Two hundred thousand words later...
There are times when a man takes stock. He looks back at the road
taken, reflects on the million what-ifs along those other roads that
were not taken; either by choice or circumstances, due to knowledge or
out of ignorance; and says 'hmmm...ok'. Or perhaps something profound.
Or else it's all just such a blur or is so bland that one reflects,
blinks and moves on.
There are no auspicious times for these reflect-now moments. They can
be precipitated by any random thought, a word, a phrase, a gaze,
intersections unexpected, longed for, forsaken. Today I was made to look
back by a casual question regarding this column: how many have you
written?
Using a computer helps. I opened the relevant folder and counted. As
of May 26, 2010 (that's 'yesterday' when you read this), I've written
200, beginning from the first piece on August 30, 2009. Counting an
average count of a thousand words per article, this is a road made of
200,000 words. By certain standards this would amount to what some might
call 'a lot'. I looked back and four things came to mind, the last being
the source of the first three and also referring to my favourite article
among these 200. I will relate them.
ONE. I remembered my favourite verse of Rabindranath Tagore's 'Gitanjali'
(the third verse of No. 79 of the collection): When I sit by the
roadside, tired and panting, when I spread my bed low in the dust, let
me ever feel that the long journey is still before me--let me not forget
a moment, let me carry the pangs of this sorrow in my dreams and in my
wakeful hours. I owe this to Ravin Gunaratne, who recited this to me in
1986, when he was a second year Architecture student at Moratuwa
University. (We all drink from other people's wells and enjoy the shade
of trees planted by unknown people).
Thanks to Ravin, I learnt early in life that 'achievement' is a
misleading word, that it is all relative. There are high-points in a
journey, landmark events, unforgettable encounters, but there's hardly
enough reason to indulge in raucous laughter or endless wailing. Take
the blow, nod head, move on. Acknowledge praise, forget reason for
praise, move on. Equanimity is the key word here.
TWO. A history-making day. May 17, 2009. President Mahinda Rajapaksa
arrives in Sri Lanka after an official visit to the Kingdom of Jordan.
He arrives in a land that has defeated a terrorist plague that had
caused untold damage to the country and its citizens for more than 30
years. I was about to set off for an almsgiving in Kuliyapitiya. I
missed the television coverage of the President's arrival. Did I miss
'history'? The important thing was to contribute to the process that
culminated in such celebratory moments. I felt I had not been lax.
THREE. May 18, 2010. A question was put to me: 'Are you celebrating?'
The reference was to the first anniversary of the end of the war. The
answer: 'Yes'. 'How?' The follow-up question was answered thus: 'I am
working'. Could be read as being 'pretentious', I know. Can't help. That
was what I did, that's what I do.
FOUR. Something happened on October 13, 2009. A death. That of my
mother. Indrani Seneviratne. Teacher. Hard to please. I am yet to come
across anyone who gave as much as she did. No, not to me. Others. Almost
a month later, I wrote a piece titled 'Death is a teacher'. Celebration
is work. History-making is about working. Looking back is about looking
forward, knowing full well that I've hardly walked one small step, not
for myself and certainly not for mankind. I think this way because of
her.
Someone sent me an interesting quote about mothers and children.
Women, it is claimed, end up like their mothers and this is said to be
their tragedy. Men on the other hand don't end up like their mothers and
this is supposed to be their tragedy. She didn't teach us how to work or
the 'why' of working. She worked.
All her life. Even on the day she passed away, she was teaching.
Two minutes before she collapsed in a car she was calling an old
student to get him to help the child of a friend. She taught us in her
living and in her death.
I couldn't write to her or of her for a long time. And I will never
finish writing her story. Three months after she died, I wrote a poem
for/about her:
Three months later
Like always,
she is present
and absent,
in and out of me,
I speak her words,
wonder if my face mimics
manner and humour,
love and confusion,
and I remember
the intensity of giving
equalled by an intensity of refusal;
she was proud
and such a child
in her gifting
and embrace,
mother and teacher,
but such a student too.
And I,
I cannot remember
the kiri-suwanda,
that baby time
or her giving
for time-squeeze
and event-mix
arrived
with the curse of awkwardness
she left
so did I
each to a specific banishment
each in a specific abhinishkramanaya,
and our returns never coincided
our orbits chose to slip
and miss.
I was not her eka-pun-sanda,
not all the time;
but I was, I am sure,
now and then,
and that's all that matters
in the matter of thanksgiving.
Two hundred thousand words later or thereabouts, there is a silence
in my life. And lessons that will be revisited. Again. And again. All
these words amount to a thanksgiving. And a moment-to-moment
resurrection. My mother worked. I too try. [email protected]
|