defilement - the wanderer has not driven it away...

My brother's memories of a spring

2006-05-19T23:50:00.000-07:00

Appreciation is too old-fashioned when you are done with a heart-felt work. I do not appreciate when I finish off a warm literary reading; I need a retrospect-break. And appreciation is something I hardly succeed in a good work.

In the first innings - online rush through though - I could feel its dedication to Ying, and you had mentioned it in the next mail.

The second innings - offline go through - I am not an avid poem-reader, nor a poem-connoisseur, it's just that I felt something of the poem in me. True, the geographical phenomenon, you cannot simply forget; we can't claim for Oak to chirp like Red Robins in August Springs. But still experience rises above all.

I stroll along with your last lines in a long placid and an unwind road. Yet I am too fragile to touch it when the two lives 'drift apart'. At the end of the day, in the end of the world, somewhere, someday, and some place, we have to drift apart, and that's it – drift apart…

It takes me back to our good old days of Somathilaka Jayamaha's 'Piyaman Keruwemu', when you 'walked hand in hand through the woods'. When we had this song for the first time, you were still bigger - a very big brother - to me, the big kid. We could not foresee ourselves; you are delivered of these lines, me pulsing over them.

When the roads in your poem scream stories on 'relent rendezvous', my memories pan back to me guru pare. Its nature-beings cannot come out with the trysts. But my brother has a worry, as the roads scream the stories on 'relent rendezvous'; they are 'stories soft' nevertheless.

And what else, when it's Omar Khyyam, I see, in the music to heart, movies to mind and so forth? And night beckoning with cloudless skies silently sneaks off into dark hand in hand with my beloved cantos in Selalihini Sandesa.

In the starry starry night, you spare the Oak that lived for its years. A Red Robin feeds the spirits into Oak. The big elephant plays with its own trunk. An aged plays the harp by the lake. No wonder, I see the giant Oak chirping to the Red Robin's tune when Paulo Coelho - drawing closer from somewhere – calls up on an 'I' who 'sat down and wept by the River Piedra'.

And now in the retrospect-break, I can grope around for his silhouette against the pale sky: my brother's memories of a spring.

The University

2006-05-19T23:42:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from my diary.

Sunday, February 29, 2004

My history’s long looked forward episode gets going tomorrow. The countdown comes to close midnight. University student, Undergraduate, graduand – these words bring in a fresh feeling for me. I need a sleep badly in this long night, yet I take up the whole night engrossed in the thoughts.

I let myself sink into the deckchair fingering them lovingly – the documents I need tomorrow. My heart slightly throbs over tomorrow proceedings. The coming rag season and the unfamiliar horde. My senior wants me not to take these things in a serious note. “Feel like you own the place.” The advice never slips my memory.

I will enlighten the darkness someday. The night is slowly drawing on.

Well, its back in 2004, and now its 2006 - two years gone by. When I am saying my University life is a paradise, I am not talking with a forked tongue, as I am always warm towards happy past. And now being in the edge of the Varsity completion, I feel indifferent over the things. Although we as University students may have been able to go through the past papers in the best possible manner, I can bet on that nobody of us could ever claim for a solid answer to the question as to what we are most enjoying in our university life. We got plenty of it and obviously vice versa.

“So you are going to mount her dude,” I wake up into the reality. All the way in 154 route, has been a dream. Getting down to see the maroon bordered placard bearing large gold coloured fonts, in the midst of towers in the campus premises – all these fade in and out. I am 60 seconds into University lane entry, yet my mate’s unhurried pace gets me into a state of slight annoyance.

I respond positively to my classmate turned batch-mate.

This is where many of country’s best thinkers strolled along – the path I have to follow for another three or four years. Having completed one of the initial academic strings one could ever survive in life, I am now about to ride the success willing to put up with forthcoming incredible hardship – cramming notes, getting busy with assignments and theses etc. The much-longed, long-awaited episode is yet coming right up.

With the documents we have to rush into the department where they tackle administrating affairs. The receipts are issued hurriedly to the tune of less than 300 bucks each. We got to pass the time in the long queue of boys perspiring and girls glowing.

The rag season peeps in with no prior notice. I am ordered to stop at ‘thel bemma’ (loosely translated as ‘oil wall’). As my trial had been tried for three days, I am patching them together.

Day 1:

Senior: Hey man, where are you going?

Me: To University of course.

Senior: What did you say?

Me: To university.

Senior: Who call this a University? It’s not a university, you pighead. You don’t understand these things at first. You will know them when you mature – like us. Now this is not a University, got it?

Me: Yes, yes.

Senior: Don’t say yes. Say ‘agreed’. Now this is Batagaha langa maha vidyalaya. Me: Agreed.

Senior: Ah, you got it. Now you can go.

Day 2:

Senior: Hey man, forgot to ask your name.

Me: ………

Senior: Now where are you going?

Me: To Batagaha langa maha vidyalaya.

Senior: You pighead, don’t you even know where are you studying? How did you get through A/Ls? Batagaha langa maha vidyalaya is now elevated into Kelaniya Madhya maha vidyalaya. What’s it?

Me: Kelaniya Madhya maha vidyalaya.

Senior: Ok, now you can go.

Day 3:

Senior: Hey how are you?

Me: Fine and agreed.

Senior: Where are you heading?

Me: To Kelaniya Madhya Maha vidyalaya.

