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BEYOND REASONABLE DOUBT ?

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THE KILLING OF A PRIME MINISTE

by Sanjiva Senanayake

PART II

WHO SHOT THE PM ?

The first point that had to be proved by the prosecution beyond any doubt was that Somarama actually pulled the trigger. Without that the entire case, conspiracy and all, would fail.

Despite the large number of people present that morning, only three ‘eye-witnesses’ were called by the prosecution to establish that Somarama was the actual shooter. They were :

(a) the Buddhist monk Niwanthidiye Ananda (NA)

(b) one of his acolytes from Polonnaruwa named Wedage Piyadasa (WP) and

(c) a teacher named Wijekoon Wickramasinghe (WW)

The evidence of NA :

Ven. Ananda said that the PM, after finishing speaking with him, took a few steps toward Somarama and then turned back to inquire if Ananda was satisfied. He then went over and worshipped Somarama, who remained seated, and asked why he had come. Then the PM took a step backward. Ananda had turned round and bent down to collect his belongings when he heard two rapid gunshots. Somarama then pointed the revolver at Ananda who closed his eyes in terror. He then heard some more shots but didn’t see Gunaratne being injured. When he opened his eyes, he saw Somarama holding a revolver, biting his lip and with bulging eyes, follow the PM as he stumbled into the house. The monk did not say he actually saw Somarama firing the gun. In the Magistrate’s Court he had said “I did not see the actual act of firing. As I turned, I saw the accused holding a pistol in his hands levelled at the PM”.

Ananda then jumped over some flower pots into the garden, ran up to the main gate and shouted at the sentry there, grabbing him by the arm. He told the sentry that the PM was being shot and to protect him. Then as Ananda returned to the house, he saw the injured Gunaratne stagger out bleeding and he took him to the gate and requested bystanders to send him to hospital. He said he then went into the bedroom where the injured PM was lying and spent a few moments in contemplation until he heard a commotion in the central corridor outside the room. When he came out, he found a bleeding Somarama on the floor being assaulted and joined in by kicking and hitting him with his slippers. Somarama wanted some water and Ananda asked one of the servants to bring some. Before he could give the water, Somarama vomited blood and fainted. Then, when Ananda and one of his acolytes (Yatawara) were tying Somarama’s hands together, DIG Sidney De Zoysa turned up and ordered them to stop. Ananda then left and went to his temple in Kollupitiya.

However, the police sentry, in his evidence, said that no monk ever came and spoke to him at the gate. Instead, he said that, when he came running toward the house on hearing the shots, an old gentleman pointed out Somarama as the assailant. Furthermore, DIG Sidney de Zoysa said under oath that there was no monk other than Somarama in the premises when he arrived. He also said that there were no signs of Somarama’s hands being tied, and that it was he who sent the injured Gunaratne to hospital.

The evidence of Wedage Piyadasa (WP) :

WP corroborated Ananda’s (NA) evidence on some of the main points including the version about alerting the sentry. WP had run out with NA soon after the shooting but then went out of the gate and did not return to the house thereafter. It is reasonable to expect WP to back up NA, a monk he was faithful to and on whose patronage he was dependent.

However, WP also said that Somarama deliberately aimed and fired at Gunaratne. It does seem strange though, that an assassin would take time off to shoot an innocent man while his prime quarry was getting away from him and escaping into the house. If the prosecution believed this story, they should probably have charged Somarama with the attempted murder of Gunaratne too.

The evidence of Wijekoon Wickremasinghe (WW) :

WW was standing in the other wing of the verandah from Somarama and his view was blocked by intervening bodies, including that of the PM. In the Magistrate’s Court, just a few months after the shooting, he had said, “I heard the shots from the direction where the Prime Minister and the monk in the corner were. I was unable to see anything at that time because my view was obstructed by the Prime Minister.”

However, his later evidence in the SC was very different. He said that, as the PM approached Somarama, the latter sprang up, took a few steps to his left (i.e. away from the garden) and started firing. By a happy coincidence, this alleged move by Somarama would have better placed him in WW’s line of sight. However, the likelihood of Somarama shooting after such a movement is cast in further doubt by forensic evidence, as explained below.

Furthermore, WW’s evidence in the SC contradicted the evidence of the other two, NA and WP, by saying that the PM did not reach, worship or speak with Somarama before the latter started shooting.

