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People and Events
Godly stares across the palk strait

by Nan
Please, please, someone tell me the talk about setting up a cultural centre in the marshy Muturajawela, and worse, a temple to Lord Vishnu with a statue which could deflect the malefic influence of a god’s stare from across the Palk Strait: is a joke, a figment of the fecund fancy of a no-good journalist. Please tell me this, I beg of you, since if it were true I would split my sides laughing, or go crazy at the idiocy of the idea. It could also very well be the final disappointment that would break my aching heart, aching for abused, turmoiled, and now constantly pitiable Sri Lanka.

A straw broke the back of the camel, they say. This story in its magnitude of absurdity, and meagreness of sanity could destroy the last vestige of hope I hold for this land. I could die of sorrow at what is happening to this land of ours - rather, done to our land by politicians and terrorists.

I cannot believe that anyone, least of all responsible leaders of ours, could think up such a grandious scheme, with the aim that was reported in a Sunday newspaper last week. The idea is worth not a whit.

Reasons for Doubt

One: Who can prove that a temple in Trichy built in 1979-80 has a malefic effect on poor Sri Lanka? Why should a god’s statue stare with venom and the evil eye at another country which has done it no harm, and is pitiable and calls for no envy? Weren’t we ever boastful that no disaster or ill fortune would befall Sri Lanka since the sacred Tooth Relic was in Kandy? Is it that with the desecration of the Maligawa due to careless security, the power of our greatest possession is diminished?

Two: Who can vouch for our statue being more powerful in stares from that across the P Straits?

Three: Aren’t we a Buddhist country and don’t we subscribe to the concept of ahimsa, metta and karuna? Why this eye for an eye, stare for a stare attitude? I know our village folk bet on fighting cocks and others bet on horses. Now we are called upon to bet on a god’s stare. Come O-o-n!

Four: Isn’t Muturajawela a bird sanctuary in which the ecosystem is being preserved diligently? If a show piece religious centre is built on the reserved land, won’t the birds and animals flee as the human variety descend on their property: jabbering, merrymaking with loud music and arrack, and sporting scarecrow looks in shabby clothes and straw hats?

600 million is all it takes to destroy a nature reserve, desecrate all religions and worst of all attack in Star Wars fashion idols from across the seas who may or may not deign to spare a glance at this dot in the Indian Ocean, fast destroying itself through cupidity and utter foolishness of its people.

What can’t the government do with 600 million, instead of building a totally unwanted temple complex. We have more than enough Buddhist vihares, Hindu kovils, Muslim mosques and Christian churches, thank you. Please Ministers of State, in your wisdom, consider the hundreds of places of religious workshop for all creeds that dot our country in town and village. Please do not overcrowd an already overcrowded religious milieu.

Alternatives for spending money

Build a hospital; a large library or better still several libraries in the major cities in each province; technical colleges in the provinces; homes for senior citizens who simply cannot manage to exist on their paltry pensions. Repair our roads and put in a fleet of new buses so that people, and these are all voters, can travel without fearing for their lives. Give facilities to the rural schools, then children will not have to carry their chairs to school each day.

Oh please, I cry to you two Honorable Ministers, who it was said, wrote to the private sector bosses to chip in to make up the 600 million, to look to the children. The young of the land suffer. They lack sufficient nourishment, milk and other necessities because of the ever ascendant COL. They have no mothers to care for them, the mothers being forced to go out or abroad to earn. They have no books to read, no toys to play with, no medicines to take when they fall ill. Spend the 600 million on them, instead of chasing a hair-brained scheme of pleasing the people and bringing peace to the land by cancelling out a supposed to be wicked look from a god in Trichy.

Or else, if interest is lost when it means helping the people, let the Balendras and Kotelawelas keep their money. At least they help people in tangible ways by giving them jobs and charity to the needy.

So stares and counter stares are going to beat the audacious tenacity of the Tigers? The civil war is going to be won by our god staring longer, harder and more malevolently than he from across the waters. Suppose our statue gets a squint and while Trichy looking hits Mumbai? Worse, what if a roosting crow blocks his sight with you-know what shot in his eye?

Our Ministers should descend to moving around with the people, not merely pressing selected flesh or smiling cherubically at election meetings. They should travel in buses, visit and speak with children in remote schools, slip into a school or public library. Children are wonderful but the facilities they are provided with, deplorable. The war is blamed for all our woes. But what a mighty alleviation of suffering could be effected with 600 million rupees.

