Sunil Ariyaratne in the then and now

 

More than forty years ago, in my first days at Dumbara Campus, University of Peradeniya, a senior whose name and face I no longer remember, quizzed me about Sinhala songs. At some point in the conversation he asked me about Sunil Ariyaratne. I didn’t know the person nor the name and said so. He chided me for being ignorant and went on to educate me about the songs he had written for Nanda Malini.

I knew songs. Sometimes I knew who sang them. I didn’t know the lyricists. Back then access to music was limited to what the ‘owners’ of the radio played. So it depended on what they preferred of programs aired by the less than half a dozen radio channels.

Campus life changes all that. I had friends who knew and could sing songs. They sang. They talked about the lyrics, the sentiments and sometimes the vocalist, composer and lyricist.

By the time ‘Pavana (The wind)’ came around, thanks in part to the political turmoil of the late eighties, the name was familiar and intricately tied to the songs of Nanda Malini.

The late eighties were made of fire, of people being burnt alive or after being shot on tyres, of bodies floating down waterways or piling up in street corners, of political assassinations, indefinite  curfews, abductions, torture, proxy arrests, burning of ID cards etc. The capture-all word was ‘bheeshanaya.’ Terror, in English.

As the nation moved almost inexorably toward that time, it was natural for artists of all kinds to take sides and some of them to express their opinions freely in word and deed. The late Nanda Malini used song as her vehicle. Sunil Ariyaratne chose her as his vehicle for he was the principal lyricist of the concert that swept through the country, expressing the fears, hopes, determination and of course pathos of it all: Pavana. Literally, ‘The Wind.’  

Since then, there have been critics who have opined that the concert and therefore singer and lyricist ‘pushed’ the youth of the country into the cauldron wherein there was so much killing and being killed that everyone lost whatever moral high ground they may have had. They have even argued that in the matter of taking sides, the singer and lyricist forgot to take a stand that kept them distanced from culpability, if that were possible in the first place.

In short, Nanda became political even as Ariyaratne was political. The concert marked them both. Ironically, the songs have since been used by those they opposed and critiqued to further agenda that neither espoused. That’s another story.

The bheeshanaya ended. Perhaps the outcome was unanticipated or, at any rate, made for disappointment rather than celebration or even relief, as far as they were concerned. He continued to write, she continued to sing. He was vocal outside his lyrics, she was relatively quiet.

Now she’s gone. He remains. Answerable, one might say, but then again, the generous reading is that Sunil Ariyaratne never felt he had to apologise. He wrote what he believed was right. He spoke the truth of his conscience. People are free to cheer or decry. I, for one, haven’t been impressed, especially in the positions he has taken on issues of nation, nationalism, conflict dubbed as ‘ethnic’ and so on, although many other political songs do resonate. The pre-Pavana commentary still stands and I do celebrate and am still inspired by the substance and of course the poetry. Sunil Ariyaratne was and is an amazing poet who has the words and the sensibilities to immediately capture a reader.

Maybe it’s the way in which I was brought up or the ideological preferences I embraced and the love and appreciation of all things Sri Lankan, including history and heritage, but when I listen to the songs of the album Satyaye Geethaya (The Song of Truth), I feel that she sang to me and of me. Of course, this means that Ariyaratne wrote to me and of me. This is true of the songs he wrote for other artists as well, for it was not only for Nanda Malini that he wrote and it was not only Nanda Malini who sought and sang his lyrics.

He has changed his tune, so to speak, over the years. He has not explained nor apologised, but he didn’t have to. He just wrote. Differently. But then again, even when he wrote what some might think were lines that were ill-informed or deliberately misleading, the poetry was really great. The command of metaphor, the ability to draw from many social, cultural, political and environmental wells and mix it all tastefully was always exceptional. One might add that this is as true of his cinematic endeavors as in his poetry.

More than forty years ago, in Polgolla, as a first year student of the University of Peradeniya, I wasn’t too embarrassed by my ignorance. I feel that I have been harsh on Sunil Ariyaratne since. Political and ideological disagreements notwithstanding, I can and will return to Nanda Malini in all my remaining years. Unlike in those early years when I knew songs but not singer and lyricist, I will think of Sunil Ariyaratne and tell myself that I am privileged to know the language that Sunil Ariyaratne writes in. Sinhala.  

