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mahagama-sekara

Amaradewa, Mahagamasekara

Reflections on some wonderful friends

July 26, 2020 by admin
Mahagama Sekara, Uditha Devapriya, Victor Ratnayake, W. D. Amaradeva

My friend Hiruna, who is studying for his A Levels, yet somehow finds the time to write the most beautiful Sinhala poetry I have ever read from someone his age, is something of a rarity. Not because he writes poetry (don’t we all, at some point?) but because his preferred cultural icons are so far removed from the Sanukas and the Santhushes of this era that he has become virtually isolated. He has written essays and essays on everything from the era he panders to – the sixties, seventies, and eighties – ranging from Hansa Vilak to T. M. Jayaratne to Amaradeva to Sekara. Because of my inability to read between the lines when it comes to poetry, sivpada or nisadas, I have come to appreciate the critic in him rather acutely. He has read much more on the subjects he tends to than anyone his age.

And yet, he is not alone. There are others. Perhaps not as “into” what he likes as he is, but nevertheless with a sensibility which has been honed to past objets d’art that the young today are rubbishing day in and out. It’s hard to tell whether this is a miniscule minority or whether it has the potential to grow up and mature. In that sense there’s a lot to be expected from the families and friends of these youngsters, because with the correct guidance, they can and will become the wielders of the arts tomorrow.

The most common excuse dished out by those who are fascinated by the icons of the present is that “the past is dead, live with it!” It’s a flimsy excuse, though one I’ve come across from youngster after youngster wherever I go and am. Perhaps it’s to do with how the media has suppressed the old in the programs they broadcast. Either way, an entire generation is growing up not even having heard of the usual icons – Amaradeva, Victor Ratnayake, even Clarence – and this despite the fact that these names are hardly ones we can pass over. Someone once said somewhere (I can’t remember the name or the time, though it was way, way back, a long time ago) that if Sri Lanka chose to send something that demarcated “ape kama” to the moon, it would send the songs of Amaradeva. Laudable, but consider that we have children, and students at that who are studying in GOVERNMENT schools, who have not even heard of his name, much less his songs. So yes, people like Hiruna are rather rare.

Amaradeva
W.D.Amaradeva
Victor Rathnayake
Victor Rathnayake
Clarence Wijewardena
Clarence Wijewardena

There are reasons. For one thing, schools have rarely produced artists the way they produce and are structured to produce engineers, lawyers, doctors, and accountants. Parents have set notions about what they want their children to become and this impedes on the ability of individual societies to do with the arts to nurture up and coming artists. If you are studying science for your A Levels, chances are that no matter how suitable for chairing and leading literary, drama, and debating societies you may be, you will be compelled to exit them abruptly to concentrate on passing that Z score and entering university. And this isn’t resolved by handing these societies over to those who study arts. As Ayath, whom I interviewed last year over how Sinhala drama is taught and sustained at schools in and around Colombo, argued, there is a discrepancy between those who take to the arts and those who debate, do drama, or write poetry for competitions. More often than not, it’s those other streams – Science and Commerce – which produce the bulk of the members who want to do something. More often than not, also, those who choose arts opt for it because they have nothing else to offer. “They just aren’t interested” was what Ayath told me.

That’s one reason. Not the only reason. It’s easy to go on lambasting structures and institutions. Looking inward, at the fault in ourselves, however, is much, much more difficult. The truth is that many of us from this generation and generations after us are rabidly averse to the past, or anything that is too old to be venerated in hagiographic terms. When Amaradeva passed away, for instance, there were howls of protest over one particular young vocalist who contended that there were much better voices than the maestro’s among his (the vocalist’s) colleagues. Whether or not this was true (such judgments, subjective though they are, can be assessed), the timing of the statement was hardly apt. And yet, this is but just one part of a broader phenomenon. Young people I talk to take to the guitar and the microphone as though God has willed it. The richness of technology, in other words, is drowning the richness of imagination, and imagination, a key prerequisite to the production of art, is lacking among them. Sure, they know how to please the ear. It’s just that they don’t know how to please the mind.

Poetry, the most potent and literary of all cultural forms (the novel and the short story, by comparison, are newer, more recent), is a veritable yardstick when it comes to other cultural spheres, in particular music. “The young don’t have the time to read, and even if they do, they just aren’t interested” was what Ajantha Ranasinghe told me during our interview. He has a point. As a people, we aren’t reading enough. Literacy rates, premised as they are on the ability to read and write on a rudimentary level, are hardly adequate by way of assessing whether we should be reading and writing more.

