Three years ago, when Avadesh Kaushal passed away at the age of 87, I felt as though I had lost not just a friend but a guide. He was one of those rare men who carried the weight of India's conscience on his shoulders. He headed the Rural Litigation and Entitlement Kendra (RLEK) in Dehradun, an organisation whose name still resonates in the annals of social development. He worked not for charity but for empowerment—teaching villagers to claim rights that had always been theirs.

I remember once when he asked me to speak at RLEK on communication. The audience that day was not the usual group of barefoot activists or villagers who had walked miles to listen. Instead, I found myself facing a roomful of young Sri Lankan civil service probationers. They were in Dehradun for a compulsory two-week programme, their sharp suits and silk saris a contrast to the modest RLEK surroundings.

Why had they travelled all the way from Colombo to a small NGO in Uttarakhand? The answer, as always, was Avadesh Kaushal. His reputation crossed borders. He had been on the faculty of the Lal Bahadur Shastri National Academy of Administration in Mussoorie, where India's IAS officers are shaped, and his expertise in rural development was legendary. If you wanted to understand grassroots empowerment, RLEK was where you went.

There was also another reason. Mahinda Rajapaksa, who later became President of Sri Lanka, was a close friend of Kaushal. He had visited RLEK more than once. When Rajapaksa was sworn in as President, Kaushal was the only Indian invited, and he stayed not in a guest house or hotel but in the Presidential Palace itself. That was the measure of his friendship.

That day in Dehradun, as I looked at those bright-eyed probationers in their mid-twenties, I thought of the futures they would shape. Today, they must be joint secretaries in Colombo and elsewhere, turning the wheels of governance. Sometimes, I wish I had been less careless.

My friend Dr Manakkala Gopalakrishnan keeps a meticulous record of everyone he meets. I, on the other hand, have trouble recalling my own telephone number. Recently, I even gave someone the wrong one, mixing up the numbers of two cellphones I keep. Had I kept in touch with those probationers, my later travels in Sri Lanka might have been filled with unexpected reunions and old friendships.

The very first time I "saw" Sri Lanka was not in Colombo but from Rameswaram in Tamil Nadu. Standing on the edge of the Indian mainland, I was told that the flickers of light across the Palk Strait belonged to that fabled, tear-shaped island. For a moment, it felt like standing at the edge of myth.

Later, I met two men who had actually swum across those waters—Mihir Sen, the legendary long-distance swimmer, and a Malayali friend, SP Muraleedharan, whose names deserve to be etched in memory. Sen was the first to achieve this feat. Their daring made the island feel at once close and impossibly distant.

My first real visit came years later, when I attended a conference organised by PANOS India at the Taj Bentota. Journalists, parliamentarians, and academics from India and Pakistan had gathered to talk about media and democracy. I remember sitting by the beach, hypnotised by the endless Indian Ocean. Months later, I watched in horror as the tsunami swallowed that very hotel. The sea, which had looked so gentle, turned into a monster overnight.

Not all my memories were so lyrical. In Ranchi, I once interviewed a senior officer of the Indian Peace Keeping Force (IPKF). He told me a story that still makes me shudder. His men had spotted a boy perched on a tree, shivering in wet knickers. The boy had just pressed a remote-controlled device. Moments later, an Army truck exploded, killing several Indian soldiers. The officer, his voice heavy with anguish, asked me: "What could we do against a child?" That story appeared in The Week with the photographs clicked by my younger brother Arun, but the image has never left me.

In May 2022, television screens filled with images of massive crowds thronging Colombo. People were storming the Presidential Palace, not in celebration but in desperation. Long queues for fuel and medicine stretched for miles. Inflation soared. The once-invincible Rajapaksas were on the run—Mahinda resigned, and Gotabaya, who was the President, fled. What do they do now? Our driver had a quick answer: "They eat and sleep."

It was hard to reconcile this chaos with the Lanka of legend. In Tulsidas's Ramayana, Hanuman marvelled at the golden city of Ravana, where even the smallest objects glittered with jewels. That mythical wealth seemed a cruel contrast to the modern island struggling to feed its people.

Out of that crisis emerged a new face: a Marxist politician, Anura Kumara Dissanayake, elected President in 2024. He visited India, met Narendra Modi, and assured him that Sri Lanka would not allow anti-India activities. Meanwhile, the country witnessed another milestone: the appointment of its third woman Prime Minister, Harini Amarasuriya, following in the footsteps of Sirimavo Bandaranaike, the world's first woman PM. Golda Meir of Israel and Indira Gandhi made it to the post of PM later.

As I travelled through Sri Lanka, I often found myself asking: What does Dissanayake mean to the common Sri Lankan today? He does not appear as a distant, ceremonial figure but as a man trying, however imperfectly, to live up to a promise of change. A veteran leftist who has recast himself, he leads the National People's Power coalition and has placed anti-corruption and accountability at the centre of his presidency.

