SLAVE ISLAND MY HOMETOWN : Kompannaveediya, A City's Gilded Heart
Stepping onto the avenues of Slave Island (Kompannaveediya) after a half-century's absence is to witness memory materialize, a cherished archive opening its forgotten doors. My mind's eye seeks the vibrant past: the red-painted roundabout, its heart a meticulously kept green lawn from which a brilliant streetlight once ascended. I can almost hear the indolent chatter of crowds gathered at its red concrete rim on balmy evenings. During Ramazan, the junction remained a beacon of communal life, animated until the break of dawn. I converse with these radiant ghosts of a bygone era.
One could sigh relief, for the holy shrine of the Infant Jesus stands beautifully intact. It anchors the triangular nexus formed by Justice Akbar Mawatha and Kumara Ratnam Mawatha—streets rightly named for the town's distinguished residents. Yet, the roll call of the past is largely silenced; old colonial-echoing names like Mews, Lake, Rifles, Shorts, Church, Union, Braybrook, Staples, Dawson, and Bridge have been renamed, modernizing a landscape I knew intimately.
This was my birthplace, my home until 1972 when I moved to Wattala. The dear old landscape of the 1960s is now a warm, tender memory, overshadowed by the soaring, ambitious presence of skyscrapers. In that simpler time, the converging point of six roads was punctuated only by the revered church, the Salvation Army building, and the Nippon Hotel. The Nippon, within Manning Mansions, was a culinary legend, serving the finest hot Chinese rolls and housing a flourishing barber-salon, a fully-fledged studio, and the plush ‘Harmonics’ showroom, a treasure trove for Western musical instruments.
Slave Island was a dazzling jewel—a vibrant tapestry of multicultural and multi-religious harmony. Its roots were established by the Portuguese, expanded by the Dutch—who gifted the area the vast, picturesque Beira Lake—and later built up by the British with prominent trading firms and smart military garrisons. While historical records note the 16th century presence of a community of African slaves in transit, lending the area its name, the original settlers were likely Malays and Moors, who thrived alongside later waves. By the early 1900s, many Sinhalese and Tamils emigrated from the North and South, seeking a glorious future in the city’s burgeoning trade.
These arrivals included individuals who would become renowned mudalalis (wealthy entrepreneurs), seamlessly integrating into the British-ruled economy. Sinhalese entrepreneurs prospered in transport, in popular working-class restaurants, in entertainment clubs, and money-lending. Tamil urimaiyalars (owners) established well-stocked wholesale and retail shops, owned lucrative cinema halls, and virtually reigned over the textile trade. By Ceylon's Independence, Slave Island had blossomed into a majestic trading hub.
Geographically, the area was blessed by the Beira Lake, a Dutch-engineered 17th century waterway that imparted unique beauty. The island in the middle of the lake, opposite the then Colombo Commercial Company, was once a lush coconut grove sheltering a single family and their fishing canoes. A generous marsh lay between Bishops College and the lake, bordering Alwis Place in Colpetty.
Lanes like Vauxhall, Kew, Bahjathul Asrar, and Police lane gracefully extended to the lakeshore. Yet, behind the railway station, in areas like ‘ganga aine waththa’ and Wekanda, stood crowded slum-dwellings. Each locality had its own territorial figure, a charismatic hoodlum who commanded absolute authority. Though conflicts occasionally led to tragedy, these men, drawn from all three major communities, were formidable and oozed charisma. Dealing primarily in swords and daggers, they offered round-the-clock protection to wealthy businessmen in exchange for a fee.
The Gangaramaya (then known as Hunupitiye Pansala) and the Gunawardanaramaya next to the Nippon hotel served the Buddhists. Christians paid homage at the Infant Jesus shrine, while Hindus worshipped at the Murugan temple. The Jumma mosques of Wekanda, Kew Road, and the Java Lane Malay Regiment mosque served the Moors and Malays.
Religious life was rich and ceremonial: Buddhist temples held annual pageants and celebrated Wesak and Poson Poya on a grand scale. The church held its annual feast, Christmas carols, and Easter programs. The Hindu shrine commemorated the beheading of an asura God in a vibrant street festival. Occasionally, the Salvation Army—mostly white foreigners led by a spirited brass band—would parade, singing hymns in orderly costume. During Ramazan, the mosque's messenger, the ‘fakir bawa’, a figure in ghostly white, would drum a traditional tambourine at 4 a.m. to awaken the devout, carrying a baton to ward off stray dogs. A tiny Bhai community, likely from Afghanistan, lived in a rented house on Vauxhall Street; these fair, bearded giants, money lenders by occupation, in their unique attire, were gentle souls, though a legendary rumour of one of them single-handedly hurling a pickpocket ten feet often circulated.
Muttiah Childrens’ Park, picturesquely overlooking the lake in front of the Gangaramaya temple, featured a small clubhouse for weightlifters, while its central lawn was an ideal cricket pitch. De Mel Park was the vibrant stage for firebrand orators like R. Premadasa, Haleem Ishak, Peter Keuneman, Shanmugathasan, and D.G. William of Colombo Central; these leaders lived in the hearts of the poor. I still recall as a child the thrill of shaking hands with Peter K during his house-to-house canvassing.
