There are Buddhist revolutions and Buddhist revolutions

There are people who believe that Sri Lanka had a cultural revolution, a ‘Sinhala Buddhist cultural revolution’, to be precise.  The proof is pretty thin of course, but if anyone wants to believe there is some kind of silent move on the part of Sinhala Buddhists, that’s fine with me, for there’s nothing intrinsically wrong in any social group stamping presence in a political, cultural, economic or other sense; it is the manner that one could object to, unless of course one says ‘it’s politics’ which means ‘anything-goes’. 

I am thinking of the French Revolution and all the secular rhetoric at the time and since.  I checked.  France has public holidays, like any other country.  France has 5 civil holidays: January 1 (New Year), May 1 (Labour Day), May 8 (End of WW II), July 14 (Bastille Day) and November 11 (End of WW I).  Surprise, surprise, France has 6 more ‘secular’ holidays: Easter (sometime in April), August 15 (to celebrate the Assumption of Mary), November 1 (All Saints’ Day), a Thursday in Mid-May (39 days after Easter, to celebrate Jesus’ Ascension), Pentecôte (50 days after Easter, usually on a Monday by the end of May) and of course December 25 (Christmas).  And just the other day, France’s lower house of Parliament overwhelmingly approved a bill that would ban wearing the Islamic full veil in public. 

The ‘state of revolution’ should not be based on the why and when and how many of holidays, but if France is secular then Sri Lanka’s ‘Sinhala Buddhist Revolution’ is to be preferred by religious minorities. Indeed, it can be argued that the Buddhist doctrine of tolerance and equanimity had something to do with the fact that other faiths were received and treated with respect even though those who came carrying bibles were also armed with Papal Bulls that sanctioned horrendous crimes against humanity (quite in opposition to the teachings of the Prince of Peace, Jesus of Nazareth). 

There are those who say there is some kind of revolution happening.  I am not impressed. If this ‘revolution’ is about flag waving, pirith nool-wearing, pandals and festivities, not to mention being unable to adhere to Buddhist tenets of equanimity, compassion and the use of reason when deliberately provoked (by organizers of the Akon show and by Buddha-statue smashing, ‘Buddha-biscuit’ distributing people calling themselves ‘Christian Evangelists), then it would be ‘revolution by name’ and not ‘substance’ in my book. 

I don’t think that there is a revolution taking place and I am not even sure such a thrust is necessary. I think Buddhism is alive and well in the hearts and minds of Buddhists.  Having said that, I don’t think Buddhists have anything to lose by educating themselves further and more deeply about the fundamental tenets of the doctrine.  I believe that the best answer to those who vilify Buddhists and Buddhism is not to hang out Buddhist iconography from every nook and corner of the island (I think this defeats the purpose).  The best way to respond to ill-will is compassion.  The best way to respond to cross-waving fanatics is with reason and logic.

I heard how some bikkhus were upset that some group calling itself ‘Christian’ was smashing Buddha statues and ‘demonstrating’ the Buddha’s ‘impotency’.  They are supposed to have stormed into the premises of this ‘service’ and demanded that the ‘pastors’ (self-proclaimed faith-healers) cure a crippled who was waiting outside.  There was an easier and non-confrontational way, I believe: picking up the broken pieces of the statue as proof of the fundamental tenet of impermanence, and using the fact to elaborate on the concept and point out that it is universal.  No one and nothing is permanent. Not the Buddha, not Jesus Christ, not the Bible.  If on the other hand, reason is rejected in deference to faith and someone says ‘Jesus is God, is immortal’ and so on, the Buddhist response ought to be silence, respect for different opinion and if challenged further, polite reference to the Kalama Sutra with the observation, ‘not compelling enough, sorry’.

If ‘revolution’ is deduced from the fact that Mahinda Rajapaksa makes ‘Buddhistic’ noises, that’s pretty superficial and indeed aberrational.  We can keep arguing whether or not there is a Buddhist Revolution or a Sinhala Buddhist Revolution, and we can throw in ‘evidence’ of non-Buddhist thrusts, but that will not make us a better society or better individuals for that matter. 

