Regraining the nation: we can and we must!

Whose rice, whose seeds, whose security, sovereignty and future?

‘Let it be written in the blood of Korean farmers that rice will not be imported ever again,’ is a sign carried in the offices of the South Korean Rice Federation.  There is pride there.  Determination too.  And it’s all about self-sufficiency. 

Self-sufficiency is an objective that all governments as well as those aspiring to govern talk about.  Indeed, self-sufficiency is a consideration that always factors into discussions on food security, which in turn is an integral element of national security. 

On the other hand self-sufficiency or being self-sufficient, say in rice, can also give a false sense of security.  It has all got to do with seeds.

There has been a lot of focus on irrigation and access to water, with token reference to the engineers who helped design a hydraulic civilization second to none.  There’s a considerable literature, also, on the use of chemical inputs.  The Green Revolution having spent its initial promise, there is greater awareness now about the dangers and dependencies associated with chemical pesticides, weedicides and fertilizers.  

The pluses and minuses of mono crop cultures and chemical thirsty high yielding varieties have been debated.  The importance of research and extension have been duly noted, even though the objections to policy regimes that have by and large deferred these subjects to multinationals and their agents selling poisons have been footnoted or edited out for the most part.  The issue of agricultural credit and insurance has had its day in the sun.  A lot of talk, some action, but the structures of resource and value extraction have remained largely intact. 

The entire discourse on agriculture and in particular paddy cultivation has largely ignored the politics pertaining to seeds.  To put things in perspective, just consider the fact that finding pumpkin seeds is next to impossible.  There was a time when a well-known multinational was busy purchasing pumpkin seeds, offering attractive prices.  Today, if you want to grow pumpkin, you have to purchase the seeds. The seeds of the pumpkins you purchase from the supermarket or pola are essentially ‘impotent’. 

The implications for food security are serious.  Sri Lanka may become self-sufficient in rice but if the seed companies decide to stop sending seeds, that’s it.  The nation’s borders are now secure, but this alone does not keep out evil and does not necessarily mean that the people are safe.  There is often mention of sanctions, withdrawal of concessionary trade instruments such as GSP Plus and motions to censure and thereby embarrass political leadership, people and nation, and these are indeed matters of concern.  The instruments of subjugation, however, are not all visible and don’t all come waving a threat. 

What is the fall-back option? 

The answer perhaps can be drawn from the unprecedented effort to secure the nation from the threat of terrorism.  There was help from friends, some who gave without question and others who pinned a price-tag to generosity, but by and large it was the resilience, determination and resourcefulness of the general citizenry, political leadership, academics, media personnel and public servants that made the difference. 

When it comes to seeds, then, the answer lies within and not outside the nation.  Recently, an enterprising young man, a graduate from the Faculty of Agriculture, University of Peradeniya, secured a 5 hectare piece of land in the Eastern Province to grow 73 traditional varieties of rice, to symbolize the 73 gnanas (wisdoms) of the Buddha Siddhartha Gauthama.  He made 73 offerings of kiribath or milk-rice made from these 73 varieties to the historic Mahiyangana Chaityaya.  This arduous exercise gives a simple message: we can and we must! 

It must be remembered that there are said to been some 2400 traditional rice varieties in this country of which only around 200 remain with us.  The International Rice Research Institute in the Philippines is said to have 1100 varieties preserved.  Currently farmers, as individuals or small, cooperative collectives grow around 120 traditional varieties. 

The issue is whether or not the relevant authorities (including those that take national security seriously) are aware of or committed enough to the issue of food sovereignty to understand the importance of seeds, in the context of global political economic process.  There is very little research on the subject of traditional rice varieties.  Each particular variety constitutes and invitation for thesis research, but undergraduates in Agriculture Faculties are not encouraged to explore this rich and vital aspect of their discipline. 

It is also doubtful whether the relevant laws (currently under review to ensure compatibility with conventions signed or to be signed uncritically) take into consideration issues of food sovereignty and national security.  The truth is that the law and policy preferences constitute serious disincentives when it comes to cultivating traditional varieties of rice. 

It is nice to be self-sufficient in food.  It would be disturbing indeed if ‘self-sufficiency’ is time bound to a single season and moreover amenable to swift dismantling by outsiders, in particular multinational intent in securing a monopoly in the seed business. 

