Gunadasa Kapuge | Sooriya Records

You did not forsake us there where the Yoda Ela bends

April 6, 2018 by admin

Amarasiri Peiris, Gunadasa Kapuge, Malinda Seneviratne, Malini Jayaratne, Ranbanda Seneviratne, Sarachchandra, Sinhabahu, T. M. Jayaratne

Remembering Ranbanda Seneviratne

There is a song written by Malini Jayaratne which her husband, T. M. Jayaratne sings. It makes the poignant statement that not enough songs have been written about the love a father has for his child: piya senehasata kav gee liya una madi (there’s a conspicuous absence of songs dedicated to fathers’ love). True. There are countless mau guna gee (songs in praise of mother and motherhood) in Sinhala where the virtues of motherhood and the particularly sacred love of a mother are celebrated. Little of the father, even though Sarachchandra in a postscript to the father-son denouement in Sinhabahu, says it better than most.

Malini Jayaratne’s song ends like this: amma varun pamanada mathu budu vanne (is it that only mothers are marked for Buddhahood?). Among the countless songs about the mother there are a few which stand out for capturing in a recognisable idiom that which most of us know intimately, the first truths we become cognisant of: the warm refuge and unconditional love of a mother. To me Ranbanda Seneviratne’s davasak pela nethi hene (sung by Gunadasa Kapuge) stands among the finest tributes to a mother’s love.

He claims that even as his wife’s love wafted away (birindakage senehe giya yoda ele nemme), he felt again and again the fragrance of his mother’s tenderness (obe senehasa suwanda didee denuna mata amme). And he asks (well knowing the answer) if she will be by the gate would he were to flee the stormy insults raging in the city, abandoning his crown as he runs to her.

Like most people, I have known Ranbanda Seneviratne only through his lyrics. He was not a prolific lyricist but whatever he wrote had the rare quality of clinging on, decorating our sensibilities as they mature over time. He would be the first to admit, I am sure, that the composition and the voice are as important as the words and their arrangement. Still, there is something about the man, as discovered through his lyrics, that touched, a quality which made a deep indent in the normal course of diurnal pursuits on December 5th, when I heard that he had passed away.

He was by profession a lawyer and by all accounts one with a racy turn of speech. He appeared for famed skyjacker Sepala Ekanayake and defended those accused in the forged ration book case in the early eighties. I am sure he would have won many friends and admirers during the course of performing his professional duties, but again it was through his “stage presence” over visual and audio media that he became our friend.

Apart from the song alluded to above (which by the way helped propel Gunadasa Kapuge to stardom), there are three others which mark him as a song-writer who drew deep from our soil, a task which only those who have not slashed away their roots can accomplish: ula leno, sumano (both sung by Kapuge) and veedi sarana landune (by Amarasiri Peiris). The haunting melody in ula leno certainly enhances the theme of solitude, but it is from the lyrical genius of the poet that the song soars and settles deep in our hearts. Sumano speaks about personal loss, the death of the girl Sumana. Ranbanda draws a melancholic brush over the entire landscape he describes and invites us to reflect as though the loss is ours not his.

Mala hiru eliyen kokku giyado

Mihintala gala peththe

Piruvata enda pettiyaka thiyala

Pan dekaka eli medde

Madatiya veteddi handa kelathena ela

Edande ismatte

Sumano…. numba ey neththe

(Did the storks take wing over Mihintale in the twilight?

Draped in white cradeled between the light of two lamps in a coffin you lie

Below the edanda the moon wavers as madatiya seeds fall upon the ela,

Sumano…why are you not here?)

Ranbanda hails from Mihintale. There are probably many instances and incidents which stand witness to the fact that he never lost touch with his village and everything the word gama entails. To me, the idiomatic usage of language says all. I have met others from similar backgrounds who not only turned their backs on their history and heritage but went as far as attacking these things virulently, sometimes taking cover behind academic “imperatives”.

For most people, cultural roots comprise a thorny crown which has to be done away with as soon as possible. Ranbanda lived differently. He thought differently. Today, no one wants to be called Banda, they would go instead for Bandara, the former having been bestowed with all kinds of derogatory meanings over the years. Few Bandas carry their names with pride, M. D. Banda being a rare exception.

Ranbanda Seneviratne went further. He called himself a bayya from Mihintale and did so with a great sense of pride. This bayya unlike most who are ashamed of their bayya past, was well read and familiar with the cultural and literary traditions from all corners of the world. I believe he was able to absorb their richness so well only because he was comfortable with who he was. And this is also why he, even in his limited output, could emerge as a poet who had a personal lyrical signature, evident both in these songs as well as his one collection, “dukata kiyana kavi“.

Veedi Sarana Landune, as the title suggests is a meditation about a prostitute and the double standards applied by society in general to castigate them. In the following lines Ranbanda unequivocally makes clear his political position with respect to such women: “Lema pamanak lovata penena, laya nopenena landune; kuhumbuvekuta varadak nethi, varadakara landune” (Girl, whose breasts are naked to the world but whose heart remains unseen; girl, who wouldn’t hurt an ant, but is always at fault”!).

