Some years ago I chanced upon the grave of Lakdasa Wikkramasinha, the
English language poet whose iconic credentials draw from who was
remarkably at odds with the political and ideological predilections of
the English-speaking literati of his time and who in subject, style and
metaphor was more a ‘Sinhala poet’ than most poets writing in that
language. That chance discovery inspired an article titled
‘Mis-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha’ published in the now defunct
‘The Nation.’
A few weeks ago, Samod Porawagamage, an academic
and a poet, asked me where Lakdasa’s grave was. I had a vague
recollection of its location but told him that we would have to go
look. A few days ago, I was at the Borella Kanatta and having an hour
or so to wait for a funeral ceremony, decided to look for Lakdasa’s
grave, just so I could tell Samod.
I couldn’t find it. Lakdasa’s final resting place must be there and one day I will re-discover it. Or not.
A
couple of years ago, Lakdasa resurfaced or was resurrected by Aparna
Halpe and Michael Ondaatje who put together a collection of his poetry.
Award-winning Sinhala poet Sunanda Karunaratne has since taken on the
task of translating the collection into Sinhala. He has already
translated close to half the collection and it has been an invigorating
experience to discuss each translation along with the original.
But
walking among graveyards ‘looking’ for Lakdasa I was struck by the
number of headstones with inscriptions totally obliterated by time and
the elements. Maybe the near and dear who attended the burial and placed
a headstone thereafter have passed on themselves. Maybe after a
generation or two there was no one left on the island to visit, lay
flowers and re-letter those blank pieces of stone or concrete. Maybe too
much time has passed for anyone to remember the names of the particular
ancestors.
It is unlikely that any of the dead were subjected
to damnatio memoriae. It is not by official decree alone that people get
‘erased’ and forgotten. Anyway, it took me back to a day in January
1992: my maternal grandfather’s final rites before cremation.
I heard the Pali phrase anicca vata sankhara or ‘impernant, alsa, are all things,’ and not for the first time. I had already heard people say or seen the words ‘roopaya dirai, naamaya nodirai,’
meaning ‘the body perishes but not the name.’ And I remember seeing a
photograph of someone who was probably my maternal great great
grandfather and realising that I didn’t know his name. My maternal
grandmother passed away in 2008, my mother in 2009, her brother in 2012
and her sister in 2025. Their remaining two sisters and brother might
know the name of the person. I should ask. Eventually, though, the names
will be forgotten.
Not all names are forgotten though.
Historians keep names alive, but I can’t help but wonder if the persons
associated with those names were anything like they are made out to be
by historians, folklore and other exercises in what amounts to
legend-making.
Who was Lakdasa and does the Lakdasa of those who
remember him still, either on account of acquaintance or through his
work, remain intact or does it change as the person remembering or
reading changes? Probably the latter.
His poetry is intact
though. For how long we don’t know. The final resting place of poets is a
dusty bookshelf at the back of a used books store, I once wrote.
Depending on the place a poet holds in the literary universe, some one
might interject. True.
It
is not only time that fades memory. There are elements other than wind,
fire, earth and water that are at work. Happens to history and happens
to works of art, literature included. There’s politics at work.
Deference to gatekeepers help. Ignoring them can cost.
Lakdasa’s
poetry was in the Advanced Level English Literature syllabus back in
the 1980s. It was in the English syllable of the University of
Peradeniya in the mid-eighties. I am pretty sure students of English
literature in Sri Lanka have heard of him or studied his work. But how
many Sinhala and Tamil writers and students of Sinhala and Tamil
literature in Sri Lanka know, I wonder. And, by the same token, how many
people who do not know Sinhala or Tamil know of the great literary
figures who wrote or write in those languages?
Does it matter,
one may ask. Not really. Time passes. Things change. People forget. Of
the over 7,000 languages spoken in the world I know just two. There are
stories and songs, no doubt, in each and every one of the languages I do
not know. My life would be so much richer did I have access to half a
dozen of them, even in translation. It doesn’t mean that my life or
those of others like me are worthless or less meaningful.
I
couldn’t find Lakdasa’s grave. I have his poetry. Sunanda’s effort will
give thousands of people access to Lakdasa’s poetry. They will read them
as they will and they will resurrect a Lakdasa through that process.
And it doesn’t really matter that the person they conjure thus is
nothing like the Lakdasa who lived and wrote.
Last night, for
reasons that had nothing to do with any of the above, I checked out some
iconic scenes of the movie “Dead Poets’ Society.” As Mr Keating, the
central character played by the late and inimitable Robin Williams,
could have said it, ‘they are all food for worms’ or ‘are fertilising
daffodils’. Well, they are all probably done feeding and fertilising.
Then
again, watching those clips, I got to listen once again to the opening
lines of the 17th century poem ‘To the virgins, to make much of time,’
by Robert Herrick. I didn’t know the title or the poet until last
night. But those lines!
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles today
Tomorrow will be dying.
He’s
gone. Herrick, I mean. He is alive though. So too Lakdasa. Even if I
never revisit the Borella Kanatta again or I never find his grave,
however many times I walk among those graves. He is not there anyway.
Doesn’t really matter.
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