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Indian kaleidoscope 4by Nan
Jaisalmer was our final destination and the centre around which the son had planned our Rajasthan tour. Many ‘do’ Jaipur, Udaipur and Jodhpur, probably, and then turn back. Not us. Our prime target was this remote spot very close to the Pakistan border.
The Golden City
The reality was even better than the conjured kaleidoscopic picture in the mind’s eye, imagined during the planning stage. Jaisalmer is the Golden City because it really is golden, specially when the evening sun slants on it making its fort walls, palaces, havelis and even the sand on the ground below come alive in a rich golden colour. The buildings are of the indigenous sandstone, hence the golden glory.
Centuries ago, Jaisalmer’s strategic position on the camel caravan routes between India and Central Asia made it a rich entrepot. Riches were matched by the carved decoration on buildings - palaces, homes of rich merchants (havelis), and even humble homes. The Rajputs, while loving colour, also favoured design and decoration, and so the intricate carvings on the sandstone wherever one looked in Jaisalmer, particularly within the fort.
The rise of Bombay and escalating hostilities between India and Pakistan put paid to trans-border business, but the occupation of the armed forces in and around the city and tourists in their multitude, keeps the city going.
A Teeming Lived-in Fort
Here is one lived-in fort, somewhat like Galle, but much more compacted and populated. The forts we had seen so far were left to guards, memories, desolate magnificence and probably ghosts a- walking within at night. Not so Jaisalmer. It was teeming with tourists; shops spilling over onto the very narrow streets; and its inhabitants going about their business, whether it was school children walking to school or young men on their motor bikes or the older ones selling or hoteliering. One wondered at the cleanliness of body, clothes, roads and drains with water being a very precious commodity. Women kept dashing buckets of water to wash out the raised aprons that fronted their houses on which they sat and socialized; the space shared with tethered cows and calves. There has to be plenty of water since every second building is a hotel, many of them precariously multi-storeyed, and, November through February, heavily occupied by visitors, mostly white, going native in their Indian clothes. A recently built canal - the Indira Gandhi canal - supplies the bone-dry, fringe-desert city with its water.
The closeness of the living and selling and moving about did not win my heart. The streets were in the majority- very narrow, with houses opening onto them with no ceremony and open drains which served as garbage carriers. I did not like the closeness of space, and the necessity to squeeze oneself against walls to avoid the enormous bulls nonchalantly chewing the cud, bang in the middle of the streets. I did not like the touristy ambience of the open air and closed shops, and the open drains. But the son loved it all, probably feeling the pulse of the fort and its rich history, and positively going crazy over the havelis.
The fort was built in 1156 by the Rajput ruler, Jaisala, and reinforced by subsequent rulers. About a quarter of Jaisalmer’s population lives within the fort. The maharajah’s seven storeyed palace fronts the large open courtyard one steps into from the gate leading to the fort.
The palace itself is nothing much to write about, except of course the intricately carved walls and projecting balconies from which performances and festivities down below in the courtyard were watched by king and noblemen. The harem building was closed for restoration but the hotel people had phoned for permission so we went in. Here there were no open windows, only spaces on the walls ventilated in stone work. So the resident beauties would have had to be satisfied with trellised views of happenings below. There was, however, a window quite open, which faced the palace. Perhaps the favourite of the day would have been ordered to stand there for looks and invitations conveyed by the maharajah from the corresponding window in his palace.
The Jain Temple close by was fantastic, heavily carved and full of statues and columns and candles.
Havelis
More impressive than the palace were the havelis - the houses built by the rich and powerful. Many of them are still lived in with the ground floors rented to shops. One ambitious man, a prune minister, Salim Singh, built his to tower above the palace. On his return from a sojourn, the maharajah noting the insult, had the two top floors of the haveli beheaded. The prime minister, needless to say, lost his job but managed to keep his head.
The steps in the havelis are very steep, saving on rock and craftsmanship, we supposed. I wondered how the older women managed to move up and down all day long; my legs protesting as I climbed up or descended. Maybe they sat pretty with plenty of servants available to fetch and carry. A remarkable feature is that no cement or binding material was used, due to scarcity of water. So how were the stone building blocks kept in place? By carving out holes and protruding ‘nails’ on them so they fitted into each other.
