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malinda-seneviratne

The lifelong friend we rarely acknowledge

December 6, 2020 by shamilka
Malinda Seneviratne

Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” – Plato

Where does the wind start, where does the wind end?  A little girl asked me and herself this question some years ago.  We don’t know but that doesn’t stop us from imagining origins.  It’s less unclear with music.  Music comes to most of us almost as soon as we are born.  Even mothers (and sometimes fathers) who cannot sing to save their souls find voice when they cradle a baby in their arms.  They sing.  They hum….doi..doi…doi…..  A baby will learn about rhythm as he or she presses against the mother.  From then on, life is full of music, full of words, melodies and rhythm.

Of course this music doesn’t come uncluttered by sounds that clearly rebel against melody and lyric, and yet, there’s nothing to stop us from gathering from the cacophony around us those sounds that are beautiful.  In time we learn to like certain songs more than others, certain kinds of music over other kinds of music.  But we are all common in our love for music.  Maybe we won’t all call it ‘love’, but few if any will say ‘I hate music!’

And that’s how we are, from cradle to grave, we move from birth to death, from childhood, through adolescence, youth and middle age to infirmity and death, always accompanied in varying degrees by song.  Leaving aside those who are totally irreligious, even those who have a little faith in some religious doctrine will be calmed by the melodious murmur that is prayer.  This is why at important moments in our lives we seek and find music in one form or the other, be it the jayamangala gatha, hymns or other chanting associated with other faiths.  We are soothed by pirith as much by the musicality as by the wisdom.

A few weeks ago, a popular singer, Keerthi Pasqual, acceded to the wish of a dying child, visiting her in hospital to sing her favorite song ‘Sanda Latha’.  A video of him singing that song for that little girl went viral on Youtube.  Not all patients, in whatever condition they may be, asks for music, but music does heal us.  We sing when we are happy.  When we are sad, music helps us deal with sorrow.  We hum, whistle or sing our favorite songs.  Even if we don’t hum or whistle or sing, the melodies we can always summon the melodies that move us – they play in our minds.  And all of a sudden the world appears to be more beautiful or less sorrowful.

My grandmother, then in her nineties and with little memory left in her, would always sing an old song she had sung to her first love (she claims he wasn’t, but we all believe he was).  All I had to say was ‘Aththamma, sing the song that Dudley sang to you’ and she would oblige:

‘When you played the organ and I sang the rosary

Life was so much sweeter

Than the sweet melody’

A few weeks before she died, when she could only remember people closest to her and was oblivious to most other things, we arranged a bikkhu to chant pirith for her.   She clasped her hands.  She smiled the most beautiful smile.  She died in her sleep.  Peacefully.  We don’t know if the music of her last days gave her peace. We don’t know if some melody of her youth stayed with her in her last moments. We do know that music made her smile.

We know that infants get attached to certain melodies and songs and that in their worst moments of bawling a mother would croon these and calm them down.  We know that songs have lifted us when we were down.  We know that music makes us dance.  We know that even unfamiliar melodies make us tap our feet to the relevant rhythms.  We listen to the songs that marked particularly poignant moments in our lives and relive those special moments.

Music is a friend ever ready to be at our side.  From cradle to grave.  Never charges us a cent.  Never says a harsh word.  Just gives. And gives. And gives.

This was written for a souvenir for concert organized by ‘Heal the Life’, an organization dedicated to support cancer patients.   

Posted by Malinda Seneviratne

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With you Kapuge, “goodbye” is a ridiculous word

September 26, 2020 by shamilka
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.

Posted by Malinda Seneviratne

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Our Cultural Icons

September 12, 2020 by shamilka
Malinda Seneviratne

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.

Arthur C.Clark
Lakshman Kadirgamar
A.T.Ariyaratne
Lester James Pieris
Christopher Weeramantry

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.

Premasiri Khemadasa
Premasiri Khemadasa
Fr.Marcelline Jayakody
Martin Wickramasinghe
Ediriweera Sarachchandra
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.

Lester James Peiris
Gunadasa Amarasekara
W.D.Amaradeva

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.

Written for: ‘The Nation’, July 22, 2012

Posted by Malinda Seneviratne

 

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The Chitrasena Magic

August 29, 2020 by shamilka
Chitrasena, Malinda Seneviratne

This morning I read a piece about ‘the new face of the Chitrasena tradition’, i.e. the late great dancer’s granddaughter. Made me want to share something I wrote for the Sunday Island almost 8 years ago, on the occasion of the maestro’s eightieth birthday. Here goes.

