Poetic matters

 

The Colombo International Book Fair (CIBF) is a carnival. On the surface, a literary carnival — you get the books, book stalls, book lovers presumably, book launches and various literature-related events. Good stuff, but not for me. I do visit, but only for an hour or two. I prefer to spend that time at the Kavi Poth Salpila, the poetry-book stall run by award-winning author Mahinda Prasad Masimbula.

I stopped by for a few minutes on Tuesday. It was not the ritual stop, but a pause for a quick perusal before proceeding to the ‘Sankhathana Mandapaya’ (The Discourse Pavilion) where I was to be a panelist discussing the question, ‘Does poetry still matter?’

My quick-browse let to the purchase of a few books: verses penned by Masimbula’s for a teledrama based on his book ‘Manikkavatha,’ W A Abeysinghe’s translations of a set of poems by Pushkin, Nandun Yasitha Dissanayake’s long-titled latest collection, Kanchana Amilani’s ‘Kala Rekha (Timeline)’ and Timran Keerthi’s ‘Maduravathi nam tharu rataava.’ They constituted a short answer to that odd but perhaps relevant-to-some question I was supposed to help unravel a little later.

It was an interesting discussion. The discussion was live-streamed and there does not require transcription even in condensed form. As always, my fallback to being chronically unprepared was the fact that others always say something interesting. I owe the moderator, Tinaz Amit, and the fellow-panelists, Dr Sujeeva Sebastian, Shirania Rajapakse and Anupama Godakanda. As always, the discussion stayed long afterwards and inspired further reflection.

Does poetry matter? Does anything matter, for that matter? Once the second question pops up, the first is rendered meaningless. Matter-less, if you so wish.

People do make careers of their art. Some become wealthy. Most, historically, die in poverty. Extravagant spending can land the best in dire straits. I had thought Shakespeare died poor and said as much, but apparently he did not. The lives artists get to lead are not always related to the worth of their art. The point, however, is that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if art pays. It doesn’t matter if no one understands. Or rather, it matters very little. Some do enjoy accolade-glow. It’s nice to be recognised. Recognised or not, however, people write, paint, compose music, dance, act etc. There’s reward in the act and that’s not always something one whispers to oneself by way of consolation.

There are poetry-matters moments. I mentioned a couple. The first was about Pablo Neruda. He recounts that he got into a brawl with someone in a bar. That someone was tossed out. When Neruda walked out sometime later, the man was there and came towards him. Neruda’s initial thought was that the man wanted a second round of fisticuffs. No, he had been distraught when he learned that he had dared to attack Pablo Neruda, whose poetry he had recited to the woman he eventually married. And then he proceeded to recite the poem. Poetry mattered then.

Three years ago while visiting my niece in Madison, Wisconsin, I observed a demonstration condemning the genocidal attacks by Israel on the people of Palestine. There was a young man carrying a placard with the following legend: ‘Every Beautiful Poem is an Act of Resistance.’

Worth a write. Back then I wrote a daily article for this same paper, the Daily News. So I wrote about beautiful poetry and resistance. That day, coincidentally, poem popped up in Facebook Memories:

So let there be stones
beautiful ones
cut by hand or time
with edges that can wait
for moonquake and anarchy
those necessary preconditions
for bloomage and bleeding
mirrors that fracture desolate skies
and trigger
the eruption of rainbows,
stones gathered
from every stoning
that turned broken bodies
into words
to re-cleanse
our desecrated hearts.

Related. So I related the relationship. Poetry mattered. Matters in matters of the heart, matters in acts of resistance. Like pavement stones.

Matters very little, someone might say, although others would argue that poetry did play a role in preparing hearts for resistance and rebellion. The true dimensions of the matter at hand was perhaps best articulated by Neruda. It’s a line I’ve quoted often and which I mentioned during the discussion as well: ‘Ah! If only with a drop of love or poetry, we could placate the anger of the world; but that requires resolute hearts.’  

There was a drop of poetry in Madison, Wisconsin. There was a drop of poetry outside a nondescript bar somewhere in Latin America many decades ago. Drops of love, they could also be called. The anger of the world does not subside easily, but something distasteful was nevertheless quelled. Dissolved. Just with a drop of poetry.

And here I am, more than fifty years later, talking about love and war, tears and poetry. Matters. And in this way are hearts made more resolute, I do believe.

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The Stern General Efstratios Grivas

I have always had a problem with his name. I first met Efstratios Grivas, a chess grandmaster from Greece, in Tromso, Norway in 2014 when he was the coach of the Sri Lankan team for the Chess Olympiad and I was the non-playing captain cum coach.  ‘Grandmaster’ seemed too formal. ‘Grivas’ was too casual. ‘Efstratios’ was hard to pronounce. I called him ‘captain.’ 

Now, 12 years later, he is once again our coach and I am also here in Samarkand, Uzbekistan, for the Chess Olympiad or rather the Congressional Sessions and Election of the world body for chess, FIDE. He is the official ‘captain’. I am the official delegate of Sri Lanka.

A few weeks ago, when we came to an agreement about this particular assignment, I told him that I never knew how to address him. He laughed and came up with some suggestions. I asked him what his name meant. ‘Efstratios,’ he said, meant ‘General.’ Seemed apt.  Now, when I address him either in text or in conversation it’s ‘General’ or ‘Captain.’

Today, I decided to investigate the name. Etymology. Historically, it meant 'commander of a good army.' 'Ef' means 'good' and 'stratos' is 'army.' General’ is a decent enough equivalent. Stratos 'moved' to 'strategy.' Makes chess sense as well.  But Grivas? Well, apparently it is from Slavic languages and it means 'the mane of a horse'. Apparently one of his ancestors was a big warrior who was feared. 

 

He’s had his battles. On and off the chess board. His exploits in chess are well documented and include dozens of medals in world events. He has represented Greece in international competitions no less than a staggering 186 times and he’s competed in eight Chess Olympiads between 1982 and 1999. 

General Grivas has not played much competitive chess in decades but he’s spent all that time honing the competitiveness of hundreds of thousands of chess players. He holds top coaching credentials in the world body for chess, FIDE, and has coached dozens of top grandmasters. He’s a champion-generating machine and that has a lot to do with his knowledge, his ‘generalship’ and being a ‘stern one’ long before the ‘greyness’ arrived and through the passing years. He has coached and he has helped people self-learn through over 130 published chess books and other educational material which have been translated into nine languages. There’s even a chess opening in his name, the Grivas Sicilian variation.

So he’s won medals for his playing and awards for training and leadership. He would shrug these off with a characteristic wave of the hand and a laugh. Yes, General Grivas can laugh and can make people laugh. But I’ve seen him being stern. When he has to. Decades of teaching has probably given him an array of training techniques he can draw from to get his players to be the best they can be. He can instill fear but also obtained respect for he ensures that at the end of a session self-confidence is left intact or strengthened.  

Battles off the 64 squares are for anecdotal articulation. He says things in passing but only if asked. He has let things go. He lets things stay 'gone.'  Wise man. 

Last night, outside the Bogishamol Hotel in Samarkand, I listened with fascination as he tossed out examples of things that worked for him and the theories behind certain coaching decisions including team selection and which complement of players should play each round of a team tournament like the Olympiad. 

I offered, ‘you keep learning as you teach, don’t you?’  

He didn’t laugh. He was not ‘stern.’ He simply said, ‘Of course; if you think you know it all, you are finished.’  As a teacher, that is. 

It’s not some amazing ‘truth’ that he has chanced upon of course, for the best teachers always know there is more to know than is already known. Not all teachers operate that way. They prefer to display a wizard badge or wear the relevant trappings in words, voice, tone and advertisement. 

Grivas, a FIDE Senior Trainer who once served as the Secretary of the FIDE Trainers’ Commission and of the European Chess Trainers’ Commission, has credentials tough to match, but he has in the  curriculum vitae of demeanour and conduct that which is rare among teachers. Humility. 

It's been 12 years since I first met him. We’ve aged, both of us. He has become a better coach. I can say that because simply by walking through the years I read people better than I did 12 years ago. There’s more grey than before, less hair too. The mind is young. Virile. And he gives the best lessons without reservation.

‘What a teacher!’ That’s what I might have said 12 years ago. ‘What a student!’ That’s what I say today. I know he will laugh if/when he hears/reads this.

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The Colombo Telegraph and Uvindu Kurukulasuriya

 

A few days ago the website www.colombotelegraph.com ‘celebrated’ its 15ht birthday. Over the years dozens of political commentators have been featured on Colombo Telegraph (CT). They’ve mostly written about the political upheavals of the particular moment, but have for the most part drawn from longer histories and been framed by happier extrapolations. Eminently readable. As Carlo Fonseka might have put it, ‘even if you are not enthused by the substance, you could still read for style.’

Each piece inspired much commentary, not all of which could be saluted either for substance or style of course. My fellow journalist (at one point) and good friend Hafeel Farisz once made an observation about comments on my articles. He said he would be very upset. I told him that I don’t really care.  

There were times when I did scroll down and even engage. If it was downright stupid and caustic I would just say, ‘at least you read what I write, but I am sorry I don’t have time to indulge because I have other articles to write which of course you could rant about later….have a nice day.’ And I would add a smiley.  My hunch is that such a comment would irk the ‘offender’ no end. But I wouldn’t know. I didn’t go there. As I said, I had other things to do.

I haven’t written to CT in years. I haven’t written much anyway, not since the end of 2024. I haven’t visited CT much either, except when something pops up on my feed or if the evergreen curator, Uvindu Kurukulasuriya alerts me.  

Anyway, a few days ago, i.e. on CT’s birthday, I wrote a short appreciation. Uvindu’s comment was that it was like an appreciation written for someone who has died! That’s true. CT, at least for me, is more about Uvindu than anything else; the man’s energy, commitment, passion and relentlessness. Maintaining all that, almost single-handedly, for 15 years is no mean achievement.

