MILKRICE by MANY AUTHORS

In this day and age, when children would rather play computer games and game boy, it is difficult to find an alternative that would hold them spell bound for hours. So it is in this context that I trawled through some recent children’s books and came across a book that had been published last year. Like any other plebian, I judge a book by its cover and the cover was nice, bright and attractive. The book was a collection of stories for children and was called MilkRice – another catchy title, I thought, that gave no indication of what was inside the book, but was still Sri Lankan enough to say a lot.
There are nine stories that cover a range of situations. Instead of repeating each and every story, to fill space let me tell you what I liked.
I liked that all the stories were imaginative, Sri Lankan (I liked that part a lot actually), short, simple and easy to read. The target audience would be I think around 9 years old, perhaps a parent could read it to a 5 year old. Anyway, I also liked that some big names had got together to write stories for children. Authors like Faith Ratnayake, Neluka Silva, Lal Medawattegedera and Premini Amerasinghe, had contributed. I loved the little drawings that accompanied each story, giving it a Sri Lankan touch. I also liked that the stories would give the Sri Lankan child a vehicle to identify what it is like to grow up in Sri Lanka, rather than for them to read stories set in the West and for them to read about valleys and dales, crumpets and jam, rosy cheeks and ski holidays.
I liked that all the stories had a moral, some subtle some not so subtle. For instance, there were stories that spoke about being humane to animals, another story was about bullying. Two stories were about fabulous imagination, another two stories were about difference and how it should not matter to us, and one story about child soldiers. The most sophisticated story was about the child soldiers, the most imaginative story was the one about hats. The story my nephews and nieces loved was the one about the cat, rat and snake. And the story that my little cousin adored having read to her was the one about the aeroplane. All this goes to show that this is a little gem of a collection for Sri Lankan kids. Something about ten years ago, children didn’t have. A book of stories to call their own.

Theravada Man by Manuka Wijesinghe

After having read Manuka Wijesinghe’s first book Monsoons and Potholes which I enjoyed very much even though it was repetitive and a bit of a difficult read, I approached her second book just released early this year, with some trepidation. The launch of the book at Barefoot in Galle at the wonderful Galle Literary Festival was well done, even though the attendance was poor. The skit performed by the extremely talented Indu Dharmasena, Sangvada, Michael Meyler (who knew the man could act as well) and Manuka was hilarious. In half an hour they had reduced this 359 page book into a complete story. Quite a feat!
To my utter surprise the book read well. The story flowed on and on and most important of all kept the reader’s interest. The central figure the Theravada schoolteacher who was referred throughout the whole book as iskolemahaththaya is looking for a wife. Hooked up with an astrologer, they engage in various philosophical discussions that cover all aspects of life until they reach the desired object – the wife. Once married, the schoolteacher’s wife referred to as iskolehamine, as she is also a teacher, produces a number of children, replaces the astrologer as the recepient of various philosophical discussions, and discovers close to the end that she has been nothing but merely a goal post in the iskolemaththaya’s life. There are various kavi’s that are interspersed in the text that even though I read them diligently were rather distractive. Other than for historical documentation, reproducing the kavis in whole did not add more to the novel. In addition the novel has two playlets that they call nadagamas, which while entertaining to read, again was not essential to the story. I fear that both were included because they could not be published anywhere else.
Not having met Manuka personally but heard her speak briefly, I suspect that the book is written the way Manuka speaks. The book is rather breathless as it speeds its way through from beginning to end. There are many interesting philosophical discussions on the way but it almost seems that the book is secondary, and that the writer is using it as a way of transmitting her critique on life and philosophy to the world at large. Sometimes the reader feels battered. Sometimes the reader feels lost. Sometimes the reader feels it could have been said in many more words less.
But the final word is that on the whole it was an entertaining book. Typical of her previous writing there is a cause, but it is less pressing, less intense. I preferred Monsoons and Potholes because it came from the soul. But Theravada Man is better written, more slick and it is only right at the very end, that you ask. And what was all that about?