How can the culture of a country thrive if its poetry languishes? As Garett Field notes in his book “Modernising Composition: Sinhala Song, Poetry, and Politics in 20th Century Sri Lanka”, the cultural revival we saw in the preceding century was supported by a plethora of lyricists who were able to preserve the literariness of their work while contributing to the country’s musical sphere. It was for this reason, Field observes, that Chandrarathna Manawasinghe was able to come up with a new poetic meter for his masterpiece, “Wali Thala Athare”, and that his “student” Mahagama Sekara contended in a 1966 lecture that “a test of a good song was to take away the music and see whether the lyric could stand on its own as a piece of literature.” (This quirk, which we are used to in Sri Lanka, confounds Field so much that he admits the inadequacies of Western ethnomusicology when it comes to the Sinhala lyric.)

Ultimately, in a country and a region which has historically privileged the fusion of words and rhythms (regardless of how sophisticated or not our ancestors were, they were able to musicalise what they read in ways which baffle scholars today), the first step towards the flourishing of a cultural sphere is the dissemination of our poetry, and lyrics, among our students. This is not an easy task, but it is a task which we must engage in. After all, we’re talking about generation after generation who grow up indifferent to history (which, during the social studies experiment of the Sirimavo Bandaranaike regime and even the dates-driven approach of the curriculum prior to it, was taught rather well). We’re talking about an entire generation neglecting the need for the lyric, in favour of technology. The allure of the guitar and the boy band is too strong to be overcome. If ever they venerate the bands of the past – the Moonstones, the Super Golden Chimes, right down to the Gypsies and Marians and the Jayasri Brothers – we forget that these groups, superficially appealing to juvenile, adolescent tastes, nevertheless had members who did not neglect the lyric. Such a generation, growing up in indifference, can only be salvaged by our generation.

And it doesn’t end with poetry, by the way. We all write poetry, especially Sinhala and Tamil poetry, when we are young. It’s when we grow up that our tastes “part ways” and compel us to follow one path at the cost of all other paths. It’s the same story when it comes to other cultural spheres, be it drama or literature or painting. Many of those teenagers I talk to who like drama, for instance, tend to be interested in the movies. Hardly remarkable, until you consider that the film industry in Sri Lanka has almost always depended on the theatre for its reserves of not only actors, but also scriptwriters. (If ever there was an actor here, a proper one, who did not hail from the theatre, I am yet to hear of him or her.) And of course, until you consider that acting today has been confined to models and dilettantes who lack the seriousness, the controlled grace, of the actors I admire: from the very recent past, Uddika Premaratne, Saranga Disasekara, and the newest face of them all, Thumindu Dodantanne.

Hiruna isn’t alone, as I mentioned before. There are others. Many others. All of whom profess an interest in various other spheres, the movies included, with an interest in being active participants in those spheres. Hiruna, by nature introspective, prefers the path of the poet. Those others prefer the path of the director, the scriptwriter, and the discerning actor. To be all these things, it is necessary to be a discerning human being. Are our institutions, of learning and power, enough to channel their innate sensibilities and respond positively to what they want to become? I certainly hope so. Until that transpires, though, I can only hope and continue being friends and talking with them.

Muhudu Pathula Yata Indala

මූදු පතුල යට ඉඳලා

September 4, 2018 by admin
Gunasena Galappatty, Janaka Boralessa, Mahagama Sekara, ගුණසේන ගලප්පත්ති, ජනක බොරලැස්ස, මහගමසේකර

