From Punch Cards to Green Screens: My Front-Row Seat to the Computing Revolution

 We live in a digital world where we take infinite computation for granted. Today’s programmers can compile millions of lines of code in fractions of a second on a device that fits inside a coat pocket. But if you step back into the late 1970s and 1980s, computer science wasn't an intangible cloud utility—it was a deeply physical craft that required immense patience, mental discipline, and a bit of absolute faith.

My own trajectory across three countries—from Sri Lanka to the United Kingdom—offered me a front-row seat to the engine room of the digital age. This is the story of how I watched computing shrink in physical size, while expanding exponentially in personal freedom.

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1: The Mainframe Monoliths of Colombo

My journey into the world of software began in a tiny, 12x10-foot room in Sri Lanka. In that room sat a single, heavy piece of machinery that defined my early engineering life: an IBM Model 29 Card Punch machine.

 IBM Model 29 Card Punch Machine

In the late 1970s, coding in FORTRAN IV meant dealing with brutal physical realities. Every single line of logic, every loop, and every variable declaration had to be meticulously pressed onto a rectangular piece of cardboard. A single card represented a single line of code. If you had a dataset, that meant thousands more cards. The room was constantly filled with the rhythmic, mechanical clack-clack-clack of the punch machine.

Once your code deck and data deck were complete, the real suspense began. We didn’t have a terminal to run the code. Instead, the precious decks were bundled up and sent across town to the IBM 360/25 mainframe available at the Department of Census and Statistics.

The turnaround time was agonising. It regularly took more than two days just to get a printout back. If you made a typo—a missing comma, a misplaced statement number, or a dropped card—the mainframe would reject the job, print a single syntax error, and you would have to wait another forty-eight hours just to try again. This era taught me absolute precision; you had to mentally simulate the entire machine inside your head and "desk-check" your logic perfectly before ever handing your deck away.

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2: Breaking the Barrier

The first massive breakthrough in my programming life came in 1980. We received a Data General NOVA/4 minicomputer on loan for a single year.

Using a Data General NOVA/4 minicomputer on loan for a single year

For someone used to waiting days for a mainframe queue, the NOVA/4 completely broke the barrier of the two-day delay. For the first time, the feedback loop was shortened. We could catch compilation errors and reports in hours rather than days, completely transforming how we learned. Soon after, we stepped up to an in-house Data General Eclipse S/140 computer. Having an in-house machine changed the psychological dynamic of programming entirely. We were no longer just passive creators handing decks away; we were actively working with the machine in real time.

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3: The 32KB Dynamic Engine – Developing INSTAT

This foundational discipline of absolute code efficiency served me perfectly when I moved to the United Kingdom to join the University of Reading. There, under the vision of Dr Roger Stern, Professor of Applied Statistics, we set out to develop a comprehensive package that seemed structurally impossible at the time: the INSTAT Statistical Package for the iconic BBC Microcomputer.

Developing INSTAT on BBC computer at the University of Reading

The challenge was daunting. We had to fit a massive, multi-featured statistical toolkit into a machine with a mere 32KB of RAM. Under normal development paradigms, loading a program of that scale would instantly exhaust the memory before any data could even be processed.

To break this constraint, Dr Kevin Seneviratne and I came up with a brilliant, highly novel architectural idea that was years ahead of its time: The Overlay Concept. Long before modern operating systems popularised Dynamic Link Libraries (DLLs), we built a system that functioned on the exact same dynamic principle.

My specific responsibility was to design and program the Central CORE Module. This core was the heart and brain of INSTAT; it sat permanently in memory, carefully keeping track of the processed data structures and global variables. When a user executed a specific command, the Central Core would dynamically look up, load, and swap the relevant sub-module into the remaining RAM footprint on request, executing the task seamlessly without corrupting the underlying dataset.

This architecture was a masterpiece of cooperative engineering. Because the Central Core smoothly managed the system's stability, the other module writers were given complete freedom to write their specific statistical tools without worrying about breaking the machine's memory boundary. To rigorously test the muscle and fluidity of my Central Core, I even programmed the software's Graphical Module myself.