My colleague Prabath Sahabandu likened Ranbanda to a handloom cloth, “its beauty and character lies in its coarseness” and of course in the cultural idiom woven into it. He was clearly a man who felt deeply about social injustice. Remarking on the changes that have occurred in our society, he had once said, “There was a time when a dog lying dead on the road would attract a crowd of around 50 people; Today if fifty people lay dead on the road, not a dog would come by to take a look”.

Our people have had akala maha vehi (off-season thunderstorms) raining on them for far too long. We have not been blessed with many who could shelter us from these downpours until the rain ceased. Ranbanda has done his best. He wanted his last rites to be performed in Anuradhapura as one would expect. If his “remains” stir the discontent in our hearts and unsettle us enough to agitate for our own personal Mihintales, he would live long and his spirit would find rest once more.

Ratna Sri Wijesinghe in a glowing tribute to the man, refers to a poem titled kageda me le pellama(Whose are these blood stains?), quoting the following:

Whose are these blood stains,

A man’s? a beast’s?

Whose is this shirt, torn and riddled with holes?

Was there a scream, sobs, pleading not to kill?

Who knows, dear god,

Whoever it was, was it not a man

Who lay there bleeding?

That man is still bleeding. That man comes from a village, is conscious and proud of his heritage, recognises his father and mother and is recognisable from the hordes who are valiantly divesting themselves of their identity. Ranbanda Seneviratne identified the worth of this man. It is the generational task of our times to stop the bleeding.

by Malinda Seneviratne

The lost songs of Gunadasa Kapuge

October 23, 2016 by admin

Gunadasa Kapuge, Malinda Seneviratne, Ranbanda Seneviratne

Ranbanda Seneviratne is a man who never abandoned the ordinary and especially subjugated segments of this country, not where the Yoda Ela bends and not anywhere else either. He died on December 5, 2001. The mortal remains of this lawyer cum lyricist and self-confessed ‘bayya’ from Mahakanadaragama, Anuradhapura was cremated a couple of days later.

‘We should ask why Gunadasa Kapuge was sitting in a far corner of the cemetery, all by himself, and weep copious tears,’ a friend told me a few days later when we reflected soberly on the loss the nation had suffered. That question was produced by a history.

Gunadasa Kapuge had done what no one expected him to do. He had sold his aathmaya or soul. He had signed a contract to do produce an album with the band ‘Sunflowers’ which according to some was more about profit and less about being sensitive to the human condition. The connection with Ranbanda was this: he wrote the lyrics for what became one of Kapuge’s most endearing songs, ‘Davasak pela nethi hene’ which is about the unfailing quality of a mother’s love. Whereas even a wife’s love could pass one by ‘where the Yoda Ela bends’, a mother would wait by the wicket gate outside her humble home until the son, reviled, ridiculed and abandoned, returns home. That was the line. The point was this: Ranbanda was appalled by Kapuge’s decision and didn’t mince his words when expressing objection. Hence the tears or so we thought.

Kapuge passed on a year and a half later. He did not explain, he did not apologize, he did not defend himself. He wasn’t one to complain. He kept his sorrows private.

Last week, randomly, a group of artists spoke about Kapuge [yes, he enters conversations without notice, stays without intruding, leaves without saying ‘bye’]. Two anecdotes.

The first. This was when Kapuge was either staying in a boarding house in Nugegoda or visiting friends who were boarded. Saman Athaudahetti, we were told, would vouch for the veracity of the story. It was night. Kapuge had stepped out to get something. He had returned without his shirt. His friends had quizzed him.

‘There was a man without a shirt and he was shivering. I knew there would be a shirt for me at the boarding.’ Simple.

The Second. One night Kapuge had been walking along Bauddhaloka Mawatha. Night. It was raining. He was walking towards the Kanatte. He noticed a man struggling to fix a polythene sheet over the shack that was clearly his house. He stopped. The man apparently was taking care of pideli or clumps of grass that were sold by the piece. He had explained that the sheet was too small to cover the entire hut, but that he didn’t want his three children to get wet. He didn’t mind getting wet, he said. Kapuge had asked how much it would cost to get a better roof, for example one made of cadjan. ‘Ten thousand,’ the man had answered. Telling the man that he will check if he got the roof fixed, Kapuge gave him Rs. 10,000. It was his annual bonus that year. Simple.

There’s a third story and it gave a rare definition to his humanity.

Kapuge had collected the payment for his part in the ‘Sunflower samaga (with) Kapuge’ album, a few hundred thousand rupees, and gone straight to visit a friend who was suffering from cancer and needed money for surgery/medication. He left the money with his friend. Then he went home. Simple.

The friend/patient has a name. He died less than a year after Ranbanda Seneviratne passed away. Sugathapala De Silva.

What were those tears shed in Anuradhapura that evening in December 2001, then? Was it for the loss of a friend or the inability of the general public to understand him, he who gave so much with voice and melody? And what of those who thought there’s a question that should be directed at the lonely man grieving in a corner of a cemetery?