 

See also: 

Her name is 'Lanka' 

A mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne 

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Her name is ‘Lanka’

More than twenty years ago, the late Pundit W D Amaradeva, with great kindness and much indulgence, taught me what to students of music would be a very basic lesson in singing. ‘It’s not in the throat, Malinda; it’s in the mind and heart.’

Then he lamented that most singers, including those who were popular and even highly acclaimed, had not grasped this fundamental principle. I didn’t know anything about music. I didn’t sing. I was simply curious about how ‘good’ was measured. That’s after he said all this. 

‘So who sings with the mind and heart?’

‘After all is said and done, Nanda,’ he said or at least that’s the English translation of his answer. 

More than twenty years later, Nishad Handunpathirana,my friend, batch mate from Peradeniya, neighbour and virtuoso in the dilruba, introduced me to the Hindi musical term ‘pukar,’ which refers to the way in which a vocalist projects the voice with intense feeling. Heart. 

Today, for obvious reasons, Nanda Malini's songs come back to me. And I, a little less unenlightened than I was more than twenty years ago, am compelled to agree with Pundit Amaradeva.  

Today I remember two conversations I had with this incredibly accomplished singer. The first was during an interview for the Sunday Island. I believe it was in 2002. I had things to say about the album ‘Pavana (The wind)’ that was released sometime during a series of concerts under the same title in those exhilarating times that would eventually bleed, literally, into the ‘bheeshanaya (Terror or Time of Terror)’ in the late eighties. 

‘We were young and those songs resonated with the energy, hope and even convictions we entertained, but a friend told me that great songs outlive political moments; those of “Pavana” do not, unlike the songs in “Shravanaaraadhana (Invitation to listen)” and “Sathyaye Geethaya (The Song of Truth"). The songs of “Araliya Landata (To the Araliya Grove)” which was released after “Pavana” will be remembered, I think.’

She smiled. A few years later, when I ran into her at Sudarshi on Bauddhaloka Mawatha, she remembered and told someone that I am a harsh critic. She was laughing. This, by the way, was after I had written '[A] mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne.'

That is all by way of encounter. Now all I have are her songs. The political choices. The lyrics and the voice.

Some may say that Nanda Malini ‘evolved’ from what they might believe was a Sinhala Buddhist chauvinistic phase. Others may think ‘evolved’ is debatable and that anyway the (virtual) rubbishing of her own songs without explanation was odd. She didn’t write the lyrics. The more overtly political songs were written by Sunil Ariyaratne, so fingers that may be pointed would first be directed at him. She did sing them, so fingers would point her way as well. 

Nanda Malini alone would have known if Sunil Ariyaratne was her political conscience. It was her choice, perhaps, or his or of both to drop ‘Me sinhala apaage ratai (‘This is the land of us Sinhala people’ or, ‘This “Sinhala” is our nation,’) even disavowing it in not so uncertain terms. Perhaps it was a decision made in the best interest of the nation and all citizens. But then again, ‘Pavana’ was littered with chauvinistic interjections, for example, ‘Bamunaa vunath…(even if a Brahmin)’: no less, no more, than songs which contained ‘Sinhala,’ or ‘Hela.’   

In contrast, consider children's songs such ‘Rukkaththana mala mudune (atop the rukkaththana flower)’ and ‘Surangeeta duka hithuna (Surangee felt sad).’ Consider love songs such as ‘Kanda udin ([from] above the mountain)’ and 'Kalaa vaven gath diya dothak se (Like a handful of water from the Kala Wewa).' Devotional songs such as 'Budddhanubhavena.' Consider even political compositions of the more general kind such as ‘Sakura mal pipilaa (Sakura flowers have bloomed).’ All this, before Ariyaratne took on political projects and found in Nanda’s voice a powerful communicative vehicle. Exquisite. 