The Rolled Back Beach by Neluka Silva and Simon Harris

There are some things about a ‘tsunami’ book that make you jump to conclusions. First, that it is dated, this means that if you are reading it in 2009, you know it is all about 2004 December 26th. Then you know it will be sad. Then you know that it will be written most probably by a person who wasn’t even caught in the tsunami and who will employ pathos and emotional blackmail to make you feel really bad about not being caught in the tsunami. And finally, you wonder is it worth it?
When I got The Rolled Back Beach by Simon Harris and Neluka Silva as a gift, all those thoughts went through my mind. And I am happy to report that I was proved quite wrong regarding the last conclusion. It is worth reading.
First I was jolly pleased that I got a book as a gift, it’s such a rare thing these days. My mother remembers being given books ad nauseoum when she was a child. But not any more. Today, most people give you silly clothes that don’t fit, or ugly things for your home. A book, in my opinion is the best gift of all. You can read it and then if you don’t like it you can give it to someone else!
Anyway, I am straying. So I got this book and thought it must be the first time that I saw a book of fiction that had only two authors. And then I began to read. Now here is a note of caution for writers. When there is an obvious difference in the style and standard of the writing between two authors it can be a difficult thing to review a book. Most often you would probably like some stories of both in somewhat equal proportions. But what do you do if you like one author much better than the other. Well that is what happened to me. In this collection, I liked all the stories of Simon Harris (except for Beth’s Bear,) and while Neluka Silva is not a bad writer and is quite creative, her stories kind of paled next to Simon. So let me explain why.
Simon Harris writes with a style that is restrained, pared down, and evokes much description from a few sentences. In fact in my mind typically English. And let me hasten to add that is not a bad thing. Let me illustrate, his first story has this: “It was as if all life had been sucked from the night air and replaced with an oppressive stillness that clawed at the old man’s throat as he laboured down the hill beckoning beyond the darkness, barely remembering as a boy how he had raced the same route from Sunday mass to the pebbled beach beneath the watchful gaze of a lighthouse, dormant at the far end of the fort.” Ok that is a really long sentence. But it is like a movie. You can just imagine the scene. His story Comic Relief, another example of beautiful, funny and evocative description that is still sharp, not maudlin and mushy,and in four pages describes rather accurately the bureaucratic nightmare that exists in Sri Lanka.
So, you get the picture about Simon’s writing. Now onto Neluka Silva. If I had read her stories on their own, in her own little collection I might have been charmed. She writes in a typically Sri Lankan way, using a lot of conversation, colloquialisms, charming mannerisms and very local. Perhaps her stories are too local. They remind me a bit of Elmo Jayawardene’s stories. Anyway, what the stories are about for both of them is no surprise. They deal with various aspects of the tsunami – heroisms, shame, fundraising, relief work, grief, regret, and I suspect many of the stories must be true.
So my final word is that it’s a nice book to have and I look forward to more of their writing. But here is a word of advice. Publish separately.

Shrapnel by Neil Fernandopulle

I picked this collection of short stories because it had won the Gratiaen prize. That fact was announced on the cover. But the cover itself was certainly not appealing. The appearance of the book, cover, look etc was rather dull and boring and I would not have gone out of my way to pick it up if not for the mention of the prize. What can I say? I am shallow. Nice covers and nice print jobs appeal to me. Anyway, this book was published nine years ago and a lot has changed in the printing world since then, so I suppose I should not judge this book by its cover.
I should have gathered from the title that the stories inside would be all about the war. The back cover has a nice blurb: Shrapnel is not about war. It is not about peace. It is not about love or loss. It is not about discovery and disillusionment. It is not about passion and remorse. It is not about the trees and the sky and the here and the tomorrow. It is about all these…
But once I started the stories, I realized it was about the war and the futility of peace. It is all about loss and inadequate love. It has too much disillusionment and not enough discover. It dwells on remorse and fleets through passion. There is nothing about the trees and sky, and an excess about the here and dismal tomorrows.
If you think by now that I didn’t like the book. That is not true. The stories are well written and well told. Perhaps it’s the beating over the head of the theme that tired me out and made it an effort to read.
Neil starts strong. The first story of the collection is strong and short on what else but the ethnic conflict. Highlighting the opportunistic practices of the state, he leaves the reader with a sense of loss and pathos, in describing what happens to a dead child terrorist. It has an interesting take to it and a unique style.
But after that story after story I felt it was much of a muchness. He came again into his own with the last few stories. The best story for me was: Seed dispersal patterns of the Dipterocarps of Sri Lanka. Written with a light hand, clever, witty, funny, and yet conveys so much so lightly Neil shows the talent that he has for writing that is hidden in his previous stories. Then Delirium about a grandmother who perversely refuses treatment for cancer as that is the only thing she feels she can control is also a good story. Dear Vichy about food for sex in a refugee camp is another gem.
But over and over I couldn’t help that I was reading a Sinhala film masquerading as a collection of short stories - Slow, sometimes listless, heavy and descriptive.
I know we live in a time of war, I know that it is hopeless but there is no need to be heavy handed about the theme. Death seems to pervade the book. Death in all its forms. It could be that the book is reflective of our times. Happiness is scarce, joy absent, what remains, is drudgery, no escape, doom to be captive to our karmic destiny.
Thus, the stories have a sameness which could be a good thing and a bad thing. It holds the collection together, true to its title and yet the same time the reader feels brutalized at the end. At the end of the reading, the reader has been battered with stories that have causes, they have morals and they have lessons that we the reader need to learn. And the worst thing is that we have to learn it without humour, without lightness, and without love.

