On2nd May 1973, I started my first job as an apprentice in Overseas Telecommunication, Service (OTS), Colombo, Sri Lanka. The job title was “Trainee, Overseas Telegraphist’. It was a fancy title for an eighteen-year-old with very few strands of facial hair. There were twenty-five apprentices in all. They were all male, in a period without notion of STEM.
The training school was on the 6th floor of the OTS building, located on Duke Street, in the heart of the Central Business District, Colombo. It was one of the few modern multi-story buildings in Sri Lanka at a time when tall buildings were a rarity.
My batch mates came from all regions of the country with diverse ethnic identities, speaking many languages with distinctly regional accents. Talking to them was an experience of diversity on the tiny island of Sri Lanka.
The instructor was Shirley De Silva, a male in his mid-forties with twenty-odd years of experience in telecommunication. He was dark and had black hair and an accompanying thick signature moustache. A likeable fellow with a fatherly attitude. Soon, he’d start addressing me as ‘son’, a dear term for young boys. The relief instructor was Douglas Meerwald. Dougie was a relaxed and popular figure. He had a stunning young daughter, which did not go unnoticed by my roving eye whenever his daughter visited her dad in the office.
Training centred on the worldwide communications system. In the seventies, it was the most crucial method of communication between companies, embassies, governmental bodies, public services and citizens worldwide. Hence the name Overseas Telecommunication Service (OTS). It was the state-owned monopoly of this critical service in Sri Lanka. It was the state’s only link to the outside world. That’s why my work title was ceremonial — emerging ‘prince’ in telecommunication.
The training schedule consisted of learning technologies based on the Baudot-Murray code. Looking down at the keyboard on teletypewriters was a no-no. Shirley covered the keyboards with wooden panels forcing everyone to touch type.
My starting monthly salary was Rupees 250, equal to about US Dollars 60 at the conversation rate. I had no financial responsibilities on my own. I had never worked, so this ‘job thing’ was a spanking new experience for an eighteen-year-old on the threshold of adulthood.
It did not take long for me to befriend my batch mates. All I did in the training school was chat and be friendly with them. They were determined to succeed in this career opportunity in an exceptional government job with job security.
I had no notion of a career. I was fresh out of school and still in Aquinas as still a student in my mindset, a full-time student studying accounting at Aquinas University when I took the apprentice job. Transitioning from a carefree boy to an adult was a severe challenge and experience. I changed my day classes to night classes to manage my time. It was a tough ask for an eighteen-year-old, full-time apprenticeship during the day coupled with night classes. During the day, I was learning telecommunication and night accounting, two diverse disciplines. When I reached home, past nine at night, I was exhausted.
Weekends were partying, hanging out with friends and girls and the frequent weekend trip to regional parts of Sri Lanka. I had a huge social life outside of OTS. I was enjoying my youth.
There was security at home. My parents looked out for me. They were my anchor. My siblings were young, my sister was fourteen, and my kid brother was ten.
When I got my first pay packet, I spent 80% of it buying a saree for my mother, my first-ever gift for her. It was a treasure beyond value, a trophy my mother held on to all her life.
The money I earned should have been more than enough for my personal needs. The pay was in cash, in crispy green Sri Lankan notes. By the end of the month, before my next paycheck, I was a pauper again, having spent my money on friends, partying and fashion. Fortunately, my mother rescued me, loaning me cash on the proviso that it was repaid from my next pay.
Seeing my lacklustre financial discipline, encouraged me to pay for my way. So I started paying for my student fees at Aquinas University, where I studied part-time.
Training at OTS continued under Shirley. Every month some mini-tests sounded like a typing orchestra to an outsider. Tests centred on the typing speed and how fast one could type. No errors were tolerated. Every typo resulted in a loss of one point from your speed test. Incremental improvements in typing were rigorously measured and recorded by the instructor, Shirley, in a student performance book.
Pack twenty-five young men to a room; there’d be a testosterone-inspired activity, however modest my batch mates were. Opposite our building was the Y.M.C.A building where young foreigners lodged, backpackers, and hippies. They were of the post-Woodstock era; free love and nudity were their mantras. Being in a tropical country, their windows were always open for fresh air. When couples made love in broad daylight in view of the world, we g in the adjoining building. Then, staring out the large windows, we helped ourselves to a free ‘live’ show.
Shirley, the instructor, liked his smokes and drink. His hobby was photography, and he occasionally carried his camera gear in his bag. He stroked my initial interest in photography when he took his camera gear out of his brown bag.
