how colossal the world appeared back then. In my memory, the wooden rafters that
“Dreaming the Beginning,” Robert Lawlor states that, “The past was a great epic that spanned the back veranda of my childhood home appeared so high that I would not
occurred, a great metaphysical dream-time that is completed, and yet its residues are imagine reaching them. Today, I can lean my arms against them and duck my head as
there vibrating in the earth as a memory. The present is only a way of unfolding more I enter the house to visit my grandparents. Realizing the inherent discrepancy in my
knowledge of our metaphysical origin.”28 Our stories continue to resonate in the land own memory motivated me to search deeper within the place where I was born and the
where we were born, and even years after uprooting, they vibrate throughout the place people who live there. It became clear to me that my memories were strengthened with a
and its people, waiting to be felt. Perhaps it is this feeling that so many of us experience greater knowledge of the place where they originated. Understanding each person’s story
in our travels, but never fully comprehend. Novelist Scott Russell Sanders writes of this helped me to locate my own narrative within that fabric, and deepen my understanding
visceral connection that we share with the world: of why the built world was so crucial to shaping all of this.
The mnemonic process is inevitably flawed due to our inability to fully recall
I have been thinking about stories of place in an effort to understand how the a memory in its most accurate and unaffected form, but its ability to give us context and
geography of mind adheres to the geography of earth. Each of us carries an bring stability to our lives is fundamental. If our senses fail due to age or disability, we
inward map on which are inscribed, as on Renaissance charts, the seas and rely on the threads of memory to connect us to all that is familiar in our lives. Michael
continents known to us. On my own map, the regions where I have lived most Ondaatje, in his recollections upon returning to his homeland and spending time with
attentively are crowded with detail, while regions I have only glimpsed from his mother, shares an intimate moment that displays the incredible potential of memory
windows or imagined from hearsay are barely sketched, and out at the frontiers to place us:
of my knowledge the lines dwindle away into blankness. Sacred stories arise
from our intuition that beneath the flow of creation there is order, within chance As I prepare to leave she walks with me, half deaf and blind, under several
there is permanence, within time, eternity.29 ladders in her living room that balance paint and workmen, into the garden
where there is a wild horse, a 1930 car splayed flat on its axles and hundreds
We are but a physical representation of the deep and complex lineage of meaning that of flowering bushes so that her eyes swim out into the dark green and unfocused
precedes us. Sander’s ideas of the relationship between our inward geography of mind purple. There is very little now that separates the house from the garden. Rain
and the physical geography of the world includes our ties with the built environment, and vines and chickens move into the building. Before I leave, she points to a
which is a firm and often iconic representation within our memories, and one of our group photograph of a fancy dress party that shows herself and my grandmother
mechanisms to locate ourselves. Lalla among the crowd. She has looked at it for years and has in this way
When I dug up the original survey of my family compound, drawn in 1978, memorized everyone’s place in the picture. She reels off names and laughs at the
I was pleasantly surprised that the site was given a name and not a mere lot number. facial expressions she can no longer see. It has moved, tangible, palpable, into
The neighbouring parcels were labelled with the full name of its inhabitants and framed her brain, the way memory invades the present in those who are old, the way
the property, which was formally titled “The Gem” and divided into five smaller parcels gardens invade houses here, the way her tiny body steps into mine as intimate
for my mother and her siblings. After finding the survey, I unearthed a host of stories as anything I have witnessed and I have to force myself to be gentle with this
that preceded me, which connect the home and its inhabitants to a much longer lineage, frailty in the midst of my embrace.30
deepening their relationship with the place.
Ondaatje’s writing exemplifies the different ways with which we use memory to locate
ourselves. In describing the decline of his mother’s senses, he draws upon his own. His
visual description of his home, from the dilapidated yard to the colourful flowering
bushes, serve to orient the reader and give context to his story. His writing is a reminder
that our memories cannot be separated from our senses or our body relative to the
environment in which they occurred.
40 41
Figure 14: The original site Figure 15: A sketch of the family
survey of the family property. property from the front gate.
Drawn by: R.I. Fernando Drawn by: Author.
42 43
Figure 16: The site plan
of my family property.
Drawn by: Author.
44 45
Notebook II
Reaching
Figure 17
46 47
Dear Sir Anjalendran,
I hope this email finds you well.
I am very grateful to have connected with Hussain, Moeez and Haris through a
very good friend of mine who is now pursuing his Master of Architecture in Canada
alongside me. They have said such wonderful things about their experience in Sri
Lanka, especially their time spent with you and many others.
Throughout the past year of my studies, I have worked towards producing a research
document for my thesis entitled: The role and potential of educational facilities – such
as the elementary school – in fostering learning and strengthening communities in
post‐civil war Sri Lanka. I am very interested in the relationship between learning and
space but also in the greater effect that the process of designing and building a school
could have on a community. Although I have learned a lot in the last two terms (eight
months), I could not be certain whether my research, thoughts, and design ideas for my
thesis will have any real agency in the social, political and cultural context of Sri Lanka.
In other words, my fear is that I would not be able to engage with and respond to the
November 25, 2014 reality and the nuances of the place and its people.
It was primarily my memories attending school as a child, prior to my family’s migration

to Canada at the age of seven that lead me to pursue this thesis. However, my plans
Several months before leaving Canada I had discovered the architecture
to visit Sri Lanka also stem from my desire to reconnect and better understand, both
of Sri Lanka’s most revered architect, Geoffrey Bawa. I learned that
architecturally and personally, the place I was born and hopefully one-day be able to
Bawa’s work has had a profound influence not only on Sri Lankan
contribute to it.
architecture but South Asia at large. He was a strong believer of the
country’s vernacular and was well-known for the creation of an
I landed in Sri Lanka on the 17th at 5 a.m. on an incredible misty morning. I have
architectural style called Tropical Modernism.
since been spending time with my family in Negombo, who I had not seen in over six
Geoffrey Bawa passed away in 2003, but his legacy continues
years. I have no words to express how it feels to be back home - especially to be able to
through the work of several of his students and associates. One such
spend time with my grandparents.
colleague is a distinguished architect named Anjalendran, who worked
with Bawa for ten years before starting his own practice from his
During my time here, I would be delighted to have the opportunity to meet with you
mother’s veranda. He is deeply rooted in tradition but follows his own
to share and learn more about Sri Lanka, its people and its architecture. Please let me
mind and the footsteps of his predecessor.
know if this would be possible and when would work best for you.
I was fortunate to connect with Anjalendran through a dear
friend’s colleague, who had worked with him. Shortly after reaching
I hope to hear from you soon.
Sri Lanka, I sent him an email to which I received a quick and precise
Take care,
response:
Jaliya
Dear Jaliya Fonseka,
Your email was expected.
Things are getting a bit tight, so please call early and make an appointment.
I am afraid tomorrow and the day after are out.
But please call me to make an appointment.
I enclose a location map

Wishes
48 49
November 27, 2014
Meeting Zaheer:
Just over a week after landing in Sri Lanka I was zipping down
Negombo Road towards the Capital to visit Anjalendran, who lives in
a suburb of the city of Colombo named Battaramulla. Within moments
of stepping into the rickshaw, my driver Zaheer and I were as deep in
conversation as we were in traffic. He was comfortable projecting his
voice over the chaos of the streets, but I found myself having to yell for
him to hear me. Zaheer expertly threaded the rickshaw between the
giant, lumbering buses and trucks. I held tightly onto the steel bars that
separated me from the driver. My eyes were glued to the road, except
for when I nodded into Zaheer’s rear-view mirror in acknowledgment
of his ongoing conversation.
Zaheer was a good friend of the family and the only driver
my uncle and aunt trusted to take me to Colombo. I was relieved to see
that he checked over his shoulder before switching lanes, which made
me believe that he was not trying to get us both killed. Every so often,
buses pushed their way through the traffic, inches away from us, their
two-tone air horns blasting into my ears. I found myself releasing one
hand from the steel bars, searching the surface of the warm leather seat
for a belt, only to remember that rickshaw’s were not equipped with
them.
Zaheer frequently pointed out of the rickshaw throughout the
trip, while sharing with me a detailed history of the cities and towns we
sped by. He was informed by the spectrum of everyday life: people he
passed, restaurants and shops he frequented, and even the atmosphere
of the roads he knew all too well. He was aware when buildings had
been refurbished, replaced or destroyed over the year; when political
powers changed and renewed old roads to accommodate themselves;
and where to find shortcuts when riots, rallies and festivities spilled
onto the streets. He rarely searched for an address, and instead relied
on iconic buildings, religious shrines, and the face of the street, which
he could draw as precisely as a portrait of himself in a mirror. He had
practiced intuitive ways to measure the road: arm’s lengths, strides, or
the phrase “a few minutes past the roundabout.”
Zaheer’s masterful display of navigating Sri Lanka’s streets with
his senses was an inspiring reminder of the power of the human body,
and the role of the rickshaw driver was transformed by his senses and
embodied the reading of his environment. Aside from my realization
that the streets of Sri Lanka were not for the faint-hearted, one thing
was clear—the streets were as much a part him as he was of them.
Figure 18: Zaheer standing proudly

next to his diesel rickshaw, Negombo.
50 51
By the time we reached our destination I had a throbbing
headache from the fumes, heat and two-tone horns, still ringing in
my head. The rickshaw is hardly a comfortable means of travel for
long distances but it best serves short, local outings. This had been
a three hour drive.
Anjalendran stood tall behind the vibrantly painted door
of his quaint home. He introduced himself and welcomed me,
holding his excited dog Kalu with one hand. Before he invited me
in, he requested that I visit a home that he had designed for the
entrepreneur Miles Young, called the “Crooked House.” I followed
his helper Kumar down the street, accompanied by a few of his
architecture student interns. We approached a very simple building
and awaited the gatekeeper who watched over the empty home
six months of the year. He eventually appeared out of the street
corner, holding up his sarong with one hand and a set of keys in
the other.
We entered into a vestibule that immediately revealed
the essence and beauty of the home. Daylight entered the small
courtyard, softening the heavy stone and concrete walls. The
surfaces had aged like a serene landscape. Edges were dulled, but
perfectly, such that it was temping to run my fingers along them.
The entire space longed for the rain that frequently entered it—
the monsoon room. I imagined the bell that hung at the edge
of the vestibule being rung more frequently by the rain than
any visitors. A few steps into the small courtyard space and I was
transported outside again. I started to question where the inside
ended and where the outside began, or whether there was any
form of boundary at all.
The inside of the home shared these sentiments. Each
space had its own unique and harmonious relationship with the
outside. I did not think I could be more moved by my experience
of the home, until the moment when I entered the courtyard.
Upon stepping out onto the small red pebbles scattered about, the
wind directed my eyes to the leaves that lightly shaded the space.
Without even knowing it, my headache dissolved to the sound
of leaves waving to the wind and the melodic chirping of birds
I couldn’t see. Within minutes, the cool breeze transported me
hundreds of miles away from the heart of the city to a remote
forest sanctuary.
Figure 19 (above): Entrance vestibule

of the Crooked House, Colombo
Figure 20 (following page): A view into the

courtyard of the Crooked House.
52 53
54 55
Thesis Abstract:
I was nervous returning to meet Anjalendran back at his Jaliya Fonseka
home. He offered me a tour of the place, which revealed itself April 09, 2014
around a small courtyard that separated his living space from his
small office. The spaces within his home were much smaller than The role and potential of educational facilities – such as the elementary school –
his design for the Crooked House, but I began to see similarities in fostering learning and strengthening communities in post-civil war Sri Lanka.
that constantly challenged my perception whether I was inside
or out. There was no real indication of an enclosure, aside from a The country’s relentless past of decades long civil war and the largest tsunami that the
thin metal screen, that disappeared out of focus. The entire house world has faced, still echoes in day-to-day life. In a time of complete devastation, the
wrapped around the courtyard and welcomed the rain. It was the struggle to recover often presents the greatest opportunity to re-envision the notion of
subtle design choices that defined the place: the colours, textures how built form can influence social change. One of the most important institutions for
and the simplicity of the materials. Although the open spaces were long term redevelopment is that of the school; it is the built form of a school that has the
seemingly large, they were made intimate by the aid of all the capacity to create environments that facilitate social change. The school is instrumental
things that filled it. Anjalendran’s home was crowded with “small in shaping the psyche and thought process of a student. Occupying such buildings for
things,” which is what he called his magnificent collection of relics many consecutive years instills certain characteristics in students that they carry with
and artwork at the lecture he gave at Cinnamon Lakeside Hotel them throughout their lives.
in Colombo. My eyes were constantly enticed as I walked through In the eyes of a student, a school is far more than an educational facility.
his home. Kalu followed closely at my heels. It is a second home, often a place of comfort, even a place of refuge from the harsher
Once I had returned to the ground level, Anjalendran elements of the world. In this light, the built form of a school has to be nuanced to
extended his arms towards a beautifully upholstered concrete seat, the contextual specificities of its culture and environment. Students in school are more
built into his living room. He sat down beside me in his planter’s likely to be successful and motivated if they are put in a learning environment that
chair, which is known in Sinhalese as a hansi putuwa. All types of lends itself to discovery, exploration, and divergent thinking. They are not only places
relics, sculptures and artwork surrounded me, making it difficult to for growth and study, but also a hub for social interaction and activity.The configuration
focus on the man who sat promptly in front of me. He beckoned of certain programs, its adjacencies and their thresholds, all elements of architecture, has
his students to join our conversation, and they left the small office a significant effect in shaping a student’s experience. The aesthetic of the building can
space and shuffled across the courtyard before huddling up against inspire a certain sense of pride and belonging that subconsciously influences students to
each other on his narrow staircase. be bound to the phenomenon of values and principles that their school represents.This is
Anjalendran then said, “So tell me,” and after a pause, what architecture does: it gives different people a different sense of belonging and loyalty,
“What is your story?” In a panic, I remembered that I was unsure and a totally unique mindset and eyes to see the world.
what exactly I was doing in Sri Lanka. All I knew was that I A school’s relationship with its community is crucial in understanding the
had a strong desire to be here. Not knowing how to answer his specificities and demographics of the community in order to be able to engage with it. A
question, I resorted to the only thing I knew of my thesis, which well maintained relationship with the community results in an inter-communal dialog
was limited to an abstract I had written months before my trip. that reveals various needs and demands from the community that the school could
Without hesitation I recited words from the abstract as if I had a potentially address. Knowing and understanding the community means knowing and
sheet of paper in front of me. Anjalendren watched me, puzzled. I understanding the students and their parents – an essential part of adapting the school’s
rambled nervously, extracting thoughts that I thoroughly believed program and curriculum to best suit their learning needs. This will encompass not only
in, but had not fully realized: the schools relationship to its greater urban fabric and its effect on the countries growth
and culture but also the effect it has on the growth of each individual student.
56 57
ANJALENDRAN: Okay. The question I think you asked me is: given
a problem of educational buildings in the tropical country, what are the
parameters one should consider? How would one approach it?
JALIYA: Well, I should have also said that I think education itself and
educational facilities can actually have a greater potential in society and
societal issues, and also issues of reconciliation.
ANJALENDRAN: Ah, yeah, that is only possible if the government

allows it. [He laughs] It’s not possible if the government doesn’t allow it.
No, I can’t answer that.You see, that type of thing, is trying to save the
world…and I wouldn’t know how to, you know. Believe me, you know
I will never get to that state in life, okay?
What you can do is to ask a little more humbler question:
What buildings can I do [design], which will give me a better
understanding of education than any old building. That’s the kind
of question I can answer. Whether you know if education can solve
reconciliation and all. All these have nothing to do with architecture—I
don’t think you get an answer, and it’s too far and doesn’t come within
that. I will always restrict myself to architecture.
Now, the challenge would be, whether one could recreate
that in a contemporary way. For example, in Ruhunu [University of
Ruhunu, Matara], Geoffrey [Bawa] is very clear that you don’t study
only inside the classroom, you study outside the classroom. That’s why
there are miles and miles of lakes [and outdoor spaces around the
University].You will find that in Hastorf Courts Complex most of the
litigants meet their clients around the veranda before the case and then
you go into the courts. So if you build courts without a veranda, the
whole process is taken out.
A lot of Western thinking and education, which seems to
emphasize function, misses out on a lot of things that are important
but not functional. [The students were whispering to one another
and Anjalendran told them that they could leave for the day if they
wished.]All you can say is: I’ve looked at the traditional building forms.
I’ve looked at the history and contemporary architecture of Sri Lanka.
I’ve looked at the educational buildings of Sri Lanka. And I find that,
perhaps these do perform their function, these don’t perform their
function. That’s all you can say. Because you are asking a multi-variable
problem—there is no simple answer.
As long as you set out to investigate, not to form a conclusion
or say there is an answer. There is no answer. All you can do is set out to
investigate something.
I would go with an open mind—not a conclusion.
Figure 21: Architect Anjalendran’s

residence, Colombo.
58 59
Seeking means: to have a goal, but finding means: to be free,
to be receptive, to have no goal. —Siddhartha, Herman Hesse.
I climbed back into the rickshaw profoundly moved. Zaheer drove

through the narrow streets while I sat quietly, somewhat embarrassed
but completely content. The man who has lived most of his life in this
country, and deemed the “Architect of Sri Lanka,” had just told me that
the ambitions of my thesis were unachievable.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Anjalendran’s humbling words
as Zaheer pushed and pulled the Rickshaw through the evening rush
hour. I forgot about the three choked lanes of lethargic traffic on either
side of me. The clamour and noise dissipated. I had not realized that I
had been trying to take on such a profound undertaking, a task well
beyond my grasp. I felt relieved of a huge weight that I had placed on
my shoulders. After months of endless internal dialogue concerning the
outcome of my thesis, I finally felt the freedom to pursue it.
Figure 22: Stuck in rush hour

traffic, Colombo.
60 61
Figure 23 (above): First floor
plan of the Crooked House,
Battaramulla, 2004-08.
Designed by: Anjalendran.
Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office.
Figure 24 (opposite): Floor plans and

section of Anjalendran’s home/office,
Battaramulla, 1991-93.
Designed by: Anjalendran.
Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office.
62 63
N o t e b o o k III
Climbing
Figure 25
64 65
December 07, 2014
Coincidentally, a friend of mine was visiting Sri Lanka for a wedding.
There was something serendipitous about the thought of us meeting in
Sri Lanka because it would be the first time we would see each other
in five years. I got in touch with him and we decided to meet up and
plan a trip to climb Adam’s Peak: Sri Lanka’s most sacred mountain.
One night, we met at his friend Ramzy’s apartment in
Colombo. The four of us, with the addition of one of their friends,
finished a bottle of arrack—a distilled alcoholic drink made from the
fermented sap of coconut flowers. The clock read 3 a.m., and our
anticipation to climb the mountain was seeping out of our bodies like
the sweat from the evening humidity. After lying down on the cool
tiled floor, we decided to begin our journey before the rush and heat
that would arrive with the morning. The city was a ghost town by
night. We were all asleep a few minutes aboard the bus, sliding side to
side, colliding with one another as the bus rolled through the empty
streets.
Eventually, we found ourselves squeezed in to the backseat of
a bright green rickshaw, heading up the side of a mountain. We were
in Kitulgala, a small town in the country’s wet-zone, which received
two monsoons a year. The town was entwined with the Kelani River,
which followed our route all the way from Colombo to Adam’s Peak.
Somewhere along the windy path, we decided to revive our sleepy
bodies and jumped into the water.
The river was high and flowed rapidly with the monsoon
rains. As I was carried along by the river between the lush, green banks,
I felt reinvigorated by the cold waters that rushed through me.
Figure 26: Floating down the