Chitrasena is a national icon. So is Vajira. The people of this country knew this long before the conferring of state honours. For me, Chitrasena was just “Chitrasena Mama”, a man with the kindest eyes I have ever seen, who would on certain Saturdays come home to go to Kinross beach with my father. At that time I didn’t know the meaning of the word “icon”. I couldn’t for the simple reason that I had never heard the word.

I knew however, even as a child, that Chitrasena Mama was not just someone who visited us now and then.

I distinctly remember my father launch on one of his historical narratives one day at the Kurunegala Railway Station, after I showed him a Ceylon Tourist Board poster depicting the country’s most famous dancing couple. Until then I didn’t know that Chitrasena Mama was a dancer. It took me many years to understand that that too was a paltry description for no single word can capture the versatility of the man.

When I went to the National Art Gallery on Thursday, I thought I knew who Chitrasena was. Although “dance” was never my thing, I was always intrigued by it and, like anyone who insists that the future has to be built on our cultural past, I’ve been a faithful student of art forms, artistes and their histories. Entering the Art Gallery was like walking into another time. The walls, carrying thousands of artifacts that recorded Chitrasena’s determined, dedicated and fulsome embrace with the traditional and ritualistic dance forms of Sri Lanka and of course the creativity he unleashed to drive these in new directions, spoke of two things to me: character and history.

Each tiny snippet laid out among thousands of other snippets, cried out for more attention than time could ever permit. Each, I thought, spoke not just about Chitrasena, but was an invaluable fragment of our collective search of origin and our relentless challenge to deal with the present. When a person’s work etches itself to history’s multi-coloured, multi-textual tapestry, then alone he or she becomes historical. Like all true artistes, however, Chitrasena never sought that kind of immortality. All he wanted, I imagine, was to dance and to strive for perfection in dance, which I suppose is another kind of immortality.

Hanging on the walls, there is a ves thattuwa, made of silver. It had been gifted to Chitrasena by his teacher, Bevilgamuwe Lapaya Gurunnanse. Lapaya Gurunnanse, following tradition, offered this niyatha vivaranaya of sorts to Chitrasena, his best student, and not to any of his sons, who were also dancers. In Chitrasena’s case, there was also a genetic factor. His father, Seebert Dias, had been a leading Shakespearean actor, producer and director. It was he who, recognising young Chitrasena’s potential, had sent him to India. The Kathakali, the Tagorean dance drama in Shanthinikethan, the art of Uday Shankar, are among the styles Chitrasena danced through before developing his own style and launching “a dance odessey” in Sri Lanka.

As I said, “dance” is foreign to me. Those who know it have this to say about Chitrasena: “Recognising the vast potentials of traditional dance forms, he experimented with form, sound and colour, steering the dance along uncharted paths. Ironically, the old and the new never appeared to his as two separate or distinct entities. The new was but an extension of the old. In essence, two contributions of Chitrasena are undisputed. First, the infusion of the idea of Theatre, the Stage, the world of audience confrontation and entertainment to the Sinhala Dance; and secondly, the actual work proceeding from this conception, transferring our folk dances into gems for modern theatre. From this transformation he created a vehicle of artistic expression for the Sinhala Dance – the Ballet.

One could probably “trace” the contours that he danced along with his troupe, by visiting each and every ballet he produced, Nala Damayanthi, Karadiya, Kinkini Kolama etc. That is not possible in this space. It requires a meticulous biographer to capture all that Chitrasena has done to enhance our cultural sensibilities and refashion our humanity in more gentle ways through his art. The exhibition itself is a biography of sorts.

Only, “reading” it is not within the parameters of the possible. Perhaps the one way to ensure as complete a reading as possible, would be to preserve all the material and make it available for the general public. For Chitrasena does not belong only to those who conferred honours on him. He belongs to the people not least of all because he embraced this land in the most tender way possible: he drew his strength each time his foot touched the earth and he stole nothing when he lifted it, elegantly, of course.

The organisers of the exhibition hope that it will generate funds to complete Chitrasena’s dream project, that of establishing a new Chitrasena Kalayathanaya on land granted to the Chitrasena-Vajira Dance Foundation. It will take more than an exhibition to do this. We would not be a grateful people if we don’t do something about this. For this is no longer “Chitrasena’s Project”. It is, it has to be, a National Project, as or more important than the many projects that “win” the “National” label.

