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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Moments, just moments

‘Moments, just moments,’ is what Serene Williams said ten years ago just after defeating her older sister Venus at the US Open quarterfinal. Three words. Venus, before the match, had more to say.

‘If it doesn't happen, it's not going to make or break you. We don't have anything to prove. She has nothing to prove. She's really the best ever, so what are you going to do? Just try to make it. If you don't, then that's that and go to the next one.’

It didn’t happen for her, but did for Serena.  Venus still had more words: ‘I’m so happy for you.’  Serena said she didn’t remember anything at all. 'Moments,' that’s what she said. That’s what it is all about.

There are moments everywhere. All the time. Obviously. Last night some came to me. Or, let’s say, just one.

‘I Can’t Breathe’ protests erupted all over the United States of America following the brutal murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis when police officer Derek Chauvin knelt on Floyd’s neck for almost ten minutes, fatally asphyxiating him. That was not Chuvin’s first knee stunt.

The moment. It happened in Philadelphia.

‘We will stop protesting when you stop killing.’ That was on a placard. There were many ‘Black Lives Matter’ placards too. The protestors marched on the parkway to the museum. They were loud. Insistent. Indignant.

The cops were out. In full readiness. Riot gear. Helmets, shields, batons and guns.

I had family out there, that’s how I know this ‘moment’ (that I will describe below). My sister and two of her daughters. The youngest and her friend had found themselves at the head of the massive protest, quite by accident.

‘On the way,’ my sister relates, ‘she was feeling bad for the cops — because we were all yelling at them. Then she got there.’

They marched. Reached the barricades. And eventually teargassed.

So they were confronted by a line of police officers. Each a potential Derek Chauvin, some may have thought and they may not have been wrong. In the US of A that’s something you can’t pooh-pooh away.

There was a short video which I can’t find now, but in it, there’s my sister speaking to one of the police officers, a Hispanic. I can’t remember the exact words, but she was trying to explain why she was out there with her daughters and hundreds of others.  

Conversation in the midst of yells and screams. Yes, they were livid, were the protestors and one cannot fault them.

And then he knelt. Not on anyone’s neck, but in solidarity with ordinary people who knew that Derek was out of order, that the Police Department was out of order and the USA was out of order, and used that very act symbolising ‘Out of Order’ to protest. He knelt. As did my sister. They clasped hands.

‘I wonder what happened to that cop,’ I told her.

‘Yeah, I wonder too,’ she replied.

A moment. Just a moment. It was captured by the other daughter.

‘Powerful pictures,’ I observed.

‘Yeah. There are really some fantastic ones. [She] should do a photo essay of some sort. I have so many — hundred or more photographs from this time,’ she said.

What do we get when we add up all such moments from all such protests? How about the moments that are personal and were never captured on camera or indeed could never have been photographed? What of moments interred with the bodies of those who lived them? What of moments that were not recognised as such but constituted the poetic threads that unbeknownst to the wearer nevertheless made the weave that protected and made more elegant and soft the heart and mind? That place in Philadelphia, what does it look like now?  

The ‘America’ that is not but could be that my nieces, their friends and literally hundreds of thousands of others envisaged, is it closer or farther away today, ten years later?

It didn’t happen. But it could. One day.

And when that day comes, no one who marched that day in Philadelphia or turned moments into sparks and flowers may be alive to celebrate and perhaps smile and say to themselves, ‘I did my bit.’

Moments pass. They leave something behind. Always.  I picked something of the something-left-behind ten years ago in Philadelphia. Thus do we challenge the might of tyrants.

There are little drones carrying drops of deliberate engagement as photograph and poetry, taking out missile systems, slipping through impenetrable domes and falling on barren lands and somehow coaxing the earth to yield flowers and corn.

Moments. We could call them that.

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Fire!

 

Fire burns. Destroys. It also offers warmth in very cold places and can be the difference between sure death and survival. It’s a mark of civilization, its discovery (said to be) a turning point in the history of our species, is associated with hell and indeed is a visible and felt marker of war, genocidal attacks, plunder and annihilation of all kinds. Across time. Now. As I write.

Last night the word came up in a discussion on books that spoke of the history of Latin America. ‘Fire from the Mountain,’ by Omar Cabezas, first published in 1985, is the author’s account of his association with the Nicaraguan Revolution and covers the time he spent in the northern mountains of his country with the Sandinistas, being trained and engaging in guerrilla warfare.

It’s a fascinating read. ‘Fire’ was a metaphor of course and referred to resistance and rebellion, a symbol of light and hope in a fight to overthrow tyranny.

From there the flame thus lit flitted to other fire-references. First, naturally perhaps, Prometheus, unloved and punished by the gods for stealing fire. He was supposed to have been bound to a rock and condemned to have his liver devoured by an eagle only for it to grow back overnight and then once again eaten the following day.  

Fire was the preserve of divinity apparently, and Prometheus, by the fact of theft, defied, overturned and thereby compromised the god-human structure of dependency. Revolutionary, certainly. The heavens could not suffer it. Neither could they overturn the new normal related to the loss of monopoly. So they punished Prometheus. An example. A warning. ‘Defy us at your peril!’

That’s not only about heaven and earth, gods and humans. It’s quite basic and common to any unequal relationship. Across time and space.

That’s essentially what Billy Joel says in his song ‘We didn’t start the fire.’ The story goes that when Joel was around 40 years of age, a much younger man had complained about the state of the world. This was in 1989. He had simply jotted down all the ‘fires’ over the previous four decades, implying that pyromaniacs, so to speak, and fires aren’t anomalies but pretty common stuff. The song was featured in his album ‘Storm Front.’

Of course this does not mean that setting fire to things (or bombing countries or cities or villages off maps) is justified and should be allowed to pass without comment or protest. Joel doesn’t really advocate fire extinguishing or ‘fighting fire with fire.’ He states facts and leaves them at that. Interesting observation, but incomplete nevertheless.

The Promethean myth is about retribution. Crime, supposed, and punishment. Bob Marley and the Wailers spoke of it in fiery terms. The song: ‘Catch a fire.’ Released in 1973 in the fifth album by the Wailers and featured as the title-song, it was the title of what is considered the definitive biography of Bob Marley, written by Timothy White.

‘Catch a fire’ is an accusation and prediction of retribution. It addresses slavery. Slave drivers are told that tables have turned (have they, though?) and that they will ‘catch a fire,’ meaning ‘will burn in hell.’

And then, 'The fire next time,' by James Baldwin, a brilliant book on race relations in the USA in the 1960s. How many 'next times' have we had since and how many more to come? 

And so, as I moved from historical moment to song and singer and back to history again, I remembered the flame in the Nataraja or the classic depiction of the ‘Dance of Shiva.’ In one hand, the god who never forgives or forgets, holds a flame and in another, a drum. The at-a-glance message is, ‘one (flame) depicts death/destruction and the other (drum) denotes life.

Another interpretation doesn’t stop with the immediate ‘message’ of destruction and death (as part of the human condition, let’s say). There’s also transformation and dissolution, the burning of ego and illusion, which, cosmologically speaking is not necessarily a bad thing. That which is irrelevant is done away with so something new (and better, perhaps) can have space to take root, grow and flourish. Brings to mind the line from Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem on the death of the mythical King Arthur (More d’Arthur):

‘And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:
"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world…..”’

There’s swidden agriculture, a term used to describe shifting cultivation or the innocuous and even misleading descriptive ‘slash and burn.’ ‘Swidden’ comes from the Old Norse word svíða meaning ‘singe’ or ‘burn’ and was coined by the Swedish anthropologist Karl Gustav Izikowitz to describe agricultural techniques in Southeast Asia in the 1930s. A fine example of crass caricaturing which can even influence policy-making.

Fire burns both ways, then. During the Watts Riots in Los Angeles in 1965, rioters and crowds used the slogan ‘burn baby burn,’ borrowed from a catchphrase coined by an LA radio DJ, Nathaniel ‘Magnificent’ Montague. Fires raged across the neighbourhood. And later it was a slogan for urban unrest. Fighting fire with fire. Weapons of the powerful used against the oppressor by the oppressed. Double-edged flames.

Fire. So many songs. So many meanings. Slants. Metaphor-reservoir. From mountain top and across plains where rebellion ferments and explodes. From lyric to song and slogan. As always, usable and ‘abusable.’

Endless.

But this exercise has limitations. Finitude. I must stop.  

But before that, the traditional oil lamp. Light. Dispelling darkness. A soft Promethean flush; rebellions warm and poetic. Let us not quench such flames and let us not look away if and when pyromaniacs with ill-intent seek to douse the spirit, the hope and the determination to re-create the world in less intrusive and humiliating colours.

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Lumumba Vea lives for us all

Sarath S De Silva’s ‘Kotuwa Pitakotuwa 1’ is a book I haven’t read. Vihanga Perera WhatsApped me the cover page and also a couple of pages from the book. He did so because there’s a reference to my father, Gamini Seneviratne.

De Silva recollects a couple of poetry magazines published in the University of Ceylon, Peradeniya, back in the early nineteen sixties. He says they were titled ‘Nisades I’ and ‘Nisades II’. From what I remember, there was a magazine titled ‘Poetry Peradeniya’ and later, ‘Peradeniya Kavi’ which I believe was bi or tri lingual. My father was associated with both.  

