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Maha ovita (My Grandfather’s Vegetable Plot )

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A SHORT STORY

By Dr. Siri Galhenage

As I stood at the edge of a strip of mangroves that separated the dry land [goda] from the wet [mada], the vast expanse of the paddy field rolled out in front of me. The embankment of the Boralu Wewa, the lake that fed the crops of many generations of my ancestors, could be seen in the horizon. The paddy, except for a nearby abandoned patch, was pregnant with grain ready for harvest. A cool breeze swept across the field, making a golden ripple, bringing some relief from the oppressive humidity. Few women chuckled as they bathed in a nearby well hedged by bamboo trees. One of them washed her clothes by striking them on a rock face, sending an echo across the field. Two kids ran along a niyara in an abortive attempt at getting their kite airborne.

Behind me was a neglected plot of land, nearly an acre in extent, which stretched between the mangrove and the gravel path. The path snaked through the village towards the ancient Buddhist temple of Royal patronage. The dagoba and the bell tower of the temple loomed over a growth of coconut palms that surrounded the sacred site like a group of devotees. I remember, my father saying, that the legendary poet of the ‘Colombo era’, who wrote ‘To an Unborn Child’, once lived somewhere beyond the temple.

The neglected plot of land was the vegetable patch of my grandfather. We used to call it the Maha Owita. No vegetables have been grown here for several years. A few feral vines of pumpkin had braved the invasion of an army of weeds. A horde of mimosa amongst them, with their flowery helmets, spread across the field like an occupying force. Their thorny weaponry was hostile towards me, oblivious of my inheritance to the property. A dilapidated mud-brick hut stood at the centre of the Owita. In it a few broken pots, strewn around an abandoned wood fire, appeared like museum artefacts. In a shallow well beside the hut, tadpoles swam vigorously in the murky water lashing their tails. A young frog, after a brief exploration of the land, leapt back into the water in glee. A lone egret dipped its beak into the water in search of its morning meal.

Temple bells chimed. The tapping of the drums and the initial testing of the flute heralded a procession of monks preparing to attend an almsgiving. Measured movement of yellow robes could be seen through the coconut palms.

My brother was awaiting the arrival of Abaran Appu. No relative of ours, we called him Abaran Aiya as a gesture of respect and endearment; aiya in Sinhala meaning elder brother. An elderly figure appeared at the kadulla, a ramshackle gate with wooden poles, an entry point to the Owita from the gravel path. He wore a new sarong, with a tartan design, tied to his waist with a silver chain. His arms were strong despite his advanced age. His deeply pigmented body carried a profuse growth of grey hair, mainly over his chest, barely covered with a white vest, and a towel thrown over his right shoulder. He cautiously climbed over the kadulla, with some assistance from my brother.

As I approached Abaran Aiya, he greeted me with a broad smile. As a respectful gesture he removed the towel from his shoulder while tilting his body slightly to the right. I reciprocated with a verbal greeting of ayubowan, holding both his hands with mine, and with a feeling of gratitude and warmth. An archetypal ‘wise old man’, he certainly was – a figure, symbolic of my past.

“Your brother sent word that you have arrived, and would like to visit the Owita. I know that you come home from time to time, but I never get a chance to meet you. I last saw you at your mother’s funeral, but you were too busy. Your brother, of course, I meet often at the village temple.”

“I am too old now – almost ninety.” Abaran Aiya looked much younger than his years. Then he went on to talk about hi various ailments, which I thought were age-related. I lent a sympathetic ear. “There must be a lot of new medicines for these sicknesses in those countries,” he said. I nodded. “You must come back to your own country. We could do with more doctors.”

After a pause Abaran Aiya started chatting again. Looking around the Owita, he said, “It breaks my heart to see this place neglected. Until a few years ago, I grew vegetables in this patch. It is too hard for me now. My sons are not interested in working in the field; they don’t like getting their hands dirty; they prefer to do an office job in the city. Until recently, I managed to get Sugathan, my brother-in-law to do the paddy field; he too is getting old. And you can’t find reliable people these days.” My brother nodded in approval.

