Mahagama Sekera: the book of verse and the [glass of] wine

 

[published in the Daily News, January 15, 2025] 

The late Pundit Amaradeva would frequently refer to his friend and collaborator, Mahagama Sekera, during concerts. Inevitably he would draw from the song ‘මීවිතයි ගී පොතයි (the book of verse and the [glass of] wine),’ which was written by Sekera, to pay homage of sorts to their partnership. And everyone applauds, typically. In

The following lines about Amaradeva, written by another prominent lyricist, Bandula Nanayakkarawasam, resurfaced around the time the celebrated singer passed away and they came to me last night as I thought of what I could write of Sekera today, on the eve of his 48th death anniversary. 

 

ගම අමතක වීද ඔහුගෙන් විමසන්න

නගරය මග හැරුනිද ඔහු සොයා යන්න

රට අමතක වීද ඔහු ඇති බව අදහන්න

ගහ-කොළ, ඉර-හඳ, ඇළ-දොළ, සමුදුර, කුරුළු-ගී

ඈ නෙක දියදම් අරුම නොපෙනී නොඇසී ගියේද

ඔහු ඇසි දිසි මානයේ රැඳෙන්න

මේ පුංචි කොදෙව්වේ, මව් දෙරණේ

මේ සියල්ල ඔහුය 

 

‘If you’ve forgotten the village, ask him

If you are lost in a city, go find him

If you forgot the nation, believe that he lives

The trees, the sun and moon, the ocean, bird song…

These and other enchanting things……..

should you not see them, should you not hear

Go stand before him, stay within the circle of his gaze.

In this tiny island, in our motherland

He is all these things.'

 

Sure. It works. And yet, it occurred to me, that if the above lines were read without knowing who wrote them or about whom, the reader could ascribe any name he or she believes can be associated with the sentiments. For me, its Sekera. Yes, more so than Amaradeva, no disrespect intended. 

 

The length, breadth and depth of who he was and who he still needs to be measured not only in terms of his voluminous works across genres but the creativity deployed to obtain the most salient of human verities. Human and not simply Sri Lankan, let me emphasise. Perhaps an incident which occurred some years ago may serve as elaboration.

 

It happened at a book launch at the Library Services Board Auditorium. In fact several books were launched that day, a set of excellent translations of Pablo Neruda by Indrani Ratnasekera who, unlike many who translate Neruda into Sinhala (from English), had actually studied Spanish and Spanish literature for years and therefore was probably more insured against mis-translation and of course misrepresentation. It happened when the inimitable W A Abeysinghe addressed the gathering.

 

Ever the student of global literatures given to serious reflection on the way social, economic, political, cultural and philosophical factors leave their traces on words and lines, Abeysinghe offered Neruda in a nutshell. It was like a poem. And it included a poem. A Sinhala translation of an English translation which, I am sure, Indrani Ratnasekera could have probably improved much, no offence to Abeysinghe.

 

I may have zoned out for a moment and if Abeysinghe had given a preamble, I must have missed it. I listened to the recitation and somehow felt that I had heard/read it before. I will get to it shortly. 

 

Abeysinghe, towards the end of his speech, made the following observation: අපි මොනතරම් කුඩා ද! Yes, that argument could be made if one were to compare and contrast the work of any nation or community or culture or language against the full corpus of world literature, but Abeysinghe was drawing from the dimensions of Neruda’s literary universe. And he may have been right. 

 

Thankfully, I had to speak after this elder or even the eldest statesman of Sinhala literature, unsung and unhonoured for no fault of his. Thankfully, because he had provided me an entry point. He may have mentioned this, I do not remember, but anyway, by the time I got to speak I knew that the poem he had translated was one of Neruda’s featured at the end of the movie Il Postino (The Postman) based on the 1985 novel by Antonio Skármeta titled Ardiente paciencia (Burning Patience). This was why it was familiar. 

 

And it was at that age...

Poetry arrived in search of me. 

I don΄t know, I don΄t know where it came from,

from winter or a river.

