16 June 2023

Exits and the dilemmas they spawn


In the second week of June, the Yahapalana Government dispatched several high ranking loyalists to the UK or else instructed those who happened to be in that country or were planning to visit for other business to lobby UK citizens of Sri Lankan origin against Brexit.

Harin Fernando, Harsha de Silva, Rosy Senanayake, Dayasiri Jayasekera, Dilan Perera and Susil Premjayantha are reported to have done the canvassing at the time. The majority of voters (51.89%) voted in favour of Britain exiting the European Union. The exit was formally written into law on January 23, 2020.

At the time, with Brexit impending, Ranil Wickremesighe, then Prime Minister, was reported to have said that Sri Lanka should look East. Specifically, he outlined long term plans to forget stronger ties with Asian countries (China, India, Japan and Korea). He spoke of fast-tracking ETCA (Economic Technology Cooperation Agreement) with India and Free Trade Agreements with the aforementioned economies.

It took Brexit, then, for the darling of neoliberalism in Sri Lanka to ‘see’ the neighbourhood. Fast forward to 2022, Ranil Wickremeisnghe, now President, ‘shockingly’ resorted to rhetoric that was almost a throw-back to the policies of the United Front government of the early 1970s. He has eased off that kind of stuff since, understandably so given a long standing fascination with neoliberalism which, in current circumstances, requires repeating the mantra ‘IMF is God’ and following relevant precepts.

From Day One it has been a case of wanting to get money from wherever in order to make people feel things are better. ‘IMF’ has been thought of as a means to secure further loans and attract investment on account of a relatively rosier picture of general economic health. The first is essentially about adding to the debt burden and getting deeper into a default cycle. The latter just doesn’t work that way. The government just doesn’t have any solid, sustainable plan to sort out the foreign exchange problem.

The focus instead has been on political viability and, on the economic front, ticking ‘IMF Boxes.’ Among them is a condition on restructuring domestic debt. Problem: local banks are saying ‘no can do.’ And why should they, anyway? They are not obliged to bail out governments.

What are the options, then, if the boxes remain unticked? China.

Wait. Julie Chung won’t be happy about it, right? The lady might think that it’s time for Wickremesinghe to exit! Perhaps this is why presidential pretenders like Patali Champika Ranawaka has adopted an unusually US-friendly position.  Perhaps this is why the pro-US Al Jazeera calls him a ‘dictator.’ That’s the first salvo of vilification and discrediting. Expect more of the same. ‘Unless,’ is the word unsaid followed by the do this and do that of arm-twisting.

Right now, there’s a tightrope to walk. A fine line. On the one hand, the government is unable to tick certain IMF boxes. On the other hand, Chung shouldn’t be displeased. Something has to give. Or, put another way, something has to be given. The devils have to be appeased. SOFA? MCC? Don’t be surprised, folks; this is a battle for political survival and not economic recovery, alleviating miseries or a plan to get the country out of a rut and ensure it doesn’t slip back. It helps when you are ideologically happy embracing such servility and facilitating such outright plunder. Bottom line: whatever it takes, never mind the people, the resources, who gets short-changed, who gets enslaved, what gets looted, the potential pillage etc.

All this is framed by the question of legitimacy. We have a legally appointed president who has a serious legitimacy deficit. Right now he’s dependent on numbers provided by a party that has severely discredited itself since the 2020 election and a few who have reneged from parties such as the SJB and SLMC. Naturally, he would prefer to be a president elected by the people and not their representatives. Thereafter he could stir the coalition soup to obtain the consistency required for political stability. Easier said than done. He does have the advantage of an opposition that’s not only divided by confusion, not to mention the fact that it is composed of groups and parties led by ego-maniacs who themselves stand discredited in the eyes of the people. All that, later. What of the here and now?

Maybe the most serious issue is that a politically beleaguered leader just doesn’t have the space to develop a solid, pragmatic and sustainable plan of action. Tossing out a date (2048 in this case) just isn’t enough. Ranil Wickremesinghe’s government is like a bunch of specialist bowlers batting on a minefield and attacked by unforgiving bowlers while being surrounded by the sharpest fielders ready to pounce on edges produced by each and every false stroke. And no one to cheer either, for it is, for all intents and purposes, an ‘away match.’

