Amaradeva: a name for everything that is our little island

Pic by Sandra Mack

There are rain clouds, not too dark and not threatening.  It might rain later.  There was rain last night.  Tomorrow, there will be other clouds of similar shade.  Non-threatening for a while.  There might be rain.  The city pulsated in rhythms acquired over the years.  In some village in the Dry Zone, there are children at play.  The potter is at his wheel.  Someone, somewhere is listening to music.  The country called Sri Lanka in determination and resilience, hope and foreboding, meanders through the hills and vales of joy and sorrow at a pace that suits her people.  Sounds of yesterday are heard now and will be heard tomorrow.  And through it all a silence that is strangely also a song.  A sad song.  Amaradeva is no more.

Pundit W.D. Amaradeva, known in an earlier avatar as Wannakuwatta Waduge Don Albert Perera, born in Moratuwa on the fifth day of December in the year 1927. Don Girinoris Perera and Maggie Veslina Mendis may never have imagined that their sixth and youngest child would, almost 89 years later, make music so silent and so poignant that it matched and in many ways surpassed everything he did with voice. Amaradeva breathed his last a few hours ago.  The nation skipped a heartbeat.  Breaths drawn were held for a moment longer than usual and then released as a collective sigh. 

How can one speak of an incomparable voice that will not sing again?  What do we say of a man who left us speechless with his songs?  Those who want appropriate words to articulate their respective sorrows, their gratitude and sense of loss can of course delve into the lyrics.  Song titles alone would yield enough lines to pick from.  But that’s not him.  That’s his friends, as gifted with word as he was with voice:  Mahagama Sekera, Madawala S Ratnayake, Dalton Alwis, Chandraratne Manawasinghe, Ajantha Ranasinghe, Arisen Ahubudu, K.D.K. Dharmawardena, all of whom have passed on as has Prof Nandadasa Kodagoda (one of several one-lyric contributors), and among the living the highly accomplished but most infrequently recognized Sunil Sarath Perera, not forgetting Ratna Sri Wijesinghe and the more ‘present’ Prof Sunil Ariyaratne.

He will no doubt be remembered for offering his amazing voice to equally amazing lyrics, but what singles him out will always be the voice.  And as he often said, the music was only carried by the voice — it was born and nurtured in heart and mind.  Every word, every syllable and the spaces between were heart-made and mind-nurtured and that what sets him apart.  His heart and mind were made of this nation in all its glory, all its inadequacies, and it held everyone cutting across every conceivable distinction.  Amaradeva cleared the high noted of our multiple histories and held the integrity of the deep foundations of our cultural ethos.  That’s how he became and for a long time will remain the voice of our nation.

Time will pass and his name will pass into the many names among the forgotten in the birth-decay-death of our common human condition, but there will be days, now and for a long time to come, when Amaradeva will be present and ready for renewal and rediscovery, endowed with history and heritage giving us in his own indescribable ways the forgotten yesterdays and inhabitable tomorrows.

There can be no short tribute.  And no long tribute will be long enough.  It is tempting to draw from one of the hundreds of songs that many of us grew up with, many of us were consoled by in times of grief, many of us were lifted by for countless reasons, but that would be disservice to both singer and lyricist.  

For this reason, I choose the words scripted for a TV show on Amaradeva.  They were written by Bandula Nanayakkarawasam who, interestingly, had just one ‘Amaradeva Song’ to his credit, never recorded but sung by the maestro on May 18, 1989 when Amaradeva’s classic book ‘Nada Sittam’ was launched.  

This is what Bandula wrote:

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 alone is all these things.”

My friend Nishad Handunpathirana who knows much more about music than those who make knowing-claims and therefore, perhaps, says little, said a few words: 'He was our Tagore'.  Perhaps that's one way of putting it.  Another way is possible, Bandula has shown.  He was Amaradeva. Ours.  

There is silence amid the clutter of sound.  It’s the silence of a singular passing.  The voice of the nation has gone silent.  And strangely, in this world made of transience, it would probably linger. More tenderly.  Yes, softer still.

This article was first published in the 'Daily Mirror' (November 4, 2016).  