මූදු පතුල යට ඉඳලා
මුතු ඇටයක නිදි කරවා
පෙණකැටියක පා කරලා
මගෙ දෝතට පුතු ආවා…
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දශක ගනනක් අපේ දෙසවනට ඇසුණු මේ ගීතය ඇතුලත් වුනේ ගුණසේන ගලප්පත්ති – මහගමසේකර සුසංයෝගයෙන් බිහිවුන මූදු පුත්තු වේදිකා නාට්‍යයේ. මෙකී නාටකයේ සියලුම ගීත රචනා කරන ලද්දේ මහ‍ගමසේකර ශූරීන් විසින්.
මූදු පුත්තු වේදිකා නාට්‍යය බිහිවුනේ ස්පාඤ්ඤ ජාතික කිවිඳු හා ලේඛක ෆෙඩරිකෝ ගාර්ෂියා ලෝකා (Federico García Lorca) ගේ යෙර්මා (Yerma-1934) නාට්‍යය ඇසුරින්. යෙර්මා හි කථා තේමාව වුනේ ස්පාඤ්ඤයේ පිටිසර පෙදෙසක වෙසෙන, දරුවන් නොමැති වීම නිසා සමාජ හා මානසික පීඩනයෙන් පෙළෙන විවාහක කාන්තාවකගේ කටුක ජීවිතයේ ශෝකාන්තයයි.
යම්තාක් දුරට යෙර්මා හි කථා තේමාවට අනුගත වුවත් මූදු පුත්තු වේදිකා නාට්‍යය බිහිවුනේ ගුණසේන ගලප්පත්ති නාට්‍යවේදියානන්ගේ සීයා මුහන්දිරම් කෙනෙකු ලෙස ජීවත් වූ ගම්පියස වූ දික්වැල්ල ප්‍රදේශයේ ජනජීවිතය පදනම් කරගෙනයි.
මෙහි කථා නායිකාව ධීවරයෙකුගේ බිරිඳක් (සරා). ඇය දරුවන් නැති සොවින් පෙළෙන්නියක්. අවට සමාජයෙන් සහ ඇගේ හිත තුලින්ම වන පීඩනය ඇයට දරාගන්නට බැහැ. සැමියා (තේගිරිස්) මුහුදු රැකියාවට ගියපසු දැනෙන තනිකම ඇයට දරාගන්නට බැහැ. ඇයට සැමියාගේ ආදරය ලැබෙන්නේ නෑ. ඒ නිසා ඇය දරුවෙකු ලබාගන්නට වෙනත් අයෙකුගේ පිහිට පතනවා. ඒ තමයි ඇගේ සැමියාගේම සොහොයුරා (දියෝනිස්).

“බිලිඳු තොලක කිරි සුවඳ උරන්නයි
ළමැද දෙතන පුඩු උඩට හැරෙන්නේ
කුසෙහි පුතුට නිදි යහන සදන්නයි
පළල උකුල පටු ඉඟට ලැබෙන්නේ
නියම කලට තන කිරට පෙරෙන්නයි
නහර පුරා ලේ දහර දුවන්නේ
පුතෙකු නොමැති කල ඒ කිරි ලේමයි
සිරුර දවන විස බවට හැරෙන්නේ”
.
කෙසේ හෝ ඇය ඇගේ බලාපොරොත්තුව ඉටුකරගන්නවා. දැන් ඇය දරු සුරතල් බලන කාලයයි.
.
මූදු පතුල යට ඉඳලා
මුතු ඇටයක නිදි කරවා
පෙණ කැටියක පාකරලා
මගෙ දෝතට පුතු ආවා
සුදු පාටින් පහන් තරුව දුර අහසේ දිළිසෙනවා
සුදු පාටින් ටිකිරි හිනා පුතුගෙ මුවින් ගිලිහෙනවා
.
යෙර්මා නාට්‍යයේ, සැමියා (Juan) හුදෙක්ම මුදල් ගැන හිතන කෙනෙකු නිසා ඔහුට දරුවන් ගැන කැමත්තක් නෑ. ඒ නිසා යෙර්මා තුල සැමියා පිළිබඳ ඇතිවන්නේ වෛරයක්. ඇගේ හිත හැදීමට වෙනත් අයෙකු (victor) පැමිණියත් ඇගේ බලාපොරොත්තුව තම සැමියා වෙතින්ම දරුවෙකු ලබාගැනීම. ඇගේ බලාපොරොත්තුව ඉටුනොවන බව දැනගන්නා යෙර්මා අවසානයේ තම සැමියා මියයන තුරු ඔහුගේ ගෙල මිරිකනවා. ඇය අවසානයේ විලාප නගනුයේ “කවුරුත් එන්න එපා. මම මගේ පුතා මැරුවා” යනුවෙන්.
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ගුණසේන ගලප්පත්තිගේ මූදු පුත්තු නාට්‍යයේ “සරා” දරු සෙනෙහස විඳිනවා. දරුවා ගැන රහස කිසිවෙකු දන්නේ නැහැ. ඇගේ සැමියා හිතන්නේ මේ තමන්ගේ දරුවා බවයි. ඒ නිසා තේගිරිස්ගේ ආදරය දරුවාට ලැබෙනවා. එසේම තම ලෙයින් උපන් දරුවාට සරා ගේ මස්සිනා වූ දියෝනිස් ගෙන්ද ලැබෙන්නේ නොමඳ වූ ආදරයක්.
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වෙරළෙන් කිරි කවඩි සොයා කෙනෙක් පුතුට ගෙන එනවා
තවත් කෙනෙක් පාට පාට පබළු කඩෙන් ගෙන එනවා
ඒ කවඩියි මේ පබළුයි එක නූලේ අමුනනවා
ඒවායින් හවඩි සදා පුතුගෙ ඉණේ පළඳනවා..
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මෙවැනි අසම්මත මාතෘකාවක් වේදිකාවට රැගෙන ඒම ගැන එකල යම් යම් විරෝධතා මතු වුවත් මෙය අසමසම අතිවිශිෂ්ඨ නිර්මානයක් බව අවිවාදයෙන් සඳහන් කල යුතුය. කොන්ස්ටන්ටීන් ස්ටැනිලව්ස්කි හඳුන්වා දුන් තත්විධ රංග ක්‍රමය (Stanislavski’s system) මෙරට වේදිකාවේ අත්හදා බැලූ පළමු අවස්ථාව එය විය.
මුල් අවධියේ නාට්‍යයේ ස්වර මාලා සෝමදාස ඇල්විටිගල සංගීතවේදියානන් විසින් නිර්මානය කල අතර ජයතිස්ස අලහකෝන් විසින් සංගීතය මෙහෙයවන ලදී. මූදු පතුල යට ඉඳලා ගීතයේ මුල් ගායනය නිර්මලා බාලසූරිය විසිනි.