Senior: Aiyo, who taught you these things? This is not a school. This is a respectable place. You should call this a University. This is called University of Kelaniya. You are studying here to be a graduate. You understood?

Me: Yes understood and agreed.

Senior: Ah, that’s it. We should always be here to teach you rascals all these stuff.

Almost everybody admires it. There’s no getting around the fact that it can claim for the absence from violence and other forced goings-on. I remember one or two lecturers offer security to us, especially girls, if they encounter any violence in the evening. To be frank, the rag season turns out turbulent and is much scoffed at in the Hostels.

Kelaniya University has a range of Associations running, out of which I am acquainted with ESA (English Students Association) and AIESAC (even racking brains is not of use for me to get what this stands for), AIESAC is an organisation of interactions, while ESA focuses on academic matters.

Magazine ‘Blink’ is an ESA brainchild. I was an initial editorial member of it, but later could not turn up at meetings due to various reasons.

We feel the surrounding clouded over by gloomy smoke and eyes getting wet. The day we are gassed is still fresh in the mind, when Kelaniya is kind of trespassed by Police. The only hilarious thing in the tragic warpath is the exchange of teargas bullets. Police dole out bullets to us a staggering number of times merely to get the treatment returned, consequent on a considerable number of injured cops as well. We are on the fence over the rank and file just carrying out the commands coming from power owners as well as power brokers.

Freedom. Liberation. We play upon these in the green meadows adjoining the Gym. Most of the time, we engage in relaxed chattering on the benches nailed to the earth. Students are here for relaxed get-togethers with issues ranging from literature to POP music.

Every Thursday, you get a chance to grasp a bit of Yoga at Gymnasium. The most sought-after privilege in the Gymnasium apart from cards and caroms must be the tinted glass cinema offered to you gratis. Through the tinted glasses, you catch a glimpse of the range of trees and in their shelter the couples having their break – love and making love.

Unlike Peradeniya and Sabaragamuva Universities, we can claim for just a handful of cooling spots. One is Siberia, covered with trees; hardly anybody could figure out what’s going on. It’s the famous spot for what you most crave in the life. I made a mention about Thel bemma - the spot for similar minds to flock together.

If you get fed up with all these, you still have a choice - lending library or reference library just a short trip away from Thel bemma. To be an early bird for the exams, there is hardly a better place than these libraries.

The paradise however is short-lived when I accept a part-time appointment in the private sector run newspaper. Although, I am not in a position to breathe the fragrance any longer, it still turns out to be a paradise of memories.

And then Einstein repeated Buddha – what many of the scientists had to do throughout the history.

2005-12-02T08:15:00.000-08:00

The other day I could not but tell my mate that we get trapped somewhere whenever we go on thinking deeper into the issues.

What he said was quite consoling quoting Einstein; better not to think deeper into anything. That the world is so large and we are but tiny creatures. And then I remembered Buddha preaching the monks with few fallen leaves cupped in his hand, how tiny is the knowledge of the human compared with the whole of the world. The rest of the fallen leaves are not picked yet just as the human cannot realize the whole universe.

I had the thought but did not dare tell my mate that Einstein had to repeat Buddha - what many of the scientists had to do throughout the history.

And such is the past – they call it nostalgia.

2005-12-02T03:36:00.001-08:00

Surprising enough, when I am handed in the memory images of the journey for Galle Fort, once made with my long time colleagues. I can’t remember which year. Through the pictures, I have a sad pulse nearly making me into tears. How far we have changed! Zooms in the nostalgia upon thinking Galle in its present!

but they didn't turn up when we wanted....

2005-11-21T04:06:00.000-08:00

23 year old Indika, a J'pura Medical Faculty first year graduand was on the way to his aunt’s, when the waves suddenly wanted to settle on his destiny.

“We wanted him to come up to my sister’s place as we were already there for the vacation. But he had some previously arranged assignments. Not even his mates were with him as they were busy cramming. He had to face the destiny alone.” Voices a sobbing mother Prema.

The favourite of his mum, Indika used to assume kitchen duties whenever he is home for the vacation.

Alone and solemnly did Indika become the prey paving way to his fellows to have a second thought. Duminda Nagamuva, Inter University Students’ Federation (IUSF) convenor did not hesitate to have a chat on volunteering work experience.

A Norwegian delegation once visited an already IUSF gearing place just to inform them that the delegation is confined only to repair the tidal wave hit things of the schools.

“In that case, they only had to repair a door and a few number of desks, which were hit by Tsunami. Our people had wiped the dirt away from the schools.” Duminda says.

Indika’s mates expected something more from the Norwegian delegates.

“We have sufficient funds to do the minor repairs of the schools. The foreign delegates should do the other things such as building libraries and laboratories. It’s of no use to get the schools to the previous state. We should try to get them into most modern status.”

What the delegation did was to examine and videograph the present condition and? Yes and they vanished.

“It’s all right if Norwegians get the undeserved credit. But they should have done more important.” Chatumini, a Peradeniya final year says.

Meanwhile, LTTE did not fail to threaten the students Ampara and Kalmunei. The principal of R U M Balika Vidyalaya of Samanthurei could not help requesting the students to halt the work.

“No sooner she asked us the LTTE trespassed and threatened. She wept bitterly when we came part of our way leaving the school. She expressed her gratefulness though she was helpless before LTTE threats.” The students recollect their experience.

The university students’ volunteering work included cleaning the rubble in the schools and painting them in order to give them a fresh look and perhaps a fresh environment for children to learn.

