|
|
 |
 |
| Sunday, 6 June 2004 |
 |
|
 |
Features |  |
| News Business Features Editorial
|
K. B. Ratnayake - His public life was most public The son of the Widane of a small, remote village in the North Central Province who excelled as the trilingual Speaker of the nation's Parliament is history in bold and gold letters. The Ratnayake abode was on a dirt road that skirted the pretty little, lotus blossomed tank, Ponnaramkulama in the middle of the New town, Anuradhapura. We were neighbours. "Missus said you got railway warrants to go to Colombo" "Yeah, KB,I like to visit my parents and this is my off weekend" "Join me, I am going down" Those were the days of wall - less neighbours. Benignly nosey. Mutually helpful. "Is eight OK ?" "Sure" When KB arrived, the morning sun was beaming over the Mihintale hills. The sports shirt hanging loose over his pants fluttered in the breeze. So did the 'Vatapotha sized' foliage of the tall teaks along our fence. "The girls were ready - dropped them at the school." His two daughters attended the nearby school. As we emerged from the dirt road, the water tank hovered over us. It was like a giant sentinel over looking the bungalows all around . Luxuriously grown multi coloured - but mostly pink Bouganvilleas added a splash of colour to the manicured grassy lawns. There was no hiding of the fact that this was an affluent community. KB adjusted his bulky frame in the seat. Turning his neck to the back seat, "There is tea in the flask" "I just had mine" My colleagues Ponna, Paul and Tiri crossed in front of us. They were white clad and had their steths dangling from somewhere. They were heading towards the back gate of the hospital. Of course all of them waved at us. "Paul asked me to find a mechanic for his Volks - I recommended a man from Wijepura", said KB. The General Hospital was in full view. The road stretch was busy. People were walking on both directions and on both sides. Cyclists would dart from nowhere and disappear into the pedestrians. We slowed considerably. Several saffron robed Buddhist priests were in the verandah of the Bikku Ward. The brand new Nursing school was on our left. We got a glimpse of the Principal stepping out. "She is a tough nut", said KB. "A strict, no - nonsense disciplinarian - ask your buddies not to mess with her girls," were his words of caution. Well, what was for me to say ! We were in the thick of morning traffic. We snarled past the court house, the attorney row, the kachcheri and the police head quarters. As we crossed the railway tracts, over the yonder trees appeared the pinnacle of Ruwanmeliseya. An indelible spectacle it was. Automatically, our heads bowed in unison. To the right of the perfectly symmetrical great Stupa were the dilapidated, shrub grown Jetawana and Abhayagiri Dagabos. I said to myself, "It is a pity we have no resources to restore these precious monuments." "Can you believe - Ruwanmeliseya was in ruins just as the other two and it was a village Wedamahattaya who gave leadership to rehabilitate it to the present splendour. Muddy waters of Malwatuoya trickled over craggy granite boulders, in the vicinity. Many a topic entered our discussions as we drove along. "My dream is to see Mahaweli waters filling our three tanks," said he. What he meant as the three tanks was Tissawewa, Nuwarawewa and Basawakkulama which were all in the metro Anuradhapura. Into what depths of misery the NCP villagers descend when the rains fail, only the NCP people knew. KB was one of them. "The main problem is to get the waters across the Matale hills to drop down to Dambulla area. Rest is easy." The licensed surveyor in him was talking. Mahaweli flowing to Anuradhapura sounded fantasy to me. "When the second Medical school starts graduating its students, the doctor shortage will be erased," said I. KB was grateful to Dr. Peiris (my old Professor of surgery) who, when he was the Minister of Health in 1960 , in a short lived government, initiated the process for the second medical school at Peradeniya. At this juncture I confided in him my hopes of joining the teaching staff of the new school. KB wished me well. KB dwelt at length about getting hydro power to the NCP. When he sensed my skepticism, he said, "A day will come when we will close that old diesel generator in the Market site !" I presumed his most outrageous idea was extending the railway line from Puttalam to Mannar. For him it was most logical ! KB pulled out at a wayside Hindu kovil. It was at Madampe from a tiny boutique he bought two husked coconuts and handed one to me. We smashed them at the foot of the larger than life size statue of a galloping