Perhaps we are waiting for a western philosopher to discover more of ancient Indian philosophy, re-pack it in western form, and deliver it as ‘latest advances’ or ‘updates’ on our ‘knowledge’, at a ‘prestigious’ international conference held in a western capital – like how our intelligentsia are now ‘discovering’ the value of meditation in mindfulness, or compassion in care ethics. It would indeed be wonderful if we could take the ideas of intellectuals like Susantha Hewa more seriously.
By Panduka Karunanayake
Let me congratulate Susantha Hewa on his article (The Island, 02 October) conceptualising ‘the new normal’ as participatory culture: an extension of the position ‘you are not safe until everyone is safe’. He has proposed to see altruism as an extension of self-centred or individualistic behaviour, rather than think of these as two opposite poles. Further, he has said that this is valuable not only to achieve healthcare goals, such as controlling the pandemic, but also wider societal goals, such as economic and political ones. This is a fundamental problem of human society that was simmering for a long time, now made more crucial by the pandemic.
The one specific point that I disagree on is that the selfish culture is due to ‘the market’. I have already written about this (The Island, 20 September).
But coming back to the bigger issue, we need a philosophy that incorporates both altruistic and self-centred behaviours as complementary facets of our lives. The secret to achieving this is to align individual and collective goals, rather than portray them as incongruous or adversarial. The secret to aligning them is to find a philosophical model that incorporates both, rather than juggle with two mutually exclusive models.
Ancient Indian philosophy
I think that ancient Indian philosophy has shown us how to do this. The model it proposed is simple and elegant. It can be applied to our day-to-day situations easily. Indeed, it is a good model for what westerners call practical ethics or applied ethics.
Ancient Indian philosophy categorised our tasks in life into four hierarchical goals: from top to bottom, these were called moksha, dharma, artha and kaama (not to be mistaken with karma). Whatever we may do to achieve a goal at any one level should not be at the expense of the goals at higher levels.
The four levels
At the bottom of this hierarchy is kaama: the indulgence in sensual pleasures. Ancient Indian philosophy, which is essentially life-affirming, did not consider this as a sin. But it said that this indulgence should not be at the expense of artha.
Artha is achieving worldly success for oneself and family. This would include studying hard in our adolescence, working hard in one’s occupation in our youth, making one’s business profitable, bringing fame and stature to one’s family, and so on. These were not considered self-centred acts. After all, an educated, hardworking person or a successful businessman is an asset to society. But the pursuit of artha should not be at the expense of dharma.
Dharma is the natural balance that brings justice, harmony, contentment and sustainability to the world – not merely to its human inhabitants but also its animals, plants and the environment. So this would include promoting social justice, peace and harmony, gratitude and charity, and what westerners call human flourishing. But it also includes kindness to animals, protection of forests and trees that belong to all living beings, and making use of the environment in such a way that it doesn’t harm or compromise our fellow-creatures. But even this should not be at the expense of moksha.
Moksha relates to an existence in the higher, otherworldly or supramundane level; this is where all are considered equal and perfect. We may replace the brahmanical concept of moksha with nirvana, heaven, paradise, etc. if this makes us more comfortable.
As examples of kaama being subservient to artha, children should play, but not at the expense of their studies; a man could take alcohol, but not at the expense of his health, his family’s welfare or worldy advance. Sarvepillai Radhakrishnan defended contraception on a similar basis: it is alright for a married couple to use contraception to limit family size so that the family’s worldly prosperity or artha is safeguarded while kaama is indulged in, but it is not alright for a couple out of wedlock to use contraception to indulge in kaama and compromise the sanctity of the family.
Similarly, artha should be subservient to dharma. A businessman may make a profit, but not give bribes to do so; a man may fell trees for a living, but not denude a forest for a bigger profit; a scientist may do research, but not unethically; an academic may achieve fame, but not through plagiarism.
Dharma, in turn, should be subservient to moksha. One may uphold the law or other mundane frameworks, but not at the expense of our supramundane goals. There is a story of a hermit who refused to tell a lie (because he upheld the dharma of truthfulness) to a violent burglar, which facilitated the murder of some innocent civilians (thus compromising moksha); as a consequence, the hermit went to hell, not heaven, in spite of having been truthful.
