The Desmond Mallikarachchi Library

 

Way back in the late nineties, the Department of Development Sociology, Cornell University, had a weekly seminar series. On Wednesdays, if memory serves. Typically some renowned academic who happened to be visiting the university or someone specifically invited would speak on a subject on which they had written extensively. Occasionally a graduate student, usually someone who has just defended or was about to defend a doctoral dissertation would be invited to speak. On one occasion, three masters students spoke.

‘Here I am, standing between two colleagues who had just defended their theses, required to speak on my as yet undefended and perhaps indefensible thesis.’

Ice-breaker. Nerve settler. I got quite a few laughs. I remember the tentative title and not much else: ‘Journeying with honour and dignity in search of the vague and indeterminate.’ Today, a quarter of a century later, I can laugh at it all, but instead tend to smile.

Anyway, I did attend the ‘thesis defence.’ After much cajoling and veiled threats. I still remember the pre-defence meeting with my committee (Shelley Feldman and Phil McMichael) and the then Director of Graduate Studies, Chuck Geisler. I ran into Shelley where two corridors met, just outside the room where the meeting was to be held.

‘So young man, do you have a story?’

Shelley was an excellent academic and possessed a strong and even fearsome personality. I just smiled and said, ‘Shelley, when did I ever not have a story?’

We both laughed.

‘We are not putting you on the spot. No one is being judged here,’ Chuck’s voice was reassuring. Then he asked, ‘so what do you have to say?’

That was putting me on the spot, right there.

‘If the question is, “what have you been doing in the eight months that have passed since you last met with your committee,” the short answer would be ‘living.’  

Cheeky. But I had more to say.

‘This thesis is like a plate of rice I’ve been eating for two hours. I’ve lost my appetite and would rather push the plate away. That said, I have completed the thesis.’

And I drew from my bag three printed-and-bound copies of the manuscript. They were thrilled. The defence was scheduled. And I was told, ‘with minor revisions we could give you a terminal masters; but to officially put you on course for a PhD you would have to do extensive revisions.’  

‘I have come to understand that the distinctions between sociology, philosophy and literature are arbitrary and false. I do understand the need for disciplinary boundaries and that you are required to make sure I stay within them.’

Parting shot. With another smile.

My colleagues, as was the practice, had prepared post-defence snacks. I updated them. And said, ‘I am not sure what we are celebrating here.’

So, there were no revisions, minor or major. I returned home, having completed the coursework for the PhD and nothing else to show. Still just a graduate. Unemployed. And wandered into journalism.

Since then, there have been occasions when I’ve asked myself a few questions beginning with ‘what if.’ Rare. And quickly dismissed. I continued however to acquaint myself with ‘the latest’ in social theory, mainly because of sporadic and yet stimulating conversations with accomplished friends in academia, especially Kanishka Goonewardena and Pradeep Jeganathan. I’ve flirted with the idea of returning to postgraduate studies. Again, rare and quickly dismissed.

Until last evening.

Last evening I visited Prof Desmond Mallikaarachchi at his home in Naththarampotha, Kundasale. At 81, he was still thinking, processing and writing. Still alert and insightful. Stimulating. It reminded me of S B D De Silva, the unheralded but easily the most intellectually honest economist the country has known, who was researching well into his nineties.

Desmond spoke of Gananath Obeyesekere, David Leach, Bruce Kapferer, Marshall Sahlins, Terry Eagleton, Pierre Bourdieu, Richard Gombrich, Michel Foucault, Jacques Derrida, Antonio Gramsci and of course Karl Marx. He was not name-dropping. The names were mentioned in the course of elaborating on some idea related to some topic we happened to be discussing. He spoke of his own work, almost in passing.

I listened, along with two other contemporaries from Peradeniya University, Premasiri Werawella and Priyantha Wickramasinghe. Desmond was formally attached to the Philosophy Department of that university. We were not listening to a philosophy professor, though. He sounded like a sociologist at times and at times an economist, a psychologist, a linguist, a historian, a political scientist and an anthropologist. And although in so many ways poorer than he, none of us felt that he was talking down to us. He spoke as though to equally accomplished colleagues. We offered the rare comment. He listened. Responded. I cannot remember ever encountering such scholarship and humility resident in a single person.

I was too young, too distracted by the politics of the moment and affairs of the heart to understand that Desmond Mallikarachchi was like a university within my university. Too stupid to look for him.

Too late.

Peradeniya, like most universities in Sri Lanka, divides itself into disciplines. I studied sociology. ‘Philosophy’ was another country. I didn’t have a visa and didn’t even think of a visit. That shouldn’t have been an obstacle because Desmond was a ‘global citizen’ and went wherever he wished. My bad.

Again, ‘what if…’ came to mind. For a moment. But there’s consolation. There is his work. And there’s the open invitation: ‘aney, onama velavaka enna…mehe navathinna puluwan (please come…whenever you want…you can stay the night).’

I don’t know if there are doors and windows in Desmon Mallikarachchi’s heart and mind. Probably not, but even if there were, they are always open.

It’s too late for me to return to theses that never got written, I know. Yesterday I learned that there’s a process I had to follow in order to access the Peradeniya University Library. I will go through the paces soon. There’s also a library in Naththarampotha, Kundasale. The Desmond Mallikarachchi Library. No protocols. No tedious processes to follow. Open 24/7.

I will visit.   

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday'] 

 

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Feet enable, eyes soar and mind translates into poetry

In most workplaces, especially offices, there’s invariably that one person whose eyes stray to one of two places: the seat of the immediate superior and the seat of he or she who is directly below in the official hierarchy.  This is of course usually among executives but it’s a phenomenon that can be found elsewhere as well.  

But why? Simple. The gazer is concerned about upward mobility, i.e. the seat ‘above’ and at the same time is worried about being replaced.  

Nothing illegal or unethical about it of course. Moreover if the said person attends to tasks efficiently and maintains expected quality of work such concerns should not bother anyone. Except of course the would-be-replaced and the would-be-replacer. It could be unnerving for some, but then again in such situations people can always grow a second skin, cultivate a poker face, go through the day and bide time.

I have wondered about eyes lately. Gaze, to be more precise. My thoughts had strayed to what is arguably a rather boring mathematical proposition: square feet. Essentially a measurement of area. Floor space, mainly. We see the term in the classified ads related to rentals, mostly with regard to office space but sometimes apartments and houses as well.  

It’s all about square feet. Area, But also feet, literally. Space to move around. The prerogatives of feet. And that’s two dimensional. There’s also wall space and that’s not about feet in the walking sense. Which brings us to the vertical. And roofs or ceilings. And therefore, to ‘spacious.’

All of these things would probably bore to death an architect or interior designer for whom anthropometrics is a topic covered in their first year in university. In fact it was my friend Kanishka Goonewardena, then an architecture student at Moratuwa University, who introduced the term to me. He would later move to planning and eventually a reader of cities as political space. Back then too, obviously, he knew of space but in a less ideological sense. He got me thinking about the vertical. The third dimension.

Feet essentially live in a two-dimensional universe. Not so the eyes. They can wander left and right, slide down stairways, climb walls and even dark across a ceiling. That’s in an enclosed space. Step outside and dimensions expand exponentially. Yes, you need feet to get you out of the door and to places of vantage from where gaze can travel farther. Feet take you places. Eyes colour those places.  

Then there’s the mind. It is a device for extrapolation. And synthesis. It allows us to ‘see’ that which is not yet visible or is no longer visible. It moves in an intangible universe whose boundaries are defined only by our own limitations.

The three work together or rather are interdependent to a greater or lesser degree. They can be independent too. You could, for example, walk mindlessly, totally oblivious of the world around you. You could sit somewhere, close your eyes and yet drive your mind to faraway places. Or let colour, line and space repaint the mind as they will or prompt feet to move closer to obtain detail or speed away in horror.  

My inimitable travel companion and photographer of island magic in innumerable combinations of light, shade, colour, shape and texture, Tharindu Amunuguma, told me once to let my feet do the zooming. A tip. Practical. Learnable. Feet enable. Eyes soar thereafter or else dwell on nearby details — footprints, scattered leaves, blades of grass. The mind translates all into poetry. Sculpts. Re-sculpts. Constructs. Deconstructs. They are companions on a journey whose pathways can be randomly picked, planned or chanced upon. 
 
There are of course individuals who are perhaps disappointed, perhaps resourceful, perhaps pernicious, perhaps ambitious, perhaps patient or impatient individuals filled with rancour, hope or resignation  with their eyes darting in one of the two directions mentioned above. They may be missing amazing stories, but then again one might argue that they’ve spared themselves unnecessary distraction. There are others too. Fettered or unfettered.

A few ago I watched Doctor Zhivago with a group of young people. Yesterday I asked each of them who their favourite character was. Some liked Lara, some Zhivago and a few were partial to Pasha Antipov. One, though, mentioned Kostoyed Amoursk played by Klaus Kinski. He was a prisoner on the train Zhivago and his family were travelling on, from Moscow to the fictional town Yuriatin. Chained. At one point he rattles his chains and says, ‘I am a free man,’ and adds, ‘I am the only free man on this train.’

We are all prisoners of one kind or another, some, as the line in the song ‘Hotel California’ goes, ‘of [their] own device.’ And even if unfettered unlike Kostoyed, we can be limited or limit ourselves, unless we free feet, eyes and mind, and welcome dimensions that have gathered dust or the passageways to which have remained unknown.

