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The Hon. Sirimavo Dias Bandaranaike

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Seated L to R – Hon. F. R. Dias Bandaranaike (Minister of Finance), Hon. T. B. Ilangaratne (Minister of Commerce, Trade, Food and Shipping), Seated L to R - Hon. F. R. Dias Bandaranaike (Minister of Hon, A. P. Jayasuriya (Minister of Health), Hon. Sirimavo Dias Bandaranaike (Prime Minister), Hon. C. P. de Silva (Minister of Agriculture, Land, Irrigation and Power), Hon. Maithripala Senanayake (Minister of industries, Home and Cultural Affairs) and Hon. C. Wijesinghe (Minister ofLabour and Nationalised Services.) Standing L to R - Mr D. W. de Alwis (Assistant Secretary), Hon. Al-Haj Badiuddin Mahamud (Minister ofEducation and Broadcasting), Hon. S. P. C. Fernando (Minister of Justice), Hon. Mahanama Samaraweera (Minister of Local Government andHousing), Hon. P. B. G. Kalugalla (Minister of Transport and Works) and Mr. B. P. Peiris (Secretary)

(Excerpted from Memoirs of a Cabinet Secretary by BP Peiris)

The country went to the polls again; and much was made at the hustings of the assassination of the late Premier and the ideals he stood for. His widow Sirimavo Dias Bandaranaike who had never been a politician, addressed election meetings and, according to the newspapers, shed tears in public. The election was fought more on emotion and sympathy for the late Prime Minister than on political issues.

As usual, election promises which could never be kept were made and her party was returned with an overwhelming majority. Unknown names were in the news as utter strangers to the public at large became elected members of Parliament. They came in as a People’s Government’ and the Government Members of Parliament donned the people’s dress, the national dress, with a blue scarf to indicate the party colour.

The Governor-General, Sir Oliver Goonetilleke, was in a quandary as to whom to send for to form a government. A few old hands had been elected like C. P. de Silva, Ilangaratne, A. P. Jayasuriya and Maithripala Senanayake, but if any one of these had been appointed Prime Minister, the Party would have disintegrated through internal jealousies. There was a newcomer, Felix Dias Bandaranaike, a kinsman of the late Premier. There was J. P. Obeysekera, another kinsman. But none of these could hold the team.

The only person who could lead was Sirimavo, but she had not contested a seat at the election and was therefore not a Member of Parliament. Precedents were sought. The opinions of learned professors of Constitutional Law were obtained. All were of the view that it would be unconstitutional to appoint Sirimavo as Prime Minister, except one, a Professor of Law at the University of London. Our Constitution requires the Governor-General to act in the same way as the Queen would act in the United Kingdom, and no Prime Minister from the House of Lords had been appointed for many years.

The last one was Lord Salisbury in 1895. The Earl of Home renounced his Earldom to contest a parliamentary by-election. Sir Oliver acted on the opinion of the Professor who was in favour of Mrs Bandaranaike. In this opinion, the Professor stated, after quoting a precedent from Southern Rhodesia, that “it would be constitutionally proper for the Governor-General to invite Mrs Bandaranaike to take office as Prime Minister.

“However, the Governor-General would have to take into consideration the fact that Mrs Bandaranaike had not apparently found it practicable to stand as a candidate for election and the possibility that she might not be able to find a suitable constituency even after her appointment or that she might be defeated at a by-election if she did stand as a candidate. It would clearly be improper for her as Prime Minister to advise the Governor-General to appoint her as a nominated member of either House”.

Mrs Bandaranaike became Prime Minister with a seat in the Senate. In the matter of this appointment, did or did not the Governor-General act on advice? If he did, then, the advice could only be given by the Prime Minister, and that would have been unconstitutional. If he did not, he openly flouted our Constitution. In any case, it is an extremely nice point for our legal pundits.

The Prime Minister’s chair in the House of Representatives was unoccupied and remained vacant. She became the first woman Prime Minister in the world. Because of this most unusual situation of the Prime Minister not being in the House of Representatives, Felix Dias and J. P. Obeysekera stated in public that they would resign their seats to enable the Prime Minister to contest a seat and win a by-election. There is no doubt that, had she contested a seat, she would have won on the wave of sympathy then prevailing in the people’s mind for her late husband. But neither resigned; she did not contest a seat and continued to be Prime Minister with her seat in the Senate.