East and West
With this model, moving from a competitive culture to a participatory or collaborative culture is not so earth-shattering. It is a painless amalgam of the atomistic element of society (the individual) and the collective fold (the society), where neither is promoted at the expense of the other. Secular humanists can ignore the ‘cosmic’ nature of the supramundane component in it – the rest ought to be quite appealing even for them.
But let me also say that I do not condone some other tenets of Indian philosophy, such as the caste system; but our disdain for these should not prevent us from seeing this model on its own merits. (And please don’t mix up ancient Indian philosophy with India’s current political ‘philosophy’!) Nor do I claim to be an expert on Indian philosophy; indeed, I would be very happy if an expert would correct my mistakes or clarify and add more light to what I have said. My understanding of it is certainly elementary at best.
We can see how restricted and tunnel-visioned the western societal goal is. Initially it had been highly ethnocentric, focused on white males. In more recent times one may say that it has become more inclusive, with concepts like human rights (but that is another story). But even this is anthropocentric. The need to further broaden out and take the environment too into this equation, with concepts such as James Lovelock’s Gaia hypothesis, is only now receiving attention there (and perhaps a little too late too). Ancient Indian philosophy has ‘been there, done that’ – over three millennia ago!
It is the dissociation between these levels, enabled by the western reductionist approach and spread via its educational and neocolonial structures, that is at the heart of our current global mess. Today, we can see its harm. Children and even their parents indulge in digital addiction and lose their way in life (kaama overriding artha). Individuals profit or advance their careers at the expense of social institutions and hallowed traditions (artha overriding dharma). The law is upheld at the expense of justice (dharma overriding moksha). The Nazi human experiments that were highlighted in the Nuremberg trial – the ‘highpoint’ of western civilisation’s Enlightenment – would not have taken place if not for this dissociation. The very concept of the banality of evil arose from it.
The West has been compelled to introduce endless additional frameworks (such as conflicts of interest, accountability, volunteerism, ethics, professionalism) on top of its reductionist model, in order to close-off the unforeseen interstices that has manifested and the numerous loopholes that it has inadvertently given rise to.
In contrast, a simple yet all-encompassing model, such as what ancient Indian philosophy promoted, could guide people more easily and elegantly in their day-to-day lives. Unfortunately, our vice-like colonial educational structures and insidious neocolonial economic and political doctrines (including human rights!) continue to blind us. Perhaps we are waiting for a western philosopher to discover more of ancient Indian philosophy, re-pack it in western form, and deliver it as ‘latest advances’ or ‘updates’ on our ‘knowledge’, at a ‘prestigious’ international conference held in a western capital – like how our intelligentsia are now ‘discovering’ the value of meditation in mindfulness, or compassion in care ethics. It would indeed be wonderful if we could take the ideas of intellectuals like Susantha Hewa more seriously.
Beyond the fiction of Alborada
By Sarath Chandrajeewa
“No matter how much a work of art is sweet, if it hides the truth and disregards humanity it can only be equalled to a beautiful but empty shell that attracts us.” (L.E. Kerbel – Russian Sculptor)
‘Alborada’ is the Spanish word for ‘the dawn’. In 1984, a music group was born in Peru, South America by the same name and they gained immense popularity. Their music mainly spread among people in North and South America. Their music’s foundation was the traditional music of Native Americans who lived in the Andes mountain range (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YTD2VDcxvNc). Likewise, in 2005 a soap opera by the same name was broadcast in Mexico, North America, which became very popular. This story was based on a series of events that took place during the historical period when Panama and Mexico were on the verge of gaining freedom from Spain (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iM5s_d1vls).
