21 April 2023

The immovable feast cooked in Easter fires

 

Over the last 24 years, Easter Sunday has been celebrated on various days, from the 23rd of March to the 5th of May. It is then a movable holiday or, if one wants to be overly technical about it, a movable holy-day given that the word derives from the Old English hāligdæg (hālig ‘holy' + dæg ‘day’).  Not all holidays have anything to do with divinity or religious purpose, but Easter certainly is. In Sri Lanka, however, while the ‘true’ Easter, if you will, is movable, there’s also a political Easter that is not only static but has in fact taken on greater significance. That’s the Easter Sunday of the attacks on several churches executed by…hold you breath…a since hardly-mentioned organisation led by a since-hardly-mentioned man.

April 21, 2019. The audacity of the attacks, the magnitude of the damage caused and the enormity of the tragedy certainly makes casual passover impossible, even though the politics that followed is as unholy as it can get.

So, first of all, a moment of silence.

A moment of silent in memory of those who lost their lives, were injured or who lost loved ones. A moment of silence for members of the clergy (let’s leave the relevant faith and denomination out) who called out for justice quite out of character to the ‘turn the other cheek’ recommendation.

A moment of silence for the perpetrators, the architects of the attack and those who executed them, their backers, apologists and others who through various means ensured that the name of a particular organisation and the names of particular perpetrators of a particular religious persuasion were systematically removed from the discourse on terrorism, truth, justice and retribution.

A moment of silence for whoever first touted the idea of a ‘mahamolakaru’ and all those who turned it into a refrain when talking about the tragedy, tossing around insinuations, tossed out the dictum ‘innocent until proven guilty,’ and proceeded to judge, condemn and execute…no, not the perpetrators, but some who were at worst enables on account of incompetence and negligence.

A moment of silence for the over 700 persons arrested in relation to these crimes, the over 300 enlarged on bail and the over 40 persons on whom 11 indictments have been served.

A moment of silence for those who believe justice was done the day stiff fines were imposed on some people whose ‘crime’ was, as mentioned, of the omission kind; the 'some people,' coincidentally or otherwise, belonging to a particular community which has been considered 'The Enemy' by spokespersons for both the accusing religious community and the religious community which the perpetrators belong to, now and in the long centuries that have passed.

A moment of silence for those whose fixations, ideological and political persuasions and shameless designs to use the Easter Sunday attacks to exact revenge on people they hated for reasons that had nothing to do with the tragedy pushed them to make a mockery of justice, truth and due process.

A moment of silence for selective amnesia. A moment of silence for selective and pernicious targeting. A moment of silence for ignoring the truth and in the process affecting a lovely pass for the religious fundamentalism that was the bedrock on which the attacks were planned and executed.

Those who carried out the attack were of a particular faith. Let’s not name it because that would be unholy. They prayed to an entity they considered divine before embarking on their murderous mission. Indeed they may have uttered the name of this entity at detonation-point by way of consoling themselves that the appreciative omnipotent would arrange a heavenly afterlife for them.

But no, terrorists have no religion. At least that’s the weak and laughable dismissal offered by those who were trigger-happy to attribute to an entire community numbering over ten million the crimes of a handful who happened to belong to that community because of given name, yes, not even close to, say, religious affiliation reverentially obtained and affirmed as was the case of the Easter Sunday terrorists.

Let’s forget all of the above, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s join hands with the vile, revengeful, pernicious, lying and myopic. Let’s form a human chain from Peduru Thuduwa through Colombo, Devundara Thuduwa, Madakalapuwa and back to Peduru Thuduwa.

Let us, in this hand-holding way, express unity in calling upon leaders to render justice to victims and remain conspicuously silent about the names and convictions of those who caused so much grief on that immovable and immutable Easter Sunday in the year 2019 and made us forget THAT resurrection and embraced the resurrection and re-resurrection of deceit and crass politicking in the name of justice and truth.

And let us celebrate the fact that thanks to these devious machinations, we’ve unshackled ourselves from the tyrannies of the Gregorian and Julian calendars. Let us retire prayer. Let us feast to our hearts' content. Tongue-in-cheek of course.

 malindadocs@gmail.com.

 Related Articles 

 Cardinal sins

Zeroing on the 'mahamolakaru' 

Easter Sunday Attacks: negligence and the negligent

Easter Sunday Attacks: Tragedy and Farce

Do the real mahamokalarayas want kangaroo courts and lynching? 

