South of Kandy, North of Complacency: the South of Kandy Literary Forum, 2016

South of Kandy Literary Forum 2016 (SKLIF 016), an independently organized mini literary forum, was held on the 10th of December at the Hindu Cultural Association, (500 meters south of) Kandy, to which I was able to contribute as a writer and in a minor organizational capacity. The platform was set up by a group of literature enthusiasts, as a way of breaking the shackles of tedium and inaction that often accompany the progressive approach to art. When first approached, I was told by the organizers that the platform would be a “non-politically correct, non-decorous” deal, where progressive opinions and ideas, no matter how ugly or bitter, will be given the pulpit. My commitment to the event went well rewarded, as a full fledged eight panel assortment of creative artists and critical commentators from a wide cross-section of the arts and humanities left all ends covered and all stones turned.

Free of the best medicine, from Vishnu Vasu and Bevis Manathunga (not in pic) at SKLIF 016

SKLIF 016 featured four panels of creative writers, who read from their established and upcoming work, and four further panels on issues current to literature and the arts.The vocal Jean Arasanayagam and the wisely perched Kamala Wijeratne – easily, 60 publications among them – were the tone setters to the creative quarter, which also featured Krishanthi Anandawansa, Kevin Perera, Amaresh Pereira, Marlon Ariyasinghe, Anupama Godakandha and Katt Stanblazer. Kevin and Katt had braved the extended long weekend to come down from Colombo in public transport, and Krishanthi, from Horana. Amaresh read a sincere and moving tribute, hailing the memory of his mentor and  idol, the late Professor Ashley Halpe. Marlon read from poetry brewing for upcoming publication, while Katt’s reading (on later inquiry) seemed to have left a bitter-sweet imprint in different sections of the audience. Anupama’s delivery, again, was said to be from a forthcoming collection, quite enigmatically titled, “I am a Racist”. In all, SKLIF 016 seemed to hint at 2017 going to be a particularly good year to look out for, where poetry publications are at stake.

Bevis, Vishnu and Chrishain

Of the critical forums, the highlight was Bevis Manathunga and Vishnu Vasu discoursing on “Kandy’s arts scene in the 70s and 80s”, in a panel chaired by Chrishain Jayalath. Both products of Kandy’s flourishing literary and arts scene of that era, Bevis and Vishnu blended anecdote with recollection, and opinion with banter. Bevis, the proverbial “Maara Man”, who until 2013 used to be a city sight under the tree near the Bake House, along the main pavement, had come from Dambulla, where he is now into eco culture. Vishnu was returning to Kandy after a longer absence, and had coincided his “homecoming” with a screening of his acclaimed short film “Butterfly” at the Jana Medura, the day before. That, however, is a thread for a different essay.

Jean, Kamala, Marlon and Stephen 

Praveena Bandara chaired a panel on “Literature in Education: where it is, and where it should head”, in which I spoke along with the lit veteran Liyanage Amarakeerthi. Amarakeerthi, quite admirably, had brought in much theoretical input, and quoted from decades of meticulous study on the subject, including from his translation of Martha Nassbaum. Quite irritatingly, this panel was hijacked by two vocal members from the audience, who, like two Elizabethan dramatists, crossed the line between the stage and the audience with the ease of moving from the pantry to the dining room. A second panel chaired by Manikya Kodithuwakku, featuring Thyagarajah Arasanayagam and Ayathurai Santhan on “Mapping Conflict and the Role of English Literature in Reconciliation” was taken for a walk by Arasanayagam, who, in passionate outbursts, out-voiced his more soft-spoken, mild-mannered counterpart. Santhan, in fact, seemed to have a few important points to make, had he more space and time. Santhan was also felicitated by his publisher (and mine) PawPrint, for a fruitful partnership over the past year and half. He had earlier bagged the coveted double of a Fairway Literary Prize and a Godage Awards for Rails Run Parallel under the PawPrint label. PawPrint was represented at the event by its co-founder and former senior editor, Manikya Kodithuwakku.

The forum also featured internationally acknowledged photographer Stephen Champion, whom I had the good fortune of chairing, as he discoursed along with Danesh Karunanayake on “Art and Technology: from pre-digital times to the present”. Both panelists came across as persons with a knack for conversation, and good conversation too, which made the chairman’s job quite a treat. The duo synchronized well, Stephen going into technical detail, and Danesh resorting to practical wisdom, courtesy of a prolong involvement in trade union and left of center politics.

Perera And Hussein. Pensively. 

In all, SKLIF 016 housed 16 writers, artistes and critics, in 6 hours worth of pow-wow on matters literary and social. A welcome presence were Ameena Hussein and Sam Perera, who drove down from Colombo, giving the audience a sneak peek into Ameena’s forthcoming work. It was a very warm gesture on a very warm day, further warmed by lack of A/C in the Hindu Cultural Association’s somewhat stuffy conference room.

The central nerve of the organizational body were a small group of young men and women who are brought together by a thirst for literature. When I was contacted, all they wanted me to do was to help draft a plan and to get the chosen artistes on board. It was a clinically executed programme without finesse or filigree, and was carried out without pomp, and with the stern focus on art and art alone. The organizational set up taught some of us artistes (myself included) the ground you can cover by having a clear, central agenda, where your funny egos don’t get involved. The talent spread about Kandy, largely in small pockets and clusters, reminiscent of small formations of fat, is Gulliverian. The tragedy is that these energies cannot be meaningfully pooled together to synthesize a progressive vision for Sri Lanka’s literature and the arts. In that way, Kandy’s artists and the pocket groups that represent Lanka’s Left have that much in common.

