By Turrance Nandasara
In 1975, I entered the University of Colombo expecting to study the Arts. What unfolded instead was a journey into a bold educational experiment—the Development Studies Special Degree programme. It was a time of reform, of ambition, and of improvisation. We were students of science without laboratories, programmers without computers.
The programme was born from a simple but powerful truth: many students in Sri Lanka, especially in rural areas, had no access to science education. Dr. Jayaratne’s report laid bare the disparities, and the Development Studies degree was designed to bridge them. Its foundation year gave us mathematics, general science, and English. Then came the job-oriented streams—Statistical Services, Fisheries, Tourism. Additional degree-level courses were introduced in Taxation, Estate Management, Valuation, and Education. I was selected for the Statistical Services stream through an internal mathematics test. That moment changed the course of my life.
We were taught by giants. Prof. V. K. Samaranayake, Dr. Roger Stern, Prof. P. W. Epasinghe, Dr. Saviti Abesekara, and Prof. Prof. A. D. V. de S Indraratna—each brought not just knowledge, but vision. Dr. Kevin Seneviratne’s tutorials in the C8 Lecture Room, with chalk and blackboard, remain etched in memory. Dr. Stern’s hand-drawn charts and diagrams were our version of PowerPoint—decades ahead of their time.
But the most surreal part? Learning programming without ever seeing a computer. We studied FORTRAN IV through lectures alone. Prof. Samaranayake used an overhead projector and pre-written transparencies at the New Art Theatre. We imagined memory units and logic gates, wrote code on paper, and mentally compiled it. Our brains were the processors; our pens, the output devices.
Eventually, I had the chance to work on the IBM 360 Model 30 at the Department of Census and Statistics. My final-year project—Multiple Regression Analysis for Survey on Housing Condition in Sri Lanka—was supervised by Dr. Seneviratne and guided by Prof. Samaranayake. The survey involved hundreds of variables and thousands of data points, far beyond the reach of manual calculation or even advanced calculators. It demanded a proper computer programme written in FORTRAN IV, and the only viable input method was punch cards—each card representing a line of code or a data record. The sheer volume of data and the complexity of regression analysis made it clear: computing wasn’t just a subject we studied—it was a necessity we had to master.
The punch card process itself was a lesson in precision and patience. Each card had to be typed meticulously, with no room for error. A misplaced character meant rerunning the entire batch. Debugging was a physical task—sorting, re-punching, and waiting for the machine to compile and execute. It was programming with your hands, your eyes, and your nerves.
The Development Studies programme was discontinued in 1977, a casualty of political change. But its spirit lives on. It gave students like me a chance to dream beyond boundaries, to learn without tools, and to build futures from imagination and grit.
I share this not just as history, but as a reflection. Sometimes, the most powerful learning happens when resources are scarce but minds are open. And sometimes, the legacy of a programme isn’t in its duration—but in the lives it transformed.








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