What troubled me most with regard to the politics, though, was the grave injustice done to Mahinda Algama who wrote the lyrics of what became of her most popular early songs, ‘Chandra madulu yata suranganaavan (fairies under the penumbra).' The last stanza was edited out. It wasn't about ideological prerogatives (understandable), but the way the lyricist was treated (dodgy): he was not informed; instead an excuse about length was offered. 

All of it is questionable and understandable.  Forgivable or unforgivable depending on how mild or harsh one wants to be respectively.  And all that was a long time ago. Critique stands but it’s lost in the enormity of all that she was and all that she’s given, as should be and as acknowledged even back then. 

Today as I ‘listen’ to her songs and walk through the political milieu that she lent her voice to, I recall a comment that Gabriel Garcia Marquez made about Pablo Neruda: ‘He was a King Midas of literature — everything he touched turned into poetry; even when he got into trouble with his politics, the poetry was very, very good.’ Something to that effect; he was of course referring to Neruda’s defence of Stalin’s Russia. She was very, very good. 

That voice!  

I remember it when she spoke about her journey, such a long time ago. She has since detailed her story and spoken candidly and without regret or disdain. In her public persona Nanda Malini was soft. Humble. In her political persona, problematic perhaps. She has had the humility, however, to admit error of judgment. She has returned again and again to lyrics that last. Ephemeral or enduring, political or apolitical, regardless of whether she sang of or for children, love, justice or hope, she sang with feeling. All heart. Always. 

Looking back, I realise she was kind and indulgent. Like a mother. And I remember ‘Mege nama lankaa ya (Her name is Lanka),’ ‘Sanda eliya gangak vee (Moonlight, having become a river)’ and ‘Avurudu dedahas panseeyak (Twenty five hundred years),’ all penned by Ariyaratne by the way, and the last two for ‘Pavana.’ They were first performed decades ago. The words are still relevant and that’s Sunil Ariyaratne at his best. 

Nanda Malini, by admission, had less control with high notes, but there was and is so much voice in the vast regions she could hold, so firmly and yet with such grace. 

The introductory lines of ‘Me jeevana gangaadaaaraye (This river of life)’ the signature song in ‘Satyaye Geethaya’ were foundational for me, politically, and probably for many others: ‘asatyayen satyayata, swapnayen yatharthayata, andakaarayen alokayata (from falsehood to truth, from dream to reality, from darkness to light).’ It was a task she set for herself, a tough road she chose to walk along, with courage but with human frailty. In his own way, Ariyaratne made it easier for all of us but that ease is as much or more attributable to voice as words.  

Her name is Lanka in all our little island’s fortitude and failing, strength and frailty, heroism and cowardice, and all that is nevertheless resplendent, resilient and musical. The invitation to listen, stands. 
 
 

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Reading between song lines: A mild critique of Nanda Malini and Sunil Ariyaratne

I remember early mornings and late afternoons in Kurunegala during vacations spent in Kurunegala at my maternal grandparents’ house, anticipating the wonders of play and discovery and the ways in which these dreams are realised, albeit in fracture and through reconfiguration of reality. And I remember the voice of Nanda Malini over the then Radio Ceylon, soon to be the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation. They are among my earliest memories.

Even today, if ever I listen to "Mal mal heenaya", "Rukaththana gaha mudune," "Surangeeta duka hithuna" and many of her earlier songs, I go back to that time and that innocence. Much later, during the "Satyaye Geethaya" era, I came to understand and appreciate better that which I had derived through political tracts. I still think "Me jeevana ganga dharaye" taught me more about solidarity and community than the Communist Manifesto. 

Knowingly or unknowingly, Nanda Malini’s songs cut through the sterility and reductionism of the kinds of Marxism we were exposed to at that time. I came to appreciate the import of culture and the fact that identity is less an easy political tool than it is a timeless factor in not just the political field but a key to any informed practice, political or otherwise. Both in the discovery of self and the exploration of the broader notion of "community".

I "read" her "Thun hele kele meda sinha petau", "Mage deshaya, mage jathiya, mage agama", and "Me Sinhala apage ratai" not as the chauvinistic drivel she has since made them out to be, but a call for a return to civilisation, a return to history and a return to ourselves, so important in the 500 year long struggle to liberate ourlseves from colonial domination, both economic and cultural. I "read" them, but did not once entertain any antipathy to other religions or other ethnic groups.