Uvindu is still alive. For the record. And kicking too, in his own way if with less verve. I didn’t mean it to sound like an obituary, but then there’s so little praise and so much blame penned about people that encomiums of any kind tend to be read that way.

I remember writing about the veteran sports journalist R L Fernando for the Sunday Island. I had left that paper when ‘RL’ passed away. He had his idiosyncrasies of course but was quite a personality nevertheless. Rex Clementine’s voice broke when he called and said, ‘Sad news, RL has passed away.’ So I write and Manik De Silva, the Editor-in-Chief carried it the following Sunday.

He called me, probably on the Monday afterwards and said ‘I realised you hadn’t mentioned that RL had died!’

So, such things happen. We write of the dead as though they are alive and the living as though they’ve passed on.  

Be that as it may, it goes without saying that we can’t ever write a person fully, for we don’t know all or enough. People are seen in fragment; in terms of the particularities of encounter.

I have many Uvindu stories. That happens when you know or know about someone for many years. He and I have had our differences of opinion, which would be normal even among those who are in agreement politically and ideologically. We were not. But there was one equaliser that made it all ok: we were and are convinced that the other’s conduct was framed by ‘best interests for the country,’ and not personal gain.

Anyway, let me relate one Uvindu story. I can’t remember when it happened, probably more than 10 years ago, but I am not sure.

It had to do with something nefarious indulged in by someone on the same (broad) political/ideological boat. Now it is well known for people to be lenient on political fellow-travellers. ‘In the larger interest of the party,’ is the excuse frequently trotted out. Uvindu was and is different. He couldn’t turn the other way. He told me about it, not as a fellow-journalist but as a friend. The following is a rough translation of what he said:

‘He took money from innocent people who believed in him. There was a widow of a principal who had donated her widow’s pension. A small amount, but the whole pension! I am sure my mother would have or must have done the same.’

This…….(fill in the blank space with choice Sinhala expletives)!

It was a Skype call. He was sobbing.

That’s Uvindu Kurukulasuriya. And that I believe is why CT is what it is. All heart. And a lot of mind besides.

 

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Colombo Telegraph: the year 2011 and thereafter

What was Sri Lanka like in the year 2011? That’s fifteen years ago. Long before ‘The Aragalaya,’ before the crisis that was the logical end-point of decades long dabbling in patently flawed economic think and perhaps precipitated by key policy errors of the Gotabaya Rajapaksa government, not to mention the Covid pandemic and the Ukraine-Russia war.

It was a time of political stability which of course doesn’t necessarily mean things were all rosy on the political front. Mahinda Rajapaksa had just won a second term on the strength of policy direction that ended a decades long war on terrorism. His main rival at that election, Sarath Fonseka, the former Army Commander who played a key role in the defeat of the LTTE, was behind bars for reasons of political expediency more than anything else.

The opposition was in disarray: the United National Party had to ‘borrow’ a candidate to face Rajapaksa. The JVP was just a tag-along political outfit. The people, at least going by the numbers, were not unhappy with a Rajapaksa second term. The economy was doing well, perhaps thanks to the ground being cleared for economic activity following the end of the war rather than any policy-magic of the political leadership.

In other news, Sri Lanka made it to the World Cup final. Things weren’t too bad. The year 2011, upon reflection, was another country in another century.

Things happen during any calendar year. Always. Of the political and economic ‘overall’ certain things stand out, but what’s remembered depends on what’s important and inconsequential for the person recollecting. Academics, especially economists and political scientists, on the other hand, would be better positioned to offer diagnosis and prognosis. The rest, for the most part, probably remember that which was too important to forget at a personal level.

Few would think ‘Colombo Telegraph’ if nudged to recall ‘2011.’ Understandable. Things such as newspapers and websites start slow. It takes years to secure a memory-slot in the minds of the readership. And even when this happens, it’s just one of those things taken for granted. When and how things started aren’t really important.

Uvindu Kurukulasuriya had to remind me. Uvindu didn’t exactly launch the website that’s known as ‘Colombo Telegraph’ and what came to be known as ‘CT.’ There was no elaborate or even modest launch. One might say ‘a whim’ but Uvindu isn’t your typical whimsical journalist. He was, even at that time, well-known and respected as a journalist who understood the importance of research-generated facts. He had the added advantage (or maybe ‘disadvantage’) of a conscience. Ethics were important to him. He knew the meaning of the dictum ‘facts are sacred, comment free.’ He had the ideological and political drive to comment, and the memory too, but for the most part he drew from established facts.  

Uvindu lived in the UK. Self-imposed exile and a generally laidback lifestyle sans any significant personal ambitions, materialistic or otherwise, offered him enabling ‘leisure.’ That said, the work was anything but leisurely, as anyone engaged in content-creation of a political kind would know. It’s relentless. He mined Wikileaks. He offered comments. And, by and by, people started contributing analytical pieces. FoC. Over time, I believe ‘getting it into CT’ did much for the personal/professional profiles of some authors; a clear indication that CT had risen to a certain degree of prominence in the firmament of online discourse.

I cannot remember how my association with CT began. I do remember visiting Uvindu or being invited to his place a few days before he left Sri Lanka. I can’t remember the year. We weren’t buddies. In fact, the first time I met him, at the Borella Kanatta. I can’t remember whose funeral it was. Uvindu punched me (in a good hearted way) for my involvement in a response-ad to a full page ad that the Free Media Movement had inserted in the Daily Mirror. He appreciated my political engagement and critiqued something I had written (I believe it was an article on H L Seneviratne). We became friends, even though ideologically and therefore politically we were in two different camps.

Anyway, at some point, Uvindu asked me to write to CT. I think he was kind enough to accommodate articles I wrote for newspapers. I may have written a few pieces just for CT, but they were exceptions. My recollection is that for the most part Uvindu wanted people to write fresh pieces for CT.

We communicated. He sometimes called. Sometimes there were Skype calls. It’s those conversations that told me how meticulous Uvindu was in processing content for CT. He insisted that I stop using double-space between sentences. I complied simply because I knew it was tedious for him to correct that particular error. And eventually I got used to ‘single-space.’ It was not just such technical things; like any good editor Uvindu would now and then get back to me on spelling and sentence structure, and at times even claims made.

He was kind. CT generates a lot of commentary and for the most part Uvindu doesn’t filter. On occasion, though, he would point out a particularly acerbic comment on something I had written (and there were many, by the way, for most of the readership were ideologically aligned with Uvindu’s positions and therefore opposed to mine!) and ask if it’s ok to go. I can’t remember saying ‘not ok,’ ever. Such courtesies there were.

From my first editor, Manik De Silva, I had learned that a good editor should have a liberal editorial policy. Uvindu accommodated me. Others may have not. And have not, actually.

It’s about friendship, but not only that. There were commonalities that counted. For example, our histories in that amorphous country called ‘left politics,’ particularly the LSSP. In my case, by association. There were values we shared.

We were friends and ideology and political preferences notwithstanding we supported each other. Sometimes he would get me to ‘fix’ a headline or ‘clean up’ some news item, even if the content or slant might be disagreeable.

He would often inquire about my financial situation, knowing well that it is never easy being an unemployed (and unemployable, perhaps) graduate. He has helped me with whatever he could afford at various points over the last 15 years. As he has many people. Millions, I am sure, if it were all added up. CT generates income, but not the kind of bucks that could be mined if Uvindu was that way inclined. He just did what he thought needed to be done. He just lived a modest life, satisfied with basic ‘necessities.’

I’ve seen it all. In 2017, when I visited the UK with my family, Uvindu took us on a rudimentary tourist-round. And invited us to his place for dinner. As always we talked politics, but more than that about just being, the lives we led, our friends (and political opponents). We laughed. We always do when we talk over the phone.  

I can’t think of a man more principled than Uvindu when it comes to ‘The Left.’ Unlike most ‘leftists’ he didn’t look the other way when ‘comrades’ erred. He held them to high standards and if they strayed he called them out.  The late Victor Ivan, for example.

There are things I know about Uvindu which I will not mention because it’s too personal. The emotions, I mean. He has a sharp, inquisitive and analytical mind, but the organ that endears him to me and which is what CT is all about, come to think of it, is Uvindu’s heart. I’ve seen it.
 
The year 2011. A lot of things may have happened in those 12 months. Uvindu Kurukulasuriya started the Colombo Telegraph. Whether CT precipitated or in some way contributed to the political unfolding of the past 15 years, I cannot say. Shaped thinking, that it did. And that’s good enough.

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Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov

Back in the day, Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov worked at Rupavahini. I believe he was an intern there. He was young, as was I. He was partially employed, I was unemployed. I can’t remember if universities were open or closed, but one night we walked along the railway line from somewhere near Bambalapitiya to Wellawatte.

Mahendra Martin Raskonikov and I had not exactly lived parallel lives, but there were commonalities when it comes to matters of the heart. It was as though we were destined to be confronted by all manner of love-facets. What faces we saw were jagged-edged. They reflected unbelievable light, they cut deep without warning.

We talked much in those days and less in recent years. Some conversations are remembered for they are so memorable to warrant re-telling. Over and over again. Among them are a few that have made their way into various articles. Mostly stories he related. Some of his own and others of people he knew.

A young boy once received a note from a girl. ‘I love you, boy; send me 18 yellow roses.’ He was 18 and she was 14. He didn’t know anything about girls. Or roses. Or the color codes of roses. He had to ask around and was told, ‘You are still in school.  Roses are expensive. Yellow roses are very expensive.  You can’t afford it. Forget it.’ He did.

Time passed and pathways crossed. There’s a story there worth telling, but then all his stories are tell-worthy anyway.

But today I remember that evening somewhere in Wellawatte, watching and listening to the ocean. I remember telling him that I was reading Dostoyevsky’s ‘Crime and Punishment.’  Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov, a voracious reader, immediately brought up what to him was the telling moment of the novel. It so happened that from what I had already read, it was this particular moment that had captured me most.

