[Review of Udayasiri Wickramaratne’s ‘Garu Kataanaayakathumani’ by Malinda Seneviratne]
The Sinhala equivalent of ‘Honourable Speaker’ is ‘Garu Kathaanaayakathumani,’ ‘thumani’
being an additional honorific. Udayasiri Wickramaratne’s popular play
on parliamentary affairs or rather parliamentary banter is titled ‘Garu Kataanaayakathumani’. Note: ‘Kathaa’ would be stories/speeches and ‘Kataa’ a word coined from ‘kata’ or ‘mouth.’
Technically, the Sinhala term is more appropriate to the position. The Speaker, after all, rarely speaks. Kataanaayaka
could be taken to mean ‘one who leads the speakers or speech-makers’ or
‘one who oversees all speeches/speakers.’ So, as I set out to review
the latest version of the play, I had to figure out how Udayasiri’s play
on the term could be captured in English. Technically, it had to be a
word that drew from ‘mouth’ or ‘bad mouthing,’ but English is too poor
or my vocabulary is limited to harvest the appropriate or twist the
available. Kata (mouth) and Kathaa (speech) are similar
whereas ‘mouth’ and ‘speech(es)’ are not. I can’t go with ‘speaker’
because that would rob the irreverent character of the title and, in
general, the play. ‘Peeker’ seemed better because the character playing
the Speaker didn’t have to do much apart from having a lazy, bored and
indulgent peek at the proceedings unfolding before him.
The show
at the Punchi Theatre on April 29, 2026 was my third viewing. I was at
the maiden show, performed at the Lionel Wendt in 2019. This was in the
midst or the aftermath of the parliamentary coup towards the end of that
year where the then Speaker, Karu Jayasuriya, was in the thick of
things at a moment when it was difficult to distinguish parliament from a
circus. Key conversation-snippets had been scripted in. It was
hilarious for other reasons as well, because the play touched on other
issues that concerned the general public.
It is obviously easy
to mine social media for comment and satire but weaving it all into a
story is another matter. Udayasiri made it seamless and managed a nice
mix of serious commentary and humour to keep the audience in fits of
laughter and give people something to take home and think about as well.
‘Suddek oba amathai (A white man addresses you)’ was his debut play. That was in 2010. It was followed by Rangapaem Ivarai (Play-acting is done) in 2013, Pem Yuwalak Ona Kara Thibe (Wanted: a couple of lovers) in 2015, Thunsiya Heta Eka (Three Hundred and Sixty One) in 2017 and Harima Badu Thunak (Three Crazy Fellows) in 2023. ‘Garu Kataanaayakathumani' (‘Kataanaayaka’ hereafter) took stage in the midst of the parliamentary coup of 2019. The right moment, obviously, given the political chaos.
I
went for the maiden performance at the Lionel Wendt. It was a riot. The
references to the political intrigue of that time was unmistakable. The
dialogue was familiar and the satire certainly resonated with the
general sentiments of the audience, going strictly by its response. All
of that is easy, obviously. The challenge was to wring out serious
political commentary from what politicians blurt out in and out of
parliament.
Udayasiri was merciless. He treated all the
politicians lampooned in the play and the parties they represented
equally. No one was spared. The laughter it all generated indicated, to
me, a general agreement with the critique that Udayasiri had written
into the script. It was in fact a critique of politicians, parties,
political culture and the entire political system which left us even
more convinced that we, as citizens, are well and truly shortchanged or
worse, absolutely irrelevant. At least in the period following the
announcement of election results and the calling of the next election.
Ours is a tiny window. We may feel a tad important but just for a few
days every 5-6 years. At other times, we are victims of designs made in
our name but for the benefit of cronies. At other times, we laugh,
either privately or collectively in places like the Lionel Wendt,
Lumbini or Punchi Theatre where the likes of Udayasiri make it alright
for us to show those in power and aspiring to positions of power that we
know what’s what.
‘Kataanaayaka’ has a format that is
made for adjustment to changing times and political fortunes. It’s a
dynamic script that is amenable to bold and extensive revision. Indeed,
it allows players to ad lib too. Udayasiri claims that there are
innumerable lines that he would be hearing for the first time. In such
moments, he becomes part of the audience. He laughs with the rest of us.
The
characters are named by way of address, but they so clearly resemble
real politicians that no one can be faulted if the names we missed and
moreover replaced with those of the particular individuals identified by
the characters. It’s almost as if the onus is on the audience to figure
out who is being played. It’s a no-brainer, really, for anyone who has
even a cursory interest in local politics.