The world has changed a lot after Brexit. The West is in decline; only the West doesn’t want to admit it or else just don’t believe the writing on the wall. Wickremesinghe knows this though. Ranawaka knows it too but probably thinks the bad days are still far away — therefore it’s a warm enough embrace to achieve political ambitions.  Wickremesinghe is in the hot seat, not Ranawaka. Right now he’s struggling to appease those who seem to have run out of patience and at the same time is wary of considering the obvious alternatives.

There’s one thing he can do though: address the larger and most worrisome issues at hand. What’s the plan? What’s the plan to fix the foreign exchange crisis? What’s the plan to encourage industry even as you implement austerity measures? The industries have to compete in a global economy. They have margins to worry about. Why not engage with them? Coherence. That’s probably a good thing to be framed by at this point. The sheer lack of clarity on all matters will not help.

And it would be good to revisit the post-Brexit thinking. There’s some distance from thought to action, but Wickremesinghe did get it right in 2016. There were no other options then. There are none today either. Could work, subject to the non-negotiable condition of the national interest informing all engagements.  He’s a tad poor on that. Indeed, he’s not alone there. All major political parties and their leaders are equal to him in this regard. Or worse.

Sorrowing and delighting the world


‘The Road’ is not Cormac McCarthy’s best known novel even though it was awarded the 2007 Pulitzer Prize for Fiction. Although not talked of much initially, it is his ‘Blood Meridian’ that has come to be recognized as his magnum opus and indeed as one of the greatest ‘American’ novels of all time (that’s US American of course).

Cormac McCarthy passed away a few days ago. He was almost 90 years old. I was not familiar with his work. Yesterday someone posted a quote from ‘The Road,’ with an ‘RIP’ at the end of it.  

‘Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.’  That’s the quote. So I searched.

‘The Road,’ is said to detail a journey of a father and his son over several months ‘across a landscape blasted by an unspecified cataclysm that has destroyed industrial civilisation and almost all life. I don’t know the context in which the above words were spoken or written down as a comment of the author, but they certainly resonate with this blurb.

I also came across an appreciation written by A.O. Scott and published in the New York Times. Scott’s first line is telling: 'A page of Cormac McCarthy might sometimes be taken for poetry or scripture: the lean lines; the sparse punctuation; the jagged right-hand margin.’

True. I read the quote again and I will write it down here so you and I can reflect on it further: ‘Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it.’

That’s not ‘a page of Cormac McCarthy.’ It’s just a single line. Prose? Well, it was taken from a novel, so ‘yes’ would be the answer. Poetry? Of course. Scripture? Why not!

We can take that line out of the book, out of dystopian landscapes, out of the Americas, out of time and it still holds. McCarthy makes us ask a timeless question: are landscapes sorrowful or is it our eyes, borrowed or otherwise, that sorrow them or make them seem sorrowful? It is a question about the observer and the observed. Physics has explored this and concluded that the observer will leave a trace on the observed.

Poets or rather critics have considered such things and come up with the term ‘pathetic fallacy.’ The poet (or writer or any other kind of artist) can attribute human feelings and responses to inanimate things or any kind of creature, wild and wonderful, big and small.

And so, that which one finds lovely would be shrouded in pain in the eyes of another. We can sorrow landscapes, we can make them joyful, despondent, reflective, meditative, angry or apathetic. We give them an additional dimension of life. We can also rob them of crucial elements of being. It’s a useful tool for a writer. Literature and art are made of such things. A communications device, then.

McCarthy has offered a layer of time or indeed layered it all with time. He has framed it with sin or debt. He’s written about a yesterday, a tomorrow and yet he’s also positioning the reader in this very moment of reading and being.

Whose time have we borrowed, we must now ask. Who has loaned us a world? And what are those loaned worlds made of? What do we do with it? Are we planning to scar or caress? Would be heal if we caressed or would be scarring in ways unanticipated? And those other eyes that might stray towards the outcomes we generate, would they be sorrowful on account of what they find or were they sad anyway and regardless of the splendour and magic before them would they nevertheless clutter it all with sorrow?

