On the poverty of art-appraisal*

Last week I wrote a comment on Liyanage Amarakeerthi’s take on the Sinhala novel and especially his gripe about the relationship between this and what he calls Sinhala Buddhist Nationalist Ideology.  I objected to his assertion that a critical distance from dominant ideologies was a prerequisite for becoming a great writer and argued that he was as guilty of what he implies are exclusionary tactics such as those used by those professing adherence to some form of Sinhala Buddhist nationalism or are labeled as such.  I also took issue with Amarakeerthi’s carelessness with regard to the temporal axis of politico-ideological process. 

I was hopeful that he would respond.  In a personal communication, he has said that he is otherwise engaged and will not.  That’s his choice of course.  The issues I raised may or may not be considered important enough to warrant comment.  No issue.

No, this is not a ‘Part 2’ piece on Amarakeerthi, don’t worry.  I mentioned it because I did get a response from a fan. Amarakeerthi’s fan, not mine.  Eric Illayaparchchi, well-known poet, whose work I admire, appears to have been upset by what I’ve written.  This is essentially what he wrote:

‘I am writing for and to defend Dr Wasantha Amarakeerthi who is unfortunately out of the country, thus might not be able to write soon against what you have written against him.

I don't think that you are fair to Dr Amarakeerthi who is at Harvard University teaching courses on Buddism and Modern Fiction. No one of our generation can boast of such Himalayan achievements!’  See the link below:

Then, perhaps to drive his point home, Eric gives me a link to Amarakeerthi’s bio: http://www.hds.harvard.edu/cswr/people/Liyanage.html and wants me to do justice to ‘Professor Wasantha Amarakeerthi who has reached the highest in academic world and post-modern writing’.

Talking about missing the bus!  What’s sad is not the fact that Eric feels that throwing biography and/or curriculum vitae constitutes rebuttal to argument but that he’s doing the done thing in that this is what ‘debate’ and ‘discussion’ tends to be. Moreover this method of responding has not helped the poor culture of critical appraisal when it comes to literature, film, theatre etc.  Eric has given me an opening to talk about ‘review-culture’ or lack thereof and I am thankful.

There was a time when there were many individuals who had what it takes to write decent reviews.  Now it’s down to a mere handful.  Instead what we have are ‘write-ups’ about novels, poetry collections, plays or films, usually written by the authors/directors or their promoters.  When did we last see a good review of an art exhibition? 

It’s a human resource problem at one level.  Newspapers are seriously short-handed when it comes to people interested in art and capable of commenting on it.  Editors have to depend on some outsider being interested enough to write something serious.  Turn to the ‘Feature’ sections of any Sunday Newspaper, especially the English ones, and you might find an events-listing, one or two write-ups about a play or exhibition with some pictures but reviews will be rare.  The Sunday Observer’s ‘Montage’ is in this sense very ‘oasismic’ but even here it is clear that a couple of people are pulling most of the weight. 

There is also a lot of mutual-back-scratching that goes on.  Maybe it is because we are a small country and these circles pertaining to the arts are always a tiny fraction of the population.  What has happened is that the community is so small and there’s so little learning with respect to the art of appreciation that practitioners by default are also the best critics.  Therefore, a would-be critic is also a competitor at some level and therefore if he/she reviews something and happened to be unforgiving (as any decent critic should be) he/she would be called ‘envious’.

An anecdote might help put things in perspective.  A novice film-maker was worried that her film would ‘fail’.  A media conference was called and the invited journalists warned that there were plans to launch a smear campaign against film-maker and film.  They were told that they alone could turn back such malicious moves.  All this without anyone being shown the film!  A few weeks later there was a ‘media show’.  There was an ‘introduction’.  We were impressed upon to be kind to the film and fim-maker because there were vile and mischievous elements trying to clip its wings.  We were also given a souvenir which contained comments made by ‘experts’. Glowing praise! 

The film was nothing like the ‘glowing remarks’ promised.  I asked one of the people who was quoted what the hell he was talking about. This is what he said, ‘machang, narakak kiyanne kohomada….ithin hondai kiwwa….mama hithuwe nehe eka record karala ohoma daai kiyala!’  (How could I say anything negative….so I said it was good…I didn’t know it would be recorded and published!).   This is how it goes.  People are arm-twisted into saying nice things.  So either you say nice things or you just shut up.  

