Father-daughter and mother-son dances and photographs are iconic, but then there are dances that are unseen, dances not accompanied by music that can be heard, but are nevertheless endearing, priceless and unforgettable.
Consider the following description of father-daughter dances:
We
dance with our daughters when they are tiny and need to be entertained
at every turn. We dance when their mothers are exhausted and need to
rest. We dance with them for no reason at all and even if we don’t have
an iota of rhythm in us. We dance, even though we’ve been spectators
admiring those who could. We dance when they chide us, when they are
exasperated, when they are out of control, when they simply don’t listen
to reason, when they best us at argument, when they surprise us with
wisdom, when they triumph, when they fall. We dance with them when their
eyes and thoughts are elsewhere. We dance with them when they are
asleep.
Love, one could claim, is a dance. All loves in fact,
include that which a father feels for his daughter or vice versa. You
could think of others. Some kinds of love are obvious, but even in
obvious love there are elements that are not only unseen but are
resident in places and ways that even those who love are unaware of or
cannot really describe.
A few days ago, reflecting on parental
love, I remembered the last verse in ‘Sinhabahu’ the lyrical theatre
production written and directed by Ediriweera Sarachchandra where it is
claimed that a son cannot truly comprehend the love of a father.
Sarachchandra, in that verse, proceeds to elaborate the nature of this
love and locates its possible residence.
"පුතු සෙනේ මස් නහර හම සිඳ
ඇට සොයා ගොස් ඇට තුළට වැද
ඇට මිදුලු මත රඳා සිට දුක් දෙයි නිබන්දා"
යි පොතේ ගුරුන්ගේ මුවින් ප්රකාශ වීමට මා සලසා ඇත්තේ මේ හැඟීම් ම ය."
The love of a father towards a son
pierces skin and having pierced skin
seeks out bone and cut through bone
finds residence in bone-marrow and yields endless sorrow
Crude translation. The meaning is clear, though.
Years
later, Sarachchandra confessed to Gunasena Galappaththi that the
thought had taken root in his mind ten years before he wrote the play.
This he mentions in ‘Pin aethi sarasavi varamak denne.’
The
seed had been planted when he had read a comment in the Mahavagga Pali
of the Vinaya Pitakaya, recounting an encounter between King Suddhodhana
and the Buddha. The king speaks of his sorrow at his son Siddhartha’s
flight in search of the truth, his sorrow at his second son Nanda being
ordained and his grandson Rahula as well. He requests that the
Enlightened One decree that those who wish to be ordained should first
obtain permission from parents. He backs this request with an
explication of a father’s sorrow: ‘The love of a father for his son is
something that pierces skin, having pierced skin sinks into flesh,
having gone through flesh, passes through veins and sinews, then cuts
through bone and in bone marrow comes to a stop.’ Such sorrow, as he had
suffered, he did not wish upon any parents, the King said and hence the
request to which the Buddha agreed.
Not all sons and daughters
contemplate parricide, not even in moments of extreme anger, frustration
and disappointment, and even though who may wish to be unfettered from
parents do not turn thought into action. They are conscious that
hurting can and does happen both ways. Maybe the love of a child for her
father is as deep and profound and on account of which similar sorrows
are experienced.
Only one thing needs to be remembered, I feel:
hurt of the kind alluded to by Suddhodana and lyrically rendered in
‘Sinhabahu’ by Sarachchandra can only be possible on account of love of
the deepest and most precious kind. Its dimensions cannot be determined
and therefore it cannot be described.
A dance it is, of a kind that can never be choreographed to a point at which someone can say ‘perfect.’
['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:
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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