The evidence given by eye-witnesses, especially in circumstances where they themselves are in danger, and probably taking evasive action, can be somewhat unreliable. However, if the accounts of several eye-witnesses are also inconsistent with one another on major points, then the evidence becomes dubious. The reader can decide on the credibility of the evidence of these three eye-witnesses. There is plenty of authoritative material on the internet about the pros and cons of eye witnesses.

In summary, no clear, consistent, unambiguous eye-witness evidence was produced in the Supreme Court to definitively establish that anyone actually saw Somarama firing the weapon. The prosecution did not call more eye-witnesses from the long list of people interviewed by the police in order to establish guilt beyond any doubt and close the case out. It’s fair to assume that there were no such ‘reliable’ witnesses.

THE FIRST BULLET

The forensic evidence that was presented at the trial, which is not dependent on any witness’s testimony, also raised a vital question. ASP Tyrrell Goonetilleke of the CID, who was at the scene within one hour of the shooting, made precise notes of the physical damage caused by the bullets in addition to other relevant facts. He noted that one bullet travelled almost at right angles to the line of the verandah, and went into the house. It pierced a glass pane of a French window separating the verandah from the hall inside, at a height of only 4 feet 3 inches above the verandah floor and hit the back wall of a second living room, well inside the house, at a height of 13 feet. Blood and fragments of flesh were found where it hit the wall confirming that it had struck the PM. Several people who were present had mentioned that the PM jerked his hand and cried out in pain soon after the first gunshot was heard.

The Judicial Medical Officer, Dr. W.D.L. Fernando, who examined the PM’s injuries on the day of the shooting described the related wound as follows –

1. A punctured lacerated wound on the back of the left wrist – an entrance wound

2. A punctured lacerated wound on the back of the left hand – an exit wound

Injuries (1) and (2) corresponded and were caused by the same bullet which passed only skin deep through the hand.

This was a relatively minor wound and, naturally, most of the attention was focused on the three bullets that entered the torso of the PM leading to his death. However, it is the first bullet fired that created most doubt about Somarama’s guilt. The injury caused by that first bullet, and its trajectory, is only compatible with the shot being fired from the garden outside, which was at a lower level than the verandah. There was never any suggestion of a scuffle, a second gunman or a second gun and the Government Analyst established that all six bullets were fired from the same revolver that was recovered at the scene.

The crucial question is, how could Somarama have fired that bullet from where he was seated and caused that injury to the PM, who was facing him in worship?

As for Wickremasinghe’s (WW’s) evidence, if Somarama stood up and moved to his left as the PM approached before shooting, the height and trajectory of the first bullet would be absolutely impossible for Somarama to achieve.

SOME LEGAL ASPECTS

It is important to bear in mind that the onus is on the prosecution to prove beyond reasonable doubt that the accused are guilty. Defence counsel do not have to prove that their clients are ‘not guilty’. The benefit of doubt goes to the accused. The accused are not even required to give evidence and, in this case, only Newton Perera testified, for reasons decided as advantageous by his counsel. However, Somarama made a statement from the Dock on which he was not open to cross-examination.

The process that prevailed was for the prosecution to submit a list of names of witnesses at the beginning of the trial. If the prosecution chose not to call a witness in their list, the defence could do so, if it saw a specific advantage. However, the defence would then have to lead the evidence and lose the opportunity to re-examine the witness following examination by the other counsel. It was a risky move because there was no opportunity for the defence to counteract impressions created in the minds of the jury through the testimony of that witness during examination by the other counsel.

As the counsel representing Buddharakkitha said in his summing up –

“Although Mr. Chitty has told you that the defence could have called any prosecution witness it liked, there is a big difference between the prosecution calling such a witness and the defence doing so. The defence has no access to the information book or to statements made by witnesses to the police. Is it not a terrible risk for the defence to take, to call a prosecution witness when it has no access to these statements and no opportunity of examining the witness in advance?

Further, when the defence calls a prosecution witness, it cannot cross-examine him, as it could do if he were called by the prosecution.”

(Weeramantry – page 296)

It’s important to note that only the Judge and prosecution counsel had access to the police investigation notes (Information Book), which also included statements made by various individuals to the police.

Having the last word is of great value in court, as it is in life. This principle is also of great importance when it comes to deciding the order of the final addresses to the jury by counsel, which is then followed by the charge to the jury by the Judge. The process applicable in 1961 is succinctly explained by Weeramantry in his book as follows –

“The Ceylon Criminal Procedure Code lays down that counsel for the accused ordinarily enjoys the right of reply to the Crown. If, however, counsel for an accused calls evidence for the defence other than that of the accused himself, he loses that right and must address the jury before the Crown does so. Counsel for the 3rd, 4th and 5th accused, having called evidence on behalf of their respective clients, had therefore lost their right of reply and had, in consequence, to address before the Crown. Counsel for the 1st and 2nd accused, however, having called no evidence on behalf of his clients, preserved his right of reply.”

