I saw the future yesterday

Yudisthara, the Pandava Prince, so the Mahabaratha says, once had to answer a series of question put to him by a demon who had concealed his 4 brothers who had gone to fetch water from the pond that the creature lorded over.  At one point the demon had asked, ‘what is the strangest thing in this world?’ Yudisthara, famed for wisdom, had responded, ‘Everyday, every moment, a countless number of creatures perish and yet none of us believe that death could overtake us the next moment.’

That’s a somber kind of beginning to a Monday morning, I know.  We all die and this we know.  We were born, we live, we get indisposed, age, lost our faculties on by one (if we live long enough) and we die. Somehow, though, in reflecting on life and death we skip happily around the odd parts between the beginning and end.  We might be conscious of aging and might even visualize ourselves two three decades ahead if we were to live that long, but somehow the infirmities are skirted. 

This is about that which we avoid thinking about.  So when I say ‘future’ it is not in the way that politicians talk about it, not in the way people describe possible tomorrows for their children, comrades and followers.  It is the future of close-to-death.  I saw it all yesterday, December 11, 2010. 

Yesterday, I went to a ‘future-place’.  A home for the elderly.  Located on Suramya Place, off the Moratuwa-Panadura Old Road, in a small town called Gorakapola. David Jayasundara Wedihiti Nivasaya.  The occasion was to give alms in memory of my late mother.

There were 40 residents, men and women. Some in their fifties, there because they were too ill to take care of themselves and had no one who would either.  Forty persons.  Forty different personalities, with hundreds of different quirks resident in each of them, just as it is the case with anyone else.  Lovely staff. Caring and sensitive, very conscious of each eccentricity in each individual and of inter-person dynamics.  Different food preferences, different illnesses and different medication.  Not easy to handle, but handled with care. 

From the ‘here’ of 45, decent health, marketable skills and many securities, it is easy to imagine that one would never end up where these people are right now.  On the other hand, it occurred to me that none of them would have, say at the age of 7 or 17 or 27 or even 57 imagined such an end-place.  The truth is, regardless of current endowment, any of those residents could be you, could be me, some years from now.  Or even tomorrow.

With us was one of my mother’s students.  He is single.  No parents. No nieces or nephews.  On his own.  He, more than I, was stunned into a state of enlightenment, if you will.  ‘I am confused,’ he confessed. He was extrapolating, he told me.  He was imagining himself at 70 or older, in reduced circumstances health-wise.  ‘Is this the future that awaits me?’ he was essentially asking himself and me even as I asked myself the same question.  The answer, whether we like it or not, whether we end up in Suramya Place or not, we decay, inevitably.  We lose sight, hearing, memory, motor functions etc.  We decay.  We decay. 

I am not suggesting that we stop living on account of the above inevitability, but it is not silly to remember that wherever we are not, whatever comforts we may enjoy today, there’s a tomorrow that awaits all of us.  I am not saying we should put aside a little money to pay for funeral rites in the event we might have to end up in Suramya Place or its equivalent, but considering mortality can teach us humility. 

My mother’s student had remembered a series of questions put to a young girl by Budun Wahanse:

:

“Do you know where you came from, Sister?”

“I don’t know”

“Sister, do you know where are you going?”

“No.”

“Don’t you know, sister?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Do you know, sister?”

“No.”

She did know where she came from in terms of who her parents were, but didn’t know from what world she had arrived. She knew she was going to die someday, but did not know anything of the relevant ‘Thereafter’.  The particular girl, Budun Wahanse knew, was to die that very day and not that ‘someday’ we think cannot be today, as Prince Yudisthara observed.  Subsequent to the discussion, she is said to have transcended to the first of the Marga Pala, sovaan.

Took me to the wise words of the Ven. Vidagama Maithriya Haamuduruwo in the Lowedasangarawa.  Two lines in particular:

‘Pana nam thana aga pini bindu wenne’ (Life is like a dew drop on a blade of grass) and ‘Kumatada kusalata kammeli onne’ (Why be lazy in the matter of meritorious acts?).

I saw my future and it was a humbling revelation.  We all make plans, but don’t incorporate this particular slice of the future into them or into our every-moment being.  Perhaps we should

*This article was first published on December 13, 2010 in the 'Daily News' to which paper the author wrote a daily column titled 'Morning Inspection' at the time.

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Appreciation

There was a Sunday unlike any I can remember.  It is a Sunday I do not wish to revisit but which continues to visit me.  And others.  June 8, 2014.  It was a Sunday, the stay-home day of the week for those who work at ‘The Nation’, but it was a Sunday that dawned for many in the form of a piece of news no one wanted to believe.  Almost every member of the staff, including those who don’t concern themselves with news, features or any kind of ‘copy,’ wanted to verify.

Two young men, one 36 and the other 21.  Rukshan Abeywansha and Kavinda Vimarshana.  Both utterly lovable and much loved by all.  Kavinda suffered multiple fractures.  Rukshan, in addition to a couple of fractures, suffered a spinal injury that left him paralyzed neck downwards.  

Almost six months later, there arrived another Sunday that made all of us forget that terrible Sunday.  And that, all things considered, is a blessing.  A gift in fact.  No, a parting gift even if it were only mild consolation, all things considered.  Rukshan unburdened himself of all paralysis in the early hours of Sunday, November 30, 2014.   It was as unexpected as the ‘news’ from that earlier Sunday, but all of us, each in his/her own way did not think ‘unbelievable’.  And yet they came, everyone who could, to Ragama, where Rukshan lay.  Not because anything could be ‘done’, but there was nothing else that anyone could think of doing on that particular stay-home day of the week.