Malinda Seneviratne is a freelance writer.  Email: malindasenevi@gmail.com.  Twitter: malindasene 

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AMARADEVA: THE VOICE OF OUR NATION

පින් කෙත හෙළ රන් දෙරණේ යලි උපදින්නට හේතු වාසනා වේවා 

Pundit W.D. Amaradeva [Pic by Sandra Mack]

There are differences in playing to a full and captive audience in a magnificent theatre, engaging in a light rehearsal at home with table and hand-pumped harmonium or a full rehearsal with an entire orchestra and sophisticated sound system, and in responding to a simple request by an admirer.  The place, moment, ambience, sense of occasion and size and character of the audience naturally make for difference in setting and context.  For Pundit W.D. Amaradeva however what matters is music and its appreciation, the opportunity to do what he knows and loves best, to experience and make for appreciation. 

‘Amaradeva: yesterday, today and tomorrow’ was a show held at the Nelum Pokuna Mahinda Rajapaksa Performing Arts Theater.  It was a grand 85^th birthday party for the maestro and his wife who shares his birthday, even though the latter as she always has been was in his shadow.  Before the show, there were rehearsals, light and heavy both.  Years before, I had the honor of interviewing him, once for the Sunday Island and once for the ‘P.O. Box’ a magazine published by Phoenix-Ogilvy Advertising.  On both occasions, he kindly and readily obliged when I requested that he sing. 

Pundit Amaradeva does not require request or invitation.  One talks with him and as he explains or describes he would break into song.  Indeed, his mastery of Sinhala and English, as well as his long and deep association with the classics, was such that his words pour out like music, not one note out of place, not one missing. 

His son, Ranjana, observed during a short break at a light rehearsal at his father’s house, ‘this is what makes him happy; to sing, to have people around him who he can sing to.’  At home, like on stage, in practice as in performance, Amaradeva indulges in a heady narrative mix of song and commentary.  That night, a few days before the performance, he was explaining how he composed the melody for what is known as ‘The Unofficial National Anthem,’  Ratnadeepa Janmabhoomi:

‘When Sekara (that’s Mahagama Sekera his friend and principal lyricist referred to as the ‘Gee potha’ or ‘Book of Songs/Verse’ to which he, Amaradeva, was ‘Mee Vitha’ or wine, following the song-title ‘Gee pothai mee vithai’ or ‘The book of verse and the [glass of] wine’) sent me the lines, I was teaching a raga to some students.  It was perfect.’ 

He mentioned the name of the raag but not being a student of music it did not register.  He was at that point surrounded by family and students, both young and old.  Ranjana played the table, Subhani, his daughter, was by his side prompting him if he missed a line or word.  Sunil Edirisinghe, Rohona Bulegoda and Krishantha Eranda were there to pick him up when necessary.  He didn’t stop smiling. 

It was the same a couple of days before that when he practices with a full orchestra under the gentle direction of that perfectionist, Rohana Weerasinghe.  That was the first practice session in years.  Age takes things away.  There were lines that were missed and verses that got jumbled.  The voice faded on the lower notes.  The nuance of melody, however, was a life-twin and the other beat of a heartbeat.  He had not been abandoned. 

The ‘big day’, therefore, was just another day, just another show, but as always a moment to be happy, to experience fully the exercise of singing and in singing to entertain.  To those in the audience, though, it was not just another show, another day.  This was moment for renewal and rediscovery, not with and of Amaradeva alone, but with being, with history and heritage, forgotten yesterdays and inhabitable tomorrows. 

It was nothing like the ‘Amara Gee Sara’ shows of a different era.  No one expected it to be.  When the curtain was raised, the artist seemed older than I could remember, even though I had seen him just two days before.  When he sang the Sarasvathi Abhinandana Geethaya his age showed.  And yet, imperceptibly, song by song, minute by minute, he warmed to the task, reveling in the moment, each prefaced by Jackson Anthony, at times laboriously and at times with wit and commentary that was less insufferable. 

It was not the typical Amaradeva show, as I said.  It was a national commendation of sorts, the kind reserved for the best teachers and the most exalted of citizens.  He put it best, alluding to the analogy of the fish and water.  He was in his elemental liquid, his rasika kela, the admiring listeners.  He had his students, the best of them in fact, around him, accompanying him now as chorus and paying tribute with voice and word. 