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing

Among writer there those who see what everyone else sees and yet can describe it all so beautifully that the reader is compelled to ask the question, ‘damn, how was it that I didn’t notice all this poetry around me?’ Two individuals come to mind. Simon Navagaththegama and Mahinda Prasad Masimbula.

Among writer there are also those who notice things that others miss, compelling readers to ask, ‘now how was it that I didn’t see this?’ Two individuals come to mind. Ariyawansa Ranaweera and Jayatilaka Kammallaweera. Ranaweera is a poet. Prose is Kammallaweera’s preference, the short story arguably the genre he has a better and of course exceptional grasp of. Highly acclaimed, both. And prolific too.

Kammalaweera has published two collections of poetry, ‘Kaageda vasanthaya (Whose spring)’ and ‘Ae sihin gee nada (That faint music),’ the latter launched on Thursday. What struck me as I flipped through the pages is that in poetry too Kammallaweera demonstrates exceptional sight, literally and metaphorically, to note that which goes unnoticed. The thirtieth, untitled, for example.

ඔහු කියයි අපට
පිළිගන්න ම ඔනෑ  නෑ මේ වදන්
එහෙත් සවන්දෙන්න හොඳින්
සවන්දීම ප්‍රගුණ කරන්න
එය අවශ්‍යයි යහපත් සමාජයක්
ගොඩනඟන්න

සවන් දී හිඳිමි මම
මහත් සැලකිල්ලෙන්
වචනයක් වරදින තැනක් අල්ලා ගන්න
රිදෙන්න දෙන්න ඔහුට  

He tells us
we need not necessarily
accept these words
but listen nevertheless
develop listening faculties
which is necessary
a wholesome society
to build

I listen
with great attention
waiting for a slip
a word out of place
so I can hurl it back
and hurt


No one has to say ‘listen!’ We listen. Carefully.  With bated breath. In anticipation. Not always in expectation of pearls of wisdom. That’s what Kammallaweera has noticed. Filters are used, not always to draw the positive essence but to pick out error.

Now there’s nothing wrong in critique. Criticism and self-criticism are essential in the matter of decent discourse aimed at building a yahapath samaajaya. Looking and waiting for slippage is something else. When the objective is to pounce and bite or grab a word-brick and hurl it back at the speaker so hard that it has to hurt, a lot is missed. Indeed, it is essentially a confession that one is not interest in healthy debate. One, instead, is in the business of collecting debating points. Victories of a kind are possible of course. A feel-good-about-myself kind. Poor consolation.

Kammallaweera is not dismissing the worth of listening of course. What he’s suggesting is that it may be prudent to ask ourselves why we decided to listen in the first place.

So there are many reasons to listen carefully and not all of them are wholesome. One might believe that looking out for clash-points is necessary to put down someone or some ideology that one feels is a roadblock on the way to a better society, but all that is predicated on the belief that one knows, completely, everything that’s there to know. A tad arrogant, that.

There are humble people in this world who wish for a better tomorrow for one and all. There are arrogant people in this world who believe they alone have the roadmap to a better tomorrow whose blueprint they alone have. There’s no way to know which group will effect change for this world has seen tragedies precipitated by the best of intentions and this world has seen villainy, arrogance, self-importance and people with superiority complexes launch movements that have yielded decent enough tomorrows albeit not at all resembling the architectures they envisaged.

It’s in the process. It’s about listening to learn, if not anything, the truths someone else believes in even if you may not agree. It’s about resolving to question that which is seen to be error, not to hurt but to clarify, to obtain other ways of seeing, other dimensions of reading the world. The world or a society or even an individual. 

Kammallaweera, in this poem, is not throwing a brick.  He’s merely opening some eyes. Gently. And so we see that which we have not or else have seen but have as quickly forgotten. A melody, in fact, faint and yet not beyond hearing. 

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

Other articles in this series:

Heart dances that cannot be choreographed

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember

On loving, always

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal

When you turn 80...

It is good to be conscious of nudities 

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday

There's a one in a million and a one in ten

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature

Pathways missed

Architectures of the demolished

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts

Who the heck do you think I am?

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'

The Mangala Sabhava

So how are things in Sri Lanka?

The most beautiful father

Palmam qui meruit ferat

The sweetest three-letter poem

Buddhangala Kamatahan

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked

Pure-Rathna, a class act

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles

Matters of honor and dignity

Yet another Mother's Day

A cockroach named 'Don't'

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara

Sweeping the clutter away

Some play music, others listen

Completing unfinished texts

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn

I am at Jaga Food, where are you?