Kelani River, Kitulgala.
66 67
After our detour, we weren’t on the road for long before
pulling over to the side. Little did I know, there was an oasis hidden
beyond the trees, fifty feet below the side of the road. We descended
through the dense forest to the bottom, where we stumbled upon a
row of raised huts that faced a different portion of the Kelani River.
The huts sat lightly on the landscape, reminding me of the
ambalama: a small structure that serves as a resting place for the wayfarer,
and one of Sri Lanka’s most basic and traditional forms of architecture.
Six tree trunks, approximately five feet in length made up the base of
the hut and held a thin wooden platform. Thin branches skirted the
sides of the tree trunks and extended above them to meet with a series
of branches that made up the roof frame. Attached to the frame was
another series of branches that ran in the opposite direction and held
long pieces of woven coconut tree leaves, which kept the rain out. Like
the ambalama, the huts were constructed with wooden members that
were notched or tied together, embodying non-permanence. Each hut
gave the impression that it could be picked up and carried away, that it
was only occupying that space for a moment.
Although this humble retreat was worthy of a full day’s
expedition, we decided that it would be wise to take an hour-long nap
before catching the next bus to the base of Adam’s Peak. After all, we
had not slept the night before.
Maybe it was the calming sound of the river, the cool breeze
against our tired bodies or the lack of any sense of time, but we slept
well past our alarms. When I awoke, the tranquil forest was blazing with
the sound of our phone alarms. As I sat up inside the hut and stared
bleary-eyed into the sunset, I processed the very real possibility that this
mishap could ruin all of our plans.
Although we were of the understanding that we had overslept
a few hours, none of us had the energy to be concerned—our bodies
simply didn’t allow it. We quickly packed up our belongings and
climbed up the side of the hill in darkness. It was the first time I had
noticed that the roads were not lit, and were only illuminated by the
occasional headlights of passing vehicles. We spotted the faint light of
a rickshaw weaving around the side of the mountain like the pulsing
body of a firefly, and eagerly flagged it down.
Figure 27 (top): Resting place

behind the trees, Kitulgala.
Figure 28 (bottom):
Hatton railway station. 9:30 p.m.
68 69
On Climbing
The conversation was tense as our driver rushed along the Throughout my travels, I frequently ruminated about my thesis. Most of my contemplation
mountainside towards the nearest transit station. We may have already occurred on rocking buses, rickshaws and long walks through unfamiliar streets. My
missed the last bus up to the base of the mountain and we discussed unsettled mind was my unflagging companion. On my journey to climb Adam’s
whether we would forfeit the trip and spend the night returning home. Peak, it reminded me of the incredible expedition of a man whose unfulfilled goal of
After all, my three companions had to be back in Colombo the next climbing K2 led him to pursue an entirely different, but ultimately grander journey. I
night. had read the story of Greg Mortenson in “Three Cups of Tea”. For Mortenson, the
Our debate overwhelmed the driver and he frequently looked journey up treacherous mountains lead to an opportunity to build schools for children
over his shoulder in an attempt to make sense of us all. The rain joined in impoverished towns along the Karakorum in Northern Pakistan.The entire journey
in on our conversation and the only moments of pause were when we was challenging, but a particular portion of it stood out in my mind.
heard the rumbling of an approaching bus. We stared in silence as the After searching the mountains, Mortenson had located a reputable source to
driver hugged the inside of the road to avoid being crushed, or thrown purchase materials for building a school, in a small village named Korphe. He traveled
off the edge of the mountain. across the Himalayas to stock a truck with all the supplies and materials needed to build
The transit terminal was desolate, except for a few stray dogs the school. On his trek back, hundreds of feet above ground, he discovered that all his
finding shelter from the rain. We had missed the last bus. Before parting materials had been stolen. Mortenson eventually found his supplies, which had been
with the rickshaw driver, we had asked him whether he would be ransacked by one of his companions, and proceeded to Krophe. Upon his arrival, he met
willing to drive us up to the base of the mountain. His face lit up and with the village elder, Haji Ali:
eyes widened as he said “No, no. No, no...” We were later informed by
a local man that the trek up to the base of the mountain, beyond this “I brought everything we need to build a school,” he said in Balti, as he’d been
point, was steep and dangerous. Smaller vehicles avoided this route, rehearsing. “All the wood, and cement and tools. It’s all in Skardu right now
especially after sunset when their headlights barely illuminated a few […] I came back to keep my promise,” Mortenson said, looking Haji Ali in the
meters ahead, making it difficult for larger vehicles to see them. eye. “And I hope we can begin building it soon, Inshallah.”
We were on the verge of giving up, but none of us truly “Doctor Greg […] we want very much a school in Korphe. But we have
wanted to. As a last attempt to salvage our trip, we walked through the decided. Before the ibex can climb K2, he must learn to cross the river. Before it
local streets asking rickshaw drivers whether they would be willing is possible to build a school, we must build a bridge.This is what Korphe needs
to take us up to the base of the mountain. Most of them were sound now,” said the village elder.31
asleep, newspapers covering their face. After a number of rejections, we
headed back towards the train station, hoping to catch the next train Once Greg had come to terms with the fact that materials could not be transported into
back to Colombo. the village without an adequate bridge, he realized that he may never find the funding
We were no longer aware of the rainfall that persisted he needed for the endeavour and returned to his apartment in Berkeley, California. One
throughout the night. As we neared the station, a man rushing in the day, while lying in bed, he received a phone call from Lou Reichardt—a mountaineer
opposite direction slowed down to ask us where we were headed. who had summited K2, and one of Mortenson’s heroes. “Pull yourself together, Greg.
Like most others we had encountered on our trip, he recognized right Of course you’ve hit a few speed bumps,” Reichardt said, “But what you’re trying to do
away that we were not locals. He turned out to be a rickshaw driver is much more difficult than climbing K2.” Mortenson was aware that Lou Reichardt
and was headed back to his rickshaw to end his night. He asked us to knew something about suffering and undertaking difficult goals. With Reichardt’s
accompany him back to his rickshaw, where he agreed to drive us up insight, he realized that he hadn’t failed. He just hadn’t completed the climb—yet.32
to the mountain. He kicked his rickshaw to a start and steered to the
nearest petrol station. Overjoyed by this fortunate encounter, we put all
our trust in him to transport us to the base of Adam’s Peak.
70 71
The mind includes more than the intellect. It contains a history of what
we learn through our feet. —E.V. Walter
A small village sat quietly at the base of the mountain with storefronts
along its edges. We stepped out of the rickshaw onto cool, moist soil.
The bright lights attached to the storefronts illuminated a variety of
clothing and food items, distracting our eyes from the tiny speckles of
light that followed the mountain path. Like a constellation, it flickered
faintly in the distance. While I stared at the mesmerizing silhouette of
the mountain, I realized that this would be my first climb.
We hastily devoured a platter of “short eats”: deep fried
pastries filled with potato, meat and a mixture of spices. We washed
it all down with a steaming cup of ginger tea before storing our
belongings in a small room, which the store owners had offered. Then
it was onwards along the path to the top.
Every year, 20,000 pilgrims climb Adam’s Peak for their
own moral and spiritual beliefs. The pilgrimage marks a journey that
Buddhists believe Buddha took on his path to enlightenment: the peak
bearing a mark of his footstep before he stepped into the clouds for
an undisturbed meditation. Brahmins believe that it is the summit that
bares the footprint of Shiva, and Muslims and Christians regard the
peak as the initial stepping point of Adam, the first ancestor, after being
exiled from the Garden of Eden.
The mountain is typically climbed at night to avoid the
intense daytime heat. Normally, the path would be lit by the vending
stalls but most of them were still locked up from the rainy season, when
the path is closed.
As we continued up steps and along a clearly marked pathway,
the realization that we were the only ones on the mountain became
more evident. For a long portion of our walk, rows of Buddhist flags
hung over our heads and fluttered in the cold air. Either side of our
path was indiscernibly dark. The indiscernible darkness loomed on
either side of the path, and our appreciation for the ground we tread
upon grew as we climbed.
Some ways up, we noticed that we had company. Two stray
dogs from the base of the mountain had been following alongside us.
They seemed as overjoyed by our company as we were of theirs. We fed
them a few morsels of food and they proceeded to accompany us up
the mountain.
Figure 29 (top): Delhouse bus station

& mountain beyond. 2:15 a.m.
Figure 30 (bottom): A narrow

bridge along the footpath.
72 73
Rain fell on the cool stone steps that carried us up the
mountain. As it persisted, the ground around us was battered and
portions of the path became sore with thick puddles of mud, which
we cautiously avoided. If I hadn’t noticed earlier in the day, I couldn’t
ignore now that with each step, my body screamed in pain and our
lack of sleep quickly caught up to us. I remembered that my uncle had
suggested engaging in conversation to pass the time but none of us had
the energy to hold a conversation, let alone speak. The large silhouette
of the mountain loomed over us each time we stopped for breath and
there was no indication that we were getting any closer.
In an attempt to break the eeriness, I searched my phone for
a soundtrack. At first, nothing I found felt appropriate, but I eventually
stumbled upon Zakir Hussain’s “Making Music.” The soundtrack lifted
our tired bodies and surrounded us like a warm blanket. The soothing
sound of the flute was the soul and the powerful rhythm of the tabla
gave us a heartbeat—an energy to follow.
As we neared the top, we no longer had to make a conscious
effort to lift our legs with each step. The strain had shifted to our arms,
as we gripped the steel railings on either side of the steep path, which
became narrower as we ascended. At the edge of the uneven precipice,
with a cool but persistent wind washing over me, it felt like clinging
to the pulpit of a sailboat’s bow, surging across an ocean. For a moment
I lost focus, tripping forward onto my next step, but my arm refused
to release the handrail as if I would fall off the face of the earth. We
eagerly pushed through the last steps, nearing the 7,359 foot tall peak.
The last few notes of the soundtrack rang in the darkness as we reached
the top.
Walking on flat ground had never felt so comforting. At the
entrance we removed our shoes and socks, noticing that our bodies
were steaming as the heat dissipated into the crisp, cold air. We began
to explore, realizing that we were the only ones up there. The two stray
dogs hesitantly followed us around a platform that was not much larger
than the footprint of the shop where we had left our belongings. Just
before we competed the full loop of the platform, a man startled us,
chasing the dogs towards the exit yelling, “This place is sacred!” We
were sad to see them get chased out. After all, they had traveled up the
entire mountain alongside us.
There was a seating platform facing the direction of sunrise
and we all huddled together. The cold made its way deep into our
bodies and we shivered uncontrollably. I reached into my backpack
for a dry pair of socks and I found a blanket that my aunt had packed.
Gradually, groups of people entered the mountain top, most of
them foreigners. Before we knew it, we were surrounded by people
clustering for warmth.
Figure 31 (above): The path lit all the way

up the mountain.
Figure 32 (following spread): The steep

climb nearing Adam’s Peak.
74 75
76 77
December 08, 2014
Color is where the brain and the universe meet.
—Maurice Merleau-Ponty
We were all from different walks of life, from different parts of the
world and we climbed the mountain for our own particular reasons.Yet
in that moment, a quiet yearning filled each of us as we stared out into
the horizon, waiting for the sun to rise from the great arc of the world.
The rain had stopped when dawn broke and our eyes searched
the abyss, catching glimpses of the landscape. There was a deafening
silence as the sun peaked from behind the mountain tops. Large swaths
of colour washed the sky as if a painter applied a stroke every few
minutes. The clouds gave way to hues of deep blue, soaking everything
around us. Then the remnants of clouds absorbed the sun’s radiance,
glowing bright red and orange. The tones penetrated so deep I began to
question the colour of the trees, the clouds and my own skin.
Completely drowned in awe, I wondered whether this
natural phenomenon existed in my everyday life. Upon seeing the
most magnificent spectacle of nature, I began to wonder why each
day’s experience didn’t prompt my heart and mind to search deeper.
I thought about the thousands of pilgrims that climbed the mountain
in search of something, and whether they retained the qualities of the
climb in their everyday life. Whether the spectacle of the sunrise stayed
with them throughout their lives.
We proceeded to climb a few steps onto another platform,
where we rang a bell to celebrate our ascent to the top. And as
the sound of the bell echoed into the vast landscape, the sound of
something much more subtle reverberated deep inside of me.
Figure 33 (top): A view from the

platform of Adam’s Peak. 7,359 feet.
Figure 34 (bottom): Sunrise at

Adam’s Peak. 6:15 a.m.
78 79
80 81
Earth, isn’t this what you want: rising up inside us invisibly once more?
—Rainer Maria Rilke
Each step down was a step deeper into my thoughts. Nightfall had been
lifted like a veil off the serene landscape. I was seeing it all for the first
time: the sun, radiating effortlessly through the soft sky; the bundles of
cloud below me, floating between the mountaintops as if they were
large pockets of water. The landscape had never appeared so pure,
sublime, and perfect. It was the very thing that filled my lungs, and yet
what left me breathless.
I could only describe the subtle sensation that emanated from
within me as a connection to all that was around me. A realization that
perhaps my place in the world was no different than the clouds that
caressed the mountaintops and the rivers that flowed swiftly beneath.
Everything in the landscape retained a vibrancy that was boundless. As
this sensation penetrated deeper into the corners of my body, I couldn’t
help but feel that I have long lacked this connection, and that it was
entering me for the first time.
Figure 35 (previous page): A view from the

highest point of the platform. 6:30 a.m.
Figure 36 (above): A Buddhist monk

embracing the sunrise. 7:35 a.m.
82 83
N o t e b o o k IV
Tr e k k i n g
Figure 37
84 85
December 09, 2014
I awoke early one morning to the sound of roosters that I didn’t
recognize. I was at my aunt’s house in Walahapitya, where my paternal
grandmother was visiting. My father’s extended family lived in a more
rural part of Sri Lanka, two hours north of Negombo. Everyone was
already awake, going about their daily activities when I walked into
the kitchen and sipped the hot cup of tea my aunt had prepared for
me. I carried it to the front veranda and sat for a moment enjoying the
countless rows of slender coconut trees, weaving behind one another
like the thick strands of a wool sweater.
I recalled my heart-thumping bus ride back from Adam’s Peak.
We were lucky to have found seats on the bus, which was packed from
end to end as it descended the mountainside. It was impossible to rest
my head on the seat in front of me as the crowd swayed from side to
side. Each turn seemed to bring us closer to the edge of the hillside. My
seat faced the wider landscape and we were so close to the edge that I
was not able to see the ground beneath me. I wished to fall asleep but
instead held my breath with each turn.
Halfway into a sharp turn, the driver slammed on the brakes.
Everyone on the bus dropped like bowling pins as we screeched to a
stop. While the crowd struggled onto their feet, there was a brief view
out the front. Only the loud Sri Lankan dance music continued, rattling
the speakers in the background. We had stopped face to face with
an oncoming bus that had taken the turn just as quickly. The driver
nodded his head while the other bus reversed, then he shifted back into
gear and continued as if nothing had happened.
I was suddenly roused from my reverie by the startling
appearance of a dark figure shuffling through the tops of the coconut
trees. Once I stood up and focused my eyes into the distance, I realized
that it was actually a man standing on a rope strung up between the
trees. I later learned that it was his occupation to move from one tree
to the next, placing a clay pot on the coconut flower to collect a sap,
which was then boiled to make coconut treacle. He performed this
ritual twice a day.
Figure 38: The view from my aunt’s

front veranda in Walahapitiya.
86 87
On Dwelling
Yet, architectural form is humanly meaningful only when it is experienced in