 

 

“Fifteen”: Where Ameena Hussein Must Return.

Of Ameena Hussein’s work, I had earlier read Zillij (2005) and Moon in the Water (2007) which are later publications of a career as a writer that is said to have started in 1992. My encounter with her volatile and extremely engaging collection of short stories Fifteen (1999) happens after my reading of her later work, which left me with one pertinent question: what – what – happened to the spirit of Ameena Hussein who wrote Fifteen? What became of the raw, insistent, unabashed, unaffected, frontal voice that is so unaware/unconcerned/unheeding of an audience out there, tolerating no obstacle between herself and her delivery? Fifteen, I would say, is the best of Ameena Hussein to date. For people who may think Moon in the Water is her ultimate – as it has been more internationally read etc etc – well, Fifteen is more like the almighty water in the moon.

So, what became of Ameena Hussein? The voice of the penetrating upsetter of norm, and of narrowminded, inhibiting patriarchy? I think, what happened to that voice is that in subsequent publications – and with the inevitable awareness and consciousness of an audience afoot that accompanies recognition – it got tamed and domiciled: that the voice got domesticated and lost echo of its own self amidst the suffocating parameters of “good-book, good-storytelling”. The dynamo of Fifteen is Hussein’s personality and her inner spirit – in each observation that is made in that book, in every criticism that is leveled and every snarl made, what we hear is a personally concerned, personality-wielding voice that can be closely linked to the writer. In Moon in the Water and – maybe, to a lesser extent – in Zillij this possessiveness (a word I borrow from thovil, and not from love) between the writer and the writing is untraceable. The text is rendered bland and impersonal. The most vital ingredient that makes Hussein’s writing work is drained, and is substituted by a chemical that makes books go “international”. For a writer who can write as true and as honestly as Hussein does in Fifteen, this is an anti-climax: a sad one, at that.

A writer’s ultimate success and/or failure is not necessarily decided by the quality or the relevance of their prose or poetry. I would even say that the recognition of their work is least assessed by the quality of the produce, but by other negligible accessory factors. This is relevant to both Lankan and non-Lankan writers. There are committed, serious, dynamic men and women who write among us who are spoilt by premature adulation and laurels given dime-a-dozen, as much as they are automatically placed in the canon owing to the circles and triangles to which they belong. One such writer who has been corrupt by the people and fans around him is Ashok Ferrey – a fellow who takes his writing seriously, but who has been/was garlanded by undue glitz and glamour too early and too soon. All his books, since late, being published by Random House India is not necessarily a reflection of Ferrey’s genius, but of something randomly gone wrong in the publisher’s estimate of Lankan writing. The same fate is, to an extent, shared by Vivimarie VanderPoorten, who is, arguably, the most lyrical poet composing in English (published in Lanka) over the last decade (2006-2016), who became a “celebrity” on magazine covers and sundry after a single volume: Nothing Prepares You. VanderPoorten’s subsequent anthology was, in comparison, quite anti-climactic, and she has since undergone a poetic silence of sorts. A more honest and critical accolade would have helped VamderPoorten to grow and expand her craft.

Hussein is often located in the heart (if not the periphery) of the kind of mechanism that often is responsible for “overnight” literary icons, for whom Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, is the central vein of Lankan English creativity. In fact, Fifteen itself is published by ICES (where, I believe, Hussein was employed at one point), a Neelan Thiruchelvam initiative, but an icon for a closed non-governmental sector set up whose studies in ethnicity and related politics is a yard ahead of its occupation with literature. Hussein is equally identified with Galle Literary festival-like projects (periodically) and with other Colombo-English-speaking NGO activism. What I am striving to point out here is that over the years, the virility and energy of Hussein’s voice – as we encounter it in Fifteen –  has been drained or stunted, and that her being tamed and domesticated within the NGO-run literary spaces of the metro has not helped her in building up on the platform she lays out for herself with projects like Fifteen. This is not to say that Hussein has an alternative. This is merely a theorized observation.

Perhaps, Ameena Hussein should go back to Fifteen. At times, the voice we hear there is repetitive and reveals crevices of the amateur. But, this is not a problem, as only a “desirable book” should have a formula that sells: the kind of book that heeds no repetitiveness or an amateurish streak of the person, even at the expense of it scything off what is honest and true in the expression. Soul-searching and time-travelling is essential for any writer who desires to find his/her stride or beat, and Hussein can prosper by where she ceremonially buried her ashes: in Fifteen. If the phoenix is to rise, those ashes may be of crucial significance.

An Addition to the Hare: Vihanga Perera’s “Water In the Moon”

[Written on request by tomahawk 69]

When we consider Water In the Moon, Vihanga Perera’s collection of essays on Sri Lankan English writing, there are several admirable aspects, undone by what I consider as drawbacks. Mainly, the collection tries to raise questions regarding contemporary Lankan English writing – and this is not too frequently done in any form, be it accessible academic writing or in newspaper or journalistic work. Most of the literature on Lankan English writers are done as academic sidekicks and are not easily reached – they are either priced too high, or too pretentious to engage lay interest. The writers and writings Vihanga has boxed in, again, has a contemporary relevance as a whole. With the exception of Shirani Rajapakshe (whose work I haven’t read) and Louis Blaze (whose inclusion, as we are told, is beside the purpose of the book) the other featured writers have a strong current appeal.

