10 July 2015

The 'underworld' was always 'above board'

A little more than 13 years ago, June 2, 2002 to be exact, I wrote a piece for 'The Island' titled 'The Paathaalaya comes to town. 'Paathaalaya' is Sinhala colloquial for 'underworld'.   The article, which I called 'The Pathalaya comes to town,' was inspired by noises made by the then UNP Government about arresting Range Bandara.  I took the opportunity to comment about thugs and politicians.  Three years ago I posted it titled 'And up came the underworld'.  Good to read again, I think.

The word "underworld" refers to the world of criminals or of organised crime; in common parlance, the pathalaya, literally "abyss", meaning "a deep chasm, or a catastrophic situation as likely to occur". 

The origin of the word is interesting. It comes from the Greek abusso, or "bottomless". If it sounds like I am engaged in word play, I am sorry. The point is, the "games" associated with the pathalaya are the least like a crossword puzzle or Jumble ("that scrambled word game by Henri Arnold and Mike Argirion), pale against the vibrant cloak and dagger stuff of political/criminal life which has made me wonder if the under/over dichotomy of worlds exists in reality.

It has long known that there is an unholy nexus between the pathalaya and the politician. They feed off each other. Time was when the territories were clearly marked with set boundaries and (probably) well-defined modes of communication between the two. Things were never confusing. One didn’t turn up in the other’s costumes. The politician wore the national dress. The thugs operated out of the public eye as befits any self-respecting underworld denizen. The politician would contract, pay-off and protect if necessary. His/her hands were always clean. As for the hired killers, they would not stray into the unfamiliar territory of legislating, budgeting, diplomacy and legitimizing. 

I am not sure when these naughty twins confused their identities, but if I were to hazard a guess I would say it happened when the thugs took over the matter of running the country and parliament became the battleground for warring rival gangs. Naturally, for this to happen, the world has to suffer tremendous convulsions and we’ve had more than our fair share of such eruptions over the past three decades or so. 

There is a video clip of Eminem’s song "Will the real Slim Shady stand up?" where the inmates of a mental asylum respond to the question by standing up en masse. If we could get a good cross section of our politicians and thugs, clothe them in say, full suit, shuffle them like a pack of cards and ask them "will the real politician stand up?" (or, alternatively, "will the real thug stand up?") and I am sure that either they will all remain seated or they will all jump to attention. 

In this abuddassa era, it is natural they say, for labu to taste bitter. The tongue apparently gets used to bitterness. And so we have come to accept the aberrations that make up our world, sometimes to the extent of allowing us to become aberrations in order not to look like a sore thumb. I believe we can do better, but that requires more than clever turns of phrase and giving the finger to the grotesque people who are powerful because we allow them to strip us of our agency. 

What am I talking about? The PSD, what else! Just kidding. I don’t have to talk about the PSD for the simple reason that it is now boring. The government might think that directing the police to "take whatever action" with respect to Ranga Bandara is sufficient to give a "we-are-fair" look to their witch hunt, but it fools no one. And in any case, I remember a time of Ukussas, Kalu Balallu, Kaha Balallu and Green Tigers, those PSD-creatures of an earlier era (a time, which, I must add, seems to be waiting in the wings for a second coming). So I don’t really get excited about thugs calling each other names. 

Last week Kaduwela Wasantha and six of his associates were gunned down. A rival gang, led by one "Karate Dhammika" is suspected of having carried out the massacre. Gangs kill gangs, politicians kill politicians, thugs kill politicians, politicians get assassins (especially if they change colours along the way) assassinated. Not many moons have passed since Beddegane Sanjeewa of the PSD and a high profile assassin by all accounts was shot dead. 

Before him there was Kalu Ajith, Nalin Chinthaka, Gamage Ariyapala, Kotte Sunil, Gangodawila Asoka, Christopher Barry, Gonawala Sunil, Soththi Upali and other underworld operators killing and dying violently. Most of these would be household names in high places of power. We get to hear them only when there’s a spectacular shootout, almost as though life was playing out a film script. And much later, we learnt that they were actually police officers of high rank, pradeshiya sabhikas and even nagaradhipathis. 