A few decades before the French made their so-called ‘revolution’ and began the liberty, equality and fraternity chant (for only those who are Christians, we later learnt), there was in this island, a saamanera, a novice bikkhu by the name of Welivita Saranankara.   This was a time of anarchy, moral decline and violence against all things associated with Buddhism.  There wasn’t a single bikkshu with higher ordination, upasampada.  The temples were full of corrupt ganinnaanses who were neither conversant in the dhamma nor interested in its basic practices.  A single person turned things around.  I believe that two things helped. First, the commitment to the dhamma on the part of Ven. Welivita Sri Saranankara Sangha Raja Thero, and two the deeply ingrained recognition of the Buddhism’s value in explaining how things are and in conducting one’s life in beneficial, benevolent and non-intrusive ways. 

Now if ‘revolution’ is required then the above is an example that one might want to study.  If what we see is indeed ‘Buddhist revolution’, then a) it is not ‘Buddhist’ except in name, and b) I don’t want any part of it, and c) it does nothing to make like better for anyone, not for Buddhists or anyone else. 

Buddhism is a reflective practice.  It is a doctrine that advocates simplicity.  Thrift.  Co-existence.  Concern for environment.  Like most other religious faiths, one might add.  It does not impose laws on pain of punishment, but recommends self-discipline as a necessary precondition for alleviating suffering.  All Buddhist practices can be adopted by anyone of any other faith without compromising his/her belief system.  A ‘revolution’ that promotes such things cannot harm anyone.  It can be called ‘Buddhist’ but it need not be.  All things, including names and labels are after all impermanent. 

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You did not forsake us there where the Yoda Ela bends

(Remembering Ranbanda Seneviratne)

There is a song written by Malini Jayaratne which her husband, T. M. Jayaratne sings. It makes the poignant statement that not enough songs have been written about the love a father has for his child: piya senehasata kav gee liya una madi (there’s a conspicuous absence of songs dedicated to fathers’ love). True. There are countless mau guna gee (songs in praise of mother and motherhood) in Sinhala where the virtues of motherhood and the particularly sacred love of a mother are celebrated. Little of the father, even though Sarachchandra in a postscript to the father-son denouement in Sinhabahu, says it better than most.

Malini Jayaratne’s song ends like this: amma varun pamanada mathu budu vanne (is it that only mothers are marked for Buddhahood?). Among the countless songs about the mother there are a few which stand out for capturing in a recognisable idiom that which most of us know intimately, the first truths we become cognisant of: the warm refuge and unconditional love of a mother. To me Ranbanda Seneviratne’s davasak pela nethi hene (sung by Gunadasa Kapuge) stands among the finest tributes to a mother’s love.

He claims that even as his wife’s love wafted away (birindakage senehe giya yoda ele nemme), he felt again and again the fragrance of his mother’s tenderness (obe senehasa suwanda didee denuna mata amme). And he asks (well knowing the answer) if she will be by the gate would he were to flee the stormy insults raging in the city, abandoning his crown as he runs to her.

Like most people, I have known Ranbanda Seneviratne only through his lyrics. He was not a prolific lyricist but whatever he wrote had the rare quality of clinging on, decorating our sensibilities as they mature over time. He would be the first to admit, I am sure, that the composition and the voice are as important as the words and their arrangement. Still, there is something about the man, as discovered through his lyrics, that touched, a quality which made a deep indent in the normal course of diurnal pursuits on December 5th, when I heard that he had passed away.

He was by profession a lawyer and by all accounts one with a racy turn of speech. He appeared for famed skyjacker Sepala Ekanayake and defended those accused in the forged ration book case in the early eighties. I am sure he would have won many friends and admirers during the course of performing his professional duties, but again it was through his "stage presence" over visual and audio media that he became our friend.

Apart from the song alluded to above (which by the way helped propel Gunadasa Kapuge to stardom), there are three others which mark him as a song-writer who drew deep from our soil, a task which only those who have not slashed away their roots can accomplish: ula leno, sumano (both sung by Kapuge) and veedi sarana landune (by Amarasiri Peiris). The haunting melody in ula leno certainly enhances the theme of solitude, but it is from the lyrical genius of the poet that the song soars and settles deep in our hearts. Sumano speaks about personal loss, the death of the girl Sumana. Ranbanda draws a melancholic brush over the entire landscape he describes and invites us to reflect as though the loss is ours not his.

Mala hiru eliyen kokku giyado

Mihintala gala peththe

Piruvata enda pettiyaka thiyala

Pan dekaka eli medde

Madatiya veteddi handa kelathena ela

Edande ismatte

Sumano.... numba ey neththe

(Did the storks take wing over Mihintale in the twilight?

Draped in white cradeled between the light of two lamps in a coffin you lie

Below the edanda the moon wavers as madatiya seeds fall upon the ela,

Sumano...why are you not here?)