A Cabinet of eleven was formed. Apart from the old stagers, there was Felix Dias who was given the key posts of Finance and Parliamentary Secretary to the Prime Minister, Sam P. C. Fernando, a colleague of mine at the Bar (Justice), Badiuddin Mahamud (Education), Mahanama Samaraweera (Local Government) and Sarath Wijesinghe, a classmate of mine at the Royal College (Labour and Nationalised Services). Serious problems awaited the attention of the Government. There were a few able men in the Cabinet; but their main handicap was a lack of experience.

The Prime Minister herself was at a great disadvantage in that she had had no experience of the business of politics. She asked for my assistance, which would have been readily available to her unasked. I was amazed to see how quickly she gathered the reins. In a few months, she had grasped the essentials of how to run a Cabinet meeting and conduct Cabinet business. Always in the background was Felix Dias, virtual Prime Minister, who ran the meetings, a fact which several other Ministers strongly resented.

Madam Prime Minister, like her husband, was always late for a meeting. Felix would come with certain items on the Agenda ticked off with a blue pencil and say ‘Mr Peiris, these items can be taken as approved.’ There was no discussion; and it went on the records as a decision of the Cabinet.

Madam Sirimavo, in spite of her lack of political training, had a marvelous retentive memory. She did not know who my father was and I did not tell her. My father and the Prime Minister’s father, the late Barnes Ratwatte Dissawe, had been very good friends. They belonged to that old class of Chief Headmen, now replaced by a Divisional Revenue Officers’ Service.

When my brother G. S. was appointed Ambassador to Burma, he paid a courtesy call on the Prime Minister who had asked him about his family. He had said his father was Gate Mudaliyar Edmund Peiris and that I was his eldest brother. The Prime Minister had looked surprised for a moment and then told my brother that, before her marriage, her father had gone on medical advice to spend a short holiday by the seaside at Panadura. She had accompanied her father.

The Dissawe had taken on rent a small bungalow not to be compared with the comforts he enjoyed at his Walauwa at Balangoda. When my father heard that his old friend was in town, he had invited the father and daughter to dinner. As usual, my father had acted the good host and the daughter, with her memory, had given my brother a detailed account of the evening.

After a few meetings in the Cabinet Room, Sirimavo changed the venue to Temple Trees, a most unsatisfactory arrangement from the view of the Secretariat although it was excellent from the security angle. The gates were always kept closed and were guarded by about three armed men of the militia. Further inland, hidden among the bushes, were two mounted guns pointing at the gates. The grounds were constantly being patrolled by the guards.

But the files and the reference books which might be wanted during a meeting were all in the Cabinet Office. If a file or a book was required, I had to telephone the office and what was wanted took some time in coming. More than once, I mentioned to the Cabinet the inconvenience of holding the meetings at Temple Trees and at last, after many months had passed, the Ministers agreed to meet once again in the Cabinet Room.

I had told the Cabinet that on meeting days, there were about nine police officers on duty, some in plain clothes, but that all were fully armed. I reminded them I was responsible for their safety during meetings and that all security measures had been taken. Felix Dias retorted, “What’s the use Mr Peiris of you talking of your responsibility and our safety after we are shot.”

For reasons of security, I asked that I be given the power to appoint all future minor employees to the Cabinet Office. This was necessary as these employees served the Ministers with tea and refreshments during a meeting and Treasury circulars required me to get them from the Employment Exchange, and I would not know their background. My request was granted and I filled the first vacancy of sweeper which arose by the appointment of the son of the Senate cook whom I knew to be sober and well behaved.

Some time later, two more vacancies arose. In one case, Felix Dias asked me not to fill the vacancy saying that he would send me a good man from Dompe, his constituency, which he did; and in the other case, I was told that Madam Prime Minister would be sending a man from Horagolla and that I was not to make an appointment on my own. And so, politics for the first time crept into the Cabinet Office at the level of sweeper.

The first Queen’s Speech of Sirimavo’s Government brought them into trouble. Felix Dias interpolated several paragraphs into the draft I had carefully prepared. He did not give a thought to the consequences. The Speech outlines the proposals which the Government intends to implement during the Session. It does not go into very great detail. With my experience, I thought my draft was good in that I had used expressions like” My Government will consider…; My Government intends…; My Government hopes etc.” thereby leaving a way of escape if the Government found it impossible to implement the proposals either for lack of Parliamentary time or for other practical or financial difficulties.