All the above mentioned worthies were directly associated with one or more politicians. Add to this all the "respectable" people who were sworn in as representatives of the people by the President now behind bars now free to have a free hand, and it would seem that all of a sudden the entire population of the pathala lokaya have crept out of the woodwork that separates it from the lie that is civil society. That’s the law of the land, right now. People criss-crossing from one world to the other and back again. Without passports. Without visas.

For today, we have pistol-brandishing politicians actually leading the mob, especially during election time. The number of PA members holding public office or were candidates for local government bodies in police custody is mind boggling. If the UNF kept good its promise of better governance, then an equal number of hooligans from that party would have joined their PA counterparts in various cells all over the country. That this didn’t happen should not raise any eyebrows, after all the "We Want Independent Commissions" cry has been swept under a huge carpet embossed with the letters "L", "T", "T" and "E".

Conversely, we find that people, like money, can be laundered. Any underworld king pin can, after a short period in the washing machine operated by a beholden politician, contest a pradeshiya sabha, win some contracts, move from assassin to racketeer to clean businessman. At some point along the way they can drop their gang name. Theyways to get membership in exclusive clubs, do the cocktail circuit and when enough time has passed they suddenly appear totally clean. They shed their gang tag, but the gangster seldom abandons them.

Upheavals of the kind that turn thugs into gentlemen and vice versa are almost always preceded by tell-tale signs. For example, it took a long long time for the Tamil pathalaya to emerge from its hell holes, mix with the gentry of the Tamil Shishta Samajaya (a.k.a. Tamil "moderates"), bump the good gentlemen off one by one and turn them into pathetic softies capable of doing nothing except faithfully parroting the bile dished out by the Northers Maheepalas. 

So today, in the North, the pathalaya crept out from its earthly burrows. The gentry now grovel at the feet of the home-bred thug. The distinction has been erased. The story of how Tamil society capitulated en masse to the rule of terror is tragic. If the rest of our country follow suit? I dread to answer that question. The optimist will say, "we are nowhere near that". It’s good to be hopeful. Far more prudent to be realistic. I have rattled off only a few names of the various regional rulers of the underworld. I don’t have to name our representative strong-armed bad boys. And girls. But I will tell a story which ought to make people think again.

I remember Arjuna Parakrama relating how the pathalaya came into the Kelaniya Campus. This was in 1978. He was an undergraduate then. Years later, others fleshed out what were just sketchy details that had somehow remained in my mind. Rajan Hoole, in his latest book, "Sri Lanka: the arrogance of power", gives a blow by blow description of the incident. Just like Kelaniya Campus today, back then too the students clashed with the hired thugs of politicians. 

Rev. Baddegama Samitha, MP, who was the Vice President of the Student Union, was both a witness of and a participant in that incident. The Welipara Member of the UNP, one Piyadasa (appointed as a Director of the Hardware Corporation by Cyril Matthew) led the gang who were sent to tame the anti-UNP union. He was supported by JSS members of the Tyre Corporation. 

A lot of blood was spilled on March 16, 1978. Rev. Samitha knows all about it. A thug named Christopher Hyacinth Jayatilleke was literally stoned to death by the students. That, apparently, had to happen for the university to be free of UNP-led intimidation. 

A paragon of virtue of the area had insisted that the Prime Minister J. R. Jayewardene be present at Christopher’s funeral arguing that Christopher was a party man. JR came. He saw. He pronounced: "Christopher is a national hero". 

A lot of "national heroes" had died before then and have died since, sometimes at the hands of other "national heroes". Christopher’s funeral was a first in that never before had the leader of the country attended the funeral of such "heroes". Between 1978 and 2002, many national heroes have accounted for the lives of thousands of unarmed... hmmm.... "traitors", I suppose. 

