Puppies are my favourites
By Wathsala Mendis
Kevin Francke of 'Les Miserables' fame is a man of many talents. An
actor, a singer, a  composer...he's
all these made into one. Well, here's what Kevin has to say about his favourite
things...
Movie
'Little Mermaid.' An incredible story. Incredible songs. It's a combination
of everything. Violence, romance, humour...you name it, it's there.
Song
'True' by Spandau Ballet. From the first time I heard it ,I liked it.
The words are pretty meaningful and it has a nice melody. The lead singer's
voice is simply marvellous.
Meal
String hoppers, chicken, and koththu at 'Pilawoos' (nowhere else!).It's
incredibly tasty and not too expensive, either. Besides, it's typically
Sri Lankan.
TV programme
'The X Files.' It's well-written, well-produced, and is very realistic.
It almost makes you believe in aliens.
Colour
Maroon. It goes well with black.(So?)
Smell
The way puppies smell just after their first milk. I've no words to
describe it.
Person
My mother. She's incredibly self-giving.
Possession
My keyboard. It helps me express myself musically.
Movie star
Dustin Hoffman. He's not just one of those 'good-looking' actors, but
a brilliant one at that.
Item of clothing
Blue jeans. They go with anything, don't get crushed and, of course,
don't have to be washed often. (I knew this was coming!)
Hideout
'The Terrace' at Mount Lavinia Hotel. It's a nice place. The sea is
there. The wind is there. And it's fairly private.
Memory
When my friends gave me a surprise party on my 25th birthday. (What
a sweet surprise when he didn't even realize it was his birthday!)
Sportsman
Definitely Aravinda. I think he's the most consistent player both nationally
and internationally. He's extremely talented and confident and almost always
manages to come through.
Place
The Trinity College Chapel. It's built according to ancient Kandyan
architecture. There are no windows. The whole structure is just pillars.
It's superb in the evening.
Fantasy
To see our group 'Deja Vu' get somewhere.
Animal
Puppies. (One thing that makes him go gushy!) They are cuddly. They
make the friendliest pets. They acknowledge you.
 Our
children are precious to us
My darling daughter,
Often your friends come to see me. Listening to their conversations
I wonder daughter at the confusions we create in their young lives. Anil
was here a few days ago, his friends complained that he goes out often
and spends quite a bit of time drinking with some new friends he has got
now and goes home rather late at night. I asked him whether his parents
did not give him the telling off he deserves, after all he is only eighteen
yet. He laughed, "They do not even know the time I come in. I have
got the key and I let myself in." Surely, they must be worried, I
said. He smiled sadly and said, "I can remember the time when you
would wait up for Asitha and we would tease him, but in a way I guess we
thought he was lucky too." 'Well' said I, 'since Asitha is not here
now, maybe I will worry about you.'
Even as I spoke my mind went back to the time when I was so concerned
when you stayed out till late and I waited up for you, much to your annoyance,
but was I wrong to say that I could hear a note of reluctant pride in your
voice when you explained to your friends that your mother was so old-fashioned
that she waited up for you? After all it was my love and concern for you
that made me stay up.
Anil's conversation also reminded me of the day your young brother
Asitha asked for the key saying very importantly 'You don't need to wait
up for me. I can come in by myself.' It was his eighteenth birthday - an
adult, eligible to vote he told me. Well that did not bother me for I said,
whether you have a key or not I'll wait up for you, not cause I don't trust
you to come in at a sensible time, but the house is empty till you come,
and I am not at peace to sleep.
He was rather annoyed, but I think he understood that it was my affection
and concern for him that would always see that when he came home I was
there and there was a light burning, waiting to welcome him.