nothing prepares you by vivimarie vanderpoorten

Okay, so I am not a poetry person, though I will read or at least skim through poetry books thrust on me. One such book literally forced upon me by a friend was vivimarie vanderpoorten’s book of poems. Firstly I loved the design of the book, it was clean, simple, nicely laid out, simple black and white sketches,printed on nice paper by a new publishing house that I hadn’t heard of before – Zeus books.
Now for the poems. What a lovely surprise to read poems that instantly appealed to the modern generation of Sri Lanka. From the very first poem that is about the tsunami of 2004 Vivimarie draws the reader in sharply, - there is no gentleness about her poems, -into the lives and sketches of life. In her second poem she admits that pain is her muse and after reading much of Sri Lankan literature, I realize that pain is the muse for most writers. But while others do it badly, Vivimarie does it well. But the ones I like best are her spiky poems that sting with wit, humour and anger. Poems that stand out are Decree Nisi, You’re Welcome, Visiting Giants, Doppelganger, actually most of the poems are good. And I hope Ms Vanderpoorten doesn’t mind if I reproduce one of her poems in this blog, to give you a taste of her poetry.

Haiku: Elections
Time to vote again
Cheerful faces on posters
Pasted promises

A man pees against
the wall, smiling lies can wait:
Nature’s call is strong

One of the reasons I like this book of poetry, is that it is not typical of Sri Lankan poetry that still groans and moans about village life, ayahs, walauwe’s, nelum flowers, Sigiriya frescoes. Come on poets! Write about life, reality, harshness, love – raw and real. And I suppose that is the real reason why I like vivimarie vanderpoorten’s poems. I look forward to her next collection and perhaps she will stun and surprise us with a novel in the near future.

Madol Duwa by Martin Wickremesinghe

Its perhaps strange but true that I only read the famous Madol Duwa a few days ago. Written by Martin Wickremesinghe, who is dubbed as the father of the Sinhala novel, I had heard about the novel for ages but was not inspired to read it. Charges that it is a blatant copy of Tom Sawyer and Huckelberry Finn perhaps dissuaded me from doing so. In any case my Sinhala is so bad, that I needed an English translation and so it was a happy day when a friend lent me her copy of the book. The book was translated by the notable Ashley Halpe, so one warm afternoon I settled down to read the slim book.
I was pleasantly surprised. Perhaps, it is similar to Mark Twain’s books but Wickremesinghe has done an excellent job in Sri Lankanising the story.
So in brief: a young boy and his servant boy Jinna end up on an island having run away from his father and stepmother. There they learn to live on their own, battle various intruders, and eventually become successful businessman selling vegetables in the area. Eventually Upali, the young hero, is discovered and goes back to his village and father to be welcomed with open arms.
I admired Wickremesinghe’s ability to hold the reader captive with interest. His insertion of Sri Lankan flora and fauna made it familiar and recognizable identifying with the Sri Lankan reader. My one criticism is the translation. I would have expected far more from Professor Halpe and instead was quite disappointed at the almost shoddy job that was done. It is my heartiest wish that Wickeremesinghe’s work would be translated at an international standard and made available to the non-Sinhala reader.