In 2021 Asoka Handagama made a film in Sri Lanka by the same name, Alborada. The protagonist of this film is Pablo Neruda (1904 – 1973), the Chilean Consul in Ceylon for two years, from 1929 to 1931. He was very young, only 25, when he was appointed to this post. Ceylon was a colony at the time and he was lodged at No. 56, 42nd street, Wellawatte, Colombo 6, a place close to the sea. He had written down his reminiscences, in his own language, in book form. Later it was translated into English and published under the title ‘Memoirs’. According to this book, he had referred to his house as ‘My solitary bungalow’. It is said that the name Alborada was proposed by Pablo Neruda for the house of his friend, Lionel Wendt (1900 – 1944), who had lived at Guildford Crescent, Colombo 7.
Wendt too was fluent in several languages including English, Spanish and some other European languages. It is apparent, from documents and events that took place at that time, that his house, Alborada, had not been a lonely or tranquil place. It is clear that house Alborada was always full of people, such as painters, dancers, actors, photographers as well as pianists and those who enjoyed music. It was more like a cultural centre where discussions, art critiques and debates took place. (L.C. Van Geyzel, et al. . ‘Lionel Wendt: A Centennial tribute’. Lionel Wendt memorial fund; Sampath Bandara. . Lionel Wendt Kalava Saha Jeevithaya, Sarasavi Publication. [Sinhala]).
Though Handagama’s film was titled Alborada, the actual location, where incidents mentioned took place, was the Solitary Bungalow, the Chilean Consul’s official residence (Jamie James. . ‘Pablo Neruda’s life as a struggling Poet in Sri Lanka: A young poet’s Adventures in the Foreign Service’. Retrieved from https://lithub.com/pablo-nerudas-life-as-a-struggling-poet-in-sri-lanka/). In the 20th Century Sri Lankan context, Alborada was a distinguished active cultural centre. As a Sri Lankan cultural symbol, it directly connects with the character of Lionel Wendt. The creator of a work of art has the total freedom to create his work as he pleases and also to choose whatever name for the particular work. Handagama’s Alborada is similar to a poem, set to inspiring music. It includes a series of artistic figure compositions and features a number of skilled performing artistes. The trailer of Handagama’s film gave me some ideas.
When creating a work of art based on historical events, rather than myth and imaginary incidents, its trustworthiness depends on the people who faced the incident, the actual incidents, exact places, time period and the political and cultural background. Consequently, thorough research is necessary to identify accurate works based on historical incidents. It is difficult to rectify myths or false assumptions ingrained in society by unreliable books, documents, magazines or films. People will always embrace falsity, deception and myth, over the truth. Our culture as well as other cultures are replete with many such examples.
‘Alborada’ is the name of Lionel Wendt’s house. It is important as it is the house of a great Sri Lankan cultural icon of the last century. It is also important as Alborada was the name given to the renowned cultural centre of modern history, in Sri Lanka. It is from this place that art activities in our country were taken to the international arena. Alborada was situated at No. 18 old Guildford Crescent. Today this street is called Premasiri Kemadasa Mawatha. Six years after his demise, in 1950 his friend Harold Peiris (1905-1981) demolished his old house, Alborada, and built a gallery and a performing arts centre (Lionel Wendt Art Gallery and Theatre) to commemorate him. It was designed by painter Geoffrey Beling (1907 – 1992), Principal Art Inspector, Department of Education, and Bernard G. Thornley (Manel Fonseka. . ‘Rediscovering Lionel Wendt, Lionel Wendt Photographs’. Deutsche Bank Colombo and Lionel Wendt Memorial Fund).
When Lionel Wendt was alive, renowned upcountry master dancers, Amunugama Suramba and Nittawela Ukkuwa used to lodge at Alborada with their troupes, when they visited Colombo (Dancer Dr. Vaidyavathi Rajapakse, daughter of Master Dancer Suramba, Personal communication, 2017).
A documentary movie ‘Song of Ceylon’, directed by Basil Wright in 1934, was placed first at the Brussels International film festival in 1935. The creative segments of the movie were organized at Alborada. Manel Fonseka reported in an article, ‘Rediscovering Lionel Wendt’ in 1994, that in an interview with Julia Margaret Cameron, Basil Wright had said this about Lionel Wendt; “I think he was one of the greatest still photographers that ever lived. I should place him among the six best I’ve come across”.