Ranbanda hails from Mihintale. There are probably many instances and incidents which stand witness to the fact that he never lost touch with his village and everything the word gama entails. To me, the idiomatic usage of language says all. I have met others from similar backgrounds who not only turned their backs on their history and heritage but went as far as attacking these things virulently, sometimes taking cover behind academic "imperatives".

For most people, cultural roots comprise a thorny crown which has to be done away with as soon as possible. Ranbanda lived differently. He thought differently. Today, no one wants to be called Banda, they would go instead for Bandara, the former having been bestowed with all kinds of derogatory meanings over the years. Few Bandas carry their names with pride, M. D. Banda being a rare exception.

Ranbanda Seneviratne went further. He called himself a bayya from Mihintale and did so with a great sense of pride. This bayya unlike most who are ashamed of their bayya past, was well read and familiar with the cultural and literary traditions from all corners of the world. I believe he was able to absorb their richness so well only because he was comfortable with who he was. And this is also why he, even in his limited output, could emerge as a poet who had a personal lyrical signature, evident both in these songs as well as his one collection, "dukata kiyana kavi".

Veedi Sarana Landune, as the title suggests is a meditation about a prostitute and the double standards applied by society in general to castigate them. In the following lines Ranbanda unequivocally makes clear his political position with respect to such women: "Lema pamanak lovata penena, laya nopenena landune; kuhumbuvekuta varadak nethi, varadakara landune" (Girl, whose breasts are naked to the world but whose heart remains unseen; girl, who wouldn’t hurt an ant, but is always at fault"!).

My colleague Prabath Sahabandu likened Ranbanda to a handloom cloth, "its beauty and character lies in its coarseness" and of course in the cultural idiom woven into it. He was clearly a man who felt deeply about social injustice. Remarking on the changes that have occurred in our society, he had once said, "There was a time when a dog lying dead on the road would attract a crowd of around 50 people; Today if fifty people lay dead on the road, not a dog would come by to take a look".

Our people have had akala maha vehi (off-season thunderstorms) raining on them for far too long. We have not been blessed with many who could shelter us from these downpours until the rain ceased. Ranbanda has done his best. He wanted his last rites to be performed in Anuradhapura as one would expect. If his "remains" stir the discontent in our hearts and unsettle us enough to agitate for our own personal Mihintales, he would live long and his spirit would find rest once more.

Ratna Sri Wijesinghe in a glowing tribute to the man, refers to a poem titled kageda me le pellama (Whose are these blood stains?), quoting the following:

Whose are these blood stains,

A man’s? a beast’s?

Whose is this shirt, torn and riddled with holes?

Was there a scream, sobs, pleading not to kill?

Who knows, dear god,

Whoever it was, was it not a man

Who lay there bleeding?

That man is still bleeding. That man comes from a village, is conscious and proud of his heritage, recognises his father and mother and is recognisable from the hordes who are valiantly divesting themselves of their identity. Ranbanda Seneviratne identified the worth of this man. It is the generational task of our times to stop the bleeding.

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'Kade Aiya' won the war for us

Actress and screenwriter Jenny Lumet, writing about her grandmother Lena Horne, made the following observation: ‘There are people who do their thing, and they pick up the nation. And when they’re done, we’re all in a different place. They move us along whether they know it or not.’

A year ago there was much agitation about who deserves credit for defeating the LTTE.  The focus of course was on the big names.  That’s natural.  Moments of victory spawn paternity suits.  Troops fight and they must fight for wars to be won.  They will not fight if they are not sent to battle and cannot win battles if not adequately prepared.  Politicians send men and women to the battlefield but that decision is significantly impacted on public will.  Public will does not fall from the sky. It is systematically nurtured. 

There was a time when it was believed the LTTE cannot be defeated. That notion was crafted by pro-LTTE, pro-federalist ideologues who managed to cosy up to the highest in the land at the time.  That erroneous and perniciously crafted view had to be defeated not with gun and bullet but superior ideas that were more effectively argued. Those fathers who brought forth idea and nurtured were not talked of at the time of grabbing bragging rights.  They did not claim nor complain.  They just did their thing.

Some fathers are known even if their roles are not acknowledged. Some did their thing without fanfare in the everydays of their lives.  They even watched the celebrations and cheered as though they are the happy recipients of the fruits of others’ labours.  ‘Kade Aiya’ was one such man.