Shirley had a routine straight after the lunch break. While we were in class, practising tele-typing, Shirley took off to buy his regular dose of alcohol supply from a liquor store in the city. It took him about twenty minutes to return from this shopping trip. I’d watch him six stories below from the window down the road. It was an opportunity to snare a cigarette from his bag. Then, after assuring that Shirley would not be back for a while, I’d sneak one or two of his cigarettes unashamedly in front of my batch mates.
Some batchmates competed to get the highest typing speed. Like racing drivers who make certain mechanical parts in their cars were the smoothest, these batch mates had figured out the perfect teletypewriters and typewriters. Some of them forewent their breaks and instead practised typing. Competition led to some of them fighting over the best devices. Sometimes, I negotiated peace between them and negotiated sharing arrangements.
I became a de-facto leader of the group, perhaps by my confidence and positive attitude. I was testing my limits and enjoyed the acquired leadership. Although I was the youngest, that too with a mischievous twist, I had no qualms about indirectly leading the pack of my batch mates. They knew me well and loved me as a friend. They tolerated my youthful adventures and gusto.
Among the twenty-five batch mates, Thilak was my best mate. He was always on the go and a happy lad. He and I disappeared during lunch, roaming the streets below our building. I spent a weekend travelling with him to his hometown by train. It was a lovely time spent in south Sri Lanka, enjoying Thilak’s generous hospitality.
The majority of my batch mates had serious aspirations for the future. They were older, mature and had life experiences. They were looking forward to passing out of the training school, to the day they were made a full-time “Overseas Telegraphist”. Some were planning to get married. Some planned to get their sisters married in a culture where brothers did not marry until all sisters were married off.
In June next year, we passed out. We were appointed as full-time ‘overseas telegraphists’. The appointments came with the condition that we sign a bond to work for OTS for five years. We signed away our lives; everybody signed the bond.
The benevolent and good-hearted instructor, Shirley, organised a party at his home to celebrate his students' graduation. There was liquor, food and dancing. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Joining me was Anura, Shirley’s only teenage son, who became a friend from that day. With a gleam in his eye, he sneaked into my drink when his father was not looking.
Denzil on the swing at the passing out party (with glasses)
Passing out, Graduate group snap
Standing: P J Perera, Anuradha Tennekoon, H Aloysius Perera, Rex Silva, V Kailainathan, T Paramanathan, Jainulabudeen, Sunil Rodrigo, T Sathkulanathan, Joseph Thayanandan, Lohan Karunarathne, M Arundawanathan, Rathnasiri Vithnage, Denzil Jayasinghe, Terrence Perera, T Selvarajah, M Suraweera, Shirly Damboragama, BG Karunananda, Dunstan Ginige
Seating Instructor’s families: unnamed child, Mrs Shirley De Silva, Shirley De Silva, Wijesuriya, Amaratunga, Mrs Amaratunga and an unidentified child
Not in the Picture Sarath Rupasinghe, Raveendran Sathasivam, Thilak Pathirana, V Pararajasingham, K Nimal Jayatissa
Where are my characters today?
Thilak left OTS to join a bank, worked in the UK briefly, and returned to Sri Lanka. He is now a successful businessman and keeps in touch with me.
Anuradha and I met in Bahrain during one of my working visits. He lives in Sri Lanka after a successful career in software development.
Raveendran left for the UK and is now a professor in Michigan, USA.
I was the best man (at 19) for Terrence Perera and Rex Silva at their weddings. I still wonder why they picked me, a skinny young lad, as their best man. Was I that friendly is a big question that remains unanswered. Both have unfortunately passed away to get that perspective.
Aloysius Perera became a stage actor and has since passed away. Athula, Rathnasiri and Selvarajah, too, have passed away.
Paramanthan and Lohan live in Sydney, Australia.
Sunil lives in New York, and Sathkulanathan lives in South Africa.
The majority of my batchmates worked in Sri Lanka Telecomms all their lives. Only 19 of the twenty-five are now living.
Our big-hearted instructors, Shirley and Dougie, have both passed away. Shirley and I became good friends when I was in Dubai while he was in Sharjah. He continued to address me as ‘son’ then. I visited him in years later when he was ailing. His eyes were full of tears after seeing and holding my hand. It was an emotional reunion for him.
FEW OTHER SNIPPETS
The first-ever gift I bought my mother from my first pay, the saree, is now a family treasure that my mother has passed on to one of my daughters.
Two years after I graduated, I broke the bond with OTS (indirectly with the government of Sri Lanka) to leave the country for good.
Baudot-Murray code is the precursor of my subsequent fintech and digital career that has lasted a half-century.
Some 48 years later, I am still learning and developing. I am happy to continue kicking goals for my OTS batch mates living and departed, some 9000 kilometres away from where this story started.
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