Last week I was in a school which was the resort of those who could not make the grade to enter the local national school or the Madhya Maha Vidyalaya. A little toothy boy who role played a mother intoned sadly that the only recourse left to her husband and herself was to commit suicide by ‘drinking something’ since the children were fighting bitterly over the division of their property. I gave him extra loud applause and didn’t he visibly swell with pride. His Bugs Bunny grin was wide, his eyes shone and he followed me when I left the classroom, pleading I return.

Now that’s the sort of person who should be helped. One millionth of the 600 million to be spent on a useless, redundant, not wanted religious complex will set this boy for life.

Rule by the Inexpert

We were shocked but laughed, albeit nervously, when we heard then about our former President and his Malayali medium, astrologer, Jeeves or whatever. We were amazed by circulated stories of R Premadasa’s chair which was supposed to be incense-smoked and charmed-oil smeared. But those were his private quirks. They did not really concern us nor deprive us of what should have been spent on us, the people of Sri Lanka. The chair, incense and the Malayali retainer would all have cost at the most an outlay of Rs. 25,000. How many 25,000s go into 600 million?

Bagehot in this week’s Economist writes tongue-in-cheek about the British attitude to food obtained from genetically modified plants. The government seems to promote it in spite of consensual suspicion; and the writer compares it to the Conservatives denying the connection between Brit beef and mad cow disease in the late l980s.

"The fly in this soothing ointment is that democracy is by definition a system of rule by the inexpert. And not even Tony Blair in his guise of Platonic philosopher-king is able to quell all the superstitious or commonsensical fears that people feel when men in white coats monkey about with God’s own potatoes".

That’s prospering Britain. What about our men in official garb and robes of authority stubbornly doing as they please and playing pandu, as the saying goes, with the taxpayers’ money.

Felt experiences

by Nanda Pethiyagoda
Moments of Passion and Peace is a slim book of poetry by Dorothy Ludowyk Joseph, illustrated by Nalini Jayasuriya. The poet calls herself A Daughter of Lanka on the cover and in the title page.

The book contains around 40 poems of varying length, all to be appreciated. Nalini Jayasuriya’s illustrations in black and white with a beautiful picture of a woman and birds in brilliant blues and orange on the cover, greatly enhances the book. Here is a publication by two very talented women whose talents are used, in the case of the poet to express her inner thoughts and emotions, and by the artist to add a visual dimension to a great little book.

Dorothy Ludowyk Joseph is the widow of Major Victor Joseph who was an officer in the Armoured Corps and a defendant in the Coup Trial of 1962. Shortly after his acquittal, the family migrated to Canada. Dorothy now lives in Manhattan and spends her time travelling and writing, her much loved destination being the old country - Sri Lanka.

In her Foreword, Nalini Jayasuriya says: "Dorothy Joseph’s offering is more than a sheaf of poems. It is a collection of poetic statements that attempt to recapture and retail something of the beauty, dignity and rich heritage of Dorothy’s native land, Sri Lanka, and her people, the people of Sri Lanka.

"‘We are all related’ is a profound statement made by the American Lakota Indians as they smoke in communion the Pipe of Peace. This sense of communion filters through the thoughts and words of Dorothy Joseph, with a spiritual intensity and affirmation that are both precious and renewing."

Content

As Nalini Jayasuriya says, the poems are all personal and in them Dorothy Joseph gives expression to joy, sorrow, desolation, the misery of an immigrant, the delight of

grandmotherhood. There is emotion, controlled though, emerging in the writing as felt emotions expressed not to impress but as a giving into a yearning from the heart to set down in writing thoughts and feelings that swamp the mind or make it light and happy.

There is the long poem With a Backward Glance which starts with "But must I leave?" and enumerates what is being left behind - "the moon agleam

Through the lacy branches of the Mara tree" and "the rolling patna’s windswept stretch" the Mahaweli, Bo trees, dagobas and the hot sun on the hot beach sands.

She writes about Diyatalawa, Chr-istmas in Sri Lanka, Galle Face Green and then about her family with deft strokes, sensitively.

