Anamnesis

Source : Berlin ArtParasites

There is nothing
I would forget.

Your bright eyes that squinch,
in an air conditioned room,
the way you wear your blue shirt.

how gaze turns into blood rush,
how words fall out beneath you

but there are heart rapids of yours
I have not touched
and longing for.

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The word 'ammata siri' has another meaning too

Pic Source : Internet

I was told by a dear friend that I have not written anything new lately. And instead have been posting what I had written over the last few years. There are days when there is so much to write. Then there are days without stories too. There are days that I crave for stories but nothing comes to mind. And I wait for something exciting to happen.

I told him that I have run out of stories. And asked if he could suggest something . He didn’t have much either. ‘You should write something new now’, he reiterated. I said ‘ok’. And that was that. We moved into some other conversation.

It took a couple of days. And suddenly I landed on something. This happened somewhere in 2015, at a place called SriLanka Law College, of which I cannot recall the exact day. Half way through the lecture, Sir Prasantha talked us about the  ‘ammata siri' moment he has had some years ago.

The Sinhala language is one of the most complex languages in the world. So says many. A beautiful one too. I have realized that sometimes the beauty in Sinhala poetry and fiction is lost when they are translated into English. And some are even untranslatable. We may find it difficult to figure out the right English word that goes with the Sinhala one. And it is one of the funniest languages. I tend to think. We have our own way of speaking the language. Different pronunciations. Different words that can mean the same. For instance someone from down south may call it ‘makkeyi' meaning ‘what’ and the very same may be called ‘mokakda’ by someone that comes from Colombo and suburbs. That’s the SriLankan-ness we have embraced.

Remember what YAMU did sometime back? They compiled a list of words, rather some authentic Sinhalese words that people use in their day to day conversations. Like Machan ( that covers everything starting from bro to dude , man or mate ), Aney ( expresses a way of pleading or frustration) or Mala keliyayi , the local way of expressing dismay. And among these ammata siri has a place too.

Going back to Prasantha Sir and his ammata siri  moment, this is what he told;

"I was with my family, my wife and the sons during one of those Ananda-Nalanda cricket matches. A couple of friends and I were also a part of the cheering. One of them suddenly yelled 'ammata siri' when a kid strucked a wonderful six. He was performing brilliant that day and that particular six heightened the joy in many of us. But my wife was a little displeased with the heavy noise and dancing. She thought it was indecent. Besides  being  somewhat senior compared to the rest of the audience maybe she thought we should have behaved a little nicer than that."

We had a couple of  ammata siri  moments recently.  One was the England vs SriLanka’s T20 match. It was a tough game. But in the end some extraordinary performance took the match in to a whole different experience.

Some think it is not decent enough to use words like ammata siri, ammata udu, machan or whatever. And in the same way one may say you are not SriLankan enough if you have never used such words. It is all perspective. I have found. There is nothing right or wrong. Or good or bad. Decent or indecent. If we see carefully enough, often things are named  and names are agreed upon. People create their own lines, their own notions of morality. It is a line, I like to think, is a product of human error. We sometimes tend to narrow down things. And forget that there is something beautiful on the other side.

'I don’t find anything rude or dirty in the word'. He further explained. 

One may use it to express a moment of wonder. It may also connote a feeling of surprise. If we break down the word in to two it can be read as ‘ammata asiri’, giving or invoking blessings on  the mother who bore and gifted a child with such talent.  In the case of the Ananda – Nalanda match it was more like acknowledging or giving importance to some quality of the player and conveyed something good.

Sir Prasantha gave a new twist to the word which I had  never thought of. And wonder if any one did so.

The word isn’t bad. The next time you say ‘ammata siri’ you shouldn’t feel offended or uncomfortable.

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Sunil- Saputhanthri moment

Pic Source: Internet

A couple of years ago an article in Irida Divaina taught me that a work of art , be it a poem , song or whatever doesn’t entirely belong to the creator. Once it is given, it’s owned by the recipient. It’s the recipient’s song. Thereafter. It seems that there is no writer or musician behind most of the songs sung today. The good thing is, creator isn’t destroyed. Entirely. People wish sometimes that great people be elevated to his rightful place among literary greats. And maybe because of this very reason the writer or lyricist of any creative form is mentioned before it is sung or played. They are often remembered. Praised. In volumes of word and anecdote.

I remember the early mornings and late evenings, when we had an old Sony radio. Which use to function way better than the one we have now. I remember Amaradewa, Nanda Malini , Somathilake Jayamaha, Kapuge , Rohana Baddage  and many others over the then Radio Ceylon , Broadcasting Cooperation now. And among them was Sunil Edirisinghe. Whose songs I cherished the most. The radio played a greater part in life. This is how I got trained to the song and lyric.