Twenty two years, two months and a couple of weeks have passed since those paragons of virtue wept over the body of Christopher. They are today... throwing "thugs" behinds bars, He has come far. This is why this pathala-shishta samaja dichotomy looks nothing more than something separated by a revolving door to me.

I don’t know about you optimists, but I am very, very worried. Perhaps it is time for the real shishta samajaya to go underground. Maybe it is there already.

No one is weak

This is the thirty sixth 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! Scroll down for other articles in this series. 

Not everyone is big.  Not everyone is strong.  But then again in tests of strength there are small and weak people who still manage to come off as winners.  

One day a bunch of boys decided to have fist-fights, the game where the combatants clasp their hands with elbows planted firmly on a table and where they are required to try and push the opponent’s hand down.  

Naturally there were some boys who were stronger than others.  the weaker ones lost out quickly.  When ‘strong’ met ‘strong’ there was a good fight.  Those in the game were focused.  Beads of sweat appeared on their foreheads.  Veins on their fists popped up.  They had grim expressions.  The others cheered.  

Now one of the boys came from a farming family.  He was used to hard work from the time he was a child.   Having ploughed, planted, weeded, harvested, threshed and carried sacks of rice from field to home, he had become very strong.  Having lived a hard life his mind was strong too.  He was ‘downing’ all comers.  Even the strongest couldn’t compete with him.

After some time it was apparent that he was the strongest.  Everyone who had challenged him were bested, one by one.  Finally there was no one left.  All those whose muscles and weight might indicate strength had lost.  Those who remained were not in the game.  He was the champion.  

All of a sudden someone stepped forward and challenged him.  The champion laughed, not in a rude way, because it was actually funny.  You see the challenger was a thin boy.  He looked weak and in fact was weak.  The champion was not alone in expressing mirth.  Everyone laughed with him.  They thought the challenger was being funny.  In a way he was, but in a way he was not.  He insisted.  The champion, still laughing, accepted the challenge.  

Then the challenger put forward some conditions.  This made everyone laugh all over again.  They were convinced that the challenger was clowning around.  He was and he wasn’t.  

‘We have to play by the rules!’

The champion laughed and said ‘any rules brother!’

One hand has to be kept behind the back, he said.  That was the first rule.  There has to be a referee — that was the second rule.  

Now there hadn’t been a referee overseeing the previous encounters.  A referee was not needed.  The champion was so good and anyway the players were strong enough to accept the particular outcomes.  

One boy volunteered to referee the fight.  The more ‘official’ it looked the more hilarious it was.  Finally, they were ready.  The challenger had one last request — he told the referee that the fight begins when he, the referee, said ‘One, Two, Three,’ that is when he uttered the word ‘three’ the contestants would have to try bend their opponents hand.  

The referee agreed.  The champion agreed.  ‘One…two…three’ the referee said.  Immediately the challenger, instead of trying to push the champion’s hand down, used the leverage of the elbow to jerk his opponents arm OFF the table.  The next moment he shouted ‘Foul!”  He appealed to the referee.  He said that the champion broke the rules and was seeking unfair advantage by lifting the elbow off the table.

The referee, who himself had lost to the champion, immediately offered a determination: ‘Foul!  You have lost!’ he told the champion.  

Everyone laughed.  The champion demanded a re-match but the challenger (who was now ‘champion’) refused to give him an opportunity to wrest back the title.  Everyone laughed, including the champion, the ex-champion and the referee.  

Now we can fault the challenger for being a sneaky devil.  He tricked the champion or rather the ex-champion.  But then again it was all good fun.  Everyone laughed. No one felt bad.  What’s important is that a ‘weak’ boy had found a way to make his weakness become a non-factor.  

That’s always possible.  If you think, if you are creative and if you are bold, you can overcome odds.  It’s a simple lesson.

Other articles in this series

09 July 2015

Will the real Sirisena stand up please?

Nalaka Gunawardena, social media guru, recently tweeted about a monumental gaffe by ‘The Hindu’ which carried a picture of former president Mahinda Rajapaksa in the company of fellow presidential candidate Arachchige Rathnayake Sirisena.

