The Serpent of April First: A Lesson in Logic

​In 1955, Mr. Balapatabendi arrived as the Headmaster of Kotamuduna School. Dressed in a white coat, a white sarong held by a black belt, and leather sandals, he possessed a regal, dignified presence. His wife, the “Loku Hamine,” stayed at home in her long-sleeved puffed blouses and Indian sarees, looking every bit like the legendary poetess Gajaman Nona.

​The school back then consisted only of a wattle-and-daub teacher’s quarters built by the villagers for the previous headmaster, Mr. Weerasinghe. Later, when the Public Works Department built a brick house with a tin roof, the new headmaster moved in after a grand “Pirith” ceremony and almsgiving. Around this time, the school’s first trained teacher arrived—Mr. Sumanaveera Bannahaka from Hammalawa, Kuliyapitiya.

​Mr. Sumanaveera was lean, tall, and tan. His “uniform” was a pair of white flannels (known then as “Longs”), a crisp white shirt, and black shoes polished to a mirror shine. His hair was slicked back with castor oil. Being a bachelor, he lived in the old wattle-and-daub quarters, which he affectionately named “Aloka” (The Light). He was a favorite among everyone—from the village youths he played volleyball with, to the Chief Monk.

​The peace was shattered one day by news that spread like wildfire: Mr. Sumanaveera had been bitten by a snake.

​The school grounds swarmed with people. Mr. Sumanaveera lay on a camp bed in the front room, his face etched in pain, blood seeping from a wound above his right ankle. Villagers frantically cleared the surrounding jungle with machetes, convinced it was a den of vipers. The Loku Hamine brought salt gruel, the Chief Monk arrived to tie a blessed thread, and the Village Headman hurried to offer help.

​Everyone’s eyes were on the path, waiting for Suwaris Kattadiya—the most famous snake-charmer and exorcist in the region. Suwaris arrived with an air of self-importance. He claimed he had seen “omens” on the way—a lizard chirping, a dog flapping its ears, and a woman carrying an empty pot. “Three obstacles,” he muttered, “the signs say the venom has spread through his entire body.”

​He performed his rituals, chanting mantras and applying lime juice. Mr. Sumanaveera remained unresponsive, eyes shut tight. As the headmaster discussed how to carry him five miles to the Passara hospital, the Chief Monk suggested a “Bodhi Puja” to seek divine intervention for the dying man.

​Just as the headmaster was delivering a tearful eulogy about Mr. Sumanaveera’s virtues, the “dying” man suddenly walked into the school hall—perfectly healthy, dressed in his finest white flannels and shirt.

​The crowd stood frozen. Suwaris Kattadiya, the man of omens, was the first to bolt out of the gate, followed by the silent, bewildered dignitaries.

​In the diary of my father—the “Second Master” of the school—the entry for April 1st, 1956, simply reads:

“Today, it is said that a snake bit Mr. Sumanaveera?”

​Usually, my father filled entire pages with the day’s events. But that day, he left the page nearly blank. A riddle? Perhaps. But the answer died with him. It took a young teacher and a fake snake bite to teach a whole village that the greatest “omen” of all is a calendar marking the first of April.