True credentials

 

Back in the day, when there was no paper or there was but it was used primarily for literary purposes, authority was recognised in other ways. Back in the day, the veda mahaththaya or the vel vidane was appointed by declaration that was not always accompanied by paper-authorisation. A seal, or intaglio, may have sufficed, but even without such authentication, communities knew who was who and what the limits of authority were. These were respected.

Certificates are important. Certification is important. A certificate of one kind or another is a must in order to legitimately operate in a particular field, although legitimacy of such kind is under threat in a world of fake-everything.

Certificates give license. Certificates also recognise achievement. They are secondary trophies but more convenient if and when it comes to proving that you’ve done something noteworthy as required by some authority considering you for a job, promotion or some kind of honour. They are easier to carry than cups, shields or medals.

So we collect them. Just in case. And, over the course of a school career, let’s say, we can probably accumulate quite a stack of certificates. We laminate them for protection, sort them by the sport or some other activity or subject — in the case of prizes won for academic prowess — and keep them safe in some cupboard or drawer.

Such do have nostalgic value. When we get older, we could open that certificate-vault and go back to that particular moment and everything associated with it. We can smile, then. We can’t really use these things for job interviews. Not all of them, anyway.

You would take the certificate indicating the highest educational achievement; the AL or degree certificate but not the one you got for passing the Grade 5 Scholarship Exam, Sri Lankan colours for cricket but not school colours.

On the other hand, parents (and obviously not children) sometimes obsess over certificates. They think about various honours and positions that school bestow on students. Prefectships, for example. Prizes too, for example ones for the best all-round student. School authorities ought to know and not demand that candidates for such honours provide proof of achievements, but then again, they may not have any record of a child’s achievements outside the school system.

So, in this sense, there’s a case to be made for certificate-seeking and certificate-collection by parents. Yes, let me repeat, the kids, especially if they are very young, have no clue; but then again, such things are part of parenting and the more anxious the parent is, the greater the agitation. But what of ‘participation certificates’?

Such documents merely certify that the particular individual took part in some event. He or she ‘turned up.’ That’s all that the certificate indicates. It would be silly for any school official to take ‘attendance’ (which is what it really is) as some kind of achievement worthy of honour, especially since every single person who turned up received the very same certificate.

Some argue, however, that even such a certificate is an incentive. They add, sometimes, that even such recognition can go a long way for ‘ahinsaka children of dugee duppath parents who live in aetha dushkara places. Note, it’s not always such parents who clamour for participation certificates. Those disposed to find fault with organisers for anything and everything can and have agitated ‘on behalf of the ahinsaka daruwo’ as described above. But let’s leave that aside. Let’s talk about the incentive supposedly inherent in certificates and certification.

The argument is that it would spur a child to be more committed to the particular sport or activity, to seek to reach great heights.

Really?

Let’s take a five year old child. Let’s suppose he is taking part in a sporting event. Let’s say it’s chess. So this child is brought to the tournament, maybe over several days. The child doesn’t achieve a podium finish. So, there are no trophies or medals to take home.

But. There. Is. The. Participation. Certificate! (Which, we are told, would encourage the boy to do better next time).

How do children react to victory? A beaming smile. The child receives praise from an adoring parent. A hug. Kisses, perhaps. How about defeat? There could be tears. Some comforting from the more mature parent, but there’s also the possibility of admonishment from a pushy parent. Either way, it’s momentary. Smiles or tears, they are all forgotten when the child sits down to play the next game or when he or she leaves the tournament venue without an inkling about when next he or she gets to play in some chess event.

I wonder, do parents then wave that participation certificate to ‘encourage’ the child? Are photographs taken and shared among friends and relatives of the child holding the certificate? How and when does it enter the child’s head that a certificate means ‘incentive’? Who puts such things into a child’s head? And if in fact such things get into a child’s head, what does the child pursue thereafter? Most likely, trophies and certificates. These do require better preparation of course, but they are distractions.

Recently, I watched a short interview of a 12 year old chess player who finished fifth in the Nationals. He was asked what his goals are. He said, in Sinhala, ‘to be a better chess player.’ He probably has lots of medals and certificates, but he was not focused on prizes. Just improvement.

Vishy Anand, a world chess champion, one said that he played many ‘norm’ tournaments to secure the last norm he needed to become a grandmaster.

‘I would miss out by half a point or a single point. Then I stopped thinking of norms. I focused on becoming a better player.’

He secured the norm. He became a grandmaster. He eventually won the world chess title.

Now, not everyone reaches such heights. Not everyone seeks such heights. However, if a child is certificate-obsessed at a young age, or an adoring parent TEACHES a child to be thus obsessed, the child’s orientation can shift from hard work and joy of playing to taking a consolation prize home. It’s not the best mindset to cultivate in a child. It is a mindset that a parent CULTIVATES in a child and not something that a child is born with. It is, at some level, an exercise in obtaining validation from one’s child. It’s probably not a good thing.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com

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My grandfather’s clock is yet to stop

]

 

 

'My grandfather’s clock’ is a well-known folk song written by Henry Clay Work way back in 1876. It traces the landmark moments of a man’s life. Bought on the day he was born, it ‘struck 24’ the day he got married and stopped when he died at the age of 90.

 

It’s exactly 150 years since the song was written. That grandfather of the song was probably already dead when Henry Clay Work wrote it. The lyricist died in 1884. The song lives on.

 

My grandfather, Felix Herat, lived to be 91. It’s 34 years since he passed away. As is often the case, he lives in the memory of loved ones and in the character-traces he left behind genetically and through the process of nurturing, intended or otherwise.

 

I have grandfather-memories but the one that I return to often and with gratitude is that of his morning read.

 

My brother, sister and I spent all our holidays at his place in Kurunegala. Every morning, after breakfast, he would pick up the Daily News, which was duly delivered around 7 o’clock or perhaps even earlier. Monday was our day because the Sinhala children’s weekly, Mihira, would be delivered along with the Daily News. Even then, one of us had to ‘go through’ the Daily News first. This is how it happened.

 

My grandfather was at the time in his early seventies. His eyesight was failing, but he had a pair of spectacles. He even had a magnifying glass which he would use to read the paper and his favorite books. In other words, he could manage on his own. He nevertheless solicited the help of his grandchildren.

 

One of us had to sit with him and read out the headlines, first the local news and then the foreign news. If he heard anything that interested him, we would have to read out the entire story. We had to read the editorial in full on most days. 

 

I didn’t enjoy this. News, local or foreign, was irrelevant to me at that age. I read mechanically. He would correct me if I mispronounced. Once he was done, the paper was mine. This was when I got to the pages which alone interested me. Sports.

 

Somehow, at some point that I cannot remember now, the information began to interest me. I didn’t look forward to reading about the happenings around us or overseas, but the exercise became less and less mechanical as time went on.  And there came a day that I cannot remember exactly when I considered ‘news’ to be as interesting as ‘sports.’

 

It became an important part of my day. There were occasions when I couldn’t get my hands on a paper because I was away from home, camping or hiking with my friends. The first thing I did upon returning home was to read the ones I had missed.

 

Back then, we didn’t have much of a choice when it came to news. We didn’t have a radio. Television came later, but we didn’t get one until I was in the university. There were three newspapers, the Daily News, The Sun and The Island. On Sundays there were three, the Sunday Observer, Weekend and the Sunday edition of The Island. My parents had subscribed to the Daily News and the Sunday Observer and shifted to The Island when Upali Newspapers launched that paper. I would buy Divaina on Sunday.

 

So, obviously, ‘news’ came filtered. Nevertheless, it was better than no news at all. In time, I learned to read between the lines. Thereafter it didn’t matter. I could generally figure out what was not said by noting the way the narratives shifted. Today, for example, my ‘reading’ of the war on Iran (mis-named ‘Iran War’) is mostly from pro-West media outfits such as CNN, BBC, Reuters and Al Jazeera. The duplicity, contradictions, exaggeration and rank bias tell me a lot about what is happening, what is likely to happen and what Trump and Co are terrified would happen.