There are vistas that await our feet, our eyes and our minds. Let us travel, then. 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday'] 

 

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Chess IS education

 

On October 20, in Astana, Kazakhstan, the world body for chess (FIDE) and the International School Chess Federation (ISCF) signed a Memorandum of Cooperation to jointly promote scholastic chess globally as per the deflation of 2026 as ‘The Year of Chess in Education.’ Accordingly, the two organisations will launch a series of international school team tournaments as the flagship event of the ‘Chess in education 2026’ programme.

Well, it’s not as though there’s been no chess in schools or ‘chess in education’ all these years. Kids even as young as just three years old have taken to chess for decades if not centuries. In Sri Lanka, the vast majority of active players are still in school. Schoolboys and schoolgirls have won the national title on numerous occasions, some as young as 12! In fact the national team, going back to the 1970s, always had one or more school going players. If you prefer a quantitative argument, consider the fact that over 27,000 kids take part in the age group tournaments organized by the Schools Chess Association. And that’s from all provinces, all districts and all educational zones! Sri Lanka boasts of the highest percentage of chess players in the region.

That said, the FIDE/ISCF move is timely and significant.  Today it is widely recognised that chess is not an extracurricular activity for schoolchildren. It is co-curricular for many reasons. Let’s consider.

Chess develops critical thinking. It is a game, certainly, and has all the attributes one associates with competition of any kind. And yet, it also trains students to assess situations, anticipate consequences and make informed and rational decisions, all of which are core aspects of analytical education.

Chess enhances problem-solving skills. Yes, every move offers a player a problem to be solved. So they assess options and pick the most effective way forward. That’s essentially what mathematical and scientific reasoning is all about.

Chess develops concentration and focus. The players have to demonstrate sustained attention and patience. They must learn to quell distraction of any and every kind. They have to reduce the dimensions of the universe to 64 squares and the innumerable permutations therein. Such traits invariably get applied in all classroom/learning environments, making for better learning and greater efficiency in the application of knowledge acquired.

Chess encourages strategic planning. Players have to think ahead, consider multiple move-sequences and also adapt to the unexpected, be it pleasant or unpleasant.

Chess encourages responsibility and accountability. Since every move has consequences, they have to live with the choices they make, reflect on thinking-errors, adjust preparation and correct flawed ways of thinking. They can’t pass the buck, so to speak.

Chess strengthens memory and cognitive capacity. It is a game where pattern-recognition plays an important role. It is a tactical game that boosts short and long term memory as well as general learning ability.

 

Chess promotes creativity and imagination. One has to visualise piece combinations and relevant squares for the pieces that make for a better position and thereby improve the chances of winning. The player has to then come up with strategies that can deliver the ‘visual’ that is desired. And here, imagination and innovation come into play. That’s ‘thinking outside the box’ long before they encounter the phrase in the classroom. That’s science and also the arts. It’s poetry.

Chess instills patience and resilience. Players have to cope with mistakes and continue to look for ways of recovery. They have to grind out wins from seemingly equal positions, pushing a tiny advantage, making it bigger incrementally until the aggregate yields a clear and winning edge. Takes time. Requires patience.

Chess supports mathematical and logical reasoning. There’s geometry involved. There’s pattern-recognition as mentioned above. There’s calculation too. In short the reinforcing of foundational STEM skills.

Chess helps bridge cultures and foster social learning. It is a universal language, in fact, and as such helps connect peoples across age, background and culture, fostering communication, respect and the worth of shared learning experiences.

One could add more.

Now, it is true that some of the above are not entirely absent in other sports. There’s problem-solving, analysis, patience, resilience and even geometry that can be  learned in rugby, cricket, soccer or any other sport. And yet, it would be quite a challenge to think of any discipline that requires players, especially children as young as 4 or 5, to ‘problem-solve’ for 3-4 hours at a stretch and sometimes 2-3 in a single day. 

Chess in education is an excellent idea. Chess in education is an old idea, yes. Chess IS education. That’s something educationists are fast learning and if Sri Lanka wishes to be ahead of the curve then it would be remarkable for the Ministry of Education to consider introducing chess to the formal curriculum. It’s a fun way of learning skills that will be with the learner for life. 

Let's extrapolate: since almost 300,000 kids unroll in grade one in a given year, just imagine what that number of young people armed with the above-mentioned skills could do for the country and the world 15-20 years down the road. Remember that the education system will continue to generate similar numbers every year thereafter.

Chess is education. It’s time we learned this.  

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

 

Malinda Seneviratne is a FIDE Instructor and a long-time mentor of chess players at his alma mater, Royal College. He was the Manager/Captain of the Sri Lanka team that won a category gold medal at the Tromso Olympiad in 2014.  

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The length and breath of time

 

Long years ago, there were people who measured distance in terms of the number of cassettes that the bus driver would play from point of departure to the destination. Others measure distance in hours. So many hours from A to B. Today, if you use Google Maps, for example, you can find out not only the distance, in kilometers or miles, but how long it would take you, depending on your  mode of transport.  

Time. We measure it in years in the case of a person’s age for example. Time. We measure it in weeks or days, for example how long it would take to apply for and obtain a national identity card or passport, how long it would take to complete a degree etc.

‘How long,’ is an interesting term.

I calculate at times. I check how long it’s been since I was in Grade One, how long since I entered university, how long since I graduated, how long since I worked in a newspaper office, how long since I first met someone, how long since the British conquered our nation, and how long since they left (and of course the inevitable postcolonial follow-up, ‘did “they” ever leave?’

How long has it been since my mother passed away? My grandmothers, grandfathers, friends from school and university: how long has it been since they died?  Years. Exact dates. These are usually associated with answers to such questions.  

I have been asked by my late mother’s former students who have been too busy with their lives to check on such things, how she’s doing.

‘She passed away,’ I answered.

‘Really? That’s sad. When?’

‘Sixteen years ago.’  

‘Such a long time ago; I am sorry, I didn’t know.’

Such exchanges there have been.  

But ‘such a long time ago,’ is an observation that invariably takes me to something said by Wijerupage Wijesoma, the irrepressible and self-effacing cartoonist who created witty, insightful and telling political commentary with a few lines and words for decades.

It happened more than twenty years ago when we both worked for Upali Newspapers. Wijesoma drew for both the Island and the Divaina. At the time I was writing a series of articles on people his age who had excelled in their chosen field. During the course of the interview, I asked him about his family. I wrote,  ‘he is also a family man, and has raised 6 children with his wife, Mallica Gunatilleke, whom he describes as a wonderful woman, who was always very supportive.’

And quoted him: ‘She was a good sport, and was willing to drop all her work and take off with me if I suggested some out of the ordinary expedition such as going to Horton Plains.’

He told me that she had passed away some 16 years previously.

‘A long time,’ I said.

Yes, that familiar response. His rejoinder wasn’t common.

 ‘It is not long for me,’ he said softly.

Sixteen years to a seventeen year old is almost all the time he’s been on this planet. Sixteen years to someone who is 64 is a quarter of his life. The true length of sixteen years or seventy five for that matter or rather perception of that duration depends on what’s being talked about and by whom.

My paternal grandmother died 33 years ago. At her funeral my father said, ‘today would have been my late sister’s fiftieth birthday.’ She had died when she was just 10 years old. He added, ‘It took me this long to understand how much I missed her.’  

He remembered.

‘The doctor misdiagnosed. She got worse. She was in Mother’s arms and simply said, ‘Ammi, mama yanawa (mother, I am going).’

How long is an hour? How many days are there in a year? Do we really know and even if we did, does it have the same meaning for two different people?

‘You will not be able to meet her as often from now on,’ someone told a friend who was much younger, again more than 25 years ago.  His friend responded, ‘I know how to turn moments into eternities.’

They both laughed.

Time is longer than life, some communities in Africa say and they are right. ‘Time is a coat,’ was the title of a Master’s Thesis written by a sociologist who studied the political economy of the garment industry, a line that resonates with Marx’s Labour Theory of Value.

Time is long. Sixteen years is long.

‘Not for me,’ Wijesoma said softly.

He took my breath away then. And each time I remember, I forget to breathe. 

 

 [This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Faustace Emil Fernando makes things work

I’ve known Faustace Emil Fernando by face, but didn’t know his name until a few days ago. It’s good to know names but in certain circumstances one doesn’t ask. One doesn’t have to.

I’ve known him for about five years. I’ve seen him often, probably at least once a week. We’ve probably said hello or good morning, but for the most part greetings have been non verbal. The nod of the head, a smile. Acknowledgement of presence. Recognition. Things like that.

I’ve seen him only in one place. The Commons Coffeehouse on Ernest De Silva Mawatha. He goes about in dark blue overalls, doing his thing, which could mean painting, moving things around, and attending to maintenance work that I was mostly clueless about. It’s normal there. Like the security guard helping people park or take out their cars, opening the door etc. or the person at the counter taking an order or someone serving the guests.

A few days ago, I was sitting in the back garden, writing. Faustace Emil Fernando didn’t greet me. He simply asked, ‘don’t you want the fan?’

I have been there enough times to know which switch works for which fan. I had tried the switch that turned on the fan nearest to me. It hadn’t worked. It hadn’t bothered me either. I had forgotten all about it.