Michael Ondaatje, for example, is the “biggest thing” to be born out of Lankan Literature. Many debate Ondaatje’s legitimacy as a part-Lankan writer, but he is unanimously acknowledged for his Sri Lankan ancestry. Vihanga’s essay on Ondaatje’s The Cat’s Table, with relevant cross references to other Ondaatje texts, therefore, is both useful and insightful for a reader who keeps track of the latest books to come out by writers such as Ondaatje. The same can be told of Karen Roberts, whose works since July I haven’t had the opportunity of reading. Vihanga’s views on Roberts’ Dhobi Woman is both original and engaging and it entices a reader who has some knowledge of Roberts’ writing to pick up the rest and follow suit.

Captain Haddock on the way to the moon

Of the essays, I found the takes on Shehan Karunatilaka’s Chinaman and the two short attacks on the Galle Literary Festival the best. In subsequent e.mail exchanges Vihanga assures me that the first edition of Shehan Karunatilaka’s book is by no means what I had the opportunity of reading, when Random House took over the formalities. Though I have my own assessment of the “Great Cricket Book” to come from Sri Lanka I do not fail to see Vihanga’s point, where he argues that Chinaman is an analogy for the failure of the Lankan state in the ethno-political games that it plays. He argues that Karunatilaka’s parade of the minority identity is no inferior to the state’s showcasing of the same, but to provide its own back.

Vihanga, for some reason, dedicates much energy to a relatively simplistic writer – Nihal De Silva. The essay titled “An Issue of Pleasurable Sex” (p.49) was a treat, by all means; more so owing to the innocuous and playful tone, than the point of Vihanga’s argument. It is an article that is beside the general tone of the book. It is too playful to be in the company of the other essays: which are serious and morose. In my opinion, De Silva has already gained too much drive, owed to the mediocrity of our academy; but, then, again, the author is now dead.

Water In the Moon

Among the drawbacks I saw in Water In the Moon, one was to do with the range and scope of Vihanga’s selection. One felt that more writers could have been brought in and that he could have branched out into other genres and not limit himself to writers of fiction. Sri Lanka is not a country with an extensive literary output and that makes Vihanga’s limitation to fiction somewhat tedious. How many more fiction writers could you add, one may ask. The sad answer is, not many. Therefore, if he could branch out into other genres such as poetry, drama and blogging, a greater diversity could be drawn. Specially, in the field of drama, there is much on offer and long yards are being gained in that arena.  One also feels that Vihanga could have branched off into a bilingual discussion, bringing in aspects of Sinhala Literature which, in spite of the availability of rich criticism, is still a “happening” field. But, then, I leave the benefit of the doubt to the writer, as he may have his own theories of organization.

While the inclusion of writers such as Shirani Rajapakshe and Ayathurai Santhan is commendable, Vihanga should also justify these inclusions. Notable absentees from Vihanga’s list of featured writers include Ameena Hussein (of whose novel ‘Moon In the Water’ only the title is given some prominence), Ashok Ferrey, Manuka Wijesinghe et al. All these writers have post-2004 publications, though Vihanga favours the likes of Nihal De Silva (whose The Road from Elephant Pass is from 2003), even as he insists the focus of his book is on “the most contemporary” fiction. Perhaps, it is the fear of having to give out negative comments on Hussein and Ferrey, whom Vihanga admires over many others, that keeps him from citing these writers.

Water In the Moon has no pedantic pretensions and is well accessible to the “lay” reader (as myself). It is a good mixture of perception, criticism, sly humour and dissent. It is meant to be an “experiment” at publishing “essays of contemporary relevance” I am told. Going by me, it is a largely successful experiment.        

Authors and Others: a note for a Sri Lankan English Reader

by Vihanga

A nation and a literature that is run on connections and nepotism can offer very little to progressive and democratic growth. The very principles of connection and know-whoism function to prioritize membership and arbitrate an exclusive category. Sri Lankan English Literature and the literati that governs it has often worked along this principle of inclusion/exclusion that, today, the said branch of creative output remains the prerogative of an insecure minority.

Lankan English Literature — the authorization of it, mainly; not necessarily the production of it — has traditionally been in the hands of the English Academy of the country. Since late, other proxies and offshoots of this academy, too, have come into the fray of creating “reader consciousness”. What is a good book? What should you, at this point, be reading? Today, apart from the streamlined Academy, we have publishers and other socialites of sorts giving us guides and hints.

However, English Literature being yet very much a cosmopolitan and Upper than middle class activity in Sri Lanka the directive, too, comes from an exclusively class-centred milieu. We have “brand names” being authorities of their own: Perera-Hussein Publishers, for instance, is a strong brand in the publication industry here. Sam Perera and Ameena Hussein always bank on modesty in refering to their porch-set office. But, the quality of their paper-work and the well managed company has made sure that P-H (the brand on its own) is a director of reader choice. “A new book by Perera-Hussein: better read it!” is not too infrequent a given.

Fortified space with a precipice on the side

Then, we have the pocket “reading clubs” such as the high-line “Hi” book club. These are VIP socialite gatherings hosted by the likes of Ms. Tudawe; and in my opinion a microcosmic projection of the surplus capital some folks in our country have to boot. But, the kind of publicity such programmes seek and the glitter and the gold involved makes it have a directive over a lesser critical, less informed literary mind.

There, too, are authorities such as the Gratiaen Trust and the State Literary prize. There are well reputed scholars and academics involved in these awards and their management. However, the Gratiaen Prize has by now lost much of its credibility. Even this year, the Gratiaen panel of judges came under the heavy fire of critics in Rajpal Abeynayake’s caliber. Yet, a “Gratiaen shortlisted book”, for the want of alternative awards, carries weight in the readers’ mind.