Among all these, there is probably no other song that took up permanent residence in my sensibilities, as "Chandra madulu yata suranganavan doo sanahannata geetha gayanava". I have spent many years dreaming of singing this and other lullabies like "balolee" she has enriched with her voice to children I planned to have, and today they help bring sleep to my little daughter.

I have known for a long time that a work of art, be it a song, a poem, a film or any other creative form, does not belong solely to the creator. It belongs at once to the recipient. And so, when Nanda Malini said in the late eighties that she could no longer sing of love, it did not bother me. When she chose to embrace a crass secular political position, courtesy her main lyricist, Sunil Ariyaratne, I chose to brush it off with a simple, "the artiste’s recantation destroys the artist but not the art".

Today I realise that I was unforgivably erroneous. A disavowal of this kind if political and has to be treated in those terms, in the very least. Today I write this because the King Barnet column in the Irida Divaina of a couple of weeks ago taught me in no uncertain terms that the worst one could do to an artiste is to allow him/her to wallow in the heady liquor of mystification. Nanda Malini’s voice and Sunil Ariyaratne’s lyrics are political by their own definition. Their subsequent comments on their own creations are as political. I write simply because I take issue with the positions they take.

According to King Barnet, this celebrated singer had been possessed by a demon/disease: Sinhala Phobia. King Barnet had been quite upset by the fact that in a recent version of the song "Chandra madulu yata", Nanda Malini had chosen to strike off a few lines, i.e. those that sought to comfort a little girl by referring to the "Sihala le" (Sinhala blood) that ran in her veins.

This Sinhala Phobia, as I pointed out, is not a recent phenomenon. I have always thought that if one thing hampered the full flowering of Nanda Malini’s stature as the voice of the nation, it was the fact that she was trapped in the limitations of Ariyaratne’s ideological parameters. And of course their movement. This is why when she came out with the "Araliya Landata" collection, where all the lyrics were by previously unknown poets, I was pleased. She may have broken from that particular bind, but it seems she is yet ensnared by Ariyaratne’s peculiar political agenda.

Just a few weeks ago, Ariyaratne and composer Rohana Weerasinghe, successfully sued a young vocalist for having "distorted" one of Nanda Malini’s songs, "Thun hele kele meda sinha petau". I thought it strange, considering that it has been quite some time since Nanda Malini refused to sing this song because she considered it chauvinistic. Ariyaratne and Weerasinghe won a cool two hundred and fifty thousand bucks as damages. Can Nanda, likewise, sue herself, for "distorting" her "Chandra madulu yata"? I wonder. In any event, shouldn’t the lyricist, Mahinda Algama sue her? Or is he also possessed by this anti-Sinhala demon? King Barnet consoles himself by the fact that the attempt to re-record the National Anthem was aborted. "If these people can vikurthify their own work, what would they not do with the National Anthem?" he asks. Apt.

I believe it is time to undress these people. Nanda Malini, it is well known among those who were university students during the hey day of her "Pavana Prasangaya", wore the belligerent garments of a revolutionary. She posed off as the voice of the nation’s conscience. She rode the then popular deshapremi wave. During those "I-can’t-sing-the-saundarya (aesthetic)" days, when she thundered revolution from the many "Pavana" concerts, she sold the "saundarya" casettes of her previous avatar on the side. So much for integrity and revolutionary ethics.

There was a time when she vowed that if her songs were banned, she would sing on the pavement. This was the time that Sunil Ariyaratne got her to refer to India as the country of the "hotabariyo". When both these people found the heat too hot to handle, they fled the UNP-JVPbheeshanaya. They took refuge in this very same country of the"hotabariyo". That was not all. She returned, courtesy Hema Premadasa’s invitation/protection, to receive an award from the "Vanitha" magazine as one of the seven women of the age. 

On that occasion, on the invitation of Hema Premadasa, Nanda Malini sang a song. Paradoxically, it was with her immortal "Ammavarune" that she obliged the wife of one of the principal authors of the bheeshanaya! How soon she had forgotten the laments of the thousands of mothers who had lost their children to the bheeshanaya she herself had lamented through her songs!