I am not claiming that critics are all saints of course and this is why the artists view them with suspicion at times.  Critics have favourites.  And they have those they love to hate.  These love-hate issues have very little to do with the work that is being (or not being) appraised.  It’s personal for the most part. It has to do with one’s preferred circle of artistic friends (yes, there are clubs, gangs, cliques and cartels).  It has to do with ideological orientation. 

This is why some people just can’t suffer anything produced by people from a different politico-ideological camp.   Fearing that saying good things would ‘mark’ critic and locate him/her in that other ‘camp’ or would further a politics that one is opposed to, critics prefer to focus on the negatives or to dwell on peripheral issues such as the particular person’s political preferences, track record, friends etc etc. 

Ezra Pound supported the fascists and this at a time when fascism was clearly the dominant ideology in wide swathes of the earth.  Would anyone say that Pound wrote crap?  Lenin loved Pushkin, how was by no stretch of the imagination a writer for the working class.  Martin Heidegger, the German philosopher supported Adolf Hitler and yet is one of the most influential contributors to contemporary social theory and theorizing.  If we were to dismiss artists and critics on account of academic qualification (or lack thereof), political history, preferences of association, friends and enemies, we would get a blank sheet.  

What Eric has done is not new.  Defenders of a particular writer, say, can very well talk about his/her academic qualifications or question the moral right or reviewing credentials of a critic.  A critic can ignore the work at hand and focus on the artist’s political associates and actions.  They can throw qualification and lack of qualification as the situation demands. They can engage in name dropping and book-dropping.  They can dismissively say ‘this is beneath me’ or ‘I am too busy’ or ‘this is not important’.  These are all options used by those who really don’t have an argument.  

There are also, to be fair, those who can take both brickbat and bouquet; those who actually solicit serious and critical reading of their work.  One produces and one must expect evaluation and be humble enough to accept that there will be harsh things said that cannot easily be sourced to malice. 

Asoka Handagama and I have had our ideological disagreements in public for example.  I’ve taken issue with the politics associated with the marketing of his ‘thani thatuwen piyambanna’ and he has defended people I criticized.  He and I are not in agreement ideologically and it is possible that although we can both like something, it could be for different reasons. My reading of the film was not quite what he ‘wrote’, but he said he liked it (my reading).  People who share my ideological positions see Handagama differently. Some have agitated for his films to be banned. I have opposed them.  I think ‘thani thatuwen piyambanna’ is a good film; better than ‘aksharaya’ but weaker than ‘me mage sandai’.  I don’t like the politics that Handagama promotes; but I will make it a point to see all his films because his is an important eye and voice in our overall cultural milieu. 

The same goes for Vimukthi Jayasundera.  He’s an extremely talented young man.  ‘Sulanga enu pinisa’ was a good film overall, but betrayed a certain carelessness typical of a newcomer. The politics was crappy and his understanding of social, cultural and political realities wanting.  The ‘depiction’ then was flawed; the rendering superb.  I will go to see his next film. 

There is another element in this whole ‘review business’ that we tend to gloss over: only those works that seem to be important get reviewed. Why? How can we tell before seeing a film whether or not it is good?  Will Jayasena Jayakody’s next book be ‘great’?  We can’t tell beforehand, can we?  But we choose not to watch certain films and certain books never get reviewed.  All films should be reviewed, all books too. Doesn’t happen. No time? No personnel?  No ability?  All of the above, perhaps. 

I told a young chess player recently that he should forget the name of his opponent in that his (the opponent’s) reputation should not factor into the overall thinking process.  At some point we should read novels and not authors. That’s what biographies are there for. Those who throw qualifications, reputations and the titles of books they’ve read betray an inability and/or unwillingness to engage in meaningful dialogue.  Time passes over them pretty quickly and so too their use-by date.

*First published in 2010 in the Sunday Observer.  The issues, however, are no less relevant.  Jayasena Jayakody passed away not too long afterwards.  

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There is a stranger within, did you know?