De Silva remembered but a few lines from a poem he believes my father wrote:

‘Meruva namuth lumumbaava
merune naa
aprikaava.’

[Although Lumumba was killed, Africa did not die]

Years ago, decades in fact, my father related a story about Lumumba. This was when he saw a photograph of the statue of Governor Ward in Kandy and in front of the Dalada Maligawa being removed (to be replaced by one of Madduma Bandara). It appeared on the front page of the Daily News or the Island, I can’t remember which.

‘When Lumumba was killed, we marched from Peradeniya to Kandy,’ that’s how he started the story.

He told me about Patrice Lumumba, Congo’s first Prime Minister after gaining independence from Belgium in June 1960. He was assassinated in January 1961. He was just 35.

Lumumba was a symbol of Congolese nationalism during the struggle against Belgian colonial rule which began when the butcher King Leopold established the Congo Free State in 1885. Around 10 million Congolese were killed between 1885 and 1908, even as Leopold plundered rubber and ivory.

His ‘Independence Speech’ is hailed as one of the most important in the 20th Century. Malcolm X observed that Lumumba was ‘the greatest Black man who ever walked the African continent.’ He spoke before King Baudouin of Belgium, the great-great-nephew of the aforementioned butcher.

Lumumba was ousted in a military coup led by Mobutu Sese Seku who captured and flew him to Katanga where he was tortured and eventually executed by a firing squad. Then his body was thrown into a shallow grave only to be dug up later, dismembered and his remains dissolved in acid.

It is said that the only remnant of Lumumba was a gold-crowned tooth, which Belgian police officer  Gérard Soete kept for 39 years until his death in 2000. Soete confessed that he was the one responsible for dismembering the body and dissolving Lumumba’s remains.

Africa did not die then. Lived. Lives. Present. Continuous. And while the continent lives, the people of at least 10 countries cheer their heroes playing their hearts out at the Football World Cup. They turn up, they cheer. But one man stands out.

Michel Kuka Mboladinga, better known by his nickname ‘Lumumba Vea,’ or ‘Lumumba Lives. He is the Congolese national team’s most famous fan. It all began during the 2025 Africa Cup of Nations in Morocco, when he stood upon a pedestal with a steely gaze during every Congo match, remaining perfectly still with his right arm raised from beginning to end.

He was not granted a US visa to watch the Democratic Republic of Congo play Uzbekistan, but he was in Guadalajara, Mexico, to watch them against Colombia. He stood still throughout the game. The picture says it all.

Lumumba was killed, my father told me. Lumumba lives, says Michel Kuka Mboladinga. Africa lives, says Africans, as did my father, more than 60 years ago.

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සැබෑ සුදුසුකම් නොහොත් සහතික ඇත්ත

අතීතයේ, කඩදාසි නොතිබූ හෝ තිබුණත් ඒවා ප්‍රධාන වශයෙන් සාහිත්‍ය කටයුතු සඳහා පමණක් භාවිත කළ යුගයක, අධිකාරී බලය පිළිගැනීමට ලක්වූයේ වෙනත් ක්‍රමවලිනි. ඒ අතීතයේදී, වෙද මහත්තයා හෝ වෙල් විදානේ වැනි තනතුරුවලට පුද්ගලයන් පත් කරනු ලැබුවේ ප්‍රකාශනයක් මඟින් මිස, සෑම විටම කඩදාසිවලින් ලියැවුණු නිල බලය පැවරීමක් ඒ සමඟ සිදු වූයේ නැත. මුද්‍රාවක් හෝ සීල් තැබීමක් ඒ සඳහා ප්‍රමාණවත් වන්නට ඇත. නමුත් එවැනි සහතික කිරීමක් නොමැතිව වුවද, ඔවුන් කවුරුන්ද යන්න සහ ඔවුන්ගේ බලතලවල සීමාවන් මොනවාද යන්න පිළිබඳව ගම්මානවල ජනයා දැන සිටියහ. එම සීමාවන්ට ඔවුහු ගරු කළහ.

සහතික වැදගත් ය. සහතික කිරීම වැදගත් ය. ව්‍යාජ දෑවලින් පිරුණු වත්මන් ලෝකයක මෙවැනි නීත්‍යානුකූල භාවයක් තර්ජනයට ලක්ව තිබුණද, යම් නිශ්චිත ක්ෂේත්‍රයක නීත්‍යානුකූලව කටයුතු කිරීම සඳහා මේ ආකාරයේ හෝ වෙනත් ආකාරයක සහතිකයක් තිබීම අත්‍යවශ්‍ය වේ.

සහතික මඟින් බලපත්‍රයක් හිමි වේ. එමෙන්ම සහතික මඟින් ජයග්‍රහණ ද අගය කරනු ලබයි. රැකියාවක්, උසස්වීමක් හෝ කිසියම් ගෞරව නාමයක් සඳහා ඔබව සලකා බලන බලධාරියෙකුට ඔබ කැපී පෙනෙන යමක් කර ඇති බව ඔප්පු කිරීමට අවශ්‍ය වූ විට, මේවා ද්විතීයික එහෙත් ප්‍රවාහනය සඳහා වඩාත් පහසු කුසලාන බවට පත් වේ. කුසලාන, පලිහවල් හෝ පදක්කම්වලට වඩා මේවා රැගෙන යාම පහසු ය.

එබැවින් අපි ඒවා එකතු කරමු. ඕනෑම වෙලාවක ප්‍රයෝජනයක් වේවි යන අදහසින්. උදාහරණයක් ලෙස, පාසල් ජීවිතය තුළදී අපට බොහෝ විට විශාල සහතික තොගයක් එකතු කර ගත හැකිය. ආරක්ෂාව සඳහා අපි ඒවා ලැමිනේට් කර, ක්‍රීඩා හෝ වෙනත් බාහිර ක්‍රියාකාරකම් අනුව, නැතහොත් අධ්‍යාපනික දක්ෂතා වෙනුවෙන් දිනාගත් ත්‍යාගවල විෂයයන් අනුව වර්ග කර, යම් අල්මාරියක හෝ ලාච්චුවක සුරක්ෂිතව තබමු.

එවැනි දේවල අතීත මතකයන් අවදි කරන වටිනාකමක් (Nostalgic value) ඇත. අප වයසින් මුහුකුරා යන විට, අපට එම සහතික සුරක්ෂිතාගාරය විවෘත කර, ඒ නිශ්චිත මොහොතට සහ ඒ හා සම්බන්ධ සෑම මතකයකටම ආපසු යා හැකිය. එවිට අපට සිනාසිය හැකිය. නමුත් රැකියා සම්මුඛ පරීක්ෂණ සඳහා අපට මේ හැම දෙයක්ම ඇත්තටම භාවිත කළ නොහැක. කෙසේ වෙතත්, ඒවායින් හැම එකක්ම රැගෙන යා නොහැකි බව පැහැදිලිය.

ඔබ රැගෙන යන්නේ ඉහළම අධ්‍යාපන සුදුසුකම පෙන්වන සහතිකයයි; එනම් උසස් පෙළ හෝ උපාධි සහතිකය මිස 5 වසර ශිෂ්‍යත්ව විභාගය සමත් වූ එක නොවේ. ක්‍රිකට් ක්‍රීඩාව සඳහා ශ්‍රී ලංකා වර්ණ (Sri Lankan colours) සහතිකය මිස පාසල් වර්ණ සහතිකය නොවේ.

අනෙක් අතට, දෙමාපියන් (පැහැදිලිවම දරුවන් නොවේ) සමහර අවස්ථාවලදී සහතික පිළිබඳව දැඩි ලෙස ලතවෙති. පාසල විසින් සිසුන්ට පිරිනමන විවිධ ගෞරව නාමයන් සහ තනතුරු ගැන ඔවුහු සිතති. උදාහරණයක් ලෙස ශිෂ්‍ය නායක තනතුරු (Prefectships). එසේම, හොඳම සර්වකාලීන ශිෂ්‍යයා (Best all-round student) සඳහා වන ත්‍යාග ද ඊට ඇතුළත් ය. පාසල් බලධාරීන් මේ පිළිබඳව දැන සිටිය යුතු අතර, එවැනි ගෞරවයන් සඳහා සුදුසුකම් ලබන සිසුන්ගෙන් ඔවුන්ගේ ජයග්‍රහණ පිළිබඳ සාක්ෂි ඉල්ලා නොසිටිය යුතුය. ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත්, පාසල් පද්ධතියෙන් බැහැරව දරුවෙකු ලැබූ ජයග්‍රහණ පිළිබඳ කිසිදු වාර්තාවක් ඔවුන් සතුව නොතිබෙන්නට ද පුළුවන.

එබැවින්, මේ අර්ථයෙන් ගත් කල, දෙමාපියන් විසින් සහතික සෙවීම සහ සහතික එකතු කිරීම සාධාරණීකරණය කිරීමට හේතුවක් තිබේ. ඔව්, මම නැවත කියන්නම්, දරුවන්ට - විශේෂයෙන්ම ඔවුන් ඉතා කුඩා නම් - මේ ගැන කිසිම වැටහීමක් නැත; නමුත් මෙවැනි දේවල් දෙමාපිය රැකවරණයේ (Parenting) කොටසක් වන අතර, දෙමාපියන් කෙතරම් මෙවැනි දේ පිළිබඳව උපාදාන ඇති කරගන්නේ ද, ඔවුන්ගේ නොසන්සුන්තාවය ද එතරම්ම වැඩි වේ. 