Kade Aiya was not Kade Aiya before he set up his small retail store in Galkissa but we will come to that later.  I lived for a year and a half in Galkissa and Kade Aiya’s shop was at the top of the lane.  That’s where I went to get the newspaper, sugar, tea, eggs etc on most mornings.  Kade Aiya was made of smiles and good humour. He had opinions which he expressed without malice.  He knew what he had to sell and put profit after customer satisfaction. For example, he would forego the few rupees extra he might earn by selling Product 1 if he thought Product 2 was better value for the customer’s money.  He suggested, never insisted.

He was not a busybody or a gossip but he not only knew all his regular customers but put like-thinking people in touch with one another.  If someone complained of any ailment, he would recommend a doctor-customer, for example.  He knew their names and they got to know each others’ names. The man who did all this was always ‘Kade Aiya’, even to those who were much older to him and those young enough to be his grandchildren. 

Kade Aiya knew I wrote to newspapers.  He quickly figured out where I stood on important issues and finding a lot of commonality spoke freely about all kinds of matters, particularly political affairs.  ‘Mamath karanne maadya vedak!’ (I am also engaged in media work) he admitted once.

He argued very astutely that there is no such thing as neutrality in journalism.  He knew that there is politics in choice of lead story, the wording of the headline, privileging of certain columnists and opinions.  He was convinced that the LTTE should be and can be militarily defeated.  He knew which papers supported this position and which consciously tried to subvert it. He would market the newspapers that supported his position and even point to particular articles when handing over the paper to the customer.  He sold other newspapers, yes, but would on occasion suggest to the customer that other papers were better. He never had such papers on top of the pile.  He was being political in much the same way as most editors and media institutions are. He was a father, in much the same way that Dr. Nalin De Silva was a father of the military victory over the LTTE and the ideological triumph of Eelamists, some masquerading as rights advocates, political analysts and academics. 

Kade Aiya brought people together and he nurtured goodness by his generosity. Kade Akka told me last night that her husband was wont to collect all kinds of things (for example the tops of soda bottles) that school children may need.  She said that there were numerous occasions when people came to their house after he had closed shop to ask for something needed for some school project.  He always had something to give.  Kade Aiya was a solidarity builder who did his thing quietly. 

Kade Aiya died a few days ago.  His wife was amazed that a simple owner of a roadside shop (it was so tiny that few would notice it from a passing vehicle) was known and loved by so many.  He did his thing and in the process picked up the nation. We are all in a different place thanks to what he did.  Thanks to his tribe, he might have added. 

Kade Aiya’s name was Ratnasiri Gammanpila.  That’s a name no one who had the privilege of stopping at his shop to buy a newspaper or some sugar would know or remember. Kade Aiya would take some forgetting though.  Like the nation. Hard to let go. It is part of us.  Kade Aiya too.  Part of who I am.  And so many others too. He moved us all along. Towards victory.

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Fathers and sons (or daughters)

My friend Shanthi Abeywickrama asks me, ‘was your mother proud of you?’  I think all parents are proud of their children, but parents don’t always say it out loud because parenting is a life-long vocation and as such no parent would pass out blank cheques to their children, who might very well cash them at inopportune moments.  Maybe it’s a South Asian thing.  There is affection. It is shown.  A pat on the back.  A word of encouragement.  All this is there.  Still it is rare for parents to go overboard with praise.  That they do in private. To other people.  Not to the child.  

Shanthi asks, ‘Why are people so close to mothers and why is it they write only about mothers?’  The question left hanging is not spoken: ‘why this neglect of fathers?’ It is an old question.  It’s perhaps best asked in the wonderful T.M. Jayaratne lullaby, ‘Amma sandaki…’ (mother is a moon…) written by his wife, Malini Jayaratne.  A couple of lines will give you the drift.

Piya senehasata kau gee liya una madi (there’s not enough poetry written about a father’s love).  Piya senehasa nethida daruwani handunanne? (Do not children recognize a father’s love?) Ammavarun pamanada mathu buduwanne? (Is it only mothers who are to attain enlightenment?)

It’s true, come to think of it.  There are very few Sinhala songs about fathers.  That’s what this song is about.  And it was written (ironically?) by a mother/wife.  Are fathers less present in our growing up?  Are they (too) aloof?  I don’t know. I can’t speak for others for all of us have unique relationships with our parents and our children.  My father chides me every now and then about how I am bringing up my children and I respond irritably, ‘What do you know about bringing up children; you were hardly around when we were small!’  Thinking back now, I remember hearing ‘hurt’ in the silence that followed such unnecessary and unthinking outbursts. 