Ishara
Wickramasinghe’s character, Wijayasena resembles former President, Ranil
Wickremesinghe. There’s one character, Mahasena, who in appearance,
voice and demeanour is a great Mahinda Rajapaksa and is played by
Susanga Kahandawalaarachchi. There’s Jayasenathuma, who we are compelled
to conclude is Maithripala Sirisena, and is played by Thilan Warnajith
Wijesinghe. Sashika Diyamanatha Samare is an excellent stand-in for
President Anura Kumara Dissanayake whose play-name is Janasena, while
Sudarshana Bandara is recognisable as Wimal Weerawansa (Suriyasena).
Prabodha Buddhipriya plays an excellent albeit quiet(er) Punchisena
(Sajith Premadasa?). There’s also Sinhakumari played by Mihiri
Priyangani (Geetha Kumarasinghe?) and Malkumari by Nayanathara De Silva
(Hirunika Premachandra?).
The more boisterous of our
parliamentarians have been rolled into a single character, played by
Sanjeewa Dissanayake. This particular show, the 231st overall and
closing on the 100th at the Punchi Theatre, had characters absent in
earlier iterations. For example, the character played by Lasanduni
Jayawardena, although she spoke sporadically, was ‘Pragnakumari,’
clearly crafted to represent the Prime Minister, Harini Amarasuriya,
while Charuka Suraweera played an excellent ‘Aruchchuna.' Yes, it had to
be him. Both, obviously, were not in Parliament in 2018.
Some
of the jokes were old, some twisted old humour and then there was
freshness too. On this occasion, compared to the two previous viewings, I
was struck by the fact that people were laughing from beginning to end.
I like to believe that some element of that response was the audience,
myself included, laughing at itself, for suffering idiots, clowns,
crooks, demagogues and agents of other countries and a particular class
of people that is always spared the agonies suffered by the general
public. Everyone laughed at all the jokes, regardless of who they may
have voted for. It told me that we are, for all our faults, a society
that is able to self-criticise.
We vote for someone or a party
despite the obvious flaws. We pick the lesser evil of the moment. Very
few swear by those they vote for. There’s always a bloc vote, but that’s
dwindling. We may be called a fickle polity, but no, we are a polity
that just refuses to be shackled to any particular person or party. We
are loyal, but only to a point. Udayasiri reminded me of all that. After
all, there were no boos or drop-dead silences when any character on
stage made a fool of him/herself. The critique apparent in the banter
and the cringe-worthy uttering of one politician or another, was
legitimate and accepted as such.
Udayasiri’s plays, we have come
to understand, are funny, sharp, insightful and musical. Literally.
Lalith Wickramarathne, who is a music director, sound manager,
percussionist and a Director at City FM, SLBC, added a lot of colour
with the music arrangement.
The songs or rather snippets of songs were
certainly appropriate to the particular dramatic moment; there was one
original (‘Chooti-chooti hil’ or ‘Tiny, tiny holes’) which has done the
rounds since 2018 and therefore is not exactly unfamiliar. The other
songs or segments were from popular artists. They were familiar,
immediately understood to be appropriate and therefore appreciated.
The
acting. The main characters were effectively portrayed. We didn’t see clones of known politicians, but the particular actors did justice to
the characters drawn from the political firmament. There were quite a
few minor characters. They didn’t get to speak much, but then the ‘way
of parliamentary proceedings’ allowed Udayasiri to use their entrances
and exits to bring in quite a number of ‘parliamentarians,’ on to the
floor. They were good enough, but paucity of lines and minimal presence
on stage coupled with strong performances from the main actors made such
characters quite forgettable. Their stage-moment, nevertheless, was
significant and relevant to the context. Udayasiri’s script-in-flux
made sure of it.
The Speaker or, the Honorable Keeper, played by
Ruwan Malith Pieris, as is typical of the post, was mostly quiet. Of
course, Pieris has had to ‘impersonate’ several ‘keepers’ since the play
for first performed. There was not much to ‘keep’ for the script
reigned in the unruly quickly enough.
Overall, the players were
not debating a particular vote or piece of draft legislation. In this
sense the play was not exactly ‘parliamentary.’ Parliament was merely a
set wherein ‘parliamentarians’ did parliamentary things with words,
gestures, expressions and movements that amounted to self-undressing
that was equally hilarious and tragic as the undressing of one another.
I
came out laughing to myself. What a parliament, what a country, what a
citizenry, I told myself. We are a hilarious nation and since we can
laugh at each other and ourselves, we will always have dignity and hope.
Udayasiri says a lot of things. This too, I feel.