What is heartening to know is what Upekha, Chitrasena’s daughter told me. “My niece Heshma has returned after doing a Theatre Arts Degree in the University of California, Berkeley. She can handle all this. Thajithangani, my other niece, is also a dancer. They will carry the tradition forward.”

This is the traditional way. It is easy to be thankful. In this case, we ought to do more. I am convinced that we can be patriotic enough to accept the challenge of ensuring that the tradition lives, by helping build the Kalayathanaya.

It is the least we, as a nation, can do by way of saying “thank you” to a human being who did much more than merely dance.

At the age of 80

Posted by Malinda Seneviratne

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Malinda Seneviratne: Three poems and a life

July 13, 2020 by shamilka
Malinda Seneviratne, Uditha Devapriya

Easily one of the most discernible occurences in the last 20 years within our local English literary sphere has been the ascent of Malinda Seneviratne. Before I get to Malinda the poet, whom I am acquainted with only barely, I need to get to Malinda the man, whom I know personally. There are clear connections between the two, so much so that I can’t separate the one from the other. To understand the reasons behind his rise and ascent, I think it best that we go through his biography before delving into his poetry.

Malinda Channa Pieris Seneviratne was born on September 23, 1965 in Colombo to Gamini Seneviratne, a Civil Servant and a poet on his own right who would eventually retire as the Chairman of the Coconut Development Authority, and Indrani Seneviratne, who taught English Literature and Greek and Roman Civilization in various schools, her longest tenure being at Royal College, Colombo. Both of them were English honours graduates from the University of Peradeniya. Malinda was the second in his family, with an elder brother, Arjuna, and a younger sister, Ruwani. They were all born to a culture of connoisseurship and appreciation of the arts. Malinda’s later forays into literature were consequently initiated by his parents, especially his father, who  got him to write a poem when he was 12 revolving around a tune played on the family piano.

He attended Royal College, where he dabbled in Literature and Chess among other activities. Having won all major awards for English literature, he wound up as Prefect and Chess Team Captain, winning the National Championship in 1983. That year he sat for his A Levels, where he offered Mathematics and obtained adequate results to enter the University of Peradeniya. However, he opted to sit for his A Levels in the Arts Stream the following year, where again he secured good enough results to enter University. He entered Peradeniya in 1985 for a Bachelor’s Degree in Sociology.

Owing to his exceptional academic performance in his first year, Malinda was selected to an exchange program at Carleton College, Minnesota for a Trimester. During the infamous UNP-JVP bheeshanaya of the eighties Universities were shut down in Sri Lanka. After sitting for both TOEFL and SAT, Malinda got a scholarship to Harvard University in December 1988. As with Peradeniya, he studied Sociology, returning to Sri Lanka two and a half years later towards the end of the bheeshanaya.

Following various stints at politics and teaching, including one as an ELT Teacher at the Medical Faculty of Peradeniya University in 1992, he was hired as an Editor at the Agrarian Research and Training Institute in March 1993 before leaving it the following year. He then resumed his higher studies, when upon a friend’s advice he applied to the University of California’s School of Urban and Regional Planning, got in, applied a year later to Cornell University, and managed to read for a PhD in Development Sociology there. However he never completed his PhD: having left his thesis (titled “Journeying with Honour: In Search of the Vague and Indeterminate”) halfway through, he was instead given a conditional Master’s Degree. As of today, he has not completed it.

His first collection of poetry, “Epistles: 1984-1996”, was published in 1999. He submitted his poetry, in manuscript form, for the Gratiaen Award on six occasions between 2007 and 2013. Five of these collections were shortlisted: Threads” in 2007, “The Underside of Silence” in 2008, “Some texts are made of leaves” in 2011, “Open Words are for Love Letting” in 2012, and “Edges” in 2013, while “Stray Kites on Stringless Days” didn’t make it to the shortlist in 2010. He won the Gratiaen for “Edges”, his best anthology by far. Two years earlier, in 2011, he had won the H. A. I. Goonetilaka Award (also with the Gratiaen Trust) for his translation of Simon Navagattegama’s acclaimed Sinhala novel Sansaranyaye Dadayakkara, which he first read at Cornell University and translated, in part, for a class exercise on Marx, Nietzsche, and Freud.