It all comes down to a few pertinent questions.

Whose nation is this anyway?  Is planning about getting by in the hand-to-mouth manner or about preserving sovereignty and dignity for the next generation and those yet unborn?  Do we have a comprehensive understanding of ‘national security’?  Is self-sufficiency enough?  

There is a lot of talk about regaining the nation.  It seems that re-graining is an intrinsic part of such an effort.  And it’s about traditional rice.  One grain at a time. One variety at a time. 

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BBC and professionalism you can forget

Is this the man that Crowley was thinking of? 

I went to www.bbc.com and what I saw would have made me laugh if it didn’t make me puke first.  I’ve been posting something new on this blog almost every day and usually before noon.  No, I haven’t been vomiting all day, for the world is not Libya and there are better things to do that be glued to updates from the likes of BBC aka The World According to Uncle Sam. 

Muammar Gaddafi was meant to die.  Barack Obama too is meant to die.  You and I are not immortal either.  In Gaddafi’s case, this was expected to happen a few months ago but few would have wasted time wondering if he would escape. 

Libyans (some, as least) are celebrating, we are told.  Gaddafi was no saint and I am pretty sure that he was tyrannical enough to warrant some cheers on account of departure, never mind that he gave backbone and goodies to his people in strength and volume, respectively, that no other Middle Eastern leader has been able to deliver despite unimaginable wealth.  I am not sure who the ‘Libyan people’ really are, since there are all kinds of ‘people’ these days in Libya. Heck, one of these days someone might be as confused about the USA considering how the politico-corporate tyranny in that country has been robbing the citizenry, and bashing and jailing objectors. 

Anyway, whether we like his or not, whether he was the bugaboo the likes of BBC made him out to be or not, whether he was the world’s worst dictator or just one of a big pack or relatively benign compared to the bugaboo-pals that NATO is defending against the oppressed millions, the man is dead. 

And he’s to be buried in secret (shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!), BBC says, ‘following his capture and death’.      Oh dear, Gaddafi has DIED  now, and he’s to be buried, whether in secret or in public being of academic interest.  ‘Dead,’ as in ‘he died of malaria’ or ‘he died of AIDS’ or ‘he died of old age’. Something like that. 

How can we take issue with BBC when it quotes a former US Assistant Secretary of State, P.J. Crowley, who opines that ‘the chilling photos of the deceased dictator send a compelling message to other leaders who continue to confront demands for change’?

‘Deceased’.  Was but not any more. Something like that.  As though there was a sudden puff of smoke and he vanished into thin air. Just like that.  Disappeared.  Ceased to exist. 

Well, the man was captured, this is true.  He did not die.  He was shot dead in cold blood. No due process. No trial.  No ‘innocent until proven guilty’. No civilization. No decency.  Murdered. Executed. Summarily executed.  Just like that.   

I really don’t know what will happen next in Libya. We can have more of Iraq in Libya or more of Iraq and Afghanistan in Libya.  Then there’s oil too, how much I don’t know.  But there are things I do know.   

I know that a man was butchered in Libya and whether or not he was a butcher himself is irrelevant to the issue.  I know that a man called P.J. Crowley has just said that the president of his country, a man called Barack Obama, a butcher if there ever was one, might suffer the same fate.  I am not sure how BBC would report such an eventuality, but let me try.

‘US authorities plan a secret burial for ousted leader Barack Obama, following his capture and death.  Meanwhile, a former Minister of Defence in Somalia states, “The chilling photos of the deceased dictator send a compelling message to other leaders who continue to confront demands for change”. ‘

I don’t think I’ll laugh but there will be someone laughing somewhere and that laugh will be the longest laugh laughed in many centuries.  I am pretty sure of this.    

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Eriyagama is not a place or a bend in the road

Place names fascinate me.  Years ago I even made a list of place names ending with deniya.  I remember ‘collecting’ about 75 such villages.  Peradeniya, Penideniya, Ududeniya, Udadeniya, Dambadeniya, Randeniya, Middeniya, Meedeniya, Madeniya, Dehideniya, Deldeniya, Padeniya, Pindeniya, Gandeniya, Gangodadeniya, Bangadeniya, Theldeniya, Embuldeniya, Paragahadeniya, Dummaladeniya, Dunakadeniya, Apaladeniya, Bangadeniya, Puwakdeniya, Gorakadeniya, Moonamaldeniya, Dandeniya, Ududeniya, Karandeniya, Kiriwandeniya, Thoradeniya, Weweldeniya, Nelundeniya, Elemaldeniya, Pothukoladeniya, Waduwadeniya, Ratmaldeniya, Gadaladeniya, Watadeniya, Kotadeniya and some 35 others which have left me over the past 18 years or so.