Much later, I learned to appreciate the song better. I became an avid musical show goer. Out of them more than a thrice I witnessed Sandakadapahana, a solo performance by Sunil Edirisinghe. Different days. Different lyrics. Different genres. Always surprises. Between empathy and artistry. So much of lively observation. Intellectual grasp. And Cultural tensions. And the radio became a memory awakening. Eventually.

On a rain drenched day in 2012 I attended ‘Sunila Vila’. It was an exercise of celebrating 41 years of Sunil Edirisinghe’s singing which also included the launch of ‘Sunila Vila’, a comprehensive guide to his songs collected and compiled by Pushkara Wanniarachchi. Jayalath Manoratne dabbed the narrative using his musical fact and drawing experiences he has had with Sunil Edirisinghe. Among them was Rohana who had much to share. He recalled the days when he turned up to make music for Sunil’s songs.

Sunil didn’t forget Kumaradasa Saputhanthri. Sunil said like this. ‘සපුගෙනුත් රෝහනගෙනුත් මට ලැබිච්ච ආලෝකය කියා නිම කරන්න බැහැ’ (I cannot express in words how much Saputhanthri and Rohana has done for me). In return Saputhanthri interjected ‘මටත් එහෙමයි. සුනිල්මගේ ජීවිතයට ලොකු ආලෝකයක් වුනා’ ( Same with me. Sunil rekindled my life). The article that appeared in Irida Divaina was remembered. In a universe where humility and arrogance intersected. Creators aren’t often dead.  Like Saputhanthri.

Saputhanthri is well aware of the reality in life. He thinks that at some point in life for what we do, we are pained.  He is acutely conscious of pain the world is made of.  And pain   itself is consumed alone. What is most profound in him is that he realizes victory and happiness is illusion. He humbly accepts that what we call ‘sapa’ or luxury in life is temporary satisfaction. And greed serves nothing in the long run. His reflections on this subject are textually powerful.

අදින් මතුව යළි  සටන් වදින්නට

රජෙක් නොමැති සිහ අසුන් අරා

සුසුම් නළින් මිස සිතින් බැහැර නොව

හිඳීම් මගේ දුක කිරුල දරා

දිනු විසල් ලොව සිතින් හරින්නෙමි

උතුම් මිනිස්කම මවෙත රඳා

මගේ දෙපා මුල වැටී මෙසේ මම

කියම්  මගේ දුක මටම හඬා 

 He educates and is educating his audience. Especially for those who don’t know that happiness births   from vedanawa (pain or sorrow). The writer tells us. More often, those who love sob too hard. To love means sorrow. There is heart tremble and dismantled mind. There is terror, fear and longing.

සතුටේ උපත කඳුලයි සදා

හද වේදනා දෝතින් ගෙනා

The truth is , some things in life just don’t come to us.  To reach love’s preferred destinations (or in search of happiness) we got to survive the thorn –road. Saputhanthri understands it. So intimately.

පිපි මල් මතින් පියමන් කළෝ

දිනුවේ ද  කවදා ප්‍රේමයෙන්

විඳි වේදනා සතුටින් දරා

පැරදී  ගියේ කවුදෝ  එයින්

Absence, sorrow and despair. When people leave we learn the heavy words. She loves you. Yeah, Yeah, Yeah .Or he loves me. Love? We were and are desperate to grow up and find out about this thing.

පාළු  පැලේ අඳුර පිරේ

මගේ පැලට වරෙන්

හනික සෝඩී නගේ

දුරුතු හඳේ සිහිල වගේ

තනි හිතට මගේ

පාළු දැනෙයි නගේ 

She appeared in the strangest ways. And left. In most common ways. She disappeared like the mist that wipes away mountains. She’s gone like the rainbow erased by cloud wave.

 පාට දේදුනු සේදිලා ඇත කඳුයායේ 

සීත රැ  සඳ පීදිලා නීල තරු යායේ 

ඈ  ලවන් තෙරේ

සෝ ගී සුසුම් මැවේ

මීදුම් වලා  ලෙසින් පාවී

ඈතින් හැපී  බිඳේ

මා නුවන්  දියේ

පීනා  නැගෙන්  සඳේ

පායා දුරින් ඇදී  ඈ  මෙන්

පාවී  නොයන්  සඳේ

The poet deals with this kind of absence and absenting. This world is made of yugala dharmatha. Short- tall. Bitter- sweet. Happy –sad. Absence and presence. Then there are arrivals and departures. In a world where nothing is permanent, how come love be permanent? This is the law. Ancient. Inexhaustible.