resonance with life—real, remembered or imagined. —Juhani Pallasmaa
A month after arriving in Sri Lanka, I had fallen into the rhythm of everyday life. I
saw my uncle driving off to the construction site early in the morning. My aunt prepared
my cousins and rushed them off to school on her way to work. I helped my grandmother
and grandfather make their way to the front veranda, where we sat in silence.When the
bread truck announced its arrival with its familiar tune at four o’clock each evening, I
would rush over and buy each person’s favourite bun. Each of these daily rituals were
savoured with a hot cup of tea.
Our everyday repeated actions and experiences become sedimented into the
reality of a place, like images overlaid on each other. Author Sarah Robinson, in her
book “Nesting: Body, Dwelling, Mind,” writes that “dwelling is an exchange and
fusion; as I settle in a space, the space settles in me and it turns into a ingredient of
my sense of self.”33 The word “dwell” derives from the Greek “homois”: meaning “of
the same kind,” which suggests that our home is an extension of ourselves. A dwelling
is an exchange between body, mind and place. It is not simply the act of inhabiting a
place, but the interactions that occur as a result of that relationship. Our built world is a
facilitator of these interactions, and we should welcome them as we do visitors into our
homes. In “A Hut of One’s Own,” author Ann Cline writes that “as we are born into
air, we are born into buildings. After that, we tend to take both for granted.”34 Our frail
bodies are so predisposed to buildings, we forget that they are not an extension of the
earth or ourselves. It is easy to forget how sensitive our relationship with our world is
and how critical our built form is to help support that.
The world we live in is full of meaning that stems from the relationships
that arise from the contextual interaction between body, mind, and world. Dwelling is
a dialogue we have with our environment that transcends the realm of our immediate
shelter. It includes the coconut trees that stand lightly on the landscape and lean ever so
gently to greet us. They loom over my childhood memories and weave into my dreams.
As a storm approaches, a gust of wind blows open the windows and we rush to collect
our clothes that hang drying between the trees.The mass of the rain falls onto the ground
like a thick blanket, blowing the motionless air from outside into our homes.The gust of
wind signifies a change in our dwelling habits—the monsoon rains have arrived at our
doorstep.When the electricity is cut in the evening, to dwell is to gather around a candle,
to fill the space of home as fully as the ambiance of the soft flickering flame.
Figure 39: The dog cage nested into

the yard, nearing sundown, Negombo.
88 89
An Early Morning
Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality as those
of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of dreams; we
are never real historians, but always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps
nothing but an expression of a poetry that was lost. —Gaston Bachelard
My mother woke us at four in the morning with cups of tea clanking in both her
hands. Made with powdered milk and heaps of sugar, the tea brought warmth to early
mornings as we rushed to get ready. It was the day of our family trip, and the sun had
not yet risen. The ever bustling yard was now silent and still, except for the pulsing
green fireflies that flitted through the darkness. But each of the four houses on the
property buzzed with activity; my aunts, uncles and cousins were packing their travel
bags and snacks.
When I was prepared, I unlocked a number of whimsical locks on the back
door and ran as quickly as I could through the shared wilderness of our backyard. I ran
because of my excitement for the trip, but also from the fear of what may live in the
dense foliage under the coconut trees on either side of my beaten path. I followed the
dull yellow light of the incandescent bulb, which penetrated the thick darkness. It hung
by a wire on the back of my grandparents’ home, and swayed in the wind like the beam
from a distant lighthouse. My grandparents’ home, once inhabited by my mother and
her siblings, sat simply on the opposite end of the yard behind the slender tree trunks.
As the light got brighter, I slowed down and caught my breath. I pushed
through the unlatched door and into my grandparents’ kitchen, where they sat with a
cup of tea, taking small bites of bread marinated with marmite.They welcomed me with
warm smiles and we sat silently for a moment. Soon, the sun would rise, bringing a
chaos of sounds, smells and movement. A few more bites and sips of tea, and we were
ready to depart on another family journey.
Figure 40: My grandparents’ old

home through the yard at dawn.
90 91
December 20, 2014
Living in me, borne in mind, these places make up the landscape on
which I walk even when my feet are still. —Scott Russell Sanders
A white van was parked outside of my aunt’s house. It was not yet
5 a.m. and Ananda, a friend of my uncle, had arrived to take us on a
family trip to Nuwara Eliya. He had a large van and worked part time
as a tour bus driver.
There were ten of us, which made for a tight squeeze in
the van. Before leaving, we poked our heads into my grandparents’
bedroom to say goodbye, since they couldn’t come along with us. We
had hired an additional caretaker for the duration of our travels, but all
of us felt uneasy leaving them behind.
Throughout my stay, I always compared my travel plans against
Anjalendran’s suggestions. We were to pass a number of architectural
sites that he had mentioned and these were integrated into our trip.
Once you cross a certain boundary, the buildings create a sense of

tranquillity. So the Buddhists, in the built environment, have done two
very significant things. Number one: if they found any organic things
like a boulder, they incorporate it into the composition.That is a very
Buddhist tradition. All Sinhalese buildings are north south—they
are not aligned crookedly.That’s one of the most unique things about
Sri Lankan, Sinhalese architecture. All Sinhalese buildings are axial.
It incorporates organic things in its composition. Number two: the
Sinhalese have been good at creating a sense of tranquillity, given the
building parameters.35
Figure 41: “Drummers’ Hall,”

Embekka Temple, Kandy.
92 93
Figure 42 (left): Wooden rafter detail called “Madol
Kurupawa,” pinning 26 members without nails.
Figure 43 (right): Wooden beam running Figure 44: Ornate hand-carved

through ornate rafters. wooden pillar detail, each unique.
94 95
Our shoes and slippers were left at the entrance and our feet
sunk into the cool morning sand. Within moments of entering the
temple, I felt an incredibly calming sensation resonating from the place.
There was only the rustling of the leaves on the elderly bodhi tree, the
smell of incense burning in the distance, and the flickering oil lamps
against the perfectly white walls.
The Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic, also known as the Sri
Dalada Maligawa, is a Buddhist temple, which houses the relic of the
tooth of the Buddha. The housing of the relic in the city of Kandy has
a long history, dating back to the ancient kings of Sri Lanka. Because
of this, it is regarded not only a place of worship, but also a centre of
governance for the country.
Before we entered the temple, we reached a line of people,
where a number of armed personnel screened each person before entry.
My uncle leaned over and whispered that there had been a terrorist
bombing at the temple several years ago, and that security had been
introduced since.
The tranquillity of the place was diminished by this unnatural
process. I walked slowly through the scanner and unzipped my camera
bag for the security guards before walking through. I remembered an
article I had read entitled “A Place Called Serendib: On War, Peace, and
Silence in Sri Lanka” that had shed light on the perpetual silence the
world endures after war or conflict. Author Darren C. Zook wrote:
The more we look at the world, the more silent we become. Or we

orchestrate with great precision and acumen the movements and rhythm
for a music and a chorus we cannot hear, or choose not to hear. In the
silent amphitheatre, our memories atrophy, and our historians grow
complacent and sleepy. It is within these silent aesthetics, these still-life
ballets, that the armies of the mute attempt to give voice, or to faith-heal
the deaf, by undertaking acts such as the bombing of the Temple of the
Tooth in the highlands of Kandy in Sri Lanka: perhaps the assassins,
whoever they were, hoped to shatter the complacent silence, to stop us
from the act of forgetting, to insist with deadly persistence that we always
remember what peace requires us to forget. And yet after the dust settles
and the bodies are removed, we turn back to the silent symphony. For
all its wars, genocides, disasters, famines, oppressions, persecutions, and
extinctions, the world remains a frightfully quiet place.36
As we continued deeper into the temple, my frustrations for

the security procedures quickly dissipated. So had the dense fog that
had momentarily captured the morning sunlight. And again, I only
heard the leaves, the branches and the sound that my feet made with
each step onto the moist white sand. Once again, there was silence.
Figure 45 (above): Natha Devalaya

Temple Square, Kandy.
Figure 46 (following spread): Temple

of the Sacred Tooth Relic, Kandy. 6:20 a.m.
96 97
98 99
Nuwara Eliya was the sleepiest of the cities in Sri Lanka. There was
an ephemeral quality to the roads that wound up the sides of the
mountain and through the clouds, mist, and the endless rain that
nourished the lush tea country. The city is known for its temperate
climate and is home to Horton Plains Nations Park, a protected area
covered by montane grassland and cloud forest. We were headed to the
plains to visit the sheer precipice within the park named World’s End.
Reaching Horton Plains was a tense drive, for there was only
rain, and we could barely see the road out of the van. I constantly
checked on Ananda in case he wanted to pull over until the rain eased,
but his eyes did not leave the invisible road in front of him. He made
his way through an increasingly rugged landscape without a hint of
hesitation, leaving me to wonder whether his eyes even blinked.
When we reached Horton Plains, everyone was exhausted
and reluctant to leave the warmth of the van. I zipped up my sweater
and stepped out into a gust of wind that pulled me closer to the edge
of the hill, where a few other vehicles had parked. I struggled towards a
wooden shack, the only building in sight.
I wrestled the door shut behind me, and was surprised to
find the inside of the hut pleasantly warm and dry. A few people were
huddled around a table sipping tea. Not long after I sat down with my
tea, the door flung open; a gust of wind had blown in several members
of my family. We sipped our hot tea and snacked on a platter of biscuits,
as the world outside shook furiously.
Figure 47: Winding

hillside roads, Nuwara Eliya.
100 101
The restrooms were located in the back of the building, only
accessible from the outside. I pushed the rear exit open with all my
weight and took a few unsteady steps in the rain before entering the
dark restroom. The only light was from a small window that framed
the landscape beautifully. That contrasting image, so tranquil and
unexpected, resonated with me like a melody, piercing through the
turmoil of wind and rain. As the bathroom door shook with fury, I was
granted an opportunity to see it differently—the misunderstood beauty.
We left the shelter of the hut and ventured through the heavy
rain that mercifully paused to allow me to see my family behind me.
There was only a path, beaten to the bone by previous travelers that
stretched on through several feet of rain, mud and stone. There was
something incredibly otherworldly about Horton Plains—a landscape
that felt like it belonged in my dreams.
I scanned the landscape, realizing that there was not a single
human being in sight. But when I returned my gaze to the path, my
eyes caught a glimpse of something that brought me to a halt. A sambar
deer stood in the distance, as quiet as the shrubbery around it.
By the time we reached World’s End, none of us were the
slightest bit excited about it. A small wooden platform reached out
from the edge of the mountain into the abyss. It felt as though the
clouds were carrying us—our wise brothers and sisters. The only
trace of the earth beyond was a glimpse of the distant mountaintops,
appearing in and out of view as the clouds rolled by like a river flowing
through the rocky sky.
Figure 48: A framed view of

Horton Plains, Nuwara Eliya.
102 103
Figure 49 (top): The beaten
path to World’s End, Horton Plains.
Figure 50 (bottom): A sambar deer Figure 51: Looking out from

blending into the landscape. World’s End. A 4,000ft drop.
104 105
December 22, 2014
Anjalendran had designed an SOS Children’s Village in Nuwara Eliya,
which I contacted just before the trip and was relieved to hear that they
were open to my visit on such short notice.
I learned that SOS Children’s Villages is an international
organization that provides care for orphans and children in poverty. At
the core of every SOS Village is the “mother,” who cares for up to ten
children in a “family house.” This ensures that the children grow up in
a loving and supportive family environment, surrounded by their foster
siblings and relatives.
We drove twenty minutes from the cottage we were staying at
in the light rain before taking a sharp downward turn and pulling into
a narrow driveway. I felt the damp air against my face when I hopped
out of the van onto a beautiful cobble stone path. Grass and moss
grew around it and absorbed the drops of rain as they landed. I gently
knocked on the door of a beautiful old building and entered.
I was shown around the village by a kind man who had been
working with the children for several years. He held an umbrella in
his hand, but neither of us minded the rain. We left the administration
building and headed down the stone path to a spot where the landscape
opened up and presented us with an incredible view of the valley
ahead.
We approached a flight of concrete stairs that bridged
the platforms that lead to the children’s homes, framing the vista. I
cautiously proceeded down the wet steps, thinking that in return for
their adversity in life, these children were gifted with the most serene
and tranquil view.
Figure 52: A view of the communal

stairs to the lower levels.
106 107
Figure 53: The “family houses” Figure 54: A view up the communal
framing a view of the mountainside. stairs bridging the homes.
108 109
Rain continued to fall, dripping down my face and leading
my eyes to the concrete steps, accented with vibrant blue tile details
that were no larger than my toes. Two boys ran across our path, pausing
in front of their home with shy smiles upon their faces.
The stairs ended at a small path that turned to follow the side
of the hill, surrounded by verdant grass. I paused to look back up the
hill. The bright blue handrails stood out against their surroundings, and
the heavy concrete and stone had a familiar softness, appearing light
and unsubstantial against the radiant landscape. It was hard to believe
that each platform held back the earth it was resting against.
As soon as I stepped into one of the homes, I was greeted by
its warmth. A group of young children were gathered around a large
dining table, so captivated by their work that they did not notice us
enter. I met the mother of the home, who was preparing a meal in
the kitchen. She seemed fairly young and carried with her an air of
sincerity.
We were in a wide open space that spanned two storeys and
was brightly lit by a number of large windows. They drew my attention
to a few openings that look into the spaces upstairs. Without disturbing
the children, I quietly walked to the living quarters.
Figure 55: A vibrant tile detail

embedded into the concrete stairs.
110 111
There were a number of bedrooms with openings into the
double height space. Each room was furnished with bunk beds. I knelt
on the parapet, steadying myself before reaching out as far as I could to
capture the stoic children in a photograph. Before I brought my camera
into focus, one of the boys saw me over his shoulder and jumped to his
feet, making funny faces for the camera. The younger ones hesitated but
eventually joined their older brothers and sisters. I felt badly for having
disrupted their work but couldn’t stop smiling as I left the home.
We followed the narrow walkway, passing a number of family
houses that quietly sat in the rain. Within each, the story of a diverse
family unfolded, sharing only the glimpses of the depth and humanity
that could fit through its colourful window frames.
I realized that my preconceived notions of the SOS Children’s
Village were far off . I was in awe each time we passed a home and saw
the children playing with their toys, or on the font veranda reading a
book. Perhaps, I had presumed that these children would be unhappy,
longing for their childhood homes or desiring to be with their own
families. I wondered whether the children’s past had helped them
empathize with one another, allowing them to find refuge amongst
their brothers and sisters. Every time I caught a glimpse of their
preoccupied eyes, I felt a sincere happiness radiating from them.
Figure 56 (left): Children gathered around

the dining area of their family home.
Figure 57 (right): Children making faces

at the camera.
112 113
Figure 58 (left): Children reading
and playing on the front veranda.
Figure 59 (right): Clothes drying Figure 60: Stairs built into the
on a rack under the roof canopy. landscape to connect the family homes.
114 115
An older sister read to her younger siblings. Two children
stood in the rain holding toys, waiting for their neighbouring cousins
to arrive. A colourful array of clothing hung drying on a line above
their heads. We moved through a changing landscape, slowly descending
with the topography of the valley. A series of concrete steps followed
the houses, integrated directly into the landscape, connecting us with
the lower levels.
After walking through the entire village, my guide pointed
into the distance and asked me whether I would like to take a
photograph of the village from the hill. I quickly packed my camera
and followed him up a narrow gravel road.
The SOS Children’s Village almost disappeared into the layers
of the hillside. From a distance, it was indistinguishable from the other
homes that also hung from the sloped landscape. The vibrant colors
were dulled by the downpour, but the window frames, doors and
handrails gave it away. As I focused the lens into the sleepy landscape,
even from a distance, I felt the incredibly vigorous energy of the
children that called it home.
Figure 61: The children finding

shelter from the heavy rain.
116 117
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the
river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped
itself in the forests. —Pablo Neruda
...And once again, we were back on the soggy and windy roads, rolling
uncontrollably down the mountain, swaying side to side—half asleep
and half in the clouds.
Figure 62 (above): A view of the SOS

Children’s Village from the hillside.
Figure 63 (following spread): The fleeting

clouds from the roads, Nuwara Eliya.
118 119
120 121
Notebook V
B a w a Tr a i l
[Interlude]
Figure 64
122 123
December 23, 2014
It is impossible to explain architecture in words—architecture cannot be
totally explained but must be experienced. —Geoffrey Bawa
I was half awake when I acquainted myself with the group of architects
and architecture students that were traveling with me. They had landed
in Sri Lanka an hour ago, and we were already speeding down the
Katunayake expressway towards Mirrisa. Ananda had cleaned his van of
all traces of our previous trip to the mountains. Despite being drowsy,
our excitement was still palpable in anticipation of witnessing the
architecture of Geoffrey Bawa. My companions had compiled a list of
buildings and sites they hoped to visit in their short trip to Sri Lanka,
which I had consolidated into a four day long trip. We would start at
Mirrisa, the southernmost tip of Sri Lanka, and journey along the west
coast on our Bawa trail, back to Colombo.
My head nodded while I desperately attempted to stay awake
so that I could make sure Ananda would not fall asleep. He didn’t even
budge. Neither of us had time to sleep after returning from our trip
to Nuwara Eliya the night before. Already the landscape along the
highway glowed as sunlight penetrated the clouds. I occasionally caught
a glimpse of peacocks in the distance.
Before arriving in Sri Lanka, my knowledge of Geoffrey Bawa
had extended to only a number of books about him. I was unaware
that Sri Lanka had given rise to such a revered and influential architect.
After a month into my travels, I was beginning to learn more about him
through his assistants, including Anjalendran, who had become a friend
to Bawa towards the end of his life.
I was fascinated by the long and deeply-rooted lineage Bawa
had established. One could see that he was devoted to sharing his
experience, ingenuity and beliefs with his apprentices—a process that I
saw repeated in Anjalendran’s instruction of his own students. It occurred
to me that this passing of knowledge from master to pupil, which was
rare to find elsewhere, had resulted in a lineage that was both unique and
meaningful. Bawa was a representation of the lasting change that could
be accomplished through architecture, and it was truly a privilege to gain
insight from his life’s work, and to be among those who would carry on
his legacy.
Figure 65: Southern Expressway

towards Galle, Kalutara.
124 125
The Jayawardene House
Geoffrey Bawa, 1997
Mirissa, Sri Lanka
Bawa designed the Jayawardene House as a holiday home high on

a cliff-top overlooking the eastern end of Weligama Bay. It carries
only the bare architectural features of Bawa’s well-known monsoon-
style house. It is situated among a grove of trees, with concrete
columns supporting an over-sailing steel roof. The house is reduced
to only its essentials: an open loggia with a raised rear section, which
is above the bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen, and a simple pavilion
resting on a stepped plinth facing the sunset.37
Figure 66 (top): The path turning to reveal

the Jayawardene House, Mirrisa.
Figure 67 (bottom): The house, along with the

trees, open to the landscape beyond.
126 127
Figure 68: Site plan of Figure 69: Ground floor plan of
the Jayawardene House, Mirissa. the Jayawardene House, Mirissa.
Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates. Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates.
128 129
The Lighthouse Hotel
Geoffrey Bawa, 1995
Galle, Sri Lanka
The Lighthouse Hotel is situated on a rocky promontory a mile

north of the old Arab port of Galle. The main entrance and
reception buildings sit on the southern tip of the ridge, and looks
out over the inhospitable sea. It confronts the relentless waves, while
providing contrast as a place of shelter and tranquillity. The staircase
was designed by Laki Senanayake, a friend of Bawa, and is a swirling
mass of Dutch and Sinhalese warriors in a reenactment of the battle
of Randeniya. Each part of the building is connected to the others,
such that the eye is continually invited to explore each subsequent
space.38
Figure 70 (top): A sheltered walkway

built around the rocky landscape.
Figure 71 (bottom): The outdoor

walkways wrapping around the courtyard.
130 131
Figure 73 (above): A quaint seating area with a
private view onto the courtyard.
Figure 72: The building showcasing Figure 74 (following page): Rainwater

a tree in the rain. falling into the courtyard pond.
132 133
134 135
Figure 75: The staircase to the lobby, Figure 76: The swirling mass of Dutch and Sinhalese
designed by artist Laki Senanayake. warriors reenacting the battle of Randeniya in 1630.
136 137
Figure 77 (top): Cross-section
through the Lighthouse Hotel
from east to west looking south.
Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates.
Figure 78 (above): Plan of the Figure 79 (above): Plan of the