The picture had been used to decorate a story titled ‘President Sirisena’s position on Rajapaksa’s nomination remains unclear’.  It is well-known that A.R. Sirisena contested or was persuaded to contest (for whatever consideration) to confuse would be voters for the eventual winner, Maithripala Sirisena.  The Sirisena camp for its part ‘fielded’ a Namal Rajapaksa probably for the same reason (for whatever consideration).  

‘The Hindu’ ought to have known better, but we all err, so this slip is understandable.  The image was subsequently removed from the story.  

What’s interesting about this mix-up is Nalaka’s comments.  The wording tells a story but misses a bigger story.

Here’s one comment: 'Having mixed up @MaithripalaS with a cheap imitation @TheHindu quietly removes image frm story'. Some of the retweets, shares and comments have used the word ‘fake’ instead of ‘cheap’.  The use of the word ‘imitation’ is legitimate obviously but that’s where the it stops.  Nalaka implies that Maithripala Sirisena is somehow of greater worth than A.R. Sirisena.  If ARS is ‘cheap’, then MS is ‘valuable’, constitutes value for money or ‘rich,’ Nalaka would have us believe.  It’s all relative of course.  MS is no doubt more important and powerful than ARS, but is he of greater worth simply on account of power and position or rather position of power?  

If it was all about rhetoric and promises, if it was about winning and losing, if it was about the reasons for contesting, then of course it can be argued that MS stands a few inches taller than ARS.  On the other hand, has MS covered himself in glory in the first six months of his presidency?  There’s nothing to brag about, really.  

Winning itself can be called an achievement considering how powerful his key opponent was and if one subscribed to the view that Mahinda Rajapaksa had become intolerably arrogant and surrounded himself with so many unsavory characters that his savory-claims had to be taken with a cartload of salt.  

Yes, the 19th Amendment was passed.  But then again, the 20th was scuttled.  The Right to Information Act was dumped.  There was talk of a Code of Conduct for MPs.  Just talk.   Then came the bond scam.  MS’s ‘running-mate’ Ranil Wickremesinghe appointed friends to ‘investigate’ his friend, the Governor of the Central Bank.  Apparently things were so rotten that even these friends couldn’t say ‘all’s well’.  They recommended further investigations.  Nothing happened.  Then came the COPE investigation.  Coincidentally, just before the relevant report came out, MS dissolved parliament. That’s almost like orchestrating a jail break.  Nalaka has tweeted about this too: "Meet 's new Own-Goal team: & Arjuna Mahendran will lose lots of votes defending scam ".

Over and above that is his identity crisis; even as he is the Leader of the SLFP, he lets that party’s arch rival, the UNP to use his image to go with the color green and the elephant symbol in the middle of elections!  That’s ‘rich’, sure.  Cheap too, ironically!

If this is what MS could do or ‘oversee being done’ in just six months, one trembles at what kind of monster he could turn into if he were to rule for 9 years!  ARS, perhaps thanks to being ‘untried’, does seem benign.  ‘Cheap’ cannot be IRS’s preserve.  Neither is MS untainted by ‘cheapness’.

The real-fake dichotomy is also interesting.  We know who IRS is.  Do we know who MS is?  MS is now blue, not green, now the Leader of the SLFP and now (as pointed above) pin-up boy of the UNP.  One day he talks of ŕ¶¸ෛŕ¶­්‍ŕ¶»ිŕ¶ş (maithree or compassion) the next he is all ŕ·€ෛරය (vairaya or hatred).  One day it’s about clean-up the next it’s about cover-up.  If all this doesn’t describe ‘fake,’ what does?  IRS, in comparison, looks quite the real deal.  