Emotions range from Weariness through being bereft and lost, to Afterword and Alone in the City. The first poem titled A Woman starts with the lines: "Walk back in Time my soul/and breathe again the virgin purity of a sphere where once you dwelt" and the last: The Ashes of My Fathers ends thus: " and we again with God/United, are as one."

Thus the gamut of experience and emotions encapsulated in crisp verse: hope and renewal overcoming sorrow, loss and regret.

The poems are not all heavy on emotions. Rather do you get the light and bubbly and the whimsical. Sandra Joseph Nunez contributes a delightful tale of Maria of Manhattan, full of wants, who, having got her mother to buy her some balloons in Central Park finds herself sailing on high until a Robin Redbreast she fed with breadcrumbs helps her to a safe landing, determined to curb her wants.

In At Christmas Time Dorothy Joseph writes about the postman who stays for just one drink - "A small one, Miss" and the list collectors and old retainers who get their gifts. The Tenemarie - Nigels ‘ Yarn relates how the poet and others boarded the Tennemarie at Freemantle dock to visit the island rock off west Australia where they biked and trekked and wallowed in the water and listened to sailors’ yarns.

Jumbo In Colombo is light while Whited Sepulchres is sharp with sarcasm and biting criticism of women "clothed in silken respectability"; women who look askance at a single mother "Proudly she carried a child/That she would bear alone/And rear alone"

To me the outstanding feature of the poems is that we women relate to them completely. They echo our thoughts and emotions. And this because Dorothy Joseph writes sincerely of what she has experienced, what she has felt intensely. We know the feeling of desolation and immutability of a loved one’s death and find the poet gives expression to our feelings. Not once does she descend to sentimentality or a working on our emotional reaction.

"Softly the sad note of sorrow
Rises unbid from within
A heart so anguished - it sees no tomorrow
And to live, must learn to begin.
No hope, no future, no returning.
A void. The acceptance.
Tears ease till a sight,
Or a mem’ry severs tissues that cover the scar."

Poetic Devices and Style

Dorothy Joseph’s poems include imagery, juxtaposition of opposite ideas, metaphor and simile, but her language remains simple throughout and her style crisp and sincere.

"Life is a desert
Wherein my soul wanders alone -
I have watered the sands
And toiled hard with my hands."

From the poem Moment of Solitude

And in Renunciation

"Cast them to the winds
And let them go,
Those loves that you would bind
And fetter, the better
To set them free."

In describing birth she encapsulates the pain, relief and wonder in just a few short lines. She writes earthily here, yet never coarsely, retaining her innate gentility

‘’The moment of the merciful halt of pain
After the ardour of labour;
When the loins still throb and wrench
And dilate once again.
But with the numbness after agony.
When the pressure of a tiny foot,
Against from whence the child was birth’d."

The book is worth possessing to dip into when the mood for calm contemplation or aesthetic expression comes upon one. It also would make a fine gift to give. It is published by Worldlink, Sydney and edited by Tony Anghie, this fact being mentioned by the poet. It is sold at Barefoot for Rs 250/=.

Often poetry in first publications and contributions to newspapers are prose passages cleverly truncated and visually poem-like. This most definitely is not the case with Dorothy Joseph’s poetry. Here is a mature woman writing poetry with depth of meaning - simply said, yes; precisely worded; but poetic in form and style.

Gullible’s Travails
My first encounter with Jaffna

By Cecil V. Wikramanayake
Shortly after Derek Dalton was born, we all had to move to Jaffna to which town Dad had been transferred. Jaffna was at that time considered a ‘punishment’ station and Dad was being punished for separating his working life from his social.

He was a member of the Toc-H Club, Kandy. So was his former classmate and now boss, C. C. Schokman, then Inspector General of Prisons. (The term was later changed to Commissioner).

Playing bridge at the club one evening, at Bogambara, Dad was partnered by another classmate Vernon Wille, then Superintendent of Prisons, while Schokman was partnered by another. While playing, Schokman happened to drop his handkerchief.

"Pick it up, Wikramanayake" said Schokman.

"Pick it up yourself, Schokman" replied Wikramanayake.

In the cross talk that ensued Wikramanayake had reminded Schokman that the club was not the prison, their common workplace. That in the club they were all equal. That had he not been ordered to pick up the handkerchief, he would have done so as a matter of courtesy. That Schokman should know that there was a great difference between ‘servility’ and ‘civility’.

Schokman pushed his chair back, rose and left the club.