So I smiled and told him, ‘I tried the switch, but it didn’t work.’

He smiled back and simply said, ‘we’ll make it work!’

And he did. Now that’s something that I have come to accept as ‘The Commons’ touch. You don’t have to ask. The staff notices. They ask or simply sort out the problem. If there’s one.  

Faustace Emil Fernando took less than 30 seconds to ‘make it work.’ I was impressed. So we got to talking. Not immediately, but a few minutes later, i.e. once he was off for the day.

He was born in Borella and attended All Saints College and later moved to St Joseph’s, Grandpass. His father had worked in the Welikada Prison.

‘I went to a Roman Catholic School and studied in the English medium. We spoke English at home. We were the last English medium batch, so we were all automatically promoted, whether or not we did well at exams! I was the fifth in a family of seven children. It wasn’t easy for us. I never had time to secure qualifications. The family needed money and all of us had to contribute. We all went to work immediately after leaving school. So, just as my older siblings had done, I started working immediately after my OLs.’

His first job, interestingly, had been in the hospitality industry. He was hired as a helper who worked in the maintenance section of the Koggala Beach Hotel.

‘The problem was the distance. My younger brother had a garage in Nayakakanda, Kerawalapitiya. So I worked there for a few years before getting a job in Kuwait. It was in maintenance. I was essentially a plumber, an electrician, a carpenter; in fact I did whatever I was called on to do. I learned on the job.

There’s a trace of restlessness in him. After working for 15 years in Kuwait, he returned to Sri Lanka. The main reason was the war in that country. He had bought a van and launched a school service which he did for 10 years.

‘I always liked hotels. So I came to the Commons.’

Again, it was all about maintenance. Anything and everything including helping out the waiters on occasion when short-staffed. He worked, he saved, and thought of starting his own business. So Faustace purchased an acre of coconut land and started a livestock operation. It was tough and he has since put that project on hold until he eventually retires.

He returned to the Commons five years ago. I asked him about his work.

‘I do everything on my own to the extent possible. There are of course times when something happens that I can’t handle. In such cases we contract outsiders. But when it comes to things like wiring, painting and plumbing, that’s my job.’

If something doesn’t work, he does his best to make it work.  

Faustace has had his share of misfortune. He remembered in particular an accident that happened 10-15 years ago.

‘A van moved into my lane. I am surprised that I am alive. In fact others were also surprised. I injured my kneecap but somehow I walked or rather limped to the police station. The officer told me that I should go to the hospital.’

Then there are regrets. A few. He recounted how his son had recently told him, ‘Dadda you were very rude when we were small.’  

‘It had never occurred to me. Now I feel sorry.’

Finally, he spoke about life lessons and advice he gives his children:

‘Be honest. Honesty will take you a long way. Do your job honestly. That’s how I have conducted myself throughout my career. It’s a character trait that probably comes from my father’s family. It’s in my blood. I believe that when we place all our trust in God he will look after us.’

Faustace Emil Fernando 61. ‘I am 61, but I am fit, thank god; I have no major ailments.’

He will work until he can work no more. He will notice things that seem out of place and he will put them right. If something doesn’t work, he will make it work. Good for the Commons. Good for the customers. For Faustace Emil Fernando, it’s just one of the many things he attends to on a daily basis.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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The unfathomable smoothness of Raji Welgama

 

Raji Welgama is known best, at least among those interested in Sinhala music, for the lyrics voiced by Sunil Edirisinghe: me tharam siyumelida kalugal… (can rock be so smooth…). Some years after the song became popular, I asked Raji what it was all about. His response astounded me: ‘matavath hithaganna baha.’ He himself could not explain.

This is not impossible nor improbable. Things get read and re-read, interpreted and re-interpreted. It makes for a lot of noise. And after a while whether or not there’s noise, we simply do not or even cannot hear. Perhaps that’s what happened.

In a way, Raji’s response sits well with the song itself. Let me try to translate:

Since I could not fathom 

the smoothness of granite

I went looking for the man
who gave eyes to the Aukana Buddha.
(Somewhere) close to the Kala Wewa
upon a mat he lay
in the verandah of an iluk-thatched mud hut
caressing aches and gazing
upon waves that birthed and perished.
When I inquired about the lover
who in Isurumuniya he carved
he laughed (and said) ‘still single am I.’

I have heard tell that from the eye-level of the Aukana Buddha statute one could see the waters of the Kala Wewa, located some 10 kilometers away. The hand gesture, I am told, is a variation of the Abhaya Mudra, denoting reassurance, blessing and protection. In the context of the song, a calming of turbulent waters or waves, one might say. From that height anyone, the sculptor especially, could see and therefore reflect upon, if so inclined, the ebb and flow of the liquid work of engineering art that is the Kala Wewa. It is not hard to understand the metaphoric yield and it being applied to the ata lo dahama, the eight worldly conditions (profit-loss, fame-disgrace, praise-blame, joy-sorrow). The sculptor imagined by the lyricist, it could be argued, was but caressing (note: not gripping hard nor being dismissive, and therefore adhering to the 'middle path') the ‘aches’ of the eternal verities; reflecting upon or treating with equanimity, in fact.

Raji could not fathom the smoothness. He couldn’t understand how such perfection could be hewed from rock with, one assumes, just hand and chisel. He went looking for the artist. The artist didn’t have an answer.

There’s a legend about the Aukana that I have referred to more than once. King Dhatusena while traveling with his Royal Sculptor is said to have chanced upon the particularly striking rock formation at Aukana. He is said to have asked the sculptor whether he had seen the Buddha. The sculptor had said that yes, indeed, he had seen the Buddha. In other words he could visualise the image that could be wrought from rock simply by carving out that which was ‘not Buddha.’

Perhaps Raji implied that the exercise crafted the craftsman even as the sculptor sculpted. We don’t know whether or not he was well versed in the doctrine or if in the process of ‘giving eyes to the Buddha’ he obtained insights that had eluded him before.

Not all things can be explained. This much is evident in the song and of course in Raji’s one-line, half-amused and half-serious, response to my question.

Not all things are clear. For example, I do not know if the person who sculpted the Isurumuniya Lovers was the very same gal vaduva who ‘saw the Buddha at Aukana’ and decided to make the Enlightened One visible to one and all. And we know that sometimes those who celebrate love are not blessed (or burdened?) to love and be loved. Raji’s sculptor doesn’t seem to be too concerned. He could laugh at the fact that he was still single.  

Who gave eyes to the Aukana Buddha? Where does he live now? What thoughts crossed his mind or has he succeeded in carving out all such clutter from heart, mind and being? Having listened to the song many times, such questions invariably come to mind whenever I visit Aukana or Kala Wewa. They come to mind even in ‘Kala Wewas’ that are not named ‘Kala Wewa,’ for any water body can be imagined as THE Kala Wewa. They come to mind now and then when I encounter any Buddha statue or any statue for that matter.  And even when I visit Isurumuniya, as I did last week.

This time I didn’t look at the rock sculptures. I just took the path on the side of the temple premises and went up the steps that led to the Tisa Wewa bund. Yes, for that moment, it was to me the Kala Wewa. As I approached I noticed a man seated at the top most step. Beside him was a bicycle. He was selling small bags of sliced mangoes and sliced guavas. He was waiting for customers. He probably had a salt, pepper or chilli powder mix he could sprinkle on the fruit if so requested.

It was a Monday. A slow day for him. So he said. There were years written on his face. There was a smile that spoke to me of aches caressed. There were eyes that seemed to carry the weight and lightness that often gets written when contemplating the movement of water.

And I remembered Raji Welgama all over again. I cannot fathom even now how anyone could write lyrics so smooth. 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Of things ‘closest to the heart’

 

Around twenty years ago a famous artist, now deceased, spoke with a fan over the phone. In my presence. In fact he used my phone to call her; so I wasn’t exactly eavesdropping.  I could only hear what he said.

‘Hello darling.’

‘Of course I remember your number. People my age only remember that which is closest to the heart.’

And he went on. For the record:

‘So when can we meet?’

‘Wednesday? Wednesday is a good day for romance.’

It is not hard to figure out what the other person said.  What stayed with me, though, is the observation about memory and proximity to the heart.  

A few years ago, a few months before she passed away at the age of 92, I was privileged to meet one Margaret Samararatne Nona Silva, the mother of a classmate, Priyankara. She was in the non-academic staff of Royal Junior School and everyone knew her as Margaret Anti (the Lankanized form of ‘Aunty’). We knew her as the lady who sorted things out if a boy in Grade One or Two wet his pants. Or worse.

She had lost her sight. She was hard of hearing. Her memory was sketchy. She couldn’t see us, i.e. her son, myself and a couple of others from our batch. She probably couldn’t hear us either. Priyankara said, in a loud voice obviously, ‘Amme, me Royal eke mage yaaluwo vagayak (Mother, these are some of my friends from Royal College).’

She raised her head immediately. She found her voice. She found passion. She said, ‘Raajakeeya vidyaalaya. Mama avurudu visi pahak hitiyaa!’ (Royal College. I was there for 25 years). Then she said, ‘thunuruwangema pihitayai’ (May you be blessed by the Noble Triple Gem).