(Weeramantry – page 232)

Thus, the counsel who represented Buddharakkitha and Jayawardena had the opportunity to listen to the final summing up of all the other counsel and then tailor his address accordingly to have maximum impact on the minds of the members of the jury. It was a strategic decision that he took.

The final line up to address the jury, in order, was –

1. Counsel for Anura de Silva, the 3rd accused (K. Shinya).

2. Counsel for Talduwe Somarama, the 4th accused (Lucian Weeramantry)

3. Counsel for Newton Perera, the 5th accused (Nadesan Satyendra)

4. The Crown (George Chitty)

5. Counsel for Mapitigama Buddharakkitha and H.P. Jayawardena, the 1st and 2nd accused respectively (Phineas Quass)

THE RETURN OF THE HANGMAN

The debate on the pros and cons of capital punishment during that period casts some light on the attitude and approach of the decision-makers on justice within the government toward the accused in this particular case.

PM Bandaranaike was firmly opposed to the death penalty. In May 1956, within weeks of his inauguration, a Bill titled Suspension of Capital Punishment was presented in Parliament and passed overwhelmingly with just one vote against it. However, it was defeated by a slight majority in the Senate. Bandaranaike persisted and finally the Suspension of Capital Punishment Act No. 20 of 1958 took effect on May 9, 1958. It was still ‘suspension’ and not ‘abolition’.

A Commission was then established in October 1958 by the Governor General to study and report on the advisability of the death penalty. It was headed by Dr. Norval Morris, an academic from Australia who was internationally known in the field of criminal law. The Morris Commission held intensive interviews and consultations, analysed relevant data regarding the efficacy of capital punishment in reducing crime and considered broader social and economic issues and implications. The subject even came up during the SC trial, and Justice T.S. Fernando himself mentioned that he appeared before the commissioners in strong support of the death penalty. The Commission’s report, recommending continuation of the suspension was issued in that fateful month – September 1959.

On October 2, 1959, within seven days of Mr. Bandaranaike’s passing, the suspension instituted by him was removed by an extraordinary gazette. Subsequently, the Suspension of Capital Punishment (Repeal) Act No. 25 of 1959 was passed in Parliament and took effect on December 2, 1959, even before the magisterial inquiry on the assassination had commenced. This new law reinstated the death penalty, retrospectively, for those found guilty of murder and repealed the previous legislation.

It is ironic that the death penalty was brought back specifically to hang the assailant for whom the PM had called for clemency from his death bed.

That was not all. By an oversight, the death penalty was only reintroduced for murder, and not conspiracy to murder, which meant that the first and second accused could not be executed. Thus, although death sentences were pronounced in the SC, the Court of Criminal Appeal altered their sentences to life imprisonment.

The government then came up with the Capital Punishment (Special Provisions) Bill which was scheduled for discussion in Parliament on January 18, 1962. It sought to retrospectively include the death penalty for conspiracy to murder, and annul the sentences of the Court of Criminal Appeal on Buddharakkitha and Jayawardena. Since it was clearly targeting the accused in the assassination of the PM, and not based on any general legal policy or principle, there were massive protests and opposition. Colvin R. De Silva called it ‘murder by statute’. Under pressure, the government withdrew the Bill one week later, on January 25.

The abortive coup d’état of January 27, 1962 followed a couple of days later and the government’s legal campaign shifted to another arena, where retrospective legislation was once again used.

However, Somarama’s fate had been sealed one week after the PM died, and he was hanged on July 6, 1962.

TO BE CONTINUED …..

The writer can be contacted on this subject at skgsenanayake@gmail.com



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Features

Beyond the fiction of Alborada

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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. [2000]. ‘Lionel Wendt: A Centennial tribute’. Lionel Wendt memorial fund; Sampath Bandara. [2017]. 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. [2019]. ‘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

‘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. [1994]. ‘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.

[1994]. ‘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. [2010]. ‘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 [1997]. Penguin Books).

To be continued

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Politics at its most primitive

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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 udakdev1@gmail.com

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Thirty two little ballerinas win awards at TBSC’s 2021 prize giving

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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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