Irrepective of the above, the Sri Lankan reader has a lesser interest in locally groomed literature. Apart from the unavoidable — such as Chinaman –, a book with a solid promo run (one in the caliber of Chucking the Dragon or a P-H book), or with a socialite anchor — such as Colpetty People which, I am told, is the best selling Lankan book in English of all time — Lankan Literature in English has a vague and frail reader-base. In a recent interview given to Ru Freeman, Shehan Karunatilaka states that the “Sri Lankan English writer has to try a little bit more [not his exact words; a mere paraphrase]” to turn out some boundary-extending magic. Trying out a little bit more, Shehan, is not always the case. In fact, the Lankan publishers often seem to prefer to bank on mediocrity; and the authorities in literature here share the same squint.

Height matters

An opinion that begs to differ from the authorities I have highlighted in this essay finds no place in the mainstream of Sri Lankan English literature. You are not essentially measured by your writing, but by who you, by definition are; and from as to where you come from etc. The “progressiveness” of one’s writing is not a factor; what matters is as to whether your politics complement with that of the Authority.

Prashani Rambukwella, Gratiaen winner 2009

The impoverished status of our literature as a discourse has no groomed “alternative spaces”. On the whole, the exclusive divide between the “in” Colombo socialite literary consumer and the “dissentful other” is too sharp and final. The “alternative” becomes smudged into an arrogant dissenter; her writing becomes a queer disease unworthy of reception or scrutiny. One should not read Vihanga Perera as he, on policy, does not complement my stance; hence, I do not consume his work as they categorically fall into an excluded realm. I do not read Sumathy Sivamohan as she speaks against my classa nd national beliefs at forums and stuff. Her writing, therefore, is not to be entertained. If I followed a similar line of arrogance and bid to ignorance, why then, I would have next to nothing to read in Sri Lankan English Literature.

I am very much aware that the authorities will disallow the “alternative voices” to rise and come into the main fray. Because such a permeating will hinder the exclusive class and social interest of those that run the business of Eng Lit SL. But, the discourse will evolve in such a way that the Authority and the Academy will find itself challenged in the years to come. A time will come when a course in Sri Lankan English Literature will begin not with Punyakante Wijenaike and James Goonewardena; but with Carl Muller’s The Jam Fruit Tree. It is true that JFT is long used as syllabus material. But, the definition of Sri Lankan English Literature will be re-assessed in the future. It’s origins will be updated to 1993.

The parochialism and the exclusive Authorial tensions will only stultify the growth of the literature in question. While an Ashok Ferrey can multiply reprints it is merely a matter of surplus capital and leisure that retards the writer of the lesser economic status. It is never a matter of zest or ability. It is, rather, an essential matter of purchasing power. But, the progressive wave will come. Stultified as it may get, the alternative tension will relax itself.

I Don’t Recommend “Blue” to People of All Ages: a note on Ameena Hussein’s edition of “Adult Stories”

by Vihanga

Ameena Hussein’s introduction to Blue in itself is defensive and apologetic. This is more than a testimony to the fact that the “erotic venture” undertaken by her publishing house has fallen below expectation. The introduction is contradictory in its claims, for at the very outset we’re told that the collection in question is a volume of “erotic stories” and “poetry” by “contemporary Sri Lankan writers”. A sentence later, the editor – Ameena – claims that she had had sent out a “call to selected writers”, in an attempt to pool in contributions for the defined project. Of the respondents, we are told, the majority or so have been “fresh” rather than “established” authors.

The first problem I have with Blue is that the publisher has selected a theme – adult stuff – and sets out an advertisement calling in for contributions. The majority of the contributors, we are told, are fresh and new voices: among them writers who would pen out their “contribution” specially for the sake of this princely enterprise. Now, to what qualitative assessment can we submit this form of literary production? This is a commercial-driven venture, for the underlying understanding is that voyeurism has market mileage. At a past Galle Literary Festival Ameena herself made a loud statement that Sri Lankan literature is in want of “sex, sex and more sex”. Therefore, Blue can be safely viewed as Perera-Hussein’s attempt of satiating this market void. “It would be nice” the editor feels “to produce a little book of Sri Lankan erotica”. She is hopeful that the “sexual adventures (presented in the book will) leap off the page and into your bed” since the “point of [the] stories is to titillate and arouse”.

However, it is noticeable that the editor/publisher of Blue doesn’t make a strict demarcation between “blue” (porn / — in Sinhala – “waela” වැල) and “erotica”. Given the contemporary produce of literature, Sri Lanka – in fact – has a vibrant discourse of porn / “waela” (වැල); at least in the Sinhala medium. Ameena’s battle cry above, therefore, is one aimed at the English reading, English speaking, fucking in English readership/authorship. I make this qualification as she effortlessly speaks of a “Sri Lankan erotica”, whereas the allusion is to the reader/authorship delineated above. This reader/authorship is further limited by class and region. With little exception, Blue encompasses an elite psyche, with a socially elite commerce and traffic. This class and regional specificity can be seen in the exclusively VIP settings, VIP cushions and the VIP vehicles etc we see in the stories. An effort that comes the closest in defining “erotica” without this socially elite, politically “holier than” closed closet climate is in Shehan Karunathilaka’s “Veysee” (වෙයිසී???). I will come to that later.

