• An artist with a vision
• No way out
• Dreams: messages from within?
• TECHNO PAGe
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• The truth about acne
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• Living through goodbyes
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An artist with a vision

By Chatura Randeniya

"I've been painting for as long as I can remember," says 17-year- old Chathuranga, a student of St. Joseph's College, Colombo 10. He prefers the cubist form of painting, which he had learnt recently; "it can bring out several views from a single painting." "Most of my knowledge was gained through trial and error," he says. "My teacher Mr. Lionel Ranaweera guided me throughout and was a great influence on me," he adds.

Chathuranga has already enjoyed some success with his art by winning the silver medal at the all-island Jatika Ran Thilina Ulela. "My work is mostly on peace," he says, but his themes also include nature and everyday life. "Art gives me peace of mind, and I feel that my work is a part of me," says Chathuranga.

50 of his paintings go on exhibition from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m. at the National Art Gallery. This is Chathuranga's first exhibition, "but I'm going to have more," he says confidently. 

No way out

By Punyakante Wijenaike

Facing our beds are twelve open windows through which we can catch a glimpse of blue sky and top branches of trees below. Our ward is on the third floor. Before my window is the top of a bright red bourganvillea creeper climbing a water pipe. The bright red blossoms hurt my eyes. Often I feel compelled to draw the curtains to help ease my headache. Or I place a pillow at the foot of the bed instead of at its head and choose to face the white, blank wall. At least I know where I am when I face the blank wall.

When I see red I see the shattered body of my dead friend.

He and I, we had been school friends growing up together. We had joined the army together. We had made a pact together.

" Machang, we will win this war together. If one of us gets killed, the other will fight on until he too gets killed. Then we will be reunited in the next life. We will meet again..."

When he was wounded, close to death with both legs blown off, I had tried my best to pull him to safety, to pull him back to life.

"If you move me I will die in pain," he had said. "Let me be and the end will be quick."

"How can I leave you to die alone here? How can I leave you lying injured and helpless to face the oncoming enemy?"

"I want you to go. I want you to live and go on fighting. Remember that is the only way we can meet as friends again in the next life."

Tears had coursed down my cheeks. "I don't want to live without you."

We had heard the enemy getting closer and closer. Soon they would be upon us.

"Leave me a grenade," he said hoarsely. 'If you love me, leave me with a grenade."

I had stared at him. How could I leave him with a grenade? I couldn't do it as a soldier. It was against rules. We were different from our enemy. They thought nothing of taking their own lives through cyanide pills or whatever was at hand when they found themselves at a point of no return. Often I believed we were fighting an unequal battle. We, soldiers, had no escape route.

He must have seen the conflict in my face. Even in his agony he tried to make it easy for me.

"Give me a grenade to throw at the enemy," he said, avoiding my eyes. 'I want to die fighting.'

I knew better. He needed it to kill himself before they got to him. Such a small thing he was asking for through pain and tears. Like a painkiller for an incurable illness, a Panadol for a headache. I gave it to him to him as a friend, not a soldier.

Then I ran away before he exploded himself before my eyes.

Last thoughts are important ones. I saw the love and gratitude in his eyes as I ran away.

I lean my head back against the blank wall. I face the window again. The sun is setting. The bloodredness of the bourganvillea turns into a mellow, mottled purple. The night is coming. Soon, very soon, I will fall asleep and forget everything under the influence of a sedative. They dole out the sedatives here, one by one.

I meet him in my dreams. Unashamed lovers against a blank wall. He wants me to join him soon in the next life. He is waiting for me. But I am trapped in this bed with injuries of my own. I fear they won't send me back to the war front because of my head injuries. I cannot die fighting. I am trapped in life when I want to die. They keep doling out the sedatives, one by one. He keeps appealing to me to join him. But he is as helpless as I. There is no way out for me.

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