Did someone ‘sorrow a world and an era,’ that made borrowing inevitable? Did we then decide to ignore histories and treat sorrow and sorrowing as the only things that count?

Prose, poetry and scripture; just words, just preferences, and yet that singular ability to say something and have it labeled in a multiplicity of ways speaks of exceptional writing skills. The truth is that the lines of life are for the most part lean. Punctuation is not the preserve of those who write simply by living. The margins on either side are jagged.

The world sorrows us and we sorrow the world. And yet, despite all this, the world delights and is delighted by those who walk this earth. People like Cormac McCarthy.

['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:

The greatest fallacy 

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi

Beyond praise and blame

Letters that cut and heal the heart

Vanished and vanishing trails

Blue-blueness

A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya

The soft rain of neighbourliness 

The Gold Medals of being

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri

All those we've loved before

Reflections on waves and markings

A chorus of National Anthems

Saying what and how

'Say when'

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra

The loves of our lives

The right time, the right person

The silent equivalent of a thousand words

Crazy cousins are besties for life

Unities, free and endearing

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!"

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis

The revolution is the song

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins

The day I won a Pulitzer

Ko?

Ella Deloria's silences

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable 

Thursday!

Deveni: a priceless one-word koan

Enlightening geometries

Let's meet at 'The Commons'

It all begins with a dot

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone

On sweeping close to one's feet

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts...

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm

Who really wrote 'Mother'?

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing

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
  



15 June 2023

The greatest fallacy


During the third session of the first day of a test match in Melbourne between Australia and the West Indies, history was made. It was the 6th Test (which Australia would go on to win and complete a satisfying 5-1 series win).

The historic moment unfolded in this way. Lance Richard Gibbs, right arm off break bowler, playing in his 79th and final test, had Ian Redpath caught by Michael Holding, then just 18 years old and playing in his maiden test series, for 101. It was Gibbs’ 308th test wicket. With it he surpassed the record set by Frederick Sewards Trueman more than ten years earlier.

I haven’t dug into the newspaper archives of that time, but I am sure there would have been talk of him being the greatest spinner if not the greatest bowler ever. After all, Derek Underwood (slow left-arm orthodox), who ended with 297 test wickets (in 1982) would have been far behind when Gibbs reached 309. Richie Benaud, who retired in 1964 had just 248 test wickets to his name.

Richard Hadlee (431), Imran Khan (362), Dennis Lillee (355) and Bob Willis (325), all fast bowlers were in the early stages of their respective careers and would probably have had quite a ways to go to get to 309.

Morne Morkel did get to 309 but that was in 2018. Thirty other bowlers have surpassed Gibbs since. Of them, only seven are spinners: Daniel Vettori (362), Harbhajan Singh (417), Rangana Herath (433), Ravichandra Ashwin (474), Anil Kumble (619), Shane Warne (708) and Muttiah Muralitharan (800).  

Warne and Murali approached the (then) magical number 500 at a time Sri Lanka hosted the Australians in a three-test series. I remember Warne saying something along the following lines: ‘if someone reaches 500 in this series, his team would probably win the series.’ Warne did and Australia took the series. No one talked about Gibbs at the time. No one talks about Gibbs today either.

This is the fate of all those who have had ‘The Greatest’ tag pinned on them or, as in the case of the young Muhammed Ali, pinned it on themselves. Time passes. Records are broken. Others approach, reach and surpass.

Ten years ago who would have thought that three tennis players would win twenty plus grand slam tennis titles and, moreover, would be playing at the same time? Rafael Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer: all of them have been talked of as the ‘Greatest of All Time’ or as The GOAT. John McEnroe had that tag as did Bjorn Borg. Ivan Lendl and Pete Sampras won a spate of titles in the 1990s. In the women’s circuit we’e had Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova, Steffi Graf, Venus Williams (in the early days of her career) and of course Serena Williams in GOAT talk. Margaret Court too. Different eras though. Different rules. Different technology. Different pressures.

My friend, the late Sampath Agalawatta never got drawn into such debates although Royal College, under him, won all the rugby trophies on offer, a feat as yet unmatched. He simply said, ‘different rules, it’s now a different game.’

