Living oceans away, I have never had the chance to savour the Galle Literary Festival (GLF) which has become a significant feature in the Sri Lankan event calendar. Like many other expats with a keen interest in literature, I relied on the Sri Lankan bloggers for updates on the features, issues discussed and debated that arose out of the proceedings in Galle. One common denominator of all the meaningful reviews of GLF was the fact that this year – perhaps thanks to Rajpal Abenayake – it has given rise to a discussion about “elitism”. I hope that continues and matures into a constructive and self critical discourse about Sri Lankan social dynamics.
It has apparently been sparked off by a comment that Rajpal made – I am sure from a philosophical view pint – that literature is for the elite. The type of ‘elitism’ that has come into focus more often in these discussions however, is one that is inherited rather than achieved. This has inaccurately been branded as ‘elitism’ when it is actually a primitive form of ‘tribalism’. It is tribalism that judges and predisposes people based on their surnames or their net worth. Elitism is or needs to be a term that is used more positively.
My point is that the opportunity and privilege of attending events such as the GLF should not be confined to the few who are fortunate enough to be able to afford it. The joy of literature; reading and writing has too long been afforded only to a privileged few who had the fortune to be able to go to school, to afford books and the time to read. Blogs too are still primarily the playthings of an elite few in Sri Lanka who not only are lucky enough to be computer literate, but have the luxury of a computer and the added benefit of an internet connection – among a majority of the population who cannot afford but a 50g sachet of milk powder to feed their children. This is a ground reality that a significant number of the attendees and almost all the organisers seem to have been oblivious to.
Elitism as a concept has earned a bad reputation as a result of being confused with tribalism and also being unjustly associated with racism. It is the elite who has to attend events like the GLF, but they should not be chosen on the basis of their ability to afford a ticket priced at (perhaps also worth) Rs 10,000 or those who claim a right to it by a secret heritage. Instead, the GLF and society in general should strive to open up opportunities to the 'elite' who have earned that title with hard work and talent.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
snippet (4)
(c) Harendra Alwis
...The bus serenely waited for the command of an old clock that was precariously tilted on the depot wall, to set off on the last leg of a tiresome day’s exertions. A dented front bumper, gashed grill, smoky lights and rusted wipers that drooped across the scratched windshields, sculpted a look of profound sadness on its face, which was accentuated by occasional wails and shrieks of invisible body parts. Passengers, who sat themselves on its rigid seats or prepared to endure the rocking journey with the aid of a steady metal pole fixed to its roof, rarely expected the ride to be comfortable or fast. Engineered unintentionally into the body of this lifeless machine, by design as much as incidence; was an eerie reflection of the sadness that some of its passengers also bore deep in themselves. The hollow metal chassis afforded them a space in which they were free to take off masks of stern looks and tight lips that they had worn through the day. It silently offered them comfort and empathy; perhaps because they found it is easier to embrace their sadness in the belly of this sad lifeless beast which they felt; could understand and empathize with them in their misery. Perhaps their unobserved thoughts knew that the burden of misery is amplified in the company of others who are happy, whose happiness would enforce itself on them and compel them to smile out of fear and guilt, that any hint of sadness on their faces might rob their elated friends of their fleeting moment of bliss. Even though the metal heart of the bus was too rigid to melt and dissolve with tears of a despondent soul, it was often sensitive enough to dry those tears with a murky breeze or hide them among stray raindrops that sometimes flew in through its open shutters...