All things considered Nalaka, in hi ’cheap’ shot, undresses himself in ways that gives ‘The Hindu,’ MS and the MS-is-the-real-thing bandwagon a good run for their money.  Nalaka doesn’t exactly redeem himself in a subsequent tweet: ‘WHAT IF…real @MaithripaaS & dummy Sirisena have been switched? Might explain bizarre recent actions. Suba & Yasa?’ 

Note, once again, the derogatory term tagged on ARS, ‘dummy’.  Speaking of dummies, though, hasn’t MS operated as though he’s a dummy and much more for Ranil, the UNP, the LTTE rump and lots of other entities besides?  We’ve covered a lot of that already.

We don’t know what Nalaka thinks was/is ‘bizarre’.  The re-embrace of Mahinda, perhaps?  Yes, that is bizarre except that Nalaka knows about the permanency or otherwise of political friends and enemies.  Perhaps he’s thinking of MS’s identity crisis and how UNP candidates are using the leader of the ‘enemy-party’ to prop their respective campaigns.  We don’t know.  What we do now is that had ARS and MS exchanged places, things could not get worse.  

So there are many Sirisenas.  There’s MS and there’s ARS.  And there are the many versions of Maithripala Sirisena.  Now that is bizarre.  So bizarre that the question we have posed cannot really be answered.  Too many ‘reals’ and too many ‘fakes’ around.  Some even contain both fake and real.  So bizarre that one cannot blame ‘The Hindu’. Really.  



Power and Principles: It's a love-hate relationship

Courtesy www.tribune.com.pk
This is the thirty sixth in a series of articles on rebels and rebellion written for the FREE section of 'The Nation'. Scroll to the end for other articles in this series.  'FREE' is dedicated to youth and youthfulness.

Politics is about power.  All rebels whether they are interested in overthrowing governments, revolutionizing the state or objecting to tyranny of any kind and seeking redress, have to contend with power.  All rebels when they start out talk about principles.  Rebellion is a affirmation of a principle or a set of principles.  It is also about consecrating principles in a context where such are absent.  Power and principles, then, are important elements of rebellion.

Almost by definition the rebel is not advantageously situated within power structures.  If that were the case there would be no need to rebel — you just exercise power to correct flaws, right wrongs and so on.  This is why the achievement of objectives often requires that the power dynamics are overturned or reversed.  This is why rebels seek power.  

Now obtaining power is not easy.  It requires a resolute heart, total focus, constant consideration and review of all relevant factors, the ability to face and learn from setbacks, the strength of mind to deal with lonely times of abandonment and betrayal and so on.  The enemy has everything.  Usually ‘everything’ includes having the law on his/her side, oodles of money, lots of human and other resources to count on if necessary and as a part product of all this, the ability to script the narrative in favorable terms.  Yes, the media.  

The rebel is poor(er) on all counts.  The rebel is constantly reminded of the power differential.  One of the greatest threats to the rebel and rebellion, ironically, is therefore the fascination with power.  It is never too hard to understand how easier things would be if there was power.  And when you are confronted with opportunity to secure bits and pieces of power you start considering cutting bits and pieces of the corners of your Principle Flag.  

‘Just for this,’ you tell yourself.  ‘This is too important to let go on account being bogged down with righteousness,’ you justify action to yourself and your fellow rebels.  ‘They don’t have scruples, we are not saint!’ you exclaim.  

But it is like killing someone.  It is only the first murder that is hard, we are told.  You are haunted by the act, worried by repercussion, dwell on afterlife retribution and so on.  Then you justify the act.  Then it becomes easier to repeat.  It’s the same when the rebel cuts corners.  It becomes easier to do it again.  It becomes easier to cut larger slices of your principle sheet.  Then it ceases to matter.  Then it is about power. Not about principle.  Then you forget what you are fighting for, why you set out on the rebel path in the first place.  Then principles are restricted to paper and reserved for occasional mention just to color the project with a modicum of righteousness.  

This, dear rebel, is the ‘power principle’ then:  the more fascinated you are with power, the easier it is for power to possess you and with these is exorcised from rebel and project that nasty, inconvenient thing called ‘principle’.   