Abaran Aiya continued. “I am worried that squatters may occupy this place, and you will have a hard time evicting them; there is hardly any vacant land left around here”.

My brother joined in the conversation at this stage.”Yes, you can’t find good vacant land around here now; one pays an exorbitant amount for a perch, especially after the University was built; it is round the corner from here. Look at the number of new houses that has come up in the neighbourhood. It used to be bushland; all those beautiful trees around here are gone.”

There was a brief pause in our conversation as the procession of monks passed by gracefully along the gravel path. Abaran Aiya whispered in my brother’s ear that the monks were attending a customary almsgiving for a village elder who passed away three months ago. They both knew who he was. I felt like an alien.

Abaran Aiya had grown vegetables in this owita for nearly four decades, leasing the property from my family for a meagre fee. He sold his produce at the village fair held on Sundays. I remember, when my parents were alive, he brought in a sackful of vegetables, from time to time, as a gesture of goodwill. It often contained okra, snake beans, aubergines, bitter gourd, snake gourd, pumpkins and a variety of yams, which my mother received with delight. She shared the produce with friends and family.

My family had owned this land since the mid-nineteenth century. Being the elder sibling, my brother had been delegated the task of looking after family property and documents since the death of my parents.

Over many generations my people have toiled this land to sustain themselves. Since the death of my grandfather in1926, the Maha Owita was neglected for several years, before Abaran Aiya, the son of one of his loyal assistants was allowed to cultivate this land by my father.

My grandparents died long before my parents married. But over the years, I have developed a mental image of their persona through bits of information picked up from family elders and have put them together as a jigsaw. The most reliable informant would have been my father, but he passed away before I developed a keen interest in my ancestors. Since I emigrated in 1972 my interest in my progenitors grew.

When I left my motherland, I took this landscape with me. The village occupied my mental domain and my ancestors continued to dwell in it. I watched them plough this field, sow seeds, harvest their paddy, grow vegetables in the Owita. I listened to their folk songs. I followed them to the village temple, saw them offer ‘new rice’ [aluth bath] to the monks, and listened to the sermons by the head monk. I joined them during their festivities, and shared their hardship and their grief, and admired their resilience in overcoming them. They gave me strength and solace during difficult times.

I imagined sitting on the niyara [embankment] watching my grandfather toil in the field from dawn to dusk, his feet immersed in mud. Wearing a loin cloth [amude], his youthful body covered in sweat, glistened in the midday sun. Washing his hands and feet at the shallow well in the Owita, he would find shelter in the nearby hut at noon, awaiting his youthful wife [my grandmother] who brought him his ambula [lunch]. He watched with affection, the vibrant young woman, dressed in cloth and jacket [redda hette], hurry across the paddy field carrying the basket of food. They sat down to share a meal of rice and vegetables, chatting to each other about the weather, family matters and the happenings in the village.

On this day in the month of Vesak in 1896 she had a twinkle in her eye. She whispered in his ear that she was pregnant. They wished for a son as their first child and were full of innocent dreams. “I don’t want him to toil all day in the mud as I do”, said my grandfather. “I prefer him to have an education in English and work for the sudda [white man] in Colombo. Their first child – my father – did live up to their expectations. I remember my father wearing a white suit with tie and waistcoat going to work in the hot and humid capital city!

My ‘dreaming’ was interrupted by my brother. “There is no point in hanging on to this property; let’s sell it”, he said. I could read a sense of sadness in Abaran Aiya’s face, beneath his nod of approval. My brother and I had joint inheritance to the Maha Owita. I once entertained the thought of returning home in my retirement, of building a small house on my section of the property, growing vegetables, and leading a quiet life! My brother was always sceptical about it. “This is no longer the village it was”, he said, with a sense of nostalgia. “We hardly know the people who live around here. I hear, some youngsters occupy the hut at night”. And, Abaran Aiya joined in: “even some of the so-called educated people dump their rubbish here”. Pointing to the rubbish heap at the edge of the Owita, he added, “this place has now become a breeding ground for mosquitoes; they don’t seem to listen to an old man like me”.