Lighthouse Hotel at the main terrace level. Lighthouse Hotel at the entry level.
Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates. Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates.
138 139
The Triton Hotel
Geoffrey Bawa, 1979
Ahungalla, Sri Lanka
Bawa began planning this hotel by carefully examining the shape

of the site. A long, narrow beach touches an equally slender strip of
land, which accesses the main Colombo-Galle Road. His strategy
was to embody the traditional rest house by designing two long
wings that faced the ocean and allowed the site to breathe through
the building.
The arrival to the hotel is dramatized with a view of the sea

across a reflecting pool, followed by a polished lobby floor and
swimming pool area. The Triton Hotel’s shape is restrained: a plain
elevation advancing and receding under the overhanging eaves. The
appearance is simple and uncluttered: a modern seaside retreat with
the sights and sounds of the ocean.39
Figure 80 (top): A view through the lobby past

the swimming pool towards the beach.
Figure 81 (bottom): A view from the lobby looking

back at the entry sequence to the building.
140 141
Figure 82 (below):
Site plan of the Triton Hotel
with the ground floor.
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and Begg
office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
Figure 83 (opposite): First floor plan (below)

and second floor plan (above) of the Triton Hotel.
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and Begg office,
lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
142 143
Club Villa Hotel
Geoffrey Bawa, 1970’s
Bentota, Sri Lanka
The Club Villa was originally a beach-side house at Bentota built

sometime in 1880, but which fell into ruin. The only remaining
aspect of the two-storey structure was a few of the bedrooms.
The house was bought in 1979, and saw the addition of a loggia
and courtyard, in which a swimming pool was constructed. Later,
bedrooms and kitchens were added to the house, which remain to
the present day.40
Figure 84: The quaint entry courtyard

of Club Villa Hotel.
144 145
Figure 85 (left): A view from the common Figure 87 (above): The sheltered exterior spaces
space into the courtyard. wrapping around the courtyard swimming pool.
Figure 86 (right): A concrete stairway Figure 88 (following page): The view from
leading to a bedroom suite. the rear garden looking back at the hotel.
146 147
148 149
Figure 89: Site plan and Figure 90: Floor plan of
section of Club Villa Hotel. Club Villa Hotel.
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and
Begg office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa. Begg office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
150 151
Lunuganga Estate
Geoffrey Bawa, 1947
Bentota, Sri Lanka
Lunuganga Estate was the country home of Geoffrey Bawa, which

was built in 1947. Bawa continued to use the estate as a starting
point for developing his groundbreaking ideas in Sri Lankan
architecture. After his passing in 2003, the gardens of the estate are
now open to the public, and the buildings on either side have been
converted into guest houses.
The estate consists of a house and twenty-five acres of land.

There is a low hill planted with fruit trees and coconut palms, all
surrounded by the Dedduwa Lake. The feeling of the trees and
the changing landscape forms the basis of the garden. Throughout
the years, the house has been continually altered, and terraces have
been built. It is still an ongoing process.41
Figure 91 (above): A view through the front gates

proper into the entrance court at Lunuganga Estate.
Figure 92 (following page): The Glass Pavilion

and guest wing from the back.
152 153
154 155
Figure 93: Looking east towards the watergate, Figure 94: The art gallery & landscape stepping
reminiscent of an Italian villa. down to the lower boardwalk, paddy field and lagoon.
156 157
Figure 95: The boardwalk cutting through Figure 96: Looking down Cinnamon Hill
the water garden in the distance. from the south terrace.
158 159
Figure 97: Built-in steps connecting the Figure 98: The view from the east terrace toward
art gallery (now guest room) to the upper level. the hen house and art gallery beyond.
160 161
Figure 99: Looking through the raised Glass Figure 100: Seating shelter at the Entrance
Pavilion porch towards the Entrance Court. Court.The Glass Pavilion porch behind.
162 163
Figure 101: Site plan of Lunuganga.
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and
Begg office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
164 165
Brief Garden
Bevis Bawa, 1929
Beruwala, Sri Lanka
Brief Garden was conceived by Geoffrey Bawa’s brother Bevis over a

period of twenty years. The Brief garden was designed in an evolutionary
way without a fixed blueprint. It splays outward down the hill on two sides
of the bungalow, and was connected by network of overgrown pathways.
Having traversed over an area of open paddy fields, the visitor arrives at a
pair of wrought-iron gates. These open to an avenue of palms, leading to a
dense wall of bamboo. Here, a blank wall opens up through a small door,
reminiscent of a scene from a fairy tale, which ascends to the veranda. A
second sequence goes down a staircase to a round pool, which is connected
with hidden pavilions and bowers.42
Figure 102: One of the many stairways

throughout Brief Garden.
166 167
Figure 103 (top): A view towards the Figure 105 (top): The outdoor patio at the estate
estate bungalow at the top of the garden. bungalow, overlooking the landscape.
Figure 104 (bottom): A seating area Figure 106 (bottom): A view from inside of the
along the garden path. bungalow looking out into the garden.
168 169
Figure 107 (opposite): Site plan of Brief Garden.
Drawn by: Michele, Romesh & Dilshan, 1988,
redrawn by Ruveka in 2007.
Figure 108 (above): Sections of Brief Garden.

Drawn by: Michele, Romesh & Dilshan, 1988,
redrawn by Ruveka in 2007.
170 171
33rd Lane
Geoffrey Bawa, 1968
Colombo, Sri Lanka
Between 1958 and 1959, Geoffrey Bawa acquired the third row of
four small bungalows in a cul-de-sac at the end of a street that splits
off Bagatelle Road. He converted it into a pied-à-terre, with a living
room, bedroom, small kitchen, and a servant’s room. In 1961, when
the fourth bungalow became vacant, this was transformed to serve
as a dining room and a second living room. The resulting maze of
rooms and garden courts left no room for the distinction of inside
or outside.The composition was guided by a complex grid to create
the illusion of unlimited space in a limited urban property. Bawa
continued to experiment with the house for the next thirty years,
using it to test out new ideas. It was here that he began collecting
bits of old homes and play around with bricolage.43
Figure 109: A view from the carport

entry towards the interior.
172 173
Figure 110 (left): The stairwell leading Figure 112 (left): The formal sitting room, which
up to the upper terrace. looks out onto the far courtyard.
Figure 111 (right): A sculpture by Figure 113 (right): The dining area, which shares a
Laki Senanayake near the entry corridor. view into the far courtyard.
174 175
Figure 114: Ground floor plan of Figure 115: Second and third
33rd Lane (above) and section (below). floor plans of 33rd Lane.
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and Begg Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and
office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa. Begg office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
176 177
Architect’s Old Office
(Gallery Cafe)
Geoffrey Bawa
Colombo, Sri Lanka
The Gallery Cafe was at one point in time Geoffrey Bawa’s office,
but had initially been planned as a doctor’s home. However, when
the foundations had been built, the client abandoned the idea, and
Bawa bought the property for himself. In this way, the kitchen was
made into an accounts office, and the three upstairs bedrooms into
a main drawing room, sitting between the two courtyards. There
was a definitive mood which could be easily felt as one progressed
through the house, first through the entrance courtyard to the
central court, then through to the great meeting room and finally
into the architect’s office.44
Figure 116 (left): A view from the veranda

towards the front courtyard.
Figure 117 (right): The entrance courtyard and

pool leading to the architect’s office.
178 179
Figure 118: Ground floor plan of Bawa’s old Figure 119: Garden elevation
office (below) and upper floor plan (above). of Bawa’s old office (below) and
Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and Begg entrance facade to offices (above).
office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa. Drawn by: The Edwards, Reid and
Begg office, lead by Geoffrey Bawa.
180 181
N o t e b o o k VI
Reflecting
Figure 120
182 183
January 07, 2015
One evening, I realized that I had been in Sri Lanka for almost two
months and I had not yet visited the beach. In my childhood, we
walked there frequently because it was only a ten minute stroll from
our property. Of all my childhood memories, these seem to be some of
the most vivid. I remember parting with the seashore on late evenings,
as the sun set behind us. It was nightfall when we reached our homes
and we rushed inside to spill our bags of shells, scattering them over a
table and observing our findings. In hindsight, this ritual meant more
than a celebration of our findings; the shells were relics with which we
remembered those moments.
The walk to the beach was exactly as I remembered it.
Although the small street we had once walked along was freshly paved,
it felt more like a space for events than one for vehicles. Houses were
built right along its edges and people spilled out onto the road. They
sat precariously on plastic chairs and children haphazardly clambered
all over the street. We walked in the center of the road to try to avoid
it all. Occasionally, the high-pitched engine of a rickshaw screamed
from behind us and we had to step towards the narrow roadside as it
squeezed its way through the mayhem.
The beach showed years of wear and use. We entered
through the narrow walkway as we did in my childhood. Garbage
was scattered all over the sand, still warm from the afternoon heat.
My younger cousins ran around in their bathing suits playing with
the sand, reminding me of myself at their age. One of them chased
after a crab even though he was terrified of it. As I followed him, I
noticed that there was not a single shell in sight. We frequently found
pieces of garbage and sea weed but never a shell—the beach had been
completely cleared out of these precious relics. I thought about my
cousins who were now experiencing the ocean as I had eighteen years
ago and I hoped that these precious moments would be preserved
in their memory, as they had been in mine. I realized how important
memories like this were in shaping me as I grew older, and how they
helped make me feel whole, even when the world around me was
empty.
I had given up chasing the crabs with my cousin; the sound
of the waves captivated me as I neared the water. I thought about how
many times the sun had set into the sea and the waves had crashed onto
this beach during my eighteen year absence, each time different, each
time new, yet always recognizably the same. The sun ignited the ocean
with deep shades of orange and red, as we glanced over our shoulders
heading towards the road. The waves reminded me that I was barely a
mark in the life of the ocean. And as the sound of the waves faded into
the distance with the blazing sun, I was comforted knowing that they
would continue to crash against the earth long after I left. I convinced
myself that even on the other side of the world, if I stood silently and
listened, that I would hear the soft shhhh, shhhh of each wave.
Figure 121: Evening sunset

at Negombo beach.
184 185
A Heavy Storm
In the midst of a storm, I am always transported to a childhood memory that has stayed
with me my entire life. I remember running deliriously from the front veranda to the
back porch. Each time I opened the door and stepped outside, it felt like I was being
blown away. The wind smashed the door behind me back and forth. My parents paced
through the house, unsure what exactly we would do. They continued to make phone
calls to my aunts, uncle and grandparents who lived across the yard.
It was 3 a.m. and we were in the middle of one of the biggest storms I had
ever experienced. I stood near the back door of the house, gripping the door tightly,
watching the coconut trees thrashing about like drunkards in a wild dance. Three of
the trees nearest to me, which we had lashed together for support, threatened to crash
onto the house at any moment. I was fixated by their motions and hadn’t noticed my
parents locking the door behind me, my sister hanging onto them tightly. They both
held flashlights and were as serious as I had ever seen them. We huddled together
and ran as quickly as we could across the yard, our feet deep in cold water. It felt like
the world was spinning around us, and amidst the frenzy, all I could think of was
finding shelter. Soaked in rain, we rushed into the protection of my grandparents’ home,
where we joined the rest of my cousins, aunts and uncles who had arrived before us.
We found comfort in each other and were at ease knowing that we were all together.
My grandparents’ presence brought us a sense or assuredness. They sat calmly with an
expression on their face that read “it will pass.”
Before preparing for bed, I remember walking to the back room and sitting
alone with my grandmother. I had picked up my grandfather’s meditation beads and
had asked her about them. She called me over to sit on her lap and explained that my
grandfather counted them as he meditated. She had sensed the fear in me as the storm
continued to assert its force on everything around us. In hopes of putting me at ease, she
decided to teach me a prayer that she recited when she was worried or scared. As she
chanted it, I felt the storm around us mercifully quieten.
I now know this chant as the Buddha Vandanã and recite it every so often. I
have realized that the chant is less about the meaning of the chant itself, and more about
the warmth that it brought me when I remembered reciting it with my grandmother.
Iti pi so Bhagava, Araham, Sammásambuddho, vijjácaranasampanno, sugati,

lokavidú, annuttaro purisadammasárathi, satthá, devamanussánam, Buddho,
Bhagavá-ti.
Thus indeed, is that Blessed One: He is the Holy One, fully enlightened,
endowed with clear vision and conduct, sublime, the knower worlds, the
incomparable leader of men to be tamed, the teacher of gods, and men,
enlightened and blessed.45
Figure 122 (above): The coconut trees in the yard

swaying to the impending storm.
Figure 123 (following spread): The view out

of the veranda of my childhood home. 2:30 p.m.
186 187
188 189
The Home and the Heart
In a world to which we are born foreign, home is both our beacon and landmark. It
is both the origin of our journeys and the destination to which we seek to return—a
process that can unfold in dreams, through thoughts, and by physical manners.The time
we spend away from home plays a fundamental role in understanding our relationship
with it. Over time, our memories of home to grow inside of us, to be pondered, dreamt
about, and most of all, missed. Distance provides room for the essence of our old home
to contribute to our current feelings, and influences our day-to-day lives. All of these
factors hinge on the relationships that we have developed with the place and its people
at a particular time in our lives.
The aspects we cherish most about home are the things that we do not always
take notice of: the people whom we share it with, the warmth they bring to the dinner
table, their reassuring presence in times of hardship and uncertainty, and their lifelong
habits that linger in the physical spaces of our homes as well as the impalpable realms
of our memories. Abraham Maslow writes that, “The great lesson from the true mystics
[...] is that the sacred is in the ordinary.That it is to be found in one’s daily life, in one’s
neighbours, friends and family, in one’s backyard.”46 Home is present with the near and
distant voices and presence of family. It is the locus of our emotional being, where we
not only rest our bodies but also our mind. If we are unable to connect with the place
we call home, our minds will be restless and our relationships with the greater world
will dwindle.The trees that slouch to greet us will remain tall and unreachable and the
familiar melody our home will be unwelcoming to our ears.
Frank Lloyd Wright said that when he saw architecture that moved him,
he heard music in his ears.47 The same could be said about our homes. A home that
resonates with us opens up to our body and mind and it pervades both with a familiar
tune; “both are immersive; music surrounds us, just as architecture.”48 The rhythm of
our home is constantly attempting to synchronize with our bodily rhythm. It is within
the shelter of our homes that we settle into a relaxed state of breathing. Our home
breathes with us and embraces us even between heartbeats. A single, wholesome breath
inside our home is worth a hundred gasps of air in the outside world. When memories
fade and people depart, we are left with our built world, which becomes a relic or artifact
of the past. If a home can be likened to a body, then its residents are the mind. Only
when both reside in the same space can life exist and flourish—only then does the heart
beat.
Figure 124: My cousins before we set off on

an adventure through the yard.
190 191
January 26, 2015
When a man has thus become calm, he may turn to the outside
world. He no longer sees in it the struggle and turmoil of individual
being and therefore he has that true peace of mind which is needed for
understanding the great laws of the universe and for acting in harmony
with them. —Cary F. Baynes
For the first time during my stay in Sri Lanka, I had a week without
any plans. One afternoon, while sitting on the front veranda, I
realized how anxious I was thinking about the past two months and
the remainder of my time in Sri Lanka. Each day was packed with
activity, whether it was daily excursions with family or long bus rides
to architectural sites that Anjalendran had suggested. I realized that I
had let go of all hesitation in anything I did. I thought about the long,
crowded bus rides, the bewildering markets filled with sounds, and the
journeys to the highest peaks through sweat, dust, and rain. I had not
yet taken a moment to think and reflect.
These thoughts were entering me now, as I sat on my
grandfather’s planter’s chair and refused to leave my mind. Was there
a greater meaning behind it all? Was I any closer to defining what my
thesis was about? What had each journey meant? Where do I go from
here?
The sounds from the yard faded as I wrestled with my
thoughts. A few hours later, I noticed the sound of two birds quarrelling
over the bird feeder, which reminded me of something my grandfather
had pointed out to me a week ago.
Figure 125: My grandfather watching