He was not around in the way our mother was.  Years later when someone told me that there was this fundamental difference between men and women I thought he was talking about my father and mother. This is how it went:

‘Women known the birthdays of their children, when each has to be vaccinated, what time they have to be taken for piano lessons, what time they have to be picked from cricket practices, what their colour preferences and food preference are, what their allergies are; men are only vaguely conscious of some short people living in their houses for about 15 years!’

Thinking of myself, as ‘father’, I felt that Malini Jayaratne was being a tad generous.  I felt, ‘yes, it is only mothers who go on to attain enlightenment’ (on account of merit acquired, on account of having perfected the paramitas, those virtuous qualities one has to cultivate in order to achieve ultimate liberation).  Mothers nurture in ways that are beyond the comprehension of fathers, however much they might want to be part and partner to that process.  Amaradeva’s song, ‘Thaaththa unath’ alludes to this ‘fact’.

But fathers are present.  They just don’t get it right most times.  My father didn’t thrash us when we did something wrong. That was Ammi’s turf.  Mine hit me once with a stick.  Just one shot.  He controlled with ‘presence’ and ‘silence’.  He had his way of educating, of making the transition from infant to child, child to adolescent, adolescent to adult less rocky, traumatic and painful as it could be.  Speaking strictly for myself, my father gave me two things that have been constant companions throughout my life: chess and the word. 

We are told that we know we have reached middle age when we look at the mirror and start seeing our fathers. I haven’t seen him in the mirror, no.  But I do see him in me.  And others do too.  My father speaks into his beard. He’s so soft spoken that one has to sit at the edge of the chair and strain to get what’s he’s saying. People make the same complaint about me now. It is ironical because there was a time I used to complain that he was being incoherent.   

There are two things about fatherhood that was part of my growing up. The first, a poem written by my father to his, in the first collection of his poems to be published (Twenty Five Poems).  This was I think the first in that collection and a dedication of sorts. I remember a couple of lines. 

‘You kissed me much, last time we met’.  And then the last line: ‘…but this, my first poor giving, which you shall not receive’.  My grandfather died before I was born.  And so, my second father-story, I used to think, was about him. It is a song my father sang quite often: ‘Oh my papa’ by Eddie Fisher (the internet tells me).  The lines I remember are slightly different from what the internet offers.  This is what I remember. 

Oh, my papa, to me he was so wonderful
Oh, my papa, to me he was so good

Gone are the days when he could take me on his knee
And with a smile he'd change my tears to laughter

Oh, my papa, so gentle, so adorable
Deep in my heart I miss him so today.

To me, as a father now, these are the same sentiments that are expressed in TM’s song.  Not the same meaning, but it’s the same thing.  It is as much about himself as about his father.  We are insecure creatures, us fathers are.  Aren’t we?  We shouldn’t be.  We love our fathers, regardless.  And our children love us.  I am not sure if I’ve answered Shanthi’s question, but I’ve answered some questions I’ve been tossing aside for decades.

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Certification Mania

The afterlife, according to a US cartoonist is a vast space filled with unmatched socks.  The reference is to the classic US American experience in Laundromats.  Washing machines have a way of sucking in socks; not pairs of socks but singles. Almost every US American would have at one point in his/her life held up a single sock and wondered what happened to its twin. 

This is not the only notion of what the afterlife is made up of course.  People of different religious persuasion will have some notion of their preferred post-death nationality, for example.  I am sure they have afterlife ‘hells’ as well which make them purchase stocks and shares (in one form or another) that they could (essentially) trade for a legitimate shot at the preferred place.  I am not sure if a single-sock post-death place would be called heaven. I am not sure if it is hell either.  All I know is that if post-death can be sock-made, it could be certificate-made as well.  Unnecessary certificates. 

No, one doesn’t need a death certificate to show whoever or whatever one has to go before after making it through the difficult hour of dying (IF there is after-death, that is).  I am speaking about other pieces of paper that are given to people as proof of achievement, presence, arrival, ownership etc., the collection of which some people believe is what life is all about.

I write about certificates because Sahan Ranwala spoke about them last Sunday. Sahan is an unassuming young man whom I admire a lot for the work he does in carrying forward the tradition of exploration, preservation and enhancement of song, rhythm, step and other things Sri Lankan that his father Lionel devoted his life to.  Sahan was speaking to the parents of children who attend his class on traditional folk song, dance and theatre at the Jana Kala Kendraya, Battaramulla.  He spoke about an exam for the children and of the certificate that the Ranwala Padanama would be issuing to the children. He was cautioning parents.  He spoke. I listened.  I am translating now.