නමුත් ‘සහභාගීත්ව සහතික’ (Participation certificates) ගැන අප කතා කළ යුතුයි. එවැනි ලේඛන මඟින් සහතික කරනු ලබන්නේ අදාළ පුද්ගලයා යම් උත්සවයකට හෝ තරඟයකට සහභාගී වූ බව පමණි. ඔහු හෝ ඇය ‘එතැනට පැමිණියා’ යන්නයි. සහතිකය මඟින් පෙන්නුම් කරන්නේ එපමණකි. ඕනෑම පාසල් නිලධාරියෙකු මෙම ‘පැමිණීම’ (ඇත්ත වශයෙන්ම එය එයම පමණි) ගෞරවයට පාත්‍ර විය යුතු යම් ආකාරයක ජයග්‍රහණයක් ලෙස සැලකීම මුග්ධ ක්‍රියාවකි, විශේෂයෙන්ම එතැනට පැමිණි සෑම පුද්ගලයෙකුටම එම සහතිකයම ලැබී ඇති බැවිනි.

කෙසේ වෙතත්, සමහර අය තර්ක කරන්නේ එවැනි සහතිකයක් පවා දිරිගැන්වීමක් (Incentive) වන බවයි. ඈත දුෂ්කර ප්‍රදේශවල ජීවත් වන ‘දුගී දුප්පත් දෙමාපියන්ගේ අහිංසක දරුවන්ට’ මෙවැනි ඇගයීමක් පවා දිගු ගමනක් යාමට උපකාරී විය හැකි බව ඔවුහු සමහර විට තර්ක කරති. ඉතින් අපි සහතික සහ සහතික කිරීම් තුළ ඇතැයි කියනු ලබන දිරිගැන්වීම ගැන අපි කතා කරමු.

එහි ඇති තර්කය නම්, එය දරුවෙකුට අදාළ ක්‍රීඩාවට හෝ ක්‍රියාකාරකමට වඩාත් කැපවීමට සහ ඉහළ ජයග්‍රහණ කරා ළඟා වීමට පෙළඹවීමක් ඇති කරන බවයි.

ඇත්තටමද?

අපි අවුරුදු පහක දරුවෙකු උදාහරණයකට ගනිමු. ඔහු යම් ක්‍රීඩා ඉසව්වකට සහභාගී වන බව සිතමු. අපි හිතමු චෙස් ක්‍රීඩාව කියලා. ඉතින් මේ දරුවාව සමහර විට දින කිහිපයක් තිස්සේ තරඟාවලියට රැගෙන එනවා. දරුවාට මුල් ස්ථාන තුනෙන් එකක් (Podium finish) ලබා ගැනීමට නොහැකි වෙනවා. එබැවින්, ගෙදර රැගෙන යාමට කුසලාන හෝ පදක්කම් නැත.

නමුත්. එතැන. සහභාගීත්ව. සහතිකය. තිබේ! (ඊළඟ වතාවේ වඩා හොඳින් කිරීමට එය එම පිරිමි දරුවා දිරිමත් කරනු ඇතැයි අපට කියනු ලැබේ).

දරුවන් ජයග්‍රහණයට ප්‍රතිචාර දක්වන්නේ කෙසේද? මුහුණ පුරා හිනාවකින්. දරුවාට ආදරණීය දෙමාපියන්ගෙන් ප්‍රශංසා ලැබෙයි. වැළඳගැනීමක්. සමහර විට හාදු. පරාජය ගැන කුමක් කිව හැකිද? කඳුළු තිබිය හැකිය. වඩා පරිණත දෙමාපියන්ගෙන් යම් සැනසීමක් ලැබිය හැකිය, නමුත් දැඩි ලෙස බලපෑම් කරන දෙමාපියන්ගෙන් දොස් ඇසීමට ද ඉඩ ඇත. කෙසේ වුවත්, එය තාවකාලිකය. සිනහව හෝ කඳුළු, දරුවා ඊළඟ තරඟයට ක්‍රීඩා කිරීමට වාඩි වූ විට හෝ ඊළඟ වතාවේ තමන්ට චෙස් තරඟයකට ක්‍රීඩා කිරීමට ලැබෙන්නේ කවදාදැයි වැටහීමක් නොමැතිව තරඟාවලිය පැවැත්වෙන ස්ථානයෙන් පිටව යන විට ඒ සියල්ල අමතක වී යයි.

දෙමාපියන් දරුවා ‘දිරිමත් කිරීමට’ ඒ සහභාගීත්ව සහතිකය වනනවාද? දරුවා සහතිකය අතැතිව සිටින ඡායාරූප ගෙන ඒවා මිතුරන් සහ නෑදෑයන් අතර බෙදා ගන්නවාද? සහතිකයක් යනු ‘දිරිගැන්වීමක්’ යන අදහස දරුවාගේ ඔළුවට ඇතුළු වන්නේ කෙසේද සහ කවදාද? එවැනි දේවල් දරුවෙකුගේ ඔළුවට දමන්නේ කවුද? සැබවින්ම එවැනි දේවල් දරුවෙකුගේ ඔළුවට ඇතුළු වුවහොත්, දරුවා ඉන් පසුව හඹා යන්නේ කුමක් ද? බොහෝ විට, කුසලාන සහ සහතිකයි. මේවා සඳහා වඩා හොඳ සූදානමක් අවශ්‍ය බව ඇත්තකි, නමුත් ඒවා අවධානය වෙනතකට යොමු කරවන දේවල් (Distractions) වේ.

මෑතකදී, මම ජාතික තරඟාවලියේ පස්වන ස්ථානය ලබාගත් 12 හැවිරිදි චෙස් ක්‍රීඩකයෙකුගේ කෙටි සම්මුඛ සාකච්ඡාවක් නැරඹුවෙමි. ඔහුගේ අරමුණු මොනවාදැයි ඔහුගෙන් විමසන ලදී. ඔහු සිංහලෙන් පැවසුවේ, ‘වඩා හොඳ චෙස් ක්‍රීඩකයෙක් වෙන්න’ කියාය. ඔහු සතුව බොහෝ විට පදක්කම් සහ සහතික රැසක් තිබෙන්නට ඇත, නමුත් ඔහුගේ අවධානය යොමු වූයේ ත්‍යාග වෙත නොවේ. හුදෙක් දියුණුව කෙරෙහි පමණි.

ලෝක චෙස් ශූරයෙකු වන විශ්වනාදන් ආනන්ද් වරක් ප්‍රකාශ කළේ, තමාට ග්‍රෑන්ඩ්මාස්ටර් (Grandmaster) වීමට අවශ්‍ය අවසාන සුදුසුකම් සීමාව (Norm) සපුරා ගැනීම සඳහා ඔහු ‘නෝම්’ තරඟාවලි (Norm tournaments) රැසකට ක්‍රීඩා කළ බවයි.

‘මට ලකුණු භාගයකින් හෝ එක ලකුණකින් එය මඟ හැරෙනවා. ඊට පස්සේ මම නෝම්ස් ගැන හිතන එක නැවැත්තුවා. මම අවධානය යොමු කළේ වඩා හොඳ ක්‍රීඩකයෙක් වෙන්න විතරයි.’

ඔහු එම සුදුසුකම ලබා ගත්තේය. ඔහු ග්‍රෑන්ඩ්මාස්ටර් කෙනෙක් විය. අවසානයේ ඔහු ලෝක චෙස් ශූරතාවය ද දිනා ගත්තේය.

හැමෝම එවැනි ඉහළ තලයකට ළඟා වන්නේ නැත. හැමෝම එවැනි ඉහළ තලයන් සොයන්නෙත් නැත. කෙසේ වෙතත්, දරුවෙකු කුඩා අවදියේදීම සහතික කෙරෙහි දැඩි ලෙස ඇබ්බැහි වුවහොත්, නැතහොත් ආදරණීය දෙමාපියන් දරුවෙකුට එසේ ඇබ්බැහි වීමට ‘උගන්වන්නේ’ නම්, දරුවාගේ නැඹුරුව දැඩි කැපවීමෙන් වැඩ කිරීම සහ ක්‍රීඩා කිරීමේ සතුට ලබාගැනීම වෙනුවට, සැනසිලි ත්‍යාගයක් (Consolation prize) ගෙදර රැගෙන යාම දක්වා වෙනස් විය හැකිය. එය දරුවෙකු තුළ වර්ධනය කිරීමට සුදුසුම මානසිකත්වය නොවේ. එය දෙමාපියන් විසින් දරුවෙකු තුළ ‘වර්ධනය කරනු ලබන’ මානසිකත්වයක් මිස දරුවෙකු උපතින් රැගෙන එන දෙයක් නොවේ. එය යම් මට්ටමකින්, තමන්ගේම දරුවාගෙන් තමාගේ වටිනාකම තහවුරු කර ගැනීමට (Validation) දරන උත්සාහයකි. එය බොහෝ විට හොඳ දෙයක් නොවිය හැකිය.

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Rukshan Perera: for the love of music and all things wholesome

I first met Rukshan during the covid pandemic. Our mutual friend and philanthropist Sukumar Nagendran funded a building for the nursing staff of IDH. I believe that project was overseen by former Army Commander, General Daya Ratnayake. Rukshan elevated the modest opening ceremony with a song.