the rain from the front veranda. 5:40 p.m.
192 193
I had been drinking tea with my grandfather on the veranda
when, after weeks of silence, he lifted his heavy arm and pointed into
the distance. “That plant,” he said, turning to face me. “That plant.
Someone should cut that plant, it’s growing too big.” He held his arm
in front of him as if he had forgotten about it. After such as long period
of silence, this spontaneous comment almost made me burst out in
laughter.
My grandfather was an avid gardener. He had been a census January 27, 2015
and statistics representative for the government when I was a child, but
he spent most of his time in the garden. He awoke with the sun and On several occasions, I visited the site where my uncle was building
swept the entire property. Once he had finished, not a single leaf was a new home for his family. It was less than a ten minute drive from
left on the white sand and only the precise herringbone pattern from where we lived in Negombo. Despite the lack of trained construction
his broom remained. workers, machinery or any form of safety regulations, the house seemed
The home that my grandparents had lived in when I was a to be on its way.
child was surrounded by the most magnificent array of flowers. They I had walked into the site late one afternoon, to find two
were all planted neatly along the exterior and trimmed frequently. of the workers fast asleep on a concrete beam no wider than a foot,
My grandfather leaned back into his chair and fell back into silence. suspended four meters above the ground. Only two of the men had
As he stared into the distance, it seemed to me as though he had once prior experience, and as for the others, my uncle’s home was their
again retreated to the comfort of old memories nestled deep in his first attempt at construction. They came from all over Sri Lanka, and
mind. had been staying at the old, pre-existing house on the site, often for
As I studied the plants he had pointed to, I realized how weeks at a time. Some of them, upon receiving their pay, left during the
poorly kept the yard really was. No one had the time to maintain it, holidays and never returned.
and with the monsoon rain, it had grown untamed. The sandy driveway
that I had walked down countless times as a child now looked like a
mere footpath, so heavy and thick was the grass that encroached from
either side.
I made my way through waist-high plants back to a storage
room near my childhood home, and dragged all the equipment out to
the front gate. I then stretched a roll of string along the driveway as a
guide and began cutting away the grass on one side, digging deep into
the sand to remove the roots. The hours flew by, and I had not worked
through even a quarter of the way as the sun slowly retreated.
194 195
January 28, 2015
Meeting Gamini:
I developed a close relationship with one of the contract workers, who

had been hired at my uncle’s construction site—a middle-aged man
named Gamini. My uncle had mentioned that Gamini was trustworthy
and hard-working. However, it was also apparent that Gamini was very
naive, an aspect that was frequently taken advantage of by his friends
and family.
Every so often, he arrived at our property to help with yard
work. Early one morning, I looked outside my window and saw
Gamini twenty feet above the ground, trimming a mango tree. He
was gripping a branch with one hand and wielding a machete with
the other. With each swing of his arm, a flurry of leaves and branches
cascaded noisily to the ground below.
One morning I found Gamini sitting quietly under a coconut
tree. I asked him what his plans were for the day and he shook his
head. Gamini said very little, but I always had the impression that
he understood everything. I walked with him to the front gate, and
asked him whether he would like to help me with the yard work. He
nodded, walked away, and soon returned with a shovel.
Gamini and I spend the entire week working through the
property, with my family joining us in the evenings after work. As the
sun set, we collected all of the waste and trimmings into large piles
and lit them on fire—a ceremonious end to a day of hard work. The
pyres lit up large portions of the property and the smoke repelled the
mosquitoes. The smell of smoke completely permeated my clothes, hair,
and skin.
Figure 126 (left): Gamini hanging from the

mango tree, from my bedroom window. 8:10 a.m.
Figure 127 (right): My cousin throwing dried

shrubbery into the garden pyre. 6:30 p.m.
196 197
January 30, 2015
Meeting Mrs. Hevawasan: After having seen the family house model at the SOS
Children’s Village, I thought about a similar strategy, which the Prasanna
“Kanishka, Kanishka!” cried Mrs. Hevawasan. “Can you open this Orphanage could have greatly benefited from. The three small houses
door?” could have been joined with a communal space, one that could be
A small boy ran over with a set of keys and pried open the overlooked by a single caretaker.
lock on the door, then quickly ran off . I poked my head into one of the There was an open field in between the three sleeping
three small houses that were located in the back of the large property. quarters and the classroom spaces. We proceeded through the well-kept
I had driven up and down Diwlapitiya Road for an hour, lawn and I noticed that there were clothes resting along every surface
searching for the Prasanna Children’s Orphanage. Not knowing the in sight. There was only the sound of dried leaves being swept in the
address complicated matters, but I managed to acquaint myself with all distance. I asked Mrs. Hevawasan whether the boys washed their own
of the store owners and residents along that stretch of road as I stopped clothes. She smiled and said, “Yes, we encourage them to wash their
for directions. I eventually ended up in front of a tailor shop whose own clothes even though we own a small washing machine.” She
owner happened to be Mrs. Hevawasan’s son. paused and laughed. Although Mrs. Hevawasan must have been in her
I followed him towards a house directly behind his store, sixties, she displayed a youthful exuberance.“Once the children head off
where I then waited. Mrs. Hevawasan came outside and greeted me to school, we take all of their clothes without them knowing and run
with a warm smile. We talked for a few minutes before she led me them through the washing machine to ensure they are clean.”
across the street to the orphanage, which I had not noticed earlier. Mrs. Hevawasan explained that she teaches the children
Having visited the SOS Children’s Villages in Nuwara basic life skills in the hope that they will be better prepared for life
Eliya earlier in my trip, I had a desire to visit a local orphanage. Mrs. when they grow older. Her biggest fear was that if the children were
Hevawasan had conceived of the Prasanna Children’s Orphanage not taught to be familiar with life skills, that they would resort to
twenty years ago after relocating to this part of the country. We were other means of supporting themselves once they left the orphanage.
meeting for the first time and I mentioned that my family lived nearby. She spoke of the drugs, alcohol and theft that some of these children
As we entered a large green landscape with a number of small had the unfortunate circumstance of witnessing—often from their
buildings, she mentioned the resistance that she had faced from the parents—which was why some of them came to stay at the orphanage..
community when she first arrived. It had taken a number of years Mrs. Hevawasan spoke softly, but with an air of authority. Her
for the locals to warm up to her and the idea of an orphanage in the demeanour was one of kindness and patience, but there also seemed
neighbourhood. After years of dedication to the children, she was able to be a trace of sadness in her eyes. It warmed my heart to hear her
to convince the community that there was a need for orphanages and anecdotes from the place; they said a lot about her commitment to the
that the she needed their support to continue her work. orphanage and her children. She was not only offering them a home
She showed me around one of the three small houses, where and a family, but also helping to build their morals and values.
the children slept. Each house was divided into smaller bedrooms. The familiar sound of leaves being swept grew louder as
Above each bed hung a mosquito net, which had been neatly wrapped we neared the classrooms. We approached a small boy who swept the
away in the morning. A bureau sat in front of each bed holding a stack ground furiously. “Not many leaves today, but come next month we are
of school books. As we walked towards the front of the property where going to have lots more,” Mrs. Hevawasan said to him. The boy paused
the classrooms were located, Mrs. Hevawasan mentioned that one of to look at us for a second before returning to sweeping. “Where’s
their greatest investments was paying the teachers to stay overnight to grandma, Suresh?” she asked. “Where’s grandma?”
watch over the children. The majority of the children were too young “In the kitchen,” Suresh replied, not missing a stroke with his
to sleep on their own, even with each other’s company. She elaborated wooden broom made of straw bristles. We walked towards the back of
on the financial strain that was brought about by having to hire three the narrow building towards the kitchen.
teachers to stay overnight on a regular basis.
198 199
“The children eat all of their meals together,” Mrs. Hevawasan Mrs. Hevawasan mentioned the store where she purchased
said. “They walk to school together in the morning and often come paint for the orphanage. I told her that I would pick up additional paint
back together. Although, some students arrive late because of after- for the orphanage when I purchased the paint for my grandparent’s old
school activities.” home. She seemed surprised and didn’t respond. I asked her how many
I stood near the door as Mrs. Hevawasan exchanged words litres she would need to re-paint the buildings in the orphanage. “We
with an elderly woman that reminded me of my aachi, or paternal don’t need to paint everything,” she said, pointing to a building in the
grandmother. She was sitting on a tiny bench, clenching a knife distance. “Those were painted recently.” Each building was painted two
between her toes, driving vegetables into the face-up blade as she thirds of the way up with a bright, warm color and the rest was painted
spoke. white. She avoided changing the colors because that would have
We then continued towards the front of the orphanage. required additional paint. I asked her again how many litres she would
“Suresh! Suresh! Suresh…” beckoned Mrs. Hevawasan, and the little need. “Four litres for these two,” she replied hesitantly as she pointed to
boy came running to us. She asked him in a somewhat sad tone, “Isn’t two buildings. “And two litres for this one.”
anyone helping grandma today? Who’s here today?” The boy quietly When I asked Mrs. Hevawasan if I could return later in the
mumbled a few names and ran off. Mrs. Hevawasan mentioned that she week when the children were home from school, she seemed delighted.
typically hired two cooks, and the boys lent a hand if one of them was I mentioned that I was hoping to spend time photographing and
unavailable. sketching the daily activities of the children at the orphanage. As I
We continued to walk and ran into another boy, who was continued, I noticed an increased awareness in Mrs. Hevawasan. She
heading home from school. She asked him if he had a lot of homework. said, “The problem is, we are told not to allow photographs anymore.”
He quietly replied, “Imgrisi (English), Sinhala (Sinhalese),Vidyava Then after a pause, she added, “There is a new commissioner and he
(Science), Citra (Art).” has stopped allowing permission for anyone to take photographs of
“Can you tell someone who doesn’t have homework to come the children.” Apparently, fraudulent websites had been using such
over?” The boy ran off. “But someone older, okay?” Mrs. Hevawasan photographs to pose as charities and elicit donations. Mrs. Hevawasan
shouted after him. seemed distressed about the issue, so I agreed to not take any
We arrived at an outdoor walkway along another narrow photographs.
building, which housed the offices. Mrs. Hevawasan pointed to a Mrs. Hevawasan stood up from her chair and asked me
second portion of the building, which was the Montessori school. The whether I wanted tea. I said that I was fine, but she nonetheless turned
two structures formed an L-shape, and created a courtyard in between. the corner and asked one of the children to prepare some. “He really
She mentioned that they were in the process of cleaning and painting likes making tea with grandma whenever we have visitors,” she said. We
all of the buildings that were in poor condition. continued to talk and the boy came back carefully holding a tray with
I shared my recent discovery of the Montessori school in my two cups of tea. I made sure to thank him as I picked up my cup.
grandparent’s old home. I talked about the children that I saw glimpses
of through the coconut trees, and how hearing them had sparked an
interest in me for me for the place I knew so well as a child. I told her
that I hadn’t visited my grandparents’ home in years, and that it looked
like it desperately needed a fresh coat of paint.
200 201
February 03, 2015 SOS Children’s Village
Anuradhapura 1993-1996
Designed by Anjalendran
I arrived in Anuradhapura with my grandmother and a bus full of her
family and friends from my father’s town. They were on a pilgrimage to The children’s village in Anuradhapura was the first of Anjalendran’s projects
the many historic Buddhist sites of Anuradhapura. Once we arrived, I to be located in Sri Lanka’s dry zone. The site was located on the grid of broad
told them that I would meet them shortly and caught a rickshaw to the avenues which make up the New Town area of Anuradhapura. Generally a flat
SOS Children’s Village in town. rectangle, it was cut diagonally across its south-eastern corner by the bed of an
The rickshaw driver seemed to know exactly what I was occasional stream.
talking about when I mentioned the Sinhalese word for orphanage. Anjalendran used the same components and design strategies that
I had been in touch with two other SOS Children’s villages through he had developed for the earlier projects and placed the Children’s Village on
email, one of which was in Galle and the other in Anuradhapura. In the main flat area of the site to the west of the stream bed. The principal access
my earlier visit to the Children’s Village in Nuwara Eliya, I realized that is from th Northern boundary where a paved court leads to an entrance loggia
I hadn’t brought anything to give to the children, who were always which contained the administrative offices . Beyond this, a cluster of four standard
incredibly excited to see me. This time, I called and asked each of the houses lines a transition space which links to a main “village green” formed by
Villages what the children needed: books, clothing, toys? Their response a larger group of ten houses.The main court terminates in the community house
was that the children had received most of these items from other which contained accommodation for the nurses and “aunts.” A bridge connects
across the stream to a social centre with kindergarten and a small training
donations. So I asked them for details including the number of children
workshop. The striking collection of children’s toys furniture was made at Ena
in each village and their approximate ages. I realized that the children
De Silva’s Aluvihare workshop. A hostel for boys was located on a strip of land
were probably tired of receiving school supplies and other mundane
to the west of the main site across a small road.49
things. And so after spending an evening in Negombo, I decided to
purchase an assortment of candy—bags and bags of it.
202 203
Figure 128: A view through the entrance Figure 129: “Family houses,” on either side of
veranda towards the village, Anuradhapura. the promenade, each with its own mango tree.
204 205
Figure 130 (left): A typical “family house” interior Figure 132 (left): The community house veranda
with the bathrooms at the far end. at the far end of the village.
Figure 131 (right): Roof structure holding clay Figure 133 (right): A window looking onto the
roof tiles. Colours chosen by Barbara Sansoni. entrance veranda from the administration offices.
206 207
Figure 134: The sheltered hallways adjacent to Figure 135: A view through a wooden lattice
the kindergarten courtyard. window into the kindergarten classrooms.
208 209
SOS Children’s Village
Galle, 1987-1994
Designed by Anjalendran
The Children’s village is located in the north-western outskirts of the town

beside the Wakwella Road.The site is “L”-shaped and has an area of 1.6
hectares. One third of it, the part adjacent to the road, is flat, while the
remainder occupies the lower slopes of a wooded hill.
Anjalendran’s strategy was to place the village on the sloping
ground at the back of the site, to build the reception and administration in
the courtyard building beside the road and to leave a large flat playing field
as a buffer zone at the centre.The heel of the site is occupied by the school
which overlooks the playing field and connects the various elements.Traditional
“ambalama” or shelters are placed at strategic points along the main route and
act as meeting places.The arrangement produces a strong sense of promenade
with anticipatory visual connections.
The visitor progresses from the entrance gates and the car park
through the reception building and along an avenue of Plumeria trees which
crosses the playing field and then up a flight of steps to reach the forecourt of
the school.
The village itself is hidden in trees. A dozen houses for ancillary
staff are interspersed with the buildings in a double stranded necklace around
the curving hillside.The houses are placed wit careful casualness amongst the
rocky outcrops and boulders which lay strewn across the site in such a way as
to create interesting spaces and narrow winding paths.50
Figure 136: The kindergarten courtyard

and children’s play area.
210 211
Figure 137: A view through the entrance pavilion Figure 138: A view of the distant Plumeria Avenue
towards the central Plumeria Avenue, Galle. and open area leading to the “family houses” on the right.
212 213
Figure 139: The “village street” between family Figure 140: The front veranda of a
houses, ending at an “ambalama” or shelter. two-storey community dining space.
214 215
Figure 141: A typical “family house” dining Figure 142: Vibrant tile details embedded
area. Staircase leading up to the bedrooms. into concrete staircase.
216 217
Figure 143 (left): A view from a double storey
building towards the village street.
Figure 144 (right): An alleyway between two family Figure 145: The “ambalama” and Plumeria
houses accommodating an outdoor cooking area. Avenue towards the entry pavilion.
218 219
Figure 146: Sketched site plan of the
Prasanna Children’s Orphanage, Negombo.
Drawn by: Author.
220 221
Figure 147: Site plan of the Figure 148: Section (above) and elevation (below)
Anuradhapura SOS Children’s Village. of a typical “family house,” Anuradhapura.
Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office. Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office.
222 223
Figure 149: Site plan of Figure 150: Plans, side elevation
Galle SOS Children’s Village. and section of the typical “family
Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office. houses” (bottom to top), Galle.
By Prasad, 1992. Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office.
224 225
N o t e b o o k VII
Painting
Figure 151
226 227
February 05, 2015
Meeting Emma:
“I’m from the Philippines. I married a Sri Lankan guy…and then I

started working at Tiny Tots in Colombo.” Emma and I were speaking
in her small office, which at one point had been my grandfather’s study.
I asked her whether that was a Montessori. “Tiny Tots is a Montessori.
It’s a preschool also. I worked there for about five years. But then I
stopped working there because it was too far away. I’m from Ja-Ela
and coming back from Colombo…it’s very traffic-heavy. So I started
looking for a school in Negombo.”
Emma looked to be in her early forties, with dark, straight hair
tightly tied into a ponytail. She had a thick east-Asian accent when she
spoke, but it was refreshing to have a conversation with someone who
spoke English, especially since I found my Sinhalese to be wanting. She
continued, “Unfortunately, they, ahh, have been bankrupt…because of
mismanagement. Right, so I worked there for two years. Some of my
student’s parents, want to give their children into the other schools but
there was a registration fee. If they give them to the other school, they
have to pay starting from the beginning.” Emma explained that trying
to lighten the financial load on the students’ parents inspired her to start
her own Montessori school. As luck would have it, Emma had taught
two of my cousins in the past, and knew my uncle, Dr. Weerakkoddy.
He was supportive of her proposal, and decided to entrust her with my
grandparents’ old home for her school.
“So far, I have many Pakistani children. They are asylum
seekers. They asked if they could put the children here. And without
admission fee. So, my thing is to help people. People that can’t afford
to pay, umm, a lot of money to the other schools.” Upon asking
Emma how she funds the Montessori school, she mentioned that she
asked the parents to pay a small monthly fee so that she could pay her
two teachers. She mentioned that this was manageable. “The parents
are paying, but sometimes they are not always able to pay on time.
Sometimes the children just left without paying the school fees. So,
what can we do?” She laughed. The children continued to run around
the small classroom space that was once my grandparent’s living room.
The room was overflowing with their youthful voices.
I told Emma about why I was in Sri Lanka—the little I had
begun to understand. I mentioned that I had spent a lot of time in this
home as a child. That I was fascinated that the old home I remember so
well had been converted into a Montessori school. She was overjoyed
when I mentioned that I hoped to paint the school before I returned
to Canada. I estimated that painting the school needed a day or two,
out of the one week I had left.
Figure 152 (top): A view of my grandparents’ old
house through the yard, where the original path was.
Figure 153 (bottom): A view of the back of my

grandparents’ old house.
228 229
A Home over Time
My grandparents’ home, now a Montessori school, was originally a shop—a “kadai,”