 

I owe it to my grandfather. He wound a reading-clock in my mind more than 50 years ago. Keeps me ticking. I miss my ‘Mihira Days’ but I still devour the sports ‘pages,’ less in newspapers as online. I read newspapers not in print but on my phone or laptop. And I think of my grandfather, Felix Herat, and offer what merit I have in the hope that his sojourn through sansaara is brief. 

 

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com. 

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Ivana Wijedasa's 'podium finish' at the Boston Marathon

Sharon Lokedi, the Kenya-born long distance runner won the 2026 edition of the Boston Marathon, completing the race in 2 hours, 18 minutes and 51 seconds, just a minute and 29 seconds slower than the course record she set in 2025. Lokedi won the Silver in 2024.

 

The first Boston Marathon was in 1897, but women were officially allowed to enter only 1972, although women had competed unofficially since 1996. Since 1972, when only eight women took part and all of them crossed the finishing line, over 200,000 women have completed the race. This year, 6,283 women entered the race and over 5,000 finished it.

 

Naturally it’s the winners who are talked about. It’s their names that are mentioned over and over again. And yet, each and every competitor in a marathon has a story. The mere fact of entering the race is something to applaud. Completion is a formidable victory in and of itself. The efforts of runners who don’t make a podium finish or are so far behind the pack of leaders after a few miles that commentators and cameras ignore them are nevertheless heroic. Each has an epic story but few get told.

 

Ivana Wijedasa. No one said ‘Ivana Wijedasa, remember the name!’ Not on television anyway. Ivana is not a professional athlete. Thousands take part in the annual race to prove something to themselves. That might have been an impetus in Ivana’s case as well, but she ran for another reason that had nothing to do with self-affirmation or personal glory.

 

She is a student, just about to graduate from the School of Law, Boston University. Running, for her, had nothing to do with competition. She ran along the scenic and iconic Charles River to decompress between classes.  

 

That’s not entirely accurate. Ivan is the Co-President of the university’s Middle Eastern and South Asian Law Students Association, works as a research assistant, writes to the Law Review, volunteers as a tour guide and is active in the Immigration Law and Policy Society and Immigration Clinic. Neither is she ‘free’ in the summer for she has interned at the First Circuit Court of Appeals and the New York Civil Liberties Union.

 

That’s a full life, not even counting her social and personal engagements. She’s probably an ace at time-management. Many students are good at managing time or are forced to become good at it, but typically it’s all about academic and professional goals. Ivana ran uphill, in directions few choose; but what’s pertinent here is that Ivana gradually figured that her ‘decompression exercise’ could be channeled to something bigger than herself and her academic and professional goals.

 

The young Sri Lankan American law student raised over 15,000 US dollars for the Youth Advocacy Foundation (YAF) in the four hours, 31 minutes and 51 seconds she took to run the 26.2 miles on the 20^th of April, 2026. The YAF is an organization dedicated to providing children with access to legal representation and quality education, which for her were ‘musts’ in the formidable task of putting an end to the tragic school-to-prison pipeline. That’s a marathon in itself.

 

For Ivana, who plans to donate an addition 5,000 dollars of her own funds to support the education of less fortunate children in Sri Lanka, her work for the YAF is founded on a simple but serious line of thinking: ‘It's something that I'm really deeply connected to in my career as an attorney.’ She believes that ‘It's really important that children are given the opportunity to have not just access to the council, but just have access to be a kid, to remain in these schools.’

 

On the 21^st of April, a day after her exhausting run, Ivana turned 26. She finished more than two hours after Sharon Lokedi did. She’s one of over 550,000 finishers since 1897 and was the 10,347^th in a field of 12,744 women runners and 25,030^th out of 29,300 overall competitors, but these numbers mean nothing.

 

She’s not Sharon Lokedi. She’s Ivana Wijedasa, who turned 26 a day after the race, a young law student in whose heart there’s ample room for empathy and which was fuel enough for her to complete a storied race. She is Ivana Wijedasa, who proudly wore the Sri Lanka flag from start to finish. She is Ivana Wijedasa who put on a Royal College hat to support her father’s old school because the New York group of alumni from that school was the second largest donors.

 

She’s not done. Ivana will graduate this month. Where life will take her, we do not know, but we can say with some degree of certainty that she will run as long as she has to in order to add whatever she can to make this world safer and better for children. And for us all.  It’s a podium-finish determination of a different kind than which Sharon Lokedi sought and secured. Gold of a different kind.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com

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The noise in the channel will be silenced by song

 

It is unlikely that I would have ever heard of the band ‘Dire Straits’ if not for my brother who, rather late in life, decided to learn to play the guitar. He would have been 19 or 20 at the time. He already played the piano. We both went to the same piano teacher. She was kind and indulged me. She loved my brother.
 
He was gifted. He taught himself the violin and the bamboo flute. He could sing too. So too our sister, who also played the piano. I was the family philistine. I was not exactly a philistine, but music wasn’t really my thing. I listened to whatever my siblings played or sang. Our sister had a monopoly over the radio, so the songs I did pick up were those she played.
 
Dire Straits was different. My brother talked a lot about the lead guitarist Mark Knopfler. He had posters. He learned and played Dire Straits songs. By and by, I learned the words. And as time went on, I forgot them all. The names remained longer: Dire Straits, Mark Knopfler and the song ‘Brothers in Arms.’
 
I don’t know the story of that bank. I don’t know Mark Knopfler’s story either. I only remember my brother talking about his fingers and that he used a pick-less fingerstyle technique that was unique. My brother figured he could do the same and if I remember right that’s how he played. Without a pick.
 
I remember him saying that Knopfler had long fingers. It’s hard to say if they were ‘extraordinarily long’ from online photographs. On the other hand, the finger-story has survived almost 40 years. That’s long, at least.
 
But why all this about Dire Straits, Knopfler, household music, sibling-talent as such? It’s our times; these times we find ourselves in or knowingly or unknowingly called forth or were powerless to stop. The dire straits we find ourselves in. Metaphorically, clearly, but also literally.  Hormuz, if you want it in shorthand.
 
There’s noise in the channel. The world’s rabid bulldog states (need we name them?) are crying foul about the blockade imposed by Iran, but the Strait of Hormuz is not technically ‘international waters’ and since Iran has not ratified UNCLOS (The United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea) it can, technically, charge vessels a toll for usage. Like the Panama, Suez, Kiel, Volga-Don canals.

Anyway, as I write, there’s a blockade. Two, in fact. One by Iran on vessels that seek to use Iran’s waters and one by the USA in international waters. Dire is the word.
 
And therefore:
 
Mark Knopfler’s long fingers have grown
to engulfs civilizational divide,
tenacious fingernails pick
at a puppeteer’s dangling strings
 
An outdoor chess table stumbles uprooted
abandons a sidewalk forbidden to feet
and take root in the Town Hall
where 'miniatured' politicians
are re-dressed as kings, queens, bishops and knights
and are moved to crazy-weep
because they can’t find antidotes for their blues
and they’ve run out of the water of love  
 
Organic fertilisers, meanwhile, have decided:
‘Squares shall we nourish!’
And so the chess board grew and grew
squares multiplied
fell off the table, climbed the curtains;
the blacks nudged whites out of slumber
to make room for knights in tired armour
to take unannounced naps
along deliberate ranks, files and diagonals
cramping the kings and queens
and pushing pawns to agitation
 
‘Guns in!’ roared the Uncivilised General,
but booty did not leave;
the river carried the water of love
to resurrect bombed hospitals and schools
while a neck of brine self-choked
to bequeath to a suffocating world
de-dollarized oxygen
 
And Mark Knopfler’s fingers softly strummed
Bringing all warriors home
to their valleys and their hills
solder irreconcilable allergies
put out unnecessary fires
glide through all straits, dire or otherwise,
and turn themselves into dervishes
who cannot breathe again
but will nevertheless sing and dance
 
There’s noise in the channel. Too much of it. My brother and sister may still remember the song ‘Brothers in Arms.’ Other songs too. I would like to hear them sing. And we might agree that it would be only right to say, ‘take a bow, Mark Knopfler.’   