It is said that when the ascetic Siddhartha Gauthama was at the point of attaining enlightenment he was confronted by Mara, the ‘tempter figure’ wont to appear as deity (devaputta), defilements (kleshas), the aggregates (khandha), the karma-formations and as death.  Mara, it is said, after having devised various methods to break the will of the ascetic, appeared in the final instance for what might be called a face-to-face battle.  What is pertinent here is that Mara, facing the ascetic, took the form of the ascetic. 

In other words the final frontier, we are made to understand is not external. It is within. It is self. Within lies the seed of destruction. Within lies that which breaks our will, that which pushes the wheels that generate sorrow from one lifetime to the next to the next.  And within resides the seed of emancipation.  It is ours to nurture into fruition, it is ours to let it be overwhelmed by those other seeds that limit, that cripple and extend the boundaries of the territories of sorrow. 

The entire Buddhist canon, then, constitutes a call to self-reflection, to seek and find within the answers to all the questions pertaining to the human condition.  What do humans do in the general, though?  We have eyes, ears, tongues, noses and we possess the ability to touch and obtain texture.  The ‘outside’ dances before us all the time.  We don’t pause to reflect on that ‘outside’.  We don’t ask ourselves how much of that outside is created by us.  We don’t wonder if we see things in certain ways, calls things by certain names, embrace and abhor because we are who we are, made of all our learning, reading, associations, prejudices and beliefs.

Why is a ‘super model’ considered beautiful?  Why does skin whitener enjoy such a massive market?  Do we question, ever, that which we so readily call ‘self-evident’?  What is self-evident about anything? 

Let’s take a well-known example, the notion of the half empty glass.  What makes someone say ‘half-empty’ and someone else ‘half-full’?  The ‘external’ here is a single object. It is variously described, nevertheless. 

Let’s get back to the ‘within’.  What is it that forbids or inhibits self-reflection?  Again, the fixation with that which we label ‘self-evident’.  How often do we say ‘I know who I am’?  Do we know, though?  There’s something called ‘ego’.  We all have it.  There’s something call humility. We all have it, in small or great quantities.  There’s something called wisdom. We all have it. In small or larger quantities.  And yet, we seldom employ wisdom and humility to gauge the dimensions of self and thereby assess the quantum of defilements that prohibit examination of the deeper realms of ‘self’. 

‘Who am I?’ is a question we ask ourselves, consciously or unconsciously.  ‘The Dhamma’ is the pathway to fruitful inquiry of course, but klesha-cluttering forbid wholesome reading. If the Buddha Siddhartha Gauthama were present today, he would no doubt show us how to read the texts.  Indeed, he might re-write texts in languages less foreign to us all and here I am not taking issue with Pali but speaking rather of metaphor.  Handicapped by that singular absence, too crippled by intellectual poverty to draw from the rich granary that is the dhamma we flounder in the quagmires produced by our ignorance and arrogance.  We fall and even as we do we celebrate what we believe is flight.  Then we wonder what we did to deserve the punishment that is the sorrow we suffer. 

We have eyes but we cannot see.  Maybe that’s because we have no sense of self, no sense of our true dimensions. Here’s an exercise that might help.  Go out. Seek an open space.  Lie down flat on your back.  Let’s say it is night. Let’s say it is a clear sky.  We all have some idea of how big Sri Lanka is on a world map. How small.  We know how big the open space is.  We can imagine how large the world is.  Look at the sky and we get a sense of how tiny we are compared to the visible universe.  It is that ‘smallness’ that makes up our world, the universe we call ‘I’.  From that point humility is possible.  Humility is a scalpel that can help dissect ‘self’. 

We will not recognize Mara the way the Ascetic Siddhartha Gauthama did.  We might, however, notice some obstacles to exploration.  That would be a start.  Then we might begin to get a trace of the stranger that resides within us.  We would see friend and foe both. We can have a decent conversation and emerge more conscious and better prepared to deal with those externalities wherein we believe Mara is resident.

msenevira@gmail.com

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Those elephants and these elephants

Let’s have an uncommon candidate

Ven Medagama Dhammananda got it right.  He is opposed to the idea of the opposition putting forward a ‘common candidate’ to contest the presidential election.  We have had enough ‘common candidates’.  They are a dime a dozen.  No sweat finding one.  And even in the unlikely event of this ‘common candidate’ winning the election, we can’t expect anything uncommon or extraordinary from him/her.   What is needed is an uncommon candidate.  An extraordinary one.  Someone who is unlike anyone

Those elephants and these elephants   

 In Kalamediriya, Bandaragama an elephant is reported to have gone berserk.  This was no wild beast.  It was a tame creature that had got upset with its mahout.  The elephant is reported to have made its way to the mahout’s house. Not finding the man at home, the jumbo had caused damage to the house. There are, then, tame elephants and tame elephants.  Shouldn’t Ranil Wickremesinghe be pleased? 