The six months between those two Sundays were made of prayers.  There was hope.  There was beseeching to deities known and unknown, familiar and unfamiliar.  In the more earthly realm, the best treatment was looked for and obtained.  There were costs.  There was the distraught life-companion Sharmila, the two children who were too young to know what had really happened to their appachchi, parents who were inconsolable and photographs that would not be taken.  All that was taken care of or rather ‘managed’.  Everyone wanted Rukshan to live. Everyone entertained the hope that one day he would walk again.  Ok, even if he didn’t walk, maybe he could recover the use of his hands, his fingers….something, anything….we all thought. 

During those six months, Rukshan was stretched out on a bed.  He was in the Intensive Care Unit at Aasiri Central, he was warded at the National Hospital, was even home for a couple of days and then shifted to a rehabilitation facility in Ragama.  He couldn’t speak for much of this time since a tube had to be inserted to help him breathe.  He suffered several bouts of pneumonia.  Friends and family had to lip-read.  And yet, in that ‘reduced’ state, Rukshan demonstrated he was more capable than most who could walk and talk.  He brought together people.  He turned them into a community.  He planted humanity in hearts and in those hearts that were humane he made generosity bloom.  Suffice to say that he turned a countless number of people into uncles and aunts for his children, brothers and sisters for his wife, children for his parents.  Without lifting a finger.  Literally. 

He could do this because he had lived a particular kind of life.  Rukshan had his problems.  He did not have an easy life.  His children were in and out of hospital.  And yet he never missed an announcement.  He never let his brow knit in a frown.  His face was always clear.  There was always a smile to greet everyone, even strangers.  And when he was silent, his gaze was articulate.  He had beautiful eyes, Rukshan did. 

The eternal verities never bested him.  He treated them with equanimity.  The man couldn’t even complain about anything without turning it into a joke.  He made it impossible for anyone around him to be upset for any length of time.  He left behind countless images.  He had eyes. Not just beautiful eyes, but eyes that could see things that escaped most people.  

And so through his work as a photojournalist Rukshan could make us see.  He gave us eyes.  But among the thousands photos he left behind, there’s perhaps nothing more powerful, more soft and tender, more sorrow-giving, more reassuring than the picture of this beautiful man with his wife and child, taken obviously before the second child was born. 

Rukshan was determined.  He knew what was what.  He wanted to hold an exhibition of his photographs.  February 2015 was the month he picked.  He wanted to recover the use of two fingers. ‘That’s all I need to move the mouse and select the pictures,’ he told his colleagues.  He never lost his sense of humor, teasing the young boys who came to see him about pretty nurses around the ward.  He never forgot ‘work’.  That was his first question to any colleague who visited.  He never forgot that colleagues had other lives about which he was aware.  He would inquire.  It was impossible to ask him ‘how are you?’ because he made us ask ourselves how we were ourselves. 

‘You have not sinned in this lifetime, Rukshan; this is an older sin you are paying for,’ I told him once.  I added that he of all people had the strength of character and the single-mindedness to come through.  He nodded, he smiled and inquired about my father. 

He brought into this world a karmic life expectancy. He paid for ancient sins.  He paid all his dues, I am convinced.  When the final payment was made, however, the physical body was beyond repair. There was no reason for him to suffer.  He left.  It was not the ‘escape’ or the ‘healing’ we wanted, but it was freedom nevertheless.  Rukshan went well. 

By Malinda Seneviratne, on behalf of ‘The Nation’ editorial team

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Turning apples into oranges and anguish into smile

A couple of days ago I was discussing poetry with a Turkish friend.  She asked me if I had read a poem by Nazim Hikmet about painting happiness. I had not. She quickly translated the first few lines and emailed it to me. 

"Can you paint happiness Abidin

but without the easy way out

not the rosy cheeked mother breastfeeding her child

or the red apples on a white cloth

nor the jolly fish darting aquarium bubbles;

can you paint happiness

the kind without lies?”

The idea is old of course and speaks to the ancient debates about the purpose of art and the true calling of the artist which will remain unresolved.  No one, Hikmet included, can commission the artist to paint this or that. It is the artist’s decision.  And here, before I am misinterpreted, let me add that we are talking about people who take their art seriously and who are not influenced by ‘market realities’ and the play of demand and supply when it comes to choice of subject, material or style. 

Nazim’s concern is simply and elegantly put.  He wants the artist to depict for us those tender things that reside just below the surface called ‘appearance’ or that which is lost in the clutter of the everyday.  Perhaps.  I don’t know.  I assume.  Anyway, it made me recall the oft-quoted and ill-employed lines from John Keats’ ‘Ode to a Grecian Urn’, ‘Beauty is truth and truth beauty; that’s all ye know on earth and all ye need to know’.

How does one paint happiness, ‘the kind without lies’, I wondered.  On Sunday evening, I found out.

I went to watch a street theatre performance in Moratuwa.  It was organized to commemorate the birth anniversary of the late Gamini Haththotuwegama, widely recognized as the pioneer exponent of this form of theatre.  It was exactly one month after he passed away.  It was a trans-generational affair with members of the original troupe performing with the present lot, old favourites infused (as has always been the case) with present-day reference, slang, prop and cultural allusions. 

There was naturally a tinge of nostalgia that hovered over the players and the performance given the significance of the event.  That quality was enhanced by the vocal and physical presence of the master’s son Rajith.  Rajith would I know dismiss all this as unimportant as he should and he wouldn’t be wrong.  On the other hand, he alone possesses his father’s voice and in this sense it was ‘complete’.  The father was present in son, chosen genre and the excellence of performance.