More than thirty years later, the very same moment came back to me. This time, in an observation made by Martin Wickramasinghe in his biography, ‘Upan Da Sita’ or ‘From the beginning’ (or, better still, ‘From the cradle’). I was re-translating the book, an exercise which began as a would-be edit of an effort made more than twenty years previously, in segments, for the ‘Sunday Island.’  

Here goes:

‘As a young man, there was no novel that troubled my mind as did Dostoevsky's Crime and Punishment. I felt as though someone was running a rasp across my brain while reading it. Unable to figure out Dostoevsky's mysterious notions of the human mind at the time, I read the book like one who was trying to find his way in the dark.

'Raskolnikov, who murders an old woman who made a living out of usury, suffers much pain. I felt that the book contained nothing else but the vivid description of his suffering mind. Finding no one to alleviate his pain, the educated murderer finally encounters a word of comfort from a prostitute named Sonia. He finds relief like a thirsty man who drinks a sip of water. Moved by this, he falls at her feet.

‘“I kneel down not to you, but to the untold suffering of humanity that finds expression through you.”

‘When I reached this point of the narrative, I was extremely disturbed. This turbulence acted like a bolt of lightning illuminating for a moment certain mystical points that are found in Buddhist stories and then disappearing altogether. My mind was a vessel that was filled by compassion. It was because of Dostoevsky's stories that certain mystical ideas in the Buddhist stories became clear to me.’

And I remembered something I had forgotten: I had, upon the invitation of Dr Ranga Wickramasinghe, written a foreword to a new publication of his father’s book ‘Buddhist Jataka Stories and the Russian Novel.’ I can’t remember what I wrote though.

I remember Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov, who, not having read ‘Upan Da Sita’ had somehow been as perturbed as the great writer by the very same passage of play in the novel. I had too, but I had not the keen and analytical mind of my friend and of course not of the great man of letters, Martin Wickramasinghe. We shared the same sentiments. Mahendra’s words that night were almost a one-to-one quoting of Wickramasinghe.

Mahendra’s story is a novel that he won’t write. Neither could I. I know only this: there’s untold suffering and inexpressible delight that finds expression through him. Not in what he says, but the way he lives his life.

Mahendra is a Roman Catholic. He knows a lot about other philosophies. He might be one of the very few people I know who could from THAT point of the narrative obtain something that he could (but would not) describe, following Martin, as follows:

‘‘When I reached this point of the narrative, I was extremely disturbed. This turbulence acted like a bolt of lightning illuminating for a moment certain mystical points that are found in the parables of all religious doctrines and then disappearing altogether. My mind was a vessel that was filled by compassion. It was because of Dostoevsky's stories that certain mystical ideas in all religious parables became clear to me.’

That’s how Mahendra Silva, at this moment of writing, I re-christened as Mahendra Martin Raskolnikov.

And I hereby offer this, in lieu of 18 yellow roses, as something he can offer to whoever has captured his heart at this moment, more than 30 years after our Dostoyevsky Moment and probably almost 40 years after that first rose-petalled palpitation referred to above.

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Anuruddha Karnasuriya’s sloth

Sunimal De Silva was my Grade 6 class teacher. That’s 50 years ago. It was a bad year for me in terms of studies, but then again one of many. Sunimal Sir, as we called him, taught at Royal for decades and was iconic in his own way.

While in school, I always greeted him if I saw him and we exchanged pleasantries. I met him once in a bus. That was in the year 2000. That conversation indicated to me that he kept himself informed about the world around him. I also met him during a pilgrimage to India. But the ‘iconic moment’ happened in Sri Lanka. At the Royal College pool.

My sister-in-law suggested that we take our two daughters to ‘a coach who is like a kiri-aththaa (grandpa),’ so my wife and I went looking for him. He found us. It was Sunimal Sir. Kind, generous and good humoured as usual, he blurted out (in Sinhala), ‘they must be your daughters….I will coach them.’

Then he asked, ‘is this your wife?’ I affirmed and he said (in Sinhala): ‘of all the students I have taught, he is the one who did nothing with his abilities!’ I laughed and said, ‘sir, aathma thrupthiya neveida vadagath (is it not contentment that counts)?’ He became serious and said, ‘that’s true.’

Maybe it was just sloth that I was clothing in philosophy. But today, reading a poem I found consolation: Anuruddha Karnasuriya is way more slothful!


‘E handa methana (That moon, here)’ is the title of his maiden collection of poems (43 of them), published by Sarasavi. More than twenty years ago, he came out with ‘Sikuraadaavaka kathaavak (A story of a Friday),’ which I found to be a compelling read. A non-practicing lawyer and a senior lecturer political scientist at the Jayawardenapura University, I first met him sometime in 1993. He was just out of school. We belonged to a political group that later came to be known as ‘Janatha Mithuro.’ He entered the University of Peradeniya a few years later and was a prominent student activist.

He passed his law exams but never practiced. He opted for an academic career. We became close friends over the years not only because of general ideological agreement. The conversations on politics, international affairs, constitutional matters etc., were stimulating, but the more interesting exchanges were over literature, arts and philosophy. And love.

He wrote a few books. Too few. Excellently written and hopefully read with attention, I wouldn’t know. Off and on he would send me a verse or post something on Facebook. Each time I chided him for writing so little and so infrequently. The man not only has things to say but has the ability to communicate more effectively than those who have a far greater ‘literary’ and academic presence in social media and elsewhere.

Anuruddha never fails to point out when I err in my Sinhalese. My standard retort is that he didn’t know the meaning of the word ‘kuseetha (sloth).’ He didn’t know the word but he epitomised it. When one has acquired certain skills, it is good to use them. We can’t hold anyone to it, but then again, beneficiaries of free education owe a debt and people with intellect and words can pay simply by expressing themselves. He doesn’t do it enough. He’s just too lazy. He should have completed his PhD but hasn’t. Neither did I, but then again I opted out of academics altogether.

Anuruddha owes his writing/thinking skills to his father, who, being a leftist, would bring home the ‘Aththa (Truth),' the official newspaper of the Communist Party of Sri Lanka (Moscow). His task: copy the editorial (mostly written by the legendary and inimitable B A Siriwardena) and re-draw Yunoos’ cartoon. I don't know whether Anuruddha delved into drawing or painting, but he acquired a political language that was sharp and could be elegantly acerbic when required. He would have made an excellent lawyer.

I remember many conversations and that indicates how remarkable his insights have been. That’s another article. Or maybe a book. Maybe they’ve already made it into the book that’s going to be launched on the 9th of September. He does stuff like that. For example, he ‘stole’ an exchange between my wife and I (before we got married) that I had recounted, inserting it in one of his short stories.

But enough. That’s the word. Enough. He just hasn’t written enough and when I wish him a long life, it is in the hope that the years alone would allow a reading public access to what he has to say. I don’t believe his frequency would change. He was, is and will probably remain slothful. He might ask ‘Is not contentment that counts?’ I would have to say ‘that’s true.’

But enough. The following is a quick translation of a poem in his forthcoming book. It is titled, ‘Nopamaava danvanna (Inform without delay)':


Is there a tavern
of a different kind
somewhere nearby
so I can with love
become intoxicated

Thereafter can I not
scream and inquire
why no space has been
so far allocated
to bury love’s secrets
vast cemeteries
though there are!!

Carrying secret-clumps
as heavy as Mount Meru
in my mind
can I walk any further?

Be there such a cemetery
please inform me
without delay

I need
to be drunk beyond belief
and upon that earth 

senselessly sleep
and to the warmth of those dreams
awake

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කපිල අයියට පිං සිද්ද වෙන්න ඕන

 

සාහිත්‍ය සම්මාන උළෙලකට, පොත් එළිදැක්වීමකට හෝ වෙනත් සාහිත්‍ය නැතහොත් ශාස්ත්‍රීය වැඩසටහනකට එන අය කොටස් තුනකට බෙදින්න පුළුවන්. එක, කතෘ ගේ නෑදෑ හිතවතුන් සහ ප්‍රකාශන ආයතනයේ සේවික සේවිකාවන්. දෙක, උත්සවයේ කතා සහ වෙනත් අංග අහන්න/බලන්න එන අය. තුන, එන අය එක්ක කතා කරන්න බලාගෙන එන අය. විදර්ශන සාහිත්‍ය සම්මාන උළෙලත් ඒ වගේ. 

මම අයත් වෙන්නේ තුන්වෙනි කණ්ඩායමට වුනත්, මුළු වැඩසටහනටම සවන් දෙන්න වුනා. ඒ තරම් ආකර්ශනීයයි. ඒ තරම් විචිත්‍රයි. ඒ තරම් ගැඹුරුයි. ඒ තරම් කාව්‍යමයයි. අමතරව, වේදිකාවට පැමිණි සියලු දෙනා සහෝදරයි. තුන, ඇති තරම් කතා කරන්න කට්ටිය හිටියා. ඇති තරම් කතා කරන්න දේවල් තිබුනා. සම්මාන ලැබුණ පොත් කියවන්නම හිතුනා. ලියනගේ අමරකීර්ති, රංජිනී ඔබේසේකර ගැන කරපු දීර්ග ඇගයීම හේතුවෙන් ඈ ලියු සියලු පොත් කියවන්න හිතුනා. පරාක්‍රම කොඩිතුවක්කු ලියු කවියක පරිවර්තනය ඈ කියවද්දී ඔහුගේ පරණ කවි නැවත කියවන්න හිතුනා.   

කතා කරන්න ආස හිතෙන අය ගොඩාක් හිටියත් හැමෝම එක්ක කතා කරන්න බැරි වුනා. කතා කරන්න ඇති තරම් වෙලාවක් චෙන් කරලා තිබුනත් මට කලින්ම යන්න වුනා. එහම වෙනවා සමහර දවස්වල. ඒත් ඉතින් කතා කරපු දේ මදැයි කියල හිත හදාගන්නත් පුළුවන් වුනා. 

මේ හැමදේටම විදර්ශන ප්‍රකාෂකයින්ට, විශේෂයෙන්ම ජනක ඉනිමංකඩට, පිං සිද්ද වෙන්න ඕන.  