Most of the residents’ confession was on the absence of any education ministry official to look into the affairs. The university students in this case have been a source of inspiration to them.

Matara Rahula principal also confesses of the absence of the ministry officials till January 28th.

He was called on by an Education Ministry official, though quite late on January 28th to order the school be closed because of the 100m buffer zone issue.

“You did not come here when we wanted you. These university students have done all the clearing up the schools. Now we open the school anyway.” Education Ministry official was just dumb on Rahula principal’s response.

He has also mentioned about the University students’ involvement in clearing up and the late arrival of the education ministry official, in the logbook. Rahula was among the first schools, which started on Monday following student led Sramadana campaigns.

The university students however argue that the school is not within the 100m buffer zone. They smell of some other plan.

THE GOVERNMENT WANT TO CLOSE SOME SCHOOLS.

“It is this plan they are working out hiding the things behind Tsunami.” They say.

But either university students or school trade unions alone cannot get the responsibility of the schools. They have to nod at government’s plans, but government seems to be ignorant of building other schools in place of closed schools.

One university student recalls how Foreign Minister Lakshman Kadiragamar’s wife joined them in sramadana work.

“Not only minister Kadiragarmar, but his wife also talked with us and inspired us. We don’t know her exactly, but what she did was important. Most of the people are appointed to various head posts, but they do not dare visit these areas.” He says.

The university students express their surprise at the foreign minister’s wife’s arrival while the education ministry secretary’s impractical plans in an airconditioned room.

They do not want any name. Even the university they come from. The work – that’s what they want to complete.

The sparkling ground.

2005-08-01T00:35:00.000-07:00

Whenever I brush the bathroom floor, I am enthralled on the sparkling floor. It often brings me into the concept of the purified mind – the result of ceaseless mental and physical effort day and night.

There are many instances; you become fed up in the task of purification. Exactly what Buddha did show as Mara or the hindrance hanging around us. The Mara wishes his client to be glued to the Sansaric existence – just like the phone service agent [be it Dialog or Mobitel] so desiring their purchasers to be with them for a long time. The Mara would willingly provide its additional service, decaying and old age when the days mature.

To brush a soiled bathroom floor is obviously harder than brushing a normal bathroom floor. You got to have a hard thrust to get the floor clean. But when it is kept cleaned constantly, you don’t need to have such exertion.

If the mind is being purified constantly, no tough effort should be performed in the same manner. Then the question rests on the purification of the mind and the way of carrying it out.

To keep a mind purified constantly would be a miraculous experience in the hectic life. Ven. Prof. Dhammavihari offers an initial hint to broach, when he explained ‘Self Restraint’ to us, me and my long-time colleague, the other day.

“It’s controlling your mind, especially the sensual desires. When you control the sensual desires your mind becomes happy.”

Controlling the mind will take you to multitude of implications.

When you are busy in a shop with a load of bucks and with a kid to hang about with, what should you do? The kid would want almost everything in the shop. But you should teach the kid the Self Restraint (SR) lesson however much his weeping might be. You will never repent that.

There were days I used to cling on buying varying food items from the food outlet located close to the workplace. The waiter is ordered to bring the items and I just go on wolfing down to pay a three-digit sum to the cashier finally. I would have kept it in the region of two-digits and saved the extra for a needy.

Now think, if you restrain the kid at the shop or I restrain myself at the food outlet what will be the outcome? In my case, the day I restrained myself in food, I was happy and my body felt easy.

Above all, there is the happiness; I could control myself so that I am disciplined. When the mind is controlled constantly, it chases away the trespassing evil. The mind gets rid of evil as much as possible. This helps the sound meditation.

When water becomes free of dirt and gets cleaned – when bathroom floor is brushed and becomes sparkled – the same way the mind becomes cleaned of evil on constant self restraint i.e. self control.

If you are ready to tick ‘yes’ for self restraint or want to do so, well yes, experience the happiness engulfing you. It leads wherever you are – your mind – the sparkling ground.

Thinkingpath

2005-07-25T09:12:00.000-07:00

The wanderer discovers the comfort...

You can now compose the best lines ever in your life…

2005-07-19T09:32:00.000-07:00

Based on a poem by Parakrama Kodituwakku, the bard of the modern Sinhala literature.

“You can now compose

The best lines ever in your life”

My colleague pats on the back.

When the waves came and

Seized my neighbour’s dwelling,

No line dwells in me.

Never

Never have I needed

His tears on my lines.

Toss the lines into the bookcase

Slouched against the rusty wall

I SHOULD GO for him

AND CLEAN UP THE MUD for him.

They are but MINES

The LINES composed

On my neighbour's tears.

The legendary stranger knocks.

2005-07-15T06:11:00.000-07:00

It comes but steadily – the Trojan horse conqueres both my Desktop and Laptop. Picture_of_the_world’s_most_wanted_person.exe. It appears whenever I insert a floppy into the Laptop, and the number of the bad sectors goes up to two hundred thousand something from zero. It trespasses the desktop without any hindrance.

Luckily recently updated Norton of the Desktop is not willing to accept this stranger from the laptop. I had to update Norton for the Desktop primarily because of this stranger. Otherwise, it would have been in a great risk too.

Albeit the meagre status of my knowledge on viruses and virus guards, I somehow came to know that this particular virus got something to do with malfunctioning of one’s data. Here’s what I read somewhere.