On separating the missing from the disappeared

Moments without tenses

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)

The world is made of waves

'Sentinelity'

The circuitous logic of Tony Muller

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced

Some stories are written on the covers themselves

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time 

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords

The books of disquiet

A song of terraced paddy fields

Of ants, bridges and possibilities

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva 

World's End

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse

Street corner stories

Who did not listen, who's not listening still?

The book of layering

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain

The world is made for re-colouring

The gift and yoke of bastardy

The 'English Smile'

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5

Visual cartographers and cartography

Ithaca from a long ago and right now

Lessons written in invisible ink

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'

A tea-maker story seldom told

On academic activism

The interchangeability of light and darkness

Back to TRADITIONAL rice

Sisterhood: moments, just moments

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows

Sirith, like pirith, persist

Fragrances that will not be bottled 

Colours and textures of living heritage

Countries of the past, present and future

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains

The ways of the lotus

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville

Live and tell the tale as you will

Between struggle and cooperation

Of love and other intangibles

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

The universe of smallness

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills

Serendipitous amber rules the world

Continents of the heart
  

 

Heart-dances that cannot be choreographed

‘Dancing with daughters’ is the title of an article I wrote a few years ago. It was inspired by a a school friend dancing with his younger daughter at her wedding to the song ‘I loved you first,’ a debut song recorded by the band Heartland in 2006, a song written by Walt Aldridge and Elliott Park. Watching them I remembered two ‘dancing photographs’ of a mother and her son. My mother and my brother. The first when he barely reached her shoulder and the other at a time she was at his shoulder-height.

Father-daughter and mother-son dances and photographs are iconic, but then there are dances that are unseen, dances not accompanied by music that can be heard, but are nevertheless endearing, priceless and unforgettable.

 

Consider the following description of father-daughter dances:

We dance with our daughters when they are tiny and need to be entertained at every turn. We dance when their mothers are exhausted and need to rest. We dance with them for no reason at all and even if we don’t have an iota of rhythm in us. We dance, even though we’ve been spectators admiring those who could. We dance when they chide us, when they are exasperated, when they are out of control, when they simply don’t listen to reason, when they best us at  argument, when they surprise us with wisdom, when they triumph, when they fall. We dance with them when their eyes and thoughts are elsewhere. We dance with them when they are asleep.

Love, one could claim, is a dance. All loves in fact, include that which a father feels for his daughter or vice versa. You could think of others. Some kinds of love are obvious, but even in obvious love there are elements that are not only unseen but are resident in places and ways that even those who love are unaware of or cannot really describe.

A few days ago, reflecting on parental love, I remembered the last verse in ‘Sinhabahu’ the lyrical theatre production written and directed by Ediriweera Sarachchandra where it is claimed that a son cannot truly comprehend the love of a father. Sarachchandra, in that verse, proceeds to elaborate the nature of this love and locates its possible residence.

"පුතු සෙනේ මස්‌ නහර හම සිඳ
ඇට සොයා ගොස්‌ ඇට තුළට වැද
ඇට මිදුලු මත රඳා සිට දුක්‌ දෙයි නිබන්දා"
යි පොතේ ගුරුන්ගේ මුවින්‌ ප්‍රකාශ වීමට මා සලසා ඇත්තේ මේ හැඟීම්‌ ම ය."

The love of a father towards a son
pierces skin and having pierced skin
seeks out bone and cut through bone
finds residence in bone-marrow and yields endless sorrow


Crude translation. The meaning is clear, though.  

Years later, Sarachchandra confessed to Gunasena Galappaththi that the thought had taken root in his mind ten years before he wrote the play. This he mentions in ‘Pin aethi sarasavi varamak denne.’

The seed had been planted when he had read a comment in the Mahavagga Pali of the Vinaya Pitakaya, recounting an encounter between King Suddhodhana and the Buddha. The king speaks of his sorrow at his son Siddhartha’s flight in search of the truth, his sorrow at his second son Nanda being ordained and his grandson Rahula as well. He requests that the Enlightened One decree that those who wish to be ordained should first obtain permission from parents. He backs this request with an explication of a father’s sorrow: ‘The love of a father for his son is something that pierces skin, having pierced skin sinks into flesh, having gone through flesh, passes through veins and sinews, then cuts through bone and in bone marrow comes to a stop.’ Such sorrow, as he had suffered, he did not wish upon any parents, the King said and hence the request to which the Buddha agreed.

