Part -I

Footprint Across the Dust

The Village Between Two Creeks

When I close my eyes and think about my childhood, the first image that appears before me is my village — Kappangamuwa.

Kappangamuwa is located in the Kurunegala District of Sri Lanka’s North Western Province. The nearest town to us is Kuliyapitiya, which lies within the rural network of the district. Kuliyapitiya is about 80 kilometers from Colombo, the commercial capital of Sri Lanka. Kurunegala, the district capital, is about 100 kilometers from Colombo. From these towns, one has to travel further along rural routes to finally reach our village. The journey gradually moves away from busy urban life into a quieter, slower world shaped by nature and farming.

Kappangamuwa was small in size — barely one and a half square kilometers — yet nearly five hundred families lived within it. It was a tightly woven community where everyone knew everyone else, and life unfolded like a single extended family.

Two creeks guarded the village like silent protectors. On one side flowed Karabalan Creek, and on the other Dandagamuwa Creek. Between them stretched endless paddy fields that changed colour with the seasons — green with cultivation and golden at harvest.

All the roads in the village were gravel roads. In summer, dust rose behind passing bicycles or bullock carts. In the rainy season, the same paths turned into sticky mud where every step demanded care and patience.

Most houses were simple Cadjan-thatched dwellings, built with mud walls and natural materials. Very few homes had cement floors. The majority had floors made of packed earth, sometimes strengthened with a mixture of mud and cow dung — smoothed by hand and hardened by years of use. These homes stood within coconut estates, surrounded by tall palms that swayed gently over daily life.

There was no electricity in the village. Nights arrived in complete darkness, broken only by the soft glow of kerosene oil lamps. These lamps lit every home, guiding cooking, studying, and family life. Yet they also carried danger, as fires occasionally spread through Cadjan roofs, leaving behind painful memories in a closely connected community.

Though small in land, the village was rich in human connection. Nearly five hundred families lived within this tight space, and everyone knew each other. News travelled quickly, often without a messenger. Joys were shared widely, and sorrows were carried together.

Most villagers were farmers, their lives shaped by the rhythm of rain, soil, and harvest. A few government servants such as teachers and clerks lived among them and were deeply respected.

At the center of the village stood a small school that offered education up to Grade Ten. Almost every child studied there. After that, most joined their families in farming, while only a few continued their education in town schools.

Each home had a vegetable garden behind it, and every family depended on a bore well for water — for drinking, cooking, and cultivation. Coconut estates surrounded every house, forming a green boundary around daily life.

Agriculture defined everything. The Yala and Maha monsoon seasons determined the rhythm of survival. When rains arrived, the creeks filled and the paddy fields came alive.

But sometimes nature became overwhelming.

Karabalan and Dandagamuwa Creeks would overflow, submerging fields and low-lying homes. Families carried essential belongings and moved into neighbours’ houses. In those moments, hardship and kindness existed side by side, and the village stood together as one.

Floods cut the village off completely. No travelling took place on the roads. The entire landscape came to a standstill, as if time itself had paused. Even the school would sometimes close when water entered the classrooms.

At the center of the village stood three small boutique shops that sold basic provisions — salt, sugar, soap, kerosene oil, and dried fish. Villagers often bought on credit and settled payments after harvest. These shops were not only commercial places but also social gathering points where villagers met, talked, and shared stories.

Alongside these was a cooperative shop, run under government support, where villagers could purchase essential provisions at subsidized prices. It provided some relief to families during difficult times and was an important part of village life.

Transport in normal days was simple. Push bicycles and bullock carts carried most movement. Those needing government services or transport connections walked several kilometers to Udubaddawa. In emergencies, patients were carried on bicycles or carts along rough gravel paths.

Traditional medicine was deeply trusted. Indigenous healers treated snake bites, fractures, and sprains using herbal knowledge passed down through generations. Ritual healers also performed ceremonies and believed to cure illnesses caused by unseen forces.

The village had no temple of its own. For religious activities, villagers had to walk a long distance to a nearby village temple. The journey itself was part of devotion. The temple priest there was a highly respected figure, and villagers often sought his advice during difficult times in life, believing his words carried wisdom and guidance.

Life revolved around farming. Twice a year, harvest transformed the village. When paddy fields turned golden, hope and hardship briefly balanced each other, and money flowed into homes.

Buffaloes were essential to this world. They ploughed fields, carried loads, and helped to thresh the harvested paddy. Buffalo milk was a common morning drink in many households.

But despite hardship, there was joy.

We never had a proper playground. There were no marked fields or sports grounds. Yet the entire village became our playground.

Children played Elle (A team sports like Base Ball) in harvested paddy fields, running barefoot across dry earth with handmade equipment, filling the air with laughter.

Later, volleyball became part of village life. A rope tied between coconut trees became our net, and any cleared ground became a court. Barefoot players gathered in the evenings, and laughter echoed across the coconut estates.

These games were never about competition. They were about togetherness — about turning land into joy.

Some villagers brewed toddy from coconut trees. Farmers often drank it after long days in the fields, especially during harvest seasons when the villagers gathered in shared relief and conversation.

The creeks remained central to life. Women and children bathed during the day, while men came in the evenings after field work. The sound of flowing water, fading light, and human laughter blended into the village’s natural rhythm.

That was Kappangamuwa.

A village of creeks and coconut trees.

A village of floods and harvests.

A village of mud homes and glowing lamps.

A village of hard work, simplicity, and deep human connection.

For me, it was the world where my life first began.