Back to happiness.  People and human relations are not red apples (or mangoes) on a white table cloth; nor are they ‘aquariumed’ specimen swishing this way and that to be gazed on and painted by the random passerby.  They are not one-dimensional and are never made of either black or white but both as well as a multiplicity of other colours and shades.  The story of a single human being is an epic.  The story of social process is an untenable proposition in that it is never amenable to reference in the singular; there are millions of stories and millions of version, all cluttered by the grind of the diurnal and the paint of ideology and political prerogative. 

It is not easy to paint human being.  It is not easy to find the colours that do justice to the human condition in all its complexity.  Indeed it is hard to pick and slice and describe it without injuring that which was chosen for dissection. 

The performance, divested of nostalgia, to my mind was an expression of what Hikmet demanded of Abidin.  It was ‘happiness without lies’.  ‘Happiness’ not because that which was commented on through word, action and rhythm was about a world without blemish, a world warranting salutation and celebration. It was a ‘true’ depiction and it rang true because the colours were believable. 

Social comment suffers in delivery because it is often painted in harsh colours and is devoid of humour and wit, whereas people regardless of what kinds of drudgery they suffer are not humourless and not one-dimensional in response or being. 

The critical edge that I saw in the performance was the fact that the script while being ruthless in criticizing the status quo of a number of things still endowed the ‘sufferer’ with the power to laugh at the oppressor and oppression, injustice and its perpetrator, not in a revengeful way, but an almost paternalistic manner.  More than this, the ‘sufferer’ also laughs at himself.  This is one of the most endearing human qualities and I think this is what allows us to believe in and work towards a different social order. 

I do not know what Abidin said to Hikmet. I do not know the rest of the poem and what else Hikmet asked Abidin.  I have never seen Abidin’s paintings.  But I think, had Hikmet lived in Sri Lanka and had known ‘Hatha’, he would have written a different poem. Or perhaps added an extra verse to the ‘Abidin poem’. Something like this:

Come Abidin,

Let us to the pearl of the Indian Ocean

The tear of all tears

Blood soaked and benign.

There, I have heard

Lives a painter

Who turns apple into orange

Draws it out of table, table-cloth and frame

To feed revolution;

Who disguises scream as laughter

Anguish as resolve

And tickles himself to death

So he can live forever.

Malinda Seneviratne is the Editor-in-Chief of 'The Nation' and can be reached at msenevira@gmail.com.

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Puddles look back at you, did you know?

Muddy days are slosh-days.  Sloshing around barefoot. Cool. Refreshing.  Muddy days are also puddle days.  If it rains enough to make mud there’s bound to be places where water has gathered.  Puddles come in all sizes.  Shapes depend on the terrain.  Most importantly, puddles are about water.  And once the rain ceases puddles become mirrors.

Sure, you can still slosh around.  You can stop and take a peek too.  Puddles may seem insignificant.  They are here now and gone the next day.  A few hours of steady sunlight and the water levels drop.  They may look invitingly muddy for a little while and then, if the sun is really hot, will turn into wicked pieces of earth with jagged edges that can hurt or cut your feet. 

But before all that happens, as we mentioned, puddles are mirrors.  They may seem insignificant but they can actually turn the world upside down.  The world is beautiful as it is, we all know this.  But this is a different kind of beauty.  It’s a beauty we rarely see for the simple reason that we don’t often stand on our heads.  Sure, if we spread ourselves on the grass and looked up, things would be ‘upside down’, but we are so conditioned to see things ‘the right way up’ that we don’t really ‘see’ treetops rising out of the sky and trunks sprouting up from leafy branches.

It is different when you see all this in a pool of water.  All you have to do is to think that the earth has become blue and that this blue-earth has sods of sky (that’s clouds) which move around.  It is lovely when the blue and green (with patches of dark brown and black) exchange places in our minds. 

It takes us to a different universe.  It makes us wonder (if only for a few moments) whether we stand on our feet or if we are dangling from the earth (imagine your hair fixed to the ground and your feet moving around free).  And it makes us want to flip other things around. 

A three year ago girl greeted her father who had come home after being away for a couple of days.  The father, who adored the little one, like all fathers adore their children, went down on his knees so his eyes were level with hers.  He hugged his precious little darling and moved back to admire her beauty and of course to see if she had grown taller in the two days he hadn’t seen her (that’s another things that young fathers of little girls and boys do). 

The child was smiling.  Her eyes were shining.  Then a questioning look swept across her face.  She looked deep into her father’s eyes.  She said, ‘Appachchi, I can see me in your eyes…can you see yourself in my eyes?’ 

‘Yes, of course!’ he said and then he told himself all the other things he could see in his daughter’s eyes.  The places he wanted her to see, the wonders he hoped she would encounter, the joys he was convinced she would one day experience, friendships and laughter, stories and fascinating characters, and all kinds of things and feelings that were truly amazing. 

Puddles are like that.  We can see upside down trees.  We can see skies that are flat and steady. Like the ground we walk on.  We can also see shapes and colors in places and ways we didn’t think were possible.  We can see ourselves and it’s not the same as looked at what the mirror reflects when we stand before it.  We don’t always place a mirror on the ground and look at it, do we?  If we did, we will find that we look quite different.  In the very least we will see ceilings and skies, the canopies of trees and the sunshades of buildings instead of walls as the ‘backdrops’ against which we stand. 

But most importantly, we can start seeing pools or puddles in other things.  Like the eyes of people we know.  We can see ourselves in their eyes and convince ourselves that they see themselves in our eyes.  For example.  We can tell ourselves that things have ‘undersides’ which are as interesting.  We can tell ourselves that not only things, but ideas, thoughts, feelings and other things we can’t touch can also have a flip-side.  We can spend hours wondering what those undersides look like, feel like.  And who knows, maybe we can even discover the textures, colors and fragrances of those flip-sides we don’t usually see. 