Not all sons and daughters contemplate parricide, not even in moments of extreme anger, frustration and disappointment, and even though who may wish to be unfettered from parents do not turn thought into action.  They are conscious that hurting can and does happen both ways. Maybe the love of a child for her father is as deep and profound and on account of which similar sorrows are experienced.

Only one thing needs to be remembered, I feel: hurt of the kind alluded to by Suddhodana and lyrically rendered in ‘Sinhabahu’ by Sarachchandra can only be possible on account of love of the deepest and most precious kind. Its dimensions cannot be determined and therefore it cannot be described.

A dance it is, of a kind that can never be choreographed to a point at which someone can say ‘perfect.’ 

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

Other articles in this series:

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember

On loving, always

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal

When you turn 80...

It is good to be conscious of nudities 

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday

There's a one in a million and a one in ten

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature

Pathways missed

Architectures of the demolished

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts

Who the heck do you think I am?

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'

The Mangala Sabhava

So how are things in Sri Lanka?

The most beautiful father

Palmam qui meruit ferat

The sweetest three-letter poem

Buddhangala Kamatahan

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked

Pure-Rathna, a class act

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles

Matters of honor and dignity

Yet another Mother's Day

A cockroach named 'Don't'

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara

Sweeping the clutter away

Some play music, others listen

Completing unfinished texts

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn

I am at Jaga Food, where are you?

On separating the missing from the disappeared

Moments without tenses

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)

The world is made of waves

'Sentinelity'

The circuitous logic of Tony Muller

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced

Some stories are written on the covers themselves

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time 

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords

The books of disquiet

A song of terraced paddy fields

Of ants, bridges and possibilities

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva 

World's End

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse

Street corner stories

Who did not listen, who's not listening still?

The book of layering

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain

The world is made for re-colouring

The gift and yoke of bastardy

The 'English Smile'

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5

Visual cartographers and cartography

Ithaca from a long ago and right now

Lessons written in invisible ink

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'

A tea-maker story seldom told

On academic activism

The interchangeability of light and darkness

Back to TRADITIONAL rice

Sisterhood: moments, just moments

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows

Sirith, like pirith, persist

Fragrances that will not be bottled 

Colours and textures of living heritage

Countries of the past, present and future

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains

The ways of the lotus

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville

Live and tell the tale as you will

Between struggle and cooperation

Of love and other intangibles

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

The universe of smallness

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills

Serendipitous amber rules the world

Continents of the heart
  

 

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember


’14 players were always ready to help the 15th score a try' -- Sampath Agalawatta

My friend Suranjan Kodituwakku once said that during long journeys he would play Milton Perera's songs. ‘It’s all boot songs,’ he explained. He was laughing. True. All about love: declaration of love, desiring love, unrequited love, lost love and various elements in the grieving process. Lovely lyrics, elegant music arrangements and good rendition, though.  Listenable. Laughable too, depending on the mood.

One particular song came to mind: ‘ඇස රැඳුන රැඳුන තැන්වල මුව මඬල හිනැහුනා (aesa raenduna raenduna thaenvala muva mandala hinaehuna or “[your] face smiled [at me] from whatever my gaze happened to fall upon”).’ The lyricist Karunaratne Abeysekera captures well the tendency for the lovelorn to flirt with the pathetic fallacy, attributing feelings and responses to all things, inanimate or otherwise.

The punchline is what I remembered: ‘ඔබ මතක නැති කරන්නට මට මතක නැති වුනා (oba mathaka naethi karannata mata mathaka naethi vunaa or “I forgot to forget you”). It had nothing to do with love. Nothing to do with boots either. Well, not the kind of boots that Suranjan was referring to.

I simply remembered a friend. Sampath Agalawatta. ‘Boots’ are relevant for two reasons. He played rugger. He wore boots. The second has to do with a gift. Boots.

Sampath, who captained his school to an unbeaten season, winning all trophies on offer (a feat yet to be emulated even after 40 years!), gifted his boots to a school friend who, after entering Colombo University, decided to play rugby. Along with a pair of stocking in their school colours as ‘a gesture of initiation,’ according to the recipient, Parashakthi Senanayake, who offered the following post-match comment or rather recollected years later what happened after the game.

‘After the match, I was sitting on the steps of the CR & FC pavilion and trying to remove my muddy boots. He came to me, shook my hand, sat beside me and said “Machan ubala ohoma gehuwanam college gahandath thibuna (if you had played like this, you could have represented the school as well)." I was stunned and almost moved to tears. Slowly I pointed to my pair of boots that once belonged to him. He patted my shoulders and went towards his teammates.’  [From 'A story of boots, books and men']

What has this got to do with remembering and forgetting, forgetting to forget, remembering to forget etc.?