‘This is for the child. And for you.  It is a token.  The only thing I want you to remember is that it means absolutely nothing if your child doesn’t have the skills and has not learnt the lessons.’

It reminded me of an experience I had as an official in the Chess Federation of Sri Lanka.  I was in charge of organizing tournaments at one point.  The most frequently asked question was ‘are you planning to give participation certificates?’ At the time I did not know this was the norm, that these things actually mattered.  A ‘participation’ certificate says nothing about ability.  Well, apart from the ability to make it to the tournament hall for each and every round.  It got me thinking.

Imagine if a child who got his/her first ‘participation certificate’ at the age of 8 went on to play in every single chess tournament he/she was eligible to play until the age of 18.  For what?  Well, I was told, that these are useful for ‘prefectships’.  Some parents think that they will help enhance the Z-score at the A/L exam. Some probably entertain the idea that these certificates will help secure for their child a decent job.  And here I am, thinking of wheelbarrows.  A wheelbarrow full of certificates that young Jagath Balapatabendi or Samanthi Kumarage has to navigate up the steps to the entrance of an imposing building whose managers have no idea about the laws and regulations pertaining to equality of access.  A wheelbarrow, wheeled up to the reception, into an elevator and up to the 18^th floor and into a room full of people waiting to be interviewed, each person with his/her own wheelbarrow. Full of certificates. 

I remember a meeting with all the players who represented Sri Lanka at the World Youth Chess Championship in Antalya, Turkey (2007).  The tournament was over. Not a single medal winner in our team. Each had, however, a participation certificate.  Important, no doubt, for it demonstrated country-representation.  I played a game of chess with this, using the notion of a participation certificate.

‘Do you love chess?’ I asked. ‘Yes!’ they all answered. 

‘It’s like this: if you love chess, give me your certificate, and if you want the certificate please understand that I will not lift one finger to help you improve your chess skills.’

Most of the kids gave me the certificates. Some did not.  Some gave and then begged me to return it.  All understandable. They were, after all, kids.  I didn’t keep any of the certificates.  The greatest chess players are remembered and revered not on account of the winners’ certificates they must have carried home.  They are remembered by the games they played.  They are pondered over by millions of players, year after year, long after they are dead and gone.  Vishvanathan Anand will not be asked by the organizer of a tournament to submit photocopies of the certificates he’s won.  He is known.  Respected.

Everyone is not an Anand, true.  On the other hand, there has to be a sense of proportion.  Certificate-fixation produces one thing, an unpardonable neglect of the need to acquire skills which certificates are only required to reflect and not replace in terms of relevancy. 

I am sure there is an afterlife that’s made of meaningless certificates. Maybe it is reserved for those who collect such things.  I hope not, though. 

[first published in the 'Daily News' a year ago under the title 'Don’t let that certificate drag you down']

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‘Suddek’ and the parameters of the theatrical

Jayalath Manoratne calls for the subversion of official transcripts

Sajith Baddewithana, Assistant Production Manager in and advertising agency, is not a theatre-goer.   He is a good friend and has a delightful sense of humour.  Sajith went to see a play recently.  The only reason as far as anyone could see was that it was written and directed by his friend and colleague, Udayasiri Wickramaratne.  We asked him whether he liked it and why. 

‘Niyama naatyayak (a great play)!’ his assessment was emphatic and final.  It was a set up.  He had to face a barrage of questions.

‘Is it really a play?’

He said ‘everyone says it is a good play.’ 

‘We are asking you and not everyone.  How can you say it is a play?’

‘There were actors and it was on a stage,’ he said rather uneasily.

‘If that is the criteria then all political rallies would be plays; there are scripts, actors and it’s all played out on stage.’

He went silent.  The questions didn’t stop.  Where is the dialogue?  Where is the dramatic tension?  How can three speeches constitute a play?  If this is a play then are we all acting all the time?’

Sajja is not into theatre.  He said ‘It’s a cost-cutting production; all the actors can be taken home in a three-wheeeler’. 