and only half its current size. A few months after returning from Sri Lanka, I laid out
a floor plan I had sketched of their house, and my mother began pointing and describing
features of the kadai as she remembered them.
She slowly began to piece together all the transformations the house had
undergone, sharing details like, “around this area, there were some sort of columns to
Learning from Memory support the roof. At the time we had a tackarang roof,” she added. I asked if that meant
corrugated steel and she nodded. “Aluminum, it was a lighter roof than now.”We were
But what he didn’t want to forget was his childhood. [...] And it was quite like a pair of forensic detectives unravelling a mystery, as we slowly reassembled the
natural, according to him, that this very distant time had taken control of remnants from her childhood memories. She waved her hands in an attempt to convey
him now; that when he turns his gaze inward. It lay there as in a brilliant the shapes and slopes of things while I sketched. “At the time, the washroom was over
northern summer night, intensified and unsleeping. —Rainer Maria Rilke here, outside.” She pointed to the edge of the property. “It was just a small room with
an in-ground toilet.There were people that collected the waste daily.They would travel
We often see memory as a means of transporting ourselves to another time, another down the street with carts.”
place. It gives us a greater context on which to rest our heads when we are not content As she began to designate pieces of furniture that occupied the store, I started
with our present lives. Memory also serves our practical needs as we rush through our to get a better sense of what the space felt like. “We had racks along these walls. Cashier
busy lives: the meetings we have, the lectures we attend and the people we promise to tables here that blocked anyone from entering the store, they could only stand here and
have coffee with. Richard Lewis speaks of another quality of memory that we benefit ask for what they would like” I started to add notes to my drawing. “Onions, green
from—its unconscious capacity to educate us. Lewis writes that: chilies —we put vegetables here…Bananas.” She thought for a moment and continued,
“Canned food, packet foods and things like that.” She pointed to another area and
Perhaps for clues we have to go back to some of the qualities of our own earliest said,“Pots and pans, there were a lot of them just on the ground.Towards the front there
learnings—to the time, just as with those children chasing fireflies, when our were large bags of rice, coconuts, flour, lentils and other items in bulk.” She remembered
learnings were somehow our hands and feet, indeed the entire experience of our the manual scale that hung above the front table where items were weighted and priced.
bodies, sensorially probing the world around us.We have to find those moments At the time, the space was used almost exclusively as a store. “We cooked at
that were never defined as learning—but their meanings are still with us: the our home and brought food here for the person who looked after the store,” my mother
time we walked in the snow and listened intently to our footsteps, or the time explained. I asked her what had persuaded them to abandon the kadai and transform
we fell down in the ocean and couldn’t catch our breath. We have to remember the place. “People began to steal from the store,” she replied. “The people that we hired
that our learning, when we were young, was not linear—it is learning, as the to work there during the day took things from the store—it was very difficult to manage
novelist Eudora Welty noted in “One Writer’s Beginning”, that “stamps you a business this way.” My mother was having difficulty recalling an addition to the kadai
with its moments…It isn’t steady. It’s a pulse.51 that accommodated a bathroom and kitchen, and decided to make a phone call to my
aunt. They were soon deep in conversation, drawing forth intermittent details from a
The “pulse” that Lewis references is analogous to our memory, from which we are trove of shared memories. With my aunt’s help, we continued to piece together the rest
always learning, even when it is not defined as such. Rainer Maria Rilke also writes of the house’s twenty-year history.
of a similar sentiment in “The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge”. He reflects on Once a kitchen and a bathroom were added to the kadai, it was fit to be a
his childhood, sharing many anecdotes of these times. In his text, he is critical of his home, and my grandparents listed the house for rent. It was then occupied by a number
own development as a writer and poet, revealing that, “it is not yet enough to have of tenants for several years. There was a note of excitement in my mother’s voice as she
memories.You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the and her sister relived their memories of that old house. I imagine the nostalgia must
immense patience to wait until they return.” Rilke continues to unwrap the powerful have taken them quite by surprise, like stumbling across a box of old belongings stored
unconscious nature of memory to remain inside of our bodies. He writes that “the away long ago. Towards the end of their conversation, I learned that my grandparents
memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very had eventually moved into the home with my mother, her three sisters and her brother.
blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from Not long after, they had realized that the house was too small, with only two tiny
ourselves,”52 only then do they transcend their elementary purpose—then we are our bedrooms between the seven of them. So they relocated across the yard to their original
memory. house, my childhood home.
Its next transformation occurred due to the growing demand for rental houses
from foreigners traveling to Sri Lanka. For a number of years, the house was inhabited
by several Swiss, Dutch and German tourists. After that period, my grandparents
moved back in with their family. Around the same time, their children started to marry
and relocated to their own parcels on the property to build houses of their own. My
grandparents stayed in that old home for as long as I could remember. Their old home
had reinvented itself several times, each a result of life’s unexpected demands. And once
again, it was about to take on a whole new identity.
230 231
February 06, 2015
It was the first time that I had taken a moment to look at my
grandparents’ old home from a distance. I couldn’t help but notice the
fence that now separated it from the rest of the yard and the locks that
hung from the closed doors. It now assumed the role of a Montessori,
but when I was a child, doors and windows were always open because
my grandparents were always home. My eyes searched the yard for
remnants of the path that I had traced countless times with my feet.
While I noticed the drastic changes time had played out on my
On Houses grandparents’ house, I was reminded of how delicately our perceptions
rely on the nuances to define a place in our memory.
For even as you have home-comings in your twilight, A languid atmosphere hung about the house—a physical
weariness that had manifested itself after my grandparents moved away.
so has the wanderer in you, the ever distant and alone.
It appeared to be barely hanging on to its supports. I walked around
Your house is your larger body. it, feeling the brittle paint that cracked and splintered along its walls,
It grows in the sun and sleeps in the stillness of the night; peeling away literal fragments of its history. The wooden window
and it is not dreamless. frames showed years of decay, eroded by termites that bore tiny tunnels
Does not your house dream? beneath the surface. I leaned over to remove some strands of grass that
and dreaming, leave the city for grove or hill-top? were growing out of the concrete, and noticed that the foundations
were crumbling under the poor posture of the house. The fence was
—Kahlil Gibran bare, but reminded me of the colourful flowers and plants that once
surrounded and framed the house beautifully. The only colour that
remained were from a recently added children’s slide and climber, but
even those were dulled from months of use and rainfall.
The morning sun quietly peaked over the back of the old
house. Like my grandparents, their home had aged without me. It had
been stricken by time, no different from the nearby beach whose shells
had been depleted, or the foot-beaten path through the property that
no longer remained. My grandparents were no longer fit to live on
their own and although their old home persevered, it had also grown
old and weary. It wept of lost life, and like my mama and papa, it too
needed our love and support.
232 233
234 235
February 07, 2015
As usual, Gamini was sitting under a coconut tree chewing bulath vita
as I walked back to collect tools from the shed. I called him over and
asked if he was interested in helping me paint the Montessori school.
He quietly nodded his head and followed, neatly packing away his
betel leaf stack, areca seed and giraya: a small tong with a blade that
resembled a nutcracker. I learned that bulath vita was a combination
of betel leaf and the powder from the areca nut that produced the red
pigment in his mouth as he chewed it—a tradition in Southeast Asia
since antiquity.
Gamini joined me as I inspected the Montessori school,
which needed a lot of preparation before a fresh coat of paint could be
applied. The exterior walls were deteriorating from exposure to the sun
and rain. The inside was worn to the bone from years of use. We began
to scrape off the paint, bringing down brittle chunks of concrete along
with it. I noticed the long cracks that ran through the concrete, like
shrivelled veins that extended from the floor up to the roof. We were
covering the ground beneath us with a thick layer of old paint and dust.
I offered Gamini a mask, which I had bought from the hardware store
in town, but he stared at me for a moment and continued scraping
furiously. I glanced over frequently, attempting to pick up Gamini’s
skillful technique. The sharp lines that ran through his palm revealed
decades of experience: scraping, sanding, cutting and building.
Upon stripping most of the back wall, I began to wonder
whether we were creating an unachievable goal for ourselves—
attempting to repair the wall before painting it was extending our work
beyond our time frame. This feeling continued to intensify as we split
up and proceeded to scrape the side walls. Without us noticing it, the
sun was beginning to set behind us, and although Gamini had nearly
completed his side, I was still halfway to being finished.
Figure 154 (previous page): The front of my

grandparents’ old home from the street. 7:15 a.m.
Figure 155 (above): The front entrance from the

living room of my grandparents’ old home.
236 237
Figure 156 (left): The front porch after
scraping off old paint.
Figure 157 (right): The living room space Figure 158: A view of the progress
after scraping and applying putty. from the street. 5:30 p.m.
238 239
The last bit of daylight disappeared and I found Gamini
sitting against the fence, preparing his bulath vita. He was well
ahead of me and decided to take a break, precisely estimating
the time it would take me catch up to him. When we completed
scraping and filling the exterior walls, Gamini and I prepared
cement to fill the gaps in the concrete too large to be fixed by
putty. My aunt arrived with tea, just as we began to apply the
concrete and I had to wrestle the trowel out of Gamini’s hands for
him to take a break from working. We sat on the floor in complete
silence and savoured each sip of tea, while the dust around us
settled in the glow of the sunset.
We rushed through the night to patch the interior
walls, hoping the putty would harden overnight such that we
could paint in the morning. Neither of us spoke while we moved
through the dim interior spaces, which, lacking the warmth of the
sun’s rays, appeared more lifeless than ever.
Figure 159 (top): Gamini covering dried

concrete patchwork with putty.
Figure 160 (bottom): Wrapping up the last

bits of scraping on the interior.
240 241
February 08, 2015
The next morning I awoke before sunrise. I walked towards my
grandparents’ old home, appreciating once more the serenity of early
mornings. The strands of sunlight were so delicate and everything
around me was just beginning to blossom. The gate and the doors
were wide open when I reached the Montessori school. I met Emma’s
helper, who she called Mary Aunty, furiously sweeping the floors as I
entered.
I ignored the sharp pain in my hands, arms and back while
I sanded away the excess putty. The pain was more noticeable when
I paused, so I maintained a consistent pace with the sandpaper. When
Mary Aunty returned, Gamini and I were still sanding. She stuck
around for another hour, moving tables and chairs out of our way, and
covering every surface with newspaper.
The containers of paint detailed a specific proportion of water
to paint but both Gamini and my uncle had suggested mixing double
the amount of water. I resorted to a quantity between their suggestion
and what was indicated on the labels. After I mixed the paint, Gamini
began painting as if his life depended on it. I collected large cardboard
boxes from the shed and laid them out to cover the black varnished
floor.
We had started without realizing that it would have been best
to paint the exterior first (we could have painted the interior even after
nightfall.) We moved all of our supplies outside after which I left him
with the colour scheme and drove to pick up more paint. Even with
additional water, I had underestimated the quantity of paint we needed.
The sunset added its own warm hues to our palette. When
we reached the back face of the Montessori, I realized that we couldn’t
reach anywhere near the peak of the wall with our ladder. We built
make-shift extensions to our rollers with wooden poles we found
inside the Montessori school, but we were still unable to reach the
highest portions of the walls.
Figure 161: Taking an evening tea

break near the front entrance.
242 243
I remembered a large wooden ladder I had seen at my uncle’s
construction site when I stopped by to pick up a bag of cement.
The trouble was finding a way to transport the large ladder. After
considering all possible options, I called Zaheer, our family driver, in
desperation. He was picking up a client when he answered the phone
and promised to look into it. Gamini and I continued to paint what
was within our reach.
A short while later, we heard the distinctive sputtering of
Zaheer’s rickshaw. We paused, and saw him entering the yard in the
distance, the rickshaw wobbling across the uneven path to the house.
When he cleared the coconut trees, I was completely unprepared for
what I saw. The base of the ladder had been wedged into the back
of the rickshaw, while the rest stuck out behind it, three times the
length of the pint-sized vehicle. It was astonishing that Zaheer and his
rickshaw hadn’t toppled over. I cheered him on as he sheepishly walked
to the back of the rickshaw and dislodged the ladder.
Figure 162: Gamini painting the smaller

classroom walls.
244 245
Figure 164 (above): The Montessori school colour
palette, inspired by the SOS Children’s Villages.
Figure 163: Marking the front exterior Figure 165 (following page): Continuing to
before painting. 6:10 p.m. paint the exterior after nightfall.
246 247
248 249
Occasionally, people passing through the street stopped by the
fence and curiously looked on as we painted. The sun had set and we February 09, 2015
were painting the front of the Montessori. The process had become
theatrical for the local people. They pointed at us as we hung from our
ladders, holding a bucket of paint in one hand and a brush in the other. Rain clouds had moved in. I rushed to the Montessori school early in
Our bodies leaned closely against the ladder, forming distorted shadows the morning, hoping to finish the last bit of painting. I was applying
on the face of the house. My younger cousins ran around excitedly, the final touches to the front facade when Gamini joined me. Before
tampering with the shop light, which flooded the front yard with a we reached the back, large drops of rain began to fall and we hurried to
brilliant yellow light. cover the fresh paint with large pieces of cardboard.
Eventually, the streets were silent and dark. The shop light There was no time to wait for the rain to subside—there was
flickered as bugs continually flew into it. The stray dogs that had been no telling whether it would anyway. We continued to paint the back
squabbling all evening had curled up to sleep along the road. Around 4 wall, relying on the roof overhang to shelter it from the rain.
a.m. the light began to flicker more frequently, as if there was a problem
with the connection. Gamini and I continued to glance over our
shoulders as it pulsed, and then everything went black.
250 251
Figure 166: Relocating to the back of the Figure 167: Painting the back face of the
house to complete the last facade. building as it continued to rain.
252 253
Healing a Wound
I am bound to the earth by a web of stories, as I am bound to the creation by

the very substance and rhythms of my flesh. By keeping the stories fresh, I
keep the places themselves alive in my imagination. —Scott Russell Sanders.
At first, the process of painting the Montessori school seemed like it would be a
straightforward task. It was when Gamini and I spent hours scraping the existing
paint and concrete, that I had realized the real scope of our undertaking. The walls
were worn from decades of use and the peeling layers were dense with meaning that I
only understood deep into the process. I was reminded of the potential architecture had
in telling and continuing a story. I began to realize that the exterior of the Montessori
school was really as important as the skin that covers our bodies. Refurbishing it meant
more than applying a layer of paint; it was a process of repairing years of history—a
process of healing.
As I continued to fill pieces of the walls together with cement and putty, I
was stitching together pieces of memory I found scattered in that home. I was reconciling
years that I had spent away. When we began to paint, it became apparent to me how
important the built form of the Montessori is to the children who occupied it. This
sentiment took me back to my explorations early in my master’s studies, when I had
written about the importance of the aesthetic of a building to inspire a sense of pride
and belonging. I had learned that this sub-consciously influenced students to be bound
to the values and principles that their school represent.
I thought back to my experience attending my own childhood school in
Negombo, and my feeling that the school was inadequate for children, after having
attended a number of elementary schools in Canada.This feeling was etched so deeply
within me at such a young age that it stayed with me, and is perhaps the catalyst behind
my original thesis intentions. It was important for me to reconnect with my childhood,
and the process of painting the Montessori helped complete that process.
I had painted the Montessori school with an array of colours that were
inspired by my travels in Sri Lanka: the monsoon green, orange sunset, and the vibrant
palette that had infiltrated my mind after visiting Anjalendran’s SOS Children’s
Villages. This was now the medium of communication and contact for the Montessori
school, drastically different from what it was when my grandparents once inhabited it.
The children were undoubtedly using it in their own way, and unaware of its distant
past.The house, which had transformed so many times over the years, was preparing for
a new chapter of its story.
Figure 168 (top): Painting the final bits

of the interior classroom space.
Figure 169 (bottom): Applying the final

touches to the black, varnished floor trim.
254 255
Figure 170: A drawing illustrating Figure 171: The ground floor plan of
the transformation of my my grandparents’ old home as it is now.
grandparents’ old home over time. Drawn by: Author.
Drawn by: Author.
256 257
N o t e b o o k VIII
Seeing
Figure 172
258 259
February 10, 2015
If your ears see, and your eyes hear, not a doubt you’ll cherish—
How naturally the rain drips from the eaves! —Daito Kokushi
Upon exiting the empty highway, I steered through the roads of

Colombo with ease, my right hand reaching for the horn as if I had
done it all my life. Even through the heavy rain, I was able to recognize
the streets that were now ingrained in my memory.
Kumar stood near the front door holding an umbrella, but
I hurried inside before he could offer it to me. Kalu rushed to the
entrance and sniffed me, with greater ease than on the first time I had
visited. Anjalendran was sitting quietly on his work table under a dim
light. His eyes were focused on a book that he had been drafting to be
published. I stood looking over his shoulder at a few pages from the
book before he invited me to join him at the table. He set down his
glasses and asked me whether I would like a plate of lamprais (a dish of
rice, meat and vegetable curries, wrapped and baked in banana leaf). I
gladly accepted his offer, realizing that in my rush to resume painting
I had completely forgotten to eat. Anjalendran shared more from his
book entitled The Architectural Heritage of Sri Lanka, before Kumar
arrived with a steaming plate of lamprais.
As I ate, I thought about my final days in Sri Lanka. On
my drive into the city, I had contemplated over how I would thank
Anjalendran for his time, and for sharing with me his extensive
knowledge of Sri Lanka’s long architectural lineage, which had greatly
influenced my travels.
The heavy rainfall filled the silence while I ate. There were no
gutters to catch the rain from the roof; all the water rushed down the
clay tiles and onto the red pebbles in the courtyard, before making its
way to a hidden drain. Nothing separated us from the outside, and at
times the wind would carry mist into the living area.
My eyes scanned the artwork and artifacts that occupied every
conceivable space of Anjalendran’s home. Every curious painting and
unique sculpture spoke of the richness of Anjalendran’s fascinations,
and were an outward representation of his storied life. Everything made
sense at that moment: the rain that continued to plunge a few feet away,
the “small things” that populated every nook and cranny, and the piles
of books that rested on almost every surface. A pristine rickshaw sat
lifelessly near the entrance of his home while a metal chair, designed by
Geoffrey Bawa, celebrated the downpour within the courtyard.
Figure 173 (above): A view towards the

dining & office area of Anjalendran’s home, Colombo.
Figure 174 (following page): A view of the

courtyard looking into the office veranda.
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262 263
February 11, 2015
I set the gear in neutral and thought about all of the time I had spent
in Sri Lanka with my family: the quiet evenings on the front veranda
with my grandparents, moments that I would carry with me for the rest
of my life. I remembered that I had arrived in Sri Lanka searching for
answers to my thesis and now felt I had come to find so much more.
Any thoughts and ideas concerning my thesis had taken a back seat
to the vibrant and varied elements of life I had found here. But what
stood out were the evenings when I took my grandfather around the
yard on his wheelchair; the time I used my laptop to play a classical
Indian symphony for my grandmother and her eyes widened like I
had never seen before; or the time I took my younger cousin on a
expedition to survey each of the five houses on the property with a
broken tape measure.
It was 4:30 a.m. and I drove through the empty streets of Sri
Lanka. Three months into my trip and I was finally beginning to feel
a sense of belonging. The initial reservations I felt upon arriving had
given way to a new-found feeling of comfort and awareness for the
place where I was born. In a peculiar way, even the dark empty streets
resembled the extended families of both my mother and father who
have lived in the country all their lives. Knowing that my grandparents,
who had lived in the country for almost a century, waited for me in
my home in Negombo brought me a great sense of belonging—a
grounding that I could not find anywhere else in the world.
Figure 175: Tree-covered road near