But this did not satisfy Felix. He asked “Why consider, hopes? Say, My Government will”. The Speech therefore contained some definite promises against all my mild protests. These, I know, could not be implemented during the Session. To illustrate my point I shall quote from the Speech of August 12, 1960. None of these proposals had been implemented in 1962:

My Prime Minister will take up the case of persons of Indian descent resident in Ceylon with a view to achieving a satisfactory solution of the problem…

Steps will be taken to revise the Constitution to establish a Republican form of Government…

My Government will introduce a scheme of national service for the youth of this country…

The Prime Minister, once she had got herself properly in the saddle, which was in about six months, was a different woman from the one I had welcomed earlier to her first Cabinet meeting. She was no longer playing second fiddle in her country’s orchestra. She had become a world figure whose word was law. She was the maestro who once said in public “There is no one in this country who can control me”. She wielded a powerful baton under which her bandsmen were made to keep a strict tempo.

It was rumoured that the Prime Minister’s ear was easily accessible to those who cared to tell her who were the friends of the Government and who were its enemies. Public servants were beginning to feel nervous. A false word about a public servant was capable of doing him much damage; and vice versa. There were a few at this time who were having an eye on my place.

There were a few others who would have been glad to see me go. Whether anything, and if so what, was being said about me, I did not know; but I got an early opportunity of speaking to Madam direct about myself.

It happened at a Cabinet meeting when the discussion turned on senior public servants meddling in politics. I turned round to Madam and said I did not know what she had heard about me, that I had no politics and that I spent my spare time with my books, my music and the few friends that I had. I added that my only politics had been limited to exercising my right as a citizen to vote at a general election but that, in order to be at peace with my own conscience and to be perfectly honest, I must tell her that I had always voted UNP. She said, “Mr Peiris, I admire your frankness. Very few would have told me that.”

I continued to serve her loyally. At the next meeting, I showed her the original of the following letter written to me by her late husband after he had left D.S.’s Cabinet and formed his own party.

My dear Peiris,

Thanks for your letter of 13. 07. 51. I much appreciate all you say. Please accept my thanks for the unfailing courtesy and help I always received from you.

Yours sincerely

S.W.R.D. Bandararnaike.

She looked hard at this letter for some time and said “He has written this letter himself. He rarely does that. He dictates them and has them typed.”



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High Stakes in Pursuing corruption cases

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Kapila Chandrasena

The death of the most important suspect in the Sri Lankan Airlines Airbus deal has drawn intense public speculation. Kapila Chandrasena the former CEO of the heavily loss-making national airline was found dead under circumstances that the police are still investigating.

He had recently been arrested by the Commission to Investigate Allegations of Bribery or Corruption in connection with the controversial Airbus aircraft purchase agreement signed in 2013. Police investigations are continuing into the cause of death and whether or not he committed suicide. The unresolved death brings to light the high stakes involved in accountability efforts of this nature.

The uncertainty surrounding Chandrasena’s death has revived public memories of other mysterious deaths linked to corruption investigations and public scandals. Among them is the death of Rajeewa Jayaweera, a former SriLankan Airlines executive and outspoken critic of the Airbus transaction. He was following in the tradition of his father, the late foreign service officer and public servant Stanley Jayaweera who mentored the younger generation in good governance practices and formed the group “Avadhi Lanka” along with icons such as Prof Siri Hettige. Rajeewa had written a series of articles exposing irregularities in the deal before he was found dead near Independence Square in Colombo in 2020. The CCTV cameras in that high security area were turned off. Questions raised at that time whether or not he had committed suicide were not satisfactorily resolved.

The controversy about the cause of Chandrasena’s death is diverting attention away from the massive damage done to the country by the SriLankan Airlines deal itself. The value of the aircraft agreement was close to the size of the International Monetary Fund bailout package that Sri Lanka desperately needed by 2023 in order to stabilise the economy after bankruptcy. Sri Lanka’s IMF Extended Fund Facility amounted to about USD 3 billion spread over four years. The comparison shows the scale of the losses and liabilities that irresponsible and corrupt decisions have imposed on the country and which must never happen again.