Puddles are wonderful, aren’t they?  Check them out.  They will probably look back at you and tell you stories that you’ve never heard, play music unlike anything you’ve heard.  And the world will look even more beautiful than you thought it was. 

This is the eleventh article in a series I am writing for the JEANS section of 'The Nation'.  The series is for children. Adults consider yourselves warned...you might re-discover a child within you! 

Other articles in this series

What's the view like from your door?

The world is rearranged by silhouettes

How would you paint the sky?
It is cool to slosh around
You can compose your own music
Pebbles are amazing things
You can fly if you want to
The happiest days of our lives
So what do you want to do with the rain?

Still looking for that secret passage?

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The rebel must calculate or perish

You are a rebel.  This would mean, in most circumstances, that the enemy or the forces that create and defend conditions that agitate you are stronger than you.  You can’t obtain change by hitting your head against a brick wall, obviously.  But not all walls that are brick-made last forever.  Neither are they unbreakable.  There are soft spots.  And there are ways around them.

In any case, rebels are constantly called upon to calculate.  They have to assess strengths and weaknesses.  They have to keep in mind that the dynamics change and indeed can get altered rapidly under certain circumstances.  So they have to re-calculate. 

The rebel must first of all identify the opponent’s strengths and weaknesses.    Once identified, they have to assess.  ‘How strong and how weak?’ they have to ask.    Similarly, they have to have a good sense of their own strengths and weaknesses.  And they have to assume that the enemy will not be twiddling thumbs.  The enemy will also identify strengths and weaknesses on both sides of the equation. 

If the enemy identifies a weakness, that weakness will be attacked.  If the enemy identifies a strength, the enemy will seek to neutralize it.  The same goes for the enemy’s strengths and weaknesses.  No one, having identified a flaw in the armor, will let it remain a flaw if it can be helped.  The enemy is a thinker, one has to assume. 

So, as we mentioned at the beginning, if the odds are not in your favor, all the more reason to make sure that the identification and calculation are as precise as possible.  You’ve heard of David and Goliath, perhaps.  You know that great empires have fallen. Impregnable fortresses have been overrun.  In almost every instance where the weak overcome the strong, there has been a lot of thinking and planning.  In short, you don’t leave it to chance.  You don’t count on the enemy making a mistake. Indeed, it is best to assume that the enemy will not err. 

Think of 9/11 and the popular theory of how it all happened.  That was the United States of America, the world’s most powerful country, equipped with enough bombs to destroy our planet, proud owners of the most sophisticated security systems (we were told), always ready to attack and ever ready to defend its borders.  Well, 9/11 showed the entire world that there are no such things as perfect security systems.  There are always holes.  Those who have the ingenuity, will and the requisite skills will break through. 

Holes, though, will not remain unplugged.  Just as you, when you have identified a weakness of your own, act swiftly to cover it, so too will the enemy correct flaws that have been identified.  This is a battle.  You see an opening and you make for it.  You reach it and you try to make it bigger.  The enemy will try to close it before you can get there.  If that’s not possible the next option is to stop it from getting worse.  All this requires resources.  Typically, resources have to be brought from elsewhere.  Typically, this leaves some other part of the battlefield vulnerable.  When this happens, the rebel must be ready to exploit other weaknesses that are created in the course of battle. 

None of this is possible if you leave it up to chance.  The rebel has to calculate.  The rebel has to assess.  The rebel has to be conscious that things change.  The rebel has to understand that changing dynamics require constant re-thinking, constant adjustment. 

Think of guerrilla fighters.  They are almost always outnumbered by ‘the enemy’.  On the other hand, there are situations that can be created when for a few minutes they have the advantage of numbers.  Then they attack.  Or, they can take the leader out.  That is a big blow.  They can confuse.  A confused army is half beaten. 

There are always ways around the thickest walls.  The rebel must have full knowledge of strengths and weaknesses.  The rebel has to be alert.  The rebel has to know when to wait and when to rush the enemy, when to draw the enemy out, when to besiege him. 

The rebel must calculate.  All the time.     

This is the eleventh in a series of articles on rebels and rebellion written for the FREE section of 'The Nation'.  'FREE' is dedicated to youth and youthfulness.

Other articles in this series

Are you ready to deceive?

Dear Rebel, 'P' is also for 'Proportion' 

Dear Rebel, have you got the e-factor out of the way?

Have you carefully considered the f-word?

It is so easy to name the enemy, right?

The p-word cuts both ways

Cards get reflected in eyes, did you know?

It's all about timing 

Heroes and heroism are great, but...

Recruiting for a rebellion

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Forget Mahinda and Maithri, the Kolombians want Alastair Cook

You know what, I am sick and tired of this talk of common candidates.  It reminds me of a yarn about Queen Victoria.  Apparently some man had broken into her room one night and had proceeded to make love to the Queen.  After the deed was done, Her Royal Highness is said to have asked, ‘tell me my good man, is this what the common people call f***ing?’  The intruder replied in the affirmative. ‘Far too good for the common people, far too good, my man!’ the Queen had observed.

Perhaps this is how we got Victorian morality.  But that’s another story.  What’s important is that the Queen was right – not that love-making ought to be a privilege but that there are things that are just not for ‘the common people’.  In other words and in our Sri Lankan context this means that there are things that are for the Kolombians and Kolombians alone.  Like political power.

We have been sidelined.  Our representatives have failed us.  Both Ranil and Chandrika don’t have the people-power or even the party support necessary to take on Percy (yes, I still hope the President will drop ‘Mahinda’ and thereby make himself eligible for Kolombian membership putting an end to our misery) and win.  I’ve given up on them. 