Sampath is no more. He passed away in 2018. Time passes and memories fade. All things decay and perish. Even memories. Loved ones also pass on and with their passing, the fading process quickens. Lessons, if learnt, may remain even if no one remembers who did the teaching. That which is added to humanity may make the world a little more beautiful, but then again much squalor is strewn all over by others. The good that men and women do, fragile in essence, is amenable to erasure of one kind or another.


Five years isn’t a long time, though. And so we recall and cherish. Memory can play tricks for it is a filter that can keep or keep out things related to a person, depending on the relationship. ‘Agale’ was loved by one and all. As the playmaker of his side, he had great touch, with hands and with boot. In life outside the rugby field, he was all heart, all softness. Gentle as they come.

If asked, his friends, colleagues, associates and family would have stories to tell. Many stories. There’s one that keeps coming back, gives strength and hope. It is a short but telling comment about leadership but more than that about the importance of collective effort.

I once asked Agale about the team he led that year. I wanted his assessment of his teammates, reading particular ‘game moments,’ and strategies designed and executed. He offered a capture-all that came with his signature smile and matter-of-fact tone: ’14 players were always ready to help the 15th score a try.’

Unforgettable.

He’s gone now. Of the 15 who won all those trophies, only 13 remain. Agale was the leader but he insisted that it is the team that deserves all the glory. He has said in many ways that the reason he is remembered is because he had a great team.

He’s gone but he would surely have said ‘it is ok if you remembered to forget me, but don’t forget to remember the team.’

And that, ladies and gentlemen, could be a line in a song that will probably never get written but will nevertheless play in the minds of everyone who remembers this man, that year and that team, especially those who played or loved the sport of rugby.


 

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

Other articles in this series:

On loving, always

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal

When you turn 80...

It is good to be conscious of nudities 

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday

There's a one in a million and a one in ten

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature

Pathways missed

Architectures of the demolished

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts

Who the heck do you think I am?

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'

The Mangala Sabhava

So how are things in Sri Lanka?

The most beautiful father

Palmam qui meruit ferat

The sweetest three-letter poem

Buddhangala Kamatahan

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked

Pure-Rathna, a class act

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles

Matters of honor and dignity

Yet another Mother's Day

A cockroach named 'Don't'

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara

Sweeping the clutter away

Some play music, others listen

Completing unfinished texts

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn

I am at Jaga Food, where are you?

On separating the missing from the disappeared

Moments without tenses

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)

The world is made of waves

'Sentinelity'

The circuitous logic of Tony Muller

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced

Some stories are written on the covers themselves

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time 

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords

The books of disquiet

A song of terraced paddy fields

Of ants, bridges and possibilities

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva 

World's End

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse

Street corner stories

Who did not listen, who's not listening still?

The book of layering

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain

The world is made for re-colouring

The gift and yoke of bastardy

The 'English Smile'

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5

Visual cartographers and cartography

Ithaca from a long ago and right now

Lessons written in invisible ink

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'

A tea-maker story seldom told

On academic activism

The interchangeability of light and darkness

Back to TRADITIONAL rice

Sisterhood: moments, just moments

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows

Sirith, like pirith, persist

Fragrances that will not be bottled 

Colours and textures of living heritage

Countries of the past, present and future

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains

The ways of the lotus

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville

Live and tell the tale as you will

Between struggle and cooperation

Of love and other intangibles

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

The universe of smallness

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills

Serendipitous amber rules the world

Continents of the heart
  

 

On loving, always


Whitney Houston’s 'I will always love you,' is a classic letting-go song. No in-denial in it. No anger or thoughts of revenge. No bargaining, no if-thens or if-not-why-nots. No talk of starting over, a second chance, forgives and forgets or pledges to do things different this time. Sadness, but no depression. Acceptance is what it is.

Of course, grieving, whichever form it may take, is not a linear process that goes from denial to acceptance. There could be closure, but then again no one can say with finality that there’s no going back. Human beings have memories. We revisit. And even from the distances yielded by time we can and do relive; at some point in revisitation we encounter and embrace ‘damn,’ weep, sigh and entertain what-ifs and maybes. Narratives, in short, don’t necessarily end when chapters are closed. Acceptance does not forbid grief or grieving.