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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Translators and Translations

 

My first attempt at translation was in the last 1990s while I was taking a class titled ‘Marx, Nietzsche and Freud,’ taught by  Professor Geoff Waite of the German Studies Department at Cornell University. The course requirement for graduate students was simple: maintain a journal reflecting on the required reading, lectures and class-discussion. I can’t remember the particular journal entry now, but there was a passage in Simon Navagaththegama’s ‘Sansaaraaranyaye Dadayakkaaraya’ that seemed relevant and which I felt should go into my reflections for the week. 

Geoff didn’t read Sinhala. So I translated the relevant paragraphs.

Emboldened, I proceeded to translate the entire book, with much encouragement from Liyanage Amarakeerthi who was reading for his PhD at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, at the time. A fun exercise and that was it, or so I thought.

Not too long after, I joined ‘Sunday Island.’ Then, as now, that paper was heavy with serious political commentary. The features, in contrast, were weak. Zanita Careem, who was in charge of that section, lamented that we didn’t have enough people to write. She was correct. So I got used to picking interesting stories from our sister paper, ‘Divaina,’ and translating the same.

It was probably in early 2003 that I became serious about the exercise. Dr Ranga Wickramasinghe wanted me to translate ‘Yuganthaya’ (End of an Era) written by his late father Martin Wickramasinghe. I told him that I am not equipped to undertake such a task and that I didn’t have the time either. Instead, I proposed that I translate Martin Wickramasinghe’s ‘Upan Da Sita’ (literally, ‘From the day of [my] birth.’  It was a biography and therefore episodic; ideal for serialising in a Sunday paper.

It took more than a year, but it got done. A decent draft, I told myself then. I believe this even today as I pour over the manuscript to get it ready for printing on commission for the Martin Wickramasinghe Trust. It’s almost a re-write!

The downside of translating a few pages each week for a newspaper is that it happens while attending to regular newspaper work. Deadline-pressure can make one careless and even flippant. There were occasions when I understood neither word nor sentence. I had glossed over such things or left them out altogether. Then there was the issue of language. I can safely say that I knew less about the Sinhala language and Sinhala culture then that I do now. That ignorance corrupted the exercise.

Now, as I go from word to word, sentence by sentence, it’s a new text that unfolds. It’s a new Martin Wickramasinghe that speaks to me. I am delighted for new reasons. Amazed at times as well. I haven’t read him at all, I am compelled to conclude.

This is of course not an essay about Wickramasinghe’s life, world-view, literary endeavours etc. There are many gems on many subjects in this book which a discerning reader will no doubt pick, marvel at and learn from. For me, right now, there’s this:

‘The colloquial language of the village brings together both language and life. Descriptions that bring together the life of the villager and the village environment are often found in the work of folk poets who employ this language. The meaning of such descriptions cannot be captured by the mind alone.’

The colloquial is not always read correctly by the pundits, especially if they are less conversant with it. It can, theoretically, make for even worse aberration when translated.

Martin Wickramasinghe was referring to a set of people who took issue with certain descriptions. He wrote ‘If a certain feeling is inspired within someone who read that description which is a blend of village life and the landscape of the village, it is because the description has the power to excite not just his eyes and mind, but other sensory organs as well.’

He concluded: ‘I don't believe that a person who does not make the effort to “hear” the sound of a bat flapping its wings, the cacophony of insects, the occasional barking of a village mutt, or the mooing of a calf, would be able to imagine village life or village language.’

He explained, further:  ‘Only someone who has some notion of the relationship between the language and life of the village would think that the syllables that make up the words “aththatu gæseema (flapping of wings),” “biruma (bark),” and “umbææ (mooing)” simultaneously raise the sounds of bats, dogs and calves. In order to feel the meaning of sayings such as “the air in the garden contained a certain wetness along with the cool” and “The vehi andura had rendered the air heavier than on other days,” not only the mind, but the body also has to be employed. I think all these pundits found fault with this description because theirs was only a mental exercise.’ 

How do we translate, then? Can we translate?

We can try. We must, I feel. And so we interject explanation in the text itself or as footnote and end note. We compile glossaries. We struggle not only to be faithful to the source text but to do justice to the reader as well, ever conscious of the reader’s shadow falling on the keyboard and a voice murmuring, ‘make sure it flows, make sure I am not overly taxed to flip to your glossary or glance at footnote and end note, and make sure you don’t butcher the meaning in any other way either.’

Back to ‘Upan Da Sita.’ A few more chapters to work on or rather re-write. Riches await, and not only about the life and times of Martin Wickramasinghe. I am privileged.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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American civilisation and its discontents

A bit of civilization might do them good

I can’t help but think that anyone who wishes to end a civilisation has to be uncivilised and incapable of creating even the building blocks of civilisation. But then again, it is fascinating is it not that the makers of the English language or rather the inheritors of that language who elevated it to mother-tongue status are the most confused about the meaning of certain words?

Just the other day, a UK lawmaker castigated Iran for ‘being reckless.’ Reckless. Remember the word. The Oxford Learner’s Dictionary (OLD) defines the word as follows: ‘an adjective describing behaviour that shows a lack of care about danger and the possible, often harmful, results of your actions. It implies acting rashly without thinking about consequences.’ A revised version of that dictionary may one day add a synonym: trump. As in ‘Donald’.

Oh yes, bibi, bibi netanyahu, benjamin netanyahu, netanyahu and zionism could work too (the lower case is deliberate and in line with standard style for abstract nouns). They can be thus elevated because what they have done, do and will probably continue to do, ironically, is not at all abstract. Not abstruse, not hypothetical, not unreal. Real. Clear.

Need we elaborate? No!

What would constitute ‘the end of (a) civilisation’? First, what constitutes ‘civilisation’? Let’s ask the OLD. OLD says, ‘a state of human society that is very developed and organised.’ OLD also offers: ‘a society, its culture and its way of life during a particular period of time or in a particular part of the world.’

So, if anyone threatens to end a civilisation as per the OLD definitions, it’s a declaration of genocidal intent. Genocidal intent rehearsed (as in pilot-project, let’s say) from Day One of the attacks on Iran by trump and bibi (yes, lower case, for we need to rehearse these abstract-nouns-to-be, although this does not strictly conform to grammar rules; but then again let’s say ‘poetic license’ and leave it at that), we must point out.

America of the United States. Is it a ‘civilisation’? It’s certainly a human society. It is developed, as per the dominant paradigm of development, one could argue. Organised, yes, although it’s organised subjugation, mind-control, land-theft, resource-extraction etc., in the USA and elsewhere. It is a society, yes. Fractured, violent, racist, exploitative and such, but yes, a society nevertheless. Its culture is perhaps more in flux than most societies, but the transformations of culture and constant remixing could, in sum, deserve the term. It has many ways of life (and death as well; think KKK, BLM and the many genocidal wars launched over the last two centuries).

It does exist in a particular part of this world. It exists, moreover, in this moment in time. Two hundred years is not ‘old’ in civilisational terms. Two hundred years of expansion by way of land theft, invasion and purchase wouldn’t make ‘civilisation’ a pretty word, but let’s be generous. It’s a civilisation. Of sorts. Let’s say.

But trump? Is he civilised? A pathological liar accused of being a pedophile and who abused the powers of his office to trip relevant investigations, this man (and his partner in many crimes, bibi) twice attacked Iran in the middle of negotiations. He bombed or sanctioned (and hurrahed) the bombing of dozens of schools, hospitals and other civilian facilities, killing over 2000 people including children, the elderly and sick because he wanted to prevent Iran from retaliating to bombing. Would that be the talk of a civilised human being or a deranged egotist?