I would hazard a guess here and contend that of his literary influences, outside his immediate family that is, Neruda and Navagattegama take a prominent place. Malinda’s interest in Neruda – his subtle, effortless use of imagery in verbal terms – is there in his best poetry, and to me that is what characterises his prose as well. In Neruda you don’t see the technical gimmicks that are so nakedly apparent in, say, e.e. cummings or Ogden Nash; you see instead the displacement of myth and conjecture and convenient fictions (whether conceived on the personal sphere or by officialdom) through the use of understatement. There is never a rift between the personal and the social. They get together in ways that one essay can’t do justice to.

Malinda is at his most characteristic, and I’d like to think his most enduring, when he abandons the social for the personal and embraces the kind of life he has grown up on and grown up to love. His poems on his daughters, for instance, merit particular scrutiny:

I’ve held you both
together and separately
in wakeful hours and while asleep

The cutting of a whole sentence into a set of lines is characteristic of Neruda and Latin American poetry in general, but it’s interesting to note that Malinda, unlike most young poets here who are entranced by Neruda (not unlike their descendants who were entranced by what they erroneously felt to be the essence of Rabindranath Tagore’s work), doesn’t confuse technical gimmickry for mastery of language.

But there’s one issue that bothers me. Critics, in their attempt to get at the man, tend to fault him for resorting to religious imagery in his poems. Some of them have faulted him in front of me. Their argument is as follows: for a poet to be truly universal, he or she must transcend his or her affiliations to a particular collective. In the case of Malinda their allegation is rooted in what they feel to be his desire to belong, his exhilaration at being at one with a faith and an ethnicity. I would like to examine two of his poems in this respect, because I know that the yardstick those critics use is a largely mythical image of an artist as a transcendentalist. (They don’t even want him to affirm humanity; they are content in making him reject his ethno-religious garb.)

The first poem is disarmingly simple: “To a little boy holding (onto) a Buddhist flag over his head.” In 24 lines he draws a link between the flag and the collective it represents. While superficially easy, his attitude towards his own faith comes out strikingly in the last line: “It [the flag] is for holding and breaking son.” The flag is a symbol, at most a quasi-secular symbol. What transcends it is the faith it embodies.

Malinda’s politics has reflected his poetry to a lesser extent than his prose. It’s interesting to note that, not unlike his political essays, he is content in dichotomising between the secular and the mythical whilst remaining respectful of the latter. It’s no coincidence that he refuses to indulge in his faith so much in The Underside of Silence, which is chock-a-block with idealisations of his family and his country. He becomes more confident of indulging in faith and ethnic identity, however, in Open Words are for Love Letting (from which the above poem is taken), and even more so in Edges.

In “Dhamma” he goes a step further: he enters his faith without merely gazing at it.

… words can be clap
and can be clasp
some are lit
and others light
this Vesak
and always.

Again you see a dichotomy, between clap and clasp, between lit and light, congealing to this Vesak and all time. It now seems as though polar opposites are reconcilable through his faith. There is a transcendentalism here that one comes across very rarely in his other poems. It’s almost a new sensibility, but is it enough to counter what his critics are saying? The answer to that question lies in another poem: “Temples”, also included in Edges and manifestly more lengthy, and exploratory, than the above two.

… their altars crumble
for want of flowery word
and clasped hands
in those timeless
rituals of evermore love
grass peeps from stone-edge
listening for footfall
that tripped on word-edge

In that first poem I mentioned, Malinda differentiates between the flag and the collective: the latter in effect overwhelms the former. In the second, “Dhamma”, he draws a dichotomy between the mundane and the supra-mundane that faith trivialises. He has grown more vociferous here: the altars he refers to (which can be from any place of worship, by the way) thrive on an attitude of devotion among their patrons. Patronage, in other words, is constructive, if not essential, to a faith and a collective. He has let go of any transcendentalist tendencies, and embraced a more frank and sincere conception of the relationship between the laity and the clergy. What can we say to his critics, then?

That they are correct in their observation, but wrong in their remedy. Poets are not uprooted secularists. They do not abandon their religious fervour, and some of the best poets one can name derived their themes from their faith. The myth of a transcendentalist poet can be shattered when considering that transcendentalism was in effect an offshoot of Orientalism, or the belief that the two main world systems – the West and the East – would come together through universalised conceptions of the faiths adhered to in the latter (Buddhism, Taoism, the Upanishads). It evolved from the essays of Thoreau and had its finest hour in the poetry of Whitman. The humanism in their works was largely derivative and decorative, which means that they had to give way once they moved on to the 20th century. To consider that humanism a sign of a poet’s ability to abandon faith and collective is erroneous, because they were informed less by the secular than by the supra-mundane. Malinda is no transcendentalist, but nor is he the obsessive religious devotee he is touted as, by those who happen to take issue with his politics.