Other articles in this series

The Quest for Commonality

Pic by Phusathi Liyanaarachchi
The following is the text of the Keynote Address delivered at the SAARC Literary Festival held recently in Bengaluru.

In the year 1933 at the Pen Club in the city of Buenos Aires, two poets, the Chilean Pablo Neruda and the Spaniard Federico Garcia Lorca, resurrected a third, Ruben Dario.  They set up the dead poet Dario among the crowd that had gathered at the Pen Club in a manner inspired by a particular pass in bullfighting called al alimĂłn in which two bullfighters cite the bull while grasping either side of the same cape. 

Neruda and Lorca played with the cape of memory and tribute in a poetic dance where the one would complete the sentences of the other, with each pass breathing life into Dario and drawing breath from his life even as the words spoke about the larger family of poets and the even larger clan of humanity.  They referred to Dario as ‘the Argentinian who was also a Nicaraguan, a Chilean and a Spaniard’ and there could not have been any doubt that Neruda and Lorca were as Argentine as they were Chilean and Spaniard.  
That was 72 years ago. Today, in the year 2015 in the city of Bengaluru we are gathered here to have a conversation.  Ladies and gentlemen, we are nothing if not the fraternal citizens of a borderless and free territory of minds and hearts in a region called South Asia, a geographical accident produced by the movement of hidden plates over millennia and a passing specificity made of movement, sharing and exchange in the commerce of art, philosophy, innovation, goods, services and power.  
But what is our commonality, what is the common fragrance that stops our breath, the common flavor that excites tongue equally, the common textures we want to caress, the common music that lulls, the common vision that prompts deep reflection and spurs concerted action and the common ideas that will not let us sleep?  What is so common about us and which defines us in such sharp ways that this collective is set apart from any other, regional or otherwise?  Is there such a commonality or are we but accidents of history who in our sansaaric journeys or by the decree of fates beyond belief and poetry converged as roads converge, gathered as there is gathering to collective prayer and converse as is customary among strangers in random encounters?

I don’t have an answer and perhaps these are not answerable questions.  Who knows, perhaps the questions themselves are illegitimate and deemed illegal in the constitutions of melancholia and celebration, the rise and fall of life and love, the inevitable clash of arms, the elusiveness of equanimity when encountering the vicissitudes of life, the bitterness that visit and the resolve that keeps the weakest hearts beating so loud that guns are sometimes silenced.  

I don’t have an answer, but I have stories.  So do you.  In our stories we gather each other, we resurrect the dead, we confer immortality and weep for the error of having sought and been granted eternal life but one that wilts, withers and crumbles to dust.  

Let me tell a story or rather transliterate one that was first related by an unknown observer and then turned to verse by my friend and poet Saumya Sandaruwan Liyanage who is here with us today.  It is a July 1983 story and references fratricides of a kind that are not the preserve of Sri Lanka and yet haunt Sri Lankans specifically.  


Here, right here where the flower plant took root

This is where he sleeps
the man who turned and turned
the hairpin bends of remoteness 
and walked to the desolate
teachers’ quarters
the man who smiled in Sinhala
and in Sinhala spoke
the Tamil mind
which taught in Sinhala
a humanity
whether Sinhala or Tamil
he could not tell;
this is where he sleeps
the English teacher Ramachandran,
this is where the body
burnt and charred 
had fallen….

And this is where they fell
those Gandhi-glasses 
round but to be bent
those lenses 
that made for perfect reading
of Sinhala, Tamil and English
this is where they lay
crushed and broken…

There was a warmth too
that issued assignments
on teacher-poor days
that forced on us English books
and magazines too
warmth that to the Regional Office
sporadically went
this is that place
where warmth cooled….