...The bus serenely waited for the command of an old clock that was precariously tilted on the depot wall, to set off on the last leg of a tiresome day’s exertions. A dented front bumper, gashed grill, smoky lights and rusted wipers that drooped across the scratched windshields, sculpted a look of profound sadness on its face, which was accentuated by occasional wails and shrieks of invisible body parts. Passengers, who sat themselves on its rigid seats or prepared to endure the rocking journey with the aid of a steady metal pole fixed to its roof, rarely expected the ride to be comfortable or fast. Engineered unintentionally into the body of this lifeless machine, by design as much as incidence; was an eerie reflection of the sadness that some of its passengers also bore deep in themselves. The hollow metal chassis afforded them a space in which they were free to take off masks of stern looks and tight lips that they had worn through the day. It silently offered them comfort and empathy; perhaps because they found it is easier to embrace their sadness in the belly of this sad lifeless beast which they felt; could understand and empathize with them in their misery. Perhaps their unobserved thoughts knew that the burden of misery is amplified in the company of others who are happy, whose happiness would enforce itself on them and compel them to smile out of fear and guilt, that any hint of sadness on their faces might rob their elated friends of their fleeting moment of bliss. Even though the metal heart of the bus was too rigid to melt and dissolve with tears of a despondent soul, it was often sensitive enough to dry those tears with a murky breeze or hide them among stray raindrops that sometimes flew in through its open shutters...
Monday, December 31, 2007
snippet (3)
(c) Harendra Alwis
... Perhaps if you listen on a silent moonlit night, you may hear it whisper to the ocean the stories it has witnessed of lives that had condensed along the banks of its fertile path, lives it had sustained, nourished and sometimes forcefully taken. Perhaps it boasts of how it flooded low lying plains after heavy rains, or cascaded like a misty veil down the face of an ancient rock on a mountain side. The ocean makes no attempt to hide its amusement as it listens to stories about vain bridges that had assumed they could transcend it, and delusional dams that thought they could contain it; about animals that drank cautiously at its banks and ferries that crossed it many times a day. The ocean consoles the ailing river which proudly deposits the burdensome sediment of its memories on the estuary; like offerings of flowers and incense with the prayers and confessions of the faithful at the feet of a motionless statue of a deity. Rich sediment that had been ripped off hills and flooded plains, during times when its waters were young and raging with passion, settle down into fertile islands at the river mouth where it is impossible to know for sure where the river ends and the ocean begins. The calmness of the river now, ridicules any suggestion that it was once a powerful force that violently hurled large rocks in its path and ground them, reducing them with the passage of time to harmless pebbles that little children could play with. Now at the end of a fruitful journey, the river dissolves into the setting sun, with its many arms absorbing the powerful calmness and boundless wisdom of the ocean...
... Perhaps if you listen on a silent moonlit night, you may hear it whisper to the ocean the stories it has witnessed of lives that had condensed along the banks of its fertile path, lives it had sustained, nourished and sometimes forcefully taken. Perhaps it boasts of how it flooded low lying plains after heavy rains, or cascaded like a misty veil down the face of an ancient rock on a mountain side. The ocean makes no attempt to hide its amusement as it listens to stories about vain bridges that had assumed they could transcend it, and delusional dams that thought they could contain it; about animals that drank cautiously at its banks and ferries that crossed it many times a day. The ocean consoles the ailing river which proudly deposits the burdensome sediment of its memories on the estuary; like offerings of flowers and incense with the prayers and confessions of the faithful at the feet of a motionless statue of a deity. Rich sediment that had been ripped off hills and flooded plains, during times when its waters were young and raging with passion, settle down into fertile islands at the river mouth where it is impossible to know for sure where the river ends and the ocean begins. The calmness of the river now, ridicules any suggestion that it was once a powerful force that violently hurled large rocks in its path and ground them, reducing them with the passage of time to harmless pebbles that little children could play with. Now at the end of a fruitful journey, the river dissolves into the setting sun, with its many arms absorbing the powerful calmness and boundless wisdom of the ocean...
Sunday, December 30, 2007
snippet (2)
(c) Harendra Alwis
...The raindrop that dived out of the cloud was in fact made up of a multitude of tiny droplets; some whisked away by the wind from the boundless ocean, one was robbed from the leaf of a withering plant, a few from rivers and another from the white shirt that belonged to a schoolboy that was washed and hung out to dry by his mother on a bright warm afternoon.