Blue - meant for adults

The social backdrop against which this collection in “blue” emerges, the politics which it incorporates and the spaces it identifies in both orientation and execution become crucial when we attempt an appreciation of the work as a “national enterprise”. Clearly, “blue” / waela (වැල) is a site of struggle. Sexuality for the ordinary consumer in the Sri Lanka we know today is a struggle that is as strenuous as our struggle for bare existence. One has to have a “purchasing power” in sexual commerce as well. Ameena Hussein’s edition and the sexuality / erotica / blue it delivers is the fantasy of a close group that is not part of that struggle in sexuality / porn. Perhaps, it is wrong for me to drive the argument to that personal level. Yet, if I consider the “sensibility” presented to me in Blue and the hints of social and sexual elitism that are co-issued therewith, the collective authorship of the edition are above the politics of sexuality, as it hinders the “common citizen”.

The result is that Blue falls short of being a statement. Overall, it – through artificial convention (c/o the editor’s e.mail calling for entries) – becomes an exhibition of the often feeble attempts of a limited authorship (in itself limited by regional and class boundaries) at amusing themselves at “sex stories”. The bulk of the stories as well as the “introduction” by the editor strongly betray class-limitedness. The very assumption that the literature produced in Blue liberates the Sri Lankan of existing “sexual conventionality” in itself is a patronizing misreading of society. Maybe, Ameena is speaking on behalf of the conventional elite upper class sexual morality that she may be familiar with. But, then, that is not “Sri Lanka”.

There is much “erotica”, “waela” (වැල) or “blue” – erotica and blue to me, at least, are two things; though they are used interchangeably by the publisher alongside another term they resort to, “adult stories” – around us that there is little need to fetishize that presence or to make grand claims on that behalf. As hinted at the outset, the Sinhala “waela” (වැල) literary discourse in its contemporary face, which the Rajapakshe regime is so hell bent on cracking down, is both energetic and vibrant. For the past 2 years the Sinhala “waela” (වැල) sites are being smothered one after the other, only for them to resurface dodging the regimental arm; struggling for survival as a force and as a discourse. These Sinhala stories are “true blue”. They ARE erotic and sexually charged but are pornographic at its core – and holds no blemishes to the fact. For Ameena’s education, the stories and poems collected in her Blue, when juxtaposed with contemporary Sinhala “waela”, rarely ever comes to even being closer to “true blue”.  In the Sinhala we have a radical “blue discourse” that, as an active and dynamic negotiator, deals between the “waela” (වැල) consumer (in Sinhala) and the all mighty regime.

A google return for Ameena Hussein

Perera-Hussein’s is a feeble market venture. On the back cover we are told that the royalties of the book sales will go to the “Shantha Sevana Cancer Hospital, Maharagama”. Next to that claim a second statement tells us that the publisher “grows trees in Puttalam”. You publish a porn book – as claimed by the introduction, a book meant to “challenge the stereotypes of Sri Lankan sexuality” – and the return is redirected to the cancer fund. That, in the sense, is double charity, alright. But, the juxtaposition appears all the more ludicrous to me, for the pronouncements above are market gimmicks. So, on one hand the manifestation is of a radical and noble intention of furthering the sexual / blue discourse of “Sri Lanka”; and on the other, mileage-seeking consumerist fixations.

To “challenge the stereotypes of Sri Lankan sexuality”: so, is it that what in the popular discourse is labeled as “lesbianism”, “homoeroticism” and the like are not acknowledged or accepted in the wider sexual discourses of this island? So, are we to believe that Blue is presenting us with “Sexual possibilities” that – in a manner of speaking – will emancipate us from “Missionary style” and “Missionary preference”? A sexual encounter between a student and an unmarried thirties’ teacher at a convent school retreat (Me and Mrs. J) – this fantasy / fetish is already well established; nor does it radically reassess the sexual boundaries we play / fantasize with. For, in reality, you have a 1000 odd similar “stock” moulds of the “Teacher Fetish” category that are at your finger tip. Perhaps, in the narrow-mindedness of the publisher they are discovering new terrain. But, this is hacked, flogged and has for a long time been no unpredictable a line in “true blue”.

In “The Proposal” – the opening story – a woman gives a blowjob to the story’s narrator. The story is set in the high end of Colombo society and the spaces occupied by the characters  are above the “site” of the “ordinary fellow” for whom sexuality and sexual purchase is a “struggle” of its own. Vogue is the fashion mag, Golf GTi is the mode of transportation. The narrator “races down Colombo’s narrow roads”. The memorable moment for me, though, is where the narrator is in ecstasy at a scintillating blowjob given him by his friend’s girl friend. Then, finally as he comes in the woman’s mouth he hollers out: “Marry me!”. This ejaculation and exclamation coincides with an epiphany I had: that Jesus did not die in vain.

Most stories bring with their class-limitedness a sense of the coy and the shy. Some writers are over-cautious in attesting the will which they have proclaimed to submit. Except for a revealing reference or two Blue, on the whole, appears Victorian in its self-consciousness. We find writers in the caliber of Carl Muller being much more explicit, vocal and out of pants even where he doesn’t manifest to “liberate Sri Lanka of sexual narrow-mindedness”.

Nazeeya Faarooq’s “No” has two references to intense carnal play. But, then again, the writer seems to be in want of an idiom of her/his own. This, in fact, is a drawback in many stories – the lack of a signature. The following excerpts are from Faarooq’s “No”:

“…they kissed passionately and he jammed his tongue into her mouth churning it this way and that way inside the moist cavity and his hand explored her erect nipples” (100); and, a bit later, “…his hand then forced her face towards that throbbing erectness and his other hand cupped her chin and tilted it so that her mouth was now in position…” (101).