In his first year, he has made some bold moves: stripping former presidents of their perks in response to public anger, reopening stalled fraud cases, and challenging the privileges of political elites. Many see him as pragmatic, rather than ideological, quietly pursuing reforms while keeping one eye on economic stability. His Marxist rhetoric has softened into a more centrist, market-friendly tone. Tamils and Muslims remain wary, waiting for real steps on reconciliation, land rights, and wartime justice.

He is not yet a hero, certainly not a saviour. But in a land weary of broken promises, he represents—for now—a fragile chance at something new.

When my wife and I, accompanied by friend CG Daniel, landed in Colombo, our friends Raveendran and Sarada were already waiting at the airport, having flown in from Chennai. Immigration was a breeze thanks to electronic visas. Outside, our driver, a genial Sinhala gentleman, greeted us with a broad smile.

Over the next six days, Sri Lanka surprised me in ways I had not expected. First, there were no giant posters of the President or Prime Minister staring down from every street corner. In India, one cannot escape political visages—on lampposts, milk booths, even wedding pandals. In Sri Lanka, leadership did not need such advertisement.

Second, the streets were astonishingly clean. Not a stray plastic bag or empty packet marred the pavements. Traffic was disciplined—no honking orchestra, no reckless overtaking. And unlike Delhi, where cows are VIP road-users, Sri Lanka's boulevards were free of strays. Water bodies were free of floating plastic bottles.

The cost of living, too, was modest. With one Indian rupee fetching three Sri Lankan rupees, food and hotels seemed affordable. My wife wanted a pearl chain and visited several shops. To her astonishment, prices were almost identical everywhere. Bargaining, that cherished Indian pastime which I hate, was unnecessary. Honesty of trade seemed a national virtue.

Our journey began with a visit to an elephant orphanage. Over a hundred elephants lived there—many old, sick, or injured. We watched them lumber down to the river for their bath, their massive bodies swaying like ancient trees. Some could barely walk, yet the care lavished upon them was moving.

Elephants, we discovered, are everywhere in Sri Lanka—on streets, in temples, in craft shops. Figurines were sold in every size, from tiny trinkets costing a hundred rupees to magnificent pieces priced in millions.

The more we travelled, the more Sri Lanka reminded me of Kerala. Coconut palms swayed, sudden showers soaked the air, and the smell of curry leaves lingered in the markets. It was like seeing Kerala forty years ago—modest homes, simpler lives, fewer ostentations. Food sealed the kinship. Coconut milk and kadumpuli (tamarind) flavoured their curries, just like in Kerala. Of course, North Indian fare was widely available—naan and paneer butter masala had travelled well.

I noticed something else: the absence of an overwhelming police presence. Security was minimal. Even the President no longer lived in the palace, and his convoy had been pared down to three vehicles. The Prime Minister, I was told, lived in her own house. In Sri Lanka, democracy has shed its pomp and pageantry, unlike in Kerala, where even a panchayat member likes to move about in an Innova.

In Colombo, we visited the church where 52 worshippers were killed on Easter Sunday in 2019. Our driver, a Sinhalese, whispered that it was not Islamic terrorists but a political conspiracy to restore the Rajapaksas. The truth remains elusive, but what struck me most was the absence of bitterness. Christians did not hate Muslims. Instead, there was quiet resilience. Recently, the President himself had met Catholic leaders, promising justice.

Signs of recovery were everywhere. Hotels brimmed with guests, restaurants buzzed, and shops thrived. At the Colombo port, Chinese-funded expansion was turning it into one of the world's largest. Autorickshaws, mostly Bajaj and TVS, zipped through traffic, though our driver claimed they might soon disappear because cars were only marginally costlier. Ashok Leyland buses rolled past proudly, India's industrial imprint visible on Lankan roads.

Sri Lanka's gem mines, too, remained legendary. Sapphires and rubies gleamed in shop windows, as if the mythical Lanka of Ravana still glittered beneath the soil.

What I admired most, though, was Sri Lanka's respect for its past. Unlike India, where names change with every regime, Sri Lanka retains its colonial-era buildings and street names. Independence Square in Colombo, with its dignified statue of the Father of the Nation, exudes serenity without any chest-thumping nationalism.

Our departure, alas, was less serene. A technical glitch collapsed the entire immigration system, leaving thousands stranded at the airport. Yet even this hiccup could not overshadow the warmth of our stay.

As I boarded the plane, I thought of how much India could learn from this small neighbour—discipline on the roads, cleanliness in public spaces, honesty in trade, humility in politics. Ethnic tensions that once tore the island apart had, at least on the surface, healed. CG Daniel, who had visited Colombo during the LTTE's reign of terror, could hardly recognise the Sri Lanka of today.

For me, Sri Lanka is not just another country. It is tied to memories of Avadesh Kaushal, of bright-eyed probationers in Dehradun, of haunting IPKF stories, of tsunami-ravaged beaches, of elephants and curry leaves, of friendships and farewells. It is a land that has fallen, risen, and now walks with quiet dignity. India, the so-called elder brother of South Asia, has much to learn from its island sibling. For in the end, nations, like people, are remembered not for their boasts but for their grace.