And he wants to end a civilisation. Didn’t happen and probably will not happen, but that intent to destroy is fascinating isn’t it? Envy is a powerful motive, but he is way too full of himself to envy anyone. In fact it’s the opposite that’s true. Contempt. His speeches are full of derogatory and racist epithets.

Enough. The man is uncivilised, even though the BBC, CNN, Fox, Al Jazeera and other media outfits don’t dare say it. Maybe they should check the OLD and check whether their media practices conform to the definition offered therein for ‘civilisation,’ ‘civilised,’ ‘civil,’ ‘civility’ etc. Also, genocide, ethics, principle and other such lovely words, while they are at it.

But enough. We know this POTUS (President of the United States) well enough.

But what of the people of the USA who make that dysfunctional society that has so much potential to build a great nation or at least one that deserves to stand with the civilised world? What of them? What has all this done to their signature and its civilisational potential?

The aforementioned media outfits don’t (dare?) report on what the people of the USA have to say. Nothing of the massive and indignant protests against the bloody adventurism of their president. But those people are alive. If America of the United States is a country that aspires to civilisation, then the seeds necessary for the full flowering of all things that make that word meaningful are alive in their hearts.

They know what ‘reckless’ means. They know what ‘genocide’ means. They know what ‘civilisation’ means. They know that their country has to walk quite a distance, perhaps decades but maybe even a few centuries (or a few months), to get there.

They have one thing going for them. Trump. Think about it. He’s shedding all the frills that have hidden the proverbial ‘Ugly American.’ Disgusting. So disgusting that the beautiful people of the USA will have to do something about it.

Civilisation. A great idea for the United States of America. And Zionist Israel Let’s hope they get there one day.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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No spectators at chasm’s door

Carl August Sandburg, the American (of the United States) poet, biographer, journalist and winner of three Pulitzer Prizes (two for his poetry and one for his biography of Abraham Lincoln) wrote a book-length poem celebrating resilience, wit and the democratic spirit of ordinary fellow-citizens during the Great Depression. The book, titled ‘The people, yes,’ has the following line: ‘suppose they gave a war and nobody came.’ It would become a famous anti-war slogan during the protests against one of the many wars that ought to have been called ‘American (of the United States) War’ or simply ‘US War’: on Vietnam.

Wars are seldom deserving of that interesting and disingenuous uttering of Lincoln in his much talked of Gettysburg Address, ‘of the people, by the people, for the people.’ Wars are of course fought ‘by people,’ but rarely out of conviction. They are not ‘for the people.' Wars are about profit. About land theft. Control or seizure of resources (like oil). Securing markets.

It would be lovely if war was declared but no one came. I can’t think of an example of that happening. People do, at times, abandon wars, but typically only when warmongering leaders (kings, tzars and presidents) lose their grip on power. Happened in Russia. Could happen in the USA.

We are not there yet. I am talking about the raging US-Israel War on Iran, which is simultaneously a war on civilisation, international law and humanity. There are many ways to cut that bloody cake, but let’s offer a nutshell: ‘Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu, both deranged and both representing countries whose history is all about land-theft, enslavement, genocide and war-waging, attacked Iran to a) destroy nuclear capabilities that they (Trump and Netanyahu) claimed they had eliminated less than a year ago, b) prevent Iran from bombing Isreal when Israel bombs Iran (!), and c) engineer regime change.’

Well, we might add, ‘to bring democracy to Iran’ and ‘emancipate Iranian women.’ Now laugh.

Now let’s be sober.  The two genocidal egomaniacs gave the entire world their middle fingers and brought us all to the edge of a precipice. A chasm. We can choose, here in Sri Lanka, to think ‘it’s all happening far away,’ except that we are not exactly an island in the global economic order. If that were not the case, we wouldn’t be worrying about oil reserves. There wouldn’t be rationing.

There is a chasm, whether we acknowledge it or not. And this is why I remembered Mahmoud Darwish’s poem, translated by Fady Joudah, from the volume, ‘The Butterfly’s Burden.’ It’s titled ‘I have a seat in an abandoned theatre.’ It’s structured as a conversation between two people in ‘an abandoned theatre in Beirut.’ Yes, Beirut. You can flip the metaphors any which way you like. And let's not forget that 'Beirut' is all over the Persian Gulf.

Darwish writes:
I have a seat in the abandoned theater
in Beirut. I might forget, and I might recall
the final act without longing ... not because of anything
other than that the play was not written
skillfully ...

The scripts played out in theatres of war are hardly ever written skillfully. In this instance, the script writers, Trump and Netanyahu, are incorrigible and illiterate. Well, they can read and write, so technically they are literate, but then again their grammar is awful and they simply cannot structure coherent sentences.

Anyway.

Darwish ends with the following exchange:

He says: No spectators at chasm’s door ... and no
one is neutral here. And you must choose
your part in the end
So I say: I’m missing the beginning, what’s the beginning?

The beginning is a library full of books on empires, empire building, enslavement, exploitation, slavery, profit, greed, deceit etc., etc. Worth a visit. But here, at the chasm, with two trigger-happy thugs with massive egos and unburdened of shame, there’s no place to hide, nowhere to run.

Darwish writes (in ‘The horse fell of the poem,’ again translated by Joudah):

There is no margin in modern language left
to celebrate what we love,
because all that will be ... was
 
Wait. Was?  Perhaps. Then again, there are no laws against re-writing, in re-creating a language where love can be celebrated and where that which was made to be ‘was’ can be recreated. There are no spectators at 'chasm’s door.' At 'chasms’s door,' we stand. We are both player and spectator. We know the lines and don’t need a prompt. We are playwright and producer. We handle lights and props.

This is a genre of theatre where we can speak out of turn, deconstruct narratives and with wit and wisdom make more robust our hearts and resolve. We can choose to breathe or submit to enforced asphyxiation. We can be silent and count the dead until we walk into or are buried in rubble as a statistic.

The privilege of being a spectator at chasm’s door has been withdrawn. Simply put, it’s ours to make sure that the poem doesn’t fall off the horse.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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Let us live with veracity and love

There’s news from the war. News and fake news. News so recurrent that the word seems distinctly odd. News which, like the bread of Egypt (as Octavio Paz once said) is poetry over which the night has passed, rendering it unpalatable.

In the passing news, I read a name. Shiraz. It was a recognisable name from dozens tossed around by news agencies, sprinkled all over ‘stories’ so easily that one might forget that places are made of people.

There would have been people in Shiraz when the Israeli military executed airstrikes across the city. There must be people there even now, as I write. Even continuous strikes with bombs and missiles cannot really erase the people-signature of a city with a population close to 2 million. Shiraz is the capital of the Fars Province of Iran. Would take a lot more bombs. Or a nuke. Shiraz, like Iran, has survived the onslaught of tyrants and blood-thirsty, booty-seeking, megalomaniacs over centuries and millennia. One day both place and name will be gone or forgotten. For now, they exist.

I don’t know anyone living in Shiraz. I just know the name of a single person and he’s dead now. Khājeh Shams-od-Dīn Moḥamma or Khwaja Shams al-Din Muhammad Hafez-e Shirazi lived and wrote in the 14th Century. Hafiz (or Hafez) was his pen name and is derived apparently from the Arabic to mean guardian or keeper of the holy text. So he was Hafiz of Shiraz. He had a nickname too. Lesān-al-ḡayb. The tongue of the unseen. He was, in addition, referred to as Tarjomān al-asrār, or ‘interpreter of mysteries.’ A sufi he was and perhaps spoke the word of the ‘one god’ that people believe in but call by different names, as he himself observed: 

I don’t know if the people who gave the order and those who executed it had ever heard of Hafiz or indeed Shiraz. Indeed, they may take their ignorance to their respective graves. The people of Iran, irrespective of ideological preference, political loyalty and probably belief systems, would know. As their ancestors did and perhaps as generations yet unborn will. It is said that his works or at least excerpts from his verses are found in Iranian homes. Iranians apparently learn his poems by heart and use them as everyday proverbs.  I’ve been to Iran only once, about 15-18 years ago, but I do remember a Hafiz-poem adorning the wall behind the reception of the hotel I stayed in. I can’t remember the verse.