A week later Dad received transfer orders to Jaffna.

My elder brother, in the meantime had sat for and won a scholarship at St. John’s College, Jaffna. He stayed with Dr. Vethacan Daniel Seevaratnam, a friend of Dad’s from his Medical College days, till we all came to Jaffna, after Dad had found a house in Chapel Street.

I can never forget that journey by train to Jaffna. There were Dad and Mum, myself, two younger brothers and sister Rita. In addition to these there were William, a lad about my elder brother’s age, Alice and Babi-Akka, two teenage girls, and Amme, Babi-akka’s mother, who was our cook. We all piled into a ‘reserved’ compartment and had the time of our lives, arriving in Jaffna in the morning.

We were met by Dr. Seevaratnam, who took us to the Resthouse, then run by one Mariampillai, who made us comfortable there for two days till the house was ready.

Our house in Chapel Street was one of twin houses, which had a common well, divided by a partition wall that went over the top of the well. While we could draw water from our side of it, our neighbours could draw water from their side, but we could not see each other because of the wall. It was the strangest thing that I had ever seen, next, of course, to the well-sweep, which was common all over Jaffna.

My brother Ian and I were admitted to Jaffna Central College, then under the principalship of Rev. P. T. Cash. Sister Rita went to Vembadi High School, separated from Central College by a tarred road.

My teacher was a Mr. Ponnudurai, known as Art Master, who was supposed to use English as the medium of instruction, but invariably lapsed into Tamil after about ten minutes of teaching.

I did not blame him. After all, all the boys, except myself were Tamils. I being the exception, had to pick up the new language and fast.

There were only two or three other boys in the class who wore shirt and short trousers, like myself. The rest wore their national costume, a white shirt and white verti.

I went back home to lunch and refused to go back to school.

When I was asked why, I am supposed to have told Mum "I don’t want to study with servant boys."

A caning from Dad put a quick end to my snobbery, while mother explained to a tearful son that the other boys were not servants simply because they wore white cloth and not trousers.

Walking into the classroom, I was asked to sit next to a small, fair boy about my size, who was to become my best friend there.

Aries Thomas Abraham Kovoor made room for me at the double desk, and asked me "Pera enna?"

"I haven’t got any" I replied in English.

He repeated his question.

I said "I told you. I haven’t any. I can bring some tomorrow."

This went on for quite some time, and both of us were getting somewhat shirty, and were on the point of coming to blows, when Stanley Mather, sitting behind me, said "He is asking you what your name is."

The three of us had a hearty laugh at my expense, at my thinking that "pera" meant guavas, as it does in Sinhala. Anyhow, that joke helped to cement a friendship between the three of us, a friendship that lasts a lifetime.

When I last met Aries, some years ago, at Mt. Lavinia, he was Professor at the Sorbonne University in France. Stanley migrated to Canada, I think, for I had a letter from him some years ago, after my unforgettable encounter with the ‘freedom-fighters’ in Jaffna in 1985.

These two, and Stanley’s brother Wesley who was in the same class were the only boys who wore trousers. Poor Wesley died while still in school, after he received a kick from S. Thirunavakkarasu, another classmate, while playing football.

I can never forget Wesley Mather because, although he was much bigger than any of us, though in the same class, he took me under his wing, so to speak, and treated me with special consideration.

His death was my first intimation that life, though sweet, was short. He was like an elder brother to me in school — to a little lonely boy in a strange land.

From Chapel Street we soon moved to 1st Cross Street, and then, after some time there, to a bigger house in Third Cross Street, owned by one Seevaratnam — no relation to the Doctor - and just opposite the Roman Catholic Church.

This house had a large garden where there were four grafted mango trees of different kinds. Also a well with a well-sweep, and into which William fell twice. I believe he did so purposely, the second time.

A few days after we had settled in Jaffna I accompanied Dad to the Sinna-kaday, the small bazaar, close to the Karayyoor Reclamation works, where prisoners laboured to reclaim land from the lagoon. Here at the beef stall, where a pound of beef was only 14 cents at the time, Dad observed the butcher throwing the whole head of the bull aside.

"What about the brain and the tongue?" Dad asked the butcher. The man said nobody bought brain or tongue.

"I’ll buy it" said Dad. The butcher extracted the brain and the tongue, from the two heads and gave them to Dad. He would not take money for it, since Dad was buying beef and other things as well, like liver, bones and heart.

