Editorial

Security

Politics

World

Letters

Sports

Obituaries

Archives

Musings of a ghost from the past by Prof. Suwanda H. J. Sugunasiri

If language erudition adds to the quality of Professor Gamlath's work, this reader must nevertheless confess to a gnawing feeling of getting more than occasionally drowned in the ocean depths of language. Even a sense of witnessing linguistic gymnastics! It, of course, is true that the work was not intended for culturally and linguistically sequestered ones like the present writer. But, on the other hand, he is not exactly a yesterday Podian either, alien to Sinhalese or classical scholarship, though rendered rustic through disuse.

In any case, let's not waste time on me. Others, too, have complained. Bitterly. A university professor wonders, "Who the dickens can understand what Gamlath writes?" (literally, "What Gamlath writes not a dog of a dog can understand.") "Why can't he write in simple language that everyone understands?" (122). Indeed why not?

It seems the issue is rather a sensitive one for the author. Up to now, in his book, he had maintained the objective stance of the scholar. "Never in the history of Sri Lanka has critique taken to mean pounding on each other" (p.106), he points out, in reference to a charge that he is attacking his guru, Professor Sarachchandra. But then, on this issue of language, he, writing a post-script of 33 pages, goes ballistic, taking to a vitriolic, even personal, diatribe on those who have invited him to write in simpler language.

Please join me, then, to follow the argument he makes in defense of his jargoning (if I may be allowed to coin a term).

'Everyday language' inadequate?

Professor Gamlath rightly distinguishes among three types of language - the 'everyday language', the scholarly and the poetic (p.126), and seeks to make the argument how the first variety is inadequate, inept, and inappropriate for the scholarly type of writing he engages in. He shows this, effectively I must say, by rewriting the lines from Kavsilumina. And Kavsilumina in street language does sound funny alright! But let's, just for fun, turn it around. Let me take you back to your village days (if you had one, that is). We all know the paaru kawiya 'boat song' that begins with 'mullay, mullay'. I'm sure you've had lots of fun in its comical translation:

"Brother, brother, that naa flower, pick and come.
Branch break, keep your foot light, and come.
Kelani river, boat going, look and come.
Saadu shout, jump into a boat and come."

Gives a laughter alright, but odd, you say, even though it retains the original syllabic count and metre? Yes, indeed it is. True, it evokes laughter, but not the feelings that the original does. This is not only because of the awkward English, but also because it fails to capture many of the nuances of the original. Gone, e.g., is the simplicity of sound, 'br' of 'brother', 'shout', etc., being too rough-sounding. The flow of the folk version is halted with structures like '...and come'.

Now let's try a different rendering, in Sinhala this time, but using classical and formal Sinhala and Sanskrit, the variety used by the professor.

Bhartru, bhartru, tela penena naa pushpaya unchana kota enu menawee.
Shaaka bhanga hetu pratya paada laghu wa thapnaya kota enu menawee.....

Of course, I have tried to be intentionally bombastic, but you get the point. We can see how the lines immediately mutiliate the original, and puncture us. Putting aside the higher syllabic count, and the longer metre, the long ending of mullay of the original, showing a tenderness, is lost in the rough sounding bhartru (although, of course, they both mean the same thing, 'brother'). Pushpaya is understood but is not part of the folk vocabulary, while unchana kota is Sanskritized.

Enu mena takes us to formal discourse, a country mile away from the colloquial, and friendly waren. Et cetera. So it is not only going from the learned to the rustic, then, that ruins a piece of writing, but going from the rustic to the learned as well. The issue, then, as seen in our perhaps poor attempt, is NOT one of unsuitability of the simple diction, or indeed of the learned diction, but rather the inappropriateness of register. It applies to all varieties, and not just the spoken idiom, and to all genres.

By register, of course, is meant, as you well know, the variety used in different contexts. The language of the fisherfolk pulling the net would be different from that of the vendor at the Irida Pola or the police officer giving orders to his men or the announcer over the radio. Just as the standard diction is the wrong register for the Kawsilumina, then, the formal is for the folk song.

The Professor's other examples come from Sinhabahu and Gurulugomi (pp. 124-6). It is absolutely a case of mixing apples and oranges, or to go local, delum and papol. So let me suggest for your consideration that these are all misleading examples. For these are creative works, to be appreciated not just through words, but kinesthetically, i.e., through the whole body.

The literary devices of dhvani (suggestion), vyangya (indirect suggestion), sound concatenation, cadence, rhythm, metre, all add to the intended effect. Indeed the reader is encouraged not to rush through the words, but linger on, and savour every sound, nuance, hidden meaning.

Professor Gamlath's work, however, is not of this genre. It is a work of prose. Indeed it was first written for the newspaper (see Preface). So perhaps I can invite you to join me in laughing off the prof's argument - about the inadequacy of the everyday language.

Keeping the reader in mind?

In another defence of his use of the bombastic, our author leans on Professor Sarachchandra. "One of the core values / principles (saara dharma) Prof Sarachchandra has guarded with life", he points out, was the use of "just the right (niyama) words in the right place (niyama tena)", digging up from the "[gem-]pits of Sinhala, Pali and Sanskrit language and literature....." (122).

Laudable indeed, and as it should be. But did not the "question of whether or not what he wrote could be understood by one and all," as claimed by Professor Gamlath, "confront the artist Saracchandra" (122).

A reading of Maname, for example, certainly suggests that he indeed was more than cognizant of it. Consider first please that Prof. Sarachchandra had come to produce Maname after failing to attract audiences to his naturalistic plays (such as, e.g., Pabavati) produced through the university earlier. I well remember the empty hall at the Colombo campus. So reaching out to the widest possible audience seems to be what indeed drove him to look for alternatives.

In his research (The Sinhalese Folk Play), Professor Sarachchandra had discovered how villagers flocked to watch Maname on stage night after night. Not only did he go in search of tradition, but retained the services of Gunasinghe Gurunnaanse (oh, how I enjoyed being trained by him in my Bahuboota dance) to enhance authenticity. It was the creative genius of Saracchandra that he was able to re-invent Maname in such a manner so as to capture not only the village audience, but the esthetically more sophisticated urban, and westernized, audience as well. So was it not, then, to reach a maximum audience, across class lines in fact, that Maname came to be written?

Kalidasa and Shakespeare were both well-known for their mastery of wordplay - from the erudite to the colloquial, as befits the context and the rasa they sought to heighten. It is doubtful if Prof. Sarachchandra did any worse. So while it is true that Prof. Sarachchandra dug into gem-pits of language, he also dug deep into the psyches of his potential audience. Just what would attract the audiences seems to be his question. (Folk language for a folk hero will appear on 9th February.)

News | Business | Features | Editorial | Security
Politics | World | Letters | Sports | Obituaries

Produced by Lake House
Copyright 2001 The Associated Newspapers of Ceylon Ltd.
Comments and suggestions to :Web Manager