A Short Spell of Extravagance
We went to town, as it were, money-wise, in Jaisalmer. We arrived by the second class air conditioned night mail, which is the present day equivalent of first class travel. It was sheer luxury and reminiscent of British Raj times. Your berth had only one above and far distanced, and curtained off. A turbaned, urbane orderly brought you two freshly laundered white sheets, a soft pillow and a blanket. He woke you the next day once the train stopped at its destination, and we slept till woken up unlike when travelling in the tin-air conditioned coaches with its packed in humanity, stirring well before destination time. No wonder the son wanted to return to Jodhpur in the same air conned coach, at thrice the price of the tin-air conned. My contention was that travelling from A to B was the important factor, not the comfort of the ride. I was to rue my arguments and decision since on our return we were packed into a compartment with families and tourists. I had to clamber up to a top bunk, not difficult, but sleep evaded both son and mother and the dream two days in the Golden City was swamped somewhat, mercifully temporarily.
Maharajah luxury was again ours as we checked into the Jawahar Nivas Palace Hotel. We must spend at least one night in a palace hotel said the son and wisely the mother acquiesced. The people working in the hotel were extremely nice. Not for them discrimination in favour of the western tourist or the Japanese. All were hotel guests to be cared for.
On the first night of our stay we had a local troupe entertaining us with song and dance as we sat around a blazing log fire and then had dinner served on tables brought out of the tented dining area. The night was magic - the turbaned singers and the shimmeringly costumed women who danced, and at the end, drew the dinner guests to join in. We were only about three sets of guests.
Sand Dunes and Camels
The highest point of a high point three days in Jaisalmer was the jeep ride to the sand dunes. Our driver, (we were his sole fare on the trip), wisely took us to the remote sand dunes, avoiding the tourist patronized ones. He was an excellent driver, even divining our desire to be away from the gawking, coke guzzling crowd. He also advised the son against a camel ride as being extortion and not really exciting. For once the son gave up an experience, experience crazy as he was.
We travelled for around 2 1/2 hours on a deserted tarmac road, and then turned into a dirt track. Suddenly, while still surrounded by bushes, albeit scraggy, we came upon the golden sand dunes in their undulating glory. They were huge and stretched as far as the eye could see. It was glorious walking on the dunes - the softest of soft sand but firm so one did not sink in, even to heel height. The feeling of space was wondrous with only the son and me and the jeep comfortably parked some distance away,
A young man came along, walking with in-loom dignity, toting a case of beer and soft drinks. We refused them. In the distance were two camels and white people on them. The man moved towards them. I called him back to give him some money. "On my return", he said. He accepted the money with grace - not a trace of obsequiousness and absolutely no whining as he told me about his family of two brothers and a sister and a widowed mother. We offered him a ride back in the jeep to his home which was some distance away. We felt we had to do something for someone, in gratitude for all the wonder we had steeped ourselves in.
The sun set and we gazed and gazed and saved the magic of the place within ourselves. The sand dunes gave us a mixed perception of change and immortality. The sand had been swept to dunes which now seemed permanent.
The jeep driver too was excellent: dignified; silent when we were lost in thought and happy enough to talk when we asked questions. No stretching out a palm, not even a hint of it and the tip given was received graciously. Absolutely no partisanship for the richer white tourists. The two men we met on the desert trip and the hotel workers proved again how dignified the people over there are. Even in the fort, when we spoke to a group of children, they spoke with innate dignity about the house they lived in, which was more than a hundred years old.
Ubiquitous Touts
The Planet Guide says that Jaisalmer is a major tourist trap. The touting situation has reached such proportions that the district magistrate has set up a mobile Tourist Protection Force to control touts. Planet Guide also recommended many of the eyerie restaurants in the fort, which did not quite please us. There the people seemed more ready to have the hippy types, some bringing in light food from a German bakery to order only coke or a beer.
Fortunately our brown skins and probably light luggage and signs of light purses had no touts coming our way. Also we had been booked into the Jawahar Nivas Palace Hotel by Meghal’s mother; she and her husband having been on the Jaisalmer fort restoration project. So it was direct travel by three wheeler when we alighted from the train. No need of touts and no need of a guide. The son was excellent having planned everything meticulously.