It was a gloomy day at the Cricket Club where I went to reflect on past glory and drown my present sorrows.  Then it hit me.  The idea came from unexpected quarters.  Kevin Peitersen and Sir Ian Botham are responsible.  They’ve called for the sacking of Alastair Cook.  Poor form, lack of imagination in marshalling resources and an abysmal track record prompted Botham’s call.   Kevin of course had an axe to grind. Still, the bottom line is, ‘Cook has to go’.  Where can Cook go, though?  What would be his new job?  That’s how I got the idea. 

Alastair Cook can be the Kolombian Presidential Candidate.  As things stand the Kolombians have to bet on one of two Yakkos.  The UNP wants us to vote for the Polonnaruwa Yakko.  Considering all that Percy has done for us (apart from ‘people-izing’ walkways and thereby facilitating theft of Kolombian identity) a lot of us will find it tough not to be grateful.  In any case, we won’t do ourselves any injustice if we had our own candidate.  Since we are short of names and resources, I thought it best to go for Cook.  He’s a British subject.  The real deal.  We, after all, are only wannabe British subjects.  Cook needs a job.  He plays cricket.  He’s captained before. 

Someone might say he’s not a citizen, but if Fijians can play for Sri Lanka, why can’t someone from the Mother Country be President?  Cook is white.  We are not white and all the fairness creams in Odel won’t get us preferred skin-color.  We are white wannabes.  Cook is the real deal, let me repeat. 

It won’t be difficult to convince him.  The prospect of getting the bad-mouthing British press off his back would certainly make him smile.  The man will not have to suffer the insults tossed at him by the likes of Botham and Piertersen.  The only problem is that he will be on par with Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth, but hey, we can’t have everything, right?

And most important, he has the right name. Cook.  If you can’t cook, you can’t be a successful politician in Sri Lanka because there are so many ingredients to work with.  There was a time we had good chefs.  Like JRJ.  The present crop of Kolombian reps can’t put together anything that’s even halfway palatable.  We want Cook.  We need Cook.  He’s our messiah.  He’s as uncommon as they come. 

Step up to the crease, Alastair.  This is going to be the innings of your lifetime.  You were born to play this match.  If you are not convinced, consider this:  it’s about the ignominy of being sacked or being President of a land like no other.  And as President, going by precedence, you can be de facto selector.  You can select yourself as Captain of the Sri Lanka Cricket Team.  Hey, you might even get a shot at lifting the World Cup, something you wouldn’t even dream about as the England captain, what?   

Other articles in this series:

A Kolombian's worst nightmare

The Bourse is ours!

You name it, Kolombians own it

We shall not be re-named
Get off my walkway! 
Thank you Mahinda for the Avacado Prawns!

English is a feel-good thing na?

Dear Percy, your membership card is ready

*Everyone takes note.  Some keep notes.  Some in diaries and journals.  Some in their minds and hears.  Some of these are shared via email or on Facebook or blog; some are not.  Among these people are Kolombians, people from Colombo who know much -- so much that they are wont to think that others don't know and can't think.  This is the ninth in a series published in 'The Nation' under the title 'Notes of an Unrepentant Kolombian'.

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And there’s always some more left in the story

Some people ask me if I ever run out of things to write about.  I give two answers.  To some I say something along the following lines:

‘If a universe is contained in a grain of sand, then everything is contained in everything else; the world is bursting with metaphor and there are innumerable things to write about.’

Most times I don’t know what I’d end up writing.  There is always, however, a nimittha, a point of focus if you will; something that calls out for the play of fingertips on keyboard. Invariably that thing resident within that wants comment and elaboration gets drawn out. It trips along from line to line down the page and ends up somewhere, hopefully as something coherent and readable or at least something that is not so vague and indeterminate that a few readers or even one will pick it up and take a look. 

Others are offered the following explanation: ‘There are surgeons who perform 6-10 operations every day.  That’s delicate work.  I make mistakes. There are typos. The subeditors can correct these and even if they won’t the readers will mind-adjust to render things coherent. One wrong move by a surgeon and death can result. Irrecoverable. What I do is nothing.’ 

This is easy, trust me.  Let me walk you through a typical day. Today.  I get an email which refers to something that appeared in the previous day’s column (‘My twin is 70 years old, how old is yours?’).  My argument was that we have twin-moments with various individuals but don’t really have lifetime twins, although this is something many long for as permanent cure for the inescapable human condition of solitude, i.e. someone who understands, now and always.  Minoli Wijetunga, a friend, had a comment: ‘I think I understand the reason you say “twinning” cannot endure the hurdles of time.  Your twin for years can become a complete stranger within a very short time.’ 

She liked the article but had an objection: ‘[But] you didn’t have to put it there. I know we don’t live in fairytales but sometimes pretending that we do gives hope.’  I replied, ‘Pretending gives hope…that’s a nice title for an article’.  She responded: ‘Personally, when things go really bad, I say to myself, “This is the sad part, where so many bad things happen. In a little while it will be over. There’s much time left in the story. In the end it will be a happily-ever-after.” That gives hope and strength to cope.’ 

That’s a lovely thought.  And it is true.  We do indulge.  We hope. We dream. Someone said ‘We were given an imagination to compensate for what we are not, a sense of humour to console us for what we are.’  We move from twin to twin, moment-twin to day-twin to sansara-twin or illusions thereof, forgetting that compatibilities are deceiving and that there’s much wisdom in Vijaya Kumaratunga’s song about solitude: ‘eka lesa bandunath nethu yuga se, desithak sama noma we mai; handunaa gatha heki wanne, mage sithata maa pamanai’ (Two minds can be together like two eyes, but they are never one; it is only my mind that can know me). 