I wonder whether parents today feel that children resent their care
and concern, or is it that they are ashamed to show their affection. A
child especially a teenager needs so much love and understanding. On the
threshold of independence, a teenager reminds me of a wobbly toddler, afraid
yet taking his first steps quite certain that somewhere around, his mother
is there to catch him if he falls. I think that is the type of love teenagers
need today, a love that will let them go but yet be there to concerned
and caring. Anil felt that his parents were not bothered about him. I am
sure they were but could they not have shown it in a more positive manner
? You will smile thinking of the many nights I would wait up for you and
your brother, the annoyance I would sometimes show, but all of that was
part of my love and concern. It is sad, daughter, the way we coop up our
natural instincts, because a westernized world thinks it foolish. Why should
we be ashamed that to us a child is precious and what he does affects us?
– Ammi
Number 3685
By Aditha Dissanayake
"SL 3685"
The Professor squinted at the number through his small spectacles. He
was seated at his desk near the window. It was a beautiful afternoon. Whenever
he raised his head the Hanthane mountains came into his sight. He glanced
at the number again and turned a few pages of the answer sheet before him.
He recalled seeing the handwriting last year. Last year she had been
a "first year special", which in University jargon meant a student
following the English honours course in her first year. Perhaps from the
handwriting, which seemed feminine, he had taken the student to be a girl.
The Professor smiled to himself. He wondered from where he had learnt to
identify a woman's handwriting, when he had tried to avoid them all his
life. He knew that his own students were not exaggerating when they called
him the stereo-type Professor, bespectacled, unmarried, a walking encyclopaedia
of English Literature.
It was only recently that he had accepted the task of marking the English
papers of other Universities. Even though he found this a drudge at times,
specially when most answers had a tinge of uniformity around them he had
carried on, curious to know how the younger generation reacted to the world's
classics. What made things easy, however, was that there were very few
papers to mark, there been very few who selected English as a subject to
specialize in. The answer sheet in front of him was evidence of this fact.
It was obvious that only one student was following the course this year
in the University.
Leaning his back against the chair, the Professor began to read the
paper leisurely. He corrected the grammar mistakes and the spelling, which
he would ignore when he decided on the grade, for he knew that they were
errors that sprang not from ignorance but from haste. Then he read through
the answers again, this time taking in the content.
He remembered he had given her "A"s for her first year papers.
They too had been filled with grammar and spelling mistakes. Yet through
the hurried but legible handwriting he had discerned a fresh, unique tone.
For the first time he had heard an individual voice speaking from the page.
He had liked the way she had approached each of the questions, and was
surprised at the manner in which she had quoted from Aristotle, Plato and
the other Greek scholars to support her points. This year she was in her
second year. He wondered if she had changed during the interval of a year.
She had. Her grammar had improved. There was more confidence in the statements
she was making. Yet somehow the enthusiasm he had detected in her first
year seemed to have faded. She seemed to have become world-weary.
The Professor kept the paper on the table and stared at the mountains.
He wondered what kind of a girl this student might be. She must be a loner,
attending lectures on her own, studying in the library on her own. Probably
a thin, diffident girl, but one with a mind of her own. Perhaps someone
like Hardy's Sue Townsend.
He decided he would try to see her when he went to hand over the marking
sheets. He knew the head of the English Department and thought by bringing
up the subject of why very few students were specializing in English, he
would manage to bring the single student for that year, into his conversation.
His strategy worked. And the charming lady who was the head of the department
sent her secretary to the adjoining room where Pubudu was at a lecture.
"This is Pubudu," said the head of the department. The Professor
did not see the student at once. He had lived long enough to realize that
most things in life are not what you expect them to be. Within that brief
second, before he turned his head to look at the student, a hundred thoughts
seem to race through his mind. She could be a fat, bespectacled girl with
several double chins, she might be a seraph of heaven, a kind of an all-rounder
endowed with a hundred million gifts, or Pubudu might even be a boy. He
was prepared to take in any of these versions.
Nevertheless when he turned his head he had to admit he was surprised.
Pubudu turned out to be the living replica of the girl he had imagined
her to be.
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