“As I have discussed with you”, said my brother, “there is an interested party prepared to buy the land, and he is willing to offer a good price. I hear he is looking for a block of land to build a hostel for University students. This is an ideal site for accommodation for students of the newly built University, a walking distance away from here”.

“A hostel for students? Not a bad idea”, I thought. Once again, my imagination ran riot. Many young men and women would arrive here, their bags packed with hope for their future, as I did when I arrived in Peradeniya many decades ago. Seeds of knowledge will be sown on this fertile land. Creative thought, literary analysis, political debate and psychological insights will sprout. Time will be spent on reflection; there will be deadlines for assignments. Exams…bloody exams! Success and failure; joy and despair; frustration; rebellion; alcohol binges on weekends and love and betrayal! Most would harvest the life skills and knowledge, and would carry them into their future. A few, sadly, may wither away like a failed crop.

After a lengthy conversation, my brother and I helped Abaran Aiya to cross the kadulla, perhaps for the last time. We watched him stagger along the gravel path carrying a sackful of our heritage with him, which, he will, sadly, take to his grave.

The procession of monks seems to have reached its destination; the sound of drums was heard no more. The monks will continue to traverse this path, and one day, in the near future, will reach the home of Abaran Aiya, who would have been fit for the throne, washed of his mud.

[sirigalhenage@gmail.com]



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Sheer rise of Realpolitik making the world see the brink

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A combined US-Israel attack on Iran.(BBC)

The recent humanly costly torpedoing of an Iranian naval vessel in Sri Lanka’s Exclusive Economic Zone by a US submarine has raised a number of issues of great importance to international political discourse and law that call for elucidation. It is best that enlightened commentary is brought to bear in such discussions because at present misleading and uninformed speculation on questions arising from the incident are being aired by particularly jingoistic politicians of Sri Lanka’s South which could prove deleterious.

As matters stand, there seems to be no credible evidence that the Indian state was aware of the impending torpedoing of the Iranian vessel but these acerbic-tongued politicians of Sri Lanka’s South would have the local public believe that the tragedy was triggered with India’s connivance. Likewise, India is accused of ‘embroiling’ Sri Lanka in the incident on account of seemingly having prior knowledge of it and not warning Sri Lanka about the impending disaster.

It is plain that a process is once again afoot to raise anti-India hysteria in Sri Lanka. An obligation is cast on the Sri Lankan government to ensure that incendiary speculation of the above kind is defeated and India-Sri Lanka relations are prevented from being in any way harmed. Proactive measures are needed by the Sri Lankan government and well meaning quarters to ensure that public discourse in such matters have a factual and rational basis. ‘Knowledge gaps’ could prove hazardous.

Meanwhile, there could be no doubt that Sri Lanka’s sovereignty was violated by the US because the sinking of the Iranian vessel took place in Sri Lanka’s Exclusive Economic Zone. While there is no international decrying of the incident, and this is to be regretted, Sri Lanka’s helplessness and small player status would enable the US to ‘get away with it’.

Could anything be done by the international community to hold the US to account over the act of lawlessness in question? None is the answer at present. This is because in the current ‘Global Disorder’ major powers could commit the gravest international irregularities with impunity. As the threadbare cliché declares, ‘Might is Right’….. or so it seems.

Unfortunately, the UN could only merely verbally denounce any violations of International Law by the world’s foremost powers. It cannot use countervailing force against violators of the law, for example, on account of the divided nature of the UN Security Council, whose permanent members have shown incapability of seeing eye-to-eye on grave matters relating to International Law and order over the decades.

The foregoing considerations could force the conclusion on uncritical sections that Political Realism or Realpolitik has won out in the end. A basic premise of the school of thought known as Political Realism is that power or force wielded by states and international actors determine the shape, direction and substance of international relations. This school stands in marked contrast to political idealists who essentially proclaim that moral norms and values determine the nature of local and international politics.

While, British political scientist Thomas Hobbes, for instance, was a proponent of Political Realism, political idealism has its roots in the teachings of Socrates, Plato and latterly Friedrich Hegel of Germany, to name just few such notables.

