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and fiction remind us of our richness Educated at Mahinda College, Galle, and across the Palk Straits at the University of Madrapalle, Vijayatunga then went back to India in the early 1920s and worked as editor of the magazine India & Ceylon and as a teacher at Tagore's Shantiniketan. Afterwards he settled in England, only returning to Sri Lanka in 1989, the year of his death. While nothing else he wrote matched the evocative excellence of Grass for My Feet, there are several other works of his that deserve attention, in particular Island Story, which has the bonus of being handsomely illustrated by Ivan Peries. First published by the Oxford University Press in Madras at the dawn of Independence in 1949, this delightful book now appears in a second edition courtesy of Visidunu Prakasakayo, the publishers garnering a reputation for reprinting lesser-known but notable works from English literature pertaining to Sri Lanka. Sensibly, Visidunu have largely retained the original format and cover of the book - the latter an attractive mosaic of the emblematic Sri Lankan motifs of drums, elephants, fishermen and Kandyan dancers. Thus the temporal dislocation brought about by the modernized design of many reprints is avoided. The island story Vijayatunga tells is not solely a historical or legendary one. It is also the story of the extraordinary geographical package that is Lanka, and of the truly remarkable culture that suffuses the island. While Grass for My Feet was an exercise in nostalgia, his method with Island Story, as the cover of the book states, "is by weaving fact and fancy together, to relate his intimate knowledge of Lanka both to its present-day life and to its ancient traditions." The opening chapter, "Forty Leagues from Paradise," presents an array of notable quotations concerning the island, from sources as diverse as the Pujavaliya and The Arabian Nights' Entertainment. Ensuing chapters explore the land in lyrical fashion, in particular the verdant river valleys of the southwest - Gin Ganga, Kelani Ganga, Kalu Ganga - the green hills - Pidurutalagala, Namunukula Kande, Gonagala - and the vistas to be witnessed from the central plateau - Haputale, Haldumulla, Ella. In "The Gift of Water" Vijayatunga waxes eloquent about the island's numerous rivers while demonstrating environmental awareness by frowning on the denudation of the forest in the catchment areas. Naturally the Mahaweli Ganga is given pride of place. Of particular interest are the author's descriptions of the padda boats and ferries plying the rivers and the 'river-folk' that operate them - "the scene that wins your heart is that ferry where you stand on the steep bank of a river and halloo out to someone across on the other side to bring over a canoe." "Kings and Heroes of Old" relates some of the legends and historical smatterings from the Mahavamsa and Chulavamsa, starting with that of Vijaya, about which the author declares without explication, "If there is the slightest foundation for this legend, then we have certain good clues to the psychology of the Sinhalese." There follows Pandukabhaya, Devanampiyatissa, Duthugemunu, Gajabahu, Mahasena, Buddhadasa, Dhatusena, Kumaradasa, Vijayabahu, and Parakramabahu, before the advent of colonial dominion. "Rather an anti-climax to a history which began on a heroic scale and which was sustained for 2,000 years in heroic tradition," remarks Vijayatunga. This reviewer's favourite chapter is "Our Folk-Songs," a summary of a fading musical tradition that includes verses from cartmen's and boatmen's songs, the virudha songs of wandering minstrels, and the varams of Sinhala New Year to accompany the seasonal use of vel-unchillava (swings). "We are not a very musical race," confesses Vijayatunga, "but we have always shown a great love of poetry; and, comparatively speaking, we have honoured out poets, even though like other nations we have ignored the composers of our folk-songs." With other chapters on the sea and fishermen, the coconut palm, the Rodiyas, craftspeople, Sri Pada, and Kandy, Island Story is an intriguing collection of aspects of Sri Lanka written in a highly engaging style. The book contains a wealth of traditional information, much of which has now seeped from the lives of twenty-first century Sri Lankans. And therein lies the importance of this book's reappearance at this point in time. Just as the intellect is drawn to Vijayatunga's writing, the eye is drawn