That journalism course at the Poly
by Kirthie Abeyesekera
In 1972, Mano Muttukrishha, a free-lance journalist who had once edited the ‘Women’s Page’ of the ‘Sunday Observer’ called me, asking if I could drop by at the ‘Polytechnic’ sometime
She and her brother, Dinkar, owned and operated the ‘Polytechnic," a leading business institute in Wellawatte, which offered a variety of job-related commercial courses of study. She said they intended starting a ‘Journalism Course.’ Would I be interested in conducting it?. I was in ‘Features’ at the time, where deadline-pressures were far less than the news-desk. Lake House chairman, Ranjit Wijewardene, gave me the green light, provided the ‘Polytechnic’ did not impose on ‘Observer’ time.
Mano and I clinched the deal over a candle-light dinner at the ‘Omar Khayyam,’ trendy rendezvous off Havelock Road. A five-month study course, I was to conduct two every classes a week. Two-thirds of the student-fees would be mine. It sounded good and I could do with the extra chips. The ‘Poly’ as we called it, was to be a welcome respite from the daily routine.
My first class had 30 students. The youngest was a 16-year-old student at the Holy Family Convent, Bambalapitiya, whose name I do not recall. The eldest was T. D. Silva, private secretary to the chairman of the Ceylon Insurance Corporation. At 58, he was as ardent as any in the class.
A collection of academic notes from The Thomson Foundation of London study course I had attended ealier in Cardiff, proved usefut for setting up my curriculum.
But what was of greater importance to me was, not so much the theoretical aspects of the profession, but its reality. I had toured England, Germany, The Netherlands and Denmark on a study of youth crime and drugs. That experience, combined with my exploration of the ‘Underworld’ on the streets of Colombo, gave me ample ammunition to stir the students’ interests.
Tales of the fascinating characters that make up the world of crime, created considerable curiosity. How to get a story? How to write it? I told the class of the Denzil Peiris dictum:’ Any fool can ‘write’ a story, but only a good story-teller can ‘make’ one.’ We discussed the role of the reporter and the importance of the ‘interview,’ of the need for a good rapport between reporter and interviewee. A notebook and pencil often intimidate the interviewee. Be casual not officious. A friendly chat stimulates dialogue. Avoid stereotyped questions and answers. Persuasion often yields better results than aggression. Never rush an interview. Spend as much time as possible with your interviewee. Qften, a random observation may be your punchline.
How do you condense a few hours’ conversation into a 1000 word, readable story, while not losing its essence? Or, as Mark Twain said: ‘A clever reporter collects the facts with care, and then distorts the truth as much as he wants to.‘ The class chuckled. We discussed the need to build up trust with contacts, and honour the unwritten code — ‘Off-the-record.’ It may not have immediate rewards, but pays in the long run. When travelling, keep your eyes and ears open and alert. Observe people and places. There’s always a story lurking somewhere — even from the man-in-the-street.
Among some guest-speakers I introduced to the class, was Hanna Lisa Tichy, a visiting German journalist I’d met in Berlin. She thrilled my students with anecdotes of her reporting life. Henri Corea, Superintendent of Police, spoke to the students on police-press relations and community issues. Philip Fernando, political analyst of the ‘Observer’ outlined the Westminster style of government tried to broadbase course as much as the could within the limited time and scope.
T. D. Silva, a scholar and translator of books, had, atter attending a few classes, told Dinkar he came to the class on the eve of his retirement, and that at that late stage, he had realized how much more there is to life than what you read in books. In later years, he wrote to me in Canada that his sight was failing him and his limbs were sore. "But I am turning my maladies into melodies." In 1990, partially blind, and 76, he made it to the Colombo launch of my memoirs, ‘Among My Souvenirs.’ In an emotional embrace, his tear-filled eyes were more eloquent than words. Shortly after I returned to Canada, he passed away.
Firoze Sameer showed outstanding journalistic skills even then. He was at the book-launch too. Recently, he sent me a copy of ‘dossiercorea,’ his dossier on the infamous Ossie Corea, in which he credits me with some quotes from my news-reports. Sent with his ‘best compliments,’ the book is autographed: ‘To dear Mr. Kirthie Abeyesekera with fond memories of the Journalism Class of 1972.‘ After almost three decades, that kind thought warmed me.