On the face of it, therefore, there is no getting way from the conclusion that coercive force is the deciding factor in international politics. If this were not so, US President Donald Trump in collaboration with Israeli Rightist Premier Benjamin Natanyahu could not have wielded the ‘big stick’, so to speak, on Iran, killed its Supreme Head of State, terrorized the Iranian public and gone ‘scot-free’. That is, currently, the US’ impunity seems to be limitless.

Moreover, the evidence is that the Western bloc is reuniting in the face of Iran’s threats to stymie the flow of oil from West Asia to the rest of the world. The recent G7 summit witnessed a coming together of the foremost powers of the global North to ensure that the West does not suffer grave negative consequences from any future blocking of western oil supplies.

Meanwhile, Israel is having a ‘free run’ of the Middle East, so to speak, picking out perceived adversarial powers, such as Lebanon, and militarily neutralizing them; once again with impunity. On the other hand, Iran has been bringing under assault, with no questions asked, Gulf states that are seen as allying with the US and Israel. West Asia is facing a compounded crisis and International Law seems to be helplessly silent.

Wittingly or unwittingly, matters at the heart of International Law and peace are being obfuscated by some pro-Trump administration commentators meanwhile. For example, retired US Navy Captain Brent Sadler has cited Article 51 of the UN Charter, which provides for the right to self or collective self-defence of UN member states in the face of armed attacks, as justifying the US sinking of the Iranian vessel (See page 2 of The Island of March 10, 2026). But the Article makes it clear that such measures could be resorted to by UN members only ‘ if an armed attack occurs’ against them and under no other circumstances. But no such thing happened in the incident in question and the US acted under a sheer threat perception.

Clearly, the US has violated the Article through its action and has once again demonstrated its tendency to arbitrarily use military might. The general drift of Sadler’s thinking is that in the face of pressing national priorities, obligations of a state under International Law could be side-stepped. This is a sure recipe for international anarchy because in such a policy environment states could pursue their national interests, irrespective of their merits, disregarding in the process their obligations towards the international community.

Moreover, Article 51 repeatedly reiterates the authority of the UN Security Council and the obligation of those states that act in self-defence to report to the Council and be guided by it. Sadler, therefore, could be said to have cited the Article very selectively, whereas, right along member states’ commitments to the UNSC are stressed.

However, it is beyond doubt that international anarchy has strengthened its grip over the world. While the US set destabilizing precedents after the crumbling of the Cold War that paved the way for the current anarchic situation, Russia further aggravated these degenerative trends through its invasion of Ukraine. Stepping back from anarchy has thus emerged as the prime challenge for the world community.

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A Tribute to Professor H. L. Seneviratne – Part II

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A Living Legend of the Peradeniya Tradition:

(First part of this article appeared yesterday)

H.L. Seneviratne’s tenure at the University of Virginia was marked not only by his ethnographic rigour but also by his profound dedication to the preservation and study of South Asian film culture. Recognising that cinema is often the most vital expression of a society’s aspirations and anxieties, he played a central role in curating what is now one of the most significant Indian film collections in the United States. His approach to curation was never merely archival; it was informed by his anthropological work, treating films as primary texts for understanding the ideological shifts within the subcontinent

The collection he helped build at the UVA Library, particularly within the Clemons Library holdings, serves as a comprehensive survey of the Indian ‘Parallel Cinema’ movement and the works of legendary auteurs. This includes the filmographies of directors such as Satyajit Ray, whose nuanced portrayals of the Indian middle class and rural poverty provided a cinematic counterpart to H.L. Seneviratne’s own academic interests in social change. By prioritising the works of figures such as Mrinal Sen and Ritwik Ghatak, H.L. Seneviratne ensured that students and scholars had access to films that wrestled with the complex legacies of colonialism, partition, and the struggle for national identity.