A few days ago, Novak Djokovic won the French Open and thereby broke a tie with Nadal for the most Grand Slam victories. He’s on 23 and counting, Roger Federer (20) having retired and an ageing Nadal (22) plagued by injuries.  The GOAT question was laid to rest, most people said. It’s Novak, they said. And he was asked to comment.


‘I don't want to say that I am the greatest, because I feel, I've said it before, it is disrespectful towards all the great champions in different eras of our sport that was played in a completely different way than it is played today. So I feel like each great champion of his own generation has left a huge mark, a legacy, and paved the way for us to be able to play this sport [on] such a great stage worldwide.’

Garry Kasparov, World Chess Champion from 1985 to 2000 would have been considered ‘The Greatest Ever’ at some point. Bobby Fischer, Alexander Alekhein, J R Capablanca and even Anatoly Karpov have been likewise labeled. That tag has since been transferred to Magnus Carlson, World Champ from 2013 to 2023. Kasparov wrote a series of books, analysing the games of previous world champions. He titled them ‘My Great Predecessors.’ He was basically saying what Novak said. In a different language.

Novak said it straight. I can’t help but agree. Some may say it is misplaced modesty, but I think Novak was being honest. He, moreover, would know, since he played with two men also thought of as the greatest of all time. They were of his own generation.

Someone, one day, will surpass Novak Djokovic. For now he has laid to rest the GOAT debate in tennis, and not because he holds the record for the most number of grand slam titles. 

['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:

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi

Beyond praise and blame

Letters that cut and heal the heart

Vanished and vanishing trails

Blue-blueness

A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya

The soft rain of neighbourliness 

The Gold Medals of being

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri

All those we've loved before

Reflections on waves and markings

A chorus of National Anthems

Saying what and how

'Say when'

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra

The loves of our lives

The right time, the right person

The silent equivalent of a thousand words

Crazy cousins are besties for life

Unities, free and endearing

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!"

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis

The revolution is the song

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins

The day I won a Pulitzer

Ko?

Ella Deloria's silences

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable 

Thursday!

Deveni: a priceless one-word koan

Enlightening geometries

Let's meet at 'The Commons'

It all begins with a dot

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone

On sweeping close to one's feet

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts...

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm

Who really wrote 'Mother'?

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing

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
  



 

 

14 June 2023

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi


Kaelaelikaarayo,’ translatable as ‘The Scarred’ is an excellent title for a book; a novel, in this instance, written by Liyanage Amarakeerthi.  I didn’t know about it until yesterday (Monday). Amarakeerthi is a prolific writer and I am not a voracious reader; it’s hard to keep up with his work. I learned about it thanks to a Facebook post by Janaka Inimankada, the publisher who runs Vidarshana Books.

Strange. Coincidental. I had for a long time wanted to write about my friend Amarakeerthi but last morning I decided that I would finally get down to it. And then I saw this post. So no, I haven’t read the book and therefore this is not a review. It’s about a teacher, poet, novelist, short story writer and a literary critic who is also a farmer and activist. And my friend from more than 25 years ago.

First encounter: he wrote an anthem of sorts to be sung at the launch of the political party, ‘Janatha Mithuro’ in August 1993 (Nishad Handunpathirana composed the melody). He must have been in his second or third year at Colombo University.

Amarakeerthi came to see me a few years later when he was applying for postgraduate studies in the USA. He gifted me a copy of what I believe was his first collection of short stories. I forget the name but remember being delighted by the stories. He wrote something by way of dedication: ‘barasaara buddhimathek vee navatha paeminenna,’ or ‘return after becoming an erudite scholar.’ Maybe he wrote ‘maubimata (back to the motherland)’ but I can’t remember. I felt then that this was something he aspired to do. I returned, so did her. He became an erudite scholar, I did not.

It was to him that I sent the first two chapters of my translation of Simon Navagaththegama’s ‘Sansaaraaranyaye Dadayakkaraya.’ It was he who encouraged me to complete that exercise. He was, then, my guide and teacher. And even today, whenever I have some issue with a word or phrase I call Amarakeerthi to obtain clarification and clarity.