සයුර ඉම රතු සිතිජ රේඛාවේ 

මියෙන හිරු සේ ගිලී බිම් අඳුරේ

තලා මා සිත පලා ගිය ඔබ දවයි මා

තනිවෙනා මොහොතින්

His expression of poverty is fascinating. Saputhanthri has captured capitalism in a few chunks. Sensitive. And empowering. He is bestowed with words that roll out effortlessly. He affirms that there is a line dissecting the impoverished and those enriched.

හිතේ ගින්න අවුලා ගෙන සුරතල් පොඩි එවුන්ගේ

කුසේ ගින්න සනහන්නයි අතුරේ පිය මනින්නේ 

මලට කලින් අපි තැලිලයි පූදින මල් තලන්නේ

අපේ දුකට හඬන මලේ කඳුලයි පැණි කෙරෙන්නේ  

This line struck me the most: මලට කලින් අපි තැලිලයි පූදින මල් තලන්නේ. Kumaradasa Saputhanthri points out that a toddy tapper extracts the sap of a cut flower in a palm tree even before it sprouts entirely. It’s a directive. Tight rope walking is a play between life and death.Ra is there bread and butter. And then they die with no comfort in life. Like the thal mala that gets crushed half way through its birthing and never gets to see the world outside. The key word ‘thalila’ hints the hardships of those undermined in society. Well he uses, අපේ දුකට හඬන මලේ කඳුලයි පැණි කෙරෙන්නේ  as a metaphor clearly, referring to that only the thal mala tears on behalf of them. Its tears that turn to white liquid (Ra) is what really survives them. No one talks about them now. It’s a matter of selectivity. For one who is meticulously observant would know. Like him.

Saputhanthri comes, in strange ways. This was my fourth time witnessing Sandakadapahana. Taking off from different lyricists to different times the show came to a halt. The commentator thus ended the show: may all beings gain wisdom. Sunil Edirisinghe switched his voice on. It was a song written by Kumaradasa Saputhanthri. The song minisa suwandayi mala se.

The song speaks of man in plenty. A world that gave birth to man, whose wisdom glared like sun and breath so fragrant like of a flower .Subsequently blemished. Ravaged. Stole lives and divided territories. Let us not forget the boxing days we have had. Those days when ordinary shopkeepers were burnt alive, leaving neighbor’s life in turmoil. When people were killed in thousands and ten thousands.We still live in an era that constitutes civilized bulletins.

Saputhanthri’s  lyrics are a timely intervention. Backed by reality and truths.  And of course Sunil Edirisinghe will give voice to his words and keep singing to us. Sunil exists where Saputhanthri is. Hearts blended. We are certainly a blessed nation to have such people anchored by thought and song.


 This was first published  in The Nation newspaper , 25th April 2015 . Pamodi Kuruppu is a freelance writer. And can be reached  at rakhithakalu@gmail.com

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Dawn and heart. 2016 .03.09

I sit in the eye of light
a chunk of darkness,
a bulb, a filament,
as a piece of half - light
sneaks through
the -far -away kos gaha.
I watch how you find way to my heart,
how you have put off,
dark , tall , the fleshy nose-
generous and sensitive
a rare fragrance,
the sky -blue shirt,
so handsome you are
again and again.

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Sun Again

Pic source :Internet

You must be the sunlight;
one that glitters silver on wire
solstice Pacific 
turn rib clouds orange 
that moves broken in the mango tree
and drops like a paw
turns scratch into crimson
and drown them in my skin.

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Lapses in time , forgotten people and remembered ones

In my career as a Freelance Journalist , for nearly one and half years I wrote for the kids' and youth sections of the Nation newspaper which I enjoyed thoroughly . When I moved to Daily News I couldn't publish a few that I had already written for The Nation. This particular story was one of them. I am delighted that the series is resumed to www.nightowls.lk. You'll find more in the series as you scroll down.



Years ago, while at school I was called off for a Guides’ meeting. All guides at Musaeus College met at the senior Reference Library for whatever they had to discuss or do. That, the senior reference library is a place full of memories for every Guide in Musaeus College .No doubt. And for someone like me , it wasn’t only a place for guide meetings but also a hiding spot during school assemblies , for which sometimes I didn’t want to go because they kept repeating the same old things . And it was a - pass- free- time place. Most of the free time was spent hunting down books and reading. On one such day a friend came by and suggested that I must read Sarachchandra’s ‘Malagiya Aththo’.