We all laughed.  The issue however is not funny.  It is about what kind of production is a play.  We were discussing Udayasiri Wickramaratne’s latest play ‘Suddek Oba Amathai’ or ‘A white man addresses you’, a production made of three parts, ‘Ithihaasaya oba amathai’ (history addresses you), ‘Sthriyak oba amathai’ (a woman addresses you) and ‘suddek oba amathai’.   A ‘play’ made of three soliloquys.  No dialogue. No interplay among characters.  No formal plot.  Some music. Some songs. A bit of dance.  Entertaining, yes.  A play, though?  Sajja thinks so, but he’s no expert. 

What is a play?  What is theatre?  What makes a stage production theatre? What are the rules? Who makes them?  These are the questions I took away from that exchange with Sajja, which I am sure some purists would say was more dramatic than the drama in ‘Suddek’.

Nalin Pradeep Udawelage awakens the 'Sudda' that the audience secretly nurtures within

A recent exchange between someone who was bemoaning the fact that Shakespeare was being played in modern costumes and even ‘Lankanized’ and Bridget Halpe, who had in fact been involved in such productions threw some light.  There are no rules about Shakespeare.  He is open to interpretation and therefore open to innumerable ways of portrayal.  If it entertains, if it captures the audience, throws some questions, leaves some unanswered, builds up tension, diffuses it in ways that illuminate something of the human condition, then in my book there’s enough drama.  Theory comes later.

About 20 years ago I was discussing the JVP with a friend and argued that they were huge theoretical holes in their arguments and that their actions went against theory.  He dismissed me, simply pointing out, ‘victory is never assured; if you win then method becomes theoretically valid’. 

How does art begin and how does it evolve?  There can be many pathways.  Lester James Peries referring to ‘The Blair Witch Project’ and an experimental film that led to a dozen people in the audience suffering epileptic fits observed that the genre was still in its infancy.  The artist by definition resists straitjacketing.   There are no high priests or commandments, no blasphemy and damnation.  In the end, it either works or fails, the public embraces or rejects.  Sometimes, it’s about timing.  What did not work yesterday might be a hit ten years down the road.  There’s no way to predict.  What seems logical is that there are no hard and fast rules and therefore no ‘qualification’ that helps separate ‘drama’ and ‘non-drama’.

As the world contract, we encounter different theatrical traditions.  There’s adoption, there’s fusion.  Both playwright and director have the license to experiment.  Some creations work in certain locations, but not in others.  There’s experimentation within particular schools of theatre too.  There’s, for example, a particularly ‘Brechtian’ flavor in street theatre, although it can be argued that street theatre predates Bertold Brecht.  Dr. Mark Amarasinghe had come up with ‘single-actor’ dramas.  Wilson Gunaratne came up with a highly popular play where he himself played 7 characters.  All plays, all dramatic, all ‘legitimate’ theatre. 

What is important, I believe, is whether or not the particular production is dramatic, has dramatic tension and entertains.  ‘Suddek’ is made of soliloquys.  It has been crafted in a way that although characters don’t interact with each other, the particular actor interacts with the audience, very much in line with the traditional art of story-telling, which of course does not lack drama.  ‘Suddek’, moreover, germinates in the audience a certain tension, both in the then-and-there and afterwards too.  As for dialogue, one can think of mimes and Charlie Chaplin’s masterpieces during the era of silent movies. 

It all depends, then, on what’s done and how, on the playing and the provocations, the tightness of script and the effectiveness of portrayal. 

‘Suddek’ raises ‘theatrical’ questions, perhaps, because it is a ‘first time’ thing.  This is always the case when the bold choose to experiment.  Udayasiri is a brave dramatist.  ‘Suddek’ not only provoked debate and discussion due to its content, but has opened the doors to a larger discussion on form and style. 

Time will tell what kind of impact it has on Sinhala theatre and indeed theatre in general. One thing is certain.  It held Sajja captive for a couple of hours.  That’s something.

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'Just deserts' and related indigestion

Anoma Fonseka grieves alone?

Ven Mahamankadawala Piyaratana Thero who has led the struggle to save the Eppawala Phosphate deposits from multinational corporations and others who have no regard for traditions, traditional knowledge systems or sustainability prerogatives often relates a story of faith and conviction about the movement.  

The venerable thero claims that the people of the area take their petitions to the ‘Jaya Siri Maha Bodheen Vahanse’ and the local deity who protects the good and punishes the evil, Kadavara Deiyo. ‘All those who attempted to ravage these lands in search of quick profit were punished, especially the politicians and businessmen, one way or another,’ the Thero observes.