The community patronized the Victoria bakery next to the park for its warm, oven-fresh products. Sent with my cousins to buy bread, we’d often return home after dusk, having mischievously gallivanted past Galle Face, City League, and Army rugger grounds (now Taj Samudra) to watch men practice rugby and football. The line of shops extending to the railway station was known as ‘theentha kada peliya’ (the paint shops). Opposite were a few Chinese shops, behind which a small community resided in flats; one shop housed a denture specialist. Another Victoria establishment, in front of the Nippon Hotel, was a respected wine store that also purveyed high-quality imported foods. The City League grounds separated Slave Island from Colombo Fort and were the cherished training pitch for the town's top footballers.
The main market of Slave Island, located where the Nawaloka Hospital now stands, offered splendid stalls for vegetables, fresh fish, and all meats. The premises also featured a government dispensary and a banquet hall for private functions. A life-giving well thrived under a giant kumbuk tree next to the mosque at Kew Road, with a public bath operating into the 70s'—a wooden tub of pristine water for washing cost ten cents, with separate enclosures for genders.For private hospital the locals depended on Ratnams Hospital
where CEO Dr. Terry Alles ensured a comfortable stay.
The local transport scene was a vibrant mix of motors, rickshaws, and bullock carts carrying coir to the Carson Cumberbatch warehouse at the end of Vauxhall Lane— where my grandmother owned 5 houses and was our street cricket playground. The Muslim Congress office was the residence of the Nalliah family. A constant line of carts was parked, their bulls fed with straw, the cartmen resting in hammocks slung beneath. Traveling at night to escape the heat, each cart had a lantern dangling from either side.
In the early hours, the Elephant House milk van delivered bottles, followed by the paperman with the Daily News. The kerosene cart, the aerated-water cycle, the uniformed postman on his bicycle, the green pushcart selling bread and cutlets, and the weekly firewood cart were all part of the daily symphony. Several rickshaw-stands near the roundabout were eventually replaced by Morris Minor and Beetle meter-taxis in the early 60s.
Union Place housed the prestigious offices of the island's top commercial companies. Some believe that the Sinhala word Kompannayavidiya derived from company street. At its beginning, next to the Salvation Army building opposite the old post office, stood the much-sought Vimto House, which produced Ceylon's sweetest bottled drinks—Vimto and Pineapple—in a lovely little sit-out. Further towards the Townhall stood the Fountain Café, a colonial architectural gem where formally dressed waiters served a delightful array of short-eats and delicious ice-creams. Weekends featured a live band, and the venue was frequently booked for plush parties and weddings. Opposite the café, a mammoth banyan tree shaded Union Place. A short hop away was the Moors Ground, where cricketers in white flannels played; the celebrated Abu Fuard was an outstanding product of this club.
The Empire theatre stood nearby, separated from the ground by another giant banyan. The lovely Rio auditorium was built in the 60s; Cleopatra, starring Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, was one of its first films. The Nawah cinema, right behind the Rio, was smaller and mostly catered to the Tamil-speaking community with South Indian movies, but it triumphantly broke barriers by screening Hathi Mere Sathi—starring the then heartthrob Rajesh Khanna and Tanuja—continuously for seven magnificent months in 1972.
Slave Island was a haven for food lovers. Geetha Café and Radha Lodge offered delicious South Indian fare, while many mouthwatering street-food outlets run by Malays serving babath and pittu thrived around the railway station. The Park View Lodge dished out delectable Chinese cuisine. Amaradisi, Sriyananda, and Sinhala Hotel served decent rice and curry, but the Nippon remained the place for fine dining. In addition to the clubs at Union Place, which served alcohol aplenty, the elderly working-class patronized a famous toddy outlet near the station, supplemented by an isso-wade cart at its entrance. For recreation, families would walk in the dusk on weekends, either to the Galle Face Green for the healthy sea-breeze or to the luxuriant Victoria Park in Townhall, often enjoying a dinner en route.
Of the well-known mudalalis, I recall Hinni Appuhamy with his fleet of buses; Gajaweera with his lorries; Richard, who owned several clubs; and Aaron, who famously refused to have his name engraved on a plaque at the serene Buddha statue he built next to the colonial railway station. All hailed from the South and wore a sarong, always with a coat stitched by a London-qualified tailor. Vishwalingam urimaiyalar, a textile magnate from the North, was the epitome of simplicity, wearing a plain kurta over his traditional vetti and walking with such brisk purpose as if forever late for his train. I also recall the names of Chandare, Justin, Nilam, Kuthub etc all for the wrong reasons. They are long gone.
With the 1970s and the advent of the newly introduced free economy, many Sinhalese and Tamils departed as the area became increasingly commercialized. Today, it is predominantly a Muslim swathe. Especially the Malays, who called Slave Island "Kartel," are still proudly attached to their ancestral home, which houses the oldest cricket club in the country founded in 1872, the Ceylon Malay Cricket Club in Jalan Pandang where also stands the Fort Magistrate. Over the years, multi-storeyed buildings, often funded by Middle Eastern earnings, have replaced the old slum-dwellings. The former crimes and hoodlums are now consigned to history. The few remaining residential neighborhoods are gentle islanders amidst the encroaching development of an expanding city, as the area is magically transformed into a landscaped, state-of-the-art township—a business and leisure center of immense importance.
Though Slave Island has shed its colonial charm and officially lost its name, the present community is one of vibrant contentment. It is a hard-working, progressive community, focused on trade, just as its predecessors were—a fitting and bright legacy for this ever-evolving corner of the city.
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