A Trojan Horse portrays itself as something other than what it is at the point of execution. While it may advertise its activity after launching, this information is not apparent to the user beforehand. A Trojan Horse neither replicates nor copies itself, but causes damage or compromises the security of the computer. A Trojan Horse must be sent by someone or carried by another program and may arrive in the form of a joke program or software of some sort. The malicious functionality of a Trojan Horse may be anything undesirable for a computer user, including data destruction or compromising a system by providing a means for another computer to gain access, thus bypassing normal access controls.

I loved it for sometime despite of its nature, until the situation grows worse. I used to open the .exe file with the .jpeg icon to see the man on the horseback. The horse was not the large one we were taught at college.

Trojan Horse, the Greek saga has it, was the formulated plan of a Greek pair to see the annihilation of Trojans. The horse was swapped with a statue of a Goddess stolen by Greeks. Inside the large wooden horse was the Greek army unbeknown to Trojans, who accepted it inside the city. The legend ends with annihilation of Trojans and has the addition that the Greeks were cursed for their act.

Trojan Horse creators are cursed or not, I don't know.

When Andrew Marvell is reborn.

2005-07-09T10:02:00.000-07:00

The playscript based on Andrew Marvell's 'To His Coy Mistress'

Scene I

Narrator: So short is the life, full of vigour and beauty
Counsels the scene, we lay in 2014 Kalaniya University
A young damsel wakes up not at once
Yet she wakes up eternally in a trance

Sahan: O Janitha, my life’s sweet dream,
Why did you lit the fading beam?
O Janitha,
How, you feel to give me such torment?
My craving has grown to such extent.

Janitha: Hold, Sahan,
Ask me not
To profane the divine body of mine
Till the infinite plan does join us together

Sahan: Bid me but death, rather than keep
The divinity of your body
No divine being remains unprofaned
That is no lie, my sweetest,
For it is the reality
Every human being experiences

Janitha: It may sound true
But, my True Lord,
Have an ear upon me
I am born divine.
Have mercy upon me
For I am a heavenly creature
Do you lack the words Sahan
That fill me with no disgust?

Sahan: Death casts its spell over
The life that sits on your radiant eyes
And you become less
For you have not obeyed
The Natural Plan

Janitha: Be not steamed up Sahan
For it affects your nature
So tenderly, So loving.

Scene II
Sahan’s friend: Soft, calm, your face used to be
Pray, you tell me what went bad,
For it has turned up mighty different

Sahan: Nothing but
The usual delirium
Which counsels me
Sweet roses inherit
fearsome thorns
Upon it.

Sahan’s friend: But Sahan, I do breathe a hope
The infinite plan leaves you not behind
Bear my word
Upon your heart

Scene III
Janitha’s friend: I beg you of Sahan
Who asks for nothing
But what common folks desire

Janitha: But teach me how I should forget this

Janitha’s friend: Divine things are not born
To perish unused, untouched
Sweet things are not born
To be forgotten so easily

Scene IV
Narrator: The Thought provoked Janitha goes to Bed
Last utterings of Sahan wave in her head
Death casts its spell over
The life that sits on your radiant eyes
In the realm of dream She sees one
So calm, peaceful, tenderly

Fairy: Come sweet girl
Come with me
For I show you what
Makes the path to your divinity

Janitha: Tell me who you are
Your radiance shows
The distinctive nature, you possess
Soft, you seem. Take me with you
O fairy, I beg you

(Fairy takes Janitha to a coffin, where two vermins speak)

Fairy: I know your thought
Say you nothing
Be mindful
Upon your eyes
Upon your ears

Vermin I: It smells new sister
So gleaming is the face
Of the lass
Repentance lies
Yet, in her eyes

Vermin II: Here rests, sister,
On the marble vault,
The body of whom beauty kept serving nobody
Till the unnoticed arrival of death

Vermin I: This shall be the lesson. . . . .

Fairy: The time is up sweet girl.
Be to the bed
And you shall behold the new life
Before you, by the rays of Sun
That fell on your body
Of divinity

Janitha: (Suddenly wakes up from the dream)
What dream is it?
Which grieves my heart?
Yes, Sahan, I shall give you my consent
Do whatever you desire
With this body of divinity
For death comes with no prior notice
And this be nothing

Il Postino (The Post Man)

2005-04-14T10:04:00.000-07:00

Plot Outline: Simple Italian postman learns to love poetry while delivering mail to a famous poet; he uses this to woo local beauty Beatrice.

The poet’s going away to Italy on punishment.
Pablo Neruda - it portrays the poet’s lifestyle in top of the hills.
A special postman assigned by the Department to deliver the tight bundle of mails - Love.
The story begins - the blending of the poet of love and the postman in search of love.
The metaphor – Rupollo, the postman begins the journey of love.
- Do you know metaphor?
No. I haven’t heard about that.
Then listen, I’ll tell you about the metaphor.
Briettriche Russo – the temple of the romance. Rupollo brings metaphor to the temple.
- Have you not seen women before?
- ……
- I am asking you. Have you not seen women before?
- Metaphor.
Rupollo’s wedding. Neruda is called back.
Rupollo records the sounds of waves and wind and heartbeat of Pabilito, the infant, he had never seen.
Neruda walks down by the shore – how Rupollo was caught by the Police when he read an ode to Neruda, the statue communism.
[Down - my words at 12, when I first saw the film]
Nevertheless at least it had the ability to make a good for nothing note down on Il Postino.
Well, to be frank, a line loaded with heavy words and no proper sense.