On my 1987 sojourn in Sri Lanka, while buying ‘rambuttan’ near St. Bridget’s Convent, I met Nihal Perera. He recalled that he had obtained a Grade I Diploma in my Journalism Class, and that I had commended him for his ‘distinctive originality. He said he was married to a Montessori-trained teacher. He too attended the 1990 book-launch. It was rewarding to see my loyal pupils amidst the selective gathering that day.
At the end of the first Course, my students feted me to a farewell dinner at an exotic restaurant on a lane beside the Green Cabin, the name of which eludes me. There were warm hugs and teary kisses from that lovely bunch of young men and women — aspring writers I had the ioy of sharing some delightful hours with. Some of us drowned our sorrows with arrack or beer. The sentimental speeches by the students touched my heart. A presentation was made: ‘To Sir, With Love.’
That journalism class holds tender memories for me. Among my students was the promising teenage daughter of C. J. Serasinghe, Permanent Secretary. She was the brightest of the budding, female journalists. I have not met her since. I hope she sees this and contacts me. Another student, Shirene had just returned from England and, with a yen for writing, enrolled in the class - more as an escape for a bored Colombo Seven housewife.
Another, was the daughter of a well-known lawyer-politician who had wanted his daughter to follow in his legal footsteps Why would she want to become a poor journalist, and not a rich lawyer? She punned: "The Pen is mightier than the Word."
Student Ranjith Cabraal, another bright spark, took to teaching at St. Joseph’s college, Darley Road. Later, he married my niece - the daughter of my cousin, Rosemary Amerasekera, nee Abeyesekera. It was a love- match in which I played no part. Ranjith and Achala now live in Toronto. They have two sons.
It’s a small world.
by Gerald Cooray
My grandfather, Sir James Peiris, gained a double first at Cambridge. He was awarded First Class Honours in the Law Tripos and the Moral Science Tripos. He was the first Asian to be the President of the Cambridge Union Debating Society.
A fellow undergraduate, G. C. Moore Smith, had this to say of him when he left Cambridge. "Peiris’ work for which he had come to England was done. It had been achieved with a brilliance and completeness probably never equalled".
In the biography of my grandfather written jointly by W. T. Keble and Surya Sena, his several brilliant achievements are described in detail. Among these are stated: First speaker of the Ceylon Legislative Council and Pioneer in Constitutional reform, District Judge, Initiator and Organizer of the Ceylon Social Service League, served on several committees such as the National Congress, Low Country Products Association, Sinhalese Sports Club of which he was elected President, and University Project.
In this short tale, while recognising his greatness in the secular sphere, I will stress his basic goodness and humanity, his strong religious faith and regular attendance at church with his wife and family. And last, but not least, his concern for his fellow man. However busy he may have been, no one who came to him for help or advice was turned away. He was available to all.
My grandfather died in harness aged 73. Until shortly before his final illness he was actively engaged in serving his country in several capacities, including that of Speaker of the Legislative Council. He had by dint of hard work while engaged in his state duties, managed to buy and develop various coconut properties.
Occasionally, during the weekend he would visit the properties and speak to the labourers working on the property. Very often he would ask me to accompany him. I remember these occasions well. Because we would set out early in the morning before sunrise. And we were back in time for lunch.
I saw for myself the respect and admiration of his workers as he walked around the estate with them, how diligently they listened to everything he said. He did not confine his attention only to the Superintendent. Rather he made it a point to meet all his workers.
As I look back on those days, I recall how I was impressed by his quiet dignity and the innate kindness that was an essential element in his character.
Both my grandfather and grandmother loved me very much. I suppose, because I was the eldest grandchild. And I used to accompany them when they went up to their holiday home in the hills. That was at Hawarden in Haputale.
Often, after dinner we would play cards. It was here that my grandfather showed how very human he was. Whenever he had a good card to play he would say "come on, come on, play". And hurry us up to play our cards. Then he would trump us all and be very happy.
He was very fond of good food and took great delight in its preparation. Every day the cook would come to him for instructions as to how the food was to be prepared. He was an arbiter of taste and the cook would know at the end of the interview how exactly the meal was to be prepared.
A gourmet indeed. As for wine, he was a connoisseur. And when he took up his wineglass he would whirl the glass before drinking, as all good wine drinkers do.
