Dr Sarath Obeysekera

The summer trains of the Soviet Union had a rhythm of their own—metal grinding against steel, a steady heartbeat echoing across endless plains. From Belorusskaya railway station, I began my long pilgrimage westward—two days across borders and ideologies, through guarded crossings into Poland, then through the divided veins of Germany, eventually spilling into the softer edges of Netherlands.

From there, across the grey waters of the English Channel, I would reach Harwich Pier—and like clockwork, onto British Rail, landing in bustling Liverpool Street station.

London in those days was alive—noisy, industrious, and wonderfully foreign. Bengali shipowners argued loudly in tea shops, buses roared past, and for a few shillings, one could find a Sri Lankan meal that tasted like home. Nights were spent at the Sri Lanka Students’ Centre, days wandering toward Marble Arch, and sometimes, elbow-deep in soap suds at a dishwashing job—ten pounds a week, just enough for survival and the occasional indulgence.

But the real story began the following year, in Leningrad.

I was strolling past grand imperial buildings, lost in admiration of Russian history, when he appeared.

A man of the south—sharp eyes, confident stance, and the unmistakable air of someone who lived by his wits. He noticed my watch immediately—a fine Seiko watch, gleaming under the pale northern sun.

Two hundred and fifty roubles,” he said, as though it were already agreed.

I hesitated—but youth is often tempted by quick bargains. I nodded.

We stepped under a steel lamp. He counted the money slowly, deliberately. I counted too.

Short,” I said. Twenty-five missing.”

Without protest, he added more notes, smiling faintly, returning the bundle. It looked right. It felt right.

I handed over my watch.

He vanished.

It wasn’t until later, when the crowd thinned and silence returned, that I counted again.One hundred roubles short.

Not a mistake. A master performance.

I had been outplayed.

Disappointed, but not defeated, my companion and I made our way toward the freight station. We were to board a ship bound for Dover via Finland and Sweden. Hunger struck, and we joined a long queue outside a popular restaurant.

Then—fate intervened.

There!” my friend whispered sharply.

I turned.

The crook. Standing casually in line.

Wearing my watch.

There are moments in life when hesitation costs everything. This was not one of them.

I walked straight toward him.

No anger. No shouting.

Just purpose.

I grabbed his wrist firmly—his left hand—the one bearing my watch. In one swift motion, I unclasped it and slipped it back onto my own.

Leaning close, I whispered:

Walk away now… before I call the police and say you stole this.”

His confidence evaporated.

Without a word, he bolted.

Victory tastes better when earned.

That night, instead of regret, we celebrated. We bought a massive 5-kilogram tin of Russian beluga caviar for fifty roubles—a treasure we would later sell at the Hilton London Metropole near Edgware Road for a tidy profit.

Pocket money, Soviet style.

Looking back, those journeys were more than travel—they were training.

The long trains, the strange borders, the cunning crooks, and the small triumphs—they shaped something deeper. Courage. Awareness. A refusal to be outsmarted twice.

Years later, facing far more complex challenges in shipyards and negotiations, I would often remember that day in Leningrad.

Because sometimes, life prepares you not in classrooms—

…but under a steel lamp, counting roubles with a thief.