It takes a glance at the wrong time, wrong place and in the wrong direction, it takes just a word that is carelessly uttered in the wrong volume and with wrong nuance, or a preference for silence when word meant everything, to scatter togetherness and un-twin hearts bound in what was thought to be eternal embrace.  So fragile.  So made for breaking, these heart-things of longing and bliss.  So made for poetry and song, for eyes-closed, heartbeat-racing excitement and for conviction that the world was un-peopled save for self and beloved. 

Reading what Minoli had to say I wanted to forget my twin-theory.  I mean, it is good to be real, to get real, to come to terms with ourselves, our solitary realities and to get some perspective on dream and extrapolation.  Then again, dream is also target and to look to destination does help us get from here to there.  We set out to change the world and end up building a village library or just helping an old man cross the road.  That’s not a bad thing.  We don’t get a world made of our clones, but we do discover part-twins and companions who make the walk from birth to death pleasant. 

I once wondered if the belief that stories end when chapters are closed was the greatest illusion or the most innocent claim.  I was never sure. Reading what Minoli had to say, I think I would err towards the latter.  There is innocence is dream, arrogance in thinking that we can obtain an accurate sense of the real.  The hard conviction that we are alone can break community into individuals; the soft hope that there’s a twin waiting for us makes us tender enough to pick up the ‘enemy’ who tripped and bruised a knee. 

Minoli invited me to walk a path. I did.  And in doing so I realized that if I did not believe in twins, I would never write for I would be silenced by the conviction that no one would understand.  I write because I do believe that ‘there’s much time left in the story’.  And it is for this reason too that I can say ‘I will never run out of things to write’.  

*This was first published in the 'Daily News' on December 3, 2010 (at the time I wrote a daily column for this newspaper titled 'Morning Inspection').  

Malinda Seneviratne is the Editor-in-Chief of 'The Nation' and can be reached at msenevira@gmail.com

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Mahinda and Maithripala compare headaches

Everyone talks about the candidates.  The candidates themselves talk about each other.  In a parallel universe they actually talk WITH each other.  And so we ‘heard’ Mahinda Rajapaksa comparing notes with Maithripala Sirisena.  It was almost as though each was discussing an election that the other was contesting.

‘How are things going, Maithri?’ Mahinda opened with a question.

‘You know how it is, Janadhipathithumani…’ Maithri began but was cut short.

‘Call me Mahinda, otherwise I will have to call you “Apekshakathuma,” and that would be funny all things considered,’ Mahinda explained.

‘Didn’t Chandrika Methiniya call you “Apekshakathuma” way back in 2005?’ Maithri asked but Mahinda, true to form, dodged.

‘Let me tell you something.  Even if she called you “apekshakathuma,” she won’t mean it that way.  In her head she would probably be thinking, “gon naamba”.   I am pretty sure that’s how she saw me.  I saw her seeing me and I suggest that you do too.’

‘And what of Ranil?’

‘A good man.  You need him.  He has ambitious, but don’t we all?  But he’s a pragmatist.  He knows what’s possible and what’s not.  He can help you.  In fact I think his help is vital.  As long as he thinks that at the end of the day he can trick you into transferring the people’s mandate to him, he will back you 100%.  If not, he will still support you, but will hold back.’ 

‘I see.  So how are things going at your end?’

‘Good.  I am the incumbent, don’t forget.  And as long as Chandrika looks like the one holding the strings, all I have to do is compare her track record with mine.’ 

‘But what if we drop her?’

‘That would be a blow, to tell you the truth.  But you see Maithri, this is about one candidate, not a party or a cabinet of ministers.  People may hate some of my ministers, they might be upset that I didn’t get rid of thugs and thieves, but they still see me a strong leader, the person who brought peace, the president who made sure that young people won’t join the army only to die or come home without limbs or eyes.  All I have to do is smile.’

‘That’s true.  So you are confident?’

‘Maithri, even if I was not, I will not show it.  The thing about being a presidential candidate is that you have to act like you are in control, even if you are not.’

‘It’s not easy,’ Maithri confessed.

‘Yes, I know.  It was the same for me in 2005.  Everyone wants to use you.  Everyone thinks that you can be made a pawn.  And then the egos!’

‘Oh yes!  They think that I would be nothing if not for them.  All of them think that.  How did you manage to handle things in 2005?’

‘I played along.  People with big egos are vain.  Vanity is an easy vice to prey on.  Let them think whatever they want to think.  Just remember that in this game there is only one winner.’

‘You mean like how we tell people that they are kings and queens until the polls close and after that they have to come crawling to us?’  Maithri was a quick learner and it showed.

‘Exactly!’

‘So, any predictions?’

‘Maithri, I will win.  But don’t worry.  After I win, I will make a long speech about you.  See, you are not Sarath Fonseka.  I will take care of you.  After all, we are old friends.  And we are both SLFPers.’

‘That’s nice to know.  I am also convinced I will win.  But don’t worry.  I will also make a long speech and tell the nation that you, of all people, is deserving of the people’s gratitude.  I might even add that you did things no one thought possible and which your predecessors didn’t have the guts to do.’

‘You might annoy Chandrika!’  Mahinda guffawed.

‘I won’t say it now.  This is in my acceptance speech!’  Maithri winked. 

And they embraced.     

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All the violins are playing for you Aunty Eileen

Simon Navagaththegama once related a story about a radio.  It was the first radio his village, Navagaththegama, had seen.  It had amazed everyone.  It had stopped working.  Since it was the first such machine the repair industry had yet to be established.  After much amateurish fiddling and a lot of ear-shattering crackling, it had come to life.  Everyone had been thrilled and relieved, so much so that no one wanted to touch it again out of fear that the slightest move might kill it altogether.  The station, therefore, was fixed for all time.  It played Western classical music.