Among his numerous activities and interests there was probably no cause that was dearer to my grandfather’s heart than social service. No poor man was ever turned away from his office without being given a hearing.
His interest being aroused, he set about to acquaint himself with the knowledge that he required for launching a scheme of social service. When his scheme was clear in his mind, he acted. On the 29th January 1915, the first General Meeting of the League was held at the Pettah Library. Sir Ponnambalam Arunachalam was voted to the chair. My grandfather and the Committee laid down the objects of the League. Primarily to improve the condition of the poor and the neglected classes. And provide them with education, economic improvement, sanitation and hygiene and medical relief.
In 1917 my grandfather became Chairman of the League and my grandmother recalled how he gave every Sunday afternoon to go and inspect the work and to see the babies being fed at the Welfare Centre.
In the course of his social service work, which he kept up faithfully ever since the social service league was founded, he felt the need of a home where children who were recovering from sickness could live in healthy surroundings. He found and bought a suitable site and planned the building and supervised and paid for its construction. The Home, which was situated in Mount Lavinia was opened on 25th July 1928 by the Governor, Sir Herbert Stanley, a personal friend of my grandfather. It was known as the Sir James Peiris home for convalescent children.
When the year 1930 was ushered in, none of us suspected that it was to see the end of his earthly life. He continued his work in the Legislative Council and his membership of many committees without any sign of approaching illness. In April 1930, he went to Haputale to his home in the hill country as usual to relax just after parliament adjourned. He caught a chill. Within a few days he took a turn for the worse and the family was summoned to his bedside. His strength failed him and he passed away quietly and peacefully in the early morning of May 5, 1930.
No sooner had he breathed his last than there came a heavy downpour of rain which ~increasing in intensity assumed the proportions of a major flood. His body was brought back to his home "Rippleworth" just before the up-country roads became impassable.
What follows is a tribute taken from a local newspaper. It read:
"His end has come in the fullness of fume, and he passes away full of honour, full of dignity, leaving to his country men a priceless heritage, the memory of a life nobly spent in the country’s service. The people of Ceylon will long remember with gratitude his splendid labours in the cause of political reform, his enviable contribution towards the social uplift of the poorer classes; his great service in the field of education; and above all they will remember with pride his culture, his scholarship, his rhetorical gifts and his high sense of honour and uprightness of life".
My grandfather found his spiritual home at St. Michael’s Church, Polwatte. He was elected year after year as one of the representatives of St. Michael’s Church in the Diocesan Council. He was elected to this position, not merely because of his social position, but because he was a regular worshipper at St. Michael’s. He was to be seen Sunday after Sunday in his place in Church, both morning and evening. And his good example was followed by his wife and family who were equally devout in their faith.
When his portrait was unveiled in Parliament, the then Prime Minister, S. W. R. D. Bandaranaike, in the course of his speech, made this remark:
"Like Moses, James Peiris brought his people within sight of the promised land. But did not live to see its fulfilment".
by G. Usvatte-aratchi
The three weeks ending 08 February have given the residents of Colombo a veritable festival of Indian music and dancing. The mesmerizing variety, breathtaking virtuosity and the sheer massing of so much that is good within so short a period as three weeks have awakened many to the wonder that is India today.
The most outstanding artist was Balamurali Krisnan who sang at the BMICH on 01 February. I had heard him on CD, most frequently with exquisite singing with Hariprasad Chaurasia, the most outstanding bansuri player in north India, playing that instrument. This was the first time, I heard him in person and what a privilege it was! It was not simply his melodious voice without fracture as it ranged seemingly effortlessly, and the distinctness with he established pitch over three saptak but also his mastery over the craft of music that enthralled the audience. The concert was organized by the Neelan Tiruchelvam Commemoration Committee to celebrate that occasion.
The second session of good music came on 08 February at the Indian Cultural Centre, when a group headed by Nizam brothers entertained a few score people to Qawwali and gazal. It was a very different kind of music dominated by rhythm and percussion. Again the singing was of exceptionally high quality and it was the first time 1 heard qawwali in a concert, my earlier source having been a CD, where Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan sang with great gusto.
