In the charged political climate of Sri Lanka’s 1965 general election, few could have imagined that a spontaneous sound uttered in a courtroom would become part of the island’s political folklore. Yet the story of a young grassroots organizer from the hill country, whose loud “hoo” echoed through a packed courtroom, would later be remembered not as contempt of court but as the unlikely beginning of a parliamentary career.
The events trace back to the fiercely contested Yatiyantota seat, where prominent Marxist leader N. M. Perera entered the fray amid intense ideological rivalry. The United National Party, led nationally by Dudley Senanayake, fielded candidate George Kotelawala in a constituency known for its strong leftist leanings. Campaign tensions ran high, reflecting a broader national contest between socialist and conservative visions for the country’s future.
At the height of the campaign, a public meeting was organized in the rural locality of Thaligama by a young local activist, R.A.D. Sirisena. The gathering was meant to energize supporters and showcase Senanayake’s presence. Instead, it turned chaotic when groups aligned with leftist movements began loudly booing the visiting leader, disrupting the proceedings in what was widely interpreted as a calculated act of political intimidation.
The young organizer, overwhelmed and humiliated by the disorder at an event he had worked tirelessly to arrange, reportedly broke down in tears. Senanayake, displaying characteristic composure, consoled him and urged him not to be discouraged. The election, however, ended in defeat for the UNP candidate, prompting the party to challenge the result through a formal petition, alleging irregularities and misconduct during the campaign.
The case was taken up before Justice H. D. Thambiya, who would later ascend to the Supreme Court. The proceedings brought together some of the most formidable legal minds of the era. The petitioner’s case was led by E. G. Wickramanayake, while the defense featured renowned attorney Colvin R. de Silva alongside S. Nadesan. Among the witnesses called to testify was the same young man who had organized the disrupted meeting, now thrust into a tense legal arena far removed from village politics.
Initially, his testimony proceeded smoothly. He answered questions carefully and appeared composed under cross-examination. Then came the pivotal moment. Defense counsel, attempting to test the reliability of his recollection, pressed him on the nature of the crowd’s jeering. Had the protesters shouted “hoo” with their mouths open or closed, the lawyer asked, in a bid to confuse the witness and undermine his credibility.
The courtroom paused, sensing both the absurdity and the strategic weight of the question. The young man replied that while he did not remember the precise manner of expression, he clearly remembered the sound itself. The judge then intervened, asking whether the witness could demonstrate what he meant.
What followed was as unexpected as it was memorable. Drawing from his rural upbringing along the Kelani River, the witness explained that villagers commonly used the same call to summon boats from across the water when traveling to town. The sound, he said, was part of everyday life. Asked by the judge to demonstrate, he obliged without hesitation.
Standing in the witness box, he repeatedly called out “hoo” at full volume, recreating the sound used to hail ferrymen across the riverbanks. The courtroom, bound by solemn procedure moments earlier, now found itself witnessing a surreal but sincere enactment of village custom. After allowing the demonstration to continue briefly, Justice Thambiya ordered him to stop.
Then came a remark that would gain near-mythical status in later retellings. Observing the young man’s confidence and presence, the judge declared that he was making a prediction: the witness, he said, would one day become a Member of Parliament.
At the time, the statement was received with amusement rather than expectation. The young organizer himself could scarcely have imagined such a future. Yet history would vindicate the judge’s intuition. Nearly two decades later, during the presidency of Ranasinghe Premadasa, political upheaval created an unexpected opening. Following the assassination of Minister Ranjan Wijeratne, the once-obscure activist was appointed to represent Deraniyagala in Parliament.
From there, he went on to serve as a State Minister, eventually taking responsibility for the Samurdhi program, one of the country’s key social welfare initiatives. The journey from rural campaign volunteer to national officeholder seemed to echo that improbable courtroom prophecy delivered years earlier.
Today, the anecdote survives not merely as a humorous legal curiosity but as a reminder of the unpredictable pathways of democratic life. In a nation where politics often unfolds amid tension and tragedy, the tale of a single shouted word resonates as a humanizing footnote to history, illustrating how moments of spontaneity can intersect with destiny in the most unlikely of settings.