Wider Pattern

The corruption linked to the Airbus transaction came fully into the open only because of investigations conducted outside Sri Lanka. In 2020 Airbus agreed to pay record penalties of more than EUR 3.6 billion to authorities in Britain, France and the United States to settle global corruption investigations. Sri Lanka was identified as one of the countries where bribes had allegedly been paid in order to secure contracts. The Airbus deal involved the purchase of six A330 aircraft and four A350 aircraft valued at approximately USD 2.3 billion. Investigations showed that Airbus paid bribes amounting to nearly USD 16 million in order to secure the contract. According to court submissions, at least part of this money amounting to USD 2 million was transferred through a shell company registered in Brunei and routed through Singapore bank accounts linked to the late airline CEO and his wife.

The commissions involved in this deal may seem comparatively small compared to the overall value of the contracts but devastating in their consequences. But they also show that a few million dollars paid secretly to decision makers could lead to the country assuming liabilities worth hundreds of millions or even billions of dollars over decades. This is why corruption is not simply a moral issue. It is a direct economic assault on the living standards of ordinary people. Money lost through corruption is money unavailable for schools, hospitals, rural development and job creation. In the end the burden falls on ordinary citizens who are left to repay debts incurred in their name without receiving commensurate benefits in return.

The SriLankan Airlines transaction gives an indication of the wider pattern of corruption and misuse of national resources that has taken place over many years. This was not an isolated incident. There were numerous large scale infrastructure and procurement projects that imposed heavy debts on the country while enriching politically connected individuals and their associates. Other projects such as the Colombo Port City, Hambantota Harbour and highway construction reveal a similar pattern.

Less publicised but equally damaging scandals have involved fertiliser medicine and energy contracts. Investigations into medicine procurement in recent years uncovered allegations that substandard pharmaceuticals had been imported at inflated prices causing both financial losses and risks to public health.

Moral Renewal

The present government appears determined to investigate major corruption cases in a manner that no previous government has attempted. Those who ransacked and bankrupted the treasury need to be dealt with according to the law. There is considerable public support for efforts to recover stolen assets and ensure accountability.

In his May Day speech President Anura Kumara Dissanayake stated that around 14 corruption cases were nearing completion in the courts this very month and called upon the public to applaud when verdicts are delivered. Political opponents of the government claim that such comments could place pressure on the judiciary and blur the separation between political leadership and the courts. But the deeper public frustration that underlies the president’s remarks also needs to be understood.

The challenge facing Sri Lanka is twofold. The country must ensure that justice is done through due process and independent institutions. If anti corruption campaigns become politicised they can lose legitimacy. But if corruption and abuse of power continue without consequences the country will remain trapped in a cycle of economic decline and moral decay. Sri Lanka also needs to confront past abuses linked to the war period. There are allegations of kidnapping, extortion, disappearances and criminal activity in which members of the security forces have been implicated. Vulnerable sections of the population suffered greatly during those years. If political leaders turned a blind eye or actively connived in such crimes they too need to be held accountable under the law. Selective justice will not heal the country. Accountability must apply across the board regardless of political position, ethnicity or institutional power.

Sri Lanka has paid a very heavy price for corruption and impunity. The economic collapse of 2022 did not occur overnight. It was the result of years of bad governance, reckless decision making, abuse of power and the misuse of public wealth. If the country is to move forward the focus cannot be diverted by sensational speculation alone. Suspicious deaths and political intrigue may dominate headlines for a few days. But the larger issue is the system that enabled corruption to flourish without accountability for so long. The real national task is to end that system. Sri Lanka cannot build a prosperous future on a foundation of corruption and impunity. Unless those who looted public wealth are held accountable and the systems that enabled them are dismantled, the country risks repeating the same cycle again.

Jehan Perera

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When University systems fail:Supreme Court’s landmark intervention in sexual harassment case

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Over seven years after making an initial complaint of sexual harassment against her research supervisor, Dr. Udari Abeyasinghe, then a temporary lecturer and now a senior lecturer at the University of Peradeniya, has been finally served justice. On May 8, 2026, the Supreme Court made the following directions regarding Udari’s fundamental rights case: “1) The 1st Respondent [her research supervisor] is prohibited from accepting any post, whether paid or not or honorary, in any university, educational institute or other academic institution; 2) The UGC to issue a direction to all universities and other institutions, coming under its purview, to abstain from giving any appointment, whether paid or not, or honorary, to the 1st Respondent; and 3) The University of Peradeniya, including the Council and respective Respondent [sic], are directed to take appropriate measures to enforce and raise awareness of the University of Peradeniya’s policy on Sexual or Gender-Based Harassment and Sexual Violence for staff and students, including conducting mandatory annual seminars for all academics, staff and students.” I recently spoke with Udari to learn about her experience battling the University’s sexual and gender-based violence (SGBV) procedures.