He once said ‘one sings not with vocal chords but with heart’ and said that of all the voices he’s heard, only Nanda Malini’s was heart-made.  She demonstrated, both with Udangu Liyan (Proud Women) and with Galana Gangaki Jeevithe (with Amaradeva).  In all the duets, the younger voices were stronger, naturally, but when it came to ‘feeling’, Amaradeva was without doubt supreme.

Sanath Nandasiri located the Master in the musical firmament: ‘geyuma meyai’ (this is what singing is), he said, was what Amaradeva taught.  True.  He set the standard and he set it high, so high that few reached it even on occasion, so high that aspiring to reach it made everyone better. 

Apart from Nanda Malini and Sanath Nandasiri, there was Victor Ratnayake, whose rendering of ‘Obe Namin Saeya Bandimi’ was probably the most exquisite piece of the evening.  There was also Sunil Edirisinghe, Edward Jayakody, Neela Wickramasinghe, Latha Walpola, Nimal Mendis and Nalin and the Marians, and of course the less visible but as enthusiastic, capable and devoted chorus.  They all spoke of teacher and teaching and he responded with anecdote, affection and humility. 

The father-son and father-daughter items were not usual.  Ranajan, self-effacing, modest and consciously out-of-shadow, did a wonderful rendition of Aradhana, letting the father seal the song with last-line signature.  Subhani’s duet was Chando Ma Bilinde, a lullaby that was apt.  She had the stronger voice-presence that night.                

There were two men missing from the show, one alive and one, sadly, no more.  The first, Bandula Nanayakkarawasam ought to have scripted the program, but the script that played contained a clip of the Master done by ITN.  It was a 4-5 capture-all that he had written. 

Gama amathaka veeda…ohugen vimasanna

Nagaraya maha herunida…ohu soyaa yanna
Rata amathaka veeda…ohu ethi bava adahanna
Gaha-kola, ira-handa, ela-dola, samudura, kurulu-gee
Aee neka diya dam aruma nopenee no-asee giyeda
Ohu esi disi maanaye raendenna…
Me punchi kodevve, ape mau derane
Me siyallama ohuya

‘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 alone is all these things. ‘

Amaradeva, then, is not just marker of singing standard.  He personifies for many reasons and many ways who we are as Sri Lankans, what in this country gives pride, where we stand; he defines the horizons we can aspire to travel to and tells us the geographies we cannot leave behind. 

This is why, quite early in the program, Amaradeva not just sang Sasara Vasana Thuru but affirmed and underlined his personal wish to be re-born again and again in this land, a wish that Jackson correctly pointed out is the quintessential Jathika Pethuma or National Wish of all Sri Lankans who have any root that has sought and obtained nourishment from the deepest and most fertile of the country’s cultural and historical soil.   

The other ‘absentee’ was of course Mahagama Sekara.  He was referred to many times, by many people.  Amaradeva, as he often does, referred to him as the gee potha and himself as the companion, mee vitha, deftly dodging Jackson’s attempt to establish that the reverse was also true.  Sekara was the Book of Verse, Amaradeva the (glass of) wine. 

With song, accompaniment, the forgetfulness at times, with lucidity too and of course anecdote, he would have drawn many a tear to many an eye that night.  It was not a ‘finale’, and perhaps nothing demonstrated this than his forceful interruption or rather voice-add to a Marians’ rendition of Shantha Me Rae Yaame.  He said, without saying it, ‘geyuma meyai!’  To his credit, Nalin acknowledged and expressed regret that they hadn’t met Amaradeva earlier, for had that happened their path may have been different, he said.  But he wished him long life, as did everyone else, who in the gratitude of adoration expressed the hope that their own years be added to what’s left of his. 

At one point he sang the up-tempo Bindu Bindu Ran which ended with the line pirivara soyaa maa thanikara yanna epaa (Don’t abandon me as you go looking for an entourage).  That pirivara never left him, perhaps most of all because he did not leave them, even though he never held them in a vice-like grip. He had, after all, only a voice, but that sufficed, for his is a voice that enters hearts and stays there, a voice that contain the echo of our past and the distinct score of our future, a voice that is undoubtedly the incomparable voice of our nation. 

