['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 the 213th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]
A friend confided in another friend about how he conducts his life: ‘for some years now I consider upekshava (equanimity) as my peragamankaru (forerunner, the vanguard, trailblazer).
It
is a good way to live. It is good to take note of the vicissitudes of
life. It is good to treat them with equanimity. It is good when one
chooses equanimity as the guide, the framework of reference, the blazer
of the path one has to follow.
There are other options. If it
is about what one should follow, seek or pursue, here are some: joy,
fame, praise and profit). Let’s leave aside their negative flips (sorrow
- for masochists, disgrace — some people do revel in being ‘badass,’
blame — a form of masochism or penance — as would be loss).
Profit.
That’s what I want to focus on. The pursuit of profit or rather the
fixation over profit and its pursuit is far more likely to yield
frustration, unhappiness and a sense of disenchantment, not to mention a
lot of destruction, injustice and suffering that are the inevitable
collateral, than would equanimity if one were to cultivate and use it as
a guide.
I returned to my friend’s peragamankaru thesis several
times over the last few days. I looked at people I’ve known and know
whose lives are benign, self-contained and peaceful even in the midst of
tragedy, severe loss, immense sorrow and so on. I realised that
equanimity has been the peragamankaru.
But profit? Why profit? Why should I write about profit? What’s profit and peragamankaruwan?
Well,
I just started reading ‘The concise untold history of the United
States,’ a companion to the Showtime Documentary series. It is authored
by legendary film-maker Oliver Stone and the historian Peter Kuznick. It
is a history of wars. It is a story of profit. It tells us not only the
profit-making underbelly of war but who the profiteers were and are.
When
we think of the major wars of the 20th century we immediately go to the
World Wars for the sheer enormity of it all and the immense suffering.
And we think of countries. We talk of which blocs fought which other
blocs of nations, those who were allied and those other
nation-collectives fought against.
But what were they all
about? Countries banding together to defeat a tyrant or a collective of
tyrants? Saint Countries vs Rogue Countries? Thugs taking on thugs to
determine which territories would go to which gang?
On the face
of it, it’s all about national flags; that’s one way of putting it.
That’s the popular and comfortable narrative. We could peel off the
outer layer of the story and say it’s about a nation engaged in a
profit-enhancing exercise. Conquest is a word that can be useful when
trying to understand the story. Imperialism. That’s another useful term.
For my part, as I read about the complex, uncivilised and
absolutely barbaric history of North America and Europe from 1800 to the
end of the Second World War (that’s as far as I have got so far), I
couldn’t help but return again and again to a telling episode from the
1981 American epic historical drama film, co-written, produced, and
directed by Warren Beatty about the life and career of John Reed, the
journalist and writer who covered the Russian Revolution in the classic,
‘Ten days that shook the world.’
A question is put to Reed
during a meeting of the Liberal Club in Portland, Oregon: ‘What would
you say this war is about, Jack Reed?’
The war in question is
the First White Tribalist War which the then US President Woodrow Wilson
pledged he would not get his country involved in but did. Reed, played
by Beatty, had a one word answer.
‘Profit.’
That was about
Germany, France, Britain, Russia, Italy, Hungary, Turkey and the USA,
right? Wrong. It was the bankers and other war profiteers that won the
day. Eugene Debt said of all this wryly, ‘Let the capitalists do their
own fighting and furnish their own corpses and there will never be
another war on the face of the earth.’
That’s not how it happens
though. Smelly Butler, who led troops into Beijing at the turn of the
century would later confess in his book ‘War is a racket,’ that he was
'a racketeer, a gangster for capitalism.’
'I helped make Mexico,
especially Tampico, safe for American oil interests in 1914. I helped
make Haiti and Cuba a decent place for the National City Bank boys to
collect revenues in. I helped in the raping of half a dozen Central
American republics for the benefits of Wall Street. I helped purify
Nicaragua for the international banking house of Brown Brothers. I
brought light to the Dominican Republic for American sugar interests. In
China I helped to see to it that Standar Oi went its way unmolested.’
Profit.
A determined and compelling peragamankaru if ever there was one.
Soldiers and civilians paid with their lives in the millions. The true
racketeers raked in scandalous profits. Politicians sheltered them.The
mainstream media looked the other way; spoke of countries, not bankers
or weapons manufacturers. And ‘profit’ was carefully and deliberately
white-outed (‘Tippexed’) from the story.
In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)
Mobsters on and off the screen
We're here because we're here because we're here
Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson
A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku
Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end
Sapan and voices that erase borders
Problem elephants and problem humans
The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo
Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning
Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home
Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)
A gateway to illumination in West Virginia
Through strange fissures into magical orchards
There's sea glass love few will see
Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha
Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse
The responsible will not be broken
Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon
Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?
Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing
Journalism inadvertently learned
Reflections on the young poetic heart
Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus
The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'
Subverting the indecency of the mind
Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'
Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter
Seeing, unseeing and seeing again
Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy
The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga
The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down)
Every mountain, every rock, is sacred
Manufacturing passivity and obedience
Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited
In praise of courage, determination and insanity
The relative values of life and death
Poetry and poets will not be buried
Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990)
Sorrowing and delighting the world
Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi
Letters that cut and heal the heart
A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya
The soft rain of neighbourliness
Reflections on waves and markings
Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra
The right time, the right person
The silent equivalent of a thousand words
Crazy cousins are besties for life
The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis
Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins
Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness
Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable
Deveni: a priceless one-word koan
Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation
'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone
On sweeping close to one's feet
Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California
To be an island like the Roberts...
Debts that can never be repaid in full
An island which no flood can overwhelm
A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing
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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