Ethnic groups

Sunil Handunetti of the JVP claims that the Chinese are the latest ethnic group in Sri Lanka.  True, many Chinese have come to Sri Lanka of late.  Handunetti obviously has a problem with the support this government gets from China.  He would not, however, be less disappointed if it was the USA that was backing the regime now would he?  After all he is a rathu sahodaraya.   Anyway, it is strange, is it not, that Handunnetti has not objected to that other ‘ethnic group’, the White, Anglo-Saxons, who have set up operations here in Sri Lanka as Obama’s veritable fifth column as advisors, experts, media personnel and NGO operators? 

Handunetti’s memory

The man says that the JVP has never ever, not once, done anything wrong.   Two questions. First, did some nutcases calling themselves ‘The JVP’ that went around slitting throats, filling chests and heads with bullets etc etc way back in 1988-89?  Secondly, were they using toy guns and therefore no one really died?  Perhaps no one died.  Perhaps that’s also a story.  There’s a third story: when is this man Handunetti getting the Nobel Prize for literature? 

The President’s call

President Mahinda Rajapaksa has told the youth of this country, ‘don’t subvert country for others’.  He adds, ‘put country before self’.  There are many ways to subvert a country.  Opening the doors of the country to poisons is one.  Giving a wide berth to those who profit from selling alcohol and tobacco to the young is another.  Maybe the youth of the country can come to an agreement with the President. Something like, ‘We will do as you say, but please Mr President, for your part, do the same; you have the numbers, the power and the vision, after all.’

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Vesak thoughts

Inmates of the Magazine Prison, Welikada get ready for Vesak.
Pic by Rukshan Abeywansha

‘Dan ithin Vesak balanna yanna baya nehe; bomba pipirenne nehene (Now, after all, we can go to see the Vesak decorations without fear; there are no bombs exploding).’  This is what a neighbor who sells betel, sweets and sometimes king coconut told me a short while ago.  True.

There was a time when parents did not travel in the same bus.  Indeed, a time when families deliberately split themselves wherever they went.  This is one of the key differences between LTTE-time and post-LTTE time.  That, however, is not what I want to write about.

Today (May 17, 2011) is Vesak.  It’s a special Vesak. It is the 2600^th anniversary of the Enlightenment, the moment when a prince destined to rule the world who became an ascetic discovered the dimensions of sorrow, the reasons for sorrow and the pathways to eliminate sorrow. It is a momentous occasion for all Buddhists but especially for those who place (too much?) value on dates, anniversaries and celebration. 

Today, most of the island is decorated with Buddhist flags. There are banners across the roads, pennants too, with quotes from the Dhammapada as well as other sections of the vast archive that holds the Word of the Buddha and the incredible output of commentaries over the past 2600 years.  The temples are clad in the white of sil and devotion, good intention and peace.  Tonight there will be light. There will be pandals, lanterns and vesak koodu, ‘bulbed’ and ‘candled’. There will be tiny clay lamps placed neatly on walls and doorsteps, with tiny flames swaying. Temples and houses will be fragrant with flowers, incense sticks, kapuru and burning oil, in humble veneration of a doctrine whose perfume outlasts all in akalika of the eternal verities. 

This is also a country that gets lit at Christmas, is made of non-Muslims who look forward to Ramazan, non-Hindus believe that ‘Vel’ is part of who they are. This is a country that on Vesak day and the day after turns into a nation or dansal (giving-stalls?), where each and every passerby, whether in a vehicle or not, is offered a soft drink, koththamalli (coriander), manioc with kochchi sambol, kadala (chick-peas), herbal brews, plain tea, coffee (hot and black or cold and with milk), bread or rice. Wherever you go.  This is a country that becomes a dansala twice a year in fact, with Poson (the full moon day in June), marking the arrival of Arahat Mahinda, being as colourfully celebrated as Vesak, and as devotedly too, i.e. in the temple-white of sil and offering flowers.