As a result of discussions held at Alborada, master dancers Nittawela Ukkuwa and Amunugama Suramba were taken to England for a recording of drum beats, for the movie ‘Song of Ceylon’. This trip was sponsored by painter Harry Peiris (1904-1988). A dance school was established to develop up-country dance, in Gunnepana, Sirimalwatte, Kandy in the 1920s for Master Suramba, as a result of discussions held among a group led by Wendt and George Keyt (1901-1993). This troupe, which included the group of up-country dancers, Ukkuwa, Nittawela Gunaya, Punchi Gura and Sri Jayana Rajapakse, was later upgraded as the ‘Dance Ensemble of Central Lanka’. Jayana’s coming of age ceremony, inclusive of his ‘Ves ceremony’, held at the Degaldoruwa Rajamaha Viharaya, Kandy, in 1939, and Jayana’s dance training in India later, were all sponsored by Wendt (Dr. Vaidyavathi Rajapakse, Personal communication, 2017).
The first art inspector appointed to Sri Lanka, during the colonial era, was Charles Freegrove Winzer (1886-1940), an Englishman. He became close friends with Wendt, during his tenure in Sri Lanka. In the early years, Winzer and Wendt both wrote reviews on exhibitions of George Keyt, Justin Peiris Deraniyagala (1903-1967) and Geoffrey Beling. Wendt also translated Neruda’s art reviews from Spanish to English and published them (Manel Fonseka.
. ‘Rediscovering Lionel Wendt, Lionel Wendt Photographs’. Deutsche Bank Colombo and Lionel Wendt Memorial Fund).
The first avant-garde art movement in Sri Lanka, the ’43 Group’, was born under the leadership of Winzer and Wendt. The 43 Group consisted of Wendt (Chief Organizer), painters Harry Peiris (Chief Secretary), George Keyt, J.W.G Beling, Richard Gabriel (1924-2016), Ivan Peiris (1921-1988), Justin Pieris Deraniyagala, George Claessen (1909-1999), Aubrey Collette (1920-1992) and L.T.P Manjusri (1902-1982). The meetings of the 43 group were held at Alborada until Wendt’s death.
Afterwards the meetings were held at the house of Harry Peiris, Sapumal Foundation, Barnes Place (Sarath Chandrajeewa. . ‘Modern Art in Sri Lanka and its socio-political environment’, Artful resistance: contemporary Art from Sri Lanka, ZKF publishers. Germany).
As mentioned above, Pablo Neruda was only 25 when he was in Sri Lanka as the Chilean Ambassador (1929-1931). At 29, Wendt was four years older. In his book ‘Memoirs’, translated from Spanish into English by Hardie St. Martin, published by Penguin, Neruda had written thus about Wendt, on page 93.
“Little by little the impenetrable crust began to crack open and I struck up a few good friendships. At the same time, I discovered the younger generation, steeped in colonialist culture, who talked only about books just out in England. I found out that the pianist, photographer, critic and cinematographer Lionel Wendt was the central figure of a cultural life torn between the death rattles of the Empire and a human appraisal of the untapped values of Ceylon.
Lionel Wendt, who owned an extensive library and received all the latest books from England, got into the extravagant and generous habit of every week sending to my house, which was a good distance from the city, a cyclist loaded down with a sack of books. Thus, for some time, I read kilometers of English novels, among them the first edition of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, published privately in Florence” (Memoirs by Pablo Neruda, translated from Spanish by Hardie St. Martin . Penguin Books).
To be continued
Politics at its most primitive
By Uditha Devapriya
Review of Shaveen Bandaranayake’s Groundswell
Sarasavi Publications, 2021, 118 pages, Rs. 300
Half-way into Shaveen Bandaranayake’s novel, the Minister at the heart of the story tells us that the wealth he earned was people, not money. This is what politicians usually say. In the very least, it is what people who dislike politicians imagine they say.
Come to think of it, both amount to the same thing: we’ve turned politicians into objects of hate so much that we’ve come to love them for being who we think they are. Since we can’t control them in real life, we want to dominate them in popular fiction. The number of plays and films that poke fun at Presidents, Prime Ministers, and Ministers testify to how badly we want to be, not like them, but above them.