Since then I’ve met him randomly, mostly at Royal College events. He inhabits a musical world, I am but an occasional listener. For all the stories he could tell and occasionally does tell, what always struck me was the passion in his words and in his eyes whenever he spoke about Sri Lanka and, to a lesser degree, Royal College.

It would not be correct to say that in all things it was country and school that framed his thinking, music and other interventions, although he certainly stood up to be counted (and more!) when the moment demanded presence. Music is what he is all about, I feel. And this in him added melody to other interests and concerns.

Music was scripted into his genes, so to speak. His mother was a teacher at Princess of Wales College, Moratuwa and a church organist. A methodist family, they all sang. He remembers prayers at home even at the age of three where hymns were a regular feature. Most importantly, Rukshan says, his mother sang harmony. Music was part of the household.

Moratuwa. That was the capital of a particular genre of music in Sri Lanka. That’s where he grew up. So, from church and school choirs, young Rukshan moved to a different type of music, along with his older brother PRasanna and younger brother Melantha, who by the way is a keyboardist for the band Mirage.

They had all learned piano from their mother but classical music was not what any of them wanted to pursue, even though they heard it all the time, either from her or her students. It was a time when guitar bands were becoming popular. They chose guitar over piano.
 

Moratuwa had lots of bands such as La Bambas and Los Flamingos, and singers like M S Fernando, Paul Fernando and Nihal Nelson. They were neighbours. And friends. In fact when Rukshan was just 12, he formed a band with his cousins. It was called ‘Kalaamediriyo’ (Fireflies). Priya Peiris of La Bambas had taken them to CBC (which later became SLBC) to be featured in a show hosted by Vijay Korea for new and young bands performing originals. That was the culture back then: older, experienced and reputed musicians generously helped the young (and even tiny) kids with a musical bent.

Rukshan moved to Royal College, but apart from being in the choir and participating in some events, his musical involvement had been minimal. He spent more time playing table tennis! He was heavily invested in music by that time, the legendary Clarence Wijewardena having invited him to play with Super Golden Chimes. He played lead guitar with the Golden Chimes and keyboards with the Super Golden Chimes

Music took him all over the world. The inspiration for such adventures is attributed to his father, Boyd Perera who was in the YMCA and had traveled a lot, almost every month in fact. He would tell the kids stories and show pictures from a slide projector. He had even visited the homes of Elvis Presley and Jim Reeves. Naturally, young Rukshan wanted to visit all these wonderful places. Music was his passport and visa.

‘We traveled. I played with the Esquire Set at the Intercontinental Hotel in Kabul, Afghanistan, in the late seventies when the Russians walked in! The International community came for our performances. They brought us albums of the latest songs. Later I played all over Europe with the band Serendib.’

At some point, Rukshan decided it would be good to get back to his books. So he settled down in the USA and read for a degree in Information Systems and later completed an MBA at the City University of New York. He worked for Phillip Morris for more than twenty years.

Music never left him though. 

 

‘While at university in New York, I joined the jazz band and learned the fundamentals of jazz under renowned musician Milt Hinton and presented my own concerts at the Whitney Museum of New York for five consecutive years (1985–1989).’

After leaving Phillip Morris, Rukshan returned to Sri Lanka because his father was ill and so was his mother-in-law. Later, he went back to the USA, living in Los Angeles until the war ended and working as a consultant.

'Even in LA, I played music at Jazz Unlimited every month, and at other concerts. I worked with Hussein Jiffrey, a Grammy winner. It wasn’t regular though. There were concerts and dances. There were recordings as well. I wrote a song, “One land for all” and got all Sri Lankan singers/musicians together. In fact I’ve written and recorded around 30 socially conscious songs on various topics. There were also special songs, for example when the war ended, the Easter Sunday attacks and of course Covid. I have also been inspired to write songs about Malala, Nelson Mandela and Mohammed Yunus, all Nobel Laureates, for all they’ve done, their contributions to the world and the inspiration they embody.’

A little known fun fact: when the inimitable Michael Jackson died, Rukshan composed and recorded a tribute titled “You Are The World” and presented it to Jackson’s brother, Jermaine Jackson!

He released a CD of his English originals, 2 live DVDs, and 2 DVDs for Rotary to raise awareness of Rotary service through his originals, and to promote values in young children using value-embedded songs.  

Over the years, he has achieved much and been recognised too for his work. Few would know, however, that Rukshan composed the first Sinhala Acapella for pop groups in early 2000s but then again, he is widely recognised as a distinguished composer, director, recording artist, performer, and multi-instrumentalist, essentially an innovative musician who continually pushes musical boundaries. For example, Rukshan’s peace composition “Eka Mawakage Daruwo” won two Gold Medals at the Asia Pacific Choir Games.  

Through it all, there’s a Sri Lankan heart beating inside the body of Rukshan Perera. It is made of compassion and love for the land of his birth and the people who inhabit it. Through it all, he stands by the people, especially those whose circumstances aren’t rosy. His interventions may have gone unnoticed but this doesn’t mean he hasn’t touched and changed lives.

It doesn’t end. Although Rukshan claims he is a retired musician who is taking things easy, he plays to raise funds for deserving charities in Sri Lanka through ‘Rukshan Perera Live In’ concerts. This he has been doing for the last ten years.

It’s never about himself. Recently, when he celebrated his 70th birthday, Rukshan did a special landmark show, ‘Rukshan Perera: A Musical Journey,’ all in aid of the Royal College Union Loyalty Pledge Scholarship Fund. Repaying debts, one might say, but then again he owes nothing to either school or country. We owe him.

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

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Umble Pie Days in Washington and Tel Aviv

 

Trees have roots. Rivers have sources. So too, phrases. Just the other day, reflecting on the before and continuing ‘after’ of the illegal, unjustified and genocidal attacks carried out against Iran by the world’s worst rogue state combo, USA-Israel, and of course the impending war-ending peace accord or at least many of the drafts circulating these days, the term ‘eat humble pie’ came to mind.

Why, though?

Well, there was a ‘status,’ let’s say, before the two-idiot-circus of Trump and Netanyahu launched attacks on Iran, in the midst of negotiations by the way. Also, by the way, this was the second time within a year that these jokers got their rocks off while talking. Now, more than three months later, the deal that might be inked soon, essentially reverts to that status quo apart from the unfreezing of Iranian assets, some rebuilding-compensation and a pledge to talk about nuclear capabilities. A defeat for the clowns, but not necessarily a victory for Iran, simply on account of the massive damage inflicted on infrastructure and the loss of thousands of lives.

One day the buffoons may be tried for genocide and other crimes against humanity, but I wouldn’t bet on it; not in a world where the big decision makers have each others’ backs.

All that is ‘aside,’ now. The moment ‘humble pie’ came to mind, I wondered where it came from? Well, in my case, I’ve heard it often enough to know what it means, but this was the first time I was curious about its origins. And I couldn’t stop laughing.

Apparently, it is sourced to a medieval dish called ‘umble pie.’ That’s so long ago that the spell-checker doesn’t know of it. I typed the word and it was auto-corrected to ‘humble.’ ‘Umble,’ ladies and gentlemen, was originally, ‘numbles,’ and that was the Middle English word for deer offal.

‘Offal,’ as we know, refers to the internal organs of a butchered animal. Such parts are considered to be inedible, but that’s a class thing which we will get to later on. That term comes from another Middle English word, ‘offall,’ i.e., ‘that which falls off during the butchering process.’

Anyway, ‘umble pie’ was considered cheap, low-class food served to and consumed by servants and peasants. The rich and the noble got the prime cuts. Class-relations are in a sense butchering processes, and the butchered, metaphorically, have to make do, typically, with the scraps, the fallen-offs, that which the butchers considered ‘inedible’ simply because they weren’t ‘prime cuts.’

So how did it bleed into ‘humble pie’? The phonetic shift, I learned, was caused by the frequently dropped ‘h’ sound. There are lots of words beginning with that letter but where the aspirate is unvoiced. It was a clever shift, then, to add the ‘h’ to ‘umble.’ And so, to eat humble pie, would mean that the high and mighty had to forgo the ribeye, tenderloin, drip steak, t-bone etc., and make do with what the lower classes could afford. In other words, internal organs and extremities such as feet and tail. A come down, certainly, although there are delicacies turned out by such body parts which, I am willing to wager, were concocted by creative culinary artists of ‘the underclasses.’

The idiom apparently was in currency by the early 19th century when the phrase was linked to (unwished for) humility. Today, it refers to the condition of being forced to admit or found to have erred or forced to back down following boats. Eating one’s words; that’s another way to put it.

Of course Donald Trump does that a lot. So often, in fact, that his words have become a veritable staple. But this is no joke. Donal Trump, agent and voice of Ugly America and the worst version of Uncle Sam, stamped his feet, screamed his lungs out, mumbled precious nothings, uttered falsehood that have added the term ‘Trumpism’ to the dictum ‘there are lies, damned lies and statistics,’ and is now gulping down loads and loads of ‘inedible’ innards.

It is a pitiful ‘sight’ and an embarrassment to the good people of the United States of America (and of course Israel) whose voices have been drowned by the media-shouts of two maniacs. Then again, perhaps this ‘noise before defeat’ is a sign of turn-around and good things to come.