Supplement the above recycled usage with the following lines extracted from “I’d Like to Hold Your Hand”, a poem by Xavier Fernando:

“I’d like to hold your hand
I’d like to kiss your lips
I’d like to kiss the soft down on your neck
Nibble on your earlobe…
… I’d like to feel the weight of your breasts
Heavy in the palm of my hands
I’d like to stroke the velvet of your nipples
As they harden beneath my fingers” (105).

The choice of words and phrases are hackneyed and impart a weary sense of déjà vu. The texture of the poetry, I feel, should survive another day to be the subject of a different forum. It also baffled me how the poem “What Reminds Me of You” by Coomerene Rodrigo fitted into the “blue”/“erotic” fluid in the first place. Perhaps, I need to read that poem again. 

The compact “Bi-Cycle” by Natalie Soyza, “76, Park Avenue” by DRG and part of “Bus Stop” by Tariq Solomons held my fascination. However, the most memorable read for me was Shehan Karunatilaka’s “Veysee”. This is a story that attempts to capture the numerous sexual / quasi-sexual tensions that seam through a day’s work; and the fulfilling, half-filling and hopefully-filling negotiations we enter in an attempt to live the tensions through. Both the tensions and the “remedies” are presented for what they, at the best, are – another set of fantasies and fetishes of their own accord. “Veysee” threads through numerous “alternative sexual spaces”: the office, the net, the street and takes us into “alternative sexual modes” (for the want of a better word) from jerking off, dirty chatting to street voyeurism.

“You’ve come to a curious time in your life” Shehan’s narrator states. “You’ve lost faith in love affairs and pornography pleases you more than the prospect of a partner. You honestly prefer masturbation to sex and it begins to scare you” (75). Shehan’s narrator speaks from a “common urban platform”. The tensions are spatially urban and relevant to the post-IT generations whose hormones are generated alongside the technology. His ability, too, to seam together multiple crises – sexual, social, with the personal – is a strength that demands our attention:

“Your last three relationships broke down because you couldn’t notch up the required telecom points. And now your cellular phone is the nucleus of your existence. You hang it next to your car CD player and poke in your hands free set as you drive to work. You eat, sleep and urinate with it” (77).

All in all, Shehan’s protagonist ends up with a street hooker:

“You want to ask her about her life. Whether she is married. How much she makes. What she makes it for… You refuse to accept that this is pure commerce. But it is. She is providing a service and you are relieving an urge. An urge that has been building up in your loins for months. Months which threaten to turn into years.

Her warmth penetrates the condom. Your tongue aims for her lips, but she turns and offers her cheek. She moans and you know she is faking. Her moans grow frantic in an attempt to force a climax… You close your eyes and imagine. Anasu, Suba, the female cast of Friends, the woman newsreader on ITN, Dame Judi, Salma Hayek…” (95).

Blue

Shehan’s, to me, is a socially aware, — more so – a socially engaging narrative; which makes inroads to not altogether unfamiliar contemporary sexual / socio-sexual tensions and play. He responds to the project-manager’s call for “erotica” and / or “blue”; but, reaches far ahead compiling a commendable narrative. But, seriously, Shehan Karunatilaka, do something about the title: “Veysee” (වෙයිසී)?? Sounds more Wendy Whatmore than Bambalapitiya  street alley.

Tradition and Individual Talents

by Vihanga

At SLAM 010 there were 15 readers reading across 2 days – Ameena Hussein, Ayadore Santhan, Ashok Ferrey, Shehan Karunatilaka, Malinda Seneviratne, Sumathy Sivamohan, Shehani Gomes, Carl Muller, Liyanage Amarakeerthi, Mark Wilde, Isuru Prasanga, Mahinda Prasad Masimbula, Marlon Ariyasinghe, Namali Premawardena, Dhanuka Bandara, Ashan Weerasinghe and Self. Shehan, who is in Singapore, was represented by Prasad Pereira, while the illusive Mark Wilde (juliet Coombe’s million dollar secret) was foiled by an agent of Sri Serendipity Publishers.

SLAM turned out to be much richer than what we expected. Much richer, I say, for there at the centre of the forum was what many literary forums I have been to in recent years were lacking: the element of debate and opinion. Perhaps, SLAM not being an academic floor (though taking place at the Athenian seat of Peradeniya) prompted provoked exchange; but, this, in my view, is what our literary sphere needs, if it is to evolve as a more progressive discourse.

The flyer promoting SLAM proclaimed that this was a forum that brought together “different positions” in Lankan English creativity. As organizers we wanted to draw on to one floor the main people who were publishing today, representing different views and entry points. A pre-event criticism was whether SLAM was gonna be an “economy class GLF” — our belief was that it was not; and the intensity of the debates and discussions had much to offer us; at least it has left a lot for the readers without borders. There is little reason why it should be otherwise, too, for the critical reader who dropped by us.

Sri Lankan English writing is largely “Colombo-centric”. This is a fact we have to admit; nor should there be a problem in that. It is equally a largely “upper-than-middle-class” literature. The publishing, the marketing and the promoting of literature often takes place concentric to the above definitions. Then, at strategic locations away from this centre – but, in turn, interacting with it and moving around it all the same – there are the “rest of us”.   SLAM was the forum where readers from either end, and many who are un/consciously located in between this varied spectrum met. The arguments were insistent and provocative, perhaps, because of this very reason. The boiling point was consistently on the cards, because their positions were represented and defended with passion. For once, the scrub brush and the back scratch was kept out and open debate issued.