Lingering in Sansara

2005-03-27T09:40:00.000-08:00

Sasare Rendena Api
(We who linger in the sansara)
Professor J. K. P. Ariyaratna

Sinhala Jataka atuvava is the unending source of literary works over the years.
Many scientists of the recent history acquire the beneficial usage of this unending source. However, my humble opinion - the Science and Buddhism should be studied seperately. The studies on planetary movements and the related scientific subject areas epitomize no important situation since the concepts of the creation of the universe are accepted to be of no moral support in getting rid of Samsara. The Studies of science scholars such as Dr. D. V. J Harischandra and Professor J. K. P. Ariyaratna however, retain a justifiable edge, since their source is the Buddhist literature, not from the Dhamma (Doctrine).
Chemistry master Ariyaratna should be appreciated on his contribution to the Sinhala literature, a novel, based on the Buddhist literature with primary format of the Jataka stories (Buddha’s birth stories).
As the title suggests, 'sasare randena api' ('Sasara' can be defined the mundane existence as opposed to Nirwana, or deathlessness), it is woven around three existences of a group of human beings. Although we have a tendency to blow our own trumpet on the ancient oriental literature, the few of its format and contents are illustrated in a manner, which can not be adjustable to the modern day society. The presence of the animals is such a feature one can perceive in this criterion. The absence of the animals in the novel most comfortably fits the modern day context. Prof. Ariyaratna, nonetheless, is willing to remain in the surrealistic phenomenon, which is apparent in Jataka stories.
According to the Buddha's Dhamma, the man is a product of craving, which makes him roam ceaselessly in the sansara wheel. The man is a mixture of both good and evil. Carolina, Darlina, Palis, Lieutinent Bob are representatives of this evil nature while Disiliya's character endeavors to maintain its formation of the meritorious deeds.
The ancient literary works are meant to counsel the general reader or the ignorant being on inspiring their desire of dong meritorious deeds. The knowledge we have on sansara is in a meagre track albeit we are well equipped with the modern language.
We are prone to do whatever our body commands. We ought to be considered as ignorant beings in this sense. All these characters are created, may be with the intention of making the reader, or the ignorant being aware of the true self of the sansaric wheel, so that he/she can be made to produce more meritorious deeds. The ancient literary giants such as Ven. Dharmasena, Gurulugomi are mirrored on the Chemistry master in this task.
The well known theory is pointed out creatively by the Professor. Ruchili Gatasola, the main character suffers from an unobserved disease in her breast. She determines to meditate in order to find treatments to the disease.
Professor Ariyaratna, leaving the creativity behind, quotes one of Dr. D. V. J. Harischandra's passages, which comes in 'Psychiatric aspects of Jataka stories'. This, I view, may destroy the nature of creativity. Such things are common in author's predecessors as well. It possesses a slight tendency to become a mere thesis note rather than its value of creativity.
Ruchili Gatasola (Disiliya in the previous existence) appears in Jema's mind. This seems rather bizarre, since the actual successor of Disiliya lives a luxurious life, and seems to have gained no such spritiual hygiene enough to enter one's mind. If Disiliya had entered Jema's mind, she would have been born in a world of gods or pèta (a kind of sprite), since these creatures normally have a direct accession to a human mind. Ruchili Gatasola should have developed her mind into a higher plane, if she enters Jema's mind. But this novel reads that Ruchili Gatasola is not known to Jema. This can be considered as the task which is expected to maintain the creative coherence.
Professor Ariyaratna hence, does not fail to make the novel quite practical. Jema, Baron, Aladdin, Leutinent Bob are invisible in the previous existence of Disiliya, though they play main roles in her life.
Ariyaratna has seemingly been given influence from the traditional mythology. He creates a black serpent, and alleges it as the following existence of Salaman Silva. He tends to prove it further, taking the body features of the serpent, and its activities for grant.
The ecstacy one gains reading 'Sasare Rendena api' is impossible to be explained, since it embraces some kind of spiritual nature, which enables the general reader to halt the gadding about, and think for awhile on self.
J. K. P. Ariyaratna, Chemistry emeritus professor at University of Kelaniya, has written several other interesting books both in English and Sinhala. The most of them are based on Buddhism linked with Science. 'Two Buddhist sutras viewed from science' and 'Misadutuvek daham daki (A heretic sees the doctrine) of the same author, are quite interesting to be gone through.

"You dance, I drum..."

2005-02-23T07:57:00.000-08:00

US ex-presidents' visit here did not plant any feeling on me. But what I saw on TV and Daily News lead photograph yesterday brought me a feeling. That's inexpressible as usual. Why only Clinton? Yes it's only Clinton, who was playing the miniature drum to which a girl was dancing. The event was not that important, I feel, but was Clinton's appearance.
All white hair and the sober look in Clinton made me some grave feeling. Having come to the old age, to satisfy with small things, that's what appeared in his face. Playing a miniature drum might have brought some simple happiness, to the much worried mind over the dealings with his own blemishes. Clad in a simple yellow t-shirt with the flat belly (I so desire seeing.) his face did not bring any solemnity. Though old age has also engulfed Bush snr's face, Clinton's face got something to tell Americans, perhaps to keep their shirts on, to be indifferent on anything; we won't live hundred years. I felt sober seeing Clinton playing the miniature drum, and it increased seeing his face.
The both are poor as well as wealthy; the president and the girl. They might keep on drumming and dancing forever.
"You dance, I drum," still penetrates my heartbeats.