The Shiraz of the combined genocidal insanities of Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu returned me to Hafiz, the poet who more than any other writer influenced Persians from his time to now. And I remembered a line from one of his poems

“Listen: this world is the lunatic's sphere,
Don't always agree it's real,

Even with my feet upon it
And the postman knowing my door

My address is somewhere else.”

Are addresses known? Well, yes. After all, we live in a world of pinpoint strikes that can target and take out the leaders of a country. A world where ‘target and take out’ is applied to schools, hospitals and households, which, logic says, could be ‘pinpointedly’ avoided but are not. The address(es) that Hafiz talks of are different. They don’t have street names. They are not located in cities that have names. It is not in a lunatic’s sphere. And this is why the maniacal Trumps and Netanyahus of our world utter unadulterated gibberish about war-statuses and objectives. They can’t find the ‘address’ of ‘the enemy.’

Hafiz says:

I once asked a bird,
how is that you fly
in this gravity of darkness?
She responded,
‘love lifts me.’
 
There is darkness, this is agreed upon. It is grave. Agreed upon. We would fly if we could. Wings are what we need. A good wind. Both love-made. But then, that’s just the uttering of someone in a poetic bubble, a ‘rationalist’ might say. Can we, with words, ‘intercept’ a butcher’s command, bend the arc of a missile, stamp upon it ‘return to sender’ and direct it towards the unmistakable address of a butcher of children, sick and elderly? No. But with a word or words appropriately conjoined we can manufacture breath, we can fuel the will to live.

When? Now!  Now, Hafiz says, is the time:

Now is the time to understand
That all your ideas of right and wrong
Were just a child’s training wheels
To be laid aside
When you finally live
With veracity and love.

How else can we truly live, truly breathe and truly feel alive, if not with veracity and love, we must ask ourselves.  

And the war? It will continue to generate news and fake news. Odd news manufactured with odd words. Words rearranged to generate ideology-laden narratives that are twins of outcome preferences. Words, whichever way they are arranged, will fall apart and float into oblivioun when they are confronted by truth. And love.

There are many ways to live. And die. We might as well open household, community and country to those intangible, definition-resisting creatures. Veracity and love. They give wings. We need them, for we must fly now. Way above aircraft and missile. Just so we can walk this earth again, watering it with poetry and coaxing the soil to yield flowers and grain in deserts and craters.  

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The voice of Walt Whitman’s ghost

 

The pieces I’ve written over several months often refer to poetry and poets. Sometimes, tectonic shifts of the political and the earthquakes and skyquakes they engender rob us of words. Descriptions and analysis become meaningless when bombs rain down on schools, hospitals and households, when lies are uttered with each breath and are echoed by the pernicious, ignorant and innocent. At such times, we strip magnificent expositions of theory and practice, idea and ideology, history and historiography, conscience and articulation and other such things of flesh, sinew and blood. We are left with the bones of essence, charred or petrified. Poetry. Speaks. For what it is worth. And that’s my ‘column’ for this week, borrowed from a year ago or maybe even a century.  

America 
(awaiting the second coming)

America of Grandfather Whitman 
is no less green and no more red 
a thousand years later,
the tribes that watered his gardens
visible and invisible now as then 
wear badges of insult and humiliation
pride and prejudice, in the silence 
of courtrooms stifled, in the decadent dance  
of black and white to white-out guilt,
and the dignified citizens he spawned
count surreptitiously sporadic victories
chew on the chagrin of centuries buried deep.

 

America that was and would become pluralised 
as vivid, varied and numerous as immigrant and native
so defined and transformed in redefinition,
the relevant political economies 
of the before, the now, 
the becoming and futures imagined 
America, no more poor no less wealthy
than the colonial cousins deemed lesser in the South
and the bedfellows of genocide up north, less but not as low,
America and Americans of that time 
were not museumed as were those lands and children
that were and came before. 
America of the eternal verities:
America of joy and sorrow
America of profit and loss
America of praise and blame
celebratory and notorious America and Americans 
as collective overall, 
as segment through cleaving 
historic and accidental 
with and without blood-letting.

Misnamed but not misbegotten America,
led by manicured arrogance 
objected to in word —
many and not so many —
by poets who dissected past,
navigated the present-complex 
mapped her countenance 
traced scars and tears
wrought in tectonic fracture, 
marked the petrified glacial horror 
and the meltdowns that bled
into lake and river —
love’s slow obliteration of history,
unearthed griefs discarded 
and the most ancient of the simplest joys,
are writing, as I write, a blueprint 
for a carburetor that can reboot a corroded engine, 
a redemptive radiator and filters too
made of the finest gauze, membranes and papyrus 
whose resilience was branded in unnecessary wars. 

First there were none 
and then there were thirteen
between the Mississippi River and Appalachian Mountains
a constitution there was 
from the Iroquois Confederacy wrought
copyrights were not waived 
they were made not to count;
first there were thirteen states
and then the bowels of the Founding Fathers spilled out
their entrails snaked their way South and West
there was annexation by gun 
and by rights arrogated upon herself —
                the Guano Act of 1856,
the alibi of accumulated excrement was milked 
and seabirds and bats never knew or cared 
the fertilizer of insatiable greed was strewn far and wide, 
excremental increment was foundational  
then and later and even now, 
and not just in the United States of Amnesia:
that which was Britain, France and Spain,
that which was Mexico
that which was nothing of marauders therein 
that which was commonly held and not priced 
that which was priceless in the philosophies that reigned 
were mapped, named, marked and stamped —
the greatest land theft in remembered history.  

America of the United States 
overruled dignity and civilisation 
subdued righteous and righteousness 
and still its enormous stomach hungered,
and so gluttony spawned blood-letting
one hundred and thirteen and counting 
brown, black, yellow and white blood 
obliterated the red of the native,
Prepared America,
America of Guano-Seek
America of Seizure 
America the Self-Righteous
America of Mis-Naming,
America in democracy’s bastardization,
Jittery America -- manufacturer of enemies 
America the Pawn of Weapon and Pharmaceutical 
Urinating  America, territory-marker, 
a beast with one hundred and twenty eight heads 
friend of despot, monarch, junta and zealot 
Forgetful America inks rules in languages she does not know.

Grandfather Whitman floats over leaves of grass
sharp blades lacerate and his words, drenched
with blood of unknown signature, and
addresses poets and freedom fighters
the patriarchal, the fratricidal, the theatrical and obsolete:

'America was not mine, I did not create nor own, 
America was and is a fantasy, it’s dimensions
are now surreptitiously shifted 
and now in bold brush-stroked arrogance redrawn,
America was a noun, when I recorded
her continental cleavages, examined the syrups
of her veins, and traced her monumental coporeality,
America is noun, still, improper and egregious,
a gun, a drone, poisonous gas, climate-wrecker, 
warlike, war-liking and warrior, idiomatic aberration,  
thrusted down throats of the untrusting,
sugar-coated happy pill for the naive,
metaphor for desecrated temples, past-tenser of cities and peoples;   
I am not America, but America claims me, claims 
the bold with the timid, grotesque with the handsome, 
claims the apple and the pie, sticks fingers in exotic dips
draws out profit, purchases anonymity, apathy and horror —
I can no longer say ‘growing pains, be patient’;
I am too long dead to awake or awaken 
but I hear there are one hundred Freedom Trains on their way,
I hear they can swim, I hear they can fly, I hear
that they are sealing military installations and confiscating weapons  
and disarming the misinforming with transcendental smiles,
I hear they come to rewrite all my words, and to them
I say: “welcome citizens of the world, I am honored.”'

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com

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Of books and men and learning to play the game

 

First we rejoice in the achievements of our parents, relatives of their generation and their friends. Later we celebrate the victories of our friends. Time passes and celebration gives way to commiseration. We lament the passing of people and the fading of glory days.