මට සුවිශේෂ දෙන්නෙක් හිටියා. පළමුව ප්‍රේම් දිසානායක. දෙවැන්නා කපිල කුමාර කාලිංග. 

මීට අවුරුදු දෙකකට පෙර, ප්‍රේම් අයියා හමු වෙන්න ගිය වෙලාවේ, සුපුරුදු ලෙස ප්‍රේම අයියා මට පොත් කිහිපයක් පරිත්‍යාග කෙරුවා. ඉන් එකක් කපිල කුමාර කාලිංග ගේ 'කෙටි වුනත් මේ කවි.' කෙටි කවි සංග්‍රහයක්. අනතුරුව ඒ කවි ඉංග්‍රීසියට පරිවර්තනය කරන්න හැකි වුනා. සරල බසින් ලිය වුනත් සියුම් වගේම ගැඹුරු අර්ථ ඒ කවි වල තිබුනා. පසුව කපිල අයියා පොතක් හැටියට මුද්‍රණය කෙරුවා. 

කපිල අයියා හඳුනාගත්තේ 2004 වසරේ. ඒ ෆීනික්ස් ආයතනයේ. ඒ කාලේ බොහෝ දේවල් කතා කළා. බොහෝ දේවල් ඉගෙන ගත්තා. ඉන්පසුවත් එක එක තැන්වල් එක එක අවස්ථාවල කපිල අයියා මුණ ගැසුනා. කතා කළා. හිනා වුනා. පරණම දේවල් මතක් කරා. හැමදාම හැම හමුවීමම සුන්දරයි. කපිල අයියව හැමෝම දන්නවා. ඉතින් එයා ගැන වැඩිය ලියන්න අවශ්‍ය නැහැ.  ප්‍රේම් අයියත් එහෙමයි. හැමෝම දන්නවා.

කොහොම වුනත් කපිල අයියා කරලා තිබුනේ ආදරය දනවන වැඩක්. ඒ ආදරය දනවන වැඩේ මට ලැබුනේ ප්‍රේම් අයියාගේ ආදරණීය ගති පැවතුම් නිසා. ඒ ආදරයට සාධාරණයක් කරන්න තමයි මේ පරිවර්තනය සඳහා මහන්සි වුනා. දෙන්නටම පිං සිද්ද වෙන්න මටත් සම්මානයක් ලැබුණා. ඒ නිසාම උළෙලටත් ආරාධනයක් ලැබුණා. ඒ නිසාම සහෝදරයි කියල දැනෙන සාහිත්‍යකරුවන් වේදිකාවට පැමිණ අදාළ සම්මාන ලබා ගන්න විට සතුටු වෙන්න අවස්ථාවක් ලැබුණා. ඒ නිසාම ලස්සන වැඩ සටහනක් දකින්න ලැබුණා. ඒ නිසාම සාහිත්‍ය සමාජයේ ආදරණීය අය මුණ ගැසුනා.    

ජනකට වගේම, ප්‍රේම් අයියටත්, කපිල අයියටත් බොහොම පිං.

 

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Sunil Ariyaratne in the then and now

 

More than forty years ago, in my first days at Dumbara Campus, University of Peradeniya, a senior whose name and face I no longer remember, quizzed me about Sinhala songs. At some point in the conversation he asked me about Sunil Ariyaratne. I didn’t know the person nor the name and said so. He chided me for being ignorant and went on to educate me about the songs he had written for Nanda Malini.

I knew songs. Sometimes I knew who sang them. I didn’t know the lyricists. Back then access to music was limited to what the ‘owners’ of the radio played. So it depended on what they preferred of programs aired by the less than half a dozen radio channels.

Campus life changes all that. I had friends who knew and could sing songs. They sang. They talked about the lyrics, the sentiments and sometimes the vocalist, composer and lyricist.

By the time ‘Pavana (The wind)’ came around, thanks in part to the political turmoil of the late eighties, the name was familiar and intricately tied to the songs of Nanda Malini.

The late eighties were made of fire, of people being burnt alive or after being shot on tyres, of bodies floating down waterways or piling up in street corners, of political assassinations, indefinite  curfews, abductions, torture, proxy arrests, burning of ID cards etc. The capture-all word was ‘bheeshanaya.’ Terror, in English.

As the nation moved almost inexorably toward that time, it was natural for artists of all kinds to take sides and some of them to express their opinions freely in word and deed. The late Nanda Malini used song as her vehicle. Sunil Ariyaratne chose her as his vehicle for he was the principal lyricist of the concert that swept through the country, expressing the fears, hopes, determination and of course pathos of it all: Pavana. Literally, ‘The Wind.’  

Since then, there have been critics who have opined that the concert and therefore singer and lyricist ‘pushed’ the youth of the country into the cauldron wherein there was so much killing and being killed that everyone lost whatever moral high ground they may have had. They have even argued that in the matter of taking sides, the singer and lyricist forgot to take a stand that kept them distanced from culpability, if that were possible in the first place.

In short, Nanda became political even as Ariyaratne was political. The concert marked them both. Ironically, the songs have since been used by those they opposed and critiqued to further agenda that neither espoused. That’s another story.

The bheeshanaya ended. Perhaps the outcome was unanticipated or, at any rate, made for disappointment rather than celebration or even relief, as far as they were concerned. He continued to write, she continued to sing. He was vocal outside his lyrics, she was relatively quiet.

Now she’s gone. He remains. Answerable, one might say, but then again, the generous reading is that Sunil Ariyaratne never felt he had to apologise. He wrote what he believed was right. He spoke the truth of his conscience. People are free to cheer or decry. I, for one, haven’t been impressed, especially in the positions he has taken on issues of nation, nationalism, conflict dubbed as ‘ethnic’ and so on, although many other political songs do resonate. The pre-Pavana commentary still stands and I do celebrate and am still inspired by the substance and of course the poetry. Sunil Ariyaratne was and is an amazing poet who has the words and the sensibilities to immediately capture a reader.

Maybe it’s the way in which I was brought up or the ideological preferences I embraced and the love and appreciation of all things Sri Lankan, including history and heritage, but when I listen to the songs of the album Satyaye Geethaya (The Song of Truth), I feel that she sang to me and of me. Of course, this means that Ariyaratne wrote to me and of me. This is true of the songs he wrote for other artists as well, for it was not only for Nanda Malini that he wrote and it was not only Nanda Malini who sought and sang his lyrics.

He has changed his tune, so to speak, over the years. He has not explained nor apologised, but he didn’t have to. He just wrote. Differently. But then again, even when he wrote what some might think were lines that were ill-informed or deliberately misleading, the poetry was really great. The command of metaphor, the ability to draw from many social, cultural, political and environmental wells and mix it all tastefully was always exceptional. One might add that this is as true of his cinematic endeavors as in his poetry.

More than forty years ago, in Polgolla, as a first year student of the University of Peradeniya, I wasn’t too embarrassed by my ignorance. I feel that I have been harsh on Sunil Ariyaratne since. Political and ideological disagreements notwithstanding, I can and will return to Nanda Malini in all my remaining years. Unlike in those early years when I knew songs but not singer and lyricist, I will think of Sunil Ariyaratne and tell myself that I am privileged to know the language that Sunil Ariyaratne writes in. Sinhala.  

 

See also: 

Her name is 'Lanka' 

A mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne 

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Her name is ‘Lanka’

More than twenty years ago, the late Pundit W D Amaradeva, with great kindness and much indulgence, taught me what to students of music would be a very basic lesson in singing. ‘It’s not in the throat, Malinda; it’s in the mind and heart.’

Then he lamented that most singers, including those who were popular and even highly acclaimed, had not grasped this fundamental principle. I didn’t know anything about music. I didn’t sing. I was simply curious about how ‘good’ was measured. That’s after he said all this. 

‘So who sings with the mind and heart?’

‘After all is said and done, Nanda,’ he said or at least that’s the English translation of his answer. 

More than twenty years later, Nishad Handunpathirana,my friend, batch mate from Peradeniya, neighbour and virtuoso in the dilruba, introduced me to the Hindi musical term ‘pukar,’ which refers to the way in which a vocalist projects the voice with intense feeling. Heart. 

Today, for obvious reasons, Nanda Malini's songs come back to me. And I, a little less unenlightened than I was more than twenty years ago, am compelled to agree with Pundit Amaradeva.  

Today I remember two conversations I had with this incredibly accomplished singer. The first was during an interview for the Sunday Island. I believe it was in 2002. I had things to say about the album ‘Pavana (The wind)’ that was released sometime during a series of concerts under the same title in those exhilarating times that would eventually bleed, literally, into the ‘bheeshanaya (Terror or Time of Terror)’ in the late eighties. 

‘We were young and those songs resonated with the energy, hope and even convictions we entertained, but a friend told me that great songs outlive political moments; those of “Pavana” do not, unlike the songs in “Shravanaaraadhana (Invitation to listen)” and “Sathyaye Geethaya (The Song of Truth"). The songs of “Araliya Landata (To the Araliya Grove)” which was released after “Pavana” will be remembered, I think.’

She smiled. A few years later, when I ran into her at Sudarshi on Bauddhaloka Mawatha, she remembered and told someone that I am a harsh critic. She was laughing. This, by the way, was after I had written '[A] mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne.'

That is all by way of encounter. Now all I have are her songs. The political choices. The lyrics and the voice.

Some may say that Nanda Malini ‘evolved’ from what they might believe was a Sinhala Buddhist chauvinistic phase. Others may think ‘evolved’ is debatable and that anyway the (virtual) rubbishing of her own songs without explanation was odd. She didn’t write the lyrics. The more overtly political songs were written by Sunil Ariyaratne, so fingers that may be pointed would first be directed at him. She did sing them, so fingers would point her way as well. 