Even if we were to leave aside the question of natural justice, the play of karmic powers or divine intervention, the fact remains that politicians are, among other things, a superstitious tribe.  Many are reported to have fled the country during the recent graha maaruva (Saturn’s change of sign), i.e. on November 15^th.  They purchase, so to speak, insurance from all agents, those thought to be divine and those who are considered human.  In this context Ven Piyarathana could have been toying with this particularly quaint vocational tendency.  It must be mentioned of course that there is some truth in the notion, ‘pinkaranne paukaarayo’ (only sinners engage in meritorious acts), for they more than anyone else know they have erred and perforce try to compensate on their terms before they get hit by the unknown. 

The belief that everyone gets ‘just desserts’, on the other hand, implies an acknowledgment that the law doesn’t always ‘get it right’.  It is perhaps a sign of the times that whenever something drastic happens to a politician there is a tendency for people to say ‘serves him right’ and leave it at that!  In other words, there is a sense of not giving a damn whether or not crime and criminality were assessed, penalties determined and extracted through the relevant institutional apparatus.  It is not, as some might say, a vile tendency to celebrate the fall of the mighty.  One does detect some pity, but this is secondary to the notion that justice has been delivered, never mind the deliverer or exactor.  The lesson to be taken is that regardless of the name of arbiter, people in general do want justice served. 

An equally important element of the justice equation is proportionality; punishment must fit crime.  Then there is the question of equality, which implies that there cannot be selectivity when dispensing justice.  We know that these have been observed in the breach for so long and so many times to the point that the credibility of the entire judicial system has been compromised.  The tragedy, perhaps, is that the credibility gap is in fact a license to question each and every determination, whether or not such query is justified by the facts at hand.  It makes for crass politicking.  Contributors to this sorry state of affairs include those in the legislative, the executive as well as the judicial spheres of the state, in a process that has a history going back several decades.  Selective myopia on the part of the citizenry, cheering when decisions are in concert with political preferences and screaming ‘foul’ when they are not, have also contributed. In other words, we are all to blame. 

It is easy to pin the blame on constitution flaws, especially mechanisms that violate the principle of power-separation between legislature, executive and judiciary.  What is conveniently forgotten is that ‘the public’ is not absent in any of these spheres, both for representational reasons and as repository of public will.  Their flaws mirror the errors of the people subject to the caveat that arrogance and ignorance of those in high seats amplify these flaws and therefore exacerbate the repercussions.  There is no denying, however, that institution-fail borrows from a culture of apathy, ignorance and selectivity.  

It is against all this that one needs to speak of the recent judgment regarding Sarath Fonseka, the much-decorated former Army Commander who played a key role in ridding the country of the terrorist menace.  One notes that among those who are crying ‘foul’ are some who spared no pains to vilify the entire offensive against the LTTE as well as the key players in that effort, Fonseka included, which of course doesn't give him license to do as he pleases.  One notes also that among those who take refuge in the easy ‘let’s not interfere with the judicial process’, are those who have taken issue with the very same institution and cried ‘foul’ with equal ferocity.  The big-name politicians and political parties who backed Fonseka have all but abandoned him, one also notes. And then there is the common notion of ‘just desserts’ which takes part license from judicial hanky-panky referred to above, proclaiming ‘he’s already paid’ and by implication pooh-pooh court decision as irrelevant.    

Societies, however, cannot pass judicial buck to fate, the grand plans for supernatural entities or the ways of karma and hope to secure any cohesion that enables peaceful social intercourse.  This is why it is of crucial importance for there to be a broader and intense public discussion on the issue of law and order and judicial independence and integrity.  While these issues are discussed, they’ve tended to be (dis)coloured by political and ideological prerogatives, i.e. ‘only when and to the limits of convenience’.

It is said that the laws go silent in times of war.  Having gone through two bloody insurrections and a separatist war, it was natural for some laws to go silent.  ‘Extraordinary situations call for extraordinary measures’ was a convenient alibi.  It was, moreover, a lovely loophole that was used and abused by politicians of all hues. 

The war is over, though.

There was relief, but relief is not immortal.  War-end relief is now over and done with.  In fact it died some time ago.  It is high time that political society contend with the hard issue of assessing the institutional arrangement and its adequacy.  It is high time that we question our own integrity, as individuals and collectives, assessing our own contribution to this state of affairs.  It is no longer enough to curse and/or applaud.  It is not enough to play on the superstitions of the wily.  It is not enough to colour ‘just desserts’ with ideological hue. 

 

  

[Editorial of 'The Nation', November 20, 2011] 

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