Love, I want you...

2005-02-09T10:40:00.000-08:00

Forgive me, Loneliness,
Get nearer
Sit beside me
When high spirits embrace me
I forget you.
Forgive.
Forgive me darling,
It's not my fault.
My folks let me forget you
Their laugh drags me
To the money grave.
I have been talking
MONEY all the time
With my folks
And the moment comes now,
I know
It's not my love.
I love you
with happy hearts
I go on love you
I feel your rhythmic pealing
My darling loneliness.
Gorgeous Loneliness.

Happiness in Discipline

2004-12-23T06:13:00.000-08:00

The venerable plucking the Bo leaves, raises a question unexpectedly.
"Have you ever heard of happiness in discipline?"
"Happiness in discipline? No venerable sir."
The venerable sits down on a step finishing the task. I sit myself cross legged on the sand, seeing his face so calm and serene.
"Many get disciplined out of some fear. Just like training in a cadet camp. Under a high pressure, though love it so much."
"It is so difficult to be disciplined. Isn't it Sir?" A blunt question? I have a doubt. But venerable looked as if he has taken no notice of it.
"So difficult at the start. Till you feel the happiness in the discipline." Venerable repeats the phrase.
"What actually is the happiness in the discipline?"
"You can't give an exact explanation. But I'll explain you the way you can have it."
"Yes Sir."
"Now, you have got five precepts. Do you always observe that?"
"Not at all Sir." A grin, though no sense of humour.
"You are not eating meat. Are you? So that's some kind of descipline. Some way of abstaining. So you may feel some happiness inexpressible with that refrain."
"Yes Sir, I used to write some notes on that happiness at the beginning."
"Yes, your happiness flows. So you may now feel that, you no longer carry corpses in your belly. You are so purified. Now you can control those impulses. So you grow happy when these come to your mind. You can't simply put it to somebody else's heart. And it is the happiness that cannot be broken so easily."
Silence.
What is the difference of the pleasure and the happiness. The next question. The venerable notifies it.
"Pleasure does not last. But happiness exists. So we can interpret it this way."
"Understood Sir."
"You have told that it is difficult to be disciplined. Haven't you?"
"Yes Sir."
"Even you may have felt some difficulty, on the first days of becoming a vegetarian?"
"No Venerable sir."
"No you have. It ought to be, because you gave up on the principles. So there was no way to avoid the impulse. It comes. And at that particular moment, your brain reminds you that you gave up it. So you have to endure it. So your mind fills with happiness the moment you concentrate on it." The venerable keeps on in a lighter vein. A sense of happiness.
"Yes Venerable Sir."
"So likewise, both you and us, the monks inherit this discipline from the Lord Buddha. That is five precepts. But you are not used to follow it."
"Not that we don't follow it. It's so difficult to do so."
Once again his face adorned with a smile.
"Well, tell me the difficult ones."
"The first three can be. But it is those last two. . . "
"You mean the lying and taking intoxicated drinks?"
I wonder about my response.
"There are teetotalers, whom you pay much respect. Aren't there?"
"Yes Venerable."
"So how do you keep company with them?"
"Either we don't drink because of the respect, or we do not force them."
"So had ever such a person been a fish out of water at your residence?"
"Never Venerable sir."
"So what's the obstacle?"
"Yes Venerable sir."
"Don't you like to sense the happiness of abstaining from liquor, like you yourself feel being a vegetarian?"
"Yes Venerable I had better experiment it."
"The other one is uttering falsehood, right?"
"Yes venerable sir."
"Yes, there you get trapped. In that case you should avoid lying even for a joke. There are some instances, where you can't follow the precept. In such situations, you should again have a self pledge not to engage in uttering falsehood."
"Yes Sir."
"Now this five precepts is the foundation of the happiness. The three doors, mind, speech and body would overflow with happiness."
"Yes Sir."

The delegates were astonished at the daring statement of a dark complexioned man from a third world country

2004-12-20T04:18:00.000-08:00

To breathe a particular moment. To contemplate on a particular moment. You may be amazed even to think of it. An experience highly acclaimed in International arena, though scoffed at by Prof. Sarath Kotagama, an expert on natural sciences.

“It may be new to you, but not to us.” The delegates were astonished at the daring statement of a dark complexioned man from a third world country.

It’s nice listening to Prof. Kotagama’s voice at Hotel Ceylon Continent.

“International scientists present many spiritual things as new things, but most of them have been us with for a long time. Only thing is that we are waiting till an international scientist tells us.”

Advasi Chieftain Uruwarige Wannila Etto recalls his father former Adivasi Chieftain Tisahami’s experiences with civilized society in BBC.

“How long will it take for you to come to our society?” The BBC journalist questions him through an interpreter in a serious tone.

Tisahami replies mildly with a grin.

“Well, how long will it take for you to come to our society?”

Do we need to go back to state of nature? That’s the problem we modern people have to face. The challenge impossible. Obviously. But we can’t just forget the nature. To breathe a particular moment, to contemplate in a particular moment, and perhaps even to escape another Tsunami, we got to be with nature.

That’s all they want.