A few years ago, I was invited as a chief guest for an even organised by the Library Readers Association of Royal College. As I walked through the gates, I saw Amarakeerthi walking in the same direction. He too had been invited.

I spoke of my ‘library recollections,’ in particular how my mother, a teacher at the school, would take myself and my siblings along with her to school during vacations when she had to attend extra curricular activities such as the school’s Dramatic Society (DramSoc). She left us in the library. We sat and read for hours.

Amarakeerthi offered that he had to travel a fair distance to the nearest library where he devoured all the reading material available. I was privileged, he was not. He held no rancour, and he did not belittle me either. I knew the long history of his trials and tribulations. I admired him. He inspired me. And probably many, many others as well.

I don’t know all the professors and lecturers in all the Arts Faculties in the country. I know some and know of others. I can say though that few can match Amarakeerthi’s productivity, quality of scholarship and commitment to expand the horizons of his students, in and out of class. He may not claim he’s the best writer of his generation, but he’s certainly among the most accomplished and possibly the most prolific too. Across genres. He has been frequently shortlisted for the top literary awards in the country and has won several of them including the prestigious Swarnapusthaka Award. His poetry and short stories are excellent. And he’s still evolving as a writer.

Amarakeerthi is also one of the foremost literary critics in the country. His relatively short comments at book launches are delightful and edifying. Something I truly appreciate and admire is the fact that he reads almost all books of poetry published every year. He reads and he comments. He is a teacher, through and through; he will encourage but will not sugarcoat his criticism.

He’s an educationist out of the classroom as well. He teaches when he posts on social media. He teaches when he proudly posts photographs of his outside-academe endeavours, be it in the cultivation of vegetables, opting to walk or cycle to the university or encounters in a bookstore. He does pick and choose, he does privilege that which supports his convictions. Not a crime.

I don’t agree with his political choices, but unlike many he is open and non-apologetic about these things. It’s the same with ideology. I have issues, others may too, but few would disagree that he articulates his preferences in both word and deed. And regardless of the ‘needs of the political moment,’ he will not compromise one bit the duties associated with his position. He teaches.  

When I saw Inimankada’s post, I called Amarakeerthi. The coincidence (of that post and my decision to write about him was compelling). He didn’t answer. Then I realised he was in Isreal because he has been posting stories/pictures from that country, once again sharing and educating. So I called Inimankada. He said it was a novel (I wasn’t sure if it was a novel or a sociological treatise, but maybe it is both). And he informed me that I was one of three individuals he had dedicated the book to.

Amarakeerthi replied to my text on WhatsApp and told me, by the way, about the dedication. He said 'I always wanted to dedicate a book to you, but waited until I became a senior writer so that the dedication has some value.’

My response: ‘It would have been a great honour even if it was your first book.  You can’t imagine how honoured I feel.’  
 
['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:

Beyond praise and blame

Letters that cut and heal the heart

Vanished and vanishing trails

Blue-blueness

A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya

The soft rain of neighbourliness 

The Gold Medals of being

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri

All those we've loved before

Reflections on waves and markings

A chorus of National Anthems

Saying what and how

'Say when'

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra

The loves of our lives

The right time, the right person

The silent equivalent of a thousand words

Crazy cousins are besties for life

Unities, free and endearing

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!"

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis

The revolution is the song

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins

The day I won a Pulitzer

Ko?

Ella Deloria's silences

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable 

Thursday!

Deveni: a priceless one-word koan

Enlightening geometries

Let's meet at 'The Commons'

It all begins with a dot

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone

On sweeping close to one's feet

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts...

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm

Who really wrote 'Mother'?

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing

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
  





13 June 2023

Beyond praise and blame


The first time I encountered the word ‘ruffled’ was in the main hall of my school. The walls were lined with adorned with photographs of distinguished alumni and under each set there was an inspirational quote. This was one: ’The wise are not ruffled by praise or blame.’ 

It was much later that I learned the word ‘equanimity’ and that this is a quality that is good to cultivate for it helps in dealing with the vicissitudes of life. 

Praise and blame can be levelled at us, people we love, institutions we identify with and even the faiths we subscribe to. We have seen a lot of the last of these three recently.  It’s not just what’s said but the way it is said. Tests us. 