Qawwali was very different because it was not meditative in the way that ragdhari music is, inviting the audience to be part of the concert much like with pre- 1970 jazz, before musicians like John Coltrane, Count Bassie and Dizzy Gillespie made jazz cerebral and meditative. The only other occasion in Indian music where the audience is as much woven with the singing is in Hindu temples, when bhajan is sung. Especially after some elaborate ceremony such as site kalayanam or sarasvathi mangalam in the larger temples there is some excellent singing with devotees participating as they can.
The predominance of rhythm in Qawwali singing made even those who had no ear for pitch establish rapport with the music. The audience were participants in even more obvious ways. Some cognoscenti could request in the ear of the lead singer such pieces as they wanted sung, as the concert was being played. The singers would engage in speaking about prominent persons present in the audience, often their patrons, who would in turn shower the musicians with currency notes, in place of gold or silver coins once upon a time. The one parallel that came to my mind immediately was the practice at huniyam or sanni rituals in south Lanka, where some time towards the most climactic parts of the dancing, dancers would perform adav and well-off spectators were expected to reward the dancers with money.
There were two performances of dancing, the first and more enjoyable kuccipudi at the John de Silva Rangahala in mid January. A somewhat diminutive dancer captured the audience with her skills and sheer dancing grace. The poor acoustics of that theatre made the singing a bit raucus but that was not the fault of the singers at all. This concert had been organized by the Ministry of Cultural Affairs in Colombo and this dancer was one of the best artists they had been able to obtain during the last year or so. For one reason or another they tend to pick artists who are teachers in universities and though they may be outstanding teachers, they do not generally compare well with performing artists. Happily this was an exception.
The other dancer was Aramel Valli, who had been invited by the Neelan Tiruchelvam Commemoration Committee to celebrate the occasion and she danced very well at the Bishop’s College auditorium in the evening of 31 January. While Valli’s abhinaya was exquisite she did not catch my imagination with her dancing.
On 07 February, three outstanding artists from Lanka presented a concert of ragdhari music at the Indian Cultural Centre, which I missed as even a man in retirement has tasks which he must attend to missing even an excellent concert.
On 31 January and 06 February, beginning at 2030 hours each evening, MTV broadcast a recorded concert of percussion music by that great showman and musician Zakir Hussein . I enjoyed much of Zakir Hussein’s table and Vikku Vinaykram’s ghatam, the other instruments played were somewhat beyond my horizons.
In three weeks, there were six concerts, one on television and five live. They were all performed by masters of their disciplines and hugely entertaining. But what variety! Three of them belonged in the North Indian tradition and three in the older South Indian tradition. Qawwali is close to the Moslem religion while the other concerts in the North Indian tradition are a blend of Islamic and Hindu music streams. Qawwali was sung in Urdu and the gazal in Hindi, neither language intelligible to me. Those seated near me who knew the languages were far more entertained than I was.
The three concerts in the South Indian tradition were themselves a combination of several traditions, although they all traced their original instruction to Natyasastra. Kucchipudi came from Andhra Pradesh and several compositions sung were in Telugu, a lack of knowledge of which language was a distinctive barrier to enjoying the performance. Bharata Natyam which Valli performed has roots in all three culture: Kannada, Telugu and Tamil. Where the songs were in Sanskrit as in the Paramesvari strata, I enjoyed the dancing far more than when the songs were in Tamil or Telugu, because I understood the abhinaya from the description in the song.. Balamulari Krishnan’s language of singing did not matter as we were listening to his music not the poetry. However, we were informed that he, a Tamil, did sing in Hindi for a Malayalam movie!
Besides a knowledge of the languages of India, a knowledge of Hindu mythology, which can be read extensively in many languages including English and Sinhala, can sharpen the enjoyment of Indian dancing and music. The frolics of Krishna form an invariable element in Bharata Natyam and many of the songs recall various episodes in the life of or descriptions of gods. The stories themselves are very entertaining and there is far greater variety than in the Hellenic pantheon. Alain, Danielou has written in both French and English( Hindu Polytheism, Routeledge and Kegan Paul, London).
In Sinhala the best source, though scattered, are the commentaries written by Munidasa Kumaratunge to Sinhala works of poetry, including the many Sandesa Kavya. There was probably no other scholar in this country whose reading of the vedanga, especially purana, literature was as extensive and as deep as Kumaratunge’s. It is a great pity that people who have never read his writings paint him a chauvinist and refuse to read him.