to the expressive line and pen-and-wash illustrations of Ivan Peries, a co-founder of the '43 Group and arguably one of the finest artists the island has produced. These illustrations are little known in the context of Peries' work and were last exhibited in Colombo - sponsored by the '43 Group - in September 1951, according to Senake Bandaranayake and Manel Fonseka in Ivan Peries Paintings 1938-88. No doubt the new edition of Island Story will bring Peries' illustrations to public attention once again. The landscapes are the most striking - but then landscape was the most important element of Peries' art. Eschewing the exotic portrayal of tropical landscapes beloved by most European artists, Pieris instead imbued his paintings with mood and emotion. A painting of padda boats on a canal from a high angle, a long distance view of Sri Pada, a painting with the self-explanatory title Green Hills and Valleys, and another of trees in bloom titled Final Scene of a Flower Ballet, stand out. Then there are some simple yet exquisite line drawings - of a girl on a swing, a group of fishermen, a tea plucker, girls performing the kalegedi-pimbini (pot dance), and pilgrims on the way to Sri Pada, among others. The pairing of Vijayatunga and Peries, both England-domiciled Ceylonese émigrés, demonstrates remarkable foresight on someone's part, presumably the author's. The prose and pictures are entirely complementary, giving the book a harmonious quality. In this respect it is reminiscent of Island Ceylon by Roloff Beny and Lindsay Opie. While Island Story is unlikely to displace Grass for My Feet in the hearts of those who appreciate Vijayatunga, the book deserves to nestle beside his magnum opus in any library worthy of the name. Journey
of contrasts woven together The anthology can, on the one hand, be taken as a truly 'Sri Lankan collection of stories', Sri Lankan in origin, matter, manner and thought and on a wider context, as an analysis of our social structure over the past six or seven decades. The collection binds together the current electronic age with that of the colonial era. Urban culture is posed against tradition; Modernity is set against the 1930s. Creative Expressions thus covers a wide scope of time, class, ideology and personality, but with one central element- the Sri Lankan social context. Creative Expressions, succeeds in building a sense of identity with little reference to those hackneyed clichés of the 1983 riots and the north-east conflict. There is little to bring out massacre, chaos and politics. Yet, the Sri Lankan backdrop is evenly placed; the identity is built out of the people and the places and not through dark patches of history. From the likes of Tissa and Somasiri Devendra to Lakshika Weragoda, a 13-year-old school girl, (see box story below) the writers vary in terms of age, experience and exposure, presenting an intriguing balance. In his introduction the editor mentions each writer having a distinct style. For instance, The Tongue Twister by Wimala De Silva comes immediately before Somasiri Devendra's story. These two have contrasting narrations, with the latter relying heavily on retrospection and flashbacks. Such contrasting techniques being juxtaposed maintain the momentum. Sriyani Hulugalle's, Till We Meet Again deploys four or five 'scenes' cutting into each other quite delicately. Suspense, curiosity and the unexpected are typical in this volume. For instance, Serendipity deals with Rangit who "is resurrected" to answer an e-mail. Even A Thief In the Night bears witness to the same fact. This arousing of curiosity goes well with the familiar real-life facts that give shape to the stories. For instance, the same story - Serendipity - has references to contemporary personalities. Thereby the initial suspense is neatly balanced by a tint of credibility to maintain a real-life effect. Overall, Creative Expressions binds variety and novelty to the best interests of both the reader as well as the local literary scene. All