I can’t help thinking that this is also a country that on an auspicious day in April, almost every hearth (or cooker) gets lit at the exact moment and one where in most homes at another auspicious moment millions of people partake of kiribath.  That’s unity and unification that no constitutional enactment or emergency rule can decree and obtain. Or forbid, for that matter. 

There is something about this flawed land of ours that made Sinhalese people who had ‘bomb’ and ‘explosion’ hanging over every wakeful moment, spontaneously collect food and other essentials when the tsunami struck and send lorry loads of relief items to areas held by the LTTE.  These very same people, vilified outrageously for the crimes of politically motivated thugs, gave whatever they could, volunteered to provide medical attention etc., to civilians who were rescued from the clutches of the LTTE, even though it was known that there were LTTE cadres among them.  This is a country where the tax rupees of Sinhalese were regularly sent to LTTE-held areas, either as cash or as goods, even though it was well known that the terrorists either got a cut or helped themselves to everything sent. 

This is a country where Tamil people in the Jaffna Peninsula warmly welcomed visiting Sinhalese, even though they knew that the vast majority of soldiers who had in the battle caused the death and dismemberment of fellow-Tamils.  This is a country where Tamils and Sinhalese were and are ready to put aside identity-markers and unite against draconian laws and unfair regulations that impact particular communities or everyone.  This is not a country that is un-flawed, where chauvinism is absent. It is a country where suspicion often has deep roots.  It is also a country that can rise above these things on occasion, especially in times of trouble.  

This is a country that knows how to suffer and how to rejoice, how to err and learn, how fight and how to make peace, how to live and let live, how to forgive and forget.

I believe there is a particular ‘something’ about this nation that allows us to be like this, to fall but pick ourselves and each other up, to rise above hatred, to embrace enemy, to forgive conqueror for all excesses and embrace his/her progeny and accommodate his/her faith and related artifacts.  This ‘something’ is not there for anthropological picking or for journalistic description.  Those who know it, see it. Those who don’t see it are convinced that it doesn’t exist. This is good. 

This is a land made of hope and that’s because of this ‘something’ which is made to make us do certain things in certain ways.  This is a land, which, for all its many flaws, is still a paradise on earth.  I, for one, would not wish any other home. Not in this lifetime or in the next. This is good enough. No, this is more than ‘good enough’.

And not just because I can go to ‘See Vesak’ without having to worry about bomb explosions.

Sabbe Satta Bhavantu Sukhitatta. May all beings be happy.

msenevira@gmail.com

 *This was originally written for the Daily News three years ago. It's still valid, I believe. 

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Kavan Rambukwella reflects on ‘being Sri Lankan’*

He was a player, a coach, an administrator, a selector, a consultant and promoter.  That’s when it came to rugby in Sri Lanka.  His skills in all these spheres are widely recognized to be legendary.  What if Kavan Rambukwella was alive right now?  What if he could and did send a missive from the Great Beyond?  What would he have to say?  He would have a lot to say given the many issues that plague the game here in Sri Lanka.  But what if he was asked to speak about foreign players donning the Sri Lankan jersey?  Let’s try to figure out…

Well, back in the day, it was a matter of pride to wear the Sri Lankan jersey.  It was a matter of pride to give it our all out there on the rugger grounds.  Of course we wanted to win, who does not?  But size, strength and skill of opponent never intimidated us.  Defeat disappoints, always.  Still, if we played hard, we could take defeat with grace. 

Back in the day, the thought of importing players to do duty for the country never entered our minds.  Countries were countries. Citizens were citizens.  There were things that could be traded but these didn’t fall into that category. 

Countries are countries, citizens are citizens; the fundament difference between the two is that the former can’t move this side of annexure or redefining of boundaries, while the latter can.  People cross borders.  They take up residence in other countries and in time even become citizens of countries they are resident in.  Some have done this because they believe they have a better chance of making the national team in Country X as opposed to their land of birth.  That’s the exception.