The several locations for concerts gave us a chance to assess the quality of the concert halls. By far the worst was John de Silva Rangahala. It is noisy, hot and uncomfortable. There is a musicians’ well, which takes away at least five rows of seats, so that even five rows behind the foremost, one has to strain to see the face of a dancer. In that respect it is particularly unfit for a concert of Indian dance, where both singing and abhinaya are important. My recollection is that the Rangahala was constructed in the mid 1960s to accommodate the swift flow of theatre in Nadagam style at that time that could not be shown at Lurnbini School Theatre on Skelton Road. I remember with much pleasure seeing Dayananda Gunewardena’s nadagam about Gajaman Nona there. The musicians’ well was a requirement to satisfy the needs of nadagam plays. But Indian music and dancing are of a different genre. BMICH was quite enjoyable that evening, although I have had horrible evenings there previously. However arrangements for parking were quite unsatisfactory. The small theatre at Bishop’s College was by far the best out of the lot; all of which points to the need for a good concert hall once resources can be diverted from fighting the secessionist war in the North.
One is grateful to the Neelan Tiruchelvam Commemoration Committee, the Ministry of Cultural Affairs in Colombo and their counterparts in New Delhi, the Indian High Commission in Colombo and MTV for their discriminating taste, resourcefulness and commitment in presenting these concerts. The Indian High Commission in Colombo, more recently has been on a cultural offensive quite unlike another I have evidence of in the recent past. Is the Foreign of fice in New Delhi trying to woo a population repelled by Mani Dixit’s ugly behaviour unbecoming of a diplomat from a big neighbouring country that had not been offended by the small country?
I continue to be amazed by the variety and richness of and deep capacity for Indian music and dancing to entertain, especially if you live in a land where "Indiappan one" and "None nanna" is the staple of musical entertainment. It is another example of the wonder that is India, which A. L. Basham wrote about fifty years ago.
It has been said that the old Dutch Hospital in Colombo’s Fort is Hospital Street’s main claim to fame. This is true and to an extent a curtsy to the grand old Dutch architectural masterpiece which confers dignity not merely to the street where its located but to all Colombo. Now fully restored and touched-up, the old Dutch lady of Hospital Street is a compelling attraction although she is now used as a police station, it is to be hoped, only temporarily.
But a new establishment with the unlikely name of ‘BIBLIOMANIA’, specialising in old and second-hand books has begun to upstage Hospital Street’s revered old shrine. Though unlit and lacking in seating accommodation, ‘Bibliomania’ — a bookshop with a difference that attracts its own retinue of pilgrims from early morning. It’s a trysting-place as well, and Sharon Orloff, the pretty secretary and librarian of Bibliomania, like its lord and master Hamid Karim, will take down a message from one book lover to another.
Hamid Karim, the genial, giant you first meet emerging from behind a bookshelf is not standing on a stool. He is all of six-feet-two in his socks. He will reach the highest shelf over your head and clasp around six titles in a hand, as big as Joel Garner’s. There are some 100,000 books on shelves that reach the roof, line the walls, cut the ground floor at right angles at Bibliomania. Some of the titles are very old vellum and leather jacketed, that may cost thousands of rupees. Hamid who was an invitee to the recent Delhi Book Fair is planning to import old books from Bombay, Delhi, Calcutta, Madras and the SE Asian Region. There are cheap editions of bestsellers available in Bombay, and other big Indian cities where second-hand editions of ‘Spycatcher’ and the like are available along the pavements.
Hamid Karim is not a Johnny-come-lately to Colombo. A suave, St. Thomas’ Mount Lavinia educated young man, now going on 39, he had his higher education at the University of Manchester where he read for a chemical engineering degree. He bade goodbye to an academic career while home on holiday, and set up an export-import business on 2nd Cross Street, Pettah, where only the tougnest survive. Hamid was crusing along when the civil unrest in 1983 saw his business going up in smoke. That was his baptism by fire.
Hamid is a Sunni Moslem Memon. His ancestors came from Bombay. The Memons are very clannish and making money in business is second nature to them. "There are no poor Memons. Only Memons who have not been smart enough for a while. They look upon adversity as an inconvenience. It must be got over and done with fast, and life must be lived profitably, with the mind at ease. There are many things to do, land life is short and therefore it must be lived and enjoyed wisely and justly. There are many things to do, and they can be done only with money. Money must be earned. It does not grow on trees," says Hamid Karim.