A few weeks ago, my wife, a former student of St Joseph’s Convent (now ‘Balika’), recently showed a video of an old retired teacher: ‘Miss Charlotte.’ She is in her 90s and is apparently suffering from the typical issues related to cognitive ability and recollection. Someone had played the school song. Apparently Miss Charlotte had written the words. I am not sure who put music to the lyrics. It was a simple but moving video. The old lady sang along.

My artist friend, at the time, was not suffering from any of the infirmities mentioned above. He was being clever, I think. Flirtatious. It amused me. Indeed it amused him as well. We both laughed.

But he was right about ‘things closest to the heart,’ I now feel. At least that’s what the two examples mentioned above made me conclude.  

Things closest are things that have never left us or things we don’t allow to go away. Things we caress with tenderness or, indeed, things we grip on account of intense antipathy. Hatred, like love, is not easily discarded.  

There’s a Beatles song that comes to mind, ‘In my life.’

There are places I remember,
All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever, not for better,
Some have gone and some remain.

What remained for the Beatles as far as the lyricists, John Lennon and Paul McCartney were concerned, doesn’t have to be what stayed and stays for anyone else. They said, ‘…of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you.’

Lennon was shot dead almost fifty years ago. I don’t know what McCartnes, now 83, remembers or rather holds on to now. It is reasonable to assume that it’s probably something close(st) to the heart.  

Is that what keeps the heart beating, I wonder. Is that what enables some kind of connection to life around us and life itself?

More than 25 years ago, my friend Anuruddha Karnasuriya, while traveling with me from Colombo to Kegalle, spoke about the last days of his mother, who had died of cancer a few years before. He said that she had lost consciousness, but she had balled her palm in the manner of a mother mixing rice for a child, and then stretched it out as though she was feeding one of her children. That to his was the saddest moment. He cried as he related the story. I did too.

My grandmother, even when she was over 90 years old, and would repeat herself over and over again, remembered a song she sang for a friend, someone around her age, when she was still a teenager. I would tease her about this ‘crush.’ She would blush and smile as she always did, all heart and nothing else, and say ‘aney, no…he was a very nice gentleman.’

‘So why didn’t anything come of it?’ I asked.

‘How could I? My father married me off to your grandfather!’

She laughed when she said this. She was over 90 years old. She never forgot the lyrics. She sang the song. And told the back story as well.  

I feel that if I live to be 90, if I succumb to dementia or Alzheimer’s, I will remember my grandmother, Kisa Gothami Herat, the elegant lady who I called ‘Amma’ simply because in my early years that’s what all the adults in that household including my mother, father and even my grandfather called her.

It’s hard to predict such things, but she is, most certainly among those who are closest to the heart or have been so for the longest time I can remember.  

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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On hatred, love and notions of existence

 

All kinds of things float around in social media. They touch us, prick us at times, and are gone. For the most part. Then there are splendid posts which make us pause. And wonder. There was one which may have been a reel or some essay, I can’t remember, but the line that popped up stayed: ‘I hate, therefore I am.’

Perhaps out of habit or a moment of unusual insight, I flipped the line. So I got this: ‘I love, therefore I am not.’

The original line obviously draws from the first principle of René Descartes’ philosophy, ‘cogito, ergo sum,’ or ‘I think, therefore I am.’ The idea has generated a lot of discussion which we need not go into here. What’s pertinent is the ‘I am’ which refers to the fact of existence as well as its nature and meaning.

What makes us, then? What makes us recognise ourselves? What gives meaning to our existence, who we are etc? Such questions have inspired much discussion, even philosophical treatises and of course flippant one-liners such as the one referred to above which make for fun conversation and newspaper articles such as this!

Is hatred a mover, then? Obviously, yes. Is love a mover too? In a sense, yes. But the question here is which of the two creates or affirms self? Both? Yes, in a sense. To the same extent? That’s hard to prove, one way or the other.

God is love, some say. So, logically then, if someone is encompassed with love, that person is godly. That’s tongue-in-cheek. But the fact of love or rather loving will certainly identify a person even if that person doesn’t identify himself, herself or themselves as the or an embodiment of love.

We have heard of ‘jealous gods’ too (Deuteronomy 5:9 and Exodus 20:5). Jealousy is not in consort with anything positive although it can be a product of love. How about a hateful god? Proverbs 6:16-19 lists that which god hates: a proud look, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that devises wicked plans, feet that are swift to evil, a false witness who speaks lies, and one who sows discord among brethren. A loving god cannot hate, one assumes, so one must conclude that hatred such as is embedded in such verses is the work of a careless transcriber or interpreter of what is assumed to be divine ‘revelation.’

To hate something or someone or, in contrast, to love something or someone, presupposes the existence of ‘I’. It is someone that loves. Or hates. If there’s ‘someone,’ that someone is clearly conscious of ‘I’ and therefore asserts if not acknowledges the claim, ‘I am.’ 

So let’s return to the question that follows the first postulation. If ‘I hate I am,’ is true, then does it mean that ‘I love, therefore I am not,’ also true?  

If we count out the extremes (which make for easy but possibly erroneous conclusions), in general it seems to me that which hatred and love can both be given, the former is related more to ‘self’ while the latter tends towards ‘selfless.’

There are or at least can be costs either way, but I can’t help but think that the colours generated by each are different; the one yields dark, foreboding and even frightening and horrifying hues whereas the other paints things in shades that are less hard on the eyes.

Consider the following verse from the Dhammapada (Verse 5, Kalayakkhini Vatthu):

Na hi verena verani
sammantidha kudacanam
averena ca sammanti
esa dhammo sanantano

[Hatred is, indeed, never appeased by hatred in this world. It is appeased only by loving-kindness. This is an ancient law.]

Loving kindness (Metta) is one of the four sublime attitudes considered to be the noblest of emotions and can be cultivated through meditation to foster positive states of mind and promote the well-being of all beings. Including self. Indeed it is something that can help one meditate on the notion of  ‘self’ and its patently untenable nature. In other words, it is or can be part of the process towards ultimate emancipation or enlightenment.

So, ‘I love, therefore I am not,’ is not claimable by the pruthagjana or unenlightened, ‘I love,’ or rather the act of loving, is less likely to lead astray one who has resolved to perceive the eternal verities. As opposed to hatred.  As such, ‘I hate, therefore I am,’ is an interesting notion insofar as it opens a conversation about hatred, love and self or being.

In the end it is an academic exercise which may or may not lessen hatred in the world or fertilise it with love.  In the end, one must come to terms with self, its meaning and the ways it is articulated. Cultivating the four sublime attitudes, especially metta, cannot hurt.  

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Rasika Jayakody's gypsy heart

 

Almost twenty five years ago I met a young man at the now defunct Rivira Media Corporation. I am not sure if he was an intern, a trainee journalist or a full time employee. He was just out of school and must have been around 19 or 20 years of age.

A friendly young man, Rasika Jayakody was always up for chit-chat either in the Rivira editorial space, on the staircase that joined or rather separated Rivira and its sister paper ‘The Nation,’ where I worked,  or outside the building. I can’t remember exactly what we talked about, but it was certainly a pleasure telling him things and listening to what he had to say.

At the time, I was the senior journalist, but later Rasika surpassed me in newspapers and of course in the broader field of mass communication. And poetry too, I may add, although I sometimes lament the fact that he settled down to prose rather than verse.

I left the company a few months after the two papers were launched. I remember three things related to Rasika from that time.  

First, I encouraged him to write in English. Not long after leaving Rivira he joined Ceylon Today (and not its sister paper in Sinhala, ‘Maubima’) and still later was appointed Editor-in-Chief of the Daily News.

Second. When I left ‘The Nation,’ I wrote probably the longest letter I’ve ever written to someone. It was to the founder CEO and my dear friend Krishantha Cooray. I offered my assessment of each and every member of the staff, including Krishantha himself, the editors, journalists, marketing team and other employees, among whom was another dear friend, Ananda Thushara, who made tea and would later becoming a journalist himself.

I remember expressing my admiration for two young journalists in particular. First, Chamara Lakshan, at the time paid just a retainer, later became the Editor of Silumina and the now defunct Resa, at Lake House, but sadly passed away a few years ago. And Rasika. I wrote, I remember, ‘Chamara and Rasika are the future of Rivira.’ Events unanticipated and, in retrospect, sad, took us all far away from Rivira and Rivira itself fell into ruin.

Third. Rasika was envied. Some of those who resented him latched on to the fact that he was the nephew of the founding editor of Rivira, Upali Tennekoon. From what I know of Upali Aiya, he would never have given a relative such an opportunity if the particular individual was not up to the task. Rasika was, and how! He was all over the newspaper, to put it in a nutshell. However, he was just a cub journo and when circumstances forced Upali Aiya to leave, his detractors pounced on him. Or tried to.

Rasika probably knew he could do better and left not long afterwards but not before he issued a simple challenge. It was simple. He suggested that they all write an essay about the ‘pol gaha (coconut tree)’ and get an erudite panel of judges to assess. Obviously it was a challenge, made in jest but could have been dead serious as well; a challenge that no one could or would take, but my hunch is that had it been taken Rasika would have won hands down.

The years have passed. Looking back it seems that Rasika was never interested in a career. He was not interested in moving up the ladder. Indeed, he skipped quite a few rungs unlike regular journalists who had to do the hard yards to move up the editorial hierarchy. His ability was unmistakable. Krishantha, who was made Chairman of Lake House in 2015, handpicked Rasika, Chamara and others who had worked with him at Rivira.