Place names roll off the tongue like poetry.  I am thinking of Eriyagama.  I do not know the etymology. I know nothing of the history. I don’t even know if Eriyagama is anything more than a bend in the Colombo-Kandy road, within a hoove-dura (the ‘distance of a hoot’) from Peradeniya.  I know there’s a wine-store cum bar in Eriyagama. That’s it. Well, this, and then Eriyagama.  Sarath. 

I assume Sarath Eriyagama hails from Eriyagama. Makes sense to assume this. I haven’t asked him, although I’ve known him for almost thirty years. We’ve not have many conversations.  Eriyagama, for me, is synonymous with ‘Sarath’ and ‘Chess’.  Other associations are marginal to me. 

I remember Sarath Aiya first as a chess player and then as a coach.  I know him as a man who single-handedly took chess out of the so-called elite schools or, to put another way, out of the circle of domination by schools such as Royal, St. Thomas’ and Trinity and later Ananda.  Dharmaraja was not a ‘name’ in the seventies. It was, after 1980 or so.  That’s thanks to Sarath Eriyagama. 

Sarath Aiya has been coaching since the seventies.  As a player and later coach from what could be called a rival school, I had many run-ins with him, especially in the eighties.  There were no harsh words.  Just disagreements.  I felt that he was wont to tweak the rules now and then and I am sure he may have thought the same of me.  It’s all so long ago and I don’t even remember moment and incident.  I remember this: through it all, there was respect and admiration for all that he had done to develop chess in Sri Lanka. 

In the early seventies, there were only a handful of schools playing chess in Sri Lanka.  Apart from those mentioned above, there were two or three big-name schools in Kandy, St John’s and Jaffna Hindu from the peninsula and the occasional ‘outsider’.  Today there are hundreds of schools playing chess in all parts of the country.  Few will remember and fewer still will acknowledge Sarath Eriyagama’s role in all this. 

I am not saying that no one else did anything for chess in Sri Lanka of course, but few can claim to have done anything close to what he did to popularize the game.  He coached many schools in Kandy. He took the game to other parts of the country or went out of his way to help uplift the game if someone wanted his assistance.  Matale will remember his name. Kegalle too. Kurunegala owes much to him. Other parts of the Central Province too. 

He played a key role in setting up the Central Province Chess Association whose activities over the past several decades have unearthed a wealth of chess talent and helped hone the skills of countless players.  He was also instrumental in setting up the Schools Chess Association. If I remember right, this was at a time when for some reason there was some tension between the Chess Federation and himself.  Anyway, today, that institution, for all its flaws, plays a key role in chess development and is clearly in the forefront of promoting the game in places far away from the capital.

I wonder how many players acknowledge what Sarath Eriyagama did to turn them into who they are.  Not many I am sure, because students rarely acknowledge the contribution of teachers. I know for a fact what a thankless task Sarath Aiya has set himself, the abuse he has suffered and the costs that no one bothers to count or compensate.

He has been coaching Kandy High School for 18 years now and I learnt that KHS has been placed among the first 3 in over 200 tournaments since he took over.  That alone is enough by way of ‘lifetime achievement’. 

Tireless. Ageless. Committed. That’s Sarath Eriyagama. He loves chess, clearly.  May his tribe increase!

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‘One plus one is not equal to zero plus two’ and necessary extrapolations

Addressing a seminar organized by the Institute of Policy Alternatives recently, the Regional Advisor (Social and Economic Policy), UNICEF Regional Centre for South Asia, Andrea Rossi is reported to have proposed that 1+1 is not equal to 0+2.   Speaking on the topic of child poverty and equity in the region, Rossi contended that the ill-effects of poverty may not be permanent in adults but the consequences of lost opportunities in childhood could be permanent in children. 

