Malinda Words: Mahagama Sekara

[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.

My friend Liyanage Amarakeerthi, who is now reading for a doctoral degree in the University of Wisconsin, Madison, commenting on Sri Lankan literature, said that while the "celebrated" works of authors like Michael Ondaatjie, Shyam Selvadurai and Romesh Gunasekera are certainly praiseworthy, there are novelists in Sinhala (and probably Tamil too) who have written far more important and superior works of fiction.

He lamented that the English Departments in our universities have produced hundreds of graduates but very few who are able to appreciate the nuance of language and idiom in Sinhala to a degree that can allow them to translate these into English. If such an exercise would excite their interest in the first place, of course.

If globalisation implies a "global village" or a "global family" as is often advertised by those who are only interested in globalising poverty and food insecurity on the one hand and expropriating profit on the other, there has to be in place a mechanism that facilitates cultural cross-currents. What we have now is a system whereby we are all fast becoming Americans (of the worst kind, one could add). The tragedy then is that we do not possess the conduits (or do not have access to them or the skills to utilise them) through which our cultural sensibilities can be made available to our fellow creatures elsewhere in the world.

We have had very few authors who were equally comfortable writing in English and Sinhala. Sarachchandra translated a couple of novels into English. Martin Wickramasinghe reserved his English writing to theoretical and philosophical essays. Gunadasa Amarasekera translated a couple of his short stories into English, I believe.

Sarachchandra, probably until very late in his life, believed in universal tenets, whereas Wickramasinghe’s was an effort that sought (and attempted to develop) the "native". Amarasekera, after a brief flirtation with Marxism, perhaps more for its humanistic values than anything else, returned to an active engagement with foundational cultural soils.

Mahagama Sekera obviously grew in the company of these authors and shared some of their concerns. He also had his own identity and left a mark in the literary scene that deserved better investigation. It cannot be that he is untranslatable. He remains untranslated.

Mahagama Sekera’s literary import is second to none among the Sinhala literary greats of the modern era. Sekera’s creative energy was like a body of water swollen with the monsoon rains. He was a poet, a lyricist, a dramatist, an artist, a musician and a film maker. Convention could not entrap him and in form as well as subject his waters spilled over and ran in all directions. He was life-giving and life-affirming. As a people, we drank deep from the many wells that Sekera dug in his relentless search for humanity and its appropriate location in human matters. Sad to note, our digestive systems have been too poisoned to absorb him and we neglected taking corrective action.

The vast territory of concerns that he embraced is perhaps what makes people from all points of the political spectrum consider Sekera to be a friend and comrade. This is why his death left a question mark that theoretically opens up the space for all kinds of investigations, all focusing on that necessarily elusive prize, the "Sekera Lakuna". It is in the journey and not necessarily the destination that we discover self and community, and thereby qualify to imagine futures.

It is forgotten now that some of Sekera’s songs have been banned. Among them, Me Sinhala Apage Ratai, which was branded as a chauvinistic song and even disowned by Nanda Malini. Short-sighted and small-minded are the terms that come to mind, for that song did contain the following line: sama karuna guna mahime, apa upathin lada urume.

It is only in the context of "history" constructed by Eelam mythmakers and their adjuncts that Sekera and others like him get bastardised. I can think of no other historical blunder that can top this. After all, is this not the country of us Sinhala people? If not, is there any other cultural-geographical entity that we can call home?

Sekera was essentially a humanist. His canvass was broad, which is why he could affirm the depiction of Samanala Kanda as the spiritual destination of all religious faiths. His depictions were sensitive. He dwelled on delicate, human things. In this vast universe, his sensibilities could speak of the Sinhala Rata without being chauvinistic.

Sekera did not deny any community a place in this land. His vision, as evident in what I consider to be his great poetical work, "Prabuddha", was for collective enlightenment. He recognised the bodhisatva gunaya inherent in all of us.

His heart was large enough for anyone to make it his/her permanent residency. I believe it is the closest we have to the much sought after "Sukhavathi" of the Buddha Amithabha, metaphorically speaking. Our hearts, we must admit, have been too narrow. For too long. Something we can all reflect upon on January 15th, Mahagama Sekera’s twenty sixth death anniversary. And of course afterwards as well.

[This article was first published in the Sunday Island in January 2002]

Journeying with Mahagama Sekara

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions

Bandula Nanayakkarawasam's 'Sekara Moment'

Looking for Sekara and finding ourselves