Among writer there are also those who notice things that others miss, compelling readers to ask, ‘now how was it that I didn’t see this?’ Two individuals come to mind. Ariyawansa Ranaweera and Jayatilaka Kammallaweera. Ranaweera is a poet. Prose is Kammallaweera’s preference, the short story arguably the genre he has a better and of course exceptional grasp of. Highly acclaimed, both. And prolific too.
Kammalaweera has published two collections of poetry, ‘Kaageda vasanthaya (Whose spring)’ and ‘Ae sihin gee nada (That faint music),’ the latter launched on Thursday. What struck me as I flipped through the pages is that in poetry too Kammallaweera demonstrates exceptional sight, literally and metaphorically, to note that which goes unnoticed. The thirtieth, untitled, for example.
ඔහු කියයි අපට
පිළිගන්න ම ඔනෑ නෑ මේ වදන්
එහෙත් සවන්දෙන්න හොඳින්
සවන්දීම ප්රගුණ කරන්න
එය අවශ්යයි යහපත් සමාජයක්
ගොඩනඟන්න
සවන් දී හිඳිමි මම
මහත් සැලකිල්ලෙන්
වචනයක් වරදින තැනක් අල්ලා ගන්න
රිදෙන්න දෙන්න ඔහුට
He tells us
we need not necessarily
accept these words
but listen nevertheless
develop listening faculties
which is necessary
a wholesome society
to build
I listen
with great attention
waiting for a slip
a word out of place
so I can hurl it back
and hurt
No one has to say ‘listen!’ We listen. Carefully. With bated breath. In anticipation. Not always in expectation of pearls of wisdom. That’s what Kammallaweera has noticed. Filters are used, not always to draw the positive essence but to pick out error.
Now there’s nothing wrong in critique. Criticism and self-criticism are essential in the matter of decent discourse aimed at building a yahapath samaajaya. Looking and waiting for slippage is something else. When the objective is to pounce and bite or grab a word-brick and hurl it back at the speaker so hard that it has to hurt, a lot is missed. Indeed, it is essentially a confession that one is not interest in healthy debate. One, instead, is in the business of collecting debating points. Victories of a kind are possible of course. A feel-good-about-myself kind. Poor consolation.
Kammallaweera is not dismissing the worth of listening of course. What he’s suggesting is that it may be prudent to ask ourselves why we decided to listen in the first place.
So there are many reasons to listen carefully and not all of them are wholesome. One might believe that looking out for clash-points is necessary to put down someone or some ideology that one feels is a roadblock on the way to a better society, but all that is predicated on the belief that one knows, completely, everything that’s there to know. A tad arrogant, that.
There are humble people in this world who wish for a better tomorrow for one and all. There are arrogant people in this world who believe they alone have the roadmap to a better tomorrow whose blueprint they alone have. There’s no way to know which group will effect change for this world has seen tragedies precipitated by the best of intentions and this world has seen villainy, arrogance, self-importance and people with superiority complexes launch movements that have yielded decent enough tomorrows albeit not at all resembling the architectures they envisaged.
It’s in the process. It’s about listening to learn, if not anything, the truths someone else believes in even if you may not agree. It’s about resolving to question that which is seen to be error, not to hurt but to clarify, to obtain other ways of seeing, other dimensions of reading the world. The world or a society or even an individual.
Kammallaweera, in this poem, is not throwing a brick. He’s merely opening some eyes. Gently. And so we see that which we have not or else have seen but have as quickly forgotten. A melody, in fact, faint and yet not beyond hearing.
['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:
Heart dances that cannot be choreographed
Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember
Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal
It is good to be conscious of nudities
Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday
There's a one in a million and a one in ten
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
Hemantha Gunawardena's signature
Architectures of the demolished
The exotic lunacy of parting gifts
Who the heck do you think I am?
Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha'
So how are things in Sri Lanka?
The sweetest three-letter poem
Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership
The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked
Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna
Awaiting arrivals unlike any other
Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles
Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth
The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara
Some play music, others listen
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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