World’s being painted afresh

There are times I feel I’ve lived through these times before. I have heard others say the same things. Life is replay, it seems at times

Yesterday I got an email from someone who reads my articles regularly and offers comments now and then. He related a story. He had on a whim wanted to find out how Chinthana Vidanage was faring at the Commonwealth Games. It was a re-telecast and focused on some other event. He had started flipping channels and chanced on a television interview of yours truly. He doesn’t enjoy political discussions much, but claimed that he agreed with everything I said. There was a commercial break. Back to the Commonwealth Games and there he was, my friend said, Chinthana doing his thing.

‘When he won the Silver medal, our village boy, I almost cried, could not control my emotions.’

He had another story. It was about another medal winner. Susanthika. He said that when she was going through a difficult time he had prayed to god to help her, to grant her some important achievement and make her happy. He had wanted her to win a medal and she did. It happened on his birthday.

‘It was the best ever birthday present. I couldn’t control my emotions. I cried. While I was praying for her I very well can remember that tears were rolling down. But prayer was answered to the fullest.’

Birthday present

This is not the time to discuss the notion of spuriousness so I shall let it pass. The story (well ‘stories’) touched me. I did not watch Chinthana. I remember watching Susanthika win the Silver at the World Championships in Athens, 1997. It was late night. My niece, Duranya, then less than a year old, was sleeping. My father and I watched the race.

There were tears when she won the medal. My father brought his hands down on the dining table. Hard. Loud. ‘Yes’.

‘You’ll wake the baby up!’ I chided him (I was annoyed with him for some other reason). ‘That’s ok. She will be happy’. ‘She doesn’t know what this is all about!’ I countered. ‘She will, someday,’ he said.

I know that the books and articles written about nation and nationalism would make up a massive library. Identity, sense of belonging, citizenship and related issues have been discussed in ideological terms, sociologically and with reference to paradigms of political science. And it is not just academic treatise we are talking about. There’s been so much literature on subjects such as these. I can only speak for myself.

Drama competition

Something stirs within when the most beautiful image I can think of, the map of my country, finds representation one way or another. When Sugath Thilakaratne bested Michael Johnson in the Olympics (yes, in a heat, so what!) a lump materialized in my throat. So too when Rosy Senanayake won Mrs World, even though I think beauty pageants are ridiculous things. Way back in 1973, I was too young to ‘choke’, but when I read that Lafir had won the World Billiard title, I ran out, bat in hand, into a world that seemed to have been painted in fresh colours the minute before.

There are stories that made the news. And a million stories that did not. Reading what my friend had written, I felt, as I said, that I’ve lived through these times before. I realize now the true secret of this feeling is that there are enough cause for celebration. Not every act of courage, determination and skill gets rewarded with medal or even media-mention of course, but that doesn’t take away anything from act or personality.

I remember like it was yesterday watching my first child struggle to keep her balance and walk a couple of steps. I was there to catch her as she faltered. This morning, I had to explain to my younger child, now seven, that I will not be able to make it to her swimming meet because I am scheduled to judge a drama competition in a school at the same time. I explained that nothing would give me more joy than to see her splash around in the pool but that there are other children who need me at the same time.

Weight-lifter

As I explained I realized that I was ‘picking’ some other children over mine. I backtracked and in the process got quite incoherent. She reached out, touched my arm and said eka honda deyak appachchi (‘it is a good thing’). She was no Chinthana Vidanage, but what a weight-lifter she was at that moment. Left me in tears, which too she wiped.

We are not short of heroes. This world has enough to celebrate. Enough reason to hope that tomorrow will be even more beautiful. I am looking out of the window right now. Yes, it is 1973 all over again. The world has been painted afresh.

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