"No. No," remonstrated Dad, and insisted on paying something for them. The butcher compromised by asking Dad to pay just five cents for a brain and five cents for a tongue.

These were what we considered delicacies, for brain cutlets were something to look forward to, and tongue, when well boiled with spices, till the meat was quite tender, always reminded me of the tins of sheep tongue which were imported from places like England and Australia.

Word soon spread around that brain was good eating, and after a few months the price went up to ten cents. Dad continued to be that butcher’s best customer.

(Next: I get my first bicycle)

Doyens of Wild life honoured

By Rohan Wijesinha
The Department of Wild Life and Conservation (DWLC) was established fifty years ago as the statutory guardian of the wild places and wild creatures of Sri Lanka. Our political forefathers recognised the importance of conserving the natural heritage of the island for posterity, rather than to serve as protected hunting grounds for the colonial elite. Theirs was an ancient understanding, as documented in the Mahavamsa and Culavamsa, that a healthy environment and balanced ecosystem is essential for the well-being of the population and economy of our agararian society. Fifty years ago the DWLC came into being when the country had over 40% forest cover, and a human population of 12 million.

Today, barely 20% of the island remains as forest cover, and the human population hovers just below the 20 million mark. The loss of one, and the gain of the other is an inevitability; the proof of progress! Yet, for the long-term prosperity of a country like Sri Lanka, those ancient understanding must still hold good. The true wealth of Sri Lanka is its fertile soil frequently watered by monsoonal rains. The preservation of this final 20% of forest cover, estimated by many biologists as possibly the minimum that it can be allowed to deteriorate, is vital for this fertility to continue.

Missed Opportunity

The DWLC continues to be the mayor statutory organisation to ensure this preservation. This should be a year of celebration of achievement. Indeed, in its first three decades, despite the pressures of an increasing population, the DWLC had much to celebrate. The establishment of National Parks, Sanctuaries and protected areas.

It was lauded internationally for its policy of ensuring and preserving corridors between National Parks; these corridors, allowed the interchange of the large animals, mainly elephants, between protected areas, on their traditional migratory routes.

Then, the DWLC was in the hands of men who had spent a greater part of their adult life in the jungles of Sri Lanka; starting as Assistant Rangers and serving their apprenticeships walking the length and breadth of the wild places of the country, learning at close quarters the habits and needs of the jungle denizens, as well as the people who inhabited areas adjoining them.

At First Hand

From the first Director of the DWLC, C. W. Nicholas, through to J. A. De Silva, Childers Jayawardena, down to probably the best known and best qualified, Lyn De Alwis, all learned their lessons in the field. It is not surprising that under their leadership, the DWLC maintained its ideals of conservation.

Sadly, in this Golden Jubilee year, it has been left to a non-Governmental Organisation to felicitate two of the senior officers of the DWLC who hail fro those early dedicated years of conservation. On the 20th of May 1999, at the Russian Centre on Independence Avenue, the Biodiversity and Elephant Conservation Trust felicitated Christopher (Christy) Wickremasinghe and Ainsley (AB) Fernando.

In front of an appreciative gathering of wild life and nature lovers, these two gentlemen were presented with Gold Medals by the eminent Diplomat, Mr. Vernon Mendis. The Gold Medals were donated by Mrs. Otara Chandiram. They were also presented with a book on the Biodiversity of Sri Lanka compiled by Mr. Rohan Pethiyagoda. However, what must have warmed these two gentlemen most was that they were being thanked, not only by their peers, but by a generation of conservationists who have come after them, and by generations to come, for their pioneer efforts to preserve the flora and fauna of Sri Lanka.

Dedication

Mr. Christy Wickremasinghe, now in his eightieth year, first joined the Department in 1950, a year after its inception. A scholar, he has discoursed archaeology and anthropology with the likes of Professor Paranavitane. Eloquent and well-educated, Mr. Wickremasinghe could have succeeded in any field he chose. Fuelled by the love for nature of his father and of his teachers at Trinity College, particularly Mr. Outram with whom he trekked the South of Ceylon (as it was then known), he chose the DWLC, and to it he gave all his devotion and service. The Director General of the World Wide Fund for Nature (WWF), Dr. Claude Martin, in a letter, thanked Mr. Wickremasinghe for his long and distinguished service to conservation. He belongs to an era when idealism and duty far outweighed personal gain.