Bandula Nanayakkarawasam’s ‘Sekera Moment’

October 23, 2016 by admin
Bandula Nanayakkarawasam, Mahagama Sekara, Malinda Seneviratne

Perhaps it is because of a discernible suppression of Mahagama Sekera in the larger discourse of 20th Century Sinhala literature that people sometimes express the wish that the great man be elevated to his rightful place among literary greats.  It might be for this very reason that some who attended an event at the Light House Galley on April 7, 2014 curiously titled ‘Rae Ira Pana’ with a ‘Sekera Mahima’ tag may have left believing that justice was done.  Sober reflection might yield the following fact: Good literature does not need media boost and a giant doesn’t need a leg-up.

‘Rae Ira Pana – Sekera Mahima’ is not strange to those who are interested in the Sinhala lyric.  Themahima or wonderment of Mahagama Sekera does not require elaboration but the idea, let’s say, of ‘Sekera’ had a lot to do with ‘Rae Ira Pana’ the radio program and ‘Rae Ira Pana’ the event.  Let’s begin with the program.

Bandula Nanayakarawasam (Malinda Words)
Bandula Nanayakarawasam (Malinda Words)

‘Rae Ira Pana’ was a unique radio show.  It ran continuously for 115 weeks.  Bandula Nanayakkarawasam, eminent lyricist and presenter, hosted the show.  He wrote the script, presented the show and had a hand in all creative efforts associated with the program.  He drew extensively from the archive that is his memory, coloring song with anecdote and flavoring it with history.  He re-drew well-known figures of the Sinhala music scene, accentuating already known facets and detailing the lesser known to give depth to face and word.

Bandula knows that for all the fixations with things commercial, there exists a sizable population that seek a superior creative, a song where there is complementarity between words, composition, music and voice.  It was thus an exercise that instilled in listener the feeling that he/she is not alone.  What began as a peripheral program a fair distance from ‘prime time’ gained so much popularity that it affected a veritable shift in ‘prime time’.  The 7 pm to 9 pm Sunday program was repeated from 8 am to 10 am the following Saturday.  Sri Lankan expatriates made a weekly date with the program via the internet.  ‘Rae Ira Pana’ was adjudged the best music program at the State Music Awards 2013.

Bandula dabbed his narrative often with literary and musical fact and anecdote outside the island, drawing from other cultures, other literatures and other genres.  It had, therefore, an educational element to it.