To elaborate, while the loss of a year or two (say, on account of reduced circumstances due to job-loss) doesn’t impact drastically an adult’s ability to bounce back, but similar footnoting in a child results in the immediate shutting of doors for improvement, cripples life chances and in other ways straightjacket the individual. 

Rossi had spoken about incomes, inequalities, vulnerabilities and exclusion, the measurements, achievements and the gaps.  Most interestingly, Rossi had proposed that one of the best ways of getting a sense of the values given by a particular society to social and cultural things is to ask children the names of their grandparents.  I suppose one can stretch the exercise to include great grandparents as well.  Knowing names indicates some degree of knowledge and also the kind of importance attached to the elderly.  It speaks of stories told by parents, grandparents and other elders which of course contain important segments of transcripts that can be called ‘Who we are’ and ‘Where we came from’. 

The idea reminded me of something that Sri Lanka’s President, Mahinda Rajapaksa, said a couple of years ago.  He encouraged parents to take their children to places like Anuradhapura so they can learn about heritage. He wanted them to be taken to Hambantota so they could see how a nation we being rebuilt.  Most importantly, he wanted the children to spend some time with their grandparents during the school holidays.  He wanted them to listen to the stories that their grandfather and grandmothers had to tell. 

Mahinda Rajapaksa is not a saint.  His regime is full of imperfections and his tenure has been marked by many inconsistencies.  He’s achieved much and yet he has shown remarkable resistance when it comes to using his considerable political sway to enact constitutional provisions to correct governance flaws.  Under his stewardship, Sri Lanka saw terrorism being eliminated.  He was applauded and much of the gratitude could have very well translated into the votes necessary for re-election. 

And yet, gratitude is transient and there are no such things as blank cheques from voter to politician, cashable at each and every election.  There are expiry dates and the gratitude cheque became un-cashable quite some time ago.  And yet, even counting out incumbency-edge and the abuse of state resources, there is absolutely no argument that the regime is stable and enjoys wide support across the country.  ‘How so?’ is the question being asked.

The answer, perhaps, can be found in the fact that Rajapaksa has an easy and natural ability to say things which even though they seem simple and unimportant speak to something deep in the nation’s psyche.  He puts people in touch with a lived reality whose worth is constantly devalued in terms of the reality they are urged to worship and aspire to live in (but cannot).  He reminds them of things that are not tradable, things that have little or no exchange value in the free market of being and becoming. 

Interestingly, I now believe, that not only were these generally devalued and/or ignored attributes of immeasurable import in surviving natural and human-made calamities, they are what will count in the end whenever it becomes incumbent on the people to take matters into their own hands, including, if necessary, regime-depose. 

We need to know the names of our grandparents because that’s a first step in discovering what they did and why.  Last night I saw a long-lost video of a funeral, that of my wife’s maternal grandfather (see my piece ‘This country belongs to Pinchi Appuhamy’ in the Daily News of March 17, 2011).  That man was a giant and a legend and he was not alone. 

He knew the names of his ancestors and he told stories to his grandchildren that made them remember his name, his deeds and those of his ancestors.  He was a ‘honda govi mahattaya’; a good, gentleman farmer, ‘gentle’ in ways and ‘good’ in his determination, values and principles.  He never saw any great grandchildren but left his signature or rather added his to the collective and ever evolving signature of resilience that gives this land and her people character and surviving skills.  They will know his name and even though they won’t know the names of his friends, their legacy will not go unnoticed or un-accessed. 

One plus one is not equal to zero plus two.  The lessons relevant to taking care of children are valid and must be remembered.  We are not a child-nation and are not at zero. We lost some decades, but the effects will not be permanent, unless we forget the names of our grandparents or choose not to learn them.   

  

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Bending the arc of history

Gamini Gunawardena, forwarding an excellent analysis by Drew Weston on Barack Obama (’What happened to Obama?’) highlighted two observations.  The first, given below, reminded him of Simon Navagaththegama’s play ‘Suba saha Yasa’, he said, and those who know the story of what happened when king and his gate-keeping look-alike exchanged places would call that observation ‘apt’. 