Written for: Daily Mirror, November 28 2017

Posted by Uditha Devapriya

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Lionel Ranwala Foundation leaves a footprint in Zhangjiajie

Lionel Ranwala Foundation leaves a footprint in Zhangjiajie

April 11, 2018 by admin
Folk Music, Lionel Ranwala, Malinda Seneviratne, Sahan Ranwala, Zhangjiajie,  Lionel Ranwala Foundation

On the 8th of September, 2011, a young Sri Lankan, a medical student studying in China, had visited Zhangjiajie.  On his t-shirt was a Sri Lankan flag.  It was not the first time he had worn this t-shirt in China but it was the first time it was noticed.  In fact, wherever he went, there were people wanting to photograph him and be photographed with him.  He did not understand for it had never happened before.  

Then he met Sahan Ranwala.

Sahan Ranwala was in that city for a week, from September 10th to the 16th, attending an International Folk Music Festival.  The troupe he led, that of the Lionel Ranwala Foundation, was one of 29 teams from 28 countries, not counting 21 Chinese groups that were participating.

All the teams had to perform twice a day for an entire week. Most had come ready with one or two programmes.  The Sri Lankan troupe performed 15 different items.  They had in fact stamped the Sri Lankan signature on the entire festival from day one, theirs being the best item of the opening ceremony.

Of the fifty groups, 6 were adjudged as the top performers.  Sri Lanka’s flag fluttered proudly among these winners, the rest of the elite group comprising the United States of America, Russia, France, Georgia and South Africa.

Ten young people well versed in all aspect of Sri Lankan folk music stood out from the rest on account of their versatility.  Sahan told The Nation that they were focused on expressing in their performances the amazing diversity of the Sinhala folk song.  The audiences were treated to a fine mix of traditional music, with the troupe having put together pieces that were representative of the three main traditions, Udarata, Pahatharata and Sabaragamua.  There had been nelum gayana, raban gayana and the songs associated with shanthikarma.  

‘We received accolades from all quarters, but almost everyone praised our performances for being able to give the message of the lyrics in dance and music,’ Sahan said.  He mentioned especially the ‘Vessanthara Velapuma’ which had moved many to tears.  The explanation was simple: ‘The melody and performance would give them the idea of the item and they recognized that each item contained a central and profound concept with which they could identify’.

More than presenting new material at each performance, they were unique in that they were able to get the audience involved as well.

‘It was a very proud moment for us to see the Lion Flag among the flags of bigger and better known nations.  We sang deshabhimanee gee (patriotic songs) all the way from the hall to the hotel. When we arrived in the city, no one knew us or about us; few indeed knew of Sri Lanka.  By the time we were ready to leave, there was no country bigger than Sri Lanka.’

It was bound to happen, though.  On the first night, i.e. after the opening ceremony, there had been a function.  Everyone had brought their drums.  Everyone played.  After some time we tried out the traditional drums of our fellow participants from other countries.  They were all surprised that the Sri Lankans could play their drums.  All they did was to watch and then try their hand at these instruments they had never touched before.  The Israeli troupe was made of all drummers.  Their leader had tried to play the traditional Sinhala drums but hadn’t been able to demonstrate the kind of mastery that Sahan’s team had shown playing their (the Israeli) drums.  Whatever dance they saw, they watched carefully and danced themselves. Needless to say they were noticed, applauded and highly appreciated.

Their versatility, freshness and unique ability to transcend language barriers and touch hearts of people from vastly different cultures had endeared the Ranwala Foundation troupe to everyone.

Sahan said that they did not expect anyone in Sri Lanka to have heard about their exploits and that they were pleasantly surprised when a special felicitation was organized for the troupe at the BMICH and when they also received a special award from the Buddhist Congress.

The troupe representing the Lionel Ranwala Foundation and the nation were sponsored by the Ministry of Cultural Affairs.  Sahan expressed gratitude to the Minister of Cultural Affairs, Hon. T.B. Ekanayaka, the Secretary, Mr. Bimal Rubasinghe, the Director of Cultural Affairs, Mr. Vijith Kanugala and Prasanna Batiks who provided the costumes.