The response, he says, was phenomenal.  Appreciation flowed in from all parts of the country and from people belonging to different generations.  And that’s how we got ‘Sekera Mahima’ this evening.

Among the listeners was Ananda Wickramarachchi, a 64 year old ‘fan’ who was a retired Chemistry teacher at St Joseph’s College.  He had seen an ad about the program and had listened to it.  This was in late September 2011 (‘Rae Ira Pana’ was launched earlier that month).  Since then he hadn’t missed even one ‘show’.  The reason was ‘Sekera’.  Bandula devoted several episodes to the work of Mahagama Sekera. Wickramarachchi, who had made it his lifework to collect everything written by Sekera and everything written about Sekera, had found a kindred spirit.  Bandula sought him out to obtain hitherto unknown or lesser known knowledge of Sekera’s life and work.  Wickramarachchi, as a mark of appreciation for Bandula’s work, decided to gift the collection to the man behind ‘Rae Ira Pana’.  Bandula had suggested that an event which celebrates the great literary personality would be the appropriate ‘stage’ for such a gift-giving.  That’s how ‘Sekera Mahima’ got tagged to ‘Rae Ira Pana’.

‘Rae Ira Pana’ was struck down in December 2013 much to the dismay of the considerable fan base it had engendered.  This, then, was a moment to reflect, step back and reassess, and what better way than to do all this in a context where the man who inspired so many, including Bandula, is remembered and celebrated?

‘Rae Ira Pana’ had already ‘gathered’ a disparate and eclectic crowd.  They gathered around their radios and listened to Bandula. There was togetherness, a community, a solidarity that got built over weeks that stretched into months and more than two years.  They were left hanging by the particular station.  And so Bandula devised a way to bring them together.  That’s the genesis of the show, with the unintended but fortuitous outcome of ‘scrapping’: the launch of a website that gives us all the episodes whenever we want to listen to them, www.rairapaana.com.

And they came.  First and foremost, there was Sekera’s family, his son and daughter and the grandchildren he never saw. There was W.D. Amaradeva whose songs are remembered as much for his incomparable voice as for the lyrics into which that voice was mixed to give the world countless memorable songs. Bandula’s friends and teachers, formal and otherwise, were all there.  There were young people, artists of one kind or another, known to Bandula.  There was Bandula’s family too. There were fellow lyricists, many whom he had revered in his formative years and who consider him not student or ‘junior’ but equal.  There were ‘Rae Ira Pana’ fans.  There were people who loved and revered Mahagama Sekera.

They came from all parts of the country. They cancelled appointments considered ‘important’.  This, many would have thought, is a must-go.  ‘Must-go’ because they all love Bandula and more than that, they are acutely aware of the massive contribution that Sekera made to Sinhala literature.  No one was disappointed although things got off the ground late.  I didn’t want to miss even a minute, so I got there right on time, dragging a reluctant friend who had time to kill and no one to kill it with. Hafeel Farisz was glad he came along.

There was a script but then again Bandula Nanayakkarawasam is too creative to stick to any script, even his own. He improvised.  He entertained with anecdote. He referred to connections and built and strengthened ‘connectivities’.    He laid out his life and demonstrated what a critical part the community of literary figures, past and present, played in shaping it in particular ways.  Again and again he returned to Sekera.

Amaradeva was asked to speak a few words and then, gently, persuaded to sing ‘Ese Mathuvana’ with Bandula at the maestro’s ear prompting.  Amaradeva, as always, recalled that his creativity and that of Sekera were intertwined, using the line gee pothai mee vithai (the book of verse and the glass of wine), even though Sekera had a life outside of Amaradeva of a magnitude and versatility that Amaradeva’s life outside of Sekera just cannot match.  But there was indulgence of course.  Sekera would have been 85 today.  Amaradeva just passed that mark.

There were speeches.  Many.  That’s because Bandula is by nature someone who celebrates inclusivity. He wanted a lot of people to ‘say a few words’. They all did. They kept it short and they spoke sense.  There were two ‘special’ speeches, one by Wickramarachchi and the other by W.S. Bandara, Bandula’s disapamok anduru thuma at Richmond.