These films represent the ‘Parallel Cinema’ movement of West Bengal rather than the commercial Hindi industry of Mumbai. H.L. Seneviratne’s focus initially cantered on those world-renowned Bengali masters; it eventually broadened to encompass the distinct cinematic languages of the South. These films refer to the specific masterpieces from the Malayalam and Tamil regions—such as the meditative realism of Adoor Gopalakrishnan or the stylistic innovations of Mani Ratnam—which are culturally and linguistically distinct from the Bengali works. Essentially, H.L. Seneviratne is moving from the specific (Bengal) to the panoramic, ensuring that the curatorial work of H.L. Seneviratne was not just a ‘Greatest Hits of Kolkata’ but a truly national representation of Indian artistry. These films were selected for their ability to articulate internal critiques of Indian society, often focusing on issues of caste, gender, and the impact of modernisation on traditional life. Through this collection, H.L. Seneviratne positioned cinema as a tool for exposing the social dynamics that often remain hidden in traditional historical records, much like the hidden political rituals he uncovered in his early research.

Beyond the films themselves, H.L. Seneviratne integrated these visual resources into his curriculum, fostering a generation of scholars who understood the power of the image in South Asian politics. He frequently used these screenings to illustrate the conflation of past and present, showing how modern cinema often reworks ancient myths to serve contemporary political agendas. His legacy at the University of Virginia therefore encompasses both a rigorous body of writing that deconstructed the work of the kings and a vivid archive of films that continues to document the work of culture in a rapidly changing world.

In his lectures on Sri Lankan cinema, H.L. Seneviratne has frequently championed Lester James Peries as the ‘father of authentic Sinhala cinema.’ He views Peries’s 1956 film Rekava (Line of Destiny) as a watershed moment that liberated the local industry from the formulaic influence of South Indian commercial films. For H.L. Seneviratne, Peries was not just a filmmaker but an ethnographer of the screen. He often points to Peries’s ability to capture the subtle rhythms of rural life and the decline of the feudal elite, most notably in his masterpiece Gamperaliya, as a visual parallel to his own research into the transformation of traditional authority. H.L. Seneviratne argues that Peries provided a realistic way of seeing for the nation, one that eschewed nationalist caricature in favour of complex human emotion.

However, H.L. Seneviratne’s praise for Peries is often tempered by a critique of the broader visual nationalism that followed. He has expressed concern that later filmmakers sometimes misappropriated Peries’s indigenous style to promote a narrow, majoritarian view of history. In his view, while Peries opened the door to an authentic Sri Lankan identity, the state and subsequent commercial interests often used that same door to usher in a simplified, heroic past. This critique aligns with his broader academic stance against the rationalization of culture for political ends.

Constitutional Governance:

H.L. Seneviratne’s support for independent commissions is best described as a hopeful pragmatism; he views them as essential, albeit fragile, instruments for diffusing the hyper-concentration of executive power. Writing to Colombo Page and several news tabloids, H.L. Seneviratne addresses the democratic deficit by creating a structural buffer between partisan interests and public institutions, theoretically ensuring that the judiciary, police, and civil service operate on merit rather than political whim. However, he remains deeply aware that these commissions are not a panacea and are indeed inherently susceptible to the ‘politics of patronage.’

In cultures where power is traditionally exercised through personal loyalties, there is a constant risk that these bodies will be subverted through the appointment of hidden partisans or rendered toothless through administrative sabotage. Thus, while H.L. Seneviratne advocates for them as a means to transition a state from a patron-client culture to a rule-of-law framework, his anthropological lens suggests that the success of such commissions depends less on the law itself and more on the sustained pressure of civil society to keep them honest.

Whether discussing the nuances of a film’s narrative or the complexities of a constitutional clause, H.L. Seneviratne’s approach remains consistent in its focus on the spirit behind the institution. He maintains that a healthy democracy requires more than just the right laws or the right symbols; it requires a citizenry and a clergy capable of critical self-reflection. His career at the University of Virginia and his continued engagement with Sri Lankan public life stand as a testament to the idea that the intellectual’s work is never truly finished until the work of the people is fully realized.