Simon had used this anecdote to explain that art appreciation requires some minimum level of acquaintance and exposure.  He loved Western classical music, he said. 

I suppose exposure and acquaintance are necessary but not sufficient.  I was not lacking in either, thanks to a musically gifted mother and talented siblings.  She tried hard, my mother did.  She sent me for piano lessons for a couple of years, but we moved far away from the teacher’s residence and that movement ended that ‘exposure’.  Somewhere down the line, she later told me, I had said I liked the violin.  Thinking back I am pretty sure I might have meant that I liked the sound of the word “violin” for I had not seen the instrument until she bought me a second-hand one. 

That’s how I encountered Aunty Eileen.  That’s Eileen Prins, violinist and teacher, feared then on account of the ‘talent-abysmality’ and adored later for the utterly non-threatening person who existed outside the class.  It took me over thirty years to discover ‘adorable’, but as they say ‘better late than never’. 

I never became a connoisseur of Western classical music but if I do, someday, I’ll have to thank both my mother and Aunty Eileen.   Of course there was also Mrs. Niles, who tried to teach me how to play the piano once Aunty Eileen recognized my limitations and gently sent me up School Lane (i.e. before Duplication Road broke it into two parts), but it was from Aunty Eileen that I got some sense of the basics. 

I remember my mother writing down a quote from ‘Merchant of Venice’ in the note book I had to take to class: ‘The man who hath no music in his heart is fit for treason, strategems and spoils’. Yes, literature interested me more than music.  On the other hand, I still remember Aunty Eileen helping me remember the sharp key signatures using a mnemonic device, ‘Father Charles Goes Down and Ends Battle’, showing the number of sharps between one and seven for order of keys, F C G D A E B.  I remember the reverse for the flat keys too: ‘Battle Ends And Down Goes Charles’ Father’ (B E A D G C F).  The technical details, i.e. ‘theory’, were fascinating. 

When my mother passed away almost two years ago, Aunty Eileen’s son, Stephen, who had been my mother’s student at Royal College, came to pay his last respects.  I hadn’t seen Stephen since the last time I had seen his mother, i.e. at the year-end concert held at a church on Jawatte Road.  I was required to play ‘The Merry Widow Waltz’ and Stephen accompanied me on the piano. I was so bad that I was the only one who had not memorized the selected piece.  Stephen said, kindly, after the performance, ‘it was a bit flat, but you were ok’.  I remember being ready to run far away, because among the students was Lakshman Joseph De Saram, then barely 10 years old. I did run away and stayed away for thirty years. 

A few weeks after I met Stephen, later I went to see Aunty Eileen.  She was already past 90 then.  Like a doll.  Beautiful.  She was frail but lucid. We talked for a few minutes.  I didn’t want to tire her. 

Aunty Eileen is no more.  She passed away a couple of days ago.  She was blessed with an exceptional gift and one she shared with many, many people.  She was a teacher, so her music lives on and will continue to lift and enrich lives.  This is the way of teachers and teaching. 

We forget to remember too often.  She’s now unforgettable though. Perhaps because I am older now or because of a particular sequence of events and incidents I had no control over.  Aunty Eileen gifted love and music. I am sure she’s being received right now with truly divine music.  As for me, I think I will listen to some music. I am sure I’ll recognize the heart of Eileen Prins, even when the violins are silent. 

*First published on June 23, 2011, just after Aunty Eileen passed on.  

Malinda Seneviratne is the Editor-in-Chief of 'The Nation' and can be reached at msenevira@gmail.com

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Mahinda, Maithripala, Non-issues and the Nonentities

Nirmal Ranjith Dewasiri is better known by a nickname he earned as an undergraduate, ‘Vamaa’, translatable as ‘Lefty’.   Whether or not this had anything to do with ideological preferences, Nirmal has certainly been fascinated with Left politics.  Indeed, to the extent that left-right distinction is still valid in Marxian and subjective terms (read self-identified) Nirmal is still ‘Left’.  Perhaps this is why he posted a ‘left’ question as a Facebook status update.

‘There are at least four “left” presidential candidates.  Of them, the NSSP (Nava Sama Samaja Party) candidate has pledged to support Maithripala.  If Duminda Nagamuwa (Frontline Socialist Party) poses as the ‘Common Candidate of the Left,’ let me ask, “what makes him more ‘left’ than the other two, namely those of the Socialist Equality Party and the United Socialist Party?”’

This maybe an important question for Nirmal, but ‘who is the most “left” of the lot?’ is not even of marginal interest for the vast majority of the voters.  Nirmal has also suggested (in another status update) that Nagamuwa’s candidacy can only help Mahinda Rajapaksa.  Nirmal of course is supporting Maithripala Sirisena, this should be remembered.  ‘Leftists’ crying foul is old hat. Leftists have always accused each other of serving the interests of ‘the enemy’.  In this instance the questions are prompted by a need to justify choices more than anything else.

The only ‘left’ issue that is of political interest in this election is the face-off between the JVP and its breakaway, the FSP.  The FSP seems to have stolen a march on the ‘Mother Party’ by putting forward a candidate in a context where the JVP has opted not to.  Whatever the radical/Marxist readings of ‘bourgeois elections’ may be, elections figure in popular perceptions and numbers obtained, however small (relatively), are taken as indicators. Whatever the FSP gets will be read as numbers drawn from the JVP. 

‘Show’ matters too.  So, even though the JVP is not contesting, if it stamps presence during the next few weeks, that ‘show’ can overtrump FSP ‘gains’.  Convoluted arguments and practices to support Maithripala will compete with the need to protect the ownership claims to the red flag.  The likes of Nirmal (and other ‘leftists’) will howl in horror that the JVP is not really ‘Marxists’ or ‘Left’.  Be that as it may, in popular perception (and this counts!) ‘red’ belongs to the JVP, for now. 