Nanda Malini alone would have known if Sunil Ariyaratne was her political conscience. It was her choice, perhaps, or his or of both to drop ‘Me sinhala apaage ratai (‘This is the land of us Sinhala people’ or, ‘This “Sinhala” is our nation,’) even disavowing it in not so uncertain terms. Perhaps it was a decision made in the best interest of the nation and all citizens. But then again, ‘Pavana’ was littered with chauvinistic interjections, for example, ‘Bamunaa vunath…(even if a Brahmin)’: no less, no more, than songs which contained ‘Sinhala,’ or ‘Hela.’   

In contrast, consider children's songs such ‘Rukkaththana mala mudune (atop the rukkaththana flower)’ and ‘Surangeeta duka hithuna (Surangee felt sad).’ Consider love songs such as ‘Kanda udin ([from] above the mountain)’ and 'Kalaa vaven gath diya dothak se (Like a handful of water from the Kala Wewa).' Devotional songs such as 'Budddhanubhavena.' Consider even political compositions of the more general kind such as ‘Sakura mal pipilaa (Sakura flowers have bloomed).’ All this, before Ariyaratne took on political projects and found in Nanda’s voice a powerful communicative vehicle. Exquisite. 

What troubled me most with regard to the politics, though, was the grave injustice done to Mahinda Algama who wrote the lyrics of what became of her most popular early songs, ‘Chandra madulu yata suranganaavan (fairies under the penumbra).' The last stanza was edited out. It wasn't about ideological prerogatives (understandable), but the way the lyricist was treated (dodgy): he was not informed; instead an excuse about length was offered. 

All of it is questionable and understandable.  Forgivable or unforgivable depending on how mild or harsh one wants to be respectively.  And all that was a long time ago. Critique stands but it’s lost in the enormity of all that she was and all that she’s given, as should be and as acknowledged even back then. 

Today as I ‘listen’ to her songs and walk through the political milieu that she lent her voice to, I recall a comment that Gabriel Garcia Marquez made about Pablo Neruda: ‘He was a King Midas of literature — everything he touched turned into poetry; even when he got into trouble with his politics, the poetry was very, very good.’ Something to that effect; he was of course referring to Neruda’s defence of Stalin’s Russia. She was very, very good. 

That voice!  

I remember it when she spoke about her journey, such a long time ago. She has since detailed her story and spoken candidly and without regret or disdain. In her public persona Nanda Malini was soft. Humble. In her political persona, problematic perhaps. She has had the humility, however, to admit error of judgment. She has returned again and again to lyrics that last. Ephemeral or enduring, political or apolitical, regardless of whether she sang of or for children, love, justice or hope, she sang with feeling. All heart. Always. 

Looking back, I realise she was kind and indulgent. Like a mother. And I remember ‘Mege nama lankaa ya (Her name is Lanka),’ ‘Sanda eliya gangak vee (Moonlight, having become a river)’ and ‘Avurudu dedahas panseeyak (Twenty five hundred years),’ all penned by Ariyaratne by the way, and the last two for ‘Pavana.’ They were first performed decades ago. The words are still relevant and that’s Sunil Ariyaratne at his best. 

Nanda Malini, by admission, had less control with high notes, but there was and is so much voice in the vast regions she could hold, so firmly and yet with such grace. 

The introductory lines of ‘Me jeevana gangaadaaaraye (This river of life)’ the signature song in ‘Satyaye Geethaya’ were foundational for me, politically, and probably for many others: ‘asatyayen satyayata, swapnayen yatharthayata, andakaarayen alokayata (from falsehood to truth, from dream to reality, from darkness to light).’ It was a task she set for herself, a tough road she chose to walk along, with courage but with human frailty. In his own way, Ariyaratne made it easier for all of us but that ease is as much or more attributable to voice as words.  

Her name is Lanka in all our little island’s fortitude and failing, strength and frailty, heroism and cowardice, and all that is nevertheless resplendent, resilient and musical. The invitation to listen, stands. 
 
 

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A poet's obligation

 

‘Poet’s obligation’ is the title of one of Pablo Neruda’s poems. Obligations are not laws; they speak more of ‘reethi’ or norms than ‘neethi’ or laws, for there are of course obligations associated with the law. The poet may or may not feel obliged by some legal, moral or social duty to act in a particular way or write about certain things, but in the end, like all artists and citizens, a large part of being is indulgence. We write or act because we feel  we owe ourselves something.  

Neruda believed that it was his destiny ‘to open the doors’ of prisons wherein there could be someone who for whatever reason ‘is not listening to the sea.’  He is therefore compelled to ‘ceaselessly listen to and keep the sea’s lamenting in [his] awareness.’

The ‘prisoner’ may hear and ask, ‘how can I reach the sea’ thereafter. And, as answer, Neruda offers the following:

And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,


the starry echoes of the wave,


a breaking up of foam and quicksand,


a rustling of salt withdrawing,


the grey cry of the sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea


will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

That’s a social task but it is at the same time a personal choice. No one held a gun at Neruda’s head and told him to stand witness to oceanic turmoil, the coronas of the galaxy, unnecessary but nevertheless ceaselessly produced poverty, the foam and quicksand of promise and pledge, the irreverent and insightful babble of the nondescript, or the grotesque interplay between god and devil. He chose to write so that through him the elements will offer salve to hearts shattered by unrequited love, injustice and humiliation.

If I were to think of the work of all the poets I have read, I am sure there will be multiple answers to the question, ‘why does/did he/she write?’ It’s like asking someone ‘why do you live?’ Such questions should never be grasped with intention to obtain a definitive answer. They will hover around the sensibilities of writers, readers and the illiterate who script their questions and answers in other ways. You can’t swat them away and you are not required to do so either. You can observe them, though.  

Lakdasa Wikkramasinha had obligations. He laid it out in a poem titled ‘The Poet.’

He is the one that, tossing a bomb into

The crowd, takes notes;


The one who, from an unseen distance


Levels on the tripod that black rifle


With sights that see as far as his soul

Trains and levels, manoeuvres for a clear sight


Of the speaker on the platform;


Waits, watching the clock, for the onset of a car


In the left corner of its back seat


Carrying the enemy

He explains why: [The poet], ‘unable to bear the circle of the seconds in his heart, is the bomb in the city, waiting to burst.’ That’s his ‘destiny’ or rather the task he set himself.

Both poets were acutely conscious of the world around them. We all are, more or less. Matthew Arnold in ‘Dover Beach’ wrote about the the sea, the tide, the long line of spray, the roar or pebbles, and it reminded him of Sophocles, who, hearing it ‘on the Aegean, ‘ read in it ‘the turbid ebb and flow of human misery.’

Moving to ‘the sea of faith’ Arnold is consumed by disenchantment and retreats or moves to a more assured if not less tumultuous sea; that of love. ‘Ah, love, let us be true to one another,’ he pleads almost in search of consolation because he believes he is being ‘swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, where ignorant armies clash by night.’

His obligation is to himself, his peace of mind. And escapist, one might say, but then again, that’s a choice no one can or should quarrel with. It is all about reading the world and self in terms of what James Baldwin called ‘system(s) of reality.’

No one has the authority to determine the dimensions of reality. The poet sets it up and reads that universe, be it as small as a grain of sand or as immeasurable as the Milky Way, as he/she will.  

And the reader will pass judgment. One might call Neruda an intruder, Lakdasa a trouble-maker and Arnold self-indulgent. Another might applaud Neruda and Lakdasa for being inspired to report and change, and Arnold for being more cognisant of ‘long time’ and eternal verities.

But…

Sometimes poetry is a cup of tea
black without sugar but not too red
a herbal concoction infusing antidotes
medicine that won’t hurt but may not heal;
and yet made curative by sentiment
the will to manufacture a smile
and a prayer to lessen weight.

Neruda, Lakdasa and Arnold are long gone. Their words remain and are wrapped in layers of meaning they were perhaps unaware of. They’ve been crucified and resurrected, vilified and praised, ignored and cherished. Much like all things: subjected to the dharma of the following four dualities: joy-sorrow, praise-blame, profit-loss, fame-oblivion. Their work: medicine that won’t hurt but may not heal.

We have to live with all that.

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Looking for and missing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

 

 

Some years ago I chanced upon the grave of Lakdasa Wikkramasinha, the English language poet whose iconic credentials draw from who was remarkably at odds with the political and ideological predilections of the English-speaking literati of his time and who in subject, style and metaphor was more a ‘Sinhala poet’ than most poets writing in that language. That chance discovery inspired an article titled ‘Mis-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha’ published in the now defunct ‘The Nation.’  

A few weeks ago, Samod Porawagamage, an academic and a poet, asked me where Lakdasa’s grave was. I had a vague recollection of its location but told him that we would have to go look.  A few days ago, I was at the Borella Kanatta and having an hour or so to wait for a funeral ceremony, decided to look for Lakdasa’s grave, just so I could tell Samod.

I couldn’t find it. Lakdasa’s final resting place must be there and one day I will re-discover it. Or not. 

A couple of years ago, Lakdasa resurfaced or was resurrected by Aparna Halpe and Michael Ondaatje who put together a collection of his poetry. Award-winning Sinhala poet Sunanda Karunaratne has since taken on the task of translating the collection into Sinhala. He has already translated close to half the collection and it has been an invigorating experience to discuss each translation along with the original.

But walking among graveyards ‘looking’ for Lakdasa I was struck by the number of headstones with inscriptions totally obliterated by time and the elements. Maybe the near and dear who attended the burial and placed a headstone thereafter have passed on themselves. Maybe after a generation or two there was no one left on the island to visit, lay flowers and re-letter those blank pieces of stone or concrete. Maybe too much time has passed for anyone to remember the names of the particular ancestors.

It is unlikely that any of the dead were subjected to damnatio memoriae. It is not by official decree alone that people get ‘erased’ and forgotten. Anyway, it took me back to a day in January 1992: my maternal grandfather’s final rites before cremation.