By the time INSTAT was ready for commercial launch across the UK and internationally, our lightweight, dynamic architecture successfully managed 22 different distinct modules inside that tiny 32KB footprint. It was a thrilling, pioneering moment—we were actively developing a software structure that almost no other developers at the time had even conceptualised.

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4: The Green Phosphor Room of Essex

The culmination of my journey took place between 1984 and 1985 during my postgraduate computer science studies at the University of Essex.

The PDP-11 lab terminal at the University of Essex

Walking into the Essex laboratory meant stepping into the architecture that forged the modern world. We were working on PDP-11 minicomputers, bathed in the distinct, glowing green aura of VT100 video terminals. The mechanical clatter of printing teletypes was gone, replaced by the quiet, instant scroll of text on a screen.

My very first programming assignment at Essex was a true trial by fire: to write a C-like interpreter language using the C programming language. Clutching the classic white-and-blue "K&R" textbook—The C Programming Language by Brian Kernighan and Dennis Ritchie—I set to work. The task was beautifully poetic. A decade earlier at Bell Labs, computer science pioneers like Ken Thompson and Dennis Ritchie had evolved the interpreted B language into the compiled C language to build Unix. By writing a custom interpreter in C on a PDP-11 terminal, I was walking right backward through the evolutionary line of the operating system itself.

It was a masterclass in pointer manipulation and manual memory management. A single un-freed pointer in your symbol table or abstract syntax tree would instantly crash the terminal with a ruthless "Segmentation fault - core dumped." But the feedback loop was instant, and the hours dissolved as I chased logic bugs across that glowing green screen.

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Conclusion: The Craft of the Code

When I watch interviews with the creators of these languages today—like the extensive oral history of Kenneth Lane Thompson, 1983 ACM Turing Award Recipient—I realize how incredibly fortunate I was to live through that exact transition. I didn’t just study computer science; I lived through the pivots that defined it.

To the modern developer sitting in front of a high-resolution display with infinite gigabytes of memory and automated AI helpers, my journey might sound like an ancient history lesson. But the craftsmanship, the patience, and the profound thrill of making a machine speak remain exactly the same. We built the digital world line by line—and sometimes, card by card.

Bridging Ancient History and Modern Sinhala Unicode Standards

The Palace of Knossos in Crete on 29 June 1997

Reflecting on my visit to the Palace of Knossos in Crete on 29 June 1997, I am struck by the unique convergence of time and technology that defined that journey.

Standing before the South Propylaea of Knossos—the ceremonial gateway to Europe's oldest city—I was reminded of the sheer endurance of human civilisation. The Minoan culture that thrived here over 4,000 years ago left an indelible mark on history, much like the work we were undertaking during the Unicode Consortium 33 Meeting held on the island that same year.

As a mission member, I was there with a clear, albeit challenging, objective: to advocate for the standardisation of the Sinhala language character code. After lengthy and rigorous discussions, we reached a historic agreement with the Unicode Consortium and the International Organization for Standardization (ISO).

Just as the stones of Knossos have stood the test of time, our commitment to this standard ensured that the Sinhala language would find a sanctuary in the infinite tapestry of the digital age. It was a profound experience to secure the approval of our Unicode Code Table as an international standard; to have facilitated the digital preservation of our language while surrounded by the architectural legacy of the ancient world remains one of the most rewarding chapters of my career.

Ultimately, both these weathered stones and our modern codes act as quiet guardians of our heritage—precious vessels carrying the heartbeat of our culture forward, ensuring that even as centuries pass, our voice remains vibrant and enduring for generations yet to come.

© Turrance Nandasara

Journey Through the Uva Highlands – A Memoir of April 1998

 by Turrance Nandasara

Sunny on estate road — My old B12 is climbing faithfully through rough, winding paths.

Introduction: A Road Into Memory

April 1998 remains one of the most meaningful travel chapters of my life. It was the Sinhala and Tamil New Year season, a time when the island slows down, yet the mountains of Uva seem to breathe with a deeper calm. I travelled in my faithful old companion—the 6th Generation Nissan Sunny/Sentra (B12), a 1990 model that had already carried me across many rough and forgotten roads of the hill country.

