There’s a novel that floored me with poetry, the sociological explication and an ending that was tragic. 'Swarnavanniye Valliammalaaaa' by Simon Navagaththegama. Even now, so many years after reading this novel, which came out years after Simon died, I can’t decide whether or not it should have been published.
It has Simon’s inimitable
command of the language and his ability to say the simplest thing in
exquisite poetry. It’s all there: the keenness of his mind, his grasp of
social, economic and political processes and the almost inconspicuous
and yet so very pronounced philosophical predilections that frame his
work. And yet he leaves the reader stranded in the worst possible way:
the story is incomplete. To be fair, it’s not his fault. He died before
he could complete it and it is hard to think of Simon agreeing to an
incomplete novel to be published, even though it would have sold like unu kemun simply because he is the author.
Now
all this is understandable. Some stories are never completed, some
never told and some impossible to tell. It is also true that stories,
however neatly tied up with a plausible conclusion, don’t really end
with the author’s insistence expressed with ‘The End.’ If they provoke
reflection, they continue to live, long after the books themselves have
made their way to dust-laden shelves in the dingy back rooms of used
books stores and are replaced in the public imagination by newer if not
better stories.
Some stories, paradoxically, are birthed with an
ending and I’m not referring to the novels by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
who begins most of his novels with a death or reference to death. This
is about stories or poetry, if you will, that need to be completed or,
put another way, are left incomplete. It is about a Facebook post
written by Chinthana Dharmadasa, a friend and a man with lots of
opinions, often vilified and sometimes praised. It is about a young boy I
had never heard of, Arya.
Chinthana says that he anticipated a
time when Arya emerged as an artist. They were close or rather Chinthana
felt he was close to the boy. So close that Chinthana was or made
himself vulnerable to be destroyed by the boy.
‘There is a
monumental life that does not end, I believe and in that valley I will
meet you again. There’s an incomplete song that you and I need to
finish. Arya, wait for me.’
Common sentiments at the death of a loved one, but written in an uncommon way.
But
it’s not only death that interrupts poetry. Indeed, there are times
when we realise that poetry has been interrupted, when words abandon us
and half-written verses get lost in the labyrinths of our minds and
hearts, only to resurface at inopportune moments, crippling us with
thoughts that begin with what-if, if-only, why-not and now-what.
Some
poems begin with a word and stop there. Sometimes we can’t get past the
first letter, the first syllable. Thoughts get stuck in throats,
love-ink does not quite make it to fingertips with which we can trace
the contours of what someone or something has carved all over our hearts
and minds.
Then there are poetic completions that never get to
join that which was written before. They remain in private archives.
They cannot be added on to other half-written stories, poetic or
otherwise, without wrecking the flow. Completion will not be obtained,
not of the kind that would ensue in an organic, seamless narrative.
We
must wait. We must wait for another meeting, in better circumstances, a
moment where conversation is not only possible but is not interrupted.
Just like Chinthana, hoping for an encounter in a different and happier
landscape where poetry can be composed collectively, upon soft earth,
under a friendly sun and in the company of winds that bring all the
words that are now imprisoned, for one reason or another.
Sometimes,
though, unfinished texts will remain that way. But there are no laws
which forbid that which could complete them from getting written, from
being tossed into the air and turning into petals that decorate
waterways and inspire love and poetry hitherto thought to be impossible.
Simon’s story ends without an ending. We can end it as we
will and liberate ourselves from the tyranny of suspension. And my
friend Chinthana will, whether he plans to or not, write down things
that Arya could read with a smile. It would make the exercise of
poetic-completion that much more delightful.
['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a
column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day,
Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]
Other articles in this series:
Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn
I am at Jaga Food, where are you?
On separating the missing from the disappeared
And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have)
The circuitous logic of Tony Muller
Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya'
Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist
Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses
Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced
Some stories are written on the covers themselves
A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature
Landcapes of gone-time and going-time
The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie
So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists?
There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords
A song of terraced paddy fields
Of ants, bridges and possibilities
From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva
Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse
Who did not listen, who's not listening still?
If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain
The world is made for re-colouring
No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5
Visual cartographers and cartography
Ithaca from a long ago and right now
Lessons written in invisible ink
The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness'
The interchangeability of light and darkness
Sisterhood: moments, just moments
Chess is my life and perhaps your too
Reflections on ownership and belonging
The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha
Signatures in the seasons of love
To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows
Fragrances that will not be bottled
Colours and textures of living heritage
Countries of the past, present and future
Books launched and not-yet-launched
The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains
Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace
The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville
Live and tell the tale as you will
Between struggle and cooperation
Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions
Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers
Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills
Serendipitous amber rules the world
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