And Vasilisa is still beautiful after all these years
People
send me book lists now and then. They want to see if I’ve read at least
six in the list. Sometimes the figure is 10. Such lists, I am told,
consist of the most popular books on earth or those which have had the
greatest influence on humankind. Some lists are devoted to fiction and
some don’t make such distinctions. Such requests come on Facebook. For
the most part they consist of books that are written in English or else
translated into that language.
I haven’t seen a single Chinese book in any of these lists. There was
one time though when I saw a Chinese story, if one may call it that;
‘The good earth’ by Pearl S Buck. I had read the Sinhala translation but
not the English.
I haven’t seen Sybil Wettasinghe’s Duwana Rewla (‘The runaway beard’
or ‘The running beard’) or her Kuda Hora (‘The umbrella thief’). Nothing
of Martin Wickramasinghe or of Piyadasa Sirisena. Haven’t encountered
the works of Simon Navagaththegama, Jayatilaka Kammellaweera or Mahagama
Sekara. I can’t blame anyone for this. No one is omniscient and people
are free to pick and choose.
Right moments
Some queries are open-ended. One is required to make a list and
share. I have never indulged in these exercises, entertaining and
informative though they surely are. This Sunday morning I was thinking
of books I’ve read, loved, treasured and re-read.
‘Vasilisa the Beautiful’ enchanted and still does, I realized. Not
the ‘most influential’ or ‘the best’ of course, but just as there are
right moments to read particular books there are moments to remember
them as well.
My late mother was not a writer. She knew books, though. Books. Yes,
they were among the greatest gifts she gave us. Back then in the early
seventies even though she got a next-to-nothing salary as an assistant
teacher, she built a library for us at home, mostly courtesy the
largesse of the Soviet Union and cheap but high quality books put out by
Progress Publishers and sold at the People’s Publishing House, Slave
Island. It may have been a deliberate strategy, I don’t know, but
looking back I think learning English was made easy by the fact that she
made available to us translations of Russian books in both Sinhala and
English.
Fairy tales
‘Lassana Vasilisa’ was what the collection of fairy tales was called
in Sinhala. Fascinated me. Nothing of the experience was robbed by the
fact that it was read in Sinhala, when the English version came to my
hands. She brought both books home. Vasilisa was as beautiful in Sinhala
as she was in English. I wanted to be the Sinhala ‘Fenist the Falcon’ as
much as the English one (and had I known Russian, the want might have
been even greater) and wanted so much for a Maryushka (Sinhala or
English) to come looking for me.
I was Ivan the Poor, I was Ivan-Young of Years, Old of Wisdom and I
knew I would someday marry Aloyna the Lovely Tsarevna. I was Simeon the
Youngest (of the Seven Simeons) who would sing songs and play my pipe,
warming the hearts of people with my music and lighten their labour. We
are all the heroes in the books we read, I now realize and it doesn’t
really matter if life doesn’t turn out as promised in storybook.
Yesterday I saw my daughter reading a ‘cheaper’ (in terms of quality,
not price) version of ‘Vasilisa the Beautiful’. She told me she had
already read the Sinhala version. I had forgotten that I had got her
both some years ago. She is a re-reader and I am sure she must have been
Vasilisa several times and Maryushka too. I am sure she met passed the
Thrice-Nine Lands to the Thrice-Ten Tsardoms and finally met her beloved
Fenist.
Greatest teacher
I don’t know what kinds of lists she will be asked to make or from
which she would be asked to pick favourites three decades from today. I
don’t know if she will wonder why people have not considered ‘Vasilisa
the Beautiful’ or Kuda Hora or whatever other treats she associates with
childhood and attributes decision and direction in life to. She loves
books. That’s enough for me. For now.
In the end, I feel, for all the rebellions directed at parents, we
end up just like them. My mother, as I said, was a teacher. She showed
pathways without seeming to do so. She was my greatest teacher for all
these things and especially for introducing me to the greatest teacher
of them all, as far as I can tell, Siddhartha Gauthama. She introduced
me to Vasilisa and this is how I discovered that we are always children
and although we leave childhood behind, it remains resident within us.
She introduced me to Jesus Christ for she had attended a Catholic school
and loved to sing the hymns she had learned as a child. That’s how I
came to know that this exceptional human being once said ‘Let the little
children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God
belongs to such as these’.
Major contradiction
I do not believe in ‘god’ or ‘heaven’, but when such notions are
treated as metaphors, I see no major contradiction in the relevant
philosophies. In this instance, I am glad that my mother showed me how
to open heart to child and child to heart. I am glad she taught me how
to let them come and also to go to them.
Most of all, I am glad she taught me how to acknowledge, appreciate
and rejoice in the fact that we are made of the Upali Giniwella and
Jinna, Ivan the Poor and Ivan - Young of Years, Old of Wisdom, Fenist
the Falcon and Simeon the Youngest. And of course ways to let heart be
open to the permanent residency of Aloyna the Lovely Tsarevna, Maryushka
and the unforgettable Vasilisa the Beautiful.
I hope I am even half the teacher that my mother was, but even if I
am not I won’t be too worried. My daughter loves among other things,
books included, ‘Vasilisa the Beautiful’. That’s enough. For now.
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