Kurunagala after four hours of driving.
264 265
The road to enlightenment is an unpaved road,
closed to public transportation. —Siddhartha,Tom Robbins.
Five hours into my drive, I was in the middle of a remote village, with
not a single house in sight. The trees steadily grew thicker and closer as
I continued, until the road was barely fit for one vehicle. I followed a
series of directions I had written in my sketchbook, last of which was
to find a sign that read “Diyabubula.”
I entered through a most beautiful oasis. An aged concrete
path led to a pavilion. I walked up a few steps onto a platform under
the thick roof, which was overflowing with plant life. There were no
walls, but the roof was held up by a series of narrow tree trunks. An
incredible panoramic landscape unfolded from inside the pavilion.
Each step into the compound flooded my senses. In addition to the
assortment of forest sounds, there was a classical symphony that played
all around me.
In the distance, I saw a man sitting on a wheel chair, holding
a set of binoculars, looking firmly into the distant forest ahead of him.
Anjalendran had told me about his friend Laki, an artist who had
also worked closely with Geoffrey Bawa for years as his draughtsman.
He was perched on a concrete platform that extended out from the
pavilion. It hovered inconspicuously through the landscape, without
any form of handrail. As I neared him, with binoculars still pressed
tightly against his face, Laki spoke about the bird that he was patiently
observing. He continued softly, as if we had met before, telling me of all
the birds that visit the forest around him.
Behind me, a group of monkeys emerged out of the thick
shrubbery on his pavilion, screaming and baring their sharp teeth at
each other. Laki turned his wheel chair and placed the binoculars onto
a small steel table. He lifted his arms into the air and began pointing
at the monkeys, narrating the story of their bitter wars. After a short
and chaotic scene, the monkeys fled the rooftop, and without even
knowing it, I was soon engaged in a conversation with Laki as deep
and engrossing as that thick forest where the animals played out their
raucous histories.
Figure 176 (top): The entrance gate into

“Diyabubula” from a narrow gravel road, Dambulla.
Figure 177 (bottom): A large horse

sculpture along the entry path.
266 267
Laki spoke in a calm, soft manner with the remnants of a
British accent. Every so often, he gently stroked his long white beard in
the middle of conversation. The classical symphony continued around
us. He had moved onto this land in 1971. He shared the history behind
his forest, saying that it was “an agricultural piece of land, which was
bare.Virtually nothing of what you see here was there. But after five
years, we grew things, and they grew very well but when you try to sell
them, it becomes a problem, you know. So I abandoned that and grew
the forest back. At that time my mind was focused on doing agriculture,
and I had no money at all anyway. So I couldn’t think of any grand
designing or anything. So I just built things as I got a little bit of
money.” The symphony around us picked up its pace and I couldn’t
help but look around in search of where the music was coming from.
“So originally, this house was there,” he pointed towards the
entrance of his compound. “Where the horse sculpture is, there is a
podium and steps. There is a foundation there.” Although he sat in a
wheelchair, Laki articulated expressively with his arms as he spoke.
“This structure was there because that was the only place with water.
There is a dam there, so when I first came that was the only place
visually that there was water. So naturally, I built the house there so I
could look down at the water. Then, one day I realized, while I was
up there, that this was a little hollow depression full of wild grass and
bananas and rubbish.” I followed his arm as he swept it across the
incredible landscape and pointed at the body of water in front of us. “I
realized that this was considerably lower than the water level there. So
if I banged a hole that this would flood…So the next morning I had a
lake.” He then laughed. A laughter that was as gentle as his voice. His
smile was genuine and invigorating. He told me that there was a natural
spring on his site and that Diyabubula meant water-bubble. The water
flowed from the spring, into his man-made pond and through a series
of smaller ponds to a distant river.
Figure 178 (top): A small bridge

leading to Laki’s pavilion.
Figure 179 (bottom): A view from the outdoor

platform towards Laki’s planted pavilion and pond.
268 269
“This rock wasn’t visible, there was earth on either side,” Laki was a man of many talents, which seemed so integral to
Laki said, as he pointed to a large, black stone that I had not noticed. his life that one would not call it an occupation. He was a painter and
It was just as large as the pavilion under which it rested, sinking into sculptor who had a fascination with owls. Even when the landscape
the body of water. “But I knew that there was a rock because I could around us was quiet, his magnificent sculptures beamed full of life. My
see the top of it, which was eroded. So over the years, we dug it eyes and ears were distracted when Laki suddenly asked: “Toronto….so
down. Dug it down almost ten feet. Then the rock came out of the you, is that where Michael Ondaatje lives, in Toronto?” He was looking
earth.” He continued recounting the step-by-step process, as if he was at me as if I would know Michael Ondaatje because we were from the
remembering it for himself along the way. “So then, it was obvious same city. “He’s a very sweet fellow.You know, so Michael, in 1964 or
that this was a nicer place, there’s water here, there’s big rocks here. So something, he brought out his first book of poems and I did the cover
I uprooted this house and planted it here.” He laughed again. “It has design for it. Now, he gave me a autographed copy of it—where that is,
grown, by thinking one step into the next.” He continued to laugh God knows.” He chuckled to himself, momentarily escaping his forest
softly before whistling along with the symphony he knew all too well. retreat to another time.
Shortly afterwards, Laki’s friend Michael appeared from Laki picked up my sketchbook and started flipping through
under the pavilion and joined us in conversation. “Bahhhh, look at this it. He said that it is important to use a pen that could accommodate
Michael!” He said, suddenly pointed into the trees in the middle of varying thicknesses to add depth to a drawing. “To have a line that you
conversation. “A big pied hornbill has just come up to this tree here. can flex. So that you can move from thick to thin, but also from dark
Beautiful, ah.” I asked Laki more about the bird and he said that it was a to light—otherwise the drawing is flat,” He said. “Now I’ll tell you the
“Malabar pied hornbill. Native to Malabar but also found in Sri Lanka.” ideal instrument for that, which I use…A porcupine quill.” Michael and
A woman gently holding a platter of tea arrived and we all I looked at each other in amazement, bursting into laughter. “No, I use
picked up cups of ginger tea with thanks. Laki continued to whistle it, that’s why I’m telling you. I may have some left…If I do, I will give
along to a melody he seemed to have memorized and I realized that them to you.” Laki shared a detailed process of preparing the quills to
the sun was slowly setting behind us. I picked up my camera and become the perfect drawing instrument.
walked through the wilderness, hoping to capture the last moments of After hours of conversation, Laki politely stood up and
sunlight against the forest. resigned to his sleeping quarters to prepare for his morning trip to
When I returned our conversation extended to details of Colombo. The musical landscape had mesmerized me, and I had lost all
various local trees, plants and fruits, interspersed with brief moments of sense of time. A series of lights illuminated the tree canopies, revealing
silence to appreciate the symphony that rang against the sounds of the the majestic sculptures hiding within them. The water was so still that it
forest. My eyes were constantly in the treetops, where if I focused long was impossible to distinguish the forest from its reflection. I was affixed
enough, I could always find another one of Laki’s marvellous sculptures. to the owl sculptures that appeared so real their shrieks echoed in my
head.
270 271
Figure 181 (above): Laki’s beaming
metal owl sculpture near the entry.
Figure 180: Laki Senanayake on the Figure 182 (following page): A view of Laki’s
outdoor platform overlooking his pond. pavilion disappearing into the surrounding forest.
272 273
274 275
Figure 183 (top): A kingfisher eyeing its prey Figure 185 (top): An owl sculpture
seconds before diving towards the pond. appearing out of the distant forest.
Figure 184 (bottom): A wild boar sculpture Figure 186 (bottom): Looking towards the front
rummaging near the pond. entry and the decorative concrete path detail.
276 277
Michael and I walked towards my car in the darkness, when
I suddenly realized that I couldn’t find my keys. I searched all of my
pockets and the insides of my bag. We scanned every inch of Laki’s
garden, retracing my steps. For thirty minutes our flashlights floated
around the forest like fireflies, but nothing turned up. I was convinced
that my keys had been snatched by one of the mischievous monkeys
or hanging from the mouth of some creature, descending deep into
the forest, and into the night. We reconvened near my car and I pulled
on the door handles in desperation. I focused my light against the car
windows when something glinted in the darkness. Sure enough, my
keys were resting on the back seat under my backpack.
We were all exhausted after prying the rear window open and
retrieving the keys with a metal wire—an hour long process. Michael
suggested I spend the night at Laki’s instead of trying to navigate
through the dark. I slipped my car keys deep into my pocket and
headed back to the pavilion with him.
Only blackness filled my eyes when all of the lights were
turned off. With not a single wall around us, the darkness was so thick,
I felt like I could grab hold of it. Only the mosquito net that I had
neatly tucked around my bed separated me from the forest. I wrapped
my body around all of my belongings before closing my eyes. The
classical symphony had come to a stop, but the forest continued to sing
in all its splendour.
Figure 187 (above): A view from across the pond

towards Laki’s pavilion as the sun sets.
Figure 188 (following spread): The sun setting behind

the illuminated forest. As seen from Laki’s platform.
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280 281
On Living
It was odd, she thought, how if one was alone, one leant to inanimate things;
trees, streams, flowers; felt they expressed one; felt they became one; felt they
knew one, in a sense were one. —Virginia Woolf
In her book “A Hut of One’s Own”, Ann Cline shares her experience of building
a hut in the wilderness of her property. She writes, “As my dwelling took shape, it
February 12, 2015
began to shape my life as well.”53 Although the qualities of architectural spaces are
typically determined from the outset, in simple shelters and huts they are discovered The darkness was worse than ever before. Not even the houses
through inhabitation, which gives them a highly personal quality. Cline writes about along the side of the road were lit. I sped through the dim roads,
the delicate, yet fulfilling relationship she shared with her intimate space over time. remembering that I had only slept for a few hours; I decided to release
This concept was fully embodied in Laki’s own life, for in the thirty years he has spent my foot from the pedal and slow down. I was driving through a thick
creating it, the home has grown around and along with him and continues to captivate forest following signs that were illuminated by my headlights before
his imagination. The sounds of the forest, the birds that nested in it, and the monitor reaching a large building that faced the dark hillside.
lizards that crawled through it all inform his everyday life and inspires his artwork. My last destination in Sri Lanka was a place I had been
Laki’s pavilion rested gently on the landscape and preserves the impression hoping to visit throughout my trip and it happened to be a twenty
of being undesigned, as if it had always been there.The boundaries of architecture were minute drive from Laki’s Diyabubula. The building was designed by
thin: the forms, facades, and thresholds all dissolved into the vast forest that enveloped Geoffrey Bawa, and even included some of Laki’s sculptures. It was
them. The built spaces opened up and welcomed the natural world; the sound of rain, originally meant to be constructed on a site next to the famous rock
the smell of the plants and the moist air were all in constant dialogue. Laki did not citadel at Sigiriya. However, when Bawa visited the site, he realized that
have a television, but instead viewed a “world of pure experience,”54 within which he it was too close to the rock, and rejected it. He suggested an alternative
was both the audience and the performer. site ten kilometers away in the far side of the ancient Kandalama
I came to realize that most of the buildings I had inhabited in the Western reservoir. The hotel is set high on the end of a ridge with its back to a
world were so closed off from the environment that I wouldn’t even know when it was cliff , overlooking the reservoir to a distant view of the Sigiriya Rock.
raining. The built form and the natural environment often sat in opposition, and as a There was no indication of a parking lot, so I parked my small
result, hindered the possibility of any exchange. I would cherish each time the sunlight blue Tata a few meters from the entrance, between two shiny Land
entered a building and touched a surface, bringing the material to life. I sought places Rovers. I stepped out into a landscape that I couldn’t make out in the
near windows or outdoor patios, where I was able to embrace the natural environment. darkness. I walked towards the front doors, realizing that I was arriving
It was clear that a greater resonance with the world would not be possible unless we at the Kandalama Hotel lobby at 4:30 a.m. The concierges standing
welcome the idea of living as an inextricable part of our natural world. behind the counter remained completely still—as if they had seen a
I had read about the experience of simple shelters through writers like Cline ghost. I turned to smile at them as I passed the front desk, leaving them
and Heidegger, and experienced a few in my travels, but none compared to my visit staring at each other in disbelief.
to Laki’s “Diyabubula”, which had been revolutionary to my understanding of how “Sir…ah…Do you have a reservation?” One of them asked,
one can live. I realized that we are predisposed to certain beliefs in our everyday lives hesitantly. I took a few more steps before looking over my shoulder,
and upbringing, and over the years it becomes increasingly harder to break away. My pretending I hadn’t heard him. “A reservation, sir. Do you have a
travels offered me a different precedent for living—one that is uncommon in the Western reservation?”
world. But most importantly, it reminded that I am free to think outside of my existing “No... I’m here for breakfast,” I said, pausing, as surprised at
structures of thought. how ridiculous my response was as they were. Regardless, I continued
Often, I would recall the night I spent at Laki’s humble oasis, and the feeling into the dark corridor.
of yielding myself to the forest that stretched endlessly all around me.The stars silently
accompanied me amidst the frenzy of the living forest at night. I felt vulnerable in
that place, but as a result, developed an innate intimacy with the simple built forms
that sheltered me. The feeling of being so naked, so bare to our natural surroundings
heightens our perception of the built world, and gradually, we learn to feel as comfortable
within it as we are in our own skin.
282 283
The entire hotel was asleep. I resorted to my cellphone light
to climb a large stairwell that lead to the upper deck. Not a single light
was on. I interrupted the perfect silence that filled the space, bumping
into chairs and tables, as I shuffled through the darkness. An oppressive
feeling of unease consumed me as I ran my hands along the walls
searching for light switches. As my eyes began to adjust, I saw dark
objects speeding through the air, and felt them narrowly passing by my
face. They were in fact small bats feeding on the insects that had made
their way into the hotel, which was open to the surrounding forest.
When I snapped on the first light switch, I let out a gasp of
relief and as my eyes adjusted to the light, the large space around me
slowly took form. At any given moment, one could turn the corner
and find enormous black stone jutting into the interior. It was as if the
entire building had miraculously grown out of the rocky face of the
mountain.
I carried all of my belongings with me, worried that monkeys
would snatch them, but it appeared that even they were sleeping. When
I opened the large door that took me out onto the deck, the buzzing
of the forest at night flooded in. Frogs roared in the distant landscape
around me and occasionally I heard the shrill cries of birds. There
was not a moment of silence in between the sounds—it was utterly
continuous. As I carefully walked towards the edge of the deck, I was
barely able to distinguish the water from the black silhouette of the tree
tops. The dark landscape blended into the sky like a seamless extension
of the canvas of space, speckled by innumerable glittering stars.
Figure 189 (above): A view back at the Kandalama

Hotel from its outdoor terrace, Dambulla. 4:45 a.m.
Figure 190 (following spread): The view from

the terrace towards the Lake. 5:45 a.m.
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286 287
At approximately 5:45 a.m., the sun began to peak in the
distance, illuminating everything in sight. I was surrounded by a much
larger body of water than I had imagined. As the lake awakened, a thick
layer of fog swept through it, engulfing it entirely before opening up to
a clear blue sky.
With each minute of sunrise, the landscape around me
screamed with the sound of a thousand birds waking up and warming
up their wings in the light of dawn. The landscape got louder and
brighter, much faster than my eyes and ears could adjust. The sun
washed into the building and even awoke the large owl that spread
its wings across two columns. I found many of Laki’s sculptures
throughout the place, and felt his infinite wisdom as I stared into the
sharp eyes of the owl he had once carved by hand. Eventually, the
sound of the landscape was mixed with that of tourists flocking all
around the building.
I walked deeper into the building, realizing that the exterior
walls hugged the hillside advantageously, distancing itself from it at
times, creating outdoor space in between. The hallways to the rooms
were spaces themselves, each with a seating area, framing a piece of the
landscape like a beautifully curated series of paintings. There were no
real walls to the exterior, but a series of columns allowed the trees to
spread their canopies into the building.Vines had grown throughout
and hung off the balconies as if they had already been claimed by
nature. The building looked towards the sublime moments of the
landscape it nested against, and proudly wore the sun’s rays just the
same.
Figure 191: The view from the terrace towards

the lake after sunrise. 7:00 a.m.
288 289
Figure 192 (above): A view through the
lounge to the landscape beyond.
Figure 193 (below): A stairwell framing a Figure 194: A view from a stairwell
view of the landscape. landing with an opportunity to sit.
290 291
Figure 195: A metal owl sculptor by Laki, Figure 196: The hallway spaces leading to
wings spanning the columns. the rooms, facing the hillside.
292 293
Figure 197: Site plan of Laki’s Diyabubula. Figure 198: East-west section looking south (above)
Drawn by: Anjalendran’s office. and north-south section looking east (below).
By Gayathri, Channa, Faadhi, Kshanika, Drawn by: Laki Senanayake, 1991.
Lasitha, Madhusha, Raveendra & Yasir, 2001.
294 295
Figure 199: Site plan of Kandalama Figure 200: Sectional elevation through
Hotel with entry level floor plan. Kandalama Hotel showing the relationship
Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates. of the building to the cliff.
Drawn by: Geoffrey Bawa Associates.
296 297
N o t e b o o k IX
Beginning
Figure 201
298 299
February 14, 2015
The drive back from Kandalama was my last drive and the toughest
yet. I hung onto my drooping eyelids through the traffic as I entered
Colombo by evening to return my rental car to its owner. He cranked
open the door and read the manual odometer, which had picked up
3000 additional kilometers, and checked the worn tires, which had
traversed the country. A local rickshaw driver took me to the Colombo
bus station where I caught the next bus back to Negombo.
I savoured the chaos of the bus ride and even the walk from
the bus stop, down Canal Road, towards my property. I knew it would
be my last walk down that road but imagined myself having done
so regularly if I hadn’t moved to Canada at a young age. Although
I was leaving in a day, I couldn’t imagine not walking through this
street again. As I neared the property I had visited so many times in
my dreams before arriving in November, the monsoon clouds finally
cleared and let through the sunshine.
Figure 202: The morning of the

Montessori school reopening, Negombo.
300 301
Figure 203: Shelves stocked with Figure 204: The children waiting
children’s belongings at entry. patiently in the main classroom.
302 303
The children were dressed in the school uniform I remembered from
my childhood: a folded handkerchief pinned to the school shirt. The
morning sun lit the Montessori school and its array of freshly painted
colours.
“Hello, good morning,” Emma said to the children in a gentle voice.

