A thrashing of guitars

By Ruhanie Perera

Everybody needs a chance to let off some steam. The Royalists who have the "Royal Talent Show" to look forward to, have certainly got their chance to do just that. It is a time for the boys to nurture the Backstreet Boys, Eric Claptons and Kenny Gs within them. A time to discover hidden talents and to have a lot of fun.

The "Royal Talent Show", a project organised by the United Nations Club of Royal College is their way of celebrating the club's 20th Anniversary with a bang. The talent show will be held on April 7 at 6.30 p.m. at the Navaranga-hala. The show, which is open to the public, will feature performances by the present Royalists as well as guest performances by professional artistes.

Although the event sounds like just fun and games, there is a lot more to it. The profits made from the event will be utilised to launch a scholarship scheme for 20 students and to further develop a village called 'Rajasisugama' the club has been supporting for many years now.The development of the village 'Rajasisugama', which is off Ratnapura has been a project of the United Nations Club of Royal College since 1985. "I joined the club when I was in year 9," says Dhanushka the present Chairman of the Club, who feels that though this was a different sort of project for a school to handle, it has turned out to be successful - "especially when you see the improvement over the years".

The United Nations Club of Royal College is open to students from year 6 onwards. At present there are almost 200 students within the club who are totally hyped up about the event and are all working hard to make this year's project a success. Although working on this sort of event can be daunting, Project Chairman Pamudith says "with all the help I'm getting from the committee and the members, it's not difficult".

The vibrant posters all over the school read - 'have you ever seen 372 guitars being thrashed' - well that's certainly worth seeing!

Tickets for the Talent Show are priced at Rs.50/= and 100/= and are available at Thorana and the school gate.

Wrong notion of love

Anoja did not quite agree with my comments on trust. Often she said that trust could be betrayed. I agreed, for I have heard of many instances when a husband or a wife starts an affair with someone else, proclaiming that at last they have found the love of their life. Strange how the word 'love' is twisted to suit one's desires!

Why does this situation occur I wonder. Essentially I think it starts out with an innocuous friendship. Men feel that they can have a platonic friendship with usually some person who has akin interest. This happens very often in offices, where empathy of interests lead to an attachment.

I told Anoja the girl who encourages the man is to blame, she must respect the fact that he is married. If she flatters him, and offers 'tea and sympathy' every time he has an argument at home, she will make him feel that she is so much more understanding and concerned than his wife who is harried with the housework, the cost of living and just does not understand his problems. He will tend to compare his wife with her, failing to realise that she does not see a side of him that his wife knows about; his moods, his temper, or even his carelessness. Meanwhile the girl will appear to be all that his wife isn't; well-groomed and cheerful, ever ready to agree to his slightest wish and then presto! He feels he has found the true love he has searched for.

Poor soul, I added, for if by some folly he decides that he must leave his home and make his future with her he will realise that the reality of living together somehow is different to just being in love. Anoja laughed as she agreed. I often feel that in a marriage, communication between the husband and wife is an essential feature.

There is always a fear lurking beneath the surface of every marriage, a fear of the relationship breaking or ending, or the fear of losing one's autonomy or independence. Recognising and working through those deep seated fears is essential for sustaining a marriage, and that can come only when the two partners can talk of their feelings. So like Anoja said, 'knock off the TV set and just spend some time talking to each other, discovering again the one you loved'.

I did it my way

It had been the talk of the town for quite some time. The social is a much sought after affair by both boys and girls, the former awaiting their chance to have some fun and excitement and the latter, the opportunity to doll up. Each faculty has it's own welcome party for the freshmen. Since we were the millennium batch, the enthusiasm was doubled.

As for moi, I was undecided whether to go or not until the last minute. For one thing I didn't want to gate-crash. It was after all meant for the Science Faculty students. Should I go for this, there was no way I was going to get permission for ours. Two socials within 10 days? That wouldn't make any sense to my parents.

Besides, I heard through the grapevine that all the girls should dress up in saree. It's a time-honoured tradition in university. Discrimination again. No such dress code for the guys. The girls were besides themselves with excitement to take any notice anyway. How many times did I wish my friends would stop all that talk about sarees, matching shoes, jewellery, and whatnot. "What's the big deal anyway?" I sneered when it got to the point of irritation. In return, I was accused of being an incorrigible pessimist, an absolute cynic (My God!) That sure did the trick.

I got through my mother's third degree by promising to be back by 11.30 the latest. In a spirit of brotherly affection my bro offered to escort me. My next problem was what to wear, when suddenly, I was struck with this bright idea. Hey, why toe the line? Why not be different? After all rules are meant to be broken, aren't they? A phone call to my rather adventurous buddy Naomi and there were two of us. Come what may we decided to go in dresses.