Time passed and with the passing of time there was a discernible move to put price tag to everything under the sun.  In the world market that was thus created, things like nation and nationalism too came under the hammer, in more ways than one.  The strange thing is that nation and nationalism, even when they were bartered, was done in their very name.  If this is done in the name of development why not in the name of sport, one could ask. 

There’s something fundamentally wrong here.  It has to do with integrity.  It has to do with deception.  If we want to call a pile of dung a heap of gold, no one will stop us but the chances are that we won’t smell of some exquisite perfume.  Still, if we are convinced that national pride has nothing to do with citizenship we should come out and say it straight. It’s dishonest to field a team called ‘Sri Lanka’ made of foreign players and then saying ‘we are doing this for the glory of the country’.

Some countries have got around this by instituting qualification criteria.  For example, to represent national teams of certain countries one has to be a resident for a certain number of years.  Over the counter citizenship is not granted just because some sports body wants to salvage national pride by winning at all costs, including the import of sportsmen and sportswomen. 

The way things are going we could very well have a Sri Lanka rugby team sans a single player born in this island.  They may or may not bring us glory but outside the official record, it is unlikely that victory would make our chests swell with national pride.

Things change of course, but certain things do not get buried easily.  Here’s a story that might help put some sense into our rugby officials.  The could watch Ron Ichikawa’s ‘Tokyo Orimpikku’ a documentary on the defining moments of the 1964 Olympic Games.  They would be stunned that a man who came last in the 10,000m race was also featured in the documentary, i.e. among all the winners.  ‘The Last Man’ was a Sri Lankan.  R Karunananda was placed 47^th out of 52 in the 5,000m race and started the 10,000m race with a bad cold and a considerably weakened body.  He ran.  He completed the race because he wanted his little daughter to be happy that her father didn’t give up.  He was among the leaders when the winner, Billy Mills of the USA breasted the tape.  That’s because Mills had lapped him 4 times by then.  When he continued the spectators were surprised. When he came around again they jeered.  The next time there was silence. When he finished he got a standing ovation.  Mills said the gold should have gone to Karu. 

Back in the day we played because we loved the sport.  We fought the good fight. We lost.  We did not come off second best as human beings.  In time to come Sri Lanka might do better than we did back then.  People might feel proud too.  But somewhere, someone, a true Sri Lankan, would not cheer the way that back in the day the spectators cheered and celebrated us, long after the long whistle.    

*In a parallel universe of course

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The 'polythening' of Vesak*

I remember, way back in 1978, watching a programme on ITN.  This was just after we got ‘TV’ in Sri Lanka.  We didn’t have enough programmes back then to fill the day or even half a day. There was a lot of Sesame Street and other such shows.  I remember watching what would not be called a ‘teledrama’.  It was a Vesak-related story.  This is how it went.

A little boy makes a vesak kooduwa with great effort.  He makes the frame, pastes the saukola (tissue paper), makes the frills and pastes these too, fixes a candle, lights it and hangs it on the branch of a tree.  It is a pretty picture.  It rains.  There is wind.  The vesak kooduwa catches fire.  The little boy is distraught.  Time passes.  He moves from child to adult to middle-aged and old.  He acquires things, loses things and in the evening of his life remembers the vesak kooduwa.  The images of its making and its burning, the joy and the sorrow flash across his mind.  The lesson is impermanence. 

I remembered this ‘teledrama’ a couple of days ago when I saw vesak koodu (frames as well as fully decorated ones) for sale on roadside stands. 

This is the month of Vesak.  It is therefore a month of festivities and religious activities associated with the birth, enlightenment and parinibbana of Siddhartha Gauthama, Lord Buddha.  It is also a month of rain.  This is perhaps why the vesak koodu that line either side of Bauddhaloka Mawatha are cased in polythene.  When cased that way the vesak koodu lose their charm.  I know there are costs involved but I have never understood the fascination or let’s say intent to preserve a vesak kooduwa in this manner since one of the fundamental tenets of Buddhism is the condition of impermanence.  Among the vesak koodu that I saw for sale were ones that were decorated with polythene.  That’s what took me back 32 years and to the living room of Lucky Nanda and Neelan Mama. 