More time passes and we look to our children, their little victories, the little steps that become strides, the giving of their best — we applaud or slowly nod our heads with pride.

Time has passed. Just this morning I read a post. Not of a parent or someone of that vintage. Not of a friend or colleague. Not even a son.

‘Heartfelt congratulations to Sahan Agalawatta on being appointed as the Head Prefect of Royal College Colombo. This proud moment carries a deep emotional significance for the Royal College family. Sahan is the son of the late Sampath Agalawatta, the respected captain of the 1984 Royal rugby team who led the school to regain the historic Bradby Shield and brought great honour to the college. Though he is no longer with us, Sampath Agalawatta’s legacy of leadership, courage, and dedication continues to live on. Seeing his son rise to lead the students of Royal College is truly a touching and proud moment.’

The author is Riyaz Aluher, an old boy of the same school and a long time teacher who retired recently.

His words resonate. Sampath or ‘Agale’ as he was known was iconic. He was the name associated with the Class of 1983 of Royal College, Colombo. Sahan, Agale’s younger son, was a little boy when his father passed away. I have seen him off and on since. I mostly spoke about my friend but there was one occasion when I did tell him that he is Sahan and not ‘Agale’s son.’ In other words, he does not need any icon, father included, as a prop to greatness of any kind. That’s what I meant.

Sahan had his own battles to fight. I don’t know how he fought them, but he must have come through when it mattered. When I heard the news, I smiled. And there was a tear for Agale. As I write, there is a smile and a tear once again.  

I read the note and my thoughts went back to Riyaz or Riyaz Sir as he is better known and as I address him now, even though he was a few years junior to me in school. ‘Riyaz Sir’ because he was the Senior Games Master with whom I had to interact in my capacity as the Chairman of the Advisory and Management Committee in relation to chess, carrom and scrabble.  

Riyaz Sir could never stop smiling. The smiles would often be accompanied by a twinkle in his eye. He had a sense of humour. More importantly, he knew the school and he knew what it stood for. For him, education was all about producing decent, honourable and disciplined citizens. On such things he never compromised. So the students who encountered him, Sahan included I’m sure, learned important lessons from him that they may or may not have been taught formally in the classroom.  

I have not delved into his teaching history, i.e. those years before he joined his alma mater. It’s something I’ve jotted down in the must-do files of the mind. I’ve read him in the things he did for sports and kids involved in sports. I’ve read him in the bits and pieces revealed in the way he conducted himself as a teacher and Assistant Principal. And I’ve read him in the innumerable Facebook posts on various matters related to the school.

And so, I know that Riyaz Sir has learned of books and men (and women) as recommended in the College Song. And I know that he is a book (and a man) that hundreds of children who have since grown into men of standing have read and learned from.  Riyaz Sir has a rare appreciation of personality and history, for he researches and writes lovely tributes to Royalists, old and young, sometimes in the form of a birthday wish. The following is a witty, elegant and spot-on note on another member of our class, Sukumar Nagendran, whose philanthropy is legendary. As is his humility, I should add.  ‘A tribute to the letter “S”’ is the title he picked.  

‘The stately sweep of S shapes stories of strength, service, and sacrifice. It sings of spirit and steadfastness; it symbolizes sincerity and silent struggle. Sometimes sharp, sometimes soothing, this subtle symbol steers the soul of speech. Such splendid symbolism suits Sukumar — a seasoned son of Royal College Colombo — whose steadfast service strengthened both College and country. From school corridors to national circles, his signature was sincerity; his standard was selfless service. Solid in stance, simple in style, he stood for substance over show. Though now settled in the United States, the silver strand of school spirit still surrounds him. Seas may separate soil, yet sentiment stays steadfast. His support continues silently; his solidarity remains strong. Such souls sustain institutions; such spirits serve society beyond shores. So let the letter S salute Sukumar — symbol of service, scholarship, and sacrifice. May his story inspire succeeding generations to strive sincerely, serve selflessly, and stand steadfast for both College and nation.’

Books and men. Sampath, Suku and Riyaz Sir. They’ve learnt and they’ve served. They acknowledge teachers, they give back without hesitation. They all played the game, again as recommended in the College Song. With integrity, honesty and humility. 

As for young Sahan Agalawatta, who carries his father’s cheerful nature, humility and courage, all I can say is, ‘be you, and you’ll recolour the world in pleasing hues.’

Agale would have been proud. His mother and siblings are probably proud. He has made Riyaz Sir proud, he’s made all his father’s friends proud. Good things await.  

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmai.com

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Measured sweetness

 

[‘A Splash of Honey,’ by Christabelle Corea-Aturupane, published by BCONNECTED, 2025, reviewed by Malinda Seneviratne]
 

All lives are epic, even those that are brief. Epic lives are not always written, for not everyone is a writer or feels compelled to gather and string together indelible memories. Some lives are by choice lived privately. And scribes can be selective — they write, if at all, the stories of known personalities that are more public, even if they border on the notorious. Such stories sell.

All lives are epic and so was the life of Christabelle Euphelia Corea-Aturupane. She, in her later years, decided to write about moments and people that mattered most to her. Published not too long before she moved to regions inaccessible even by love, she called her recollections ‘A splash of honey.’ Sweet. As was she.  

I knew her as the mother of Harsha and Harinlal, two of the most gifted chess players Sri Lanka has produced, both national champions and at one time the highest rated players in the country. I saw her briefly at the funeral of her husband, Herbert, which took place in his home town of Kegalle, in 1980 I believe. Years later, actually decades later, I had the opportunity to meet her more often. This was at her son Harinlal’s place where chess friends from St Thomas’ Mount Lavinia and a couple of Royalists would meet to play chess and bridge and make merry in other ways. Those evenings would inevitably end with Aunty Christabelle accompanying that bunch of friends on the piano. Among them, R.D. Gunaratne could sing quite well. The others tried. She didn’t mind. She just played. She smiled. And addressed everyone as ‘darling.’

This book is not about her sons’ friends, but every page has her signature good-heartedness, celebration of life and especially good times with her near and dear, and of course her elegance.

In ‘A splash of honey’ the author gives the reader measured sweetness. She is honest in her recounting of incidents and people, meticulous in mentioning one and all, eloquent in description and perhaps a little coy when it comes to the warts and infirmities that are inevitable in individuals and collectives.

The book can be read as the history of a clan. The Coreas. The Coreas of Chilaw, to be precise. The author has made her intentions clear at the outset: a ‘desire to document one’s lineage and impart one’s knowledge.’ Following Kanin, she exercises ‘[T]he freedom to roam and rummage in the attic of [her] yesterdays,’ because ‘the ability to relive those parts of life that have been significant is a fight equal to life itself.’  

She has painted the Chilaw of her childhood with delicate strokes, having dipped her brushes in idyllic pigments to give us landscapes, culture and history. It’s not the attic of her yesterdays that she invites us to visit but a time and country far removed from the Chilaw and Sri Lanka we pass through or inhabit today.

Places obtain meaning on account of people they contain or are shaped by. For the author, it’s primarily family. Primarily clan, really. So it’s not grandparents, siblings, husband, children and grandchildren, but uncles and aunts, granduncles and grandaunts, cousins, nieces and nephews. Indeed it’s also about the other Coreas of Chilaw.

Coreas, as she points out, constitute one ‘C’ of the three Cs associated with Chilaw, the others being crabs and coconuts. She mentions a fourth following the ascension of Bishop Emeritus Duleep De Chickera of the Church of Ceylon: Committed Christians. Obviously, Chilaw or rather Halawatha (she has interjected the legends associated with that name as well!), was made of other people and other faiths, and these too she has detailed in their vocations, fervor and faith.

They were aristocrats, clearly, not least of all on account of a lineage traceable to national heroes such as Edirilla Bandara and possibly to Parakramabahu the Sixth and even earlier, Siri Sangabodhi. The aristocracy in Chilawan times, if you will, came primarily from wealth and vocation. Feudalism was more pronounced in those times the relevant hierarchies do find their way into the text, but certainly without the vulgar superiority and condescension characteristic of the aristocratic class. The author lays it out as is and with much grace as evident in the chapter titled ‘The Ayahs and the Carter.’

