Eraj Basnayake, Professor of Mathematics, Monroe Community College in Rochester, New York, was in my class from grades one through six. While there were some students in the sixth grade class who had been with us from Grade 1 to 4, they had been in different classes the previous year courtesy of what was then a mandatory shuffle in the fifth grade.
We were never in the same class again. We both opted to study mathematics for the Advanced Level, but we were in different classes. He left for the USA to continue his studies, I switched to Arts and ended up in Peradeniya.
Years later, in the early days of the internet, I found Eraj again. He was in the state of Georgia. I was in New York. I emailed him and he replied. And so friendship was renewed. I still remember Eraj observing how years and years can pass without seeing people, then there’s re-connect and it’s as though nothing has changed. Some friendships are like that. We would meet off and on when he visited his parents in Sri Lanka. He’s now in Rochester and we discussed the possibility of meeting sometime in the coming months.
This is not about Eraj but what he said about friendship.
Right now I am in a town called Monroe, which has nothing to do with Monroe College. This Monroe is in the state of Connecticut. I am in the home of Ruvinda Gunawardana.
Ruvinda and I were in the same class in the seventh grade and later when we were preparing for the ALs. My decision to switch subjects meant we went along different disciplinary trajectories. He entered Colombo University (Science Faculty) and when the university system collapsed in the midst of unprecedented political turmoil in the late eighties, Ruvinda decided to continue his studies at Texas A & M University. He later completed a PhD at Rice University.
Facebook put us back in touch. We communicated off and on. I gathered that he ‘was into music.’
I surmised that Ruvinda must be really good at time management to have taught himself how to play the piano and guitar when I saw some ‘music posts.’ I didn’t know then that he was an engineer whose work was in cutting edge robotic technology. I do now.
I saw Ruvinda after 40 years. He recalls that he had seen me at Colombo Campus when I came to visit my ‘political friends.’ I had forgotten. Time has not passed though.
Back in the day we spoke about the books we read. We both went through the ‘Enid Blyton Phase.’ We both loved Tintin. I like Asterix too, but Ruvinda wasn’t too fascinated by the disproportionate dimensions of the characters. Now he doesn’t mind, he said. So we talked about the books we loved and whatever it was we remembered from that time. He had forgotten certain things that I remembered and vice versa. Together we pieced together the flavours and fragrances of that other time of gentleness, wide-eyed wonderment and exhilarating ignorance. Good then. Good now. Good always.
And we talked about how life has been these four decades. We sang the old songs we both loved and the newer ones which, we discovered, we loved too. He with his guitar and on the piano, I with the presence of mind to let my untrained voice piggyback on his more than decent voice.
We are not the 12 year olds we were. We are not the 17 year olds we were. Commonality of classroom and subject are cities we’ve left behind a long time ago. They’ve been replaced, we found, with other interests. Time hasn’t passed. Time doesn’t, not in the case of friendship marked by affection and kindness.
Ruvinda explained his work. Greek to me. He tossed out some basic musical terms. Greek to me. Delightful, nevertheless. We have aged, but friendship has resolved to pin the age ’16’ on both of us and that has stayed for 40 years. I know it seems stupid, but indulge me, please, if not for any other reason than the fact that we both could listen to and sing the songs of Clarence, Edward, Victor, Sunil, Amaradeva, Milton and Jim Reeves. That's something, isn't it?
These moments are precious but not unsurprising. Some friendships are like that. Eraj was right.
['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 260th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]
malindadocs@gmail.com
Other articles in this series:
Amherst: silent, rural, poetic and serendipitous
The virtues of unemployability
A breathless hush at the close
Ahmed Issa, fearless and audacious in Gaza
Let us take a deep breath now...
How Grolier Poetry writes 'Harvard Square'
Following children and their smiles
Let's plant words in cracks and craters
When the earth closes upon us...
Let us now march to the battleground of words
The most pernicious human shield
Who bombed Frankfurter Buchmesse
Love's austere and lonely offices
The mysteriously enjoined in the middle of nowhere
Reflections on the unimaginable
Jackson Anthony is a book and will be read
A village called Narberth Bookshop
'Irvin' and other one-word poems
Earth pieces Kerala and Sri Lanka
In the land of insomnial poets
When you don't need an invitation, it's home
When the Canadian House of Commons applauded a Nazi...
The importance of not skipping steps
No free passes to the Land of Integrity
Hector Kobbekaduwa is not a building, statue, street or stamp
Rajagala and the Parable of the Panner
Let's show love to Starbucks employees!
Octavio Paz and Arthur C Clarke in the stratosphere
9/11 and the calm metal instrument of Salvador Allende's voice
Whitman, Neruda and things that wait in all things
Thilina Kaluthotage's eyes keep watch
Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars
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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