‘ Like so many politicians who come to Washington, he has already been consciously or unconsciously corrupted by a system that tests the souls even of people of tremendous integrity, by forcing them to dial for dollars — in the case of the modern presidency, for hundreds of millions of dollars.’ 
My take on Obama or for that matter any president or presidential hopeful of the Democratic Party of the USA has been consistent from the time of the first presidential race I was conscious of, Walter Mondale’s attempt to deny Ronald Reagan a second term in 1988.  It has remained the same through Michael Dukakis’ failed bid in 1988, the Bill Clinton years, Al Gore being pipped by a single vote of the Supreme Court in 2000, Bob Kerry failing to stop George W Bush being re-selected by massive fraud, Barack Obama’s stirring rise to be the 5^th Black president of the USA and the same with respect to each and every candidate championed by the self-proclaimed ‘Left’ of the USA.  My question has been, ‘What is his policy on Cuba, and what does he have to say about the Palestinians?’ 

Democratic presidents might have been good for the USA, but they have by and large mimicked their Republican counterparts when it comes to foreign policy.  There’s nothing to be surprised about how Barack Obama has operated since becoming President.  He’s black, yes, and the fact has helped bring to the surface whatever racism that lies under the veneer of racial equality projected to the world by a diligent and well briefed mainstream media industry (meaning, much of it is pretty ‘out there in the open’ all over the USA).  The fact has been beautifully captured in a lampooning of Obama’s predecessor which has Dubya Bush saying ‘I f***** you all, but thanks for blaming it on the black guy!’ 

Sympathy on account of getting extra flak on account of skin colour aside, I have no tears for Barack Obama.  He is no well-meaning victim done in by spine-lack.  ‘Naïve’ is not a word one associates Obama with.  Neither is he lacking in grey matter, a deficiency many of his predecessors were not hampered by.  He had the words and he used them well to get to where he is.  Many believed he would deliver, forgetting that a single human being is not a front and that the White House doesn’t have room for more than one First Family, so to speak.  The people counted, yes, but only until the polls closed.  That’s when system kicks in and the rigid but strangely invisible structures  that shape policy marks presence.  Westen, above, has captured it all very neatly. 

More interesting and indeed educational for those who really want change and who must now realize that getting ‘the right person’ in the White House won’t set things right is the second observation, Gamini Gunawardena highlighted:

‘But the arc of history does not bend toward justice through capitulation cast as compromise. It does not bend when 400 people control more of the wealth than 150 million of their fellow Americans.
It does not bend when the average middle-class family has seen its income stagnate over the last 30 years while the richest 1 percent has seen its income rise astronomically. It does not bend when we cut the fixed incomes of our parents and grandparents so hedge fund managers can keep their 15 percent tax rates. It does not bend when only one side in negotiations between workers and their bosses is allowed representation. And it does not bend when, as political scientists have shown, it is not public opinion but the opinions of the wealthy that predict the votes of the Senate. The arc of history can bend only so far before it breaks.’

Westen plays on the Martin Luther King (Jr) line ‘the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice,’ which he claims Obama paraphrases as ‘the arc of history’.  According to the above description, then, the question arises ‘what really bends the arc of history?’ 

The internal contradictions of capital, as Marx might put it?  System collapse courtesy human greed that is blind to nature’s regenerative capacity?  Well, we’ve had the crisis of capitalism for a long time now.  ‘Late capitalism’ is a boring term now.  Capital has shown a lot of resilience.  It has shown, more than anything, an incredible willingness and capacity to unleash violence on all objectors.   The arc of history has bent and how!  And always in favour of the powerful.

Where does all this leave the vast majorities who have their futures decided for themselves by a handful of (white, yes) men (yes)?  They rise in indignation, they are ignored and if they become too much of an irritant, they are arrested, tortured or disappeared as deemed appropriate for purposes of sustainability.  How long can they do this?

We’ve seen ‘regime change’ in almost all nations.  Change has been predicted and its dawn has been cheered only for ‘same old, same old,’ to shut the door, often so softly that the cheering continues long after all reasons for celebration have been buried unceremoniously. 

Is that the fate of all objections though?  I am no clairvoyant and therefore I will not offer prediction.  There are signs that things are not as rosy as they used to be for capital and the lords and ladies who move and shake the world so its resources and labour congeal into profit.  On the other hand there have been such signs before. Reason to be pessimistic? No. 