Violence and injustice

Udari was a temporary lecturer when she began working on her MPhil degree. Her research supervisor was a Senior Professor and Dean of her faculty. The harassment began in 2017.

When Udari reached out for support to the SGBV Committee of the University of Peradeniya, the Chair explained the complaint procedure, including how a third party could make a complaint on her behalf. In July 2018, Udari’s mother made a written complaint to the Vice Chancellor (VC). “The very next day [my supervisor] called me … and asked me to withdraw the complaint because it would look bad for me … the university should have taken measures to separate the complainant from the perpetrator … but nothing like that happened.”

Before making the formal complaint, Udari reached out to other academic staff at her Faculty. She shared her experience with a few close colleagues. Many advised her to leave the Faculty. “No one in the Faculty supported me publicly, although some sympathised privately … I was a temporary lecturer … no one really cared.” Some of her colleagues and non-academic staff who knew about the harassments, asked her to avoid involving them because they feared retaliation from higher powers.

Udari faced a preliminary inquiry and then a formal inquiry. The preliminary inquiry took place about four months after her complaint, and the inquiry committee recommended proceeding to a formal inquiry. The latter was held about a year after the initial complaint. “I got to know unofficially that [my supervisor] had got hold of all the statements made at the preliminary inquiry and pressured some colleagues to change their statements before the formal inquiry.” During the time of the formal inquiry, an anonymous letter (“kala paththaraya”) was circulated among staff: “It was a character assassination … the same kala paththaraya would get circulated from time to time.” After the formal inquiry committee submitted its report and recommendations, Udari was informed, in writing, that the University Council had dismissed the report.

“Neither the preliminary inquiry report nor the formal inquiry report were shared with me … I had to make a formal request to the VC and only then did I get a copy of the preliminary inquiry report… I had to get the formal inquiry report through an RTI (a request under the Right to Information Act). What I understand is that [my supervisor] had influenced the Council … that’s why they rejected the report…saying there had been a delay of six months to make a complaint ….” (N. B. there are no time limitations for submitting a complaint in the SGBV by-laws of the University of Peradeniya, although such time bars exist at other universities).

Udari then submitted formal complaints to the University Grants Commission (August 2020) and the Human Rights Commission of Sri Lanka (December 2020), and finally filed a fundamental rights case at the Supreme Court in March 2021. Five years later, on May 8th 2026, Udari’s complaint was vindicated.

University procedures and inquiries

When her mother submitted the complaint against her supervisor, Udari was a temporary lecturer. She had given up her dream of pursuing an academic career because she did not think she would be recruited to a permanent position after making a complaint against a faculty member. It is encouraging that Udari was recruited, but in most instances, students and junior staff endure and stay silent to avoid jeopardising their academic careers. We currently have no procedures in place at universities to protect victims and witnesses from backlash.

According to Udari, the former Chair of the SGBV Committee and the members of her preliminary inquiry panel played a crucial role in her case, and, in her words, “could not be influenced.” But SGBV by-laws at state universities place inordinate power in the hands of the Council and VC. According to the SGBV by-laws of the University of Peradeniya, the Council appoints the 15-member SGBV Committee comprising “[t]wo (02) persons from among the members of the Council; [t]en (10) persons drawn from the permanent and senior members of the academic community; and [t]hree (03) persons external to the University, from among the retired academic or administrative staff of the University” (Section 2.1). While the by-laws recommend appointing persons who have demonstrated “gender-sensitivity, proven interest in working on issues of gender equality and equity, and trained to investigate and inquire into cases of sexual or gender-based harassment and sexual violence” (Section 2.1), we know this is often not the case. In many universities, VCs control which cases are taken up and end up in an inquiry. Most students and staff at state universities have little faith in the existing SGBV complaint procedures.