Bandara spoke at length. He entertained. He taught.  He spoke about education and educating. He drew examples from Richmond, spoke of the use and abuse of libraries, critiqued education policy and inter aliaspoke of values that sustain civilization and the threats engendered by the abandonment of the same.  It was not hard to understand why and how Bandula Nanayakkarawasam does the things he does.

If that was introduction to ‘beginning’ then Wickramarachchi’s speech described the end (pertaining to the particular moment that was this event). He spoke of his fascination of Sekera and his appreciation of Bandula’s efforts through ‘Rae Ira Pana’.  Fittingly, Sekera’s children gifted him with a printed copy of one of Sekera’s paintings.

Ravinda Mahagama Sekera later explained, ‘the original of that copy is not with us and no one knows where it is.’ Indeed there many of his paintings are lost.  Ravinda said that there are a few at home but there could be over a hundred others.  Some had been sold at the one and only exhibition Sekera had held.  He had gifted away many to his friends.  Most did not even carry his signature. Ravinda observed that it is possible that those who possess the paintings might not even know they have in their possession a Sekera painting.

He was a giver.  And giving and sharing was what Sekera stood for or represented through his work. Bandula pointed out that Sekera reminded everyone that nothing is taken away when we go away forever but in the intermediate hours of living sharing is possible and wholesome.

Bandula had lined up songs for the evening and they were slotted in nicely amidst comments and speeches.  They were well-picked.  He’s good at that; this is why ‘Rae Ira Pana’ was so popular after all.  He prefaced each performance with a relevance-note.  All of it was poetic as befitted reciter and occasion. Most poignant was a rendering of ‘Ese mathuvana’ by M.R. Shah, former President of the Bank Employees’ Union.  Bandula, in introducing Shah, spoke of union politics and things that cut across ideological preferences and political affiliations.  Shah is no Amaradeva of course, but his rendition was nevertheless beautiful.

Asanka Liyanaarachchi, an undergrad and winner of ‘Kavitha’ the university version of ‘Super Star’ sang ‘Aetha Kandukara’, coincidentally just as Pundit Amaradeva arrived.  The song and the lyric are not the preserve to the recognized and honored, Bandula often says.  This is why he had an employee of the Galle Post Office and friend sing ‘Wasanthaye Mal’.  Nelu Adhikari sang ‘Parasathu Mal’; Sujatha Attanayake would have been proud. Kapila Poogalaarachchi sang ‘Seethala diya piri sunila vilai’ a song that Bandula had picked from Sekera’s unpublished lyrics, thereby foregoing an opportunity to pen a song himself, again very ‘Sekarist’ of him.  There was Gayathri Ekanayake, a teacher at Visakha, who sang ‘Ruwan wala duhul kadin’.  They were all very good.

Bandula is a treasure house of anecdotes.  He has a fantastic memory for seemingly inconsequential things.  He recalled how Kularatne Ariyawansa had indulged in mild browbeating one night and how he, Bandula, had ended up writing a song that ‘Kule Aiya’ had been asked to write, ‘Nim Therak’ (Sunil Edirisinghe).  Kule Aiya had turned up at the studio and had been livid that Bandula had let his, Kule’s name remain as lyricist.  That’s respect, he said.  Kularatne Ariyawansa would have none of it, not least of all because it was beautifully written.  Bandula always acknowledges the influence of the pera parapura, the greats who came before, of whom he claims that Sekera was the foremost.  This is perhaps why he asked a host of guests to offer comments, some many years old, some his contemporaries.  And so we had Buddhadasa Galappaththi, Samantha Herath, Praneeth Abeysundera, Lal Hegoda, Rohana Weerasinghe and Sunil Ariyaratne making brief observations of the event, Bandula, Rae Ira Pana and of course Mahagama Sekera.

‘Listening to all this, doesn’t it give you hope for this country?’ my friend Hafeel asked me.  ‘When was I ever pessimistic?’ I replied.

Optimism apart, the fleshing out of hope or giving it corporeality of some kind requires hard work, tender hearts and the seeking out and strengthening of solidarity.  Bandula, true to form, put it best.  Here is a rough translation:

‘Let all that is best in all of us come together and create another Mahagama Sekera who would then unravel who we are and the world we live in and thereby show us the pathways we ought to choose so we can reach a better, more tender, more knowing world.’

What better tribute to that beautiful human being.