When Barack Obama said ‘yes we can!’ the ‘we’ referred not to those who put all their hope eggs in his presidential basket but the people those who voted for him wanted out of their hair.  That’s what his incumbency has showed.  The bubble burst late for many, especially in the USA, but for those who have the slightest understanding of systems and individuals there never was a bubble to begin with.  It is cause for celebration for the end of illusion can be the beginning of reality and that’s where the struggle must take place.  That’s where we can and must fight.

We fight because what we see happening around us is illegal, unjust and amoral.  Can people demand from us a blueprint for assured victory?  No, because we do the best we can with heart and mind, hampered by our numerous frailties.  We fight because the arc of history does not bend of its own accord alone. It needs coaxing.  We fight in structures that contain us, limit us and also yield opportunities to re-shape the terms of engagement and alter the structures themselves.  We fall, but we can choose to stay down or stand up.  We see our comrades fall and die and we can choose either to opt for safe enslavement or be brave enough to take the risks necessary so our children will not be thus enslaved. 

We fight together and we need to fight together because even as we are put down as individuals it is a collective that gets insulted, humiliated and dispossessed.  Together we remake, refashion this world in ways closer to the collective desires of our hearts.   Together we break the unbreakable. Together we bend the arc of history.  Towards justice.  On all counts.

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An adult is sad but a child smiles

(A tribute to Titus Thotawatte)

When Steve Jobs of Apple died a few weeks ago there was an over-pouring of grief.  The newspapers were full of the man, his work, his vision and his humanity.  A young friend of mine was perturbed by the fact that Sri Lanka had, going by the amount of coverage, lamented the passing of this man but seemed to have been less upset by the death around the same time of veteran actor Joe Abeywickrema.  ‘I am worried about my generation,’ she said.

Around the same time I attended the ‘Sinhala Day’ celebrations of Ladies College, Colombo.  The students had put together a programme showcasing the evolution of Sinhala songs using the history of the Sinhala cinema, with children re-playing well known cinematic moments, to the accompaniment of song, music and relevant clips.  It was a school-version of the popular year-end production by popular and accomplished artists, ‘Ridee Reyak’ (A Night of Silver).  Some performances were very well executed, some not.  Overall, it was a satisfying experience. 

Towards the end of the programme, the children put together a mix of Joe Abeywickrema’s most memorable performances on the silver screen by way of tribute to the great man.  It moved me to tears.  My friend’s generation is not ill-informed and is not unappreciative. 

That day, at Ladies College, among the popular songs the melodies of which I found myself humming softly was ‘Kawruda kawruda dan lokko!’  The girls had come up with a neat skit to give life or let’s say renewed life to a perennial favourite among children.  That song from arguably the most successful Sinhala children’s film, Handaya, was part of my growing up.  It is part of my children’s growing up too.   I remember remembering Titus Thotawatte.  I remember smiling and being grateful. 

Titus, who was part of the team that made the first film to have a truly Lankan identity, Lester James Peries’ ‘Rekava’, produced many films since his first, Chandiya (1965), but he will be remembered most of all for giving us Handaya.  In a cinematic milieu that seemed not to notice children or one where children were nothing more than add-ons and indeed where films with the tag ‘for children’ are mostly the exploration of adult themes using child actors, Titus showed that things can be done differently and in ways that are meaningful for children. 

Renton De Alwis wrote a note of remembrance that captures must of what I am sure many would feel: Ty Mama (Titus Thotawatte) is no more…The father of Sri Lankan cartoon art for TV and creator of Dr. Honda Hitha.  I shall always remember ‘Bai kiyala bai kiyala baa’…May you find eternal peace. Bye Bye Ty Mama.   

He was not Steve Jobs.  He was not Joe Abeywickrema.  He need not have been. He was Titus Thotawatte.  He told some stories. He played some songs.  We listened. We clapped. We sang along.  Our children still do.  He turned us all into children and when we forget and slip into ‘adulthood’, all it takes is a melody and lines from a song to arrest that decline. 

He made innocence possible.  More importantly he made it a worthwhile proposition.     There is an adult within me that is sad right now.  There is a child within who cannot stop smiling.  That’s what he gave and that’s a lot to give the world.

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On heart-unbuckling

It all happened a year ago. 

It is morning in Chalkidiki, Greece.  Early morning.  Six o’clock.  It is still very dark.  In the hotel lobby, there is a young Chinese girl checking out places of interest in Greece on the internet, I am sure.  There’s music.  The theme music from the classic film ‘Zorba the Greek’. 