Trump and Netanyahu will not recognise defeat if it hits them between their respective sets of eyes. ‘Where were you before and where are you now?’ Is a question they will not suffer to answer. They will take lower-order meat cuts, cook them up, lavishly drown them in exotic spices, and claim or at least believe, that they are consuming prime cuts.

Just imagine the likes of Donald Trump, Bibi Netanyahu, J D Vance, Marco Rubio, Pete Hegseth and Tulsi Gabbard sitting at a table picking at the boiled entrails of some unfortunate animal, with pepper and salt as the only available condiments. There you have it. Umble Pie. 

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That Scoundrel Krishantha Cooray

 

There’s a social media post doing the rounds about Krishantha Cooray. Posted by some individual named Sachin Rathwatte, it is indeed a class act in defamation, not least of all because of the author’s anonymity. The term ‘keyboard veeraya’ comes to mind.

Sachin (I assume it is a man) bases his account on ‘investigative social media platforms’ which he is aware of.

The opening statement (translated here, as are other claims; note: there’s a bit of transliteration to capture essence) is fair enough: ‘there are scoundrels who control governments who have never received a vote from innocent people of this country and who (no one) has ever heard of.’ The rest is of course a load of rubbish, but this intro is classic. It reminds one of the late JVP leader Rohana Wijeweera’s go-to speech-openings where he trots out a whole bunch of known facts such as the name and length of the longest river, the name and height of the tallest mountain, Sri Lanka being an island whose coordinates are such and such, etc., etc., the having established thus that he is not being dishonest, proceeds to utter absolute nonsensical analysis of all things under the sun.

Sachin is correct: ‘such scoundrels should be exposed before society.’  Then he jumps to Krishantha Cooray. There’s some speculation painted as fact (for which no evidence has been provided), for example that ‘he is THE closest friend of President Anura Kumara Dissanayake,’ that ‘[he] wields more power than the prime minister or the cabinet of ministers,’ and ‘[he] is the captain of the government’s business deals.’

Then he proceeds to ‘expose.’

Krishantha is a Cooray, correct. He has family in Payagala, but I know nothing of his alleged connections to what Sachin calls ‘The Panadura Coorays.’ He is by birth a Catholic. Correct. Not any more, says Sachin but fails to back up the claim. Krishantha keeps his faith private. In any case, that’s nobody’s business.

Sachin says, ‘like others who love the role of king-maker (e.g. Thusitha Haloluwa), Krishantha grew up under the watchful eyes of Mangala Samaraweera.’ Rubbish. Krishantha is a political activist who, apart from the time he was in the UNP’s Working Committee, has a record of working tirelessly for candidates or parties of his preference during elections. Like all such activists, he would want his candidate to win. If that is all it takes to deserve the king-maker title, he is but one of several millions. Anyway, Krishantha and Halloluwa are not names one can speak in the same breath. Let me leave it at that. Krishantha was a close friend of Mangala’s but he was no acolyte. If indeed he had a political guru it was Lalith Athulathmudali who was assassinated way back in 1993!  

So yes, he was Mangala’s buddy, which by the way is no crime. I’ve known Krishantha since 2005 and I know for a fact that he was no friend of Mangala or anyone associated with the SLFP or the coalitions that party led. When Krishantha was appointed as the founder CEO of Rivira Media Corporation, Mangala and Krishantha were in two different political camps. That friendship came later. Sachin and the ‘investigative’ social media outfits could have done better with background research.

Sachin claims that it was when he was in newspapers (‘while being with Mangala’ which is a falsehood), that Krishantha first met Harry Jayawardena and, ‘because he was fluent in English and had cultivated powers of persuasion (both correct),’ he had ‘joined Harry.’  

Sachin claims that Harry had got into hot water over some tax issue in the period 2001-2003 and that it was Krishantha who intervened on his behalf. This is toilet wash. Rivira relentlessly attacked Harry and Rivira was established only in 2005. The two became friends much later when Krishantha was forced to leave the country because of threats on his life. Sachin claims that Harry handed over the task of handling media to Krishantha who is supposed to have ensured that nothing adverse to Harry would be published in newspapers (which at the time was the most powerful and dangerous form of media) and that he was handsomely paid for the same. Again, speculation. No evidence.  Other claims are similarly unsubstantiated. Irresponsible one has to conclude but then again the likes of Sachin are clearly unmoved about ethics related to media. Or even general conduct.

During the Yahapalanaya years, Krishantha was indeed the Chairman of both Hilton Colombo and Lake House (or rather ANCL), Sachin is correct. Whether this was due to Krishantha’s friendship with Mangala, I do not know. Again, not illegal and neither was it inappropriate. Krishantha’s credentials in management are way above those of most who held such posts before him and since.

In all the years I have known Krishantha I have not once heard of a ‘friendship’ or a ‘strong friendship’ as Sachin puts it between him and Tiran Alles or Dhammika Perera. If Sachin feels that Krishantha is answerable to alleged wrongdoing perpetrated by either of them, first he has to establish wrongdoing and then prove that Krishantha was or is a part of it. Sachin has not.

He has, on the other hand, spoken about Anura Kumara Dissanayake, at least as far back as the 2010 Presidential Election when both of them supported Sarath Fonseka. I have no evidence that he leveraged that friendship for personal gain or to throw his weight around in ministerial or administrative circles, if Sachin does, he should show. Or shut up.

What do I know of Krishantha Cooray? Our friendship began in 2005 when he invited me to be the Editor of the English paper that Rivira planned to launch. I declined, saying I don’t have the experience or knowledge. I served as Deputy Editor for less than a year and quit in not quite happy circumstances, but we remained friends.

Our preferred political outcomes never coincided. We have had and still have ideological differences. We have argued vehemently and essentially agreed that disagreement need not get in the way of friendship.

In all that he has done, as far as I know, Krishantha has been inspired mainly to serve the people of Sri Lanka, whether or not one agrees with him ideologically or politically. Malice is the last word I would associate with him.  I have known him long enough to know that Krishantha Cooray’s humanity is unmatched. Sachin is obviously unaware of the countless ways in which he has helped people in all manner of distress, total strangers included. He has always been steadfast in his loyalty to his friends. He has been incredibly generous and kind, often sacrificing family-time just to be with a close friend in his greatest hour of need. I can’t think of anyone who has gone to the lengths Krishantha has to stand by his friends and despite his obvious rank ignorance, even Sachin would know how Krishantha put his own life at risk when Keith Noyahr was abducted and tortured.

Of course, logically, it is quite possible that there is a dark side to Krishantha that I am unaware of. If indeed such is the case then the likes of Sachin should come out with fact. And show their faces too, I might add.

Krishantha expresses his opinions and has the decency and integrity to put his name to what he writes. 

It is ironic how often he comes under attack when he has never hidden behind others or resorted to attacking people personally. Regardless, Sachin and his ilk would be challenged to come up with one instance when he, Krishantha, has engaged in character assassination, personal vendettas or dirty tactics.

 Sachin, obviously a fake-name, is different. Sachin and/or the people tossing around these unsubstantiated claims as though they are facts established beyond a shadow of doubt are clearly cowardly, ill-willed and, going by the language in the article and in the comments, uncivilised. What’s their problem? Jealousy? Ill-breeding? We don’t know. If they were to come out in the open and say these things, one might even forgive their uncultured behaviour. Maybe they lack the whatnots to do this. Hiding behind fake-profiles is usually the preferred modus operandi of people who are ignorant, malicious and cowardly. Scoundrel is a good descriptive for such people.

We live in a world of scoundrels. Krishantha is not one. The person who calls himself Sachin Rathwatte or the unholy collective that find the name a convenient shield? Well, he/they would have to work hard and long to shed that tag.

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වගකීම යනු බෝම්බයකි, මහා සාගරයකි

 

අභාවප්‍රාප්ත ලක්දාස වික්‍රමසිංහයන්ට අනුව කවියා යනු නගරයට බෝම්බයක් දමා, පසුව ඒ පිළිබඳ සටහන් තබාගන්නා අයෙකි. ඔහුගේ ‘ද පෝයට්’ (The Poet) නැමැති කවිය ආරම්භ වන්නේ එලෙසිනි. ප්‍රචණ්ඩකාරී ය. අනුකම්පා විරහිත ය. නමුත්, එය කවියක් වන අතර, කවියකට ආවේණික වූ නිදහස මෙන්ම රූපකයන්ගේ භාවිතයද එහි ගැබ්ව ඇත. ලක්දාස මෙම කවිය තුළින් විස්තර කරන්නේ කවියෙකුගේ කාර්යය හෝ වගකීම ලෙස ඔහු විශ්වාස කරන දෙයයි.

බෝම්බයක් යනු විනාශකාරී මෙවලමකි. එය පොදුවේ ඕනෑම අයෙකුට හෝ ඕනෑම දේකට හානි කළ හැකිය. එය නිසැකවම භූ දර්ශනයන් උඩුයටිකුරු කරයි. සමහරවිට ලක්දාස යෝජනා කරන්නේද හරියටම එයමය — එනම්, පවතින ආත්ම තෘප්තිය හෝ උදාසීනත්වය පිළිබඳව නැවත සිතා බැලීමට බලකරන ගැඹුරු කැලඹීමක් ඇති කිරීමයි. ඔහු සිහිකල්පනාවෙන් යුත් සහ තීරණාත්මක මැදිහත්වීමක් ඉල්ලා සිටින දේවල් නිර්මාණය කරන, උද්වේගයේ මූලාශ්‍රය වන 'සතුරා' වෙත ඉක්මනින්ම යොමු වෙයි.

