When Colombo Moved at Walking Pace

4 min readJust now

Colombo lives in my memory not as a destination, but as a place of passage, wrapped forever in the soft haze of the seventies. It was where journeys paused, where buses breathed, trains arrived, and lives brushed briefly against one another before moving on. Yet the city lingered long after we had left it.

The old Khan Clock Tower stood in the heart of the Fort like an ageing guardian, its weathered face keeping a patient watch over the restless streets below. Its clock hands, frozen forever at ten minutes past ten, seemed as though time itself had chosen that moment to stop and rest. Across from the Khan Clock Tower stood Wimaladharma Brothers. For a young boy, its display window was pure enchantment. Rows upon rows of gleaming watches caught the tropical sunlight, each one quietly measuring a future I could not yet imagine. I often wondered where all those watches would eventually travel and who would carry them home on their wrists.

A short walk away was Hunters, the grand old shop that sold Raleigh bicycles. My father rode a sturdy Humber, and like thousands of other men, he trusted it more than any motorcar. In those days, a bicycle was not a hobby or a statement about the environment. It was simply a way of life. Strong steel frames, thick rubber tyres, wire spokes and a cheerful bell were all that a man needed. Some carried a tiny headlamp, its yellow beam powered by the gentle whir of a dynamo rubbing against the spinning wheel.

Men in trousers fastened metal clips around their ankles to keep the oily chain from staining neatly pressed cuffs. Those dressed in sarongs were more often on foot, their light cotton folds swaying gently as they made their unhurried way through the afternoon heat. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry.

The taxis were almost always Morris Minors, painted black with bright yellow roofs. British cars that had found a second life in Ceylon, they rattled happily along the streets, carrying office workers, shoppers and visitors through the city with remarkable patience.

A little further towards the Central Railway Station stood Siedles Cineradio, where Sony transistor radios were made and assembled in Sri Lanka before finding their way into homes across the island. I still remember the thrill of owning one. It cost me Rs. 210 — a considerable sum in those days — but to a young boy, it was more than a radio. It was a prized possession and my window to a wider world.

Further along in the opposite direction stood Millers and Cargills, those cavernous department stores where imported perfumes, bottles of whisky, fine fabrics and household treasures filled the shelves. Nearby were Bata and Elasto, their polished shoes lined neatly in display windows that invited every passer-by to stop for a moment. Opticians displayed rows of Ray-Ban sunglasses, dentists occupied narrow upstairs rooms reached by steep staircases, while little eateries released the irresistible aromas of hoppers, short eats and freshly brewed tea onto the pavement.

Beside the road flowed a narrow canal, its grey water carrying the refuse of the city as it wound its way towards Beira Lake. It was not beautiful, yet it belonged there as much as everything else. We accepted it without complaint, just as we accepted the monsoon rains and the afternoon heat.

Street vendors occupied the pavements, calling out cheerfully to passers-by and inviting them to bargain over toys, fruit, handkerchiefs, used clothes from Western homes and countless little necessities of daily life. Bargaining was expected. It was less a contest than a conversation, and both buyer and seller usually walked away believing they had won.

The streets themselves still bore their colonial names — York Street, Main Street, Duke Street and Chatham Street. Every now and then, a lumbering bullock cart would wander through the traffic with complete indifference to the growing queue behind it. Red Ceylon Transport Board buses threaded steadily between cyclists, pedestrians and the occasional taxi, the bus drivers in dusty khaki uniforms guiding those great machines with quiet confidence.

Looking back now, what amazes me is not the traffic itself but its courtesy. Cyclists, buses, pedestrians and even the odd bullock cart shared the same narrow streets without blaring horns or angry gestures. There seemed to be an unspoken understanding that the road belonged to everyone. People waited. People gave way. People respected one another. It was a slower Colombo, perhaps a poorer one, but in many ways it was a gentler city, and that is the Colombo that still lives in my memory.