I haven’t met Zorba yet but then again I’ve been here less than a week.  The music took me back to the year 1990 and Boston, where I first saw the film.  Films, for me, are creative works that give you two or three thing to reflect on and maybe something that opens hitherto unopened eyes to see things in ways unseen before.  Good films, I should add.  Forgettable films are forgotten quickly.  ‘Zorba’ is a classic because it gave me many eyes and showed me colours I had not seen before and one or two yet unnamed. 

Remembering is now-made.  It is the today and this-moment of our lives that makes us remember certain things and not others, from films as well as any other art form.  This morning I remembered a scene from Zorba that is at once funny as well as illuminative of certain eternal verities. Here goes.

Zorba and his master (referred to as ‘boss’), the owner of a lignite mine in a Greek island are confronted by a beautiful widow who is looking for a stray goat.  The two men return the goat.  Zorba notices the glance exchange between his boss and the woman and says, ‘boss, she wants you.’  The boss reflects a moment and responds, ‘no Zorba, I don’t want any trouble’.  Zorba’s observation is a classic: ‘but boss, life is trouble; just unbuckle your belt and embrace trouble!’  Anthony Quinn as Zorba roars with laughter.

I hadn’t read the book on which the film is made then.  I read the Sinhala translation by Saddatissa Wadigamangawa (more than adequately saluted at his death by W.A. Abeysinghe in a classic tribute to a newspaper titled ‘Zorba nam voo sinhalaya’ – Zorba the Sinhalese).  Zorba’s retort was laid out thus (my translation is poor):

‘Lokka, one day you will die and go to your maker.  He will ask you, “Lokka, that innocent woman came to you looking for comfort, for softness, for love. Did you comfort her with tenderness and love, Lokka? No, you did not!  Off to hell lokka!”’

It turned Christian morality on its head, spoke to something far more fundamental and indeed divine about the human condition, the purity of heart-things, of loving regardless of consequence and being honest to self and world.  We are not like that, are we?  We are, for the most part, a mind-species, given to calculation, weighing of marginal costs and marginal benefits, preoccupied with insurance policies and playing safe.  Our brave words and flamboyancy is make-up and disguise and say more about our fears, flaws, ignorance and poverties than anything else. 

I met a Zorba, a Sinhalese, in Kandy a few years ago.  Zorba Lelum Ratnayake was attending the wedding of a mutual friend, Zorba Chaaminda Ratnasuriya.  ‘Malinda, mama dan premawanthayek (I am a lover now, Malinda)’.  ‘Aadarayata aththe ekama namai, machang,’ I said.  He said he understood me perfectly and pointed out that if love is love and if it is to reside in the dizzying but ultimately pure heights of virtue, then it must be cognizant of and comply with the sathara brahma viharana, metta (compassion), muditha (ability to rejoice in another’s joy), karuna (kindness) and upekkha (equanimity). 

There is a lot of love we lose by ‘loving’, that is loving in accordance to convention, being according to norm, doing the ‘right thing’ as defined by convention, which in the final instance is nothing but rule-sets defined and ratified by flawed human beings, whatever the rhetoric and reference pertaining to divine edict.  There is a lot of life that we lose by living.  And we dare not say the truth of heart and heartbeat because of the costs involved, the ‘life’ that such confession/affirmation we would be deprived of. 

We love and live within pre-defined boundaries and this is not bad or wrong of course.  Societies must have coherence and anarchical love and living can blur boundaries and cause much distress.  And yet, there’s something primordially innocent in Zorba-love that is not synonymous with the physical act implied by belt-unbuckling. 

The Chinese girl stayed on that web page until the theme song was over. I was at that moment listening to a song from the 1973 Hindi movie ‘Bobby’, Main Shayar To Nahin, ‘I am not a poet’.  We don’t have the words, I felt.  The theme music of ‘Zorba’ conjured a thousand images and thoughts and a million sensations, all collapsible and collapsing into a definition of love that is taboo. 

We don’t unbuckle heart-belts for love. We undress for sex. 

Such a pity!

[This is based on an article written a year ago while in Chankidiki, Greece, as Manager of the Sri Lankan contingent for the World Youth Chess Championship 2010]

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