Corridors

Mr. Ainsley Fernando served in the Department for over three decades, reaching the position of Assistant Director. Acknowledged by his contemporaries to have no peer in the practical conservation of elephants, he was a leading advocate of the maintenance of elephant corridors, and with Lyn De Alwis, co-ordinated several of the early, successful elephant drives in the North of the country.

The Director General of the International Conservation Union (IUCN), Ms. Maritta R. von Bieber Stein Koch Wesser, in a letter, acknowledged the vast amount of work done by Mr. Fernando for elephant conservation in Sri Lanka. He served for many years on the Asian Elephant Specialist Group.

Experience

Unassuming and humble, these two gentlemen belonged to an era when experience gave knowledge, and love for the wild was the mayor compensation for work; there being little money in it. Lyn De Alwis, in his introductory speech, referred to all who worked at that time as the "Wild Life family". They were all bound by a common cause. The Biodiversity and Elephant Conservation Trust, particularly Messrs Jayantha Jayawardene, Rohan Pethiyagoda, and Charles Santiapillai must be congratulated on their choice of Award recipients. It is hoped that such felicitations will continue in future years to those who have deserved it.

Lyn De Alwis, appointed to the post of Director of the DWLC after interview by the Public Service Commission, and then removed from office, after many years’ illustrious service, was succeeded by a political appointment as Director in the early 1970s. Ironically this move was hailed by the Wildlife and Nature Protectlon Society at the time proving the maxim that it is possible to fool some of the people some of the time!

Deterioration

Since then many, many political appointees, some extracted from Administrative pools, have sat in the seat of Director of the DWLC. With no experience, practical or otherwise, of conservation, their actions have resulted in the quick deterioration of the DWLC from the heights it had once reached. Allegations of corruption and mismanagement are rife, and probably easily proven. Yet political appointee replaces political appointee, and though there still are those of the old breed, who walked the jungles, they are sideline, and their numbers get fewer. Meanwhile the forests shrink, the elephants die, the climate changes, and the people struggle to survive. The ancient understandings of our political leaders seem to have been lost.

Fringe Inhabitants

The final words must go to Christie Wickremasinghe who reminded all that foremost in the minds of conservationists must be people. Not the people who visit the jungles in their Inter-coolers, or those who stop off on pilgrimage, or even the ardent conservationist, but the poor villagers and cultivators who inhabit the fringes of the National Parks and Sanctuaries.

Theirs is a hard struggle, and though they may be remembered at times of election, for the most part they are forgotten. The good sense and altruism that motivates the conservation of our natural heritage must extend to them too. They are also a part of it.

For ultimately conservation is about continuing a heritage; a natural heritage. Yala, Uda Walawe, Horton Plalns, the Peak Wilderness, are all as much the conservational gifts of our forebears as our language, and religion, Anuradhapura, Polonnaruwa, Sigiriya. That is surely a tradition that must continue for our national well-being. Nothing, none of the above, will survive if our environment is destroyed. Sadly, the present worship of the Political God of Instant Profit will hasten that destruction.

The image of the rural woman

by Sumadhu Weerawarne
Iromie Wijewardena is a veteran in her own sphere, having painted for over two decades. Her forthcoming exhibition — Images ’99 is just another chapter of her professional life, being her eleventh exhibition. It will be at the Lionel Wendt Art Gallery and will be open to the public from June 12 — 15.

The latest collection spanning three years of work captures images — predominantly those of rural women. From the many canvasses lining her living room stare faces of dusky, doe-eyed rural women — some young and others not so; some fatigued by the burden they must bear and others carefree with spring in their heels. Her work — Rest is especially poignant. Two women sit side by side with their implements in life. Their heads tilt to one side — it almost seems wearied by the burden that they must bear.

Other canvasses capture women journeying to unknown destinations in bullock carts and yet others capture bejewelled figures in rhythmic dance. The figures are largely willowy giving a connotation of vulnerability. In this collection there are few male figures but almost never are they captured in their own essence, rather they are drawn as an adjunct to the women.

