The Story of John Christie (J.C.) Jayawardane

A young man born into duty, J.C.J. Jayawardane endured loss, strict discipline, academic setbacks and a mother’s illness — but quietly forged his own path.

4 min read23 hours ago

The story of John Christie Jayawardane begins in a house where voices and silences mingled, where kin lived under one roof in the old Ceylonese way, and where discipline and love were never easily separated. He was the eldest son, and from his earliest days it was clear that life would demand much of him.

Julie lived with them then. She was a grand-aunt, his mother Euphracia’s mother’s cousin, and daughter of the strong-willed Paistina. She became the hand that soothed the children, the one who made sure they ate, bathed, and slept, while Euphracia’s mother Anna struggled with frailty and sorrow. Alongside her was Rosalin, another aunt and a gentle presence. For young Christie, these women formed a shield against the harsher temper of his father, Lewis – my grandfather – who ruled the household like a schoolroom.

Christie’s schooling was a patchwork of starts and stops. He began at the local Biyanwila school in Mahara, running barefoot across paddy fields with his satchel thumping against his back. Later, during the war years, he was sent to the branch of St. Peter’s in Minuwangoda, where English was compulsory. It was here, away from home, that Christie first boarded. The days were long and uncertain, and English weighed heavily on him, a language that seemed to belong to another world.

From there, he moved to St. Paul’s at Waragoda. At fourteen, he failed the Fifth Standard. For many it might have been a crushing defeat; for Christie, it was simply another obstacle. He was admitted to St. Benedict’s College, Colombo, where he studied up to Seventh Standard. Among the Brothers who taught him was Brother Marcus, who, in a curious turn of fate, would later teach Christie’s own nephew in 1971.

Then came 1945, the year everything shifted. Anna Ranasinghe,his grandmother died, and grief hollowed out his mother. Soon after, an accident overturned the family car. Both parents survived with minor injuries, but in the weeks of recovery that followed, Christie could not attend school. By then, his mother’s mind had faltered. What was first called madness would, decades later, be recognised as a thyroid deficiency.

When Christie returned to school, his absence was treated as truancy. Brother Anthony, one of his teachers, threatened to demote him if he did not return at once. Christie tried to explain, but the Brother would not listen. The verdict was harsh: he was pushed down to Grade Six. Humiliated, he went to Brother Luke for help, but nothing changed.

It was the breaking point. Christie walked away from the Benedictines and returned to the Sinhala school in Kadawatha. He never boarded again. From then on, he studied as a day student. Eventually, he entered St. Joseph’s College, Maradana, attending from home. There he met boys like Kingsley Pandithakoralege, a class monitor who refused to report mischief and instead reasoned with his classmates. Christie admired this gentleness. He saw in it another kind of authority, one rooted not in fear but in patience. It was this approach that would later shape his own years as a teacher.

By 1952, at twenty-one years old, Christie began his teaching career in Halpitiya, Kegalle. He loved teaching, and his students respected him not out of fear but out of connection. He even began to study Pali, drawn to its philosophy, perhaps in search of a language that could help him make sense of his own journey. In 1957, after friction with a headmaster, he was transferred to Asmadala in Mawanella.

All through these years, the shadow of a mother lingered – yet absent. The children would visit her in the mental asylum, where she muttered nonsense that frightened them. Juse’s wife, a cousin of Anna Ranasinghe, was confined there too. For the children, it seemed as though madness itself had entered the family’s blood.

Lewis remained stern and unyielding, a man who built houses, settled disputes, and managed property with the same strictness he imposed on his children. “Do as I say,” he thundered, “or you will never amount to anything.” Yet Christie quietly turned away from this creed. His life, unlike his father’s, was guided not by control but by timid news, not by punishment but by kindness that turned out to be aloofness.

In 1961, Seeya Pappa died suddenly of a heart attack, his body already weakened by an enlarged prostate. The old order of the household crumbled. For Christie, there was grief, yes, but also a measure of relief – the shadow of a stern, overbearing figure had lifted. He was free to live by his own philosophy, not his father’s.

Looking back, it is this quiet resolve that defines John Christie Jayawardane’s life. He was shaped by loss, by the absence of a mother, by the iron hand of a father, by the humiliations of school and the betrayals of teachers. Yet he did not grow hard. Instead, he chose a world of his own making.

For his children, and for us who remember him, it is not the sternness of Lewis or the scorn of Brothers that lingers. It is the memory of a man who endured much, and yet lived for himself in his own world.

Further about JCJ.