I don΄t know how or when,

no, they were not voices, 

they were not words, nor silence,

but from a street I was summoned, 

from the branches of night,

abruptly from the others,

among violent fires or returning alone, 

there I was without a face

and it touched me.

I did not know what to say,

my mouth had no way with names

my eyes were blind, 

and something started in my soul,

fever or forgotten wings, 

and I made my own way, 

deciphering that fire 

and I wrote the first faint line, 

faint, without substance, pure nonsense,

pure wisdom of someone who knows nothing, 

and suddenly I saw the heavens unfastened

and open planets, palpitating plantations, 

shadow perforated, riddled with arrows,

fire and flowers, 

the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,

drunk with the great starry void,

likeness, image of mystery,

I felt myself a pure part of the abyss. 

I wheeled with the stars; 

my heart broke loose on the open sky.

 

Here’s his translation:

ඒ දවස්වල තමයි

කාව්‍යය

මා සොයාගෙන ආවෙ

සීත සමයේ සිටද

ගඟක ඉඳලාවත්ද

කෙසේ නම්, කවදාද

මා දන්නේ නැත්තේය

නැත,

කටහඬක් නම් නොවේ

වදන්ද නොවේමය

නිශ්චලත්වයද නොව

වීදියේ සිටිය මට ආයේය කැඳවුමක්

රැයේ අතුපතරතින්

ආපහු එමින් සිටියෙ මි බිහිසුණු ගිනිදැල් මැදින්

මා සතු නොවිය මුහුණක්

එය පැමිණ

ස්පර්ශ කළේය මා.

කියන්නේ කුමක්දැයි

සිතා ගත නොහැක්කේය

මගේ මුවට

නාවේය කිසි නමක්

මගේ දෑස

තාමත් අන්ධය

ආත්මය තුල

කැළඹුණිය කිසිවක්

උණ ගැනිලාවත්ද?

මම ගියෙමි ආ මඟහිම

කියවන්ට තතනමින්

ඒ ගින්න අතරින්ම

එවිට මම ලියුවෙමි

මගේ මුල්ම කවි පදය

බොහොම දුර්වල

හරයක්තද ඇත්තේ නැති

නියම මනස්ගාතය.

කිසිවක්ම නොමදන්න කෙනෙකුගේ

පවිත්‍ර ප්‍රඥාව

දුටුවෙමිය මම එසඳ

දෙව් ලෝ තල අගුල් ගැලවෙනු

ග්‍රහලෝක විවර වනු

හෙවණැලිද විදගෙන

වගාවන් සසල වනු

ඊතලද ගින්දරද මල්ද

පහන් වන රාත්‍රියේ, මුළු මහත් විශ්වයද.

තුන් තේරවිල්ලක්ය

අල්ප වූද, ක්ෂුද්‍ර වූද

ජීවියෙක් වූ මම

තරු පිරිවැරූ මහා අනන්තයෙන්

මෝහනය වී

විශ්වයේ අනන්ත ගුප්තභාවය

හා සමාව සිටින්නෙමි සිතුනේය මට එසඳ

මාද මේ අගාධයෙහි

කොටසක් බව භ්‍රමණය වීමි මමද

තරු සමග

නිදහස් වුණු මගේ කඳ

පියාඹන්නට විය මන්ද මාරුතය හා. 

 

And I shared with the audience the first thought that had come to mind listening to Abeysinghe’s recitation, a thought not precipitated by knowledge of the original or the context, for that had come later: ‘One of Sekera’s poems.’ And I said, ‘අපි මොනතරම් විශාලද…නේද අබේසිංහ මහත්තයෝ (we are not small, are we Mr Abeysinghe?)’ 

 

He smiled, this good humoured man, an nodded his head in agreement, for one does not preclude the other. We are small and also great. Such verities did Sekera reveal to us, such greatness did he bestow on all of us.

 

Mahagama Sekera was not adjunct to Pundit Amaradeva or anyone else. He was not one part of some duality. He was and is the gee potha and the meevitha — the book of verse and the [glass of] wine, both. He would probably brush it off, for he, according to all accounts, was humble. Small. And that is also an aspect of greatness.