We are living in the 21^st Century.  The world knows about polythene, about plastic, about the impact on environment.  There is no lack of communications about the importance of reusing, reducing and recycling.  These are known. And yet we defer to convenience over the health of the planet.  We want it easy right now and forget that what we do will reduce the quality of life of our children and indeed possibly turn this beautiful planet into an uninhabitable place for their children. 

I do understand that people don’t have as much time as their parents did and suspect this has less to do with the times than one’s lack of understanding of the times. And time.  You can buy the frames and also the tissue paper, make some paappa with flour and warm water and do your thing.  You can hang it wherever you want.  You can and must understand and reconcile yourself to the inevitability of decay and death, the result of subjecting vesak kooduwa to elemental play, the possibility of wind pushing flame to lick paper, the dissolve that monsoonal shower produces and the de-colouring power of sun. 

You don’t have to teach children all this. They will have their joy, they will break with break and they will move on. Stronger. 

We make a choice when we use polythene and plastic.  We don’t have to.  I remember interviewing an amazing artist, a graduate from the University of Kelaniya, and an award-winning maker of vesak koodu. This was 7 years ago. The relevant article can be found at the following link: http://www.island.lk/2003/06/22/leisur01.html. 

There was something in Vidyartha K. Indradeepa Yagachandra’s koodu that was different and this is not the colour, shape, elaborate structure, attention to detail, decoration and creative lighting.  It’s the fact that his award-winning creations are made of 100% traditional raw materials.

The following paragraph from that interview says it all: ‘Since the year 2000, Indradeepa has dealt solely with traditional material. It had been a conscious decision on his part to celebrate what is intrinsically "ours". He often lists by his pahan kooduwa the raw materials used, along with specimen. And so, by the side of the Bauddhaloka 2003 kooduwa, a list read, "nava patti, puskola, matalu, pol kola, habarala kola, kaduru, lanu, naga darana eta, ging pol, dorana thel, and kithul rehen". The use of natural materials has philosophical meaning to the artist. "Buddhism, to me, is an environment-friendly doctrine. This fact I try to exemplify in my creations."’

For Indradeepa, the Aloka Pooja or the "light offering" is not merely a religious ritual, it is a meditation. And the meditation does not begin with the ceremonious opening of the kooduwa, but at the first stage, that of collecting the ingredients. "Today one finds many rotating koodu, but most of mine are stationary. I have seen people stand before my creations for half an hour, transfixed in meditation. This is the kind of response I want to provoke. While being a celebration of our traditional raw materials, art forms and aesthetic sensibility, a Buddhist story must also be told, a message must exude from the whole and its parts."

Not everyone is an Indradeepa.  However, that kind of thinking is not beyond anyone.  He speaks a simple philosophy, easy to embrace and one which rewards immensely.

The Buddha Vachanaya or doctrine can be articulated in many ways.  It can be celebrated in many ways.  In whatever form of expression one chooses it makes sense to embed the tenets of the dhamma and not it’s disavowal or contradiction.  I will light a pol thel pahana (coconut oil lamp) and will watch the flame waver with wind and die on account of gust or exhaustion of fuel.  I will not be ‘polythening’ this Vesak. 

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The true location of Kala Wewa

It was Avurudu time.   In this supremely stay-home time for reasons that are not important I wanted to go away. Far away.  There was only one person I could think of who would, in this stay-home avurudu time, would consent to be travel companion. Wasantha Wijewardena. Self-proclaimed professional rastiyaadukaaraya, shaman of sorts, ace bull-shitter who could bullshit himself into believing that the practice is virtuous, wholesome and in concert with any and every religious doctrine. 

All I had to do was call. I called.  He said ‘come’.  When I got there he asked where I wanted to go.  I didn’t know. I came up, however, with a couple of options along the way to the petrol shed.

‘We could drop by your parents’ house in Parakaduwa and proceed to Ratnapura. We could go to the Saman Devale.  We could also go to Kala Wewa.’

He vetoed the first.  We took the Katunayake Highway, planning to go through Divulapitiya and Narammala to Kurunegala and from there to Kala Wewa via Galgamuwa, where I had friends I liked to visit. 