A few weeks ago, the citizens of Zhangjiajie did not know about Sri Lanka.  Today, few would not know about Sri Lanka.  That’s the secret of everyone wanting to take a picture with that random Sri Lankan medical student wearing a T-shirt with a Sri Lankan flag.  The people of Zhangjiajie know the Lion Flag. They know the rhythms of Sri Lanka.  They have heard the traditional drums.  They have heard folk songs born in the Udarata, Pahatharata and Sabaragamuwa.

Maybe there’s a lot we can give the world.  Maybe all it takes is to be ourselves. In all the glory, all the giving, all the erros and tragedies.  If this country has a culture, it must have a rhythm.  It’s good to know that we have something unique.  Something that people of other cultures can related to, admire and applaud.

More power, therefore, to the Sahans of our land.

by MALINDA SENEVIRATN​E

Sri Lankan textures, colors and diversity

Sri Lankan textures, colors and diversity

April 11, 2018 by admin
J.B. Dissanayake, Malinda Seneviratne, Naadro, Pradeep Ratnayake, Rakhitha, Ranwala Balakaya, Sahan Ranwala,  Lionel Ranwala Foundation

A question was put to a chef at lunch recently: ‘What is uniquely Sri Lankan when it comes to cuisine?’ The person who asked the question responded himself: ‘colour and texture’. Even in the most humble kitchen there is a manifest effort to obtain diversity of colour and texture. Sri Lankan cooking in its evolution over time seems to have focused on producing diversity not just in the number of different dishes but in the ways that a single article is cooked.

There is a certain openness to ‘new’ that enhances rather than subtracts from what is authentically Sri Lankan. As Dr. Nalin De Silva has frequently pointed out potatoes are not ours, but ala thel daala (devilled potato) is ours. Carrots are not ours but they are not foreign when they are grated, mixed with coconut, onion, and a bit of lime juice and turned into a sambol. Not all our pickles are ‘ours’ but we do add a dash of us-ness to make them so. As Prof. J.B. Dissanayake has pointed out, there was never a ‘fa’ sound in Sinhala and therefore no corresponding character in the alphabet, but there was enough flexibility to conjure up one and legitimate it as well.

Sri Lanka cuisine is however not a salad-like gathering of borrowed dishes. Its variety in colour and texture is enhanced be what is borrowed but certainly not obtained by imported diversity. Rather, it is a unique focus on these attributes that is at the core of overall culinary objective, I believe.

Listening to that conversation my thoughts drifted to something as delightful, colourful and diverse. Drums. And of course the attendant dance sequences as well as vocal accompaniment. Three distinct music-moments came to mind.

The first was a conversation with Pradeep Ratnayake, Sitarist a few months back. Pradeep’s Kuveni Double-Concerto with Symphony Orchestra (with Ramon Jaffe on the Cello), arranged by Prof. Patrick Zimmerli of Columbia University, was performed in Berlin and received a standing ovation. Pradeep told me that it had taken 6 months to compose this arrangement in 4 movements, that all rules of ‘Western Music’ were contained in it etc. All Greek to me. He played a recording for me. Even to the untrained ear of someone who is not particularly excited by classical music of any kind, it was a glorious performance. Most important, in that complex intertwining of different sounds from different instruments, the traditional drums of Sri Lanka did not appear as add-on or after-thought but as ‘core’
.
The second was a conversation with Rakhitha, the leader/found of a percussion band called Naadro. All fascinated with drums, I was told. I was made to listen to one of their ‘street performances’ at Galle Face. On youtube, that is. Mesmerizing. Greek, however. Rakhitha told me that Naadro draws from percussion traditions from all parts of the world. And yet, they’ve not forgotten the traditional drums and rhythms. They’ve sat at the feet of the top exponents of the genre of their choice and learned well. That’s core. A solid core that allows for and indeed cries out for experimentation, engagement with the universe and a blending that enriches without diminishing.

The third was what I believe is a relentless examination of the ‘core’ with the objective of understanding who we are, where we came from and what we are about so that we can go forth into the future with confidence and dignity. The individual concerned is Sahan Ranwala, current articulator of philosophy and approach pioneered among others by his father, the late Lionel Ranwala.

