Constitutions are made, talked about, cursed and amended. They never speak although they frame much of what happens in a country. In a parallel universe constitutions would talk. They would, as the Americans of the US say 'kick ass'. They would complain of aches and pains. In a parallel universe the Second Republican Constitution of Sri Lanka (democratic, socialist, let's not forget!) or the 'JR Jayewardena Constitution' would have a lot to say. We could but transcribe.
No one
is made perfect. Even things of ‘top
quality’ decay and perish. It’s just a
matter of time. Of course there’s a lot
of resistance. When there’s ‘break’,
there’s often an attempt to ‘mend’.
Patch-up. Even when there’s no perceivable flaw, things are done to
enhance. Upgrade. In my case, both patch-up and upgrade have
one name: amendment.
I was
birthed in 1978. There were a few at the
time who wanted me strangled at birth, but the movers and shakers of the time
had enough push and pull to get me out.
I was no perfect baby. I came
with many flaws that were etched into my DNA by my makers. Even those who blindly cheered my birth, in
time, concluded that I was not as pretty as they first thought and that I
didn’t live up to my promise.
So,
from time to time, I was fixed. Tweaked,
some say. They all said it was for my
own good. It was as though everyone who
tinkered with me wanted me to live forever.
But I know better. It was not my
longevity that the ‘tweakers’ were concerned about, it was theirs. It reminded me of that old song by Lobo,
‘Love me for what I am’.
I can’t give any
more of my soul away
And still look
myself in the mirror everyday
I can’t change any
more
Of what makes me be
myself
And still have
enough left
Not to be somebody
else.
Only,
I had nothing to do with it. It was all
done to me. Not only was I twisted and
turned, I was read and interpreted. I
was named and identified. It’s the worst
thing I can think of. I was never myself
but always what others saw me as. For
their own purposes of course.
So I
am not fooled by this mending talk.
Amending, rather. It’s not about
me. I have a grandaunt on the other
side of the world. (A)mended 27 times in
225 years or roughly once every 9 years.
Well, she had a serious birth defect and had to have some 10 operations
in her first year. So if you don’t
count those it’s about on ‘repair’ every 13 years. And here I am, just 36 years old and already
‘fixed’ 18 times. That’s once every two
years on average. I am beginning to
think that this is because no one realized I was deformed at birth.
Anyway,
now there’s talk of further fixing. I’ve
suffered 18 operations. It takes a toll
on the old body you know. I don’t think
I can go under the knife again and survive.
That’s only so much a body can take.
I am done. I don’t want it. I want out.
I want out like that dramatic line in Kingsley Peiris’ catchy song, Podi Kale Maranda Welle.
රුචිරානනී
අහන්න.....එක පාර මා මරන්න
“Listen,
beloved! Kill me once and for all!”
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