I am deeply suspicious of satire of that sort. In his excellent review of Pusswedilla, Hafeel Farisz tells us why political parody ends up serving the people and objects being parodied. This is not rocket science. At its best, political satire can move us to anger, disenchantment, and rebellion. At its worst, it can lull us into a sense of complacency with things as they are and as they seem. Farisz seemed to think that Pusswedilla epitomised the latter, reinforcing cultural stereotypes while offering no proper critique of the political establishment and the ruling class. I suppose you can say the same thing of Vijaya Nandasiri’s comedies: at his best, he makes us aware of the corruption of the political class; at his worst, he turns the corrupt into objects of love-hate, full of tropes and clichés but nothing substantive.
Shaveen Bandaranayake’s Groundswell reads as a political satire, though I have my doubts. Interweaving different stories and unfolding like a film, it goes back and forth. I won’t call its ending funny, but then how can any novel involving politics end on a funny note?
What Bandaranayake does in his story, short as it is, is to tell us that nothing good can come out of a system mired as much in corruption as in patronage. Since these people are tied to each other through politics, politics can prove to be their undoing. The way he forays into this theme and explores it, without regurgitating the usual political clichés, puts the novel at a notch or two above what you come across at, say, the Lionel Wendt. Without conforming to crude stereotypes, he attempts to humanise his characters, showing us why connections matter in politics, and why they don’t always work out.
The plot is simple enough. A woman comes across a corpse of a man at the foot of a hill one fine morning. She informs the police. By the looks of it, he seems to have lost his grip and fallen to his death. The story then rewinds to a political rally at that most obtrusive site of political rallies, a temple, where we are introduced to Sarath Aluwihare, a Minister trying to win his next election. We are also introduced to Sunil, a young man endeavouring to land a job. Events will unfold in a way that will bring the two of them together.
We are told that Sarath hails from a family of politicians, and that this family has been in politics for over two generations. The surname tells us as much. Sunil, on the other hand, is so unobtrusive that Shaveen doesn’t grant him the privilege of a surname, which, after all, is the preserve of those who matter. Like other village youths lacking employment and in dire search of a patron from the ruling class, Sunil clearly is not important; even when he finds a job as Aluwihare’s driver, his status rises, but not so much as to protect him from the novel’s ending. He is as destined to his place in life as Aluwihare is to his.
There are other characters though, and they have surnames. There is the head priest of the temple, for instance, an unabashed admirer of Aluwihare who uses him to achieve his not so religious purposes. Then there is Dileepa Jayanetti, who rises “from rags to riches” and ends up becoming the owner of the country’s biggest media house. Dileepa finds his way up by befriending the daughter of another prominent politician, who introduces him to Aluwihare, who in turn becomes his biggest benefactor. You sense the pattern here.
Halfway through the story, Dileepa hires Lasantha Muthukumarana, a journalist who tries to stick to the tenets of his trade. Dileepa does this because he thinks that by hiring the honest, he can keep them from being honest. For someone who is so bright and manipulative, this is far from the most brilliant decision he could have taken: a few pages later, Muthukumarana is investigating a hit-and-run incident which may be connected to Aluwihare.
In Bandaranayake’s world, everyone seems to know everyone else. That is why it comes to no surprise that the man run down by a vehicle in the middle of the night should have been married to a woman Aluwihare just happened to hire at his Ministry, and that she should be rumoured to have formed the object of Aluwihare’s affections. That Lasantha thought for a moment that a news report linking all this to a prominent Minister would make it in a paper linked to and blessed by that Minister is, of course, intriguing. But he tries to get it published it anyway. When the predictable opprobrium follows and he finds he can’t get it in, the story moves to its inevitable and in many ways unsurprising conclusion.