Rasika may have been restless. Maybe that’s who he is. Gypsy-like. He moved around. Newspapers. Radio. Television. Podcasts. YouTube. Facebook and other social media platforms. If he was all over the Rivira newspaper back then he’s all over all media now. Versatile in language, genre and medium. I am sure the late Ajith Samaranayake, who wrote equally well in English and Sinhala, would have been highly impressed.  

Rasika Jayakody has followers. Tens of thousands of followers. And of course fans. I’ve read and listened and am in awe: he does so much in so many different ways and he’s not yet 40 years of age. In fact, he still looks 20, and what he does is marked by the freshness, courage, optimism and supreme confidence that is most evident in young people of that age.

He has written six books so far. Five in the non-fiction genre and the sixth, a novel, ‘A Gypsy Heart.’ This Saturday, at the Bishop’s College Auditorium, Rasika will be signing copies of this book at the second ‘Akasa Sutra’ concert series which Rasika the Accomplished Marketer has dubbed ‘The Gypsy Chapter.’

I asked him what seemed to be the obvious question: is it biographical? He said, ‘no,’ a love story, which, as you know, is all about blurry things. Evasive. Piques curiosity. Subtle, but true as well.

Where will he go next? Who can tell? In fact it’s good we don’t know and cannot speculate. Rasika will surprise people. As long as he can. Even if it’s something seemingly incongruous as an essay competition on the subject of a coconut tree. He not only understands that the universe is contained in a grain of sand but will extract the finer and most delightful elements from the most nondescript clod of earth.

We should applaud. I do.

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Legends of the fall

 

They say that coming colours cast their shadows. Not everyone notices shadows though and few still can extrapolate to the colours yet to materialise. This is a story about shadows and colours, where it took years and perhaps even decades for people to work back colour to shadow. It’s a story about a school and old school ties. It’s a cricket story.  

It’s all old hat, water under the bridge and all that, one may think, but the problem is that the hat survives and indeed thrives not just in the particular school and not just in cricket.

Under 15 cricket is for 13 and 14 year olds only since those younger would fall into the Under 13 category. So there was a boy, 13 or 14 years old. A good batsman. An opener. His place in the team was assured. At one point in mid-season the coach had to go abroad. The team was coach-less for a while. Well, not exactly.

Keep in mind that this was a time when parents for the most part didn’t get involved in their kids’ activities in school. Things were pretty laid back. The boys enjoyed their cricket and didn’t worry about behind-the-scenes manipulation. Indeed, they didn’t even know such things could and did happen.

Nothing happened, except for an almost innocent intervention by one of the few or perhaps the only parent who turned up at the grounds to watch the boys practice. He took over the coaching.  To this day no one knows if this move was sanctioned by the school authorities. If so, there is the issue of interest-conflict. But it was just one of those things. If anyone noticed it was probably shrugged off as a generous move by someone who wanted the team to do well.

The parent had at least on one occasion spoken to our opener about his place in the batting line-up: ‘Why do you want to open? You could come two-down or even three-down.’  

Now fast forward several years. Those 13-14 year olds were now competing to be in the school’s First XI and the honour of representing the school in the annual ‘Big Match.’  

It was by any standard a pretty mediocre year; just a single century and handful of half-centuries over the course of the season. There were a couple of good bowling performances by one spinner who played primarily as a batsman. Our Under 15 Opener had a couple of half-centuries to his credit and was second in the batting averages. The Good Samaritan Parent’s son scored one fifty but was 10th in the batting averages. The centurion was fourth. The third made it to the Sri Lanka Under 19 team and when the big day came was in Australia on national duty.

Anyway, a few days or perhaps a week or two before the Big Match, the team was announced. The four boys heading the batting averages weren't in. The Good Samaritan’s son replaced our boy. He would open batting. Colours to come had indeed cast their shadows, but certainly not in the way one would have thought ! There were two off-spinners in the team. The boy who was 12th in the batting averages (just 14.15) was included. Although there was a wicket-keeper who had made useful contributions with the bat, the selectors picked someone else to keep. This boy’s batting average wasn’t worth talking about. In fact in the big match souvenir, his name was among those who were politely said to have ‘also batted.’

Another pertinent fact. The Good Samaritan and his wife opened their hearts and home to that year’s skipper and his girlfriend. A tryst-place, then. Perhaps there were cheques to cash, perhaps not. The fact remains that their son was picked for the Big Match.

Now, in cricket, unlike, say, in chess, coaches/selectors can draw from a range of justifications: ‘we need a back up for so-and-so, we need a leggie, we need to have a few lefties, that one had a low score in the last match, this one has to hold his end up.’ Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. We don’t know what kind of reasoning was at play. We do know that coaches/selectors aren’t answerable to players or parents. Not in those days anyway. The captain probably had a say, but we don’t know for sure. As for the beneficiaries, let's not forget that they were kids too and anyway, at least some of them, may have been blissfully ignorant of machinations they benefitted from.

So the Big Match arrived. The other team was superior by quite a margin and even if team selection was clean, they would have still been favoured to win. They didn’t, thanks to two spinners, who fought and survived the last hour of play. The opening replacement? A duck in each innings. Had he scored a century or even a half century or protected his wicket tenaciously for a couple of hours, as per the glorious uncertainties of cricket, the narrative would have been quite different. That didn't happen though.

We know that three young boys were axed. No explanations given. They fell or were made to fall. Were they legends? For their friends, yes. Many knew that mischief was afoot and that these three fell victim to designs they probably only suspected. They did know they were treated unfairly.

Just the other day, the three met after many years, the opener, the centurion and the one who topped the batting averages. They recalled old times. They laughed. There was no rancour. 

 

The opener confessed: ’We were stupid back then. We didn’t know what happened. We didn’t know what to do. But we figured it out eventually.’ The other two concurred. 

Years later, the captain met our opener somewhere in a faraway country. At a party. Maybe drinks were downed, maybe not, but the captain simply embraced the man who was dropped. The captain wept. He slew his ghosts that night. One hopes that others may have too, each in his own way.

‘What happened, who did what and who suffered isn’t important. What’s important is that people should know that such things do happen and they should not,’ this was the gist of their take on that season, the shadows that cast coming colours and the colours that were awarded to the undeserving and denied the deserving.

They weren’t really legends back then. They are now. Legends of the Fall. 

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Viewpoints and hideaways from Bulathkohupitiya to Dolosbage

 

My first trip to World’s End was interrupted by heavy mist. It was poorly planned. Almost a whim. An early afternoon drive from Nuwara Eliya was probably not the best idea for that time of year. I was just 11 years old then. It was a family trip. We made it to Little World’s End. It was a view point certainly but there wasn’t much to see.

In later years, camping trips to Horton Plains became almost an annual must. There were many opportunities, mist-less to gaze upon the vast expanse towards the Southern Coast from World’s End. Kirigalpoththa also offered splendid views.

In more recent times, several peaks of the Knuckles Range and sheer drops along the access roads as well as off the hardly-discernible tracks only local guides would know offered breathtaking slices of our beautiful island.  Sigiriya, Dimbulagala, Kaudagala, Athagala, Dambadeniya, Yapahuwa and also names I remember, among many points on the map of Sri Lanka that almost seem to be there simply to make one fall in love with the island, again and again.

Mountain tops and cliffs offer views, but so do tank bunds, at any time of the day but especially at dawn and sunset. There are innumerable ‘view points’ on the coast as well. My eyes have been fortunate to deeply consume the flavours offered by the resplendent beauty in many forms, colours and textures.

High points. They beckon, even when they aren’t that high.

That said, I’ve learned, perhaps mostly due to the many roads traveled with my friend Tharindu Amunugama, that there are an infinite number of points on any given road, anywhere in the island and indeed anywhere in the world, most likely. It’s simply a matter of keeping mind and heart and eyes and ears alert to serendipity, in whatever form it may arrive.

Just the other day, Tharindu called. He suggested a slow drive.

‘The route?’ I asked the customary question. The truth is that if I was free, the route didn’t matter at all.

‘Through Avissawella to Bulathkohupitiya and from there towards Dolosbage and back.’

He drove, for a change. As often happens, we discussed alternatives. We could proceed to Gampola and head back to Colombo through Peradeniya for instance.  It was, as always, open-ended.

So we went. We stopped wherever we wished to. We stopped for breakfast. We stopped at a waterfall.

‘I passed this place at night once. It was ghostly.’

Tharindu’s comment made me realise, again, that places and of course people, look different from different angles, on account of the time of day, the play of light and shadow, and the composition of clouds. 

We asked directions from a lady from the area. She had a lovely smile.

‘I remember a place where we could stop for tea,’ Tharindu said. Apparently, he had seen it on that night-trip to Dolosbage, but it had been too late to stop.

Kavi’s Hideaway, in Dedugala, seemed welcoming, but not in any grand way. It spoke of elegance, which was enhanced several times over once we walked in, on account  of the architecture, the interior decor, the view from the balcony at the back of the restaurant and the hospitality of the Manager, Jaliya Abeyrathna.

He spoke of places to visit. Waterfalls and pools. Some close, some not so close. Suramba Ella, Velanda Ella, Rikilla Ella, Nalangana Ella and Rukmal Ella.

