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Remembering my father, a journalist of the old guard
View(s):My father Premil Ratnayake belonged to the old world order. He lived — and died by the creed of old journalism — the kind that came naturally to a generation of Sri Lanka’s journalistic greats who believed in what they wrote and stood for integrity and honesty throughout their lives.
Premil Ratnayake
From the time I could walk, he encouraged me to read and write. My favourite place was always at his old typewriter, with its black and red ribbon and the stylised keys. His best gifts to me were books; with his help, I created my first library — I must have been about six. Language and its fine nuance — whether in English, his chosen language of writing, or Sinhala, he mastered its craft in all its essence.
Journalism was always the natural choice for me too. On Saturdays, I would cling to his arm as we walked over to the great house by the Beira Lake, Lake House, where he had nurtured a career in journalism, following a short stint in banking. At his beloved editorial desk of the Daily News, I would watch the tribe’s great men and women go about their tasks with commitment and fervour.
I was maybe nine or ten when he helped me to create my first magazine — a neat pile of glossy picture cutouts and typed papers. Perhaps some sort of a foundation for the field of publishing I chose later on. From its inception in 1998 until the time he passed away a few weeks ago, my father stood tall over Satyn magazine, making a monumental contribution to every issue. He wrote last for Satyn April-June 2013 issue.
I shared his love of the written word almost from the start — I first wrote to ANCL’s Mihira children’s paper, and then moved on to other newspapers and publications. My journalism skills were sharpened at The Sun, which I joined in 1982. He was there to help with a word, a sentence or simply source ‘meat’ for a story. As I moved from journalism to marketing and into publishing and PR, he was always there, always proud of my writing. Even though he could not always understand how it all fitted in with pragmatic business sense — he was determined to stay within the boundaries of the old guard who deemed business a dash too complicated for them — he was proud of my success.
He was the committed wordsmith who could aptly add a dimension to any subject with finesse; his command of the language was the best I have seen in my lifetime. Even in the computer age, when he had just about mastered the keyboard and the basic commands, his well- thumbed dictionary stood by his side. He was never at a loss for translation, or usage of word craft. My staff at Satyn knew him as a ‘walking encyclopedia’ — they learnt so much from him as I did.
He and I had this monthly routine. Once a month, he would pick me up from school and together, we would head to the Lake House Bookshop, following a dash to Pagoda’s for short-eats. It was our father-daughter thing and a treat for me — once inside the bookshop, I would be enthralled by the fragrance of new books, the stories, the pictures. We would head home happily, a parcel of books tucked under my arm.
He introduced me to the magic of old the movie world — his favourite stars were Marlon Brando and Dilip Kumar. He taught me to appreciate good movies whether Hollywood, Bollywood or the Sinhala cinema.
He loved kids — his own, his grandchildren and everyone else. My cousins recall how he narrated stories that held us kids enthralled, while feeding us rice balls with the patience only someone who truly loved kids could muster. He loved to make sandwiches for me in childhood — later on, I made sandwiches for him.
Of all the grandchildren, he loved to take my son Akarsha to school at STC; Seeya taught him to read and write early on, as he did with me. He loved watching his grandson play with his friends at the lower school playground, chatting to parents, ever the witty uncle whose company they all loved. As Akarsha grew into a tall teenager, Seeya’s school duties and attention were diverted to his great grandson Caleb.
He marched to a different drum — one no longer heard. Profit never drove him; neither did handsome rewards. He could walk with kings yet walk to Jubilee Post Junction for a loaf of bread with equal measure. He was happiest as a journalist, a cigarette dangling from his mouth in that old fashioned way, his hands busy on the typewriter. Titles never meant much to him, neither did honours uplift him. When he completed his overseas assignment at the Sri Lankan Embassy in Bonn, Germany, in the eighties, he went back to his writing at The Island. We could not stop him when in his retirement, he went back to Lake House for one last stint.
As adult children, we wanted him to stay healthy in his old age but he had other ideas. His choice was that his work was done and he wanted to enjoy the sunset his way — with a drink and a smoke we so desperately tried to stop. Yet, looking back, I believe he was right. He had a good life, a full one and when it was time to go home, he went, doing it his way.
Good night, Thaththi, you were our sweet prince. I know you are with Jesus whom you accepted as your Saviour when you had your first heart attack and was hospitalised in 2006. You went so soon, too soon for us but hitting eighty and still able to walk a block with average speed, was an achievement in today’s world. I can imagine your practising your word craft up in Heaven….we shall meet on that beautiful shore…
Nayomini Ratnayake Weerasooriya
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