In saying all this, I am by no means revealing the plot. In fact, surprising as it may seem, the plot is what least interests me about Bandaranayake’s novel. This is a narrative I have come across many times, in many forms. Bandaranayake takes great pains to make it all relevant to the immediate political situation, i.e. the one we are in, now. Those who manage to draw links between his characters and their “real-life counterparts” should, therefore, be forgiven for thinking that he has attempted political critique masquerading as satire. My interest in it, then, has less to do with the novel than the genre it belongs to.
If Groundswell can be called a satire, it is satirical only to the extent that his characters are caricatures. Yet, as I implied earlier, it is not a satire in the way that a work like Pusswedilla is. The characters fit into preconceived and familiar patterns, but that doesn’t make them the clichéd tropes they turn into elsewhere. These characters are more rounded, certainly more complex. Sarath Aluwihare, for instance, does not possess the overstuffed tummy his counterparts from countless parodies do, while Sunil doesn’t become a Renfield type figure hell bent on catering to his “Master.” Even though Bandaranayake can be facetious, and is pugnacious, he refuses to dabble in the kind of satirical humour which could have turned his story into a Vijaya Nandasiri style parody of politics in Sri Lanka.
Depending on how you view it, this may be the strongest point or the biggest weakness in Bandaranayake’s novel. Groundswell makes several important points, and they should be considered pertinent whether they be couched the language of satire or of serious political critique. The medium is hardly the message, contrary to what people might say, and the way you communicate your ideas should not really impact the importance of those ideas.
And yet, there are one or two episodes which reveal Bandaranayake’s funny side. It is here that the disjuncture between the satirical undertones and the ponderous overtones of the narrative, and the author’s voice, proves fatal to the development of the story.
Bandaranayake is at his best when he is setting up situations, and these situations are, all things considered, effective in setting up the plot. He tries to create atmosphere, and does a good job of laying the context. But when each and every point is prefaced by laboriously long explanations of social phenomena, such as the separation between temple and State in Sri Lanka, or the wretched fate encountered by a million or so menial workers in West Asia, you struggle to distinguish between the narrative and the commentary.
For local readers, these explanations will at best be passé. I suspect they will be for foreign readers as well. Groundswell is a novel, or more correctly a novella, which could have been shorter, tighter, and more effective without them. Not surprisingly, the story gains strength when Bandaranayake cuts to the chase, and loses track when he does not.
I have read this kind of story many times before. What makes this one interesting is that it is Bandaranayake’s first attempt at fiction, and that, for a first attempt, it’s damn good. Even within its limits, he has come up with something enjoyable. That I enjoyed the book, and of course the brilliant illustrations that more than just decorate it*, is why I wish it were leaner, shorter, and tighter. Less can be more. More often than not, it is.
* With one exception: the eighth drawing depicts a scene that, if you think about it carefully, is at odds with the text on the opposite page.
The writer can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org
Thirty two little ballerinas win awards at TBSC’s 2021 prize giving
Text and pictures by
PRIYAN DE SILVA
Thirty two little ballerinas were presented with certificates of achievements and awards at the 2021 prize giving of The Ballet school of Colombo (TBSC) held recently.
Directors of TBSC Tara Cooke and Romina Gyi said that they were extremely proud of the achievements of their charges and thanked the students and parents for their dedication in attending classes diligently despite the trying conditions.
Certificates of achievement were awarded in the baby ballet, junior ballet and intermediate ballet categories to students who excelled in pre-classical and pre-jazz ballet.
Debbie McRitchie, International Director of the Commonwealth Society of Teachers of Dancing (to which TBSC is affiliated), in her congratulatory message thanked the parents for investing in their childrens dance education and the teachers of TBSC for preparing the candidates. She said that dance is like life and is a journey but not a destination and encouraged all stakeholders to work harder.
The prize giving was a proud moment for both students and parents as it was a parent who presented the certificates of achievement to their child. Five-year-old Shenaya de Alwis Samarasinghe was the youngest candidate at the prize giving, passing with honours in pre-classical ballet.
The Ballet School of Colombo was the former ‘Oosha Garten Sschool of Ballet’ pioneered by the late Kalasuri Oosha Saravanamuttu-Wijesinghe and was instituted as the ‘The Ballet School of Colombo’ in 2016.
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