This journey took me through the Uva Province, across abandoned tea estates, burnt factories from the unrest of the late 1980s, and two of Sri Lanka’s most iconic waterfalls—Dunhinda and Bambarakanda. Fourteen photographs captured during this trip now serve as windows into that moment in time.

Dunhinda Waterfall: The Mist of Badulla

Main view of Dunhinda — Smoky water thundering into the valley, filling the air with cool mist

Dunhinda Waterfall does not reveal itself easily. Situated along the Badulla–Mahiyangana Road, about 5 kilometres north of Badulla, the entrance at Dunhinda Junction is clearly marked. From there begins a 1.5‑kilometre jungle footpath, a trail alive with birdsong, the scent of wet leaves, and the distant rumble of falling water.

Valley view from Tipila — Rolling green slopes opening into a breathtaking highland valley.

As I walked deeper into the forest, the sound grew louder until the waterfall appeared through a veil of white spray. The name Dunhinda—meaning “smoky vapour”—felt perfectly apt. The plume of mist rising from the base drifted across the valley like a living presence.

Standing on the observation platform, I felt the cool droplets settle on my skin. It felt as though the waterfall itself was greeting me.

Through Tipila Tea Estate: Beauty and Sorrow Intertwined

Burnt tea factory ruins — Silent reminders of a troubled past among the green hills.

Burnt tea factory ruins — Silent reminders of a troubled past among the green hills.

Leaving Badulla, I drove through the Tipila tea estate, a landscape of haunting contrasts. The hills rolled out in perfect green waves, yet scattered among them were the charred remains of tea factories burnt during the unrest of the late 1980s and early 1990s.

These ruins were not just abandoned buildings—they were reminders of livelihoods lost and communities disrupted. The silence around them carried a weight that words struggle to hold.

Estate paths or line rooms — Everyday life framed by tea bushes, hills, and quiet resilience.

My old Sunny handled the rough estate roads with its familiar resilience. Every bend revealed a new valley, a new angle of light, a new reminder of how beauty and sorrow often coexist in the hill country.

[Insert Photo 7: Valley view from Tipila]

Pine forest road — A cool, fragrant climb through tall pines toward the falls.

Estate paths or line rooms — Everyday life framed by tea bushes, hills, and quiet resilience

The tea bushes glowed in the afternoon sun, and the wind carried the scent of eucalyptus and damp soil. It was a landscape that felt both wounded and eternal.

Bambarakanda Falls: Crown Jewel of the Highlands

From Kalupahana, the road climbs into one of the most serene corners of the Sri Lankan highlands—the Kalupahana Valley. Here stands Bambarakanda Falls, the tallest waterfall in Sri Lanka at 263 metres (863 feet), ranked 461st in the world. It is formed by the Kuda Oya, a tributary of the Walawe River, which begins in the Horton Plains.

Kalupahana junction — The turnoff that leads into the heart of the highlands.

What makes Bambarakanda unique is its setting. Instead of a tropical broadleaf forest, the waterfall rises from a pine‑covered landscape, giving it an almost foreign character. The narrow road, about 5 kilometres from the A4 highway, winds upward with spectacular vantage points.

Base of Bambarakanda — Standing small beneath Sri Lanka’s tallest waterfall.

At certain bends, the waterfall appeared as a silver thread; at others, it towered like a white pillar against the dark rock.

Standing at the base, I felt dwarfed by its height. The spray drifted across the valley, catching the sunlight in fleeting rainbows.

Closing Reflection: A Journey That Stayed With Me

Sunny with a valley backdrop — My loyal travel companion resting above the sweeping hills.

That April journey—through waterfalls, ruined factories, pine forests, and tea‑covered hills—remains one of the most meaningful travels of my life. The beauty of the Uva highlands, the quiet resilience of its landscapes, and the memories captured in my 14 photographs still stay with me.

Final sunset or landscape — The day fading over Uva, leaving only light, wind, and memory.

Travelling in my old Sunny, feeling every bump of the rough hill‑country roads, I realised that journeys are not measured only in distance. They are measured in the emotions they stir, the histories they reveal, and the stories they leave behind.

Baker’s Bend — A Hill‑Country Memory from 1 August 1996

Standing at Baker’s Bend on 1 August 1996 — a moment of quiet above the valleys, where the cool air and endless green felt like a pause in time.

