The  Night  The Roads Disappeared

The Night the Roads Disappeared

A True Short Story

Our elder son, Lokka, has always been a unique character. From childhood, he balanced studies with many extracurricular activities. Though his mother wished him to become a doctor like her, destiny had its own plan. Today he is a qualified dentist, but not interested in clinical work. Instead, he added new paths to his life. He won the prestigious Chevening Scholarship and left for the UK to study for an MSc at the London School of Economics. His wife, Nimna, a dental lecturer, was also lucky to receive foreign training at Bristol University. Their journey felt guided by unseen hands.

When they left Sri Lanka, their rented house at Pilimathalawa had to be handed back before the end of November. Otherwise, a month’s rent would be deducted from the advance. I was the only healthy person available to shift their belongings to the new official bungalow at Peradeniya. Lokka never orders me; he always requests politely. That quality alone made me determined to help him and save his money.

One quiet sadness weighed on my heart. Our little granddaughter, Aselee, had drawn a beautiful pastel painting on the wall. I had preserved similar childhood paintings of my own children for decades in Monaragala and Radawana quarters. Still, nothing is permanent. I bought a small bucket of white paint, knowing I would have to erase her lovely work. The date was fixed: 27th November.

The weather turned against us. Continuous rain, cyclone warnings, and advice from everyone to postpone the task. But time was my enemy—tax matters, pilgrimages, and deadlines surrounded me. On the night before, sleep avoided me. After much thought, I decided to go.

At dawn, carrying only an umbrella and a mobile phone, Rasu and I left home. Heavy rain followed us to Pilimathalawa. We packed everything—books, toys, clothes, furniture—while rain poured without mercy. Hunger struck us, but the town was lifeless. Power failure. Closed shops. Rising river water. Earth slips.

I walked toward Peradeniya searching for food and found a small boutique. With two rice packets and a bottle of water, I waited helplessly. Roads were blocked. Signals failed. I silently recited Isipitho Gatha. Suddenly, the lorry driver called and rescued me. Sometimes help arrives exactly at the moment when faith is tested.

By evening, despite leeches, soaked clothes, and darkness, we completed the shifting. Roads were blocked everywhere. Finally, we boarded a bus to Colombo via the Kurunegala highway—the only escape from Kandy. That night, the bus stopped near Galagedara. A fallen tree blocked the road. No movement. No information. We spent the night inside the bus, listening to wind and rain argue with fate.

During the night, Rasu lost his mobile phone while getting down to pass urine. It fell into floodwater. He cried bitterly. I told him not to worry, though I knew how attached he was to it. After all, life had bigger lessons planned for us that night.

Dawn arrived without birdsong—only crows. The road was buried under mud, rocks, and broken trees. Houses were cracked. Time felt frozen. Foreigners walked past us and shared their experience—fear, adventure, and the kindness of Sri Lankan people. I helped them find transport on a tractor. Later, a three-wheeler carried us toward Kandy, charging Rs. 3000. I accepted without hesitation.

At Kandy, soaked and exhausted, we searched for clothes. A Muslim textile shop owner welcomed us warmly. He refused payment, saying Allah had sent us to give him a chance to earn merit, not money. Quietly, I left cash hidden among his books. His kindness remains etched in my heart.

At Asgiriya Temple, monks and staff welcomed us warmly with cups of koththamalli tea. Despite the temple being crowded with flood victims, they arranged a quiet luxury room for us—an unexpected comfort after days of rain, hunger, and fear. There was no electricity, but tea, meals, water, mattresses, soap, and basic needs were generously provided. I lit the candles I had bought earlier, and that small light reduced not only the darkness of the hall, but also the fear in many hearts. Later, dinner parcels arrived from the Dalada Maligawa—enough for all.

During the stay, a power pack was brought to me by a young monk from Matale, saving my phone at a critical time. At home, my own Disaster Management Committee—carefully coordinated by Mevan and Amma—was working quietly behind the scenes, monitoring our situation, making phone calls, arranging support, and giving us courage at every step. To my great joy, his father turned out to be my old school friend—a friendship revived unexpectedly in the middle of disaster. Another miracle. At the same time, my son in Melbourne—my quiet ‘financial analyst’—silently filled my empty pocket through a transfer, just when I needed it most. Earlier, Yasasi’s parents had kindly arranged our stay at the Asgiriya Temple and coordinated everything for our safety and comfort, easing my burden without even informing me.

Two days later, electricity returned. Until then, the temple provided tea in the mornings, hot meals, and kind words, turning a place of refuge into a place of comfort. Faces brightened. Phones came alive. Before leaving, I spoke to the victims, sharing our lessons from the disaster. A university student thanked the Maha Sangha and jokingly named me “Aloka Sir”—the one who brought light with candles.

By noon, we returned home safely.

Life moves gently between rain and shelter, loss and kindness. We erase paintings, lose phones, sleep in buses—but gain stories, faith, and unforgettable human warmth.

We live and work and dream, Each has his little scheme. Sometimes we laugh, Sometimes we cry, And thus the days go by.