Here, right here
here’s where a plant took root
a plant that gives 
flowers unnamed
this place
where that silent heart
had at July’s end
fallen…

This reminded me of a story related by Jayatilleka Bandara who along with some friends walked the length and breadth of Sri Lanka trying to convince people of the futility of war.  His political positions, to me, were erroneous but this story I remember.  His group had an event somewhere where the war raged in the mid nineties.  There had been a skirmish and there were combatants who had perished.  There were bodies of LTTE cadres being loaded into a truck.  There is no decorum in the evacuation of the dead when thousands had already died.  There was a body of a young girl.  When it was tossed into the truck part of her lower body was exposed. A solder, Jayatilleka Bandara related, quickly covered the exposed parts and said ‘ane pau’…which was essentially an expression of pity and perhaps a recognition of human things that are not separable by identity and ideology, the fact of war and the fact of death.  

There are things that do not need visa or the granting of leave to move from one territory to another.  There are things which make borders and distinctions meaningless.  In the Mahabharat, for example, Prince Yudistara responds to a question with a simple but profound observation:  every creature on this earth, however strong or weak, however large or small, share one thing — the fear of death and the will to live.  

We are made of geographies, tangible things that are made for map-marking.  We are made of ideologies and outcome preferences.  We are divided as nations and we are divided within nations.  As humans and as writers we know that words can bind but we also know that even as they cut and slay, break and break, divide and rule, words also liberate, they also float through all distinctions to touch hearts and minds in ways that do not allow us to breathe the way we’ve breathed before.

The poet Ghalib once wrote that he had found a cure for pain but in a pain that was incurable.  He also said that he could cut the ropes of love’s inevitable imprisonment but that alas he was in love with his imprisonment.  We are all like that.  We are prisoners and yet we are free.  We do not run away from history or this moment.  We have by choice as much as by chance found ourselves in each other’s company, each other’s hearts and lands; we touch sorrow and our fingers burn, we encounter nuance observed and recorded in ways previously unimagined and we fly over continents and time, we gather the words and hearts of those we love, we resurrect and celebrate resurrection.  We are nothing and everything.

Rabindranath Tagore in one of the sweetest love poems I have read invites lover to bring lamp close to face ‘so that (he) can see what her time with him had written on her face’.  There’s a lesson there.  We write each other.  All of us write each other, all of us here and everyone we know, those who write and those who don’t, those who read us those who have never read but nevertheless obtains story from the earth and its creatures.  We don’t often bring lamps close to each other’s faces, but if we did we would read histories we were ignorant of, understand how we have made each other and we would even in the most unforgivable times reach out over barbed wire and intractable position, the severity of a border and venture into uninviting landscapes to discover hidden pastures and clues to life’s deeper meaning.  

So what of commonality now, friends?  I do not know and it is a blessing that the answer eludes, for the quest, as it is often said, is sweeter than the capture and indeed search often redefines journey and takes us to destinations more splendid than the one sought.  But in all this, we must not forget as the Bangladeshi poet Himani Banerjee once observed that ‘trees have roots and rivers have sources’.  That observation was beautifully expressed in Sinhala by Ruwan Bandujeewa, one of the best poets of Saumya’s generation in a poem titled ‘The canal’:

Well dressed
the canal moves
‘tween paddies.

That day and night
the reservoir toils
these garments to stitch
not to single stalk of rice
has the canal whispered
still.

So let us in these coming hours talk about reservoirs that contain the sum total of our histories and aspirations, what we’ve already gathered let us share and let us talk of all that which calls for collection in the endless fields of reason and love and even if we are unable to condense into a single drop of poetry the harvest of these days, let us celebrate the fact of gathering. 

And as Neruda and Lorca did 82 years ago, let us first bend low to all the poets who came before, those who with words and tenderness brought down walls and barricades, forced rivers to reverse their flow, varnished life’s hurts with the sunlight of truth, and in these simple ways remain alive, in Buenos Aires and Bengaluru. Let us unite in the admiration of poetry, be cognizant of the fragility of love, and let me leave you, ladies and gentlemen with one final question that is query and at once statement:  Who are we if we are not one another, who are we if we are not the signature of sky on a leaf, if we are not the chlorophyll that turns the cosmos into garden and love?