  

What’s most interesting about Nirmal’s angst is that at least these are ‘issues’ for him whereas the absence and silence of many good-governance fellow-travelers of the past couple of years have not bothered him at all.  What happened to the ‘Friday Forum’ which was at one time ready to fire off press releases at the drop of a hat?  What happened to the ‘Platform for Democracy’?  What happened to that pawn of USAID and thinly disguised UNP front, the Bar Association which made a lot of noise but whose voice has diminished to the occasional whimper?  What of the NGO wallahs who would rise as though from a drunken stupor when they sniffed regime-change potential each time someone gave the finger to the President? 

There are other questions.  Why is Kumar David singing the praises of the key representatives of the class enemy, namely Ranil Wickremesinghe, Chandrika Kumaratunga and Rajiva Wijesinha while treating his current ‘Marxist favorites’ the JVP like those only fit to polish the floors of the walawwa and the people he loves to hate, the JHU, as vote-swinging adjuncts?  Where’s Maithripala in his analysis and why is this candidate who is wooing the vote treated like a puppet?  And why is Dayan Jayatilleka handing out character certificates to Champika Ranawaka and Ven Athureliye Rathana?  Don’t these questions trouble Nirmal? 

Perhaps all this is because ‘regime-change’ need has effectively footnoted or ever dismissed outright political ideology.  While this is clearly an indication of widespread and justifiable antipathy to how things are in the ‘land of miracles,’ it also points out to widespread confusion on the usual regime-change suspects. 

Consider the following (crude, yes) depiction of politics over the past twenty years.  Chandrika drove to power in the SLFP vehicle on which she painted the word ‘federalism’.  In 2005, Mahinda shoved her off and replaced the word with ‘nationalism’.  Mahinda still has the car.  Maithripala has jumped into the UNP car. He’s in the driver’s seat but there are many hands on the steering wheel.  Too many for him to look like a driver the people can trust, but that’s a separate issue.  The ‘problem’ for the Saravanamuttus, Jayantha Dhanapalas, Sudarshana Gunawardenas and other ‘democracy-voices’ could be that this hodge-podge is volatile.  It can go anywhere and that includes places they would not be comfortable in.   What if, for example, at the end of the day they find the Maithripala Bandwagon has got a ‘Nationalist’ make-over?  What if that vehicle with those colors wins the race?  Would be ironical, would it not? 

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Rukshan*

Phil Hughes.  Mahinda vs Chandrika.  Feguson, Missouri.  Eric Garner. Akai Gurley. US hypocrisy.  Yes-we-can Obama to We-are-blind Obama.  These are all possible headlines for an editorial comment this week.  We go with something else.  Someone else, to be precise. Rukshan Abeywansha.

Our readers will note in this edition of ‘The Nation’ that the cover pages of several supplements, namely FREE, JEANS and LENS are in somber colors; black and white except for the name of the section.  They will notice that the cover story of the section FINE is dedicated to an individual whose name you will not find in Reuters, Al Jazeera, BBC, AFP, AP or any such ‘well-known’ news peddling outfits.  Certain people are not newsworthy.  They are not known. 

We dedicate this space to Rukshan Abeywansha for many reasons.  First and foremost because he was our colleague and clearly the most loved too.  Rukshan struggled for five months after an accident which left him paralyzed neck downwards.  He fought.  He smiled through the fight.  He left us lost and utterly broken.

We dedicate this space to Rukshan because his courage is an example.  So too the way he conducted himself as a professional, colleague, friend and family man.  He had his share of woes and at times it seemed he had more than a fair slice of it all.  It never showed up on his face.  It never intruded on his work. 

We dedicate this space to Rukshan because tragedy should never be measured in the volume of death, the amount of blood, the height of the flame or how unrecognizable landscapes subject to disaster, human-made and otherwise, are.  Grief is personal.  Every death diminishes the near and dear much more than the collective. 

This newspaper does not belong to Rukshan.  It does not belong to his friends, family and colleagues.  This newspaper has a mandate that is larger than grieving about a personal loss.  But this newspaper concerns itself with the human condition.  And the human condition, as the Buddha said, is made of profit-loss, joy-sorrow, praise and blame, fame and discarding.  These, we are told, are best treated with equanimity.  Rukshan demonstrated that he was abundantly endowed with this quality.

We dedicate this space to Rukshan because in the mad rush to find that which is newsworthy, in the excavation of events and processes to find a story, in the scanning of the world for quote and power configuration that can impact many as opposed to few, we often forget or ‘peripheralize’ the ‘little story’, the easily forgotten and eminently forgettable name. 

We dedicate this space to Rukshan Abeywansha because this world is made of Rukshan Abeywanshas in whose names people seek power, wars are declared, countries invaded, foundation stones for buildings laid and reckless, racist police officers shoot or strangle to death black people in the USA. 

We dedicate this space to Rukshan, also, to thank the good human beings who helped Rukshan’s family during his lengthy suffering to secure the treatment required, to pay for it, to be there for the family through it all and in their final hour of anguish. 

We dedicate this space to Rukshan because he, more than anyone else, was acutely aware that the world moves on as it should, forgetting event and personality, tragedy and grief, moving from one bad day to the next, one joy to another. We dedicate this space to Rukshan because he taught us that some small something being added to humanity while all this happens cannot hurt.   

We dedicate this space to Rukshan because in his life and living, in accident and struggle, and even in death, he was able to gift companionship, forge community and educate.   

*The 'Editorial' of 'The Nation', December 7, 2014

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