It is probably pertinent to interject here the notion that did the rounds some decades ago and perhaps finds traction even today in certain circles: ‘in Chilaw if you are not a Corea, you are a pariah!’ It’s probably something that less savoury sections of the clan coined. Christabelle Corea-Aturupane, to my knowledge, was too refined to indulge in the obnoxious. She is clearly proud of her family, but speaks as fondly of the non-Coreas of her childhood or the Chilaw of those times.

The book contains, as promised in the Prologue, ‘a wealth of fascinating tales of power, fame and love.’ These obviously must have had relevant undersides, those of powerlessness, infamy and heartbreak or hate, but those are not what the author was fascinated with. The absences don’t detract too much. To the extent that the history of people and families and especially clans are windows into the history of the places they inhabit, ‘A splash of honey,’ would certainly pique the interests of the historian.

All lives are epic and no journey tracing lineage can be expected to capture even the most pertinent of the epic-slices of each and every individual mentioned. The author has picked and chosen. She writes of her Uncle Stanley’s pranks and the escapades of her brother Ranjith with great delight. Others are mentioned in passing when she recounts holidays and special occasions, family routines and parental priorities, playmates and pastimes, and even penpals.

There’s a chapter on ‘treasured memories,’ but that’s what the entire book is about. We walk with Christabelle when she was a child, we watch her as she grows into a beautiful young woman and wish somehow that we were privileged to know of the years when she was a wife, a mother and later a grandmother. Her focus however is Chilaw and the Coreas, not Mount Lavinia and the Aturupanes, places and people privileged to be graced by her presence no doubt.

She was 90 when she put these recollections together. One cannot help but think that Christabelle has roamed freely in the yesterdays of her life and given fresh life to what may have otherwise gathered dust and perished in the attics she rummaged in. She was a pianist and a painter. The book is musical. It is a work of art, made that much more elegant by the team at BCONNECTED (Pvt) Ltd who coordinated, edited, designed and printed the book.

Christabelle Corea-Aturupane has offered facets of a Chilaw that is no more and a clan which, though old, continues to generate youthfulness. It’s a gift to the Coreas. It could inspire other families, aristocrat or otherwise, to record stories that don’t often get written or told.

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That Lass!

 

Jude Lucksiri Fernando is an old friend. When I entered campus, he was just moving out, but for a few months, i.e. before he got the results of his final year exam, we were fellow undergraduates. My first encounter with him was in an abridged production of ‘Galileo’ by Bertold Brecht. Prof Ashley Halpe did an excellent job of both the script and direction and the Peradeniya production won that year’s Inter-University Drama Competition.

Anyway, Jude played the Pope. I was Galileo’s student, Andrea Sarti. Jude was probably the only leftist among English Medium students of the Arts Faculty. We had a lot to talk about. And we’ve been talking for forty years now. Off and on. Randomly. A few times in the USA and more times in Sri Lanka. And this morning too. At the Commons Coffeeshop. A place we both frequent.

As always we spoke of what’s what and what’s not in the world and our beautiful island. And of Rolls-Rice. Yes, not Rolls-Royce. He told me about a poem he wrote and shared it with me: ‘ROLLS-RICE Cars In Sri Lanka.’ It’s long. Too long to quote in full, but you can find it online. But here’s how it starts:

They—Plumeria and Gem—praise the engine's brassy brag,
Never mind the seed and sow, the sunrise in a bag.
Never mind the husks that mountain where the backstreets choke—
Their Rolls-Rice shines like "success," a rich man's private joke.
Glow fades; the harvest remains.

Plumeria. That’s another name for ‘Frangipani,’ which we know as ‘Araliya.’  Plumeria honoured the French botanist Charles Plumier, a Catholic monk who traveled what came to be known as the Americas, documenting plant and animal species. Frangipani is a name owed to the Italian family by that name credited with the creation of a synthetic perfume resembling the fragrance of the ‘Araliya.’

Jude is of course referring to the rice moguls whose Sinhala names could be translated as ‘Plumeria’ and ‘Gem’ and their fascination with super expensive vehicles. Rolls-Royces. It’s all about political economy, obviously, with a dash of his characteristic wit. I believe ‘ROLLS-RICE Cars in Sri Lanka’ deserves to be a permanent feature on any anthology of modern Sri Lankan poetry in English.

Jude said, ‘Plumeria refers to…’ and I completed the sentence, ‘Araliya.’ That’s because I had once checked the etymology for the English name of the flower. I knew it was ‘Frangipani,’ but I wondered how that name had been coined. It had nothing to do with flowers and fragrances in that it was not botany-related. Fragrance there was, of course, and texture as well, not too unlike that of the ‘Araliya.’ It had to do with a little girl’s curiosity in sequestered times. Briefly, 88-89.

She had, she told me, climbed the Araliya tree in her garden so she could peep over the world and gaze upon the world outside or rather that tiny sliver of a few square meters that time and politics yielded to curious eyes such as those owned by her. 

The name ‘Araliya’ has always fascinated me. I know that it is a name some parents give their daughters. I know it’s a flower. Somehow, in my mind, it always splintered: 'ara + liya’ or ‘that lass.’

Her name isn’t Araliya, but she is nevertheless a lass. She’s close and yet far away. Can be breathed, but never touched and therefore 'That-Lass,’ and not ‘This-Lass.’

So I wrote and titled what I wrote ‘Araliya’ a long, long time ago. 

Araliya

Explorers long ago
— or brigands, conquistadors or spice-bandits —
brought Plumerian gifts
beads for the heathens
or a little piece of home

We have since lost the name
and re-named:
The family Frangipani of Italy
supplanted  the botanical monk Plumier
but here in tropical lyricism
the slip, supple grace inspired:
Ara-Liya, ‘that lass’

That lass
upon the branches
peeping over a wall
breaking curfews
perfuming in subtleties unrecorded

A flower correctly named.

No political economy here. No critique. No wit. A lesser poem, some may say, but this is not about relative merits of literary endeavours. I love Jude’s poem. He may or may not like my ‘Araliya.’ There's a glow, though. I've noticed it. And there are harvests that remain but will not be stolen.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com. This article was first published in the Daily News.

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In the name of 'The Father'

 

Portrait of Gamini Seneviratne, painted by the late Kulanatha Senadheera 

Almost four years ago, not too long before Galle Face was re-named and the word ‘aragalaya’ came to dominate conversation, a father offered some advice to his daughter who had been agitating at Independence Square for a few days and informed him that the plan was to march to Galle Face.

The father could not stop her even if he wanted to. He did not want to. He knew enough about agitation, the way things could snowball into dimensions unexpected and the possibility of violence. He said as much.

‘It would be foolish to think that there’s nothing to worry about. Things can get dangerous. If things come to a head, it’s not necessarily the leaders who get killed. I am scared because I love you. But also because I love you, I will not say “don’t go.” History could be made and if that’s the history you want to make, I would want you to be a part of it. For this, you have my blessings. Just make sure you have enough water with you at all times.’

Something along those lines. I was that father and the girl was my daughter. I remember remembering when I uttered those words something my own father told me back in bheeshanaya times.

‘When we marched to Kandy from Peradeniya to protest against the assassination of Patrice Lumumba, we were ready for anything. Anything included getting beaten or killed. But that ‘anything’ somehow was nothing compared to the ‘anything’ that might happen to you or your friends.’

Some of my friends were arrested. Some were tortured. Some were killed. My father didn’t say ‘no.’ At the time I did not know and probably could not know anything of his anxieties, but in March or early April 2022, I knew. I think I told my girl this as well.

Such moments don’t come along all the time, although that particular moment stretched into days, weeks and months. At one point she confessed that she doesn’t know much about many things and that she ought to read a lot more. Today she reads a lot about political philosophy and we have highly stimulating conversations about ‘old’ thinkers and their continuing relevance, discussions which enlighten me much more than they do her.