I heard the Pali phrase anicca vata sankhara or ‘impernant, alsa, are all things,’ and not for the first time. I had already heard people say or seen the words ‘roopaya dirai, naamaya nodirai,’ meaning ‘the body perishes but not the name.’ And I remember seeing a photograph of someone who was probably my maternal great great grandfather and realising that I didn’t know his name. My maternal grandmother passed away in 2008, my mother in 2009, her brother in 2012 and her sister in 2025. Their remaining two sisters and brother might know the name of the person. I should ask. Eventually, though, the names will be forgotten.

Not all names are forgotten though. Historians keep names alive, but I can’t help but wonder if the persons associated with those names were anything like they are made out to be by historians, folklore and other exercises in what amounts to legend-making.

Who was Lakdasa and does the Lakdasa of those who remember him still, either on account of acquaintance or through his work, remain intact or does it change as the person remembering or reading changes? Probably the latter.

His poetry is intact though. For how long we don’t know. The final resting place of poets is a dusty bookshelf at the back of a used books store, I once wrote. Depending on the place a poet holds in the literary universe, some one might interject. True.

But then again, is it only the ‘great’ poets who have extended ‘shelf life,’ so to speak? Vihanga Perera, another academic and also an award-winning writer of both prose and verse, in a note on a poet rarely remembered or acknowledged as an important poetic voice ('The importance of the “Selected Poems” of Gamini Seneviratne to contemporary readership’), introduces as interesting term: ‘patronage of gatekeepers.’  

It is not only time that fades memory. There are elements other than wind, fire, earth and water that are at work. Happens to history and happens to works of art, literature included. There’s politics at work. Deference to gatekeepers help. Ignoring them can cost.

Lakdasa’s poetry was in the Advanced Level English Literature syllabus back in the 1980s. It was in the English syllable of the University of Peradeniya in the mid-eighties. I am pretty sure students of English literature in Sri Lanka have heard of him or studied his work. But how many Sinhala and Tamil writers and students of Sinhala and Tamil literature in Sri Lanka know, I wonder. And, by the same token, how many people who do not know Sinhala or Tamil know of the great literary figures who wrote or write in those languages?

Does it matter, one may ask. Not really. Time passes. Things change. People forget. Of the over 7,000 languages spoken in the world I know just two. There are stories and songs, no doubt, in each and every one of the languages I do not know. My life would be so much richer did I have access to half a dozen of them, even in translation. It doesn’t mean that my life or those of others like me are worthless or less meaningful.

I couldn’t find Lakdasa’s grave. I have his poetry. Sunanda’s effort will give thousands of people access to Lakdasa’s poetry. They will read them as they will and they will resurrect a Lakdasa through that process. And it doesn’t really matter that the person they conjure thus is nothing like the Lakdasa who lived and wrote.

Last night, for reasons that had nothing to do with any of the above, I checked out some iconic scenes of the movie “Dead Poets’ Society.” As Mr Keating, the central character played by the late and inimitable Robin Williams, could have said it, ‘they are all food for worms’ or ‘are fertilising daffodils’. Well, they are all probably done feeding and fertilising.

Then again, watching those clips, I got to listen once again to the opening lines of the 17th century poem ‘To the virgins, to make much of time,’ by Robert Herrick. I didn’t know the title or the poet until last night.  But those lines!

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
   Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
   Tomorrow will be dying.

He’s gone. Herrick, I mean. He is alive though. So too Lakdasa. Even if I never revisit the Borella Kanatta again or I never find his grave, however many times I walk among those graves. He is not there anyway. Doesn’t really matter.    

 

See Also: Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha 

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O Religion, thou comest in many garbs!

More than a decade ago the late Prof Nalin De Silva launched a book titled ‘batahira vidyaava, aasanik saha deviyo (Western science, arsenic and god).’ The late Prof Carlo Fonseka spoke at the launch held at the J R Jayewardene Centre. The inevitable happened. The two, who respected each other at some level, quarreled. Academically of course. I had left by that time, but not before I offered my comments.

I can’t remember how I ‘read’ the word ‘Western’ but I did dwell on science, arsenic and religion, observing that those who pooh-pooh Nalin’s takes on the god Natha (believed to be an incarnation of the Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara, again believed to be the future Buddha Maitriya) do treat the West and Western Science in close-to-divine terms.

God is omnipresent, so believe theists. And omnipresence means everywhere, even places unheard of and hidden, places one does not associate with religion and divinity, in your home, your washroom, in brothels and taverns, all over a cemetery, up in the sky and deep underground. In parliament too. God is the speaker, the prime minister, the president, the prisoner, the jailer, the hangman, the hangman’s rope, the speaker’s chair, the president’s seal and the state. God is, or ‘is in’ let’s interject. So too the devil, one might add.

 Well, we have people who religiously advocate the separation of ‘church’ and ‘state’. Those are Western terms of course, but translated, so to speak, into Sri Lankan speak they are essentially used to rant and rave against Article 9 of the Constitution (never mind that Articles 10 and 14 effectively negate it).  Fine. All three could be done away and we can thereby obtain a clean slate, sorry, state.

There are a few niggles that need to be sorted out of course: the Kandyan Marriage and Divorce Act, the Muslim Marriage and Divorce Act and the Thesavalamai Law for example, for when you dump one identity marker you have to do away with them all. And of course religious holidays. No Poya holidays, no extra holiday for Vesak, no Thai Pongal, no Maha Sivarathri, no Deepavali, no Good Friday, no Christmas, no Avurudu, no Eid al-Fitr, no Eid-al-Adha, no Milad an-Nabi, no short-Fridays to go to mosque, no special leave during fasting, and no additional leave for widows belonging to particular religious communities. And Sunday, hitherto a religious holiday, will no longer be so.

Take them all out and check the state. Is it now atheist? Is it religion-free?  


What is religion, though? It is all about belief. Strong and even fanatical belief, to be precise. Where do we find such things? I can think of churches. That’s obvious. Religious communities. Again, obvious. But how about political parties? Parliaments? In the corporate sector? People worship power. They worship money and profit. They would kill for any of these things. The truth is there are ‘articles of faith’ everywhere. Ideologies are more religious than anything else.

There are ‘gods’ and ‘demons’ defined as such by convictions that have nothing to do with anything spiritual. Villainy abounds and therefore so too villains, as defined by the self-proclaimed virtuous of course. We get know-alls. Many. And that’s omniscience of a kind. Godly. There are people who believe they are invincible. Omnipotent. Godly.  

Religions abound. Religiousness is everywhere. Try separating them from that which is believed to be atheistic!

And one fine day
at twilight
under a threshold 
drenched in primordial spray
neither wet nor dry 
a chronic schizophrenic 
half asleep and half awake
tossed a coin:
on one side it said 'good'
and on the other, 'evil'
and the I 
that turned into I and I
a sacred covenant signed.

'We shall be one or the other
and we shall in duality
reinforce 
this love,' said I
and I added, 'and this hate';
'yes,' I replied 
'in the pot-kettle game 
shall I affirm myself'.

And I sealed it with a kiss:
'and thus shall we thrive
through sickness and health
good times and bad,
richer or poorer,
for better or worse,
to love and to honor
forever and ever
amen!'

Dichotomies suck, don’t they? 

 

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The roads that lead to Anuradhapura

 

There can be many roads to lead to a place in an island that is located at a reasonable distance from the sea. A city as opposed to a village, as any map would show, is reached from more than one direction, especially if it is of commercial, political or historical importance and accessible to on account of a geography unimpeded by rivers or mountains. Anuradhapura, for example.

Highways have expanded the number of options for someone traveling by car from any point in Colombo. One could go to Kurunegala and from there take the Dambulla route or the Ella route, i.e. via Wariyapola. There’s also the ‘via Puttalam’ option. Some would go to Katunayake and then to Minuwangoda and bypass Kurunegala by way of cutting from Narammala to Wariyapola.

I didn’t miss any exit or make a wrong turn this time. I was traveling with my friend Muditha Hettigama and his daughter and he said he had heard of a beautiful route that went through a place called Hiripitiya. He was planning to attend a pinkama somewhere close to Isurumuniya, I was free, so we went without worrying too much about making time.

So, we took the Yaggapitiya exit, turned left and then turned right towards Hiripitiya. The plan was to get to Ehetuwewa where we had arranged to pick up an old friend, Thilak, who would take a bus from Galgamuwa to get there around our expected time of arrival.  

The Kurunegala-Wariyapola-Anuradhapura road, like the Negombo-Puttalam-Anuradhapura road and the Kurunegala-Dambulla-Anuradhapura road, takes one through amazing landscapes. Good, wide roads. This on the other hand was narrow, carpeted for the most part. The difference was that it was the first time on that road.  

There was everything that one is likely to encounter on any of the more-traveled roads to Anuradhapura. But one is always a first-time traveler each time one moves, different according to road taken, company chosen, time of day, urgency or otherwise of the journey and the weather.

The vegetation was, not unexpectedly, lush. The hills were differently shaped. Google navigator was a bit tentative. We reverted to the old ways. Asked for directions.

There were a few people waiting for a bus somewhere near Polpithigama. We needed to get to Ehetuwewa. We found we were on the right road, but the direction-giver politely requested a ride. ‘Puluwan nam…’ (‘if you can,’ but essentially ‘if you don’t mind’). We didn’t. Another person came up, assuming he was also to be given a ride. He was going only a short distance. There was enough room in the vehicle.

The first was going to Katnoruwa. He informed us that they might have had to wait a couple of hours for a bus.  So, general chit-chat following. We ask questions and we are asked questions in return.  He was going to see his sister and said that there are buses from Ehetuwewa to Katnoruwa.

All I knew was that Katnoruwa was somewhere close to Reswehera and that almost 40 years ago, helping a friend administer a survey to collect data for his undergraduate dissertation, I have listed a quaint rock temple. The chief incumbent, a very old haamuduruwo, made an observation that stayed: ‘there is no such thing as parisaraya (environment); what there is is svabhaava dharmaya (‘natural order or principles’).’ But we weren’t going to Katnoruwa.

The elderly and genial passenger we picked up was grateful when he got off at Ehetuwewa. Thilak had already arrived. He became our google map.