Iromie explains her interest in the image of the rural woman. She says that her interest largely focuses around figure compositions. "I don’t believe in just dabbing paint and calling it modern art. Even while I was at school I used to do fashion sketches and send them to the newspapers. So from a very young age I developed an interest in the human form. And after all there is nothing more beautiful than the female form. So I made it the focus of my paintings," she sums up. But why rural women — the obvious is that they make interesting subjects. "I want to capture the beauty of the rural woman who would at any other time be taken for granted. I want, capture their essential humanity," she says. This is even though Iromie readily admits that she cannot relate to them. She travels the length and breadth of the country in search of the essence of the rural woman. "I usually take a sketch book with me when I travel and make brief sketches of scenes that catch my interest. I re-do them once I get back to my studio."

The underlying similarity of the elongated faces of all her figures would suggest that it is in the feel of the painting, the emotive aspect that Iromie tries to recapture the elusive rural woman. It would seem that the figures are imagined while it is the context that is drawn from reality. Iromie is a professional artist unwavering in her commitment to professionalism. She has a degree in fine arts and fabric designing from the University of Kelaniya and has also studied in America. She serves in a number of eminent committees relating to art and aesthetics and has also exhibited abroad. "It helps to have professional training, but I don’t think it is a must. There are a great many Sri Lankan artists who paint very well without tutoring."

Her love for painting is something that has consumed her all her life. "I painted from the age of six. But was never a child prodigy or anything like that. I always knew that a professional painter was what I always wanted to be. So here I am." The habit it seems is infectious because her daughter too does nothing else but paint.

Conmen stalk the pavements

(Continued from last week)

By Suresh Perera
Most of the conmen stalking the pavements of the metropolis indulge in simple tricks manipulated by professional hands that the unsuspecting and the gullible.

How many innocent people had to fork out thousands of rupees to that ‘injured’ man who had been ‘knocked down’ by their vehicles? Didn’t he squeal in pain and plead that he be rushed to hospital as his leg had been badly fractured? True enough, the poor creature, bent into two was clutching his ‘broken’ leg and howling in intense pain.

‘These fake accidents are a common occurrence in the city and most of the victims targeted by these organised gangs opt for a mutual settlement sans police intervention by dishing out thousands of rupees to these insidious characters’, says Senior Superintendent of Police, Rienzie Perera.

These slimy operators handpick their victims, mostly elderly people driving by themselves. There had also been instances where elderly chauffeurs employed by affluent masters being taken for a ride by these tricksters. Invariably, the poor driver is ‘saved’ by his employer who doles out a couple of thousands to eschew ‘unnecessary problems’.

Members of this organised ring specialising in spurious accidents avoid young drivers who could offer resistance and call in the police. They also fear police or military personnel in civvies and hence jittery of picking on youths at random. Unlike laymen, these professionals examine all aspects because they are conscious of the inherent dangers of the game they are playing at the expense of the gullible. A faux pas, they know only too well, would blow the lid off their racket and land them in jail.

As soon as the ‘accident’ is staged, the other members of the gang move in swiftly to help the fallen man and take the frightened driver to task. To add credence to the scenario, the helpers insist that they go to the police, but the ‘injured’ man is adamant that the police be left out of this as the ‘mahattaya’ didn’t knock him down deliberately. After all, it’s his ‘bad time’ that this happened, but in a way he is lucky the gentleman behind the wheel is a kind and understanding human being, he croaks while clutching his leg and pretending to squeal in pain.

Then, what about that fracture he suffered? Oh!, there is a dispensary close to his house and the helpers suggest that they take him there immediately in a three-wheeler. Everything is so expensive these days and so is the folly of keeping the police out. Thousands of rupees change hands and the men melt away hale and hearty to live another day.

In some of the cases, the ‘injured victim’ is bundled into the vehicle and one of his helpers also creeps in under the pretext of taking him to hospital, but on the way a deal is struck, to the relief of the driver concerned and payment made.

These conmen are adroit actors. They are such smooth talkers that, given the opportunity, they will even persuade an Eskimo to buy a refrigerator!

‘It’s not illegal for two parties to come to a mutual settlement under genuine circumstances, but what comes into play here is outright cheating, which is an offence under the Penal Code’, SSP Perera said.

If the accident is not grave or serious, a private settlement can be reached with or without police intervention. Under these circumstances, most drivers fear that they will be charged under the law for negligence which led to the failure to avoid an accident. Under whatever circumstances, the public should not play into the hands of these vile creatures, he cautioned.

