Anuruddha Karnasuriya’s sloth

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Be there such a cemetery
please inform me
without delay

I need
to be drunk beyond belief
and upon that earth 

senselessly sleep
and to the warmth of those dreams
awake

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කපිල අයියට පිං සිද්ද වෙන්න ඕන

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ජනකට වගේම, ප්‍රේම් අයියටත්, කපිල අයියටත් බොහොම පිං.

 

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Sunil Ariyaratne in the then and now

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

See also: 

Her name is 'Lanka' 

A mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne 

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Her name is ‘Lanka’

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

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

‘So who sings with the mind and heart?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That voice!  

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

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

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

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

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

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A poet's obligation

 

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

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

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

And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,


the starry echoes of the wave,


a breaking up of foam and quicksand,


a rustling of salt withdrawing,


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

So, through me, freedom and the sea


will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

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

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

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

He is the one that, tossing a bomb into

The crowd, takes notes;


The one who, from an unseen distance


Levels on the tripod that black rifle


With sights that see as far as his soul

Trains and levels, manoeuvres for a clear sight


Of the speaker on the platform;


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


In the left corner of its back seat


Carrying the enemy

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

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

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

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

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

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

But…

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

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

We have to live with all that.

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Looking for and missing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

See Also: Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha 

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O Religion, thou comest in many garbs!

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Dichotomies suck, don’t they? 

 

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The roads that lead to Anuradhapura

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘An old friend,’ I announced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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චෙක්මේට් නොවන TDR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'අනිවාර්යයෙන්ම.'

එපමණයි.

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

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

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

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TDR cannot be checkmated

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sure.’

That’s all.

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


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

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

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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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