‘We can go through my father’s village, Hiddewa.’

‘That will take us close to Divulgane?’ I asked. He said ‘yes.’
Drawing from a couple of visits to Resvehera, I asked if we would pass Katnoruwa. Again, a ‘yes.’

This meant that we could offer an extended ride to the man we picked up in Polpithigama. ‘But,’ I said, we have to make a short stop in Divulgane.

Forty years ago, I met a young man called Yasaratne, then a teacher in Katnoruwa. He had been a schoolmate of Thilak and ‘Senevi’ who had both attended the Ehetuwewa Maha Vidyalaya and were my batchmates in Peradeniya. Yase, as we called him, was a gentle man with a wry sense of humour.

‘An old friend,’ I announced.

He didn’t recognise, so he asked, ‘Kawda?’    

He couldn’t recognise. He had lost his sight about twenty years ago and was forced into early retirement. As has become customary, I mentioned my name and those of my companions. A quick visit, it was. As customary he offered tea, lunch and a couple of jak fruit. We had to decline.

And then we proceeded. Our friend got off at Katnoruwa: ‘bohoma pin.’ Merit was thus conferred and we left.

A couple of stops for tea and once for lunch meant it took us over six hours to get to Anuradhapura from Kottawa.

Roads are defined by the landscapes that cut through. Journeys by choices made along the way. Where to stop for tea or lunch, whether directions were sought or not, people who may ask for and given a ride, nostalgia-inspired decisions to stop and say hello and the readiness to retire all clocks for all time.  

It was a slow road to Anuradhapura, highways notwithstanding. A slow road that ended at Isurumuniya and Tisa Wewa where wind-hewn archaeologies and liquid histories constituted a meditative end point. Slow enough for the world to pause its immemorial rotation and duly inscribe bits and pieces of the unforgettable. To be caressed with heart-fingers and re-read at will.

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චෙක්මේට් නොවන TDR

ලෙන්ගතු මිතුරෙකුගේ නමේ මුලකුරුවලින් කියැවෙන්නේ කුමක්දැයි තේරුම් ගැනීමට අඩසියවසකට ආසන්න කාලයක් ගතවීම සැබවින්ම පුදුමාකාරය. නමුත් යම් කෙනෙකුව හැමවිටම ආමන්ත්‍රණය කළේ සහ හැඳින්වූයේ නමේ මුලකුරුවලින් නම්, සියලු ප්‍රායෝගික අරමුණු සඳහා එයම ඔහුගේ 'නම' බවට පත්වේ. එයින් කිසිදු අගෞරවයක් අදහස් නොවන අතර, කිසිවෙකු එයින් අගෞරවයක් ගම්‍ය වන්නේද නැත.

ටී.ඩී.ආර්. (TDR). අපි ඔහුගේ 'සම්පූර්ණ නම' වෙත පසුව එමු. පීරිස්. මම ඔහුගේ වාසගම දැන සිටියේ අප දෙදෙනාම ක්‍රීඩා කළ චෙස් තරගාවලිවල යුගල කාඩ්පත්වල (pairing cards) එය සඳහන් වූ බැවිනි.

ටී.ඩී.ආර්. මට වඩා වයසින් වැඩිමල් වූ අතර 1970 දශකයේ අගභාගය වන විටත් රටේ සිටි ප්‍රමුඛතම ක්‍රීඩකයෙකු විය. චෙස් පුවරුව ඉදිරිපිට අප මුලින්ම තරග වැදුණේ 1979 විවෘත සුදුසුකම් ලැබීමේ තරගාවලියේදීය (Open Qualifying Tournament). එහි ඉදිරියෙන්ම සිටින ක්‍රීඩකයන් 'විවෘත අවසාන තරග' (Open Finals) සඳහා සුදුසුකම් ලබන අතර, ප්‍රිමියර් ලීග් තරගාවලියේ ක්‍රීඩා කළ අය, ජාතික කාන්තා ශූරිය සහ පිටපළාත් ශූරයාද ඊට තරග කළහ.

මට ටී.ඩී.ආර්. හමුවූයේ රන්මුතු හෝටලයේ පැවැති එම තරගාවලියේ අවසාන වටයට පෙර වටයේදී බව මට සිතේ. එය මට අනිවාර්යයෙන්ම ජය ගත යුතු තරගයක් විය. එකල මගේ වයස අවුරුදු 13 ක් හෝ 14 ක් වූ අතර මම  බලාපොරොත්තු සහගතව සිටියෙමි. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. මා පරාජය කළේය. මම මගේ කඳුළු පාලනය කරගෙන, අතට අත දී, ලකුණු සටහන් පත්‍රිකාවට අත්සන් කර පිටව ගියෙමි. මම නැවත පැමිණීමේ අදහසින් සිටි නිසා මගේ චෙස් පුවරුව, ඉත්තන් කට්ටලය සහ ලකුණු සටහන් පත්‍රිකා ආදිය එතැනම තබා ගියෙමි.

හෝටලයෙන් පිටතට පැමිණ, මගේ සමීපතම මිතුරන් ඇතුළු චෙස් ක්‍රීඩකයන්ගේ දර්ශන පථයෙන් ඔබ්බට ගිය පසු, මට මගේ දුක පිට කිරීමට හැකි විය. බම්බලපිටිය දෙසට ගාලු පාර දිගේ ඇවිද ගිය හැටි මට තවමත් මතකය. හදිසියේම ටී.ඩී.ආර්. එතනට පැමිණියේය. කඳුළු කෙසේ වෙතත් මගේ දුක නිරීක්ෂණය කරන්නට ඇත.  කණගාටු වන්නට ඇත. ඔහු මා වෙත පැමිණ, මගේ කරට අතක් දමා මා සැනසීමට උත්සාහ කළේය. අප නැවත කවදා හෝ තරග කළහොත් මා කිසිදා පරාජය නොකරන බවට පවා ඔහු පොරොන්දු විය.

ඊළඟ වතාව ඇනටෝලි කාපොව් ශූරතාවලියයි (Anatoly Karpov Championship). එය පැවැත්වුණේ එකල ඩබ්ලිව්.ඒ.ඩී. රාමනායක මාවතේ පිහිටි සෝවියට් සංස්කෘතික මධ්‍යස්ථානයේදීය. එක් වටයකදී අප දෙදෙනා තරග වැදුණෙමු. ජය පරාජයෙන් තොරව තරගය සම කර ගැනීමට (draw) යෝජනා කළේ කවුදැයි මට මතක නැත, නමුත් එය පිළිගැනිණි. මම ජය පරාජයෙන් තොර සම තත්ත්වයකට හිමිකම් කීමට තරම් සුදුසු වූවාදැයි මම නොදනිමි; එනම් තරගයේ ස්ථාවරය අනුව ඔහුට පැහැදිලි ජයක් පෙනෙන්නට තිබුණේ නැත. සමහර විට ඔහු මට වූ පොරොන්දුව ඉටු කරනවා වන්නට ඇත.

ඊළඟ වසර කිහිපය තුළ තවත් එවැනි අවස්ථා තිබුණි. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. මාව කිසිදිනෙක පරාජය කළේ නැත. ජය පරාජයෙන් තොර තරග කිහිපයක් තිබූ අතර මම ඔහුව පරාජය කළ අවස්ථා දෙකක්ද විය. අදටත් අප හමුවන ඕනෑම අවස්ථාවක, ඔහු මට එක් නිශ්චිත තරගාවලියක් ගැන මතක් කරයි, සමහර විට එය 'විවෘත අවසාන තරගයක්' විය හැකිය. එක් වටයකදී මගේ පියා ඔහුව පරාජය කළ බවත්, ඊළඟ වටයේදී මගේ වැඩිමහල් සොහොයුරා ඔහුව පරාජය කළ බවත් ඔහු පවසයි. ඊළඟ වටයේදී ඔහුට මා සමඟ තරග කිරීමට සිදු වූ අතර මම ඔහුව පරාජය කළ බවත්, මෙය නිසා ඔහු චෙස් ක්‍රීඩාව අතහැර දැමීමට හිතුනු වූ බවත් ඔහු කියයි. නමුත් ඔහු එය කළේ නැත.

අප තරගාවලියකදී හමු වූ අවසන් වතාව මීට වසර 7 කට හෝ 8 කට පෙරය. ඒ ජාතික ජ්‍යෙෂ්ඨ ශූරතාවලියේදීය (National Senior Championship). එය ජය පරාජයෙන් තොර විය. අප දෙදෙනාගෙන් කිසිවෙකුටත් 'තරග කිරීමට' අවශ්‍යතාවයක් තිබුණේ නැත. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. ශූරතාව දිනා ගත්තේය. මට හිමිවූයේ තුන්වන ස්ථානයයි. රන්මුතු හෝටලයේ පැවැති ඒ කණගාටුදායක සැන්දෑවේ සිට වසර 40 කට ආසන්න කාලයක් ගතවන විට, අප ජයග්‍රහණය (සහ පරාජය) යන සීමාවන්ගෙන් ඔබ්බට ගොස් සිටියෙමු. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. කිසි විටෙකත් සැබවින්ම විශ්‍රාම ගත්තේ නැත. මම මගේ අවසාන බරපතල චෙස් තරගය ක්‍රීඩා කර දශක ගණනාවකට පසුවත්, අදටත් ඔහු ප්‍රමුඛ පෙළේ තරගාවලිවල තරග කරයි.

අපි මිතුරන් වෙමු. 1986 දී මම ජාතික කණ්ඩායමට ඇතුළත් වන විටත් ඔහු ප්‍රගුණ කළ ක්‍රීඩකයෙකු විය. අපි කණ්ඩායම් සගයෝ වූවෙමු. මම ජාතික තරගාවලියට ක්‍රීඩා කළේ එක් වරක් පමණි. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. සමහර විට වාර 30 කට වඩා ක්‍රීඩා කර ඇත. සමහර විට 40 කටත් වඩා වැඩිය. ඔහු සිව්වරක් ජාතික ශූරයා වූ අතර වසර 10 ක් අඛණ්ඩව ජ්‍යෙෂ්ඨ ජාතික ශූරතාවද (වයස අවුරුදු 50 ට වැඩි ක්‍රීඩකයන් සඳහා) දිනා ගත්තේය.