The Nanda Malini-Sunil Ariyaratne combine has in many songs attacked the Buddhist order. They have referred to thieving and avariciousbikkhus. This is no reason for complaint. The artiste ought to shred deceit, to demystify even. How then do they refuse to acknowledge the numerous crimes of other religious institutions, for instance? Have they not heard of corrupt Christian priests, child molesters, zealous proselytizers etc.? They could not be ignorant, not least of all because they market themselves off as keen students of the political in all its manifestations. The answer lies more with the character of Ariyaratne than that of Nanda Malini, I believe.

In the case of popular songs, one hears the music and the words, sees the singer (sometimes), but not the lyricist. Two songs by Nanda Malini made me "see" Sunil Ariyaratne: "Pem lova dee dutu ohumada me"(written by Ariyaratne, but clearly referring to Nanda Malini’s ex-husband) and "Kurutu ge gee pothe" (writte about a poet, clearly Ariyaratne himself). "What ego!" I thought.

As the years have passed, Ariyaratne has appeared to have become one of the greatest apologists for the Catholic church. Of course he does not do this directly, he is far too smart to do that. No, in addition to attacking the Sinhalese and the Buddhists, and by omission or commission erasing their existence courtesy the multi-ethnic/multi-religious doctrine, Ariyaratne has studiously developed a pretty Catholic/non-Sinhala Buddhist curriculum vitae. He writes about "kapiringnga", carols, baila and calypso. He seems to have also studiously cultivated a cabal of avowedly anti-Sinhala "academics".

He vigorously campaigned for the reinstating of Sucharitha Gamlath. He did nothing of the sort for Nalin de Silva. Today Sucharitha Gamlath sings his praise and operates as his principal defender, as evidenced when J.B. Dissanayake critiqued his song "Seegiri geeyak". It was Gamlath and not Ariyaratne who took the fight to Dissanayake.

It is hard to believe that someone of the calibre of Carlo Fonseka would be naive enough to be trapped by the wiles of someone like Ariyaratne, but if his recent article on Ariyaratne’s film "Sudu Sevaneli" is anything to go by, the good doctor seems to have slipped. Badly. "Sudu Sevaneli"was adjudged Best Film at the Sarasavi Film Awards. "Sudu Sevaneli" was roundly rejected by our audiences, and that has to say something, although not all. The fact is that there were far better films made that year.

But let us allow this "best film" business to pass. The point is, why should Carlo Fonseka use "Sudu Sevaneli" as an alibi to lay out Ariyaratne’s curriculum vitae? Why speak about Ariyaratne’s "First Class" for instance? Does he not know that "Sarungale", widely acclaimed as Ariyaratne’s best film, was actually directed by Gamini Fonseka? Has he not seen "Anupama", a film directed by Ariyaratne without any assistance? Shouldn’t that tell him something about the man’s cinematic class?

I believe it was Ajith Samaranayake who recently said that if one went just by what journalists write and singers sing, they have to be among the most pure, charitable and honourable people around. He pointed out that nothing is further from the truth. There is a huge chasm between the word that is written and the life of the author of that word. There is a mismatch between the song and the singer. Let us be clear. Both these sets of professionals are trapped within certain pernicious production relations. Their work, for the most part, can be categorised as "commodities". They respond to "market signals". In a nutshell, they can be purchased. Sadly, they sell themselves dirt cheap. I would add "academics" to this set of professionals, and I am sure Ajith would not disagree.

What does one do with artistes who are this servile to market signals? King Barnet has an answer. According to him, the only way to oust the anti-Sinhala demons that have possessed these two people, is to ban them from singing in Sinhala and writing books in Sinhala. A money-beholden individual is easily cured of such maladies if his/her livelihood is taken away. The truth is, both these individuals owe thanks to the Sinhala language, the Sinhala-Buddhist culture and the thousands of Sinhala Buddhists who make up their "audience" for almost everything they’ve achieved. And everything they own, to keep to the metaphor of capital.