In the context of H.L. Seneviratne’s philosophy, as discussed in his work of the kings ‘the work of the people’ is far more than a populist catchphrase; it represents the practical application of critical consciousness within a democracy. Rather than defining ‘work’ as labour or voting, H.L. Seneviratne views it as the transition of a population from passive subjects to an active, self-reflective citizenry. This means that a democracy is only truly ‘realized’ when the public possesses the intellectual autonomy to look beyond the ‘right laws’ or ‘right symbols’ and instead engage with the underlying spirit of their institutions. For H.L. Seneviratne, this work is specifically tied to the ability of the people—including influential groups like the clergy—to perform rigorous self-critique, ensuring that they are not merely following tradition or authority, but are actively sustaining the ethical health of the nation. It is a perpetual process of civic education and moral vigilance that moves a society from the ‘paper’ democracy of a constitution to a lived reality of accountability and insight.

This decline of the ‘intellectual monk’ had a catastrophic impact on the political landscape, particularly surrounding the watershed moment of 1956 and the ‘Sinhala Only’ movement. H.L. Seneviratne posits that when the Sangha exchanged their role as impartial moral advisors for that of political kingmakers, they became the primary obstacle to ethnic reconciliation. He suggests that politicians, fearing the immense grassroots influence of the monks, entered a state of monachophobia, where they felt unable to propose pluralistic or fair policies toward minority communities for fear of being branded as traitors to the faith. In H.L. Seneviratne’s framework, the monk’s transition from a social servant to a political vanguard effectively trapped the state in a cycle of majoritarian nationalism from which it has yet to escape.

H.L. Seneviratne’s work serves as a multifaceted critique of the modern Sri Lankan state and its cultural foundations. Whether he is dissecting what he sees as the betrayal of the monastic ideal or celebrating the humanistic vision of an Indian filmmaker, his goal remains the same: to champion a world where intellect and compassion are not sacrificed on the altar of political power. His legacy at the University of Virginia and his continued voice in Sri Lankan discourse remind us that the work of the intellectual is to provide a moral compass even, indeed especially, when the nation has lost its way.

(Concluded)

by Professor
M. W. Amarasiri de Silva

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Musical journey of Nilanka Anjalee …

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Nilanka Anjalee Wickramasinghe is, in fact, a reputed doctor, but the plus factor is that she has an awesome singing voice, as well., which stands as a reminder that music and intellect can harmonise beautifully.

Well, our spotlight today is on ‘Nilanka – the Singer,’ and not ‘Nilanka – the Singing Doctor!’

Nilanka’s journey in music began at an early age, nurtured by an ear finely tuned to nuance and a heart that sought expression beyond words.

Under the tutelage of her singing teachers, she went on to achieve the A.T.C.L. Diploma in Piano and the L.T.C.L. Diploma in Vocals from Trinity College, London – qualifications recognised internationally for their rigor and artistry.

These achievements formally certified her as a teacher and performer in both opera singing and piano music, while her Performer’s Certificate for singing attested to her flair on stage.

Nilanka believes that music must move the listener, not merely impress them, emphasising that “technique is a language, but emotion is the message,” and that conviction shines through in her stage presence –serene yet powerful, intimate yet commanding.

Her YouTube channel, Facebook and Instagram pages, “Nilanka Anjalee,” have become a window into her evolving artistry.

Here, audiences find not only her elegant renditions of local and international pieces but also her original songs, which reveal a reflective and modern voice with a timeless sensibility.

Each performance – whether a haunting ballad or a jubilant interpretation of a traditional hymn – carries her signature blend of technical finesse and emotional depth.

Beyond the concert hall and digital stage, Nilanka’s music is driven by a deep commitment to meaning.

Her work often reflects her belief in empathy, inner balance, and the beauty of simplicity—values that give her performances their quiet strength.

She says she continues to collaborate with musicians across genres, composing and performing pieces that reflect both her classical discipline and her contemporary outlook.

Widely acclaimed for her ability to adapt to both formal and modern stages, with equal grace, and with her growing repertoire, Nilanka has become a sought-after soloist at concerts and special events,

For those who seek to experience her artistry, firsthand, Nilanka Anjalee says she can be contacted for live performances and collaborations through her official channels.

Her voice – refined, resonant, and resolutely her own – reminds us that music, at its core, is not about perfection, but truth.

Dr. Nilanka Anjalee Wickramasinghe also indicated that her newest single, an original, titled ‘Koloba Ahasa Yata,’ with lyrics, melody and singing all done by her, is scheduled for release this month (March)

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