Several years ago,
when I was at the Sunday Island, the editor, Manik De Silva, an old Royalist
himself, assigned me to do a profile of Viji Weerasinghe, the inimitable former
Deputy Principal of Royal College. This was as a part of a series on people of
his generation, i.e. those over 70 years of age who were icons in their chosen
field.
I went to see Viji at the Royal College Union office where he had
been headquartered by the school and the old boys after he retired. I was
seeing him after more than a decade, but Viji remembered me just as he probably
remembered all students who had the privilege of associating him at
Royal. Time had passed but Viji didn't look any different from what I
remembered of him while at school. Perhaps people really don't change much
after 60. I told him what I came for and he smiled the smile that was his
operative signature throughout his life. He refused to comply.
So we chit-chatted about various things and he did drop what would
have been choice tidbits for a journalist attempting to write a biographical
sketch. I was there for more than an hour and we were interrupted every
few minutes by telephone calls and random old boys dropping by to say 'hello'
to the old man. A cup of tea, reminiscences and a lot of humour thrown of
course made a pleasant morning for me.
When I
reported back to Manik, he suggested that I keep visiting Viji to collect more
anecdotes so that we could piece together a good story. For the next few
months, Manik would bug me, sometimes gently, sometimes with annoyance,
regarding the 'Viji interview'. I dodged. Part of it must have been laziness,
but it was basically about being reduced to a schoolboy by a former teacher
decades after having left school and about showing respect to an old man's
right to intransigence.
Viji was like that. Likeable. Utterly. He never really
'taught' me in a formal sense. By the time I came to Royal College he had been
tasked to carry out administrative functions. This did not mean that he
did not teach, however. He was not a strict disciplinarian like Christie
Gunasekera, better known as Kataya, an equally colourful old boy who was Vice
Principal of the Upper School, but he was not any less effective. The
same goes for his loyalty to the school. Unsurpassed if not unmatched. As
student, teacher, administrator and in many ways First Senior Citizen of the
Royal family, Viji's commitment to the school and the students was truly
exemplary. Many would not know if Viji had a life outside of 'Royal', he
was so much a part of the school's affairs.
Viji celebrated his 80th birthday recently and I chuckled to
myself when I read many, many tributes paid to him by old boys from all over
the world in the English newspapers. There will be another flood, rest
assured.
In the coming weeks, there will be many, many old Royalists paying
tribute to this genial human being. They will recall with fondness their
individual encounters with him. Some will place on record the things he has
done for Royal, before and after he retired. Some would argue that he was
one person who could not be 'retired', neither the school or Viji himself being
unable to conceive of Royal without Viji or vice versa. He had grown so much
into and with the architecture that is Royal.
He was fortunate, I think. He knew he was appreciated while he was
still alive and that's a rare privilege. He will not require some kind of
monument. The true monument to Viji Weerasinghe has already been constructed.
It is evident in the school, the programmes into which he poured the brick and
mortar of heart and mind, the teachers who he nurtured into great teachers and
the boys he turned into men.
No Sir, no obelisks, no commemorative plaques, no prizes or
buildings in your name. Such things would not do justice to your dedication,
your service and your heart. This school, of our fathers, is the living
salute to who you were and what you created. You would probably have
smiled that amazing smile of yours and remarked, 'don't be silly men!' As
for us, we can clasp our hands in gratitude for being a teacher, a friend
and a father to countless generations of Royalists.