Can we listen to Nanda Malini again? The point is, we can. The best way to defeat a turncoat artiste, I believe, is to cherish his/her art even more than before. I will cherish her songs, sing them to my children, sing them on the pavement, even. Let her or Sunil Ariyaratne sue me. After all, among the lines etched in my heart is the introductory lines from "Satyaye Geethaya": "asatyayen satyayata, swapnayen yatharthayata, andakaarayen alokayata" (from falsehood to truth, from dream to reality, from darkness to light).

This has to be the age of undressing. If that is the chosen vocation of the artiste, then let him/her first undress him/herself. This side of that exercise lies a deceitful human being. Not worthy of veneration. Time is long. Perhaps Nanda Malini will someday reinvent herself as a corporeal entity made up of the best sentiments of her songs. Maybe Sunil Ariyaratne will too. Until then, let us at least resolve not to deceive ourselves.

*First published in the Sunday Island, December 2003

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Mahinda Algama: his lyrics will resist editing

[This was written on February 13, 2014 for The Nation of February 16, 2014.  Mahinda Algama will not read this piece.  He passed away on the 15th of February.]

Pic courtesy Silumina

 
The 16^th day of February has no significance to a man called Mahinda Algama.  It is not his birthday.  He hasn’t been honored by some state or other award.  And yet, there are many reasons why he should be written about.  The important among them is the fact of an absenting that one has to conclude is deliberate considering the man’s work over many decades

Talk of lyricists and there are names that drop off the lips of announcers, presenters and guest speakers, names that drip off the pens of scribes in Sinhala newspapers.  Mahinda Algama is a name that’s not hard to pronounce.  His presence in the Sinhala music scene is such that he is not easy to forget.  And yet, name-droppers rarely mention him.  Perhaps this is because there’s a politics to art and art critique, never mind the perennial debate whether art is or should be political or whether it is for art’s sake and nothing else. 

He did not write thousands and thousands of songs.  Some three hundred over a period of fifty years does not add up to ‘prolific’.  And yet, as he himself has observed, only that which is qualitatively superior has the fuel to move from and move generation to generation. 

He will be remembered mostly for his contribution to the corpus of children’s songs in Sinhala. Several generations have listened to, learned from and been inspired by his work in the field of broadcasting where his focus was children’s songs and radio plays.  ‘Tharumuthu Kumariya’ published in 2010 has a collection of 60 songs, many of which would spark childhood memories.  

His lyrics lend themselves to easy and catchy melodies, with word and music blending in ways that made erasure from memory difficult.  Perhaps this is because, as Sunandra Mahendra has pointed out, his ability to draw from folk literature and therefore touches the taproots of culture engrained in what might be called genetic signature.  

He will not be known, from generation to generation, for his educative role in his field.  Saman Athaudahetti has written how ‘Mahindayya’ was always keen on doing something new, something fresh.  He also acknowledges that there are dozens of singers, song-writers, actors and actresses whose awakening, so to speak, was the Lama Ranga Peetaya.  He obtained help from experienced artists but never forgot to encourage new entrants.  This is why Saman says that Mahindayya was a teacher in addition to being a poet and lyricist, a radio program producer etc.  He was quiet and this everyone in his field knows.  Perhaps it is because he was not one to stamp feet, announce presence and brag that he is ‘passed over’ in the politics of Sinhala lyrics.   

Not all students acknowledge the role of those who guided them in their journey towards success in chosen field.  Mahindayya, on the other hand, has readily acknowledged that he would have been no one if not for the encouragement of his old elder brother Jayampathi Algama and Madawala S Ratnayake.  He also mentions Chandraratne Manawasinghe, Mahagama Sekera, Arisen Ahubudu, Doltan Alwis and Karunaratne Abeysekera as having influenced him greatly in his early days.  Interestingly, of the above, Abeysekera and Sekera shares Mahinda Algama’s ‘absenting’ fate. 

But that’s politics.  It is also a product of envy, ignorance and arrogance. Of the true recipients of Algama’s creativity, not many will know that it was he who penned the lines that echo in their hearts throughout their lives; we tend to identify song with singer, not lyricist or composer of melody.  But if you mentioned ‘Chandramadulu vala suranganaavan’ in a room full of people who are keen on Sinhala songs and lyrics, there’s bound to be lots of smiles.  The same with ‘Rukkaththana mala mudune’.  Timeless. 