Baker’s Bend has long been spoken of as one of the most striking viewpoints in the Nonpareil Estate, but my visit on 1 August 1996 gave the place a meaning that goes beyond its geography. The journey itself was a slow ascent through the estate’s winding road, each bend revealing deeper folds of green — tea gardens, tall eucalyptus sentinels, and the distant blue ridges that define this part of the hill country.

At the 23rd bend, the landscape opened out in a way that felt almost ceremonial. The viewpoint, shaped like a horseshoe, carries the old story of Governor Samuel Baker, whose horse slipped from this very cliff. In grief, he had the bend fashioned in the shape of a horseshoe — a gesture that has since become part of the estate’s quiet folklore.

On that morning in 1996, the air was cool and clear, the light soft enough to give the mountains a gentle haze. I paused at the bend, letting the silence settle around me. The southern plains stretched far into the distance, while the ridges of Balathuduwa, Gommolikanda, and Adarakanda rose to the left like a protective wall. Behind me, the Nagrak Division and Horton Plains stood in their familiar, mist‑covered dignity.

Below is the sequence of photographs I captured that day — each one a small window into the landscape as it appeared then, untouched by time and memory.
Arrival at the Bend

Pausing at Baker’s Bend, 1 August 1996 — taking in the vast sweep of mountains and valleys from one of the most dramatic viewpoints in the Nonpareil Estate.

On the Rock Ledge

A quiet moment above the tea fields — standing on a rock ledge with the misty mountain layers stretching endlessly into the distance.

Pointing Across the Valley

Showing the view that took my breath away — the deep green slopes, the tall trees, and the rolling hills of the Nonpareil landscape.

Tea Plantation Panorama

The hillside tea gardens below Baker’s Bend — rows of bright green bushes and tall sentinel trees rising against the mountain backdrop.

Overlooking the Valley

A view from the edge — standing above the valley where the estate buildings sit far below, surrounded by steep, forested slopes.

Evening Light on the Tea Fields

Evening light over the tea fields — the sky glowing softly above the mountains as the day faded on 1 August 1996.

Rolling Tea Hills

Classic hill‑country beauty — tea bushes curving along the slopes, tall trees scattered like markers, and the mountains rising beyond.

Among the Terraces

Among the terraced tea gardens — a moment of calm surrounded by green patterns and stone pathways on a hillside full of life.

Closing Reflection

Looking back at these photographs, I am reminded not only of the grandeur of Baker’s Bend but also of the quietness of that day — a stillness that allowed the landscape to speak in its own voice. The cool air, the scent of tea leaves, the distant hum of the valley below — all of it remains preserved in memory, as vivid today as it was on that August morning in 1996.

The Wheels of Innovation: Sri Lanka’s First Mobile Computer Lab (1985)

 

In the mid-1980s, while much of the world was only just beginning to grasp the potential of the personal computer, a unique experiment was taking place on the roads of Sri Lanka.

Rewinding to 1985! 🕰️ This was the birth of the Mobile Computer Lab concept in Sri Lanka—a collaboration between CINTEC, the British Council, and the Ceylon Petroleum Corporation.

The Mobile Computer Lab was a visionary project born from a collaboration between CINTEC, the British Council, and the Ceylon Petroleum Corporation. At its heart was a Japanese-made Mitsubishi Fuso Rosa passenger van, generously donated by the Petroleum Corporation. However, this was no ordinary transport vehicle. We removed the passenger seats to make way for a fully networked digital classroom—the first of its kind in the country.

The University of Colombo’s Digital Signature

While the hardware—ten BBC Model B microcomputers—was provided by the British Council, the "soul" of the project was homegrown. All the educational software running on those machines was developed by our team at the University of Colombo.

Looking at the monitors in this restored photograph, you can see the distinctive "Mode 7" interface of the BBC Micro. The menu we designed was simple but comprehensive, categorised into:

• Primary Education

• Secondary Education

• Higher Education

• General Awareness Programs

A Mission of Awareness

Our mission was clear: to demystify the "electronic brain" for the public. The bus travelled from school to school and exhibition to exhibition, providing many Sri Lankans with their very first hands-on experience with a keyboard and a CRT monitor. It was an era of Econet networking and 5.25-inch floppy disks, where "computer awareness" was a rare and precious skill.