‘One day,’ I told myself, ‘I will visit,’ for not all viewpoints and hideaways can be visited or found, respectively, in a single day or a single trip.

 

So we proceeded. We stopped several times just to breathe in the views or the colours of a roadside kovil. And we reached Pelanpitiya, a marked viewpoint. And then to the sleepy village of Dolosbage. And turned back.

We decided that Kavi’s Hideaway was a good place for lunch. Jaliya, on that particular day, which wasn’t busy by way of there being guests, turned himself into a chef and served some great food.  Coffee afterwards. Conversation too.

Then back to Colombo via Bulathkohupitiya and Avissawella.

It was a route we planned to take. We didn’t plan our stops. There were marked viewpoints, but we found many that were unmarked. There were hideaways we didn’t discover and a hideaway that was announced and yet seemed so nondescript that we could very well have missed it. We didn’t know of a Jaliya Abeyrathna when we set out, but now we do.  

Colombo to Dolosbage through Avissawella, Bulathkohupitiya and Dedugala, is a beautiful road. A slow road. All roads, except the highways perhaps, are slow. Or can be slow. The slower you make them, the more delights you gather, the more viewpoints you encounter and perhaps a hideaway or two that you might discover.

There are roads that await us, ladies and gentlemen. They give us view points. They take us to amazing hideaways too.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Let us be ready to rewrite encyclopaedias

 

‘The Name of the Rose,’ is a country that I visit every few years. I’ve quoted the following, which comes at the beginning of the book, many times:

‘In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. This was the beginning with God and the duty of every faithful monk would be to repeat every day with chanting humility the one never changing event whose incontrovertible truth can be asserted. But we see now through a glass darkly, and the truth, before it is revealed to all, face to face, we see in fragments (alas, how illegible) in the error of the world, so we must spell out its faithful signals even when they seem obscure to us and as if amalgamated with a will wholly bent on evil.’

Umberto Eco, the author, seems to have been fascinated with good and evil and their various manifestations, sometimes with one disguised as the other. And so too, the complexities of ‘truth’ and ‘falsehood.’

A few days ago, I revisited Eco’s ‘Serendipities: Language and Lunacy,’ where he explores, as blurbed, ‘[the ways in which] myths and lunacies can produce historical developments of no small significance.’

Now it’s not hard to understand that the best of intentions can produce unimaginable and horrific tragedies (think of Marxist movements, free markets, democracy [yes!] and the crusades). Sometimes of course lovely words and avowed adherences to the sacred are used to justify and cover up all manner of atrocities (think ‘empire’ and ‘colonialism,’ then and now). Purely academic pursuits such as those which led to Einstein developing the theory of relativity being applied to manufacture weapons of mass destruction. We also have unabashed villainy or at least primarily military interests leading to technological advancement that are of considerable benefit to humankind.

If the worth of doctrines, plans, strategies, philosophies, military logic, economic interests, the drive to improve life chances of self, the individual in general or a collective, whether rooted in selfishness or altruism, is measured years, decades, centuries or even millennia later, it is quite likely they would be dismissed as erroneous and detrimental even as they would be equally applauded for being visionary and beneficial.    

Eco, in the first chapter of this book, titled ‘The force of falsity,’ begins by alluding to Thomas’ Aquinas’ observations on the relative power of the king (ruler), wine, charms of a woman and truth, in terms of which is more constructive. Then, drawing from a wide range of historical moments with regard to various subjects, Eco offers that falsehood has been as compelling as truth in impacting events that have been crucial to monumental changes.  

Today, we live in a world where it has become hard to distinguish fake from authentic, truth from falsehood, good from evil. When Noam Chomsky published ‘Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media’ in 1988 it made news and yes I am being tongue-in-cheek here. Today, we know that manufacturing is almost like the bedrock of the overall media industry in general. It seems at times that everyone is a manufacturer, be it a news agency, media house, a president, a low-ranking politician and even those who are avowedly against the distortions, violence and worse perpetrated by such individuals and institutions.  

We have promises that the promise-makers never intend to fulfil. We have criticism based on half truths, downright lies and rank ignorance but nevertheless flagged as constructive and sober, and dressed up as righteous — for, by and with the people and such. We have alibis galore for all kinds of crimes against humanity, each and everyone of them uttered by foul-mouthed, half-witted, imbecilic and ill-willed politicians, their minions and approvers, but in tones of a penitent and virtuous devotee of god or all things sacred. We have entire nations being starved (when they are not being deliberately bombed and poisoned) in the name of countering non-existent existential threats. We have terrorists being called liberation fighters and protectors of citizens and nations vilified as criminals against humanity.

Such falsehoods abound. They aren’t new. We have had people and indeed religious orders which even until a few centuries ago fervently believed that the earth was flat and therefore declared and waged war on those who thought otherwise. We have seen Jesus of Nazareth, a black Semite, being transformed into a blond-haired, blue-eyed, Caucasian god. We have had appropriations which the appropriators have sold back to the appropriated as new, modern and revolutionary.

Time sets things right. Eco offers:

‘At a certain historical moment, some people found suspicion that the sun did not revolve around the earth just as crazy and deplorable as the suspicion that the universe does not exist. So we would be wise to keep an open, fresh mind against the moment when the community of scientists decrees that the idea of the universe has been an illusion just like the flat earth and the Rosicrucians. After all, the cultivated person’s first duty is to always be prepared to rewrite the encyclopaedia.’

That kind of preparation requires a certain mind-set, a particular kind of discipline. I can think of no better guideline than the Buddha’s Charter of Free Inquiry articulated by Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, or the ‘Kalama Sutra’ the essence of which is captured in the following invitation:

'Come, Kālāmas, do not go by oral tradition, by lineage of teaching, by hearsay, by a collection of scriptures, by logical reasoning, by inferential reasoning, by reasoned cogitation, by the acceptance of a view after pondering it, by the seeming competence of a speaker, or because you think: ‘The ascetic is our guru.’ But when you know for yourselves: ‘These things are wholesome; these things are blameless; these things are praised by the wise; these things, if accepted and undertaken, lead to welfare and happiness,’ then you should live in accordance with them.'

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Hettige Don Lionel adorns Flower Road

 

Many years ago, a senior Army officer now retired, told me that a smile comes naturally to Sri Lankans. By way of example, he said that US soldiers earmarked for deployment overseas are actually taught to smile.

Now one may argue that there’s no reason to offer a smile to a total stranger. One smiles, the argument goes, if something or someone pleases you. It’s an expression of joy or some kind of satisfaction over something. One doesn’t necessarily delight in encountering a stranger.

On the other hand, there’s something to be said of those who simply revel in the fact of being alive, of being conscious of one’s location in a social universe and appreciating that knowledge. It makes one smile, sometimes simply to oneself, regardless of the bludgeoning that life and times and people send one's way.

So we smile at one another and it is not a matter of socially conditioned courtesy. And yet, there are smiles which ‘culture,’ let’s say, cannot really explain. We see it now and then but perhaps do not have the time to acknowledge and appreciate its true value for reasons that are of course eminently understandable.  

Hettige Don Lionel’s countenance is signatured by a smile. It’s on his lips, it’s in his eyes, in his words, the tone he uses and his every gesture.

I noticed him off and on when I happened to drive to the HSBC branch down Ernest De Silva Mawatha, known to many, still, as ‘Flower Road.’ I go there to use the ATM. Hettige Don Lionel is there, helping drivers navigate and, when they step out of their vehicles, to greet them. I suppose I must have made a mental note, ‘Such a nice man,’ or ‘what a lovely smile.’ I have, for the most part, responded to greeting with greeting, said ‘thank you’ for the help extended and ‘ennam’ as I left. On the 23rd of May, 2025, perhaps because I was not in a hurry but probably because accumulated appreciation tipped over, I spoke to him.  

I told him how much I appreciated his general welcoming, friendly and helpful ways. He responded, in Sinhala, ‘ehemane inna ona, neda (That’s how one ought to be, isn’t that so)?’ And I asked him what his name was and followed this with other questions. So he told me his story, very briefly I should add, for he had other customers to attend to.

He said he was born on the 17th of April, 1946 in Kotikawatte and that he had first attended Rajasinghe Vidyalaya. He moved to Zahira College later. Then he switched to English.

‘I can read and write English.’  

He said he had worked at Hayleys as a Grade 1 Machine Operator for a while and that he had lost his job after the July 1980 strike.

‘I am a July striker. I was a union organiser.’

He was smiling when he said this and there was pride in his voice and on his face.

He had thereafter worked as a security officer in various companies and had joined Kay Jay Security in 2010.  

He’s almost 80 and seemed quite fit for that age. He explained that he has always worked as though he was a young boy: kolla vage cassava karanakota eke vatinakamak thiyenava (there’s something worthwhile in working as though you are a young boy).’ And he added that the value accrues to the company as well for recognising that someone his age can still be gainfully employed.

‘In my mind, I am young,’ he insisted. And smiled.

He spoke about his personal life, told me that he had married at the age of 35, that his wife, Dayawathi Perera had passed away two years ago, and that he lived alone and without regrets.

Customers came and went while we were talking. He paused to greet them as they approached the bank or bid them a good day as they left. He said ‘good morning madam,’ to a foreign lady who promptly said ‘good morning, kohomada?’ A regular customer, I presumed. He nodded in affirmation.