Someone becomes someone else’s past tense, but that doesn’t necessarily work both ways, especially not when the relationship was about an experienced moment or present tense unutterably beautiful or held that promise and a long tomorrow in which no other name could even remotely make sense.

Love and romance: some believe, like Pablo Neruda did, that it is certainly beautiful but only at the beginning. We use those words and somehow feel compelled to use them about people we are with even though they’ve changed as we have, even though warts never imagined or anticipated have become visible or have, as the case may be, materialised. It may not be the love of those first soft petalled days, but neither is it something absolutely devoid of tender feelings.

It could be the same with those who made us their past tense and who, in time, we’ve added to our past tense. Regrets there could be, for nostalgia is always a heartbeat away. And yet, we’ve accepted: that which was and which was projected is no more and has moved out of the realm of possibility.  

What is most memorable about the song is this line: ‘I hope that you have all that you ever dreamed of, I do wish you joy, I wish you happiness, but above all this, I wish you love.’ And yet, ‘I love you, I will always love you.’

That is the expression of fidelity to the quality of muditha in the sathara brahma viharana or the ‘four divine abodes,’ the other three being loving-kindness, compassion and equanimity.

But what is this ‘love’ spoken about in this song? Is it the romantic love related to shared lives, relationships and planned futures or something else? The lyricist would know. While Whitney Houston’s soul-ballad arrangement for the film ‘The Bodyguard’ is better known, the original was written and recorded in 1973 by Dolly Parton. Apparently it was written as a farewell to her business partner and mentor Porter Wagoner, following Dolly’s decision to pursue a solo career. Nothing romantic about it, at least not in the classical meaning of the word.

Songs don’t belong only to lyricists and singers, though. And it is therefore a love song. It is about heartbreak and an assertion of the everlasting. The lyricist doesn’t elaborate on the word ‘love,’ doesn’t tell us what kind of love and whether or not that kind of love that inspired the song would remain intact in depth and nature of feeling across a lifetime.  

It is undeniable that the sentiments are soft, they are devoid of anger and that the vibes are all positive, all good. If we take it as a heartbreak song or rather a post-heartbreak song, the wounds and hurt notwithstanding, what’s left, as the song goes, are memories which although bitter are nevertheless sweet as well.

Love, if it is not the kind envisaged, is too often footnoted, scorned or erased from minds and hearts. However, if you live to be 93 there will be many moments where old loves will give a kind of warmth that will be embraced as blessings. No rancour, no regrets, no need to anticipate with relish or foreboding any number of futures that can only be too heavy for weary and ancient shoulders. They know. We know. No gripping hard, no casual rejection. A caressing, then. As soft-petalled as the blush of love’s first flush.

Just a different flower. Love, still. Loving. Always. 

 

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

Other articles in this series:

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal

When you turn 80...

It is good to be conscious of nudities 

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday

There's a one in a million and a one in ten

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature

Pathways missed

Architectures of the demolished

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts

Who the heck do you think I am?

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'

The Mangala Sabhava

So how are things in Sri Lanka?

The most beautiful father

Palmam qui meruit ferat

The sweetest three-letter poem

Buddhangala Kamatahan

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked

Pure-Rathna, a class act

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles

Matters of honor and dignity

Yet another Mother's Day

A cockroach named 'Don't'

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara

Sweeping the clutter away

Some play music, others listen

Completing unfinished texts

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn

I am at Jaga Food, where are you?

On separating the missing from the disappeared

Moments without tenses

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)

The world is made of waves

'Sentinelity'

The circuitous logic of Tony Muller

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced

Some stories are written on the covers themselves

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time 

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords

The books of disquiet

A song of terraced paddy fields

Of ants, bridges and possibilities

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva 

World's End

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse

Street corner stories

Who did not listen, who's not listening still?

The book of layering

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain

The world is made for re-colouring

The gift and yoke of bastardy

The 'English Smile'

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5

Visual cartographers and cartography

Ithaca from a long ago and right now

Lessons written in invisible ink

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'

A tea-maker story seldom told

On academic activism

The interchangeability of light and darkness

Back to TRADITIONAL rice

Sisterhood: moments, just moments

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows

Sirith, like pirith, persist

Fragrances that will not be bottled 

Colours and textures of living heritage

Countries of the past, present and future

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains

The ways of the lotus

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville

Live and tell the tale as you will

Between struggle and cooperation

Of love and other intangibles

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

The universe of smallness

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills

Serendipitous amber rules the world

Continents of the heart