Wickrema Weerasooria made a speech, rolling out the
anecdotes with finesse. He introduced
Jayantha Dhanapala to comment on the book and the ex diplomat spoke to
different aspects of the man of the moment.
Both painted him in the iconic tones and dimensions warranted by an
exceptional life. They both gave
insights to the man behind the name and whetted audience appetite sufficiently
to make book-purchase unavoidable.
I got the book as I walked in, but this is no book review,
no, not even an event review. It was all
about Judge C.G. Weeramantry (google that name if you want to find out more
about him) and therefore natural for his ‘few words’ to get the most
attention. He didn’t speak about his
career. He didn’t mention landmarks. He didn’t talk of things legal or things
academic. He didn’t even dwell on the
topic of a common humanity and the humanitarian issues that concern him so
much. He didn’t say a word about the ‘one world’ the title of his memoirs
suggests he wants to inhabit. He just
rattled off some names.
He spoke of father and mother, brothers, wife, children and
grandchildren. All natural. He spoke of
colleagues and co-workers. Again, quite natural. He spoke of his students with affection. And he spoke of his teachers. All to be expected, come to think of it. There was a difference and this, to me,
seemed to be what separates this erudite and warm human being from the rest of
us. He began by paying a tribute to his kindergarten teachers.
We don’t remember teachers enough, and this is why I say
this every now and then. We believe we are self-made. Even if forced to think ‘school’ and
‘university’, we think of the big-name teachers, those who we believe taught us
most. We end up listing the names most associated with who we’ve become;
mathematics teachers if we are engineers, biology teachers if we are doctors
and so on. We might remember the teacher who was in charge of literary
activities if we were interested in such things, or the teacher-in-charge of a
sport if we had been inclined to take part in such activities. How many of us remember our kindergarten
teachers, I wonder.
I remember my Grade 1 class teacher, Mrs. Rajapaksa. She had been my brother’s class teacher the
year before. He was a good boy and I
benefited from the fact. I remember the last time I met her. The year
2002. At the Royal-Thomian. I wrote about the encounter (http://www.rootsweb.ancestry.com/~lkawgw/group86.html). Here’s a quote:
‘I
hadn’t seen her in almost twenty years. I went up to her and said, "Madam,
I was in your class". She turned round and asked, "So, you recognised
me?" I said, "How could I not?" and laughed. She had forgotten
my name and when I told her, she exclaimed, "Malinda! You were such a
little boy when you were in my class!" (I couldn’t have been huge at the
age of 5 plus, but I didn’t tell her that.) "How is your
mother?" she asked, a natural question since my mother is also a retired
teacher of the school. "I remember very well the day she retired. Indrani
came to see me in my classroom and told me that she wanted to say she was leaving
and to thank me because I was the first class teacher of both her sons.” She
had tears in her eyes when she said that. I had tears in my eyes when she
finished.’
My mother is no more, so the tears of this moment are many
faceted, but I won’t go there. I quickly went past Grade 1 to Joyce
Gunasekera’s Montessori. The location shifted around Colombo 3. I remember a house at Charles’
Circle and one down Alfred Place.
I remember Aunty Joyce and remember her remembering my name about 10 years
later when I ran into her with my mother.
I remember the two teachers. There was one I called ‘Aunty Bona’ (I
believe she must have been Buvanasundaree or had a name that began with the
first 6 letters of this name). There was Aunty Ranjini. She was kind, I remember. I would run to her
whenever something upset me. She always
comforted. I felt safe because she was
there. I am not sure what exactly she
gave me or what of what she did got ingrained into the signature of my
character. It must have been good, even
if it didn’t stay and if it didn’t it was not her fault.
The good judge remembered and was thankful. That’s humility. That’s also the mark of greatness, the
conscious recognition and open acknowledgment of the wells one drew water from,
the trees that were harvested, the grain that sustained and the landscapes that
gave the strength to weather all storms.
I don’t know where Aunty Ranjini is. I just went for a book launch. A great man
made me remember once again an unforgettable woman. Disparate worlds, unacceptable juxtapositions,
one might say. I think not. I am glad.
msenevira@gmail.com
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