It took a couple of days. I finally opened the book I have been waiting to read, Malagiya Aththo by Ediriweera Sarachchandra. Sarachchandra was a Sri Lankan playwright, novelist, poet, literary critic, essayist and social commentator, whose fascinating theater work like Sinhabahu gained lasting popularity. Was embraced by many. Malagiya Aththo and its sequel, Malawunge Avurudu da dwells around love. Very poignant. His reflections on life over death, arrivals and departures are textually powerful.

One of those phrases in the story stopped me. ලොවෙහි ඇත්තේ යාම් ඊම් පමණක් ය . ( This world only consists of entrances and exits.) True. In a world that everything fleets, nothing lasts. Even people. They come . They go. This was what the Great One learned. The ancient law of Siddhartha Gautama. Later on Sarachchandra’s words were remembered as I read Shakespeare’s ‘All the world’s a stage’. The earth is pictured as a theater stage on which various characters appear for a short while and then empties out to make way for a new production. A generation goes, another comes but the earth stays ever. Sun also rises.

Pic Source : Internet

Some people come and go and are forgotten. Some come and go. But they never really go. However far they may have gone, they are by us now and then, remembered again and again, every day break and night. Their presence is a memory or need. I tend to think.

This morning, however (and many mornings before) Archimedes was remembered, when I stepped into the bathroom .Some of the greatest inventions in the world were done while having showers. Same with Archimedes. Archimedes got into the tub for a bath and water overflowed. He eventually found the connection between volume of the water over flowing and the body mass.

As we approach the microphone there is one person that comes into mind. Alexander Graham Bell. If not for his experiment we would not have had a device to address larger gatherings, louder and clearer.

Three years ago, in a place called Colombo I met a man ( or I may call him a ‘boy’ in heart) who taught me two years after that people are not completely lost. They are found in anecdote and landscape. They are just there, at a countless distance, caught by winds and impossible to catch. And for him I wrote thus:

Now and then

as you come and go

it feels like

I have been absented

and your absence has gone through me

like needle pulling thread

All I do is stitched with its color.

Woven in distance and tear

to my heart and me,

it’s only you.

And among all these, some important people are forgotten. Or else we are purposely neglecting them. Eliza Grace Symonds invented the telephone as Graham Bell did. However, as she delayed it by half an hour to register her invention at the Patent Office, Alexander Graham Bell became the inventor in the eyes of law for the telephone. Time was the trick. One of those history’s sacred moment was stolen. Nobody talked of Eliza Grace. She will not be footnoted in the future.

Though Galileo, commonly known as Gal Gal is said to have discovered the telescope. But this is not strictly true. Galileo rather improved the telescope which was designed by Lippershey for the first time. But no text book remembers him. It seems that we do not give enough credit to people who have done the initial creation for the advancement of society. Or may be its human inadequacy.

And so I went from Sarachchandra’s live words or perhaps to a world made of acute pain, followed by a lover’s departure, then to Shakespeare and in the random haste I went to a day in 2015, at Law College, where a Lecturer once told that we leave not only memories, even the breath, smell and everything else possible to leave making the presence more stronger. His thoughts inspired and I wrote on them sometime back , titled 'Is it ok to tell that you own my breath?'.

I do not know what makes us forget and what makes us remember some. May be we carefully set aside things or people we don’t want and gradually learn to forget them. Or it could be love that keeps us remembering, small but significant or it is hope crafted by madness.


Other articles in the series:

Learn to pick yourself up
A road is a waterfall
Water is noble
Mountains are cool to climb
You don't like Fruitcake?
Mr.Prashantha lal's favorite song
There are buildings , and then us
Elephants and the 'elephantness'
Life is all about scoring Amma points
Did you find the leader in you?
Lessons from laundering and laundry baskets
Is it ok to tell that you own my breath?
Laughter makes you lighter. Did you know?
It's a fleeting world , I realized.
Halves here and halves there
That bittersweet longing
Right choice matters
Landmarks will guide you to correct places
You can draw your own map
Kites, turtles and other things
When you have young blood in you
On bags , Fondly
No sunset for sunsets
Drum dies with drummer
'Athak dunna fun ekak'
Threads and Hearts
George , Harold and Captain Underpants

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Things I like

How everything looks
like flash lines
when I see through
a train window.

The ship that sails far away
how it looks
even smaller than a heart.

The way you give in,
roll in
crush
and lie down
inside my heart
naturally,
even without seeing you for months.

I like your hair
going up,
a jarring surprise.

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