ඔහු 'සතුරා' කවුදැයි නිශ්චිතව නිර්වචනය නොකරන අතර, එය ඉතා නිවැරදිය. 'සතුරා' විවිධාකාර ස්වරූපයන් ගත හැකිය. ඔහු තමන්ව නිතර පෙළන, නැතහොත් වෙනත් විදිහකින් කිවහොත්, සියලුම කවියන්ව සහ ඒ හරහා සියලුම පාඨකයන්ව කැලඹිය යුතු සතුරා කවුදැයි ඉඟි කරයි; ඒ ‘වේදිකාව මත සිටින කථිකයා’ හෙවත් ‘දේශපාලනඥයා’ ය. නැවතත්, එය පොදු අර්ථ දැක්වීමකි. ඔහු කතා කරන්නේ කෙබඳු දේශපාලනඥයෙකු ගැනද සහ ඔවුන් කුමන මතවාදයක් නියෝජනය කරන්නේද යන ප්‍රශ්නවලට ඔහු පිළිතුරු සපයන්නේ නැත. මෙම තුවක්කුවක් අතැතිව සැඟවී පහරදීමට සැරසෙන පුද්ගලයාගේ ඉලක්කය විස්තර කිරීමේදී ඔහු වඩාත් නිශ්චිත වේ. කවියා උගුල් අටවා, මෝටර් රථයක පසුපස අසුනේ වාඩි වී පැමිණෙන සතුරෙකු එනතුරු බලා සිටින බව ඔහු අවධාරණය කරයි. ඒ අයුරින් ලක්දාස මෙම කතාවට ‘පන්තිය’ (class) නමැති සාධකය ඇතුළත් කරයි.

පැබ්ලෝ නෙරූඩාට කවියාගේ කාර්යය පිළිබඳව තිබුණේ වෙනස්ම වැටහීමකි. ‘ද පෝයට්ස් ඔබ්ලිගේෂන්’ (The poet’s obligation - කවියාගේ වගකීම) කවියෙන් නෙරූඩා යෝජනා කරන්නේ සහකම්පනයෙන් යුතු, බෙදාහදා ගන්නා සහ සුවපත් කරන සුළු භූමිකාවකි.
 
    "එබැවින්. මගේ දෛවය විසින් ඇදගනු ලැබ,
    මම නොකඩවා සවන් දිය යුතු අතර, මගේ විඥානය තුළ
    සාගරයේ වැලපීම රඳවා ගත යුතුය,
    ඝන දියවැල්වල හැපීම මට දැනිය යුතුය
    තවද එය සදාතනික කුසලානකට එකතු කරගත යුතුය
    එවිට, සිරගතව සිටින අය කොතැනක සිටියද,
    ඔවුන් සරත් සෘතුවේ දඬුවම් විඳින්නේ කොතැනක වුවද,
    මම එතැන නොසන්සුන් රලක් ලෙස පෙනී සිටිමි,
    මම ජනේල තුළින් ඇතුළටත් පිටතටත් ගමන් කරමි,
    මගේ හඬ ඇසී, දෑස් ඉහළට එසවෙනු ඇත,
    "මම සාගරය වෙත ළඟා වන්නේ කෙසේද?" කියා විමසමින්.
    එවිට මම කිසිවක් නොකියා, ඔවුන් වෙත පිරිනමමි,
    රළෙහි තාරකා පිරුණු ප්‍රතිරාවය,
    පෙණ කැටි සහ වැලිපර බිඳී යාම,
    පසුබසින ලුණු කැටවල සිහින් හඬ,
    වෙරළේ සිටින මුහුදු පක්ෂීන්ගේ අළු පැහැති කෙඳිරිල්ල.
    එබැවින්, මා තුළින්, නිදහස සහ සාගරය
    වැසුණු හදවත්වලට පිළිතුරු ලෙස ආමන්ත්‍රණය කරනු ඇත."

නෙරූඩා යන්නේ 'මේ සිකුරාදා උදෑසන සාගරයට සවන් නොදෙන, නිවසක හෝ කාර්යාලයක, කර්මාන්තශාලාවක හෝ ස්ත්‍රියක, වීදියක හෝ පතලක හෝ වියළි සිරකුටියක සිරවී සිටින ඕනෑම අයෙකු' වෙතය. ජීවිතයේ විවිධ සිරගත කිරීම් හේතුවෙන් ඔවුන්ට අහිමි වූ සාගරය ඔහු ඔවුන් වෙත රැගෙන යයි. කවිය යනු රළ, පෙණ, වැලි, ලුණු, පක්ෂීන්ගේ නාද, සංගීතය සහ ‘සාගරය’ සතු අනෙකුත් සියලුම දේ අඩංගු භාජනයයි.

එය සවිබල ගන්වයි.

එලෙසම, ලක්දාසගේ කවිය සහ එහි කැඳවීම ද සවිබල ගැන්වීමක් වන අතර, එය පිළිවෙලින් සවිබල ගැන්වීම උදෙසා පෙනී සිටියි. කෙසේ වෙතත්, එය එකිනෙකට වෙනස්ය. ඔවුන් දෙදෙනාම දේශපාලනික වූ නමුත් ඒ වෙනස් ආකාරවලිනි. දේශපාලනික වීම නිසාම, ඔවුන් විග්‍රහාත්මක වූ අතර බොහෝ විට විසඳුම් දේශනා කරන්නන් වූහ; මේවා ඔවුන් ලියන්නේ ඇයිද සහ කා වෙනුවෙන්ද යන්න පැහැදිලි කරන අතරතුරම, ඔවුන් තමන්ගේම පිරිවර (කලාකරුවන්) අමතා කතා කළ අවස්ථාවන්ය.

ලක්දාස විස්තර කරන්නේ භූමිකාවකි, නෙරූඩා විස්තර කරන්නේ වගකීමකි. ලක්දාසගේ කවිය දෙස කාරුණිකව බැලුවහොත්, එහි ඇති උද්වේගකර මූලද්‍රව්‍යවල රූපකාත්මක වටිනාකමට මුල් තැන දුනහොත්, කවි ප්‍රජාවට ඉන් පුළුල් කලාපයක් නිර්මාණය වේ. කෙසේ වෙතත්, ලක්දාස, එම පොදු ස්වරූපය මධ්‍යයේ වුවද, ඉතා පෞද්ගලික සාක්ෂ්‍යයක් ඉදිරිපත් කරයි. එය කාර්යයක් හෝ වගකීමක් නොවේ; බෝම්බ දැමීම සහ සටහන් තබාගැනීමේ මෙම ක්‍රියාවලිය ඔහුට කළ යුතුම දෙයකි, එය නොකර සිටීමට ඔහුට නොහැකිය.

    "කවියා යනු නගරය මැද ඇති බෝම්බයකි,
    තම හදවත තුළ ඇති තත්පරවල
    වටකුරු ගමන දරාගත නොහැකිව,
    පුපුරා යන තෙක් බලා සිටින."

එබැවින්, ලක්දාස නම් කවියාට කරුණු දෙකක් කිරීමට සිදුවේ: සමූහයක් වෙත තමන්වම විසි කර ගැනීම සහ, වරක් පුපුරා ගිය පසු සටහන් තබා ගැනීමයි. නෙරූඩා ද තමන්ගේම ක්‍රමයකට පුපුරන සුලු අයෙක් වූ නමුත්, එය ඔහුගේ කැමැත්ත මත සහ ඔහුගේ අභිමතය පරිදි සිදු වූ තේරීමක් විය. කෙසේ වෙතත්, 'සතුරා' සහ 'නගරය' යනු රූපකයන් නම්, කවියන් දෙදෙනාම බෝම්බ වූ අතර, දෙදෙනාම තම සාක්කුවල සාගරවල නියෝජිත වැලි කැට සහ ඒවායේ ස්වභාවික දැවැන්ත මානයන් රැගෙන ගියහ. ඒ, රළු රළ පහරින් බොහෝ ඈත, අවාසනාවන්ත දේශයන්හි සිටින මිනිසුන් සමඟ ඒවා බෙදාහදා ගැනීම සඳහාය.

සතුරෝ සිටිති. ඔවුන් සමඟ සටන් කළ යුතුය. එබැවින් යුද්ධ පවතී. සියලුම කලාවන් සතුරන්, මිතුරන්, සටන්, පරාජයන් සහ ජයග්‍රහණ ගැන පමණක්ම යැයි කීම අතිශයෝක්තියක් විය හැකිය, නමුත් එහි සැමවිටම හදවතක් ඇත; එය යටි සිතට දැනෙන හෝ ස්පර්ශ කළ නොහැකි දෙයක් වන අතර, එබැවින් සංඥා, ආලෝකය සහ සෙවනැලිවල ක්‍රීඩාව, වචන, වර්ණ, රේඛා සහ අවකාශයන් රූපක බවට හැරවීම තුළින් එය ප්‍රකාශ කළ යුතුය.