There’s a question that needs to be asked. It’s not about Kapuge. It is not about how we read the man. It is a question we can ask ourselves in the language and tone of our choice. We can word it as we will. It doesn’t matter when or where or how we fashion the question. To me it is inspired by a song; a lyrical blend of several lives caught in the vicissitudes that make the human condition, threaded by some random incidents in a man who left us more than ten years ago, but stays and stays and stays.

Source: http://malindawords.blogspot.com/

With you Kapuge, “goodbye” is a ridiculous word

October 21, 2016 by admin

Gunadasa Kapuge, Malinda Seneviratne

A few days ago I saw a poster announcing a concert. The title was familiar: ‘Piya satahan’. It was the title of one of Gunadasa Kapuge’s songs. Indeed it was the title song of that album. It meant ‘Footprints’. ‘Piya’ of course refers to ‘father’. A slight word twist and appropriate too, for it was a son’s tribute to a father. Gunadasa Kapuge died, tragically, in April 2003. The poster brought back memories. I remember that day very well. I wrote about it back then. This is what I wrote.

Between Bambalapitiya and Colpetty, there is only enough time to listen to one song on the radio. I was on my way to a wedding in a car driven by a man in a hurry. The song was familiar, it spoke of a long ago that time could not erase, as is the way with songs, flavours and fragrances that have touched or have arrived at moments that linger beyond character and event. “Duka haadu dena raye” (translatable as “the night when sorrow showered kisses”) speaks of love, loss, and how these things descend and remain on the surroundings, how the condition of sorrow, of departure and separation is magnified as it is reflected by the environment that receives the troubled gaze. I sang with the singer and thought to myself, “someday, this man will die and I will not have the words to express my sorrow”. This happened on Thursday afternoon. A few hours later, my wife said, “Aney, Gunadasa Kapuge merunane!” I had not heard that he had met with an accident the previous day. There was shock. And silence. I did not have the words then, and I am not sure I can summon the right words to express this emptiness even now.

Gunadasa Kapuge was always “ours”. He came to us first as a voice from the Raja Rata Sevaya. His voice travelled beyond the Raja Rata and most important, the Raja Rata never left his voice. Kapuge was “ours”, is “ours” still, because he sang of us, with us and for us. His voice mirrored the rhythms and rhymes that make up our lives and moreover it took us to places where we could see ourselves and therefore understand where we should go. When he came out with his concert “Kampana” we knew that this man was not only singing of the way in which our world trembled and shattered, but was also healing our senses with a balm that can only be produced by someone who was acutely aware of what had happened and had suffered the same losses, same sorrows. His example, as much or more than his art, made us strong.

“Sitha niva pahan kala” was the song of the generation that had to live through the bheeshanaya,for it spoke of sacrifice, humility, love, hope and forgiveness. It is also the song of everyone who is shaken by injustice and everyone within whom integrity has taken up residence.

He did not wish his song to please the powerful and the rich, but wanted it to soothe the hearts of the victims. He sang therefore of injustice. “Leli thalana doni”, “ahasa usata” and a countless number of other songs taught political economy more gently and infinitely more clearly than any text of Karl Marx. For me, at least.

And it was not just the politics that made him ours. He chose to speak of the full range of human feeling. His love was not reserved for the politically dispossessed, the politically inclined. His sensitivity travelled over the more earthy, more real troubles of the individual. “Ninda nethi raye”like “dam patin la sanda besa yanawa” (with the late Malini Bulathsinghala) sang the sadness of all departures. “Sudu nenda” captured every nuance of discomfort that attends a scene where the nephew is denied the hand of his cousin. “Sumano” weeps the tears of a man who loses his woman forever. “Ula leno” is a lament that pierces the heart as hauntingly as does the cry of the devil bird.”Unmada sithuwam” most eloquently describes the solitude that a broken heart has to suffer.

Then again, it was not all heartache and lament. “Piya satahan” was about the enduring quality of hope associated with love and the charm of remembered yesterdays. “Oba gena mathakaya mada pavanai” affirms love, partnership and the togetherness of marriage and how these someone make up the salve that makes it easier to suffer life’s many blows.

He was soft, this man. He did not want us to be like mountains, trying to reach higher than each other, but to be like a cool spring, distributing life; not to be a nightmare that troubles the child at night, but a dream that awakens the people from their slumber. He taught us the worth of treating things with equanimity, he taught us love, and he taught us how to overcome the greatest obstacles and more than all this, the worth of community. Kapuge was a benevolent stream that slowly but surely made its way into the desert and forced it to bloom. For you, friend, there is an eternal flower in my heart. If it has colour, it is because your life, your song, your example, graced it with the gentlest touch. There can be no goodbyes spoken. With you, for you, there is only an embrace. You made “you and I” meaningless. And that is not a contradiction.

For now, and for always, you are us. You are ours. And for this reasons, I choose to meditate on the flower you watered with your being. And I can smile. For you gave meaning to the word “tomorrow”. Things cannot remain empty, for he reminded us that life can be full. As long as we want it that way.

Source: http://malindawords.blogspot.com/

gunadasa-kapuge

You did not forsake us there where the Yoda Ela bends

The lost songs of Gunadasa Kapuge

With you Kapuge, “goodbye” is a ridiculous word

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