Were they ‘children’s songs’ though?  In a sense, yes.  Easy words, vivid imagery and simple lines of thought are what make children enjoy, remember and treasure songs.  The power of his creativity however can be measured by the fact that simple as the lines are they speak of profound things. 

Even today, for example, one of Nanda Malini’s most loved songs is Algama’s ‘Chandramadulu vala’.   Through the fairytale imagery the lyricist offers an important life lessons.  He takes the child through known narrative to a state of consciousness that alerts him or her to deceit, all through the voice of the most trusted one, the mother.

චන්ද්‍රමඩුළු යට සුරංගනාවන්

දූ සනහන්නට ගීත ගයනවලු...

 දුවේ එපා ඒ කතා අහන්නට

 මේ නැළවිලි ගී මමයි කියන්නේ...

They will tell you, little girl

that beneath the moon’s bright glow

there are angels singing to please…

but don’t listen to them

it is I that sings to you.

 රන් තැටියට කිරි පැණි පුරවාගෙන

හදහාමී දූ බලන්න එනවලු...

 දුවේ එපා ඒ කතා අහන්නට...

හඳහාමී කෙලෙසද මෙහි එන්නේ

With a golden dish filled to curd and treacle

Uncle Moon will visit you, they’ll say…

But little girl, ask yourself,

How can the moon come here?

  

 කිරි මුට්ටිය නුඹෙ ඟගේ ගියාලූ

ඟගට උඩින් කිරි කොක්කු ගියාලූ...

දුවේ එපා ඒ කතා අහන්නට

මමයි නුඹට ලේ කිරිකර දෙන්නේ...

The gourd of milk floated downstream

And above it flew the flock of storks

But little girl, don’t listen to them,

It is I that turns blood into milk just for you.

 

දූ අල්ලන්නට හැන්දෑ යාමේ

 මල්ලක් අරගෙන බිල්ලෙක් එනවලු...

 ධීර දුවේ මා බිය නොම වන්නේ

 සිහළ ලෙයයි නුඹ සිරුර දිවෙන්නේ...

The bogeyman will come at dusk

With a big, big bag to catch and take you away,

They’ll say,

But little girl do not be afraid

For it is Sinhala blood that runs in your veins.

So Algama says, essentially, ‘do not be swayed by the sweet words of strangers’.  He also says, ‘do not bend to threat’.  These are things that stand us well in our daily lives, bombarded as they are with the lies that go with commerce. These are things that stand us well in darker times, when enslavement is sought more through threat than its execution.

It is perhaps apt that in these very times of sweet-talk and censure, it so happens that it was the last verse of this very song that was deliberately, brutally and crudely ‘edited out’; most cruelly too because it was Nanda Malini who was executor here.  She or those who have used her voice and acted with or without her permission as definers of her political and ideological position. 

She is reported to have explained to Algama this slashing thus: ‘There wasn’t time to sing that part’.  This is not true.  The track was made in anticipation of this edit.  There’s a politics to this too.  That’s a different article, one supposes.

But it is symptomatic of how Algama has been (made to be) read over the years.  His silence, quiet ways, generosity, sense of equanimity and civilized ways have been taken as ‘weakness’. He has therefore been seen as ‘prey’.  He has been or has sought to have been ‘subbed out’ of the larger narrative of the Sinhala lyrics; along with Sekera, Sunil Sarath Perera, W.A. Abeysinghe and Karunaratne Abeysekera, one should add.

But we will listen to the songs. Those he nurtured not just in writing, broadcasting etc., but in identifying the most salient elements of the human condition, will continue to add value to that which is best in the human being.  And we will still remember Nanda Malini with fondness for lending voice to those lovely lyrics.  She will drop verse for reasons best known to her, but we will not.  In fact she would do well to remember that her fans stand with the original and not the castrated version.  And that, perhaps, is the best testimony to the greatness of a simple Sinhala man, Mahinda Algama.
 

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