ටී.ඩී.ආර්. ප්‍රථම වරට ජාතික තරගාවලියට ක්‍රීඩා කළේ 1979 දීය. ඔහු ලබා ගත්තේ ලකුණු භාගයක් පමණි. ඊළඟ වසරේ ඔහු තම පළමු ජයග්‍රහණය ලබා ගත්තේය. ඔහු 1983, 1995 සහ 2004 යන වසරවලදී නැවතත් ජයග්‍රහණය කළේය. ඔහු 1983 දී ජාතික විවෘත ශූරතාව දිනාගත් අතර, එකම වසරේ ජාතික ශූරතාව සහ 'විවෘත' ශූරතාව යන දෙකම දිනාගත් පළමු ක්‍රීඩකයා බවට පත්විය.

මම ආපසු හැරී බලන විට, මට ඔහු ගැන මතක ඇති එකම දෙය නම් ඔහු බොහෝ දුරට ස්වයං අධ්‍යයනයෙන් ප්‍රගුණ කළ අයෙකු බවයි. ප්‍රහාරාත්මකයි. වේගවත්. වෙනත් යුගයක, සැබවින්ම තවත් සියවසක නම්, ඔහු පහසුවෙන්ම ග්‍රෑන්ඩ්මාස්ටර් (Grandmaster) පදවියක් ලබා ගනු ඇත. ඔහු ගැන ඔහුට කිසිදු තැවීමක් නැත, නැතහොත් චෝදනා කරන්නේ නැත. ඔහු එය සිනහවෙන් බැහැර කරයි.

මීට දින කිහිපයකට පෙර ශ්‍රී ලංකා චෙස් සම්මේලනය ජාත්‍යන්තර චෙස් දිනය සැමරුවේ හැව්ලොක් සිටි මාල් (Havelock City Mall) හි විශේෂ උත්සවයක් සංවිධානය කරමිනි. කාන්තා ජාතික ශූරී දහම්දි සනුදුලා, ආබාධිත පුද්ගලයන් කිහිප දෙනෙකුට එරෙහිව එකවර තරග කිරීමට (simultaneous exhibition) එකඟ වූවාය. එය විනෝදජනක උත්සවයක් වූ අතර සක්‍රිය තරුණ චෙස් ක්‍රීඩකයන් කිහිප දෙනෙකු මෙන්ම ක්‍රීඩාවට ලැදි නිසා පැමිණි වයසින් වැඩි බොහෝ පිරිසක්ද ආකර්ෂණය කර ගත්තේය. ටී.ඩී.ආර්. ද ඒ අතර එක් අයෙක් විය.

මෙම උත්සවය සියලු දෙනාගේ සහභාගීත්වය සමරනු ලැබීය. තරගාවලියක් පැවැත්වීමට යන්නේ යැයි යම් ලෙසකින් සිතූ දෙමාපියන්ගේ ළමුන් රැසක්ද ඊට ආකර්ෂණය විය. පසුව එතැනින් ගමන් කළ, චෙස් ක්‍රීඩා කිරීමට අවශ්‍ය වූ සාප්පු සවාරි යන්නන්ද සිටියහ. ඔවුන් සියලු දෙනාටම ප්‍රමාණවත් තරම් මේස, පුටු, පුවරු සහ ඉත්තන් තිබුණි.

මම ටී.ඩී.ආර්. ට කිව්වා ඔහුට එකවර ක්‍රීඩකයන් 10-15 කට එරෙහිව තරග කිරීමට සිදුවන බව.

'අනිවාර්යයෙන්ම.'

එපමණයි.

ඔහු ක්‍රීඩා කළේය. ඔහු සෑම තරගයක්ම ජයගත් අතර ඉල්ලීම් කළ අය සමඟ දෙවන තරගයකට පවා එකඟ විය. වසර 70 කට ආසන්න වයසක සිටින, එක් ඇසක පෙනීම අහිමි වී සිටින ඔහු මේසයෙන් මේසයට යන දෙස බලා සිටි මට, ඔහුගේ මිතුරෙකු වීමට ලැබීම සහ මම ඔහුව හඳුනන අඩසියවසකට ආසන්න කාලය තුළ ක්‍රීඩාව කෙරෙහි වූ ඔහුගේ ආදරය පොඩ්ඩක්වත් අඩු වී නැති බව දැනගැනීමට ලැබීම පවා මහා භාග්‍යයක් ලෙස මට සිතුණි.

තෙල්ගේ දන්ත රවීන්ද්‍ර පීරිස්. අද උදේ මට ඔහුගෙන් ඒ ගැන අසන්නට සිදු විය. ඔහු සිනාසෙමින් එය පැවසූ අතර 'රක්ෂා සහ ගෑනු ළමයින් සඳහා' වෙනත් නම් භාවිත කළ බවද එකතු කළේය. වසර ගණනාවකට පෙර, එනම් එකල පැවති දෙයකි, නමුත් දැන්, 1979 දී මෙන්ම, එය 'ටී.ඩී.ආර්.' (TDR) ය.

ටී.ඩී.ආර්. සැමවිටම මට මතක් කරන්නේ දීප්තිමත් බව, කැපවීම, ආශාව සහ නිහතමානී බවයි. ඔහු බොහෝ දේ දිනා ඇත. ඔහුට හිමි පරාජයන්ද ලබා ඇත. එක් අතකට, ඔහුව කිසිදා 'චෙක්මේට්' (පරාජය) කළ නොහැක.

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TDR cannot be checkmated

 

It is indeed strange when it takes almost half a century to realise what the initials of a dear friend’s name stands for. But then again, when someone has always been addressed and referred to by the initials of a name, it becomes in fact ‘The Name’ for all intents and purposes. No disrespect intended and none taken.

TDR. We will get to his ‘full name’ later. Peiris. I knew his surname because it appeared on pairing cards at chess tournaments which we both played in.

TDR was older and by the late 1970s was already one of the top players in the country. The first time we crossed swords over the chess board was at the Open Qualifying Tournament in 1979. The top finishers would make it to the ‘Open Finals’ where those who played in the Premier Division, the National Women’s Champion and the Outstation Champion also competed.  

I believe I met TDR in the penultimate round of the tournament which was held at Hotel Ranmuthu. It was a must-win game for me. I was 13 or 14 and was excited. And hopeful. TDR beat me. I held back my tears, shook hands, signed the score sheet and left. I intended to come back, so I left behind my chess board, set of pieces, score sheets etc.

Once out of the hotel and out of sight of chess players including close friends, I could grieve. I still remember walking along Galle Road in the direction of Bambalapitiya. All of a sudden, TDR was there. He had noticed and probably felt sorry for me. He came up to me, put his arm around my shoulder and tried to comfort me. He even promised never to beat me if we ever played again.

The next time was the Anatoly Karpov Championship. It was held at the Soviet Cultural House, at the time located on W A D Ramanayake Mawatha. We were paired in one of the rounds. I can’t remember who offered the draw, but it was accepted. I don’t know if I deserved a draw, i.e. the position didn’t show a clear win for him. He was probably keeping his promise.

There were other occasions over the next several years. TDR never defeated me. There were a few draws and a couple of times when I beat him. To this day whenever we meet, he reminds me of one particular tournament, probably an Open Final. He claims that my father beat him in one round as did my older brother in the following round. He had to play me in the next round and he says I beat him and this almost made him give up chess. He didn’t.

The last time we met in a tournament was about 7 or 8 years ago: the National Senior Championship. A draw. Neither of us were keen on ‘playing hard.’ TDR won. I came third. By this time, almost 40 years since that sad evening at Ranmuthu Hotel, we were beyond or above winning (and losing). TDR never really retired. Even today he competes in top tournaments, decades after I played my final serious chess game.

We are friends. He was already a seasoned player when I made it to the national team in 1986. We were team-mates. I played in the nationals just once. TDR probably played over 30 times. Maybe over 40. He is a four-time national champion and also won the senior national title (for players over 50 years of age) 10 years in a row.

TDR first played in the nationals in 1979. He scored just half a point. The following year he won his first time. He won again in 1983, 1995 and 2004. He won the National Open title in 1983, the first player to win the nationals and the ‘Open’ in the same year.

Today, as I look back, I realise that all I remember of him is that he was for the most part self-taught. Attacking. Fast. In another time, another century in fact, he would have easily earned a Grandmaster title. He didn’t and doesn’t complain. He just laughs it off.  

A few days ago, the Chess Federation of Sri Lanka celebrated International Chess Day by organising a special event at the Havelock City Mall. Women’s National Champion Dahamdi Sanudula agreed to a simultaneous exhibition, playing against several persons with disabilities. It was a fun event and attracted several active young chess players as well as people much older who came because they loved the game. TDR was one of them.

The event celebrated inclusivity. It also attracted a lot of kids whose parents somehow thought there was going to be a tournament. Then there were shoppers who stopped by and wanted to play. There were enough tables, chairs, boards and pieces for all of them.

I told TDR that he has to play simultaneously against 10-15 players.

‘Sure.’

That’s all.

He played. He won each and every game and even agreed to a second game with those who requested. Watching him move from table to table, almost 70 years now and having lost the sight of one eye, I couldn’t help but feel immensely privileged to be his friend and just to know that there was someone like him whose love for the game has not diminished one bit in the almost half a century that I’ve known him.


Telge Dantha Ravindra Peiris. I had to ask him this morning. He was chuckling as he said it and added that he used other names ‘for jobs and girls.’ Years ago, that is, But now, as it was back in 1979, it’s ‘TDR.’  

TDR will always make me think of brilliance, dedication, passion and humility. He has won so much. He has suffered his share of losses. He cannot be checkmated, in a sense.

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