For seconds that lasted an eternity, it careered freely through the cool damp air until suddenly its flight was rudely obstructed by a tender leaf that was perched at the tip of a lofty tree. The shock splattered and dislodged the briefly acquainted droplets and dispersed them in unknown directions into a world full of strangers again.
Some of them almost miraculously avoided further confrontations with the thick green canopy of the forest and fell on to a blanket of rotting leaves. Others unwillingly crawled along the spine of a leaf to its edge, where they dangled nervously for a few seconds and fell onto the lap another, only to trickle down a similar path and saturate in the heavy downpour until they were ready to leap back into the unknown. Some droplets, including the one whose memory was still fresh with the soapy smell of a schoolboy’s white shirt, was caught by a broad mature leaf along which it dripped back towards the stem. From there it began a slow crawl through the valleys and ridges of the bark, passing on its way stranded insects and trails of sap that the great tree had bled.
There, at the end of its pilgrimage, at the root of the oldest, wisest and the most magnificent tree of the forest, the tiny raindrops silently seeped into the bosom of mother earth...
...The raindrop that dived out of the cloud was in fact made up of a multitude of tiny droplets; some whisked away by the wind from the boundless ocean, one was robbed from the leaf of a withering plant, a few from rivers and another from the white shirt that belonged to a schoolboy that was washed and hung out to dry by his mother on a bright warm afternoon.
For seconds that lasted an eternity, it careered freely through the cool damp air until suddenly its flight was rudely obstructed by a tender leaf that was perched at the tip of a lofty tree. The shock splattered and dislodged the briefly acquainted droplets and dispersed them in unknown directions into a world full of strangers again.
Some of them almost miraculously avoided further confrontations with the thick green canopy of the forest and fell on to a blanket of rotting leaves. Others unwillingly crawled along the spine of a leaf to its edge, where they dangled nervously for a few seconds and fell onto the lap another, only to trickle down a similar path and saturate in the heavy downpour until they were ready to leap back into the unknown. Some droplets, including the one whose memory was still fresh with the soapy smell of a schoolboy’s white shirt, was caught by a broad mature leaf along which it dripped back towards the stem. From there it began a slow crawl through the valleys and ridges of the bark, passing on its way stranded insects and trails of sap that the great tree had bled.
There, at the end of its pilgrimage, at the root of the oldest, wisest and the most magnificent tree of the forest, the tiny raindrops silently seeped into the bosom of mother earth...
Saturday, December 29, 2007
snippet (1)
(c) Harendra Alwis
... One of the early symptoms of my infatuation was an irrational jealousy.
... One of the early symptoms of my infatuation was an irrational jealousy.
As I watched her from the distance of my dreams and perhaps frustrated by how little of her attention I was able to win, I felt jealous of her dog which had the pleasure of indulging lavishly in her company, which I was wholly deprived of. I felt it a grave injustice that a dog was not only allowed to brush carelessly against her, but she would also gently caress it, whereas I needed an elaborate excuse even to shake her hand.
I would be jealous of a dress that hugged her delicate body, bangles that teasingly dangled at her wrist or a necklace that occasionally had the pleasure of playfully wrapping itself around her delicate fingers as if in a maypole-dance. In my secret thoughts, I gained reprisal over the beautiful pendant she wore, which despite seeming like it was forged from starlight and morning dew, seemed to fade into obscurity whenever she lifted those eyes that held the entire universe within them.
But I found myself harboring a burning jealousy toward her hairpin - this loveless, careless sliver of metal that spent its days entwined in her lustrous midnight hair, sitting idly on her secret thoughts, sometimes descending to her neck, only to be wrapped in her fingers with an intimacy I could only imagine, while I stood, composing silent poems to her beauty, nursing an epic love that, in my infinite wisdom, I had somehow decided was better left unconfessed...
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