Malinda Seneviratne

I don’t know when the terms viyali kalaapaya (dry zone) and theth kalaapaya (wet zone) were first used in relation to this island. I don’t know when the term mosam sulang (monsoon winds) was first used.

Knowledge doesn’t follow naming. People obviously knew the difference between wet and dry. They could tell which parts of the country got more rain. They knew when the rains could be expected. They planned cultivation accordingly. They probably knew that the climate has changed long before they were told about ‘climate change,’ because climate and cultivation and indeed climate and life are interconnected.    

Almost forty years ago, the loku hamuduruwo of the Kathnoruwa Rajamaha Viharaya, spoke about such things. First of all he questioned the relevance of the term ‘environment,’ insisting that svabhava dharmaya (translatable as ‘natural order’ or the logic of natural processes) is more appropriate. Then he pointed out that the Rajarata is hardly dry although large swathes of it are located in what’s called the ‘Dry Zone.’

Even before large dams were designed, built and commissioned along the Mahaweli, the Dry Zone was considerably wet thanks to the innumerable water conservation and planned irrigation initiatives over several millennia. ‘Dry’ has connotations of chronic water scarcity. That’s not true of the so-called Dry Zone.

There are droughts, sure. There are dry periods. There are pockets that get meager amounts of rainfall. And yet, for the most part, there’s cultivation. People may have to walk a kilometer or more, but even in dry spells they find the time and energy to bathe in a nearby reservoir.

So it is relative and the relativity is understood. Heat leaves marks on the landscape, on skin and settles like fine dust in the minds. When the rains fail, in certain parts of the country, people don’t die of thirst, but the fact that they are forced to purchase rice irks them no end.

The rain, when it does arrive, does not descend on dust-brown landscapes and trees bereft of leaves, but it still re-colours everything, including the complexion of faces and the width of a smile. It adds that much more variety to the palette of the earth.      

It happens when there hasn’t been rain for a long time. It also happens when it has been raining almost everyday. Rain re-blushes the world de-blushed by the sun. The greens of the moment-ago are replaced by during-rain and post-green hues. It’s a part of the endless magic of the ‘dry’ zone.

The word for dry in Sinhala is viyali. Wet would be theth. Thethamanaya could be translated as wetness, but the Sinhala word has an additional meaning which may have been first inspired by seasonality associated with rain. It’s about a heart that is moved to be empathetic, to be kind and generous. Such hearts are not zone-bound or country-bound, but in an area designated as ‘dry’ and to a visitor who is swayed by names and assumes the accuracy of labels, a heart, a person, a family or community clearly empowered by this quality would appear to be quite exceptionally magical.

But that’s how people are, for the most part. In all parts of the country. They don’t have to be taught how to smile. They don’t say ‘hi’ or ‘what’s up’ out of learned courtesy. They may nod their heads, acknowledge presence, reciprocate similar greetings and if you ask a question will take the trouble to answer. Ask for directions and they will tell you. If they don’t know, they will ask someone who does. They will make sure you don’t leave without an answer.

In this country there’s that kind of greenery, that kind of thethamanaya. It is not seasonal. The colours are not always vibrant but there’s always the promise that vibrancy there will be. Perhaps it has become part of the svabhava dharmaya but even if it is not its traces are unmistakable. Always there, just around the next bend or wrapped in a word or in the contours of a smile. We are an island that is a theth kalaapaya in and of itself.