My friend Sugath Kulatunga, by way of response, recommends reflection on the Brahmajala Sutra. 

Here’s the background. It is the first of 34 sutras in the Dīgha Nikāya (the Long Discourses of the Buddha).  Once, while the Buddha was traveling with his disciples between Rajagaha and Nalanada, a Brahmin named Suppiya, traveling in the same direction with his apprentice Brahmadatta, tailing the convoy, had uttered disparaging words about the Enlightened One. Brahmadatta, in contrast, had praised the Buddha. 

Later, the disciples who had heard all this, had related the exchange to the Buddha, who then proceeded to offer advice with respect to dealing with criticism and praise. The sutra is quite elaborate and covers many things, but the following passages posted by Sugath makes for much reflection:

‘Monks, if anyone should speak in disparagement of me, of the Dhamma or of the Sangha, you should not be angry, resentful or upset on that account. If you were to be angry or displeased at such disparagement, that would only be a hindrance to you. For if others disparage me, the Dhamma or the Sangha, and you are angry or displeased, can you recognize whether what they say is right or not?’ 

The disciples answer in the negative.

‘If others disparage me, the Dhamma or the Sangha, then you must explain what is incorrect as being incorrect, saying: “That is incorrect, that is false, that is not our way, for that is not found among us.” But, monks, if others should speak in praise of me, of the Dhamma or of the Sangha, you should not on that account be pleased, happy or elated. If you were to be pleased, happy or elated at such praise, that would only be a hindrance to you. If others praise me, the Dhamma or the Sangha, you should acknowledge the truth of what is true, saying: “That is correct, that is right, that is our way, that is found among us.”’

If indeed response is warranted, it should be founded in reason, in compassion and framed by equanimity. It is not unkind. 

Of course, there is no guarantee that the person or persons, organised or otherwise, would accept logic and reason, particularly if the intent to insult, vilify and in other ways disparage, is a particularly malicious fixation. Still, even this does not warrant anger, resentment or agitation of any kind on the part of the receiver. If indeed one does get angry, resentful and agitated, it would be a hindrance to self, the doctrine one subscribes to and the collective one identifies with. It detracts, just as the insult amounts to an insult of the insulting individual, the doctrine in whose name the insult is made and the congregation the insulter identifies with. 

The elaboration of these beliefs is very detailed, focusing on how the beliefs (faiths) come to be and the way they are described and declared. The Buddha, in the Brahmajala Sutra, elaborates on how beliefs or faiths come to be and the ways in which they are described and declared. The danger lies in clinging to beliefs because this indicates an inability to escape from desire, hatred and ignorance. Such individuals get entangled in the net of samsara while those who are open to perceiving the eternal verities and therefore are not perturbed by praise or blame are less likely to be captured and confined thus.

A corollary could be obtained. Criticism is best engaged with logic. The criticism, if valid, could inform, educate and persuade further reflection. Again, an open mind is required. Again, a refusal to be angered is required. Again, humility is a precondition. In the very least, even if the intent is vile, one’s peace of mind would not be compromised. The vilifier would be left to deal with the vilification. 

Easy to say, ‘be wise,’ so much harder to acquire wisdom and act and speak accordingly. The Brahmajala Sutra, in which the Buddha elaborates on precepts, is a guide to being that would not detract from any doctrine or the practices of the relevant devout. 


['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:

Letters that cut and heal the heart

Vanished and vanishing trails

Blue-blueness

A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya

The soft rain of neighbourliness 

The Gold Medals of being

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri

All those we've loved before

Reflections on waves and markings

A chorus of National Anthems

Saying what and how

'Say when'

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra

The loves of our lives

The right time, the right person

The silent equivalent of a thousand words

Crazy cousins are besties for life

Unities, free and endearing

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!"

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis

The revolution is the song

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins

The day I won a Pulitzer

Ko?

Ella Deloria's silences

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable 

Thursday!

Deveni: a priceless one-word koan

Enlightening geometries

Let's meet at 'The Commons'

It all begins with a dot

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone

On sweeping close to one's feet

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts...

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm

Who really wrote 'Mother'?

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing

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