Who does not look back at schooldays without a smile? Few, I would venture. Schooldays, if we look back in sober
reflection, wasn’t all about bright sunny days, fun and camaraderie. Most school children have suffered their
general quota of bad days where homework was not done, preparation was too poor
to yield correct answers to questions directed at them by teachers, being
bullied by class bullies and older students and so on. And yet, by and large, we look back less with
anger than with wistfulness. There are
times we wish we could go back. Time has a way of dulling the bad times and
accentuating the happier moments. We are
left with nostalgia.
There are two songs about ‘school days’ which became very
popular. The first is Clarence
Wijewardena’s ‘Sandak besa giya avara gire…’
Later, we had, Shalitha Abeywickrema’s ‘Sulange lelena'. The latter was written by Vipula Dharmapriya
Jayasekera. It’s a simple song that
draws from the ayanna-aayanna of memory
as it pertains to school days. It speaks
of the innocence of that time of ‘Sama’ and ‘Amara’, the dreams that were
dreamed (which naturally did not turn into realities later on) and observes
that there were countless other ‘Samas’ and ‘Amaras’ from this class or that,
who later occupied those very same seats in those very same classrooms,
dreaming similar dreams. It is a
smile-provoking song. Soft. Just like the lyricists.
We know songs. We
know vocalists. We rarely wonder who
wrote which songs. We know the names of
‘well-known lyricists’ simply because they’ve written so much and are talked
about a lot. But there are songs we
love, songs that are part of our growing up, songs that mark key moment in our
lives for one reason or another, songs whose words we know by heart and whose
melodies we can and do hum now and then and yet the names of whose authors
escape us.
Vipul is not known the way
Mahagama Sekera is known, for obvious reasons.
Perhaps Sekera is not the person we should compare him with. We know, however, that there are one-hit
wonders, lyricists (just like vocalists) who are celebrated no end just because
some song was a ‘hit’ (never mind the fact that it could be forgotten a few
months later). We know that mediocrity
can be erased by the right kind of publicity. We know that being pushy and
having money and contacts can help. The
better lyricists are known by the discerning but not always do they become
household names. Some are not helped by
the fact that they are humble and self-effacing, but then again they are the
type for whom work counts and reputation is of little value. Like Vipul.
The near and dear know. Colleagues know. Those who have for one reason or another
encountered them, they also know. Vipul
passed on a few days ago. His facebook
account is flooded with appreciation that clearly he did not enjoy while
alive. They celebrate his word and more
so his ways. They grieve his
passing.
He was simple and simple too are
his words. And yet, just as his life
clearly spoke of profound understanding of the world around him and more
importantly the human condition, simply on account of his simple ways, so too
did his ‘simple words’ or rather their easy configuration gave us insights into
the eternal verities. He knew how to
work music into the lyric. His mastery
of rhythm would have made the task of composer that much easier. It is as though he was writing the rhythm of
his world view and his preferred manner of engaging with world and human being
had found in lyric a mirroring medium.
He was relatively young, this unassuming man about whom many
said ‘you would never forget his voice and ways if you ever got the chance to
listen to him or meet him’. He was so
young that his passing shocked one and all.
And although he’s written countless songs, the youthfulness of his ways
and the goodness that was apparent in countenance, voice, words and his doing
as well as not-doing, probably provoked the following widely held perception: ‘oba liya ivara nethi kaviyaki (you are a
song that is only part composed)’. Such
songs ironically and sadly make for constant commemoration that what might be
called ‘completed work’. His work was
not finished, is the conclusion, but that’s only a reflection of commemorator’s
grief. Vipul lived. Completely.
We, incomplete in many ways, lament his passing.
msenevira@gmail.com
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