Christine - A Memoir

I must confess my ignorance. When I first heard of Christine Spittel Wilson and her famous father Dr R.L.Spittel, I was unaware of the formers fame as a writer and the latter’s fame as an anthropologist surgeon. I imagine that it is a common plight among my fellow countrymen today. Many people would, when you ask them if they know about Dr Spittel, vaguely say ‘His name sounds familiar’ but most of them have not read his body of work on the indigenous people of the island of Sri Lanka – the Veddahs. For that matter most people may not have read Christine Spittel Wilson’s eleven other books that she had written previously. I know I had not. I believe for the most part, they are largely forgettable – mushy historical romance, except for Surgeon of the Wilderness, and Brave Island, which were about her father.
But if you read this Christine Spittel Wison’s book, simply titled, Christine – a memoir, it does more than talk to you about her life or her father or romance. It is also the journey of a country.
The book spans the life of a woman from childhood to old age. Christine is in fact still alive at the ripe old age of 95 years, living in the heart of Colombo, next to her childhood house that is the legendary Wycherly.
Apart from being a skillful writer, Christine unwittingly, I suspect, writes a commentary on the changes of Sri Lankan life. The Burgers, privileged during the time of the British, so privileged in fact, I don’t wonder that most of them thought they were in fact the heirs to the British and somewhat superior to the rest of their countrymen, lived for the most part a life of advantage. When reading the book you get a sense that despite Christine’s love and affiliation for the country, there is a sense that this affection only relates to the country and not the people in it.

During our twenty years away the island had changed. Spoken English was being swallowed by Sinhala. The charming small politeness had disappeared and a proud new people had emerged who learned English in their sixth form. (p252)

The book begins with the writer’s childhood where she would watch a bullock drawn water cart suppress the red dust of the road down Alexandra Place by spurting water on it. As a young child she was already aware of her father’s frequent disappearances into the jungle to study and befriend the Veddahs. Her younger sister’s death, when Christine was six, of a medical misadventure when her parents were abroad, left the family scarred and hurt. She attended Bishops College and one day when her father found her speaking to herself because she was lonely, he brought home a little Veddah child to be her companion. As I read that passage, I thought, that he had brought the child home like the way one brings a pet into the family. Therefore it is no surprise when the Veddah child turns bad, began to gamble and steal and eventually was sent to prison for theft. Christine Spittel Wilson writes of the incident without judgement or responsibility which is also perhaps a reflection of the attitude towards the indigenous people of the island, despite her fathers committed work with them.
One of the loveliest passages in the book is when she is taken by her parents as a child to sail from Kalpitiya to Wilpattu on a dhow. Camping on the beach, and eating fresh grilled fish they attended Christmas Eve mass at a tiny Catholic church in the middle of the jungle. Incredible!
Eventually sent to England for her education, Christine returns to the island to get married, live on a tea plantation where one had to ride horses to get about and then finally divorce her husband soon after her daughter is born. She then joins the war effort, becoming becoming a Class lll TWA at Army Command Headquarters. Her description of Colombo then, is ironically similar to what we have now.

Colombo had changed almost overnight. Loops of twisted barbed wire and men in kakhi blocked roads. The racecourse where we had watched somany races, was a heavily camouflaged aerodrome and Wycherly with a white cross painted on the red tiled roof of the nursing home, was now in a strict Security Zone…Troops everywhere. Army vehicles thundering along the towns treets; the Museum where I had done so much research, strange in its camouflage coat. The city filled with officers, troops and yet more arriving daily; people hurrying in their thousands to the hills in over-loaded cars, buses, coaches, bullock carts, bicycles, and on foot, out of Colombo. (p 108)
It was then that Christine meets the man she is to marry, Alistair Wilson – a Scots captain. After some years in Glasgow, they return to live in the island, visiting far flung places with Dr Spittel, and Christine beginning to write seriously. The rest of the book deals with her life after they return to Scotland, then the move to Africa and finally back home to Sri Lanka.
What the book did was to teach me that as always there are different perspectives to a situation and a history. Christine Spittel Wilson writes a beautiful though skewed memoir of her country, her various homes, and in the process gives us a interpretation on the world of that time and this.