My father kept his anxieties to himself. He may have shared them with my late mother. My mother, for her part, was as reticent about such things. I do remember something she said a few days before I entered university: ‘there’s no point telling you not to get involved in student politics — you are the kind who would — but be careful.’ That was all. I can only imagine the dimensions of her anxieties and even suffering, for mothers are somehow different from fathers, although they are both parents to rebellious children.

I know more about fatherhood but of course my knowledge is limited by the particular ways of my daughters, their convictions and agitation, and the risks they take whether or not they are aware of their true dimensions.

There must have been times when I was livid about my parents’ imperfections, but today if I am asked, I probably wouldn’t be able to name even one. Anyway, even if I could, I would not. This is because I am well aware of my imperfections and more than this I know my girls understand the way and why-not of my fathering, even if they may not forgive all that I did that I should not have and all that I didn’t do that I ought to have done.

It doesn’t mean there are no regrets. Of course there are! Wisdom comes late. Too late, sometimes. There is one consolation though, and this I told her when she turned 25 a couple of days ago: ‘The only consolation is that you’ve acquired so much more by yourself than what we’ve given you to understand and deal with what life and the world tosses your way.’

She’s far away. Too far away for the assurances that presence and immediacy make possible. Too far away ‘to watch over.’ My father may have felt the same way but unlike me he never mentioned such things. I might have wondered why and even been annoyed about the distances he kept in such things, but after all these years I can say with confidence that he was wise. Wiser than I could ever be with regard to my daughters. But I do remember him ‘reading’ my palm one day and saying ‘you have an incredible ability to remain calm in the midst of all the tempests you create, but it drives people around you crazy!’ I remember saying, ‘that’s not written on my palm; you are just saying what you think you know about me!’ I remember both of us and everyone around us laughing. Today, I think that’s the closest he came to blurting out his anxieties about me.

I can’t keep things to myself and this may (or may not) have cost my daughters. But to the girl who turned 25 I simply said, ‘I’ve held you close all these years, but you’ve held me closer, and believe me, that’s the greatest blessing.’

We love. We just love. There’s nothing more we can do or give. This I say for myself and, in a way, in the name of my father. Gamini Seneviratne. Eighty eight years old, almost. Impossible. And yet present, always. In his own way. As is his right.

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com.

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For Sirajudin Mohamed Nishmi, wherever he may be

 

He was referred to as Nismi, although the name was Nishmi. Some may have used ‘sh’ instead of ’s’ but few, if any, knew his full name. Sirajudin Mohamed Nishmi. We don’t know how he spelled the name. Maybe it was ‘Nizmi.’

Anyway, he was an engineering student at the University of Peradeniya in the turbulent late-eighties. He was more than that. Or less, depending on your political and ideological persuasions.  A student leader. That cannot be disputed.  

Nishmi, by most accounts, is one of thousands ‘disappeared’ during the bheeshanaya. How it happened, where it happened and when it happened, we might never know. His story hasn’t been written either, although there are various accounts of that time which refer to his involvement.

He was the voice of what was at the time called the Action Committee of the university. This was a time when formal student councils didn’t exist or rather were not allowed to exist. Batches of all faculties ‘elected’ representatives. There were no formal elections. Someone would propose and someone else would second and that was all. Organised groups, such as students who were JVPers, would make sure that their ‘people’ by and large became batch-representatives and thereafter faculty-representatives. The Action Committees would decide for the general student body. These decisions, it was pretty clear, came ‘from the top,’ i.e. in alignment with the political interests of the party.

I don’t know if Nishmi was actually a member of the JVP student organisation, the Socialist Students Union. He bossed, in time, the Action Committee. This was sometime in 1987 or 1988. He was in the Engineering Faculty, as mentioned, and I was in the Arts Faculty. He was JVP and I was not. He was in the Action Committee, I was not. He was a student boss, I was just a student, just another recipient of boss-decisions.

Nishmi’s moment probably came after the then Convenor of the Inter University Student, Ranjithan Gunaratnam, ‘moved’ to the higher echelons of the party. That probably coincided with a long period of detention along with dozens of student activists in May 1987. Nishmi was charismatic. He was an excellent orator.

This became clear to me in December 1986 when he was one of two students, the other being Rev Athureliye Rathana Thero, who addressed students in the midst of a token boycott of lectures to commemorate the killing of a student at Peradeniya in 1976. It was the ‘Weerasooriya Commemoration,’ at which Prof Desmond Mallikaarachchi also spoke. All three were top notch speakers, Desmond of course being the one with greater substance and by quite a margin too. Nishmi was less fire than Rev Rathana Thero, but he touched hearts.

Two years later, then the universities reopened after several months, the Action Committee immediately declared a boycott and the entire student body at Peradeniya was asked to attend a meeting at the Medical Faculty. I can’t remember how long it lasted, but the meeting was moved to the gymnasium. That’s where I first witnessed Nishmi’s ability to sway an audience.  

After several months at home, students were not too keen on boycotting lectures. National politics obviously bled into the universities, but the general feeling was one of getting the exams over with and moving out. Nishmi changed all that. He spoke for two hours. Off the cuff. He was logical. He made sense. Of course this doesn’t mean that his analysis was spotless. He inserted ‘facts’ that were useful and left out those which would compromise his ‘line.’

At the end of it, someone came up with a ‘declaration’. It was read out and approved by a show of hands. A forest of hands, actually. I was in a corner. I know I didn’t raise my hand. I know that Dhammika Amarakoon who was standing next to me didn’t either. We were not noticed. We didn’t count. From then onwards it was ‘everyone for the student movement,’ never mind that ‘student movement’ was nothing but a front for the JVP. Those who didn’t go along, went home. Those who remained but objected went silent.

That year, 1987, and the following one too, stretched. The universities were either closed or when open lectures were boycotted. I didn’t see Nishmi much, except at the WUS canteen or thereabouts because the room occupied (probably illegally) by the Action Committee was nearby. But one day he did make the long climb up to Marcus Fernando Hall. I was surprised that he knew me and even more surprised that he had come to speak with me.

We were playing cricket. He knew I was an English medium student. He started talking about ‘The English Medium,’ and I cut him off, explaining that I just happened to be studying in English and that I didn’t really identify with the political leanings of that particular segment of students. Then he cut me off, saying that this was not what he was talking about.

Nishmi simply said that ‘we’ (I think he meant ‘the student movement’ but was generous enough, at least in his mind, to include me) should get the English medium students involved in student politics. We spoke briefly. He needed to mobilise students. Recruitment was probably second-nature to him. It was not my thing. But I was struck by his persistence and his charm. Nishmi had a winning smile; more winning than his rhetoric.

Nishmi got lost in a revolution that was lost before it began, at least according to my analysis. The defeat of the JVP didn’t make me sad. The victory of the most tyrannical regime we have known since Independence didn’t make me happy either. I just thought of those who were killed for no reason at all. Many were innocent. Nishmi was not, at least not to the extent that the party he belonged to was not. I like to think that his intentions were honourable, but I have no way of telling.

All I know is that I was sad, even though I did not know the details of his fate. There were others like that. Is it because he was known and I had the opportunity to speak a few words with him? I don’t know. But he was among the better men in our student days.

A friend who too belonged to the party told me that he had once met someone who looked like Nishmi. That person had Nishmi’s signature half-grin, he said. He had merely tapped my friend and said ‘Malayaa..’ Acknowledgment, and nothing more.

What happened to Nishmi? Maybe he is still alive, using a different name, doing things very different from those that were bread and butter for his activist avatar. Time can change a lot of things. Maybe I might be less inclined to be positive about Nishmi, who can tell? I give him the benefit of the doubt.  

He comes to mind off and on. And I wonder what went wrong. That time, those people, myself, the circumstances; we cannot bring it all back and do it right. But we are in this time. We could do better. Nishmi would, I tell myself.

This article was first published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday.' 

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer. malindadocs@gmail.com

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