So there we were standing outside the gym at 5.30 in the evening, looking totally out of place amidst a sea of saree-clad girls. A few remarks and curious glances were thrown our way. "Don't be such a chicken." Naomi's words brought me back to my senses. Yeah, what the heck? We're simply doing it our way.

The welcoming process got off to a slow start. With a number of students from other faculties also joining in, the organizers had a tough time ushering them in. To add to this plight it started raining too.

The usually chaotic canteen was turned into a warm cozy atmosphere while the nearby gym served as the dining area. It was almost 7 o'clock when we finally made it through. Everybody was badly in need of a snack and a drink.

The Vice Chancellor and the Deans were kind enough to limit their speeches to less than five minutes. The idea was to have fun. But what fun with a grumbling stomach? Our complaints were drowned out by the PA system which was a total mess. At times we couldn't hear the singers properly because the music was too loud.

We had to wait for at least another half an hour before we got a piece of cake. Still there was no sign of drinks. Maybe the organizers were overwhelmed by the heavy turnout. Not that we were in the mood for any excuses though. Another 20 or 30 minutes and we settled ourselves to the fact that we'd just have to do without a drink.

Amidst much applause the batch queen and the king were selected. The poor girl was rather taken aback by having to parade in front of the by-now unruly crowd. She seemed relieved to take off after being crowned when the compere interrupted, inviting the two of them to dance together. He wouldn't take no for an answer. The girl looked almost on the verge of tears. But then again that's what university life is all about, I guess. It's not always strawberries and cream.

The dinner was served around 10.30, that too thanks to a few starving souls who took the initiative. By this time the music was at a feverish pitch. The dance floor was one huge mass of gyrating bodies. The guys, some of them quite high after boozing it up on the sly, were dancing as if there were no tomorrow.

I slowly slipped out to find my brother waiting patiently in the car. One look at him and I realized I had stayed out too long. Knowing him I decided it was best to keep quiet. At almost 100 kilometres per hour I couldn't help thanking my lucky stars that we got home safe and sound. Looks like I'm going to be grounded for quite a while. So much for the Freshers' Night!

The mother I knew

By M. Katugampala

I was only three years old when my mother died. I can barely remember my mother's face, but I can still remember the way she fed me and clothed me. I can still remember the colour of her burial sari. It had purple flowers in it. But no matter how hard I try I can't recall her face. It's just a blurred picture. I can never forget my past nor will I ever forget my mother but I don't remember her love.

After her death I came to live with my three cousins and my grandmother. It was she who looked after me and for me she was 'mummy'. She is the one who taught me to stand on my own two feet, who taught me to be independent from my early years. Whenever I came to her with a problem, she would listen to it and say 'do what you think is best, whatever your descision is, I'll always be behind you.'

I can still remember how she used to help me with my studies, while preparing my meals. She would be stirring a curry or scraping coconut while taking dictation or listening to my reading. She didn't tell me bedtime stories but she taught me to take a book to bed so that I could read until I fell asleep. Every Sunday she used to take me to church and sit in the front pew. She always said 'give first place to God then everything else will come right'.

It was not hard to make her happy or angry. Skipping studies and watching TV were the easiest ways to make her angry. Even today if she sees me glued to the TV she never fails to pass a hint like, 'I never see you studying these days', and then she would draw my attention to a paper article she thought that I should read.

Whenever a pauper came to our house she took care never to send him away empty-handed. Before she sat for her meals she would always give him to eat. Just as a lot of people knew her temper a great many knew her motherly nature. I always excused her for her temper for I knew it was not easy to bring up a young child at her age.

The picture I recall whenever I speak about my mother is of a little stout woman, with gray hair, spectacles and a shy smile. She will be eighty-one this year. But she still cooks for me and chides me for not studying. She still walks to church and even though it is a tedious task for her she never complains. If I ask her to stay at home she will keep on at me until I take her. She cannot walk by herself, and I have to support her while she walks.

Her greatest joy is to see me come home. Whenever I come home she makes sure to make a big fuss about it. She always says to me 'you don't have to inform me before coming, for this is your home. You can come any time you want to'. Indeed it is a home, for she is always there keeping the home fires burning and waiting with expectation for her 'child' to come home.

I'll be lying if I say I don't feel anything for my natural mother. I do miss her a lot. When she died she took a part of me with her, and that part will always be empty and lonely. Yet thanks to mummy I'm still living. Not just living for the sake of living but living with hopes and dreams of my own. Sometimes when I look at the mirror I think about my mother and try to remember how she looked, for I am a replica of her. But whenever I think of a mother I can only think of my grandmother. The best gift God ever gave me.

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