Salim, Hamid Karim’s brother, a surgeon, rallied to his brother’s side after the fire in the Pettah and came up with the suggestion that Hamid should set up a second-hand book store. "Let’s capitalise on Sri Lanka’s high literacy rate. People will like to read if they could get their hands on books," he reasoned. "The problem is that books are expensive. There is a suppressed demand for books. Let’s collect all the old books and make them available to the people. Loan the books if they can’t buy them outright. Let the bookstore be a lending library as well. Reading is habit-forming and it spreads. There is a great camaraderie among readers," said Salim.
Hamid Karim finds that fifteen years after his import-export business ended up in smoke during civil commotion, his new venture in books and Bibliomania is flourishing, like a house on fire. This time he is capitalising on Sri Lanka’s high literacy rate and knows he cannot fail.
B. H. Hemapriya
A book that every family will cherish"Your Child, Your Family"
: A Guide to Good Family Health By Prof. Herbert A. Aponso, Prof. D. G. Harendra de Silva and Dr. Dennis J. Aloysius (Rs. 400/-).by Anne Abayasekara
The 1991 best seller, "Your Child, your Family", authored by Prof. Herbert A. Aponso, has been revised, restructured and updated by Prof. Aponso in conjunction with two other well-known medical men — Prof. Harendra de Silva and Dr. Dennis Aloysius. It comes in colourful and eyecatching garb in a hard cover. A bright contrast to the rather drab facade of its predecessor.If the contents of the first edition could hardly be faulted, this second edition which was launched on June 25th, has the advantage of covering several additional topics. The focus of the whole work is not on illness but on health. How to stay healthy is the theme. The main concern of the three eminent doctors/authors is the promotion of good health and the prevention of disease. They have been aided by 102 other contributors, each adding his/her mite to present a very comprehensive work.
This edition is divided into 3 volumes or sections. The first, entitled "ROAD TO GOOD HEALTH", is of absorbing interest, including, as it does, not only the physical aspects of good health, but the need for mental and spiritual well-being as well to round off the whole person. It starts off by explaining the structure and functions of the body and the text is enhanced by detailed illustrations on every page.
What impressed me are the pages devoted to the psychological aspects of human behaviour, to right parenting and the importance of good family relationships. Vol. 1 concludes with some very informative pages on pregnancy and safe motherhood, care of the newborn, post-natal exercises (illustrated), and family planning methods.
With today’s emphasis on the importance of good nutrition Vol. 2 — "EAT, GROW AND BE HEALTHY" — should prove invaluable to the concerned housewife. Everything you need to know about nutrients is there, clearly explained. Breast-feeding, weaning, foods and beverages in common use, food contaminants and fast foods and poor appetite in children, are all dealt with. Information is provided about cholesterol, fats and artheroschlerois, about obesity, about the dangers resulting from malnutrition.
The value of Home Gardens is explained, with tables giving details regarding dark green leaves, vegetables and fruit trees. This section also contains a very comprehensive table of Nutritive Values of Common Foods, and an important contribution on Human Growth, with charts.
The final section (Vol III), is devoted to "Diseases: Infancy To Old Age"- Illnesses not touched on in the original edition have been included here - e.g. irritable bowel syndrome. Parkinson’s disease, anorexia nervosa, mad cow disease, avian ‘flu. The ‘what’, ‘why’, ‘where’, ‘who’ and ‘how’ of nearly all the common diseases are explained, as claimed in the preface, and the ‘what to do’ in each case makes this book an indispensable reference book for every household. Cultural myths and misconceptions about certain diseases and their management are helpfully handled.
Physical and mental disorders that afflict us humans are all covered and attention has been paid to suicide and suicide prevention. A brief account of "Demons and Charms" also has its place.
The book is liberally interspersed with interesting and sometimes memorable quotations that enhance the text. I can only endorse what I wrote of the first edition: "Your Child, Your Family" is a ‘must’ for every home not only because it will remove that helpless feeling when illness, accidents or emergencies occur, but because of its educative and positive value in telling us how to eat and live in such a way as to promote a healthy body, mind and spirit.
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