She had invited me into the classroom where all of the students
sat quietly. I stood in the back and Emma waved me up to the
front. I walked past the children towards the front of the classroom,
remembering how shy I had been at their age. Emma asked the
children to look around the classroom. They slowly lifted their sleepy
heads and followed her hands as she pointed from one wall to another.
“What’s that colour?” Her energetic voice filled the room. “What about
that colour? And that one?”
Within seconds, the children were awake! Screaming the names of the
colours as their heads spun around the room. Emma then stretched
out her arms towards me and the children’s gaze caught mine. “This
uncle from Canada painted your school,” she said and I couldn’t help
but laugh at the fact that she had called me an uncle. “Thank you,” she
added and began to clap. The children followed.
“Now, what song are we going to sing for uncle?” Emma asked the
children. “What song are we going to sing?”
A quiet voice in the back of the classroom whispered, “Out in the

Garden.”
“Okay. Out in the Garden!” Emma said enthusiastically. “One! Two!

Three!” It felt like the small classroom could not contain the energy
from the youthful voices of the children as they sang. Their arms
reached out towards the ceiling and the walls as they danced.
Out in the garden each fine day, with my ball, I like to play;
I bounce my ball, I bounce my ball, I bounce my ball on each fine day!
Figure 205: Children singing and dancing

in the main classroom space.
304 305
Figure 206: Children playing in the main Figure 207: The children holding up the
classroom space during their recess. beautiful drawing they gifted me.
306 307
Figure 209 (above): The back
of the Montessori school.
Figure 208: Emma playing with the Figure 210 (following page): The Montessori school
children on the front porch. from the street during the lunch break.
308 309
310 311
Reflection
You must know that there is nothing higher and stranger and more wholesome and good
for life in the future than some good memory, especially a memory of childhood, of home.
People talk to you a great deal about your education, but some good, sacred memory,
preserved from childhood, is perhaps the best education.
—Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Figure 211
312 313
While in Sri Lanka, I lived with my aunt and her family in a modest I have come to realize that this story has two threads. One is of
two bedroom home, which bore the weight of the monsoon rains on its rediscovering home, and the other is of rediscovering a lost passion for
simple clay roof.The trees and plants grew thick in the yard, bursting with the architecture. For the two to unfold in parallel was unforeseen and yet felt
sounds of animals and insects, day and night. Simply walking into the flooded seemingly appropriate. In my attempt to reconnect with my birthplace, I
yard after a storm was a sensorial feast. The fast rhythm of the world I had rediscovered my affinity for architecture, in the form of light, material, texture
known dissipated to the knocking of the rain—life had to forfeit its former and emotional resonance. For me, it took a shift in place and perspective
pace and submit to the forces of nature. When the rain brought everything to in order for these realizations to emerge: to notice the subtle changes in
life, I was astonished by the ability of the elements to define my experience of atmosphere as light entered between the coconut trees; to notice the pensive
a place. In these moments my senses were at the forefront of my experience. mood brought about by the rain. I am reminded of the sacred moment when
We often took to the deep veranda, where long conversations were born amid I rang the bell at the top of Adam’s Peak, as the sun appeared proudly from
the cool mist of the downpour.The buildings I had visited were designed to be the world’s humble arc. Its colour swept the entire landscape, with a glow
entangled with life itself, and in that way, they were an extension of ourselves. sublime and all-encompassing. All of these moments retain an atmospheric
In this setting, I felt completely at ease—my doubts and questions regarding quality that are inseparable from my very idea of that place. They are the
my thesis had unconsciously disappeared and my senses were renewed. most meaningful experiences that I have had, and I take them with me in my
Without knowing it, my life in Sri Lanka had extended what I pursuit of architecture. I now know that my trip has helped me to understand
considered to be the boundaries of home, past the walls and into the vast the place that sensing has in my architectural education.
yard. I found myself drawn to the simple aspects of life there, where day- When I reflect on my trip to Sri Lanka, I find that my earliest
to-day rituals weaved together to form my understanding of the place. The memories from that place have deepened my most recent travels there. Now
streets I traversed, the homes I inhabited, and the spaces I frequented, all these experiences have also collected within me, and like my childhood
settled within me, and have inscribed their markings upon me. There were memories, both the experiential and emotional findings from my trip will
many instances when, simply walking through the yard, or speeding along in a serve as a rich palette for my future architectural endeavours.
rickshaw, I saw glimpses of something insignificant yet so moving. Sometimes This early spring, as I bring my notebook to a close, the Grand River
it was a beautiful landscape, or a simple yet charming building; other times flows freely yet again.The trees have begun to leaf and the sun gently touches
they were but momentary, like the fleeting clouds of mist that enveloped the the rustic old buildings across the water, where ducks occasionally glide to a
hills of Nuwara Eliya. Revisiting these memories, I recall my serendipitous stop. I am reminded of the beautiful sentiment by Louis Kahn, that “the sun
encounter with the Montessori school after hearing the sound of children at never knew how great it was until it struck the side of a building.”55 When
play one afternoon, which drew me to rediscover my grandparents’ old home. I experience this spectacle of light, I am at once here and there: the top of
In hindsight, these almost unnoticed encounters were the defining moments Adam’s Peak, the terrace at Kandalama or the front veranda. The Sri Lanka
of my trip, and have left a considerable impression on me and perhaps my I know now rests somewhere between my body and my memory. It exists
understanding of design. as experience, something I have touched and felt, smelled and seen—all of
When I returned to Cambridge, I spent a lot of time observing which govern my everyday actions and thoughts in ways so subtle I rarely
the river just outside my office. When I heard the rain gently tapping on my think of them.
window, I wrote most freely, still invigorated by the monsoon rains I had Sri Lanka has captivated every part of me. It has become my inward
felt half a world away. When the Grand River froze, my thoughts came to a map, one which I continually traverse. My heart now beats to its very rhythm
standstill. It occurred to me that my thoughts flowed with these elements. Sri and serves as my innermost compass, and still trembles when I hear the sound
Lanka had taught me that to listen to the river and the rain was to listen to of rain.
myself.These two elements, like life and time, are unstoppable forces that flow
through all things.
314 315
NOTES
Notebook I: Sitting
1. Darren C. Zook, “A Place Called Serendib: On War, Peace, and Silence in Sri Lanka,” The
Threepenny Review Fall 1999: 17.
2. Juhani Pallasmaa, “Identity, Intimacy and Domicile: Notes on the Phenomenology of Home,”
Juhani Pallasmaa, n.d., 7 Mar. 2015. <http://www.uiah.fi/studies/history2/e_ident.htm>.
3. Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space (Boston: Beacon Press, 1969) 8.
4. Bachelard, 7.
5. Bachelard, 100.
6. Juhani Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin (Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2005) 64.
7. Juhani Pallasmaa, The Embodied Image: Imagination and Imagery in Architecture

(Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2011) 125.
8. Pallasmaa, The Eyes of the Skin, 64.
9. Pallasmaa, The Embodied Image: Imagination and Imagery in Architecture, 125.
10. Kent C. Bloomer, Body, Memory, and Architecture (New Haven: Yale University Press,
1977) 49.
11. Bloomer, 49.
12. Rainer M. Rilke and Michael Hulse, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge (New York:
W.W. Norton & Company, 1992) 25.
13. Rilke and Hulse, 25.
316 317
17. Julia Briggs, Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life (Orlando: Harcourt, 2006) 352. Notebook IV: Trekking
18. Bachelard, 53. 34. Anne Cline, A Hut of One’s Own: Life Outside the Circle of Architecture
(Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1997) 107.
19. Stephen J. Smith, “Physically Remembering Childhood,” Phenomenology + Pedagogy
1992: 89. 35. In conversation with architect Anjalendran while at his Colombo home during my first
month in Sri Lanka.
20. Smith, 90.
36. Zook, 20.
21. Federico Sabatini, The Capricious Thread: Memory and the Modernist Text (Alessandria:
Edizioni dell’Orso, 2011) 107.
Notebook V: Bawa Trail
22. Sarah Robinson, Nesting: Body, Dwelling, Mind (Richmond, CA: William Stout, 2011) 4.
37. “Solo Contextual Modernism,” Geoffrey Bawa, n.d., 24 Mar. 2016 <http://www.
23. Jan Hendrik van den Berg, The Changing Nature of Man (New York: Dell, 1975) 212. geoffreybawa.com/work/solo-contextual-modernism>.
24. Smith, 91. 38. David Robson and Geoffrey Bawa, Geoffrey Bawa: The Complete Works (London:
Thames & Hudson, 2002) 212.
25. Edward S. Casey, Remembering, Second Edition: A Phenomenological Study
(Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1987) 178. 39. Robson, and Bawa, 164.
26. Nancy Mairs, Remembering the Bone House: An Erotics of Place and Space (Boston: 40. Brian Brace Taylor, Geoffrey Bawa (London: Thames & Hudson, 1996) 138.
Beacon Press, 1995) 8.
41. Taylor, 238.
27. Robert Lawlor, “Dreaming the Beginning,” Parabola Summer 1993: 15.
42. David Robson, Beyond Bawa: Modern Masterworks of Monsoon Asia (London:
28. Lawlor, 15. Thames & Hudson, 2008) 27.
29. Scott Russell Sanders, “Telling the Holy,” Parabola Summer 1993: 4. 43. Taylor, 50.
30. Michael Ondaatje, Running in the Family (London: Bloomsbury, 2009) 115. 44. Taylor, 114.
Notebook III: Climbing Notebook VI: Reflecting
31. Greg Mortenson, Three Cups of Tea (London: Penguin Books, 2007) 97. 45. Helmuth von Glasenapp, et al., Collected Wheel Publications Volume II: Numbers 16–30
(Kandy: Buddhist Publication Society, 2008) 79.
32. Mortenson, 106.
46. Robinson, 118.
33. Robinson, 5.
318 319
47. Robinson, 94.
48. Robinson, 41.
49. David Robson, Anjalendran: Architect of Sri Lanka (Clarendon,VT: Tuttle

Publishing, 2014) 190.
50. Robson, Anjalendran: Architect of Sri Lanka, 184.
Notebook VII: Painting
51. Richard Lewis, “The Pulse of Learning,” Parabola Winter 1989. 62.
Notebook VIII: Seeing
53. Cline, 32.
54. Cline, 32.
Reflection
55. Robert McCarter, Louis I. Kahn (London: Phaidon, 2005) 136.
320 321
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. Boston: Beacon Press, 1969. Print.
Bloomer, Kent C. Body, Memory, and Architecture. New Haven:Yale University Press,
1977. Print.
Briggs, Julia. Virginia Woolf: An Inner Life. Orlando: Harcourt, 2006. Print.
Casey, Edward S. Remembering, Second Edition: A Phenomenological Study. Bloomington, IN: Indiana
University Press, 2009. Print.
Cline, Ann. A Hut of One’s Own: Life Outside the Circle of Architecture. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press,
1997. Print.
Futagawa,Yoshio. Geoffrey Bawa: 33rd Lane Colombo, Lunuganga Bentota. Residential

Masterpieces 07. Tokyo: ADA Editors, 2010. Print.
Glasenapp, Helmuth von, et al. Collected Wheel Publications Volume II: Numbers 16–30. Kandy:
Buddhist Publication Society, 2008. Print.
Lawlor, Robert. “Dreaming the Beginning.” Parabola Summer 1993. Print.
Mairs, Nancy. Remembering the Bone House: An Erotics of Place and Space. Boston: Beacon Press,
1995. Print.
McCarter, Robert. Louis I. Kahn. London: Phaidon, 2005. Print.
Mortenson, Greg. Three Cups of Tea. London: Penguin Books, 2007. Print.
Ondaatje, Michael. Running in the Family. London: Bloomsbury, 2009. Print.
Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Identity, Intimacy and Domicile: Notes on the Phenomenology of Home.” Juhani
Pallasmaa, n.d. Web. 7 Mar. 2015. <http://www.uiah.fi/studies/history2/e_ident.htm>.
---. The Embodied Image: Imagination and Imagery in Architecture. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2011.
Print.
---. The Eyes of the Skin. Hoboken, NJ: Wiley, 2005. Print.
322 323
Richard Lewis, “The Pulse of Learning,” Parabola Winter 1989. 62.
Rilke, Rainer M., and Michael Hulse. The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge. New York: W.W. Norton
& Company, 1992. Print.
Robinson, Sarah. Nesting: Body, Dwelling, Mind. Richmond, CA: William Stout, 2011. Print.
Robson, David. Anjalendran: Architect of Sri Lanka. Clarendon,VT: Tuttle Publishing, 2014. Print.
---. Beyond Bawa: Modern Masterworks of Monsoon Asia. London: Thames & Hudson, 2008. Print.
---. The Architectural Heritage of Sri Lanka. London: Laurence King Publishing, 2008. Print.
Robson, David, and Geoffrey Bawa. Geoffrey Bawa:The Complete Works. London: Thames & Hudson,
2002. Print.
Sabatini, Federico. The Capricious Thread: Memory and the Modernist Text. Alessandria: Edizioni
dell’Orso, 2011. Print.
Sanders, Scott Russell. “Telling the Holy.” Parabola Summer 1993. Print.
Smith, Stephen J. “Physically Remembering Childhood.” Phenomenology + Pedagogy 10 (1992): 85-

106. Print.
“Solo Contextual Modernism.” Geoffrey Bawa. Geoffrey Bawa Trust, n.d. Web. 24 Mar. 2016.
<http://www.geoffreybawa.com/work/solo-contextual-modernism>.
Taylor, Brian Brace. Geoffrey Bawa. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996. Print.
Van den Berg, J.H. The Changing Nature of Man. New York: Dell, 1975. Print.
Zook, Darren C. “A Place Called Serendib: On War, Peace, and Silence in Sri Lanka.” The Threepenny
Review Fall 1999: 17-20. Print.
324 325

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MONSOON NOTEBOOK:

A thesis presented to the

Waterloo, Ontario, Canada, 2016

I understand that my thesis may be made electronically available to the public.

This thesis records my rite of passage into architecture by undertaking a

This is my monsoon notebook. It records, presents and re-presents my travels

iii Author’s Declaration

11 November 15, 2014

48 November 25, 2014 185 January 07, 2015

85 Notebook IV: Trekking

126 The Jayawarthena House 259 Notebook VIII: Seeing

299 Notebook IX: Beginning

300 February 14, 2015

Figure 1: A Map of Sri Lanka. 7

Figure 2: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 8

Figure 3: The view from my aunt’s front veranda, Negombo. 12

Figure 17: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 46

Notebook II: Reac hing

Figure 201: A Map of Sri Lanka indicating my route of travel. 298

Notebook IX: Beginning

Figure 211: A Map of Sri Lanka. 312

All photographs are taken by the author, with the exception of

All drawings are credited according to the original source referenced.

“A Place Called Serendib”—Darren C. Zook.

I was uncertain of whether I had made the right decisions as I boarded

And for the next month it rained…

Figure 3 (following page): The view

The whole assortment shall be lightly stitched together by a single thread.

If I didn’t wake up to the sound of our neighbour’s rooster, or the

Figure 4: The view out of my bedroom

Figure 5:The family property from

Figure 6 (top): A view from the Hamilton

Figure 7 (bottom): The Hamilton

Figure 8: A view of the dock at the

Figure 9: In a hair salon near

Figure 10: The Barefoot Cafe

Figure 11: A frog resting on the

Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.

Figure 12 (top): The yard from my

Figure 13 (bottom): The back of my

I hope this email finds you well.

It was primarily my memories attending school as a child, prior to my family’s migration

Dear Jaliya Fonseka,

Your email was expected.

But please call me to make an appointment.

I enclose a location map

Figure 18: Zaheer standing proudly

Figure 19 (above): Entrance vestibule

Figure 20 (following page): A view into the

ANJALENDRAN: Ah, yeah, that is only possible if the government

Figure 21: Architect Anjalendran’s

I climbed back into the rickshaw profoundly moved. Zaheer drove

Figure 22: Stuck in rush hour

Figure 24 (opposite): Floor plans and

Figure 26: Floating down the

Figure 27 (top): Resting place

Figure 29 (top): Delhouse bus station

Figure 30 (bottom): A narrow

Figure 31 (above): The path lit all the way