The conversation was about the latest production put together by the ‘Ranwala Balakaya’, ‘Three’. They have dubbed it thus: ‘thri sinhalaye thrivida sampradaaye thunkal yaakeruma’ or the conjoining of the three (dance) traditions of the three ancient provinces (Ruhunu, Maya, Pihiti) with fidelity to time’s timeless trinity (the past, present and future). That’s a roll of identity, ideology and vision finding articulation in the form of dance, rhythm, music and song. It is a celebration of the diverse traditions within this island, the Kandyan, Low-country and Sabaragamuwa schools of dance.

‘Three’ had its maiden performance on January 22, 2011 at the Tower Hall, following other highly acclaimed productions such as‘Me Avuduru Kaale (This time of the New Year),’ ‘Gama Avulangngang’ (I shall burn/incite the village), ‘Ahase innavalu’ (‘Resident in the sky, apparently,’ the precursor to Gama Avulangngang), Ahase Innavalu (Apparently resident in the sky) and Yuddetath Avith (We have declared war also), not forgetting ‘Podi Ayata Jana Gee’ (Folk songs for the little ones), the term-end concert put together by students (6-18 years of age) attending the workshop-type programmes held at the Jana Kala Kendraya, Battaramulla to educate a new generation about these traditions. They count over 500 performances all over the island.

I’ve had opportunity to watch the rehearsals on several Sundays while waiting for my children to finish their class at the Jana Kala Kendraya. The enthusiasm, energy, discipline and wonderful talent was truly amazing. More importantly, in sequence and movement, the play of tone, volume, melody, rhythm and beat, there was what I felt was a reiteration of something uniquely Sri Lankan. Colour and texture. In rich diversity.

Sahan explained the thinking behind the production and sketched out the items in the programme. In keeping with the ‘trinity’ trope, the Balakaya had decided to invite as special guests representative Theros of the three nikayas as well as representatives of the Army, Navy and Airforce. Most importantly they had decided to show appreciation and celebrate the work of three senior exponents of the three traditions: Babanis Gurunnanse (Sabaragamuwa), Aedis Weerasinghe Master (Pahatharata) and Siril Makehelwala (Udarata). This too is ‘tradition’. It is consistent with the colour-texture diversity that marks ‘Sri Lankan’.

The Ranwala Balakaya is not intimidated by the financial power, public presence and acquired glamour associated with those groups that think fit to ape what they believe are superior and unique traditions. They draw from contemporary themes and are not only aware of different types of music but recognize these in the traditional folk music. They seem to have a very good sense of core-texture and core-colour and relevant extrapolation. They can cook up quite a meal, so to speak.

All things considered, if we don’t know who are, we can go only thus far. If on the other hand we dwell too long in the past, we freeze and get fossilized. There should be balance. And, if it is to be authentically ‘Sri Lankan’, then diversity of colour and texture need to be recognized as ‘core’ and that ‘core’ should be explored, celebrated and reaffirmed if articulation and synthesis with other traditions are to yield a more splendid feast, in music and other things too.

‘Three’ shows how to be ‘traditional’ without letting tradition being a weight that stops innovation. It shows also that sometimes when we see something as ‘foreign’ it is because we don’t know much about ‘tradition’. We vilify in our ignorance, both ways. It is a show that would enrich all school audiences and this is something that principals who see the importance of children knowing their roots, being proud of their parents and being sheltered from the evils of rejecting uncritically things ‘traditional’ or embracing uncritically things ‘foreign’ would do well to take cognizance of.

Ideally, ‘Three’ should be performed in every school. Some can afford it, some can get parents to pay while others can draw funds from educational authorities and still others persuade the Ranwala Balakaya to perform free of charge. If we lose out textural diversity and collapse the rainbow into shades of grey, we could be impoverished indeed. It is good that we have a Pradeep Ratnayake. Good that we have Naadro. I am sure there are others. I feel blessed that we have the Ranwala Balakaya, fighting with such tremendous energy and such winning smiles, for our children.

This article first appeared in the ‘Sunday Island’ in February 2001. Malinda Seneviratne is the Editor-in-Chief of ‘The Nation’ and can be reached at msenevira@gmail.com

by Malinda Seneviratne

Reflections on the ‘microchip of our civilization’

April 11, 2018 by admin
Ariyaseela Wickramanyake, Lionel Ranwala, Malinda Seneviratne

Some time ago I wrote about Lionel Ranwala, the indefatigable archivist and exponent of traditional Sinhala music. A line at the end of the article prompted a response. Here’s the line: ‘Our ancestors live in us in some form or another, as remnant and life-thread. It awakens us to who we are and therefore inspire us to become who we want to be.’ Here’s the response:

‘Ariyaseela Wickramanyake used to say that we all carry in each of us a microchip of our
entire civilization, which could be tapped. The idea is that we as a nation could repeat our greatness over and over. That is the only explanation for our spectacular victory at the last war which propped up from nowhere. So we cannot be just written off.’