2004-12-17T04:21:00.000-08:00

It brings you into the triumphal arch of greenery and flowers, in a story of Hans Christian Anderson, forgiving for a moment for the reality. On the benches are the ones, whose faces seem to have ended up the life-long struggle. With me is such a pair. He and she were in a hearty chat facing each other on the benches, before I became the intruder. But they love my company. I couldn’t feel the age gap between us, when it came to chat. They want it. That’s all they want.

From this garden of Shanta Sevana Hospice, just few yards behind the Maharagama Cancer Hospital, I saunter into the wards where male patients are kept. I meet Mrs. Srimathi Dayaratna, the hospice assistant, with a face adorned in a smile, as I walk along the corridor attached to the male ward. She shows me the golden plaque on the wall of the male ward; where the inscription goes on to explain the genesis of the building.

I become simply wonderstruck at crystal clean walls and the floor. I am looking for the flies and other insects in vain, yet continuing the conversation with Mrs. Dayaratna, how she manages to get the ward so clean unlike a normal ward. I see some cleaners engaging in the task. I come to know from her that this procedure takes place regularly. No bad smell actually that is unbearable in most hospitals.

Shanta Sevana, a daughter institute of Sri Lanka Cancer Society accepts only cancer patients, who have reached the incurable stage. They are given no medication save some pain killers.

When you ascend upstairs, you find the ward for females. Each ward has the capacity of 16 patients.

When I see them, they are enjoying what is going on TV. They have no worry about me, whoever I am. One clasps her hands in veneration to me. I do the same to her and what else? I query her health. She is sure of her recovery and possibility of returning home. “Yes, you can. You have improved quite a lot, nurses say.” I console her.

“We have got two separate rooms too. You prefer to have a look at them?” I nod to Mrs. Dayaratna. I peep into the room, just to be amazed over its majestic look. These rooms are longing to have a patient to look after. But one ought to go to this room with a bystander, to whom you have to pay about Rs. 600 a day. So nobody dare go into that room. Otherwise all the treatments are given free of charge.

“With these rooms we have the capacity of 36 patients.” I hear Mrs. Dayaratna’s voice.

“All this brings solace to mind rather than having heavy parties at home. I love to speak with them rather than dancing and have good for nothing chats with my people.” One would tell me when his/her birthday is celebrated here.

The staff always seems to be in good spirits with the patients.
“I am content with my staff. They don’t complain of anything. They have realized the ones with they have to tackle with.” Mrs. Dayaratna says.

I see the serenity coated in their faces looking at the far horizon. Come what it may, they murmur in my ear. I am too busy to accept it. But I invite you to see these faces and touch the beauty of the reality. Perhaps you want to join an alms giving and for a moment meditate on the life - its impermanence.

That's why Coelho's opening lines of his latest, you and I breath a fairy tale.

2004-11-30T07:59:00.000-08:00

'Once upon a time there was a prostitute called Maria.'
Got the chance to stroke the opening lines of Paulo Coelho's latest 'Eleven Minutes'?
Of course I became spellbound on feeling these opening lines. Why? Coelho goes on;
'' ‘Once upon a time' is how all the best children's stories begin and 'prostitute' is a word for adults. How can I start a book with this apparent contradiction?'
But I would rather say, this is not a story of contradiction. The prostitute, we encounter in eleven minutes, is no ordinary woman. She keeps a diary, and there flows the stream of her thoughts. She is attracted not by a mere one or two, but many 'special clients'. And the main thing is not 'sex', but the 'special light' within her. So do we come across a Virgin Mary, the understanding mother of the special clients.
I think, no ordinary prostitute would see that all the time she spends with the client is only 'eleven minutes'. But Maria understands it, so that she could withstand that eleven minutes, and then go to the bathroom and get cleaned of the sin.
She loves her profession, prostitution, for that is what they call, she leafs through many a book on sex. She dreams of a prince charming. And she doesn’t, for she often dreams of going to her penniless parents and live with them doing a farm, for she has a go at many a book on farm management, one she is not in the least bit interested.
The difference then lies in her appetite. She feels pretty boring to leaf through the books on farm management. Yet she manages to keep the dream of a farm, she hopes to buy, withdrawing all the sweat she has on her Swiss bank.
"The idea of writing about sex is one that had been in my mind for a long time, but I hadn't found the right approach. Besides, the gestation of every book is a mystery to me: the text itself only comes into being once I've written it already in my subconscious."
Coelho completes his dream of writing a novel on sex with 'Eleven Minutes'. But he falls out from Lawrence. His attempt is not unravelling sex. You would see how sensitive, how precise, is his texture, in search of the nature of sex. This appears to be the reason why the novel is accepted all over the world, translated into dozens of languages. He does not rely on the sacred side of the sex, yet practical secret side, for Maria gets vexed over the book on sacred sex, full of theories and concepts, absolutely nothing on the subject.
When asked on the central idea of the novel, Coelho insists upon the standardisation of life. Culture, education all fountains on account of this need of standardisation of the life. Sex becomes no exception. But is man ready to realise this dilemma and exist with it? If so, why does he need a joy of eleven minutes? True, standardisation of sex may sound safety. And it, oddly enough, paves the path to the aberrant behaviour, for example, paedophilia, incest and rape. Why do we behave in this way with something that is so important? asks Coelho. You shall find the answer that pervades the whole novel.
The girl, Maria, gets the chance to fly for Rio, where she has to find herself a prostitute, yet with luxurious dreams. She meets Ralf Hart, a sensible painter, who discovers the 'strong light' in Maria. Hart changes Maria's life.
Time comes when Maria has to take a decision, whether to give Hart her heart and make her dream a reality or fly to her parents and live in the dream.
So the end of the novel becomes quite interesting, where Maria realises the spirit of sex at the eleventh hour. No sacred side. No fantasy. Just make love. You cannot go beyond that, for in Maria's diary you find:
'You can't say to the spring: 'come and bless me with your hope, and stay as long as possible.' You can only say: 'Come and bless me with your hope, and stay as long as you can'.
This is the thing we are compelled to hear, leaving all theories and conceptions behind; it's the basic experience Maria and the others face.
It sweeps away the complexities of life. Now, though, the situation becomes different - Maria meets her dream and stays in Brazil, just because she is forced by inner conscience.
Coelho's opening lines of the latest, brings in but a sense of a fairy tale. The moment has come - we should give up the standardisation of sex, and should enjoy it freely - it is the conclusion, we have to come at, in the end of 'eleven minutes'.
'Paulo Coelho was born in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, in August 1947. He attended law school there but abandoned his studies in 1970 to travel throughout Mexico, Peru, Bolivia and Chile, as well as Europe and North Africa.
Two years later he returned to Brazil and began composing popular music lyrics. After a brief imprisonment in 1974 for alleged subversive activities against the Brazilian government, Coelho worked for five years for the recording departments of Polygram and CBS. Between 1981 and 1986 he studied with the order of RAM, an ancient, magical Spanish society. Now a literary phenomenon, he has sold over 43 million books world-wide and has been translated into 56 languages. He has received numerous literary awards from a variety of countries and his books have become permanent fixtures on the bestseller lists of countries as diverse as Brazil, the UK, the USA, France, Italy, Germany and Greece.
He and his wife Christina live in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.'
(These biographical details are extracted from his official website)
The moment has come - we should give up the standardisation of sex, and should enjoy it freely - it is the conclusion, we have to come at, in the end of 'eleven minutes'.
That's why Coelho's opening lines of his latest, you and I breath a fairy tale.
'Once upon a time there lived a prostitute. . . .'