Bandula ended the script to that short docu-film with the lines from one of Amaradeva’s best loved songs, Nim him sevva maa sasare, favorite of lovers and those seeking love or waiting for love’s ‘someday’ return.  It could be also about the ties and longings of lyricist and singer to listener/fan (and one another) and also to land. 

Nim him sevva maa sasare 

Hamuvee, yugayen baendi yugaye
Lanvee venvee varin vare
Oba ha maa ran huyakini baendune
 
I’ve searched the limits of this sansaara
We’ve met in lifetimes gone
We’ve embraced and parted again and again
(but) you and I are bound together by a single, golden thread.

There is no beginning and no end to timeless things.  Like the voice of W.D. Amaradeva.  We don’t know where it was born and which territories it has and will enrich.  We can but wish this national icon, this incomparable Voice of our Nation, good health and long life.  Chirang Jayathu….

[Published in 'The Nation' (FINE Section), December 9, 2012, pics and page layout by Sandra Mack]

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Our cultural icons

Reality shows are the rage these days.  If all the stars of these reality shows actually shed light, we would not worry about the vagaries of the weather or fluctuations in the oil price.  Every years, on almost every television channel, we see stars and star-aspirants.  Thousands get together to ensure that a few individuals enjoy a moment of fame.  Few thereafter would remember the names of the particular stars, but this won’t stop thousands from doing the same for another set of individuals the following year.

Stars come and go. They shine for awhile, are applauded, gone crazy over and then forgotten, like in the well known Eagles song ‘New Kid in Town’: ‘They will never forget you till somebody new comes along’.

Icons are different.  Somebody new coming along does not dislodge icons from cultural firmaments.  What they produce continues to fragrance the world long after they’ve passed on.  That reverberation is perhaps the true test of greatness, for no communications campaign however sophisticated and fund-rich it may be, can exact and retain loyalty for decades and decades.  Stars have shelf life, icons are timeless. 

Icons, typically, do not seek immortality.  And yet, they are honoured not just by overwhelming public respect and adoration but by the conferring of title.  That recognition, though un-sought, is important, less for the recognized as for the recognizing, for it affirms the fact that a nation appreciates the contributions of the particular individuals.

In Sri Lanka, this ‘recognition’ is called Sri Lankabhimanya or Lankabhimanya (The Pride of Sri Lanka).  It is awarded by the President and is the highest civil honor, conferred for exceptionally outstanding and most distinguished services to the nation.  The first recipient was the late Sir Arthur C Clarke, in 2005.  Lakshman Kadirgamar was conferred the title posthumously the same year.  Thereafter, in 2007, A.T. Ariyaratne, Lester James Peries and Christopher Weeramantry were similarly honored.

Clearly, there are many individuals who came before any of the above who richly deserved the title.  Any nation with a recorded history of 2500 years would have more than a handful of icons and if the posthumous clause is evoked, we could literary have hundreds if not thousands deserving the title. If we were to look at the past few decades alone, we would have, for example, Premasiri Khemadasa, Rev Fr. Marcelline Jayakody, Martin Wickramasinghe, Ediriweera Sarachchandra and Chitrasena. 

What of the present, though, and what of the living?  There are three indisputable cultural icons alive today, Dr Lester J Peiris (cinema), Gunadasa Amarasekera (literature) and W D Amaradeva (music).  The first has already received this rare honour.  The other two are both in their eighties now and, as is typical of iconic personalities, continue to stimulate and hone our cultural sensibilities.   

W.D. Amaradeva is not a reality-show pop-up and neither is Gunadasa Amarasekera.  Both are indefatigable.  Their commitment to their chosen mediums of expression is marked by dedication, a striving for perfection and most importantly underlined by love for the country, its history and heritage and recognition of all this as source of learning, creating and celebrating the aesthetic. 

Like all of us, they will pass.  They, unlike most of us, will be eulogized, accorded posthumous tributes such as postage stamps, memorial lectures and name-prefixes to institutions relevant to their particular fields.  If icons are undeserving of anything it is this after-thought type of tribute.  They are deserving of the highest honor, right now.  If not, we would be doing a disservice to these exceptional fellow-citizens and doing ourselves a disservice in the process. 

[Editorial, 'The Nation', July 22, 2012]

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