The email was sent by Gamini Gunawardena, Sanskrit scholar, retired DIG, father-figure, friend and occasional contributor of comments to newspapers. Too ‘occasional’ I might add. The above contention, though, could well be articulated by any patriot in any country, especially those that have survived all manner of invasions. There are nations that survived and those that did not and we could surmise that the former could perhaps attribute their survival to the presence of civilizational micro chips in heartbeat and sinew, folk gaze and folk archive.

The 'Ranwala Balakaaya' led by the master's son, Sahan
The 'Ranwala Balakaaya' led by the master's son, Sahan

We ourselves suffered for five hundred years under the jackboot of colonialism. Those who invaded us were armed with guns and moral license issued by the Vatican in the form of Papal Bulls. That’s a history that ought to be but is not taught in our schools. Certain things are swept under the carpet in the name of ‘inter-religious amity’ but those who make such decisions fail to realize that censorship and half-truths amount to mis-education and in the end do a huge disservice to the faiths themselves. Catholicism ought to be embraced by the convinced not out of ignorance but out of a clear understanding of the history of the Catholic Church and that this is not the fault of Jesus Christ.

Yes, we came out of all that. Today we don’t have to contend with Papal Bulls but this does not mean that the core of who we are is not under threat by those forces that would obliterate our culture in order to facilitate all manner of take-overs. This is why Gamini Gunawardena’s email reminded me of something that a batchmate of mine from Peradeniya Campus told me a few days ago.

We are too old to give anyone blank cheques, especially politicians. We are mature enough not to get emotional about things political. We were talking about politics in general and Mahinda Rajapaksa in particular.

‘There is something about him that makes me feel that deep down Mahinda understands what this country is about. He doesn’t talk about it much. It’s there as a frill in his rhetoric and policy statements, but the core of who he is comes out unannounced, in unpredictable ways, in the little observations he makes.’

He rattled off three examples. On one occasion, the President had said ‘divyaloketa giyath maubima amathaka karanna epaa’ (even if you go to heaven, never forget your motherland). On another, he had said, ‘nivaaduwata yanna anuradhapurayata; gihin balanna mirisawetiya ruwanweliseya, balala avith iskole eva gena igenaganna’ (go to Anuradhapura during the holidays, visit Ruwanweliseya and Mirisawetiya, come back and learn about them in school). There was a third that he mentioned: ‘nivaaduwata yanna gamata, gihin aththa aththamma balanna’ (go to your ancestral village during the holidays; see how your grandparents are doing).

These are things anyone can say but these are not things our leaders have said very often and certainly not in ways that make us believe the words were heart-born and not rhetorical devices. Politicians come and go. Some turn into statesmen, some do not. They are admired for certain achievements and despised for their failures. Time does not move in predicted ways. Today’s victory is often followed by tomorrow’s debilitating defeat. It is prudent therefore to remember always that the most important thing is to preserve the integrity of civilizational cores, the foundation of who we are as a people.

If our ‘entire civilization’ has a microchip and this contains archaeological artifact, it must include the Ruwanweliseya, the Abayagiriya Complex, Sigiriya, the magnificent irrigation system, the Kala Wewa, the Yoda Ela, the Galvihara Complex etc. It must contain grandmothers and grandfathers, the relay of value and narrative from generation to generation. It must contain an umbilical tie to motherland, to earth and creature, plant and flower, tree-line and wave-remnant. It must contain the Dutugemunu-Elara post-war moment of humanity as clearly as the principle of equality that Elara affirmed at the cost of a son in that tradition-defying historiography where winner loser was not painted as brute. And it must contain the story of Velivita Sri Saranankara Sangharaja Thero who did not counter Bull with Bull or bullishness with like bullishness, but simply walked a path of timeless worth prescribed by our Budun Wahanse, Siddhartha Gauthama.

I don’t know how Mahinda Rajapaksa will be remembered by history. What is important to remember though is what he does not want us to forget for these are things that will outlast him, his government and the memory of achievement and failure.

by Malinda Seneviratne

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