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This star glows. It does not offer that surreptitious twinkle that makes it like soda pop in the sky. There is something more in its performance that gives it its iridescence - constant, unfailing, and with that resilience of a true celestial body that fills the reaches with its radiance. And yet, in so many circles - this star has earned but scant recognition.

She is a scholar, ardent researcher, a writer of extreme elegance and, more than these, a poet. Her dissertation for her Masters is now before professors of the University of Peradeniya. Her dedication to her art could be quite legendary for she has appeared in so many academic journals, in poetry magazines abroad and in the national newspapers, and yet, she presents to all who know of her, a waif -like quality - large-eyed, a questioning mind, the slightest of frowns as she unravels life within her, and an inner core of temperament that is kept in firm control.

I give you Parvathi Arasanayagam: twin daughter of Jean Solomons-Arasanayagam and Thiagaraja Arasanayagam.

Hundreds of her poems lie in files in her home today, docketed, piled up, such conquerors of mood, emotion, perception. Lines upon lines, embracing the historical, the ethical, the parodies and paroxysms of life. There is homespun philosophy, outbursts of deep poignancy, explorations and expostulations. Somewhere one hears the millwheel turn as she plunges in and out of the days of terror, of barbaric deeds, of quieter ruminations, of comfort and release; and then, as the arpeggios scatter one hears Pan-pipes in their sylvan setting; the mournful woodnotes, the fluting echoes of a love song that makes rhapsody dissolve into a dreamtime of desire.

I am dealing with someone I find both elusive and evasive - a young lady of extraordinarily positive urge, intelligent and intense; and in her poems there lie, sometimes, such howling pitches of dissatisfaction that are suddenly stilled by a more peaceful spiritual realisation - and what comes out of it all is so artistically realized. I find her own theories of love and faith couched in a virtuosity that is dramatic rhythmic, lyrical. I have no intention of trying to psychologically understand her, and, to avoid rattling on, let me give you a poem picked at random.

A Pilgrim’s Journey To An Ashram, Galaha
Soon the road narrows into a footpath
and yet, we have not reached our destination.
we pass a stone church in its silent habitation
filled with wildflowers and tall grasses;
the ashram is still miles away in the distant mountains
and so is my own journey in an unpredictable world.

We reach the foot of the hill
that houses our quest for solitude
and walk on a muddy footpath
through waves of mist.
We are all silent, hastily picking out a leech
embedded in the soles of feet,
oblivious to the raindrops which increase
as we make for that distant outpost.

My companions walk on resolutely,
weary of the demands
of the city’s schedules and times
proceeding ever in its smoke-filled streets;
today, their mission is to traverse
these lofty hills in search of peace.

We soon arrive and meet
a sherwani-clad spokesman, face enveloped
in a cultivated bliss as he urges us
to enter a smoke-filled kitchen
until the meditation session is over.
We are requested to be silent
as our voices could disturb the thoughts
of controlled minds which have traversed oceans
in search of peace.
We wait and watch as time elapses;
smoke fills our nostrils, and the workers
stare at us, curious of our presence.

Soon, the meditation session is over…
and the seekers trek out, eyes focussed
on another realm. I, too, would like to assume
this feeling of peace with the world
and escape from the trailing demands
of my life, submerge in metta
to face a complex life…

Soon, the mist thickens, and rain clouds
envelope the kutties which toadstool the hill…
we walk to the library and stare out
onto the distant peaks.
‘It is a hard life,’ a spokesman says,
‘there are no lights, no running water,
no beds in the rooms…’

The sky is louring, evening is imminent-
a decision has to be made:
‘It is too austere,’ someone murmurs,
‘There are leeches too.’
Another time, ' a girl says wistfully,
‘Another time,’ the wind echoes...
We leave before the storm.
One sees a peculiar passion and drive in Parvathi’s writing that is so well reflected in this poem.
The poem may deal with something quite “ordinary” but it throws much light on the way the poet thinks, surrounded, as it were, by a slush of empty talk, misgivings, doubts, of those puppet-creatures who cannot understand the need to live and create something that is far too noble for their empty-headed attention.
Another poem tells of a visit to a Dutch church, Galle:
I climb the cold stone steps
and feel I have entered another time -
the silence filtering in sun wedges
on empty wooden pews;
cold monuments studded with dust,
grey walls engraved
with names, dates, events:
‘Lost at Sea’
‘Faithful to his Heavenly Father’….
I see names that live on in descendants,
telling of their undeniable past -
names we share… and tread gently
this long sleep, never to be disturbed
except in thought.

A man, death’s caretaker,
points to the stone slabs
engraved upon the floor, ‘These people
came from the Dutch and English communities.’
I wonder how many times
he has repeated these lines.

Outside, the heat is unrelenting;
on the silent coppered road
soldiers in camouflage uniforms
guard forgotten ghosts.

It is not easy to take Parvathi’s tremendous poetic outpouring and know where to draw the line. A new collection of her poems is soon to be released and there’s a lot more in the pipeline. Certainly, we have in our midst an amazing star with an amazing, all encompassing glow!