අවසානයේදී, ලක්දාස සටහන් තබාගැනීම පිළිබඳව මම සතුටු වෙමි. නෙරූඩා තම කවි මිට ලිහා, තමා සමීපව හඳුනන සාගර ලෝකයට තෑගි කිරීම ගැන මම සතුටු වෙමි. ඔවුන් තමන්ට පවරා ගත් කාර්යයන් මොනවාද, ඔවුන් වගකීම් ලෙස සැලකුවේ මොනවාද යන්න මේ අර්ථයෙන් ගත් කල වැදගත් නොවේ. ඔවුන් ඉලක්ක කර විනාශ කළ සතුරන්ගේ නම් මම නොදනිමි, නමුත් ලක්දාස සහ නෙරූඩා වැනි කවියන්ට පින්සිදු වන්නට මම ඔවුන්ගේ නම් සහ ක්‍රියාකලාපයන් ඉගෙන ගත් සතුරන් සිටිති. තවද මම මගේම ක්‍රමයට මගේ සටන් සටන් කරමි. අප සැවොම කරනවාක් මෙනි.

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When falconers lose their voices

 

Chinua Achabe attributed the title of his celebrated novel, ‘Things fall apart’ to a line from W B Yeats’ ‘The Second Coming.’  


Turning and turning in the widening gyre   
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere   
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst   
Are full of passionate intensity.


Yeats wrote this poem in 1919, just after World War I ended, in the early years of the Russian Revolution and at the beginning of the Irish War of Independence. Any of these could have caused despair. Today, more than a hundred years later, some unknown poet somewhere in the world could write or indeed may have written a poem that echoes Yeats’ sentiments. And if we look back we might even conclude that anarchy is not an accident or is sporadic but in fact a permanent feature of the world we live in; only it comes in pretty wrapping or is sugar coated so we don’t recognise it or call it some sweet-sounding name. Like ‘democracy.’  

But what of falcons and falconers? The relationship between the two is tenuous; one controls and the other is controlled. Yeats doesn’t tell us who the falconer is and who the falcons are; just that the latter has moved beyond earshot. But is that why ‘the centre’ cannot hold? What is ‘the centre’ anyway? And is it only because the centre lost its hold that ‘mere anarchy (has been loosened) on the world?’ Was the ‘ceremony of innocence’ swimming happily in placid waters before that and is it now drowning because of stormy seas, treacherous currents and inability to swim or float?

Yeats paints a bleak picture. The prognosis is dismal. He unceremoniously rubbishes the hope (of salvation, of whatever kind) embedded in the term ‘the second coming,’ likening it to a deformed, ill-willed and even uncivilised creature (slouching towards Bethlehem to be born).  It is one of the most powerful poetic expressions of hopelessness.

He plays with the sentiments of the reader, deliberately raising hope (‘surely some revelation is at hand: /surely the Second Coming is at hand’) only to dash it to pieces claiming that what emerges out of the spirit of the world (Spiritus Mundi) is the ungainly beast referred to above. There’s no god-figure, no avatar of the divinity associated with ‘the first coming,’ but instead a warning that what could rise from the plethora of the world’s uncountable tumours is worse than what is or what is on its way out.

Somehow the words ‘falconer’ and ‘centre’ in the poem are disturbing for they imply some element of goodness, which of course is debatable at best. Just think, ‘Washington.’ Or the Deep State. The Capitalist Class. And the adjuncts: the EU, the UN, Israel, UK, QUAD. If THAT centre cannot hold, I won’t cry. If falcons have unfettered themselves from the dictates of the relevant falconers, good on them.

Let’s talk about the falcons of our time. Those who believe they are god’s chosen people: omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent and yes even omnivorous, devouring anything and everything that gets in their way. How long have they played falconer and how long have the falcons been lured by their voices! I do not blame any falcon for wanting to fly beyond the long voice-arm of the falconer.  Simply put, the arrogance and impunity with which the world’s falconers have operated for many decades have endured that ‘the blood-dimmed tide’ was loosened a long time ago and that innocence didn’t have a second chance.

Things fell apart. Things are falling apart. Fallen things, broken things, are mended, refashioned, and still serve well. W H Auden writing almost twenty years after Yeats’ ‘The Second Coming,’ offered:

The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
                  History to the defeated
May say alas but cannot help or pardon.

Someone wrote somewhere that having picking up a copy of ‘Another Time’ in a bookstore, Auden had flipped to this poem (‘Spain’ in the original rendition and ‘Spain 1937’ in this book, published in 1940), and noted on the side of this final verse, ‘this is wrong!’

The stars ain’t dead, the animals have not lost their sight, we are not alone with our day, time is long and history refuses to say to the defeated, ‘alas but cannot help or pardon!’

Long live the falcons. As for falconers, may they acquire new and less pernicious skills.

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දියුණුවේ plus, minus සහ equal ලක්ෂණ

 

"ඔබට දියුණු වීමට අවශ්‍යද? පුද්ගලයන් තිදෙනෙකු සොයා ගන්න. 1) PLUS - ඔබට ඉගෙන ගත හැකි, ඔබට වඩා දැනුම සහ අත්දැකීම් ඇති අයෙක්. 2)  MINUS - ඔබට ගුරුහරුකම්/මඟපෙන්වීම් දිය හැකි, අඩු අත්දැකීම් සහිත අයෙක්. 3)  EQUAL - ඔබට තරඟ කළ හැකි, ඔබේම මට්ටමේ සිටින අයෙක්. මෙයින් සෑම කෙනෙකුම එක්තරා අරමුණක් ඉටු කරන අතර, ඔබව ඉහළ මට්ටමකට ඔසවා තැබීම සඳහා සෑම කෝණයකින්ම ඔබව දිරිමත් කරයි."

මීට අවුරුදු පනහකට පමණ පෙර රාජකීය විද්‍යාලයේ ක්‍රිකට් කණ්ඩායමේ සිටි සරත් වීරකෝන් ඉදිරිපත් කළ අදහසකි මෙය. 

සෑම ක්‍රීඩාවකම පාහේ නීති රීති, ක්‍රීඩකයන්, ඉතිහාසය සහ එහි සියුම් තැන් පිළිබඳව සෑහෙන හොඳ දැනුමක් ඇති ලෝලියෙකු වුවද, මා හොඳින්ම දන්නේ චෙස් ක්‍රීඩාව ගැනය. එබැවින් උදාහරණ ලබා දීම සඳහා මා සාමාන්‍යයෙන් යොමු වන්නේ චෙස් ක්‍රීඩාව වෙතයි.

ඈත අතීතයේ, එනම් හැත්තෑව දශකයේ අග භාගයේ සහ අසූව දශකයේ මුල් භාගයේදී, ශ්‍රී ලංකා චෙස් සම්මේලනය සම්පත් හිඟකම හේතුවෙන් දක්ෂතා වර්ධනය කිරීම සඳහා නව්‍ය උපාය මාර්ගයක් ඉදිරිපත් කළේය. එකල ඉගෙන ගැනීමට තිබුණේ ඉතාමත් සීමිත පොත් ප්‍රමාණයකි. අපට අන්තර්ජාලය තිබුණේ නැත. රුසියානු සංස්කෘතික මධ්‍යස්ථානය විසින් දින කිහිපයකට මෙරටට කැඳවාගෙන ආ සෝවියට් දේශයේ ග්‍රෑන්ඩ්මාස්ටර්වරුන් (Grandmasters) විසින් පවත්වන ලද කලාතුරකින් ලැබුණු පුහුණු සැසි හැරුණු විට, අපට සුදුසුකම් ලත් පුහුණුකරුවන් ද සිටියේ නැත. එකල බොහෝ දුරට සිදු වූයේ පාසල් වල ආදී සිසුන් විසින් වත්මන් සිසුන්ට පුහුණුව ලබා දීමයි. එය සම්පූර්ණයෙන්ම නොමිලේ සිදු විය. එහි මූලිකම අරමුණ වූයේ 'පාසලට නැවත යමක් ලබා දීමයි.' සම්මේලනය විසින් "10-10" අදහසක් ඉදිරිපත් කරන ලදී — ඒ අනුව දක්ෂතම ක්‍රීඩකයන් දස දෙනා විසින් දක්ෂතම කනිෂ්ඨ ක්‍රීඩකයන් දස දෙනාට පුහුණුව ලබා දිය යුතු විය.
 
එම දක්ෂතම දස දෙනා ඉතා පරිත්‍යාගශීලී වූහ. ඔවුන් ද තරුණ වියේ පසු වූ අතර, හර්ෂ අතුරුපාන වැනි සමහර අය ඇත්ත වශයෙන්ම එකල තවමත් පාසල් යමින් සිටියහ. ඔවුන් කනිෂ්ඨයන්ට නොමිලේ උපකාර කිරීමට එකඟ වූහ. ඒ අනුව ඔවුන්ව යුගල වශයෙන් වෙන් කරන ලදී. එමඟින් කනිෂ්ඨයන්ට PLUS සාධකය ලැබුණි — එනම් දිවයිනේ හොඳම ක්‍රීඩකයන්ගේ දැනුම සහ අත්දැකීම්ය. කනිෂ්ඨයෝ මෙයින් අතිමහත් ප්‍රතිලාභ ලැබූහ. ඔවුහු දක්ෂ ක්‍රීඩකයෝ බවට පත් වූහ.  අර්ජුන පරාක්‍රම, චන්දන ගුණතිලක සහ රනිල් ගුණරත්න එම වැඩ පිළිවෙලට දායක වූහ. අනෙක් අයගේ නම් අමතකය.

