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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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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