The literary-conscious media was represented at SLAM by several active journalists / critics. Rajpal Abenayake, Ranga Chandraratne, Indeewara Thilakaratne and Vishwa Daniel were among them. The forum was also livened by the voice of many earnest undergraduates and students. Being a graduate from Peradeniya I was thrilled to see a literary enthusiasm among the students which I didn’t know (to the same degree) when I was an undergrad, not too long ago.

There were no less than 6 hard-hitting spill overs. Sivamohan Sumathy, Malinda Seneviratne, Rajpal Abenayake, Sam Perera, Juliet Coombe, Danesh Karunanayake, Carl Muller were all engaged in intense opinion-exchange. Sam Perera went on to state that my university degree was crap, cos I — according to him — wrote sub-standard English with grammar errors and spelling mistakes. As evidence (maybe he chose not the best testimony to the fact) he presented the house the following line from my Unplugged Quarter:

“The staircase gives several burps as it received her weight on her climb to the upper landing” (UQ, 4).

He pointed out the irreverence caused by the word “burps”. Unplugged Quarter, on the whole, has 5 typographical errors: genuine errors of a fallible eye. The grammar I work with is the grammar which my works resonate. It is not the grammar I use to write my academic assignments — which is an obvious point, I believe, which requires no footnote or annotation. Sam said that he deduced that my academic work was written in the same “grammar”. Hence, his culpa. His hamartia.

Sri Serendipity's new book, The Suicide Club.

Grammar was at the heart of another boil-over that saw Juliet Coombe and her 2 crew of Sri Serendipity leave the room in protest. Here, Juliet was voicing her concerns over poet Ashan Weerasinghe — writing in Sinhala — not discriminating the dhanthaja and murdhaja consonants. Juliet pointed out how she, herself a “learner” of Sinhala, has often been put to discomfort by writers not sticking to the “proper grammar”.

For both Sam Perera and Juliet Coombe — this argument on “proper grammar” is old — very old. And as writers we have come a long way from being knuckle-dustered by these creativity-crippling conventions. Expression renews itself every moment and in every thought that is thought. Do you have enough space for your “proper grammar” to come in? Sam Perera said that grammar has to be “proper” as the publisher has a “responsibility” to the reader. These are high flown phrases and imagined consumer ethics that, in turn, hinder and block out the creative impulse. The reader who wants to read me will read me. The reader who wants to understand my writing will understand my writing. Readers who will to understand and read James Joyce have done so. Readers have not held down the publisher as being “irresponsible” when reading Laurence Stern, TS Eliot, Jean Paul Sartre, Andy Warhol, Orhan Pamuk — the list goes on; here, I am quoting merely a random few. If this is all what the top end publishing houses in Sri Lanka knows of creativity — in Lakdas Wikkramasinha’s words, “save me from the clap!”.

Ashan Weerasinghe --- extends the "no-nana lala" debate

Coming back to Juliet Coombe’s midfield collision of opinion — a member from the audience intervened and questioned Juliet’s legitimacy in questioning Ashan Weerasinghe’s grammar. Incidentally, at that point, there were only 2 “Sinhala writers” in the room; and both, coincidentally, were proponents of the “non-murdhaja” format. Ashan and Liyanage Amarakeerthi were the two — both prolific and “radical” (at least to me). Juliet’s problem, as I see it, is that she entered an already flogged debate (maybe she didn’t know this — that the puritan Sinhala grammarians were moving sky and earth to preserve the reactionary murdhaja complexity; while the likes of Ajit Thilakasena, and later, Amarakeerthi were taking a liberating stance with regard to the same) but with little understanding of the discourse. Juliet was interrupted by a member of the floor, Dr. Karunanayake, who asked what authority Juliet had — coming from “outside” — to impose grammar rules on the young Sinhala poet, who was pushing the boundaries of creativity at the expense of the puritan grammarian. Because, Juliet reiterated the fact that she was herself a “learner of Sinhala” and that she was often baffled by “deviant use of grammar” etc.

As I understood it, Karunanayake’s point was that Juliet is a “learner”; but, a “learner” who was entering the discourse Ashan Weerasinghe and co were re-fashioning, but to interpolate it; for her sake. I have noticed Juliet Coombe often underline the fact that she is “Sri Lankan” — for her policy and her work ethic, for the past 6 years, has been “Sri Lankan”. It may pass off in a less critical circle, perhaps. However, the cultural baggage we carry doesn’t pack or unpack just like that — through one’s insistent claim that s/he is of a particular nation. Michael Ondatjee became a “Sri Lankan writer” only as late as 1992: when he won the Booker Prize.

Crystal and Thilina in Dhanuka Bandara's "The Commode"

I also have to applaud the reception received by the emerging Sinhala poets Isuru Prasanga and Mahinda Prasad Masimbula. I think that their solo readings easily destabilized the performances by some of the more “established” writers. I am sure that the house will back me on this. In addition, we had Marlon Ariyasinghe — a friend for many years and who will shortly be published — Namali Premawardena and Dhanuka Bandara reading. I felt that their readings gave me much hope for the future of our literature. It is my earnest desire to see these people in print. Sri Lankan English literature needs to be decentralized and alternative narratives have to come in. This is what I wrote in the very first newspaper article I ever wrote; and it is the singular proposition I promote to this day. To see Marlon, Dhanuka, Ashan and Namali gives me much power and hope to carry on.