There are security officers who, just like Lionel, take their jobs very seriously.  They are courteous and helpful, they are alert at all times. They too smile. At least some of them. But there’s something different about Lionel. He has an all-weather smile. He may not have any regrets, but this doesn’t necessarily mean he leaves an untroubled life.

On the other hand, he may have hit a sweet spot in the matter of living; perhaps cognisance of the vicissitudes and the eternal verities, perhaps the cultivation of a resolve to treat things with equanimity. We didn’t get to talk about such things, but we may do so one day.

For now, I cannot think of an adornment on Flower Road that is as elegant. He doesn’t have to say ‘have a good day,’ for that conviction is resident in his smile and in the twinkle in his eyes.

So I said ‘ennam’ and as I left I couldn’t help but think that the HSBC Bank is indeed blessed to have a security officer who acts as though he is also the bank’s receptionist.

The day is good. The days will be good. Life is good. So insists Hettige Don Lionel of Kotikawatte. Just by smiling. I cannot but believe him. Absolutely.

 

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']

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Stay blessed, Pasindu and Buddhi, as you circle our pearl

 

In the year 2014, over a period of 10 days, 12 cyclists took off from Colombo. They would head South and take that route around the coast through the Southern, Eastern, Northern and North-Western Provinces and end in the West, a 1350km long journey tagged ‘Wheels-for-Wheels.’

The exercise had a name: Around the Pearl. Yes, the pearl that is our beautiful island, Sri Lanka. The exercise was about a cause: to create awareness about Cerebral Palsy and raise money to purchase 1,000 wheelchairs for those afflicted.  of the disease.

I do not know if anyone has ever done that before. I do not know if anyone has done it since. But there are always people with energy and a thirst to attempt the unthinkable. Someone or a group of people may have walked around the island a few decades or centuries ago. If it had happened, there’s no record of it. I wouldn’t count it out.

A couple of days ago, I saw two young boys at a table, pouring over a map of Sri Lanka. This was at the Commons Coffeehouse on Ernest De Silva Mawatha or Flower Road as some still call it.

‘Planning a trip?’ I asked.

So we talked. They planned to cycle along the coast, probably taking the same route mentioned above. I was impressed.

No, they hadn’t heard of Wheels-for-Wheels and in fact I had forgotten that it was called ‘Around the Pearl.’ I hadn’t forgotten the names of those adventurers from 11 years ago. I mentioned Sarinda Unamboowe, Ajith Fernando and Anudatta Dias. Didn’t ring a bell. Eleven years is a long time. The boys would have been around 10 or 15 years old at the time, I figured. Their cycling predecessors wouldn’t be disappointed, I am sure, because it was not for personal glory or for branding. Just wheels. For wheels. Done. 

Pasindu Bawantha Perera is a travel executive working for Traveling Thrills (Pvt) Ltd., and his cycling partner is Buddhi Niluksha, a photographer who is also in the tourism industry. Both are old boys of Thurstan College.

Apparently, they had mulled over the idea of a coastal cycle trip from the time they were in the O/L class, but it took a cycling tour in Ella a couple of months ago for them to take it seriously. I gave them Sarinda’s number. Buddhi had called him. Sarinda had shared some of his experiences and told them that people will help them along the way.

Sarinda blogged throughout the journey. Eloquent and honest.

'Mother Nature was a heartless old cow. Praying, begging, pleading, demanding doesn't work with her. I did all of the above asking her for one cloud, just one single cloud, but instead of obliging, the only cloud the cranky old bag sent, stayed overhead for about thirty seconds and then scooted across the road into the uncleared minefields we were riding through.’

Pasindu and Buddhi will (re)discover Mother Nature, but they will also (re)discover Mother Sri Lanka, for I also remembered something that one of those other cyclists, Yasas Hewage, had said: ‘It took me 36 years to finally see the full coastal belt of Sri Lanka....and when you are greeted with smiles in every town ...you are convinced Sri Lanka is a free country ......while we search for a perfect world...makes sense to enjoy what we have in the meantime.’

Sarinda and Co., had back up. Apart from those who accompanied them on certain segments, they had M.D. Sajith Aruna Kumara, the official mechanic who rode with them all the way ‘around the pear.’ Pasindu and Buddhi will have to make do with what they know of their machines and the tools they take with them.

Talking with them reminded me of that long ago of youthful enthusiasm. And I told them.

‘Today, thanks to social media, we all know that our country is far more beautiful than we had ever imagined. Back in the day, we didn’t have Google Maps. We were excited to pour over a one-inch map of Nuwara Eliya that the Survey Department had produced. We took the train to Ohiya and walked up to Horton Plains. We explored. There were very few people. No rules to speak of. We went where we wished. Off-track.’  

Things like that.

The boys were patient enough to listen to my recollections. ‘Indulging age,’ I thought to myself. I shared with them whatever I remembered from that previous trip ‘around the pearl.’ The hardships. Blisters. Scorching sun. Unforgiving terrain. The unpredictables. I shared articles I had written around the time. They were grateful. Or polite.

They will set off on October 9, 2005, that’s ‘tomorrow’ for me as I write, and ‘today’ perhaps for you as you read.

Circling the island on cycles didn’t occur to me back when I had a bicycle and was young enough to think of it as ‘doable.’ But I was excited for them. I know they will have many, many stories to tell once they are done and I hope I will have the privilege of listening to them. They will no doubt fall in love with the island all over again. Again and again, yes, as they live long, prosper and embark on journeys yet to be imagined, planned and undertaken.

Good luck boys! May there be some cloud cover. May the delights provide ample relief that compensates for all the trials that await you. You will, I am sure, remain forever young thanks to this journey. As young as Sarinda and his teammates continue to be.

[This article was published in the Daily News under the weekly column title 'The Recurrent Thursday']  

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ආදරණීය ජානකී

 

අසූව දශකයේ උසස් පෙළ ඉංග්‍රීසි විෂය සඳහා නිර්දේශ කවි අතර විලියම් ව(ර්)ඩ්ස්ව(ර්)ත් ගේ ලුසී කවි වලින් එකක අවසන් පද කිහිපයක් මතක් විය. 'ඇය විසුවේ අප්‍රසිද්ධ මං පෙත් අතරේ ය,' ලෙස හැඳින්වෙන එම කව අවසන් වන්නේ මෙලෙසයි: 

 

'....එනමුත් ඇය මිහිදන්ය දැන්, අහෝ

දැනෙන වෙනස මා හට.' 

 

මට නොවේ. අපට. එලෙසයි එය සංශෝධනය කළේ. කොළඹ විශ්ව විද්‍යාලයේ ඉතිහාස අංශයේ ආචාර්ය ජානකී ජයවර්ධන හදිසි අනතුරකින් මිය ගිය පුවතින් කම්පා වූ බොහෝ දෙනා අතර ඇය සමග 1985 ඔක්තෝබර් මස පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයට පිවිසි මාගේ සිතෙහි ඒ වදන් පෙරළුණේ එලෙසයි. 

 

ඒ සමගම අප දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයට පැමිණි පළමු දවසේ මහාචාර්‍ය ඈෂ්ලි හල්පේ පැවසූ යමක් ද මතක් විය. ඔහු කියා සිටියේ ළමුන් 100ක් හෝඩියේ පන්තියට ඇතුල් වනවා නම්, සරසවි වරම් ලබන්නේ ඉන් එක් අයකු පමණක් බවයි. ඔහු වැඩි දුරටත් පැහැදිලි කළේ සරසවි වරම් නොලබන 99 දෙනාගේ බුද්ධි මට්ටමේ ප්‍රශ්නයක් නැති බවත්, ඔවුන්ගේ අවාසනාවට හේතුව සමස්ථ ව්‍යූහයේ දෝෂයක් බවයි. ඉතින් ඔහු මෙවැනි යෝජනාවක් ඉදිරිපත් කළේය: 'මෙම අනුපාතය වෙනස් කිරීමට කැපවීම සරසවි වරම හිමි කරගත් කෙනාගේ වගකීමකි.' 

 

ඉන් බොහෝ කලකට පසුව මගේ නිරීක්ෂණය වුයේ සරසවි සිසුන් සියයක් ආචාර්‍ය හල්පේ ගේ අදහස වැළඳගත්තේ නම් උපාධිය ලබා ගන්නා මොහොත දක්වා එය අර්ථවත් කරනුයේ එක් අයෙකු පමණක් බවයි. උපාධිධාරීන් සියයක් එම අනුපාතය වෙනස් කිරීමට අධිෂ්ටාන කරගත්තේ නම් ජීවිත කාලය පුරා ඒ වෙනුවෙන් කටයුතු කරන්නේ එක් අයෙකු පමණක් බවයි. ජානකී හල්පේ සර් ගේ යෝජනාව බරපතල ලෙස සැලකුවේද නැද්ද මම නොදනිමි, එනමුත් අපගේ කණ්ඩායමේ යම් කිසි කෙනෙක් රටේ අධ්‍යාපන ක්‍රමය පමණක් නොව තමන්ගේ දැක්ම අනුව නිරීක්ෂණය වූ සියලු වැරදි නිවැරදි කිරීමට, සියලු අසාධාරණකම් පිටුදැකීමට තම ජීවිතය, තම සියලු ශක්තීන් කැප කළේ නම්, ඒ ජානකී.