දෙවැන්න පෞද්ගලික කතාවකි. 10-10 වැඩසටහනෙන් වසර කිහිපයකට පසු, මා තවමත් ශිෂ්‍යයෙකුව සිටියදීම, උද්ගත වූ තත්ත්වයන් හේතුවෙන් මට මගේ පාසලේ කනිෂ්ඨ කණ්ඩායමට පුහුණුවීම් කිරීමට සිදු විය. එය මගේ MINUS සාධකය විය — මට ඔවුන්ට ඉගැන්වීම සඳහා ඉගෙන ගැනීමට සිදු වූ අතර, ඔවුන්ගේ නිමක් නැති ප්‍රශ්නවලට පිළිතුරු දීමට මට සිතන්නට සිදු විය. මගේ ක්‍රීඩා ශක්තියේ එක්වරම ඇති වූ විශාල වර්ධනයට හේතු වූයේ එයයි. අදටත් මට යහපත් මට්ටමක ක්‍රීඩා ශක්තියක් පවත්වා ගැනීමට හැකි වී ඇති එකම හේතුව මෙම පුහුණුකරණය සහ මඟපෙන්වීමයි.

තුන්වැන්න, EQUAL සාධකය: ඉගෙන ගන්නා දේ පරීක්ෂා කළ යුතුය. ඔබ තරඟකාරීත්වයට මුහුණ දෙයි, ඔබේ උපරිමය කරයි, වැරදි සිදු කරයි, ඒවායින් ඉගෙන ගනී, වඩා හොඳ ක්‍රීඩකයෙකු බවට පත් වී වඩාත් ප්‍රබල තරඟකාරීත්වයක් ලබා දෙයි.

චෙස් ක්‍රීඩකයන් සම්භාව්‍ය තරඟ, එනම් ශ්‍රේෂ්ඨතම චෙස් ශූරයන්ගේ තරඟ, අධ්‍යයනය කළ යුතු යැයි පවසනු ලැබේ. එම තරඟ සහ අදාළ විශ්ලේෂණයන් අපට ගණන් කළ නොහැකි පාඩම් ප්‍රමාණයක් කියා දෙයි. අපට එහි ඇති සියලුම රහස් උකහා ගත නොහැකි වුවද, ක්‍රීඩාව පිළිබඳ අපගේ අවබෝධය අතිශයින්ම දියුණු වේ. එබැවින්, එම තරඟ හරියට උපදේශකයන් මෙනි. ඔබට සැබෑ ජීවිතයේ, සෘජුවම සම්බන්ධ විය හැකි, ක්ෂණිකව උපකාර වන පුහුණුකරුවෙකු/උපදේශකයෙකු නොමැති නම්, වෙනත් ක්‍රීඩාවල ශ්‍රේෂ්ඨ චරිතවල චරිතාපදාන මඟින් ද එම අරමුණම ඉටු කරගත හැකිය.

අපට අපට වඩා බාල ක්‍රීඩකයන් වෙත ද ළඟා විය හැකිය. දැනුම නොමිලේ ලබා දීම, ඔවුන්ට මඟ පෙන්වීම සහ උපදෙස් දීම මඟින් තනි ක්‍රීඩකයෙකු ලෙස මෙන්ම කණ්ඩායමක සාමාජිකයෙකු ලෙසද සෑම අතින්ම අපගේම ශිල්පීය ක්‍රම පරිපූර්ණ කර ගැනීමට එය උපකාරී වේ. යම් තත්ත්වයක් තේරුම් ගන්නේ කෙසේ දැයි අප අන් අයට කියා දෙන විට, අප නොදැනුවත්වම එම තත්ත්වයන් වඩාත් හොඳින් වටහා ගැනීමට ඉගෙන ගනිමු. සමහර විට අප මඟ පෙන්වන කෙනෙකු යමක් වැරදියට වටහා ගන්නා අයුරු දකින විට පමණක්, අපට කිසියම් මවිත කරවන සත්‍යයක් අවබෝධ වේ.

ඇත්ත වශයෙන්ම, තරඟකාරීත්වය සඳහා ආදේශකයක් නැත. Plus සහ මයිනස් Minus සාධක යෙදිය යුත්තේ එතැනදීය. අපගේ ශක්තීන් සහ දුර්වලතා අප සොයා ගන්නේ එතැනදීය.

Plus. Minus. Equal. වචන තුනකි. තේරුම් ගැනීමට පහසුය. අමතක කිරීමට පහසුය. නමුත් ඔබ ඒ ගැන සිතා, එම සිතුවිලි ප්‍රායෝගිකව ක්‍රියාවට නැංවුවහොත් පමණක් එය එසේ නොවනු ඇත.

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Honourable Peeker

[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.

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Sacred facts and free commentary

A tribute to D B S Jeyaraj  

More than twenty years ago, I had the opportunity to speak a few words with the late Prof Carlo Fonseka. He was visiting the then Deputy Editor of the ‘Island,’ my friend and batchmate at Peradeniya University Prabath Sahabandu. I first met Prof Carlo in Boston when he visited his son Suranga, who happened to be my housemate in Somerville. I introduced myself and he recognised me. He was even familiar with my contributions to the Sunday Island, especially the political commentary.

‘I read you for your style, not the substance,’ he said, chuckling.

I wasn’t surprised, since we were not on the same page ideologically. It made me feel good that he valued my style. So I laughed and made the following observation.

‘Now, those whose substance you probably read and like, they don’t write about class and they have no compulsion to critique capitalism; I do,’ and I I laughed.

‘I know and I appreciate,’ he said soberly. No chuckles. No smiles.

I remembered Prof Carlo and that conversation a few days ago when I heard that D B S Jeyaraj had passed away.  

I never met DBS. I knew him though. As did thousands of people interested in or indeed experiencing the tragic, reprehensible, enduring and perhaps unavoidable political history of the past four decades and more. We knew him because he wrote. Relentlessly.

He wrote. He paid a massive price for writing. He was a victim of the riots either orchestrated or tacitly supported by the UNP Government led by J R Jayewardene. He suffered because he was a Tamil. He went into exile because of the unbearable vulnerabilities produced by a government and by so-called representatives of Tamil people who opted for armed struggle to resolve grievances (as they defined them) and obtain aspirations (again, as they defined them).

He lost everything, one might say. Whatever property he possessed, the land of his birth, the publications he managed and wrote for, and perhaps even the hope that resolution of a kind he could be comfortable with.  He had words. He had his mind. He had his heart. These he defended ferociously, for they constituted the ‘capital’ he could not live without.

I read Jeyaraj, not for style, but for substance.  

I was and am in awe at his ability to get information no other journalist could. He knew the details. Names, places, what was done by whom, where, how and when. I was and am in awe at the way he resisted embellishment and refused to be selective. He got all the important facts and he laid them out. He painted the main features of what was unfolding.

He was sympathetic to what is inaccurately called ‘The National Question.’ ‘The Tamil Cause’ is not the same thing, but the terms are used interchangeably (and carelessly). Regardless, he had outcome preferences that most Tamils could agree with. I did not, and do not. However, DBS did not condone unconscionable means on account of these being tied, at least in rhetoric, to desired ends. This irked those who thought otherwise. He was brutal in his criticism of atrocities committed, whoever the perpetrators were. He irked many, including the LTTE, who made DBS pay for the courage of his convictions. They beat him, but he never bent. 

There’s a faint recollection, however, that DBS tended to be a tad soft on the LTTE whenever the organisation was strong, but relentlessly critical when they were not. I could be wrong, because I didn’t read everything DBS wrote back then. Overall, I feel his political positions were mostly informed by the plight of Tamil people, especially those in conflict zones.

Some may call him an Eelamist. I wouldn’t know. He did advocate devolution of power and didn’t really address the politics of boundaries. He implicitly went along with the Eelam map. So when he advocated devolution, it is understandable, I believe, that those who questioned such ideologically-cast maps and boundaries see him as an unwitting cog in a separatist project. I doubt that he saw himself as such.

A few years ago, when I heard that DBS was in Sri Lanka, I reached out to him. I only had his email address. I wrote and said that I would love to meet him for a chat. He replied immediately, apologetically, saying that he had planned only to meet relatives and close friends. I think we exchanged a few emails at the time. He said that he had come to a point where the maximum that could be expected would be the full implementation of the 13th Amendment and that he wasn’t too hopeful of that happening either.

All of that is interpretation. Comment. We could disagree. We could argue, each drawing from facts and extrapolating as per ideological convictions and outcome preferences. That too would come under ‘substance,’ but the full complement of substance when it comes to DBS is mostly about information. About facts. He was relentless in unearthing these. He was meticulous in the pursuit of details. He was a careful and honest sorter of information. We could discard the frills, if you will, of style and commentary, but it would be a challenge to dispute the facts that DBS laid before us.

DBS is no more. He didn’t set out to teach, but there are lessons in what he wrote and the ways in which he wrote. I would argue that the full corpus of his writings constitute a veritable school of journalism which places the highest value on the dictum, ‘facts are sacred, comment free.’

So he has passed. So he remains. So he teaches. We have his word(s) for it.

Salutations are called for. And moments of silence obtained by suspending the cacophony of comment. Just so the words and life of D B S Jeyaraj can have the peace they deserve. 

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

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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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