This project proved that geographic distance didn't have to be a barrier to digital literacy. It remains a proud chapter in the history of computing at the University of Colombo and a testament to what can be achieved through local innovation and international cooperation.

 

🌿 Magalla Wewa — A Timeless Reservoir of Sri Lanka’s Hydraulic Heritage

Magalla Wewa (also known as Magala Wewa) is an ancient reservoir in Nikaweratiya, Sri Lanka, with a remarkable history stretching back more than 1,700 years. It stands as a testament to the sophisticated hydraulic engineering of the Anuradhapura and Polonnaruwa kingdoms, whose irrigation systems remain among the finest in the ancient world.

🏛️ Historical Origins

Built by King Mahasen (276–303 CE)

Traditionally identified as one of the sixteen great reservoirs, Magalla Wewa — originally known as Mahadaragalla Wewa — is believed to have been constructed during the reign of King Mahasen, one of Sri Lanka’s greatest irrigation builders.

Expanded by King Parakramabahu the Great (1153–1186 CE)

Centuries later, during the Polonnaruwa period, King Parakramabahu I further enhanced the reservoir. While serving as the Prince of Maya Rata, he built five weirs across the Deduru Oya. One of these, the Sukara Nijjara weir, diverted water into Magalla Wewa through the Ridi Bendi Ela — a feeder canal that still supplies the tank today.

🔧 Restoration in the Modern Era

British Restoration (1873)

After falling into disuse over many centuries, the reservoir was restored by the British colonial administration in 1873.

Post‑Independence Improvements (1958)

Further augmentation works were carried out in 1958, strengthening the reservoir’s role in local agriculture and water management.

🌊 Key Features of the Reservoir

Infrastructure & Capacity

• Storage capacity: approx. 9.2 million m³ (7,480 acre‑feet)

• Bund length: 1,665 metres (5,463 ft)

• Maximum depth: 5.5 metres at spilling level

• Basin area: 32 km²

Water Supply

• Ridi Bendi Ela feeder canal: 21–23 km long

• Provides nearly 80% of the annual inflow

• Design capacity: 4.25 m³/s

The iconic dead tree of Magalla Wewa — a silent witness to centuries of changing waters and seasons.

Another ancient tree stands by the reservoir’s edge, its branches shaped by wind, water, and history.

A calm morning at Magalla Wewa — the water stretching out towards the horizon, still and reflective.

The reservoir at its fullest — trees partially submerged, revealing the vast reach of the ancient basin.

“A quiet moment by the water’s edge — Magalla Wewa’s timeless beauty captured in its reflections.

A personal moment by the reservoir — three generations enjoying the heritage and beauty of Magalla Wewa.

A Trip Down Memory Lane — Japan, March 2006

 A proper trip down memory lane.

On 14 March 2006, at Nagaoka University of Technology, we experienced what was quite possibly the heaviest snowfall the University had ever seen. Looking back at these photographs, I’m struck by just how extraordinary that winter was — and how deeply those years shaped my life.

These images bring back the friendships forged in the snow, the long days in the labs and offices, and the quiet moments of camaraderie that defined my time as a postgraduate student. They are a gentle reminder of a chapter filled with learning, discovery, and the kindness of the people I met along the way.

I’ve also included a glimpse of my traditional tatami room at the University guest house — my futon laid out neatly, shoji screens glowing softly, and the simple comforts that made it my home from home. A quintessential Japanese experience, and one I still cherish.

Missing Japan, always.

14 March 2006 — Nagaoka was buried under a monumental snowfall. A day none of us ever forgot.

Braving the snow with friends — the warmth of good company in the coldest of winters.

A moment of calm indoors, while the snow continued to fall outside.

“Life at the University — long days, good conversations, and work that shaped my future.

My home from home — a simple tatami room, a warm futon, and the quiet beauty of Japanese living.

Japan will always hold a special place in my heart.

“A proper trip down memory lane. Grateful for the years I spent in Japan — the people, the learning, and the moments that shaped me. Missing Japan, always.”