Going away

2004-08-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

Then it made me realize

I loved you
So as you were to me
(I felt cool breezes blow
over our lost souls,
So I believe,
You loved me)
Ours was a mere friendship
Or what
I wonderý
The moment
I come to blows with Economics
The Production Possibility Curve
PPC
Embossed and curved
You are there
Grow thicker and thicker
The next second,
You fling me to sky.
I go on mugging up
Economics
I carve my block in the sky
‘Yet thine eternal figure
Roams in my lonely memories.’

When power cut comes briskly

2004-08-01T00:44:00.000-07:00

When power cut enthrones
You and me
Stop all the work
Got nothing to do,
Silence for a while
I want to chat with you,
I am tired of this society, hm…
I hear that melodious voice
that belongs to you,
poise me with your insights
Your eyes sparkle in the dark,
‘You got to face it mate,’
The other day
I
tell you my thoughts,
You dig my mind,
looking for something lost forever
This goes day by day
When Power cut comes, with no notice
bless the power cut,
it cures the depressed insights
And suddenly
You give yourself to power cut
that I now curse.
People join thousands by thousands
to my grief
to my lost happiness
Some weep
Some shed tears
You, in brown study
you do not hear them.
They have now taken a decision
To halt it,
power cut,
No power cut comes home
Anymore.
Yet you heal me
Nomore.
Inward glow is gone
oh if it
chases away
the darkness within…!

Orientalism, demise shall not be thy fate

2004-08-01T00:40:00.001-07:00

O Orientalism, I cannot but embrace
Thy gentle philosophy, Westener himself
Has not uncovered; not even a single shelf
That does glisten with thy solemn grace

Impermanance, Uncertainty and sorrow
The oriental trinity revealed to us
Yet the opposed westener does
Not desire of accepting his morrow

Which truly consists the eternal grief
Hey my dear fellow, lost in western gutter
How dare you utter of an influence of West

When the tradition you inherit not brief
The influence you do oftentimes joyously mutter
May be the wisdom that rested futile upon your chest

The new year

2004-08-01T00:40:00.000-07:00

(An adaptation of a sinhala poem)

This unbearable stream of life
Crossed over with much strife
Lose humanity upon the heath
Dare you beasts dispute seethe
Where is the twelve months peak?
With a mighty struggle we do seek
Searching the answer are we
The reality, bitter it might be
When this stream of life become old
Our great mortality is found sold
How can a giggle raise the eternal morning peace
When the heat of hunger is not yet ready to cease?

The tale of a road preacher

2004-08-01T00:33:00.000-07:00

Of some direful breaches
On the road he preaches
With an unknown grief
The lecture is not brief
The bitter truth
The sublime truth
It can be gravely said
Though attention paid
seems naught.

Death thy name is sonnet

2004-08-01T00:29:00.000-07:00

The unbearable lightness of the loch of life
Having crossed over with much effort may be
How dare you beasts lose humanity with strife
Though the everlasting peace it will not be
Oh the life, where is thy everlasting infinite peace?
I seek for nothing but illusion of life in its peak
Yet the life saunters for we are not ready to cease
The illusion obsession that we do hardly seek
Bearable lightness of life still is not born
The so-called peace is become mould
The craving, I beseech you, please be gone
I no longer desire your net that is bold
With much struggle, the very soil of your terrain is found
Death, I shall never set mine on your loathsome ground