 

ඒ අර්ථයෙන් ජානකී ගමන් කලේ අප්‍රසිද්ධ මංපෙත් අතරේ ය. පහසු මාවත් බොහොමයක් ඇයට අත වැනුවද පහසු අපහසුකම් නොතකා ඇයගේ දෘෂ්ටියට අනුව නිවැරදි මාවතමැයි ජානකී නිරතුරුවම තෝරාගත්තේ. ඇයගේ මනස තුල ජීවත් වූයේ 'මම' නොවේ. 'අප.' පුද්ගලයා නොවේ, සමූහය. සමූහය ගැන විශ්වාසයක් සහ ආදරයක් ඇය සතු වූ බැවින් ඇයට මුණගැසුණු සියලු සහෘදයන් මෙන්ම ඇයගේ අනුකම්පාවට සහකම්පනයට ලක් වූ සියලු දෙනා ට හැකි පමණින් අත හිත දීමට උත්සාහ කලාය. 

 

ජානකී ගේ මතවාදීමය ස්ථාවර සහ දේශපාලනික තෝරාගැනීම් සියල්ල මා පිළිගත්තේ නැත. ඇතැම් අවස්ථාවලදී ඇයගේ අදහස් මාගේ අදහස්වලට සම්පූර්ණයෙන් ප්‍රතිවිරුද්ධ විය. එනමුත් ඒ පිලිබඳ දරුණු වාද විවාද අප අතර සිදුවුයේ නැත. ඒ ඇතැම් විට අප කටයුතු කළේ වෙනස් සමාජ, දේශපාලන සහ වෘත්තීමය අවකාශ තුල නිසා විය හැක. එවන් විසංවාද කෙසේ වෙතත් එක් දෙයක් පිළිබඳව මා හට කිසිඳු සැකයක් නැත. ජානකී ඇයගේ දේශපාලන අදහස්වලට සියයට සියයක් අවංක විය. වචනයෙන් සහ ක්‍රියාවෙන්. පුද්ගලික වාසි මෙන්ම ගෙවන්නට සිදුවන වන්දි ජානකීට අදාළ නොවින. ඇය ගමන් කළ මංමාවත් මොනවාදැයි නොදන්නමිය, එහෙත් හල්පේ සර්ගේ අර්ථයෙන් ඒවා අප්‍රසිද්ධ සහ කටුක බැවින් ජනප්‍රිය නොවුනත්, ජානකීට ගමන් සගයින්ගෙන් අඩුවක් නොවින. ඇය සමග බොහෝ අය ගමන් කළෝය, නැතහොත් ඇය ගමන් ගන්නා බැවින්ම බොහෝ අය ඇයගේ ගමන් සගයින් බවට පත්විය. ඔවුන් සමග ජානකී අත්වැල් බැඳ ගත්තාය. ඔවුන්ට වෙහෙසක් දැනුන විට ඇය ඔවුන් දිරිමත් කළාය. 

 

පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ 85/86 කණ්ඩායමේ දීප්තිමත් ශිෂ්‍යයින් අතර එක් සිසුවියක් ජානකී. ඉතිහාස විෂයෙහි පළමු පෙළ සාමාර්ථයක් ලබා ගැනීමෙන් අනතුරුව කොළොඹ විශ්වවිද්‍යාලයේ කථිකාචාර්යවරියක් ලෙස පත්වූ ඇය ආචාර්‍යය උපාධියක්ද හිමිකරගත්තාය. ඇයගේ ශාස්ත්‍රීය ගවේෂණ සහ කෘති ගැන ඇයගේ සහෝදර ශාස්ත්‍රාඥයින් සහ සිසු සිසුවියන් හට මනා අවබෝධයක් ඇතැයි සිතමි. ඒ පිලිබඳ මම නොදනිමි. ජානකි ඔවුනට ගුරුවරියක් හෝ වෘත්තීයමය සගයෙක් සේම මිතුරියක් සහෝදරියක් වූ බව බොහෝ අය මේ වනවිට පවසා ඇත. 

 

ඒ සියල්ලටම වඩා ජානකී මානුෂීය ගුණයන්ගෙන් පිරිපුන් මෙන්ම ඕනෑම අසීරු හෝ බිහිසුණු අවස්තාවක වූවත් සිනාමුසු මුහුණින් සියල්ල විඳදරාගත හැකි අයෝමය මෙන්ම ඉතා මෘදු හදවතක් සතු කෙනෙක් බවත් පොදුවේ පිළිගැනේ. මේ සියලු ගුණාංග සතු කෙනෙකුගේ ඇවෑමෙන් කම්පා නොවූවේ ඉතා සුළු පිරිසක් විය යුතුයි. සෙසු ය ඇයට අවසන් ගෞරව දැක්වූහ. බොඳ වූ නෙතින් ඇයගේ නිසල දේහය අභියස මොහොතක් සිටහනිමින් සිදුවූ විපතේ ප්‍රමාණය මෙන්ම ඇය ඉතිරි කරන ලද හිස්තැන ගැනද මෙනෙහි කළෝය. 

 

මේ සියලු දේ සැමරුම් විය ඒ දුක්බර දවස් කිහිපය තුල. කළ යුතු යැයි සිතු දේ කළ සහ කිවයුතු යැයි සිතු දේ පැකිළීමකින් තොරව පැවසූ ජානකී ඒ කිසිවක් ප්‍රචාරණය නොකළාය. එබැවින් බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ඒ බොහෝ දේවල් අලුත් විය. ජානකි නික්ම ගියේ අප බොහෝ දෙනා නොදන්නා ජානකී කෙනෙක් සිටිය බව සිතන්නට ඉඩ තියා ය. 

 

බොහෝ දේ කිව හැකි මුත්, සියල්ල මෙසේද පැවසිය හැකි බව මට සිතේ: බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ජානකි තමන්ගේ හොඳම මිතුරිය විය.

 

දුම්බර මණ්ඩපයේ සහ ඉන් අනතුරුව පේරාදෙණිය විශ්වවිද්‍යාලයේ ගෙවුණු කාලය වෙත නැවත ගමන් කරමි. ශිෂ්‍ය ක්රියාකාරී කමිටුවේ සහ අන්තර් විශ්වවිද්‍යාල ශිෂ්‍ය බල මණ්ඩලයේ දේශපාලනයට ජානකී විරුද්ධ වූවා ය. ඒ දේශපාලනයට විරුද්ධ බොහෝ අය මෙන් නොව ජානකී තමන් ගේ ස්ථාවරය වෙනුවෙන් පෙනී සිටියාය. 

 

ඒ කෙසේ වෙතත්, අද මෙන් එදත් දේශපාලන ස්ථාවරය කුමක් වූවත් සියලු දෙනාටම ජානකි මිතුරියක්,සහෝදරියක් විය. ජානකී ඉතා හොඳ ශිෂ්‍යාවක් වූවද අධ්‍යයන කටයුතු කරන ලද්දේ විවිධ දුෂ්කරතාවලට මුහුණ දෙන අතරේ ය. පවුලේ සියලු කටයුතු තමන්ගේ වගකීමක් ලෙස ජානකී තීරණය කර තිබිණ. 'පවුල' අනතුරුව තව තවත් ප්‍රසාරණය වූයේ ය. ජානකී ගේ පවුලට පසු කාලෙක වෘත්තීය හිතවතුන් සහ ශිෂ්‍ය ශිෂ්‍යාවන් මෙන්ම දේශපාලන සගයින්ද එකතු විය. ඊටත් අමතරව විවිධාකාර අගහිඟකම් ඇති බොහෝ දෙනෙකුට ජානකී පිහිට වූවාය. කොහුවල නිවස මෙවැන්නන්ගෙන් නිතරම පිරී තිබුන බව දැනගන්නට ලැබුනේ ජානකීගේ අවාසනාවන්ත මරණයෙන් පසුවයි. ඒ සියලු දෙනා මේ පුවතින් නිසැකවම සසල වන්නට ඇත. 

 

ජානකී අප අතරින් වෙන්ව ගොස් මාසයක් ගතවී ඇත. එදා මෙන් අදත් අද මෙන් හෙටත් ජානකී යන නාමය විශේෂණය වන්නේ 'ආදරණීය' යන වචනයෙනි. ජානකී ආදරණීය වන්නේ ඇය අප සියලු දෙනාටම නොමසුරුව බෙදූ ලෙන්ගතුකම නිසා ය. මාසයකට පසු මෙසේ ජානකී ගැන ලියද්දී නැවත නැවතත් සිහිවන්නේ ජානකී සහ අප සමග පේරාදෙණිය සරසවියේ එකම වසරේ සිටි ගාමිණි තිලකරත්නගේ හැඟුම්බර සටහනයි.

 

'අවුරුදු ගාණකට පෙර දුම්බරදි මට හමුවූ ජානකී පසු කාලීනව මගේ අසල් වැසියා වූ ඒ හිතුවක්කාරී චරිතය මට මෙන්ම මගේම පවුලට අම්මා කෙනෙක් විය.ඇය නොමැති ඉදිරි කාලය....'

 

ඉන් එහා? ඔහුට මේ පැනයට පිළිතුරක් නැත. අපටද නැත. ඒ තරම් ජානකී ආදරණීය විය.

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