Eye of the camera
 Master
and disciple were having an early morning stroll down the Mount Lavinia
beach. The sea looked stormy and the sky gloomy. The sand was sodden
with last night’s downpour.
“Am the eye of the camera
Can only reflect, never reject
Never deflect.”
Both master and disciple jumped in fright a mournful voice sprang up
somewhere before them. It sounded very painful. Master was the first to
regain his self.
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Richard de Soyza |
“It’s Richard,” he said firmly. “What a morning surprise!”
“Where is he?” Inquired disciple. “It sounds very painful. Does he
need help?”
“Yes, he needs help. But we cannot help him. We can only help by not
disturbing him.”
The voice surged up again. In even more great agony this time:
“…I reflect nothing
But truth.”
Disciple passed a look at Master’s intent face: “What does he refer
to, master?”
“To the role of a poet, son! A poet is like a camera, that’s what he
says.”
“O… O…!” Disciple mused for a little while, “and the poem the snap…
How true!” he exclaimed.
“Hush! Mind the place you are in! Richard is in no mood to meet us
here.” Then Master ran towards a small copse dragging the disciple.
“Why is he in such great agony?” Disciple crouched himself in the
grove beside Master.
“Seems as if he is facing a catharsis. Richard’s mind was always full
of poetry and drama. When…..”
Master was interrupted suddenly by a man in rags appearing a few feet
ahead them. His long hair disheveled. He poised himself in the sand and
started to mumble something indistinct. At once it increased and he
started to dance.
“…Api yamu ko Josey, yamu ko Josey
Chande damanna
Dakunu kakula perata dama
Shata pata gala.”
“Richard had a very cynical view of politics.” Master explained. He
stopped abruptly as the fellow staggered and fell down.
“Look, he’s dying!” Disciple scrambled up. “He’s bleeding, Master.”
“Sit down child! We cannot help him. He’s already dead. What we see
is only his restless soul trying to express the burden within himself.
He was abducted and shot dead in this very beach.” Master sighed. “He
was very young then. No wonder he’s frenzied now. Loads of ideas not
compressed into poetry! When the mind gets overfilled…”
Master was unable to speak. Disciple, too, was at a loss what to
reply. A deep, long silence hung between them.
Richard suddenly scrambled back into his feet. He bowed at the sea,
“We bow the head and a loyal knee
In hope of peace and quiet.”
Then he turned and kept gazing at the undergrowth. “I see you.” he
shouted, “I can hear you!” He turned the other side and once again
shuffled towards the coppice. And bowed again,
“Best quarry for mankind is man!”
He bowed once again slowly, wringing in pain. His tone wistful this
time,
“At least tomorrow’s
Lamp will burn bright.”
With that he started running along the beach at full speed. The
stalkers didn’t move. They heard the sea’s roar.
“Richard also adapted Dicken’s novels into plays for children.”
Master said involuntarily. “There was a depth in him. Children loved him
too for…” But silenced himself seeing the disciple miles and years away
in mind.
A poem written in for Richard seized Master’s mind,
“The dreams of many seasons were
Woven in your short summer’s warp and weft
The stage you adorned
Is now bereft!”
He came out of the bush. The figure was nowhere to be seen!
Disciple came out, too. He looked around and buried his feet deep
down the sand. It gave him a warm feeling of coziness with previous
day’s son, unaffected by the downpour. For a moment he wished to get
lost in that warmth, always! Every time!
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