Marlon is easily the most radical and the most expressive poet I have come across. Not cos he uses swear words and stuff. But, the very critical level at which he makes his interventions and the intensity with which he delivers has always made me hold his writing at awe; and has even made me feel quite small at times. But, the tricky part is that Marlon is being published by a “international-targeting” publishing house. They have enough charm, rhetoric and sophistry to invert this “poetic giant” into a whoring dwarf. My earnest wish is that nothing goes wrong.

What the fish!! Bigger the better...

If you, dear writer, has to choose between pay cheques and principle, opt for the latter. Do not yield your creative impulse and your experimental strain for cheap thrillers and market mileage. Your principles and your experimentation will save the day; when that day, at some point, does come. Let the big publishing magnets fish around. They have enough bait. The pond will always have enough fish.

Galle Literary Fester Well

“In the room the women come and go / [t]alking of Michaelangelo”

– TS Eliot; The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock.

The good thing about Galle Lit Fest 2010 [proposed to be launched soon after the elections] is that it is dynamic and kicking. The list of “participants” put up at [places such as] Barefoot indicates that about 70-80% of them are “fresh faces” from last year’s stint and are ready to make a literary bash once things start to rock Down South. The Barefoot notice referred to above lists out the “writers” and their books, so that the Ephimeras of the fashionable Colombo-centric book and bite consuming world may do their groundwork prior to their annual literary orgy. The notice, by all means, is the Bedaeker to “what books one should” get hold of; if you’re to be a part of the “in crowd” at Galle this year.

Mine, I believe, is a committed prejudice. More than prejudice — I am being a brute to the fact that GLF 2010 is, on paper, a new show in an altogether new calendar year; featuring new people and new themes. Surely, GLF has shown some sensitivity to their early shortcomings and given a heave at improving things? It may well be that GLF 2010 is not the same old retreat to the “exotic” South, to see the “locals” patrol their writing amidst the “creative juices” of an assortment of [3rd rate] non-Sri Lankan writers. Of course, GLF has, since its inception, become a massive market venture: a co-operate enterprise among book people, hotel people and a host of Colombo-writers awaiting a “break”.

In turn, GLF has thusfar been a gymnasium for the fashionistas, wannabe literary items, the obnoxious curs and bitches of Colombo’s “above-literature” hi society to spend a profitable and amused weekend at.

An item to await for is the release of Shehan Karunathilake’s maiden “The Chinaman“, which, it is told, would happen in the process of the mardi gras. Well, this novel for which Shehan won the Gratiaen Prize for 2008 [awarded in 2009] should be an article to look forward to since its been over an year since the prize was awarded and he’s taken all the time in the wide world with the “further editing” of his hit. I would have liked to see “The Chinaman” as it was when its manuscript won the Gratiaen. My Stable Horses was shortlisted alongside Shehan’s thing and I had a hunch that Shehan had done something big with his submission.

An overall look at the list of “writers” doesn’t indicate any improvements from last year. Apart from the same “basic” aunties and uncles from Colombo we have a few coffee-table scribblers and a kid or two to jazz up the “wannabe” bracket of things. Don’t wanna go into names in here, cos it is a very fragile wing we’re dealing with, but with Ameena Hussein opening the batting and a Thilini Ranasinghe [apparently her contribution to Lankan writing is co-translating a short story into Sinhala; working with Michael Meyler and co] coming down at Number 10, the parameters are well and truly set.

Last year, when Sivamohan Sumathy went to Galle I was quite pissed, cos that Gallish “walk” by Sumathy was a stark contradiction to her  touch of the universe and her “talk”. Since I have seen at close quarters Sumathy work and being somewhat familiar with Sumathy’s “politik” I was thoroughly disillusioned she had to go down for that class-relative, elitist circus they name “GLF”. Well, this year, the promo ad does not include Sumathy’s name — either Sumathy had had a decent waking up; or, else, she had left back too deep a foot mark at GLF 2009.

Ashok Ferry is in and his “Serendipity” may receive a good audience with the suddhas [it sure is written with an orientalist pen and holds back very little of its exoticization of this island]. Channa Daswatte, Hasini Haputhanthri, David Blacker, Lal Medawattegedara and Richard Boyle are listed out as the “feature items”. Rajpal makes an appearance, and in my ignorance I had only known Rajpal as a newspaper editor. Ruwanthi De Chickera, Shyam Selvadurai and Sybil Wettasinghe, too, come in and the list rounds up with Shehan and Cyril Wijesundara.

A notable absentee is Vivimarie Vanderpoorten — is she out of the country or what? Kandy doesn’t seem to exist for the organizers, unless the writers from Kandy, like myself, have all opted out. The GLF has always been bashed on its head for its preoccupation with “English” writing. Have the organizers, as often shared, thought of giving the “festival” a trilingual light? The promo poster doesn’t seem to indicate so.

I mean, Hell — GLF would go on. Just because a few brats of my caliber cough in a blog the GLF should take no heed. It is run by marketers who give full value to the stuff they deal with. Perhaps, what I need is a good shake up, that may snap off from its root my prejudice. Maybe, the organizers have done their homework and done some solid work to ensure “fair play” for a wider “Lankan literary sensibility”. It’s just the promo poster I have seen — and in that I see no improvement. In any case, I have taken a policy decision not to be a part of the circus — as a writer, that is. This decision was taken last year and, as yet, I see no reason for me to revise it. But, may this be the year that I will be led to see some light at the end of this ghoulish tunnel: the year that will make the GLF a national enterprise, in spirit, orientation and sentiment.

Vihanga