As Udari experienced, the decisions of inquiry committees can be overruled and dismissed by University Councils, indicating the importance of appointing appropriate members to the Councils. The Deans of faculties, who are Ex-officio members, usually collude to protect their own interests and fiefdoms, while the appointment of external members to Councils is deeply politicised. At present, there is no application process or vetting of candidates before they are appointed. They are usually persons who are seen to be sympathetic to the incumbent political dispensation. Furthermore, external members are dependent on the university hierarchy for information on the issues being discussed, the details of which are often hidden from them. It is not surprising then that University Councils would adjudicate on the side of power.

Final recommendation

Beyond barring Udari’s former research supervisor from holding positions in the university system, the Supreme Court has directed the University of Peradeniya to raise awareness on SGBV among staff and students. While SGBV is addressed in the induction courses and orientation programmes at universities, staff and students must be made aware of the nitty-gritties of complaint procedures, including time bars, which were crucial to the outcome of Udari’s case. But is raising awareness sufficient? Do we have ways to hold university authorities accountable for arbitrary and/or prejudicial decision-making and other abuses of power?

For Udari, life continues to be difficult, with constant surveillance of her activities.

“In November 2024 , I shared a post about my case.. it was a newspaper article stating that the Supreme Court had granted leave to proceed… I just took a photograph of it and posted it on my Facebook without any captions… a few weeks later I was summoned by higher authorities…I was informed that several academics had verbally complained about me using my social media to tarnish the name of the faculty and the university and, if that’s the case, that I should know that the University Council has the authority to take action against me … we also spoke briefly about the case and at one point I was told that this incident (harassment) happened to me because I showed some positivity towards (the perpetrator) …”

Let’s hope that university administrations pause before victimising and revictimising SGBV survivors in future. As a community, we have to rethink the hierarchical ways in which universities function and create a meaningful mechanism that supports students and staff to complain without fear of repercussion.

Thank you, Udari, for taking this step forward. University administrations will have to stop, listen and change their ways.

(Ramya Kumar is attached to the Department of Community and Family Medicine, Faculty of Medicine, University of Jaffna, and is an alumna of the University of Peradeniya).

Kuppi is a politics and pedagogy happening on the margins of the lecture hall that parodies, subverts, and simultaneously reaffirms social hierarchies.

By Ramya Kumar

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‘Nidahase’ in the spotlight

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Senani Wijesena, the Sri Lankan-Australian singer-songwriter, known for fusion pop/R&B with ethnic elements, like the tabla and sitar, is in the news again.

She was featured in The Island, in early April (2026), regarding her career in the music scene, and the release of her first ever Sinhala song ‘Nidahase.

The song was released in Sri Lanka, on 17th April, with Senani in town to do the needful.

The music video was filmed at the Polgampola Waterfall, in Sri Lanka, and also features co-star Senura Ambegoda … playing the romantic interest.

Describing the setup, Senani had this to say:

“To achieve the high falls scenes, I had to climb large rocks and slippery edges to get to the top of the falls, and I had to do it in the yellow saree I was wearing. Of course the film crew assisted me.”

The initial scenes were filmed in bustling Pettah where Senani meets co-star Senura Ambegoda, working in a street stall, and when their eyes meet it triggers a memory of soul connection and transports her into another world entering the forest scene.

The forest, says Senani, symbolically represented a retreat to nature and peace.

The couple later rejoin at Colombo City Centre where they danced together and enjoyed each other’s company.

Says Senani: “The short dance routine was created on the spot, on set. Senura is a dance teacher, as well as a model and actor, and we learnt the routine, in 10 minutes, before it was filmed.”

‘Nidahase’ means Freedom in English – about being free in life, love, expression and movement.

It’s, in fact, a reworked version of her highly successful English song ‘Free’ which was nominated for a Hollywood Music In Media award in the RNB/Soul category, and also reached the Top 20 of the Music Week Dance charts in the UK.

‘Nidahase’ can be heard on all streaming platforms, including Spotify, Apple Music and Amazon.

Senani’s YouTube channel is www.youtube.com/senanimusic

Her social media pages are: www.instagram.com/senanimusic and www.facebook.com/senanimusic. Her website is www.senani.com

For the record, Senani is the daughter of film actress Jeevarani Kurukulasuriya and Dr Lanka Wijesena.

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