There are accidents which are recognised as unavoidable. For example, a mishap is caused when a vehicle swerves to avoid knocking down a child or even an animal unexpectedly crossing its path, he explained.

Jokers

The game they manipulate on the dusty pavements using three cards ultimately transform the eager players into jokers in the pack. There is a complete hands off rule in place as a safeguard because any form of physical examination of the cards will expose the dodgy deal.

What’s not visible to the naked eye of the enthusiastic participants is that the layer of the cards had been partially split open and exactly half of another card artfully imbedded. This creates a flap which can be expertly switched to change the face of the card.

"It’s so professionally executed that before one could bat an eye lid the card has acquired a different face. The delicate process of conversion even involves heating to achieve the required degree of slenderness to facilitate switching’, Perera noted.

With the turning of the flap, the original diamond for example, suddenly becomes a heart.

These crafty elements have mastered the game with such acumen that there is no room left for an iota of suspicion that the players are being deceived. After all, they saw with their own eyes how those who played the initial rounds raked in the winnings and made a joyous exit. What these poor fools are blissfully unaware of was that those ‘lucky winners’ were partners of the same pack of conmen.

Women

Not only men, but scores of women are also active members in the dark world of deceit. How many people have paid up to silence that well dressed woman who had got into their vehicles and threatened to raise cries?

She had emerged from nowhere and with a charming smile and a friendly nod got into that car inching its way in the traffic snarl in the city. In a horrible twist of events, the woman, as if realisation had suddenly dawned on her, starts wailing that she is being kidnapped. If she is not given money and maybe a few thousands for that matter, she will scream her head off. The livid threat pays off as there is no other way of shunning a wave of problems and moreover, the embarrassment of being found with a woman. What would be the outcome if all that noise also attracts somebody known to the family and it’s conveyed to the wife? So, they pay to get rid of the female parasite and breathe a sigh of relief.

Another tactic that these women adopt is to threaten to shout if the men who respond to their comely smiles decline to accede to their terms and attempt to withdraw. This is a ruse employed mostly by pavement prostitutes assisted by their pimps. Attracting that kind of attention on a busy pavement is suicidal and the threat monitored by the pimps who move in for the kill, generate the desired results.

Even some pavement hawkers, perhaps encouraged by these wiles try to make a fast buck at the mercy of their customers, particularly rustic folk who come to the city.

They are so hardcore that they will pick out a rural stranger as easily as differentiating a black among whites, SSP Perera said.

A youth from Kalmunai arrived at the Pettah bus terminal to proceed to his brother’s house in a Colombo suburb as he had to attend lectures at a government university. As he had to purchase some personal effects, he approached a pavement hawker and asked the price of a belt. Fifty rupees he was told by the vendor who eyed him knowingly. He tendered a one hundred rupee note and the hawker who was pretending to stuff the belt into a paper bag suddenly grabbed the money and asked the shocked young man to go to hell.

As his pleadings were ignored, he did what was expected of any law abiding citizen under such dire circumstances. He told a policeman in the vicinity what transpired, but to his utter dismay, he was once again asked to go to hell. But, the man stood his ground and told the cop that if this was his attitude he will report it to the police station. As the idea sounded unpleasant to the policeman, he dragged his feet and thundered that the belt and balance money due be given. It worked like magic and the hawker, alarmed by police intervention, nearly broke his backbone delivering the goods in a jiffy.

(Final part next week) 

Debut recital of violin prodigy

Sri Lanka’s outstanding young violinist, fifteen year old Thushani Jayawardene, will present her Debut Recital at the Lionel Wendt Theatre on Friday, 11th, June at 7 p.m.

She is the virtuoso pupil of Sri Lanka’s master-violinist, Ananda Dabare, who was trained under special scholarship in Russia at the Odessa Conservatory which turned out the legendary violinists David and Igor Oistrakh, pianist Emil Gilels, and other Russian all-time greats. Thushani has been trained in the same traditions and has achieved astonishing Examination results, the latest of which is a distinction of Grade 8 of the Royal Schools of Music.

Thushani has been noted for the shimmering quality of the tone and her controlled line and rhythm. Her programme will include compositions of Mozart, Dvorak, including popular favourites as Kriesler, Sibelius, and Katchaturian.

The Box Plan for this important event opens on 27th May 1999 at the Lionel Wendt Theatre.

Rohan Jayawardana

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