 

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

Sekera is a song and a fragrance

October 23, 2016 by admin
Mahagama Sekara, Malinda Seneviratne

Pic Courtesy www.mahagamasekera.org

In the twenty years that have passed since that bus ride they have talked about it on a few occasions.  No one said ‘Mahagama Sekera Kandayama’.  Indeed no one mentioned the lyricist most featured in their singing.  Songs are associated with singer, not composer or lyricist, for whatever reason.  Pundit Amaradeva of course mentions his friend with affection every now and again, using the title of a song, ‘Gee pothai, mee vithai’ (the book of songs and the wine) to refer to himself and Sekera.  He has not and others have not done much to sit Sekera right where he belongs – by the vocalist’s side. Metaphorically, of course.  For whatever reason.

One day in the early 1990s a group of young boys got into a bus in Ampara. They were going to Kandy. They were returning after visiting a friend in Kumarigama.  They were all seated at the back of the bus/coach.  Somewhere near Uhana they began to sing.  They didn’t stop singing until they reached Hunnasgiriya, except when the bus stopped for lunch.  From Uhana to Digana, non-stop, they sang their favorite Amaradeva songs. Without repeating.  That was about 3-4 hours of singing.  When the bus stopped for lunch, a fellow passenger was overheard referring to them as Amaradeva Kandayama (The Amaradeva Group).

Perhaps it is because Sekera was so versatile and because composing lyrics was just one of many genres of literature and art that he indulged in. Perhaps it is because Sekera left us 38 years ago and Amaradeva is still alive (and may he live long, much longer!).  Perhaps there’s a deeper and more politically pregnant reason.  We know for a fact that there is a deliberate ‘absenting’ of other lyricists such as W.A. Abeysinghe, Sunil Sarath Perera and Karunaratne Abeysekera while the compositions of Mahinda Algama and Arisen Ahubudu have been butchered by deliberate erasure of key lines.  If the philosophy embedded in what could be called his ultimate composition, Prabuddha, is anything to go by, Sekera would have treated all this with equanimity.

The fact remains that even as we love Amaradeva’s songs for melody and rendering, we remember them and return to them again and again, especially as we grow older, because of the words. That’s Sekera, not Amaradeva.  There were others who lent voice to his words, especially Nanda Malini.  Amitha Wedisinghe sings a few while others like Victor Ratnayake, Sunil Edirisinghe, Edward Jayakody, Milton Perera, Sisira and Indrani Senaratne, Rupa Indumathie, Wijeratne Warakagoda, Sujatha Attanayake and Narada Disasekera have one or two.  If he was anyone’s gee potha, then, it was Amaradeva’s not least of all because it was Amaradeva who composed melodies to most of the songs sung by other artists.

Out of some 130 songs, Amaradeva has sung 63 and composed melodies to a dozen or so more.

We can write about Sekera’s poetry, his films, his novels and short stories, his plays, his paintings, his photography, his children’s literature or his unpublished PhD dissertation.  If anyone bothered to just peruse all this, he/she would be astounded by his productivity.  We can talk of his impact on various literary genres or on art in general.   In each area one would find something that has helped the development of the particular form of art, a work that gets referenced in the discourse and in the creative work of those who came later.

We can look for his mark in our cultural sensibilities and we may very well find that much of what we cherish carries elements of his creative signature.  That’s a doctoral dissertation right there waiting to be written.  Perhaps it is because Sekera is so vast and so deep that he is not mentioned. Indeed it would be a disservice to reduce the man to a particular song or his association with a particular artist.  Sekera had long arms; he embraced a lot.

We began with song and lyric.  Let’s end there.  He had words that spoke of many things and to many occasions.  It is hard to pick one song, one line, one word that captures the man or rather who he is to me. It is easy to go for Ma Mala Pasu (After I die), considering this moment of commemoration.  But let’s go with Siripa Piyume from Lester James Peries’ 1967 film ‘Ransalu’.  Sekera had suggested that Amaradeva think of pirith when composing the melody.  He was inspired, we are told, by the sight of Samanala Kandaor Siri Pada while flying into Katunayake Airport, just like the great Arahats may have, as he imagines (maha rahatun vadi maga osse).

‘Sitha kimide lovthuru suwande’

And the mind immerses itself in transcendental fragrance.

Read Sekera and that is how it feels. To me. Right now.  A song, yes, but a fragrance too.

 

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

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