We talked.  We considered dropping Kala Wewa and Avukana in favor of Resvehera.  When we stopped 

for a cup of tea not long after passing Narammala it was about 2.00 pm.   Wasantha paid the compliment of proclaiming that I was the only one with whom such a trip was possible, i.e. a trip where destination was not important and where plans are so fluid that anything and everything could be dropped without complaint but with a smile.  Long before he came to that, he said, ‘Malinda Aiya, there are many wevas this side of Kala Wewa.’  I replied, ‘Yes, we can always bring Kala Wewa to wherever we are.’

We didn’t know exactly how that would be done.  We didn’t exactly plan to do it. We thought we’d first make it to Galgamuwa and try to locate Ananda Thilak Bandara.  Thilak is a batchmate from Peradeniya I hadn’t seen in a year and whose phone number didn’t work.  He is a teacher.  He can sing.  He has a temper.  He can be stubborn in the will-not-forgive-or-forget vein.  He was gentle too.  He never quarreled with me.

I vaguely remembered where he lived, about a mile from Galgamuwa Town on the road to Ehetuwewa.  Ehetuwewa is about 9km from Galgamuwa. Thilak’s village is Madadombe and lies about 2km off if you turn right at Gallewa.  His parents had purchased a house within the town limits about ten years before. 

We got to Galgamuwa.  The inevitable happened. I couldn’t locate the house.  We laughed.  I proposed that we go to Madadombe where Upali, Thilak’s brother, now occupied the parental house.  Upali was an iskole mahattaya.  He was fond of drink.  He was bound to be home since it was avurudu. 

With a bit of effort which, under sensible circumstances we ought to have expended before we took off, we managed to find Thilak’s new phone number.  He said he was in Kurunegala, with some friends.  I teased him.  I said that we had come all the way to see him and that he had better haul himself to Galgamuwa.  He made his excuses.  He was excused. We went to Madadombe.

The old house was gone.  Upali had built a new house.  The old fence was gone.  In its place there was an ali-veta, an electric fence to keep wild elephants away.  Indeed every household had an ali-veta.  Things had changed for way back in the eighties and nineties the elephants didn’t step into this village in numbers and at frequency warranting such precautions. 

Upali was in high spirits, even though his wife and two sons had taken off in a huff a few hours before because even on this avurudu day he couldn’t resist a drink.  There was kiribath and polos.  He offered. We consumed with relish. 

I recollected the many visits.  Bathing in the Maha Weva and other wevas in the area.  Cycling with friends to Divulgane and even to Katnoruwa.  Forays into chenas where afternoons were spent roasting and consuming an unbelievable quantity of corn.  Visiting temples we came across.  Chatting with the loku hamuduruwo. 

‘Let’s bathe,’ Upali said.

We did.  The dimensions of ‘Maha Wewa’ had not contracted. Memory did not fail. 

Then Thilak called.  A friend would give him a lift to Ambogama.  He wanted to know if we could pick him up.  We could. 

Upali’s spirits were lifted higher as we walked back.  Friends came by in a three-wheeler.  They had what he wanted, and he had what he needed.  Upali’s family had returned by the time we got back.  There was tea. There was kevili. We partook. 

It was dark when we set off to pick up Thilak.  Upali wanted to treat his older brother to a drink.  On that Aluth  Avurudu day which also happened to be Bak Poya, he managed to secure a bottle. Neither Wasantha nor I were interested. We didn’t try to stop Upali either. 

‘When Bandara Aiya comes, I will get to aside,’ Upali said what he need not have.  I knew the respect and the fear. 

Upali had downed one third the contents by the time we picked up Thilak.  By the time we reached Gallewa, he was fast asleep.  His wife called ‘There’s a herd of elephants at the gate so don’t come now.’  Thilak directed me to a relation’s house.  More tea.  More conversation about elephants and school days in Ehetuwewa.  Half an hour later, we got a ‘safe’ call and we went. 

Dinner.  Conversation.  Late into the night.  We left around 4.00 am the following morning, taking the kalakaruwa or artist, Ananda Thilak Bandara, with us.  The Maha Wewa looked lovely in the moonlight.  Time had passed, yes, but neither Thilak nor I were burdened or tripped by nostalgia.    

The Kala Wewa had indeed accepted our invitation.  It was a new year as aluth as they come. 

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