 | |
| Magalla Wewa, Nikaweratiya, Pic by Amali Nandasena | |
According
to Tony Gilbert, a friend of Bob Marley, the great singer and
songwriter was inspired by things around him. He remembers three
canaries who would come by the windowsill at Hope Road and believes that
they inspired Marley to write ‘Three little birds.’ There are other
theories, but that’s not important.
Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun
Three little birds pitch by my doorstep
Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true.
A simple observation of an everyday occurrence, at least at face value. And Marley extrapolates thus, ‘don’t worry about a thing / ‘cos every little thing gonna be alright.’
If only!
People buried. Homes buried. Villages buried. Bridges and roads destroyed. Homeless. Hungry. Thirsty. The helplessness is apparent, vivid and unbelievable. We are humbled. We are numb (or were). It is easy to say things like ‘count your blessings,’ but what blessing can be attached to the loss of a child or an entire family or a lifetime’s labour and love congealed in a house and property disappearing in an instant?
Deluge. Of unimaginable proportions. Then the stories. Ceaseless rain. Terrible winds. And then, the sun.
I live in Kottawa. I’ve only seen photographs and reels of the handiwork of Cyclone Ditwah. To me, at least in appearance, just another day. Familiar foliage and familiar creatures doing familiar things. Familiar morning sounds. How insulated I am, for now! But then again, the mind wanders. I cannot but wander.
It went far and wide to places known and places whose names are unfamiliar, people I’ve never met, landscapes seen from afar and in amazement but now disfigured and labeled ‘gone,’ and it tarried long on grief-stricken faces and eyes almost vacant but tear-welled.
I am safe. Secure. I cannot comprehend nor come to terms with what’s gone and what remains: on the one hand, lives, livelihoods, ways of being, certainties and familiarities and on the other, the boulders of misery scattered willy nilly on what was once thought to be landscapes that change but slowly and over millennia. I cannot get a grip on the massive water bodies of risk and insecurity that sun and gradient will not or cannot drain.
Words come to me in the form of lyrics and as salve. I remembered the Dire Straits song, ‘Why worry?’
There should be laughter after pain
There should be sunshine after rain
These things have always been the same
So why worry now?
Why worry now?
Again, easy words.
There’s a beautiful photograph of a weva in Nikaweratiya. I am not sure if Amali Nandasiri’s capture was at dawn or dusk. There’s water and a single boat among the reeds. The sun is shining through a cloud-ridden sky. Grey skies for the most part.
One of the two epigraphs in Ernest Hemmingway’s ‘The Sun Also Rises,’ is a quote from Ecclesiastes:
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose
Apparently Hemingway had told his editor Max Perkins that the book was not so much about a generation being lost, but that ‘the earth abideth forever.’ The characters in his book are battered, but they are not lost, he had pointed out.
How did this happen? How and when will we recover? There are questions that need to be asked and answered, sooner or later. But right now, every single effort, however minute, is wrapped with empathy, generosity, determination and hope.
Three little birds. That’s a metaphor. It is because there are innumerable little things around us gently saying ‘life remains and therefore there’s hope.’ There are things to be thankful for. We are not absolutely impoverished as a nation or a people. For all the glitches and delays, every single person who has suffered knows one thing for certain — their fellow citizens have not forsaken them. They will not. That too is part of our national signature.
We are not indestructible. We are fallible, in fact. We are not impotent. There are hearts that beat. They are warm. And they spread the warmth of true citizenship and solidarity.
The sun rises. Sets. Rises again. We must rise too. As we always have. And as we always will.
Rise up this morning, smiled with the rising sun
Three little birds pitch by my doorstep
Singing sweet songs of melodies pure and true.
A simple observation of an everyday occurrence, at least at face value. And Marley extrapolates thus, ‘don’t worry about a thing / ‘cos every little thing gonna be alright.’
If only!
People buried. Homes buried. Villages buried. Bridges and roads destroyed. Homeless. Hungry. Thirsty. The helplessness is apparent, vivid and unbelievable. We are humbled. We are numb (or were). It is easy to say things like ‘count your blessings,’ but what blessing can be attached to the loss of a child or an entire family or a lifetime’s labour and love congealed in a house and property disappearing in an instant?
Deluge. Of unimaginable proportions. Then the stories. Ceaseless rain. Terrible winds. And then, the sun.
I live in Kottawa. I’ve only seen photographs and reels of the handiwork of Cyclone Ditwah. To me, at least in appearance, just another day. Familiar foliage and familiar creatures doing familiar things. Familiar morning sounds. How insulated I am, for now! But then again, the mind wanders. I cannot but wander.
It went far and wide to places known and places whose names are unfamiliar, people I’ve never met, landscapes seen from afar and in amazement but now disfigured and labeled ‘gone,’ and it tarried long on grief-stricken faces and eyes almost vacant but tear-welled.
I am safe. Secure. I cannot comprehend nor come to terms with what’s gone and what remains: on the one hand, lives, livelihoods, ways of being, certainties and familiarities and on the other, the boulders of misery scattered willy nilly on what was once thought to be landscapes that change but slowly and over millennia. I cannot get a grip on the massive water bodies of risk and insecurity that sun and gradient will not or cannot drain.
Words come to me in the form of lyrics and as salve. I remembered the Dire Straits song, ‘Why worry?’
There should be laughter after pain
There should be sunshine after rain
These things have always been the same
So why worry now?
Why worry now?
Again, easy words.
There’s a beautiful photograph of a weva in Nikaweratiya. I am not sure if Amali Nandasiri’s capture was at dawn or dusk. There’s water and a single boat among the reeds. The sun is shining through a cloud-ridden sky. Grey skies for the most part.
One of the two epigraphs in Ernest Hemmingway’s ‘The Sun Also Rises,’ is a quote from Ecclesiastes:
One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose
Apparently Hemingway had told his editor Max Perkins that the book was not so much about a generation being lost, but that ‘the earth abideth forever.’ The characters in his book are battered, but they are not lost, he had pointed out.
How did this happen? How and when will we recover? There are questions that need to be asked and answered, sooner or later. But right now, every single effort, however minute, is wrapped with empathy, generosity, determination and hope.
Three little birds. That’s a metaphor. It is because there are innumerable little things around us gently saying ‘life remains and therefore there’s hope.’ There are things to be thankful for. We are not absolutely impoverished as a nation or a people. For all the glitches and delays, every single person who has suffered knows one thing for certain — their fellow citizens have not forsaken them. They will not. That too is part of our national signature.
We are not indestructible. We are fallible, in fact. We are not impotent. There are hearts that beat. They are warm. And they spread the warmth of true citizenship and solidarity.
The sun rises. Sets. Rises again. We must rise too. As we always have. And as we always will.
[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']
0 comments:
Post a Comment