that is grim, vile and nauseatingly damning Maureen gave to the Army her son, but yet, was it his war? Whose war was it? When the 13 soldiers killed at Elephant Pass were brought for burial at Kanatte, Borella town was set ablaze. July 1983... and as a friend told her, "Galle Road is an arc of fire!" Helpless, decent Tamils who never said it was their war either... "Like the German people," Maureen says, "in the 30s and 40s were helpless when the Nazi gangsters burned the houses of the Jews and took them away to destroy them..." This diary record is a stunning one. What is more shame-making to us as Lankans, is to face the stern castigation of the writer - words that spit cobra-fashion, into the faces of so many who should cower in disgrace. Refugees... the Church of Martyrs in Mannar. Bleak- eyed Tamil refugees say: "We have lived in Kotahena for centuries. In the shadow of the cathedral." Then came death, looting, burning, ships to carry them North. It was here that the King of Jaffna slaughtered all his subjects who had converted to Christianity. And the sad decision: "We'll go to South India... why should we stay in a country that does not want us?"... July 1987... India moves in. "History, I thought, is being repeated... Invasion by Invitation... 3000 Indian troops in Jaffna... more to come... already Colombo is in flames... people anti-people. Destroying each other in the name of... a Pact to bring in the clowns?" Maureen asks if it would not have been better if JR had taken the people into his confidence, formed a National Government. But no, thousands had to die, divisions were fostered, a Peace-Keeping Force invited to overlord a part of our island. And she reminds: the Portuguese came, also to sign a pact, support a king at enmity with his own brothers. "We are indeed a cursed generation," she declares. "We have perpetrated our own misery. We are paying with our shame for our follies." The IPKF... Guzzling gallons of coconut oil, eating every banana they could, slaughtering the village goats, raping young girls, robbing every village boutique. The accursed Javans. Their assault on the Muslim village of Vallichenai; hundreds of refugees fleeing to Polonnaruwa. These diary entries take in all that is grim, vile, nauseatingly damning. Tiger massacres around Somadevi Chaitiya; people hacked to pieces, innocent people. Everywhere, the blood of the innocent. 1990... the slaying of Richard de Zoysa; the outbreak of war in Batticaloa. Why did scores of policemen have to die the way they did? Couldn't they fight back? But no, they ran - only to be caught, bound. They said they had their "orders". "Dear God," Maureen exclaims, "what 'orders' a man to give up his life lamely - tamely - like that? All the useless waste of it - this war - the PR, the tea parties, the jokes cracked, the smiles beamed and the promises writ in water... l can only think: 'Truly are we all to blame... every one of us. Us, the people most of all.'" And the South - so quiet. Only shows how well the horror of 1983 was orchestrated. One woman tells Maureen of the North and the East: "Doomed places, no?" and Maureen hit back, "It is we who are doomed," and she took umbrage. The contrasts, too, are vividly presented. In Colombo are the nattily-dressed young men in Majestic cities and Liberty Plazas, or playing cricket - well-fed, healthy ("on diets of sausages, so they say") and the villages ransacked of young men now crouching in their bunkers, praying for moonlight. Who should we shed tears for? The living or the dead? For the pea-brains with their shackled bureaucratic minds who hold the scales of power with crooked hands? Her diary also records the "business of war" - something that must choke at every throat. Her comments come thick and fast and she cracks a remorseless whip. "The average citizen feels this country is a rudderless state... the people themselves, weak, puny, like pawns in the hands of master chess players... the future of a people that steadfastly refuse to be a NATION... All politicians are dancing the Dance of Death - on a pinhead... Those we elect to Parliament, we, the sovereign people as it is claimed we are, are kicked in the teeth the moment we put these tragic-comic actors on the stage... we are offered the anodyne of cricket, hours before TV watching the 'flannelled fools' while we let ourselves, like puppets, be manipulated over and over again... a religious conflagration will devastate what is left of this tortured country, but who understands this?... thirst and lust for blood in a country that gods have evidently decided should be made mad before it is utterly destroyed...." This is a book that must be waved under the noses of all this hyena breed that infest our entire social fabric. It is the big whip - the people's silent scream. End times? We do not have to wait their coming. We are in them right now! |
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Copyright © 2001 Wijeya Newspapers
Ltd. All rights reserved. |