horse. After collecting the scattered pieces of white kernel, we descended on our seats. The kernel tasted rancid. "Ratmalana is cramped ... the marsh to its north restricts expansion ... There is plenty of talk about Katunayaka to be developed ... thousands of coconut trees will be sacrificed ... at NCP bare land is no question," he was evaluating the future venue of our national airport. My idea that we should eat a hearty meal, he seconded. It turned to be a buriyani lunch at a muslim restaurant at Maradana. Hungry as we were, we were not shy to show it. The watalappam dessert was extra - delicious. KB negotiated the ever busy Maradana junction with much agility. The 'cling-clang' of the tramcars, the multi-band automobile horns and the hisses and the hoots of the railway engines formed the unique Maradana symphony. Nostalgia crept into me as we approached my alma-mater. Perhaps reading my mind, "When did you leave Ananda ?" he asked. We had planned that, I were to board a bus at Borella to proceed home which was few miles away and KB would head to Srawasti - the parliamentarians hostel. Holding the steering wheel with one hand he leaned back, reached the rear seat, grabbed a brown paper bag and deposited on my lap . The bag was stuffed with strands of Katurumurunga inflorescences, Ratnayaka garden produce. "Missus said -good for your fathers diabetes". Free medicine and medical advice! We bade good bye to each other. That was four decades ago on a sunny afternoon. by A. A. W. Amarasinghe, MD, Georgia, USA. (Nostalgic memories of an ex-neighbour now in USA) ###### Death Wish Some years ago a relative of mine died leaving specific instructions as to how his funeral should be conducted, no announcements to be made through the media or any other manner, only a few families whom he closely associated were to be informed. The body was to be kept in a funeral parlour, laid on a plain wooden board with handles to carry, the entire body to be covered with a white sheet of cloth exposing only the head. The body was then to be carried up to the crematorium by the attenders whilst chanting pirith, the entire ritual to be completed within 24 hours. He passed away shortly afterwards and I had the occasion to witness his funeral. It was definitely the most sensible funeral I ever attended. In the distant past, the bodies of the dead were dumped far away from their dwellings, so that they could neither see nor smell the stench of a rotting corpse. Today, we dispose of the dead, consciously or unconsciously with similar motives but in a more sophisticated manner. With the development of the process to retard decomposition, changes in rituals have been established, with adequate time to perform religious or cultural rites in a more complex manner. Bodies of very important or affluent people were preserved to last, and the manner that the Egyptian Pharos followed is an extreme example. Not so long ago, when a good part of the population lived in rural areas, funerals were conducted with serenity and simplicity. Villagers participated in rendering assistance to the bereaved family from the beginning of the funeral to its conclusion. In the absence of a formally demarcated cemetery, the disposal of the dead was carried out on a vacant piece of land with sufficient space for the community to gather. However, in today's terms urban dwellers rely on undertakers, morticians or funeral directors (what they call themselves today) who are entrusted with funeral arrangements. The final journey to the cemetery is made in a funeral car followed by a procession on foot or a motorcade. Often, an empty funeral car will roll ahead followed by relatives and friends taking turns to carry the coffin on their shoulders, as a mark of respect or affection respect to the deceased. The very latest option offered by funeral directors is that the final procession be led by two well attired cavaliers mounted on two horses (an imported breed) followed by a brand new custom made funeral car worth millions. Is this a way showing how important the dead were? There are instances where crackers are lit ahead of the procession, then again the lighting of the pyre is initiated with a firework display, which in turn ignites the pyre. Celebrate the death? Or is it the mentality of Sri Lankan to out do each other even at death. The dead would laugh their guts out, for some of the things we do for their send off. If one looks at it logically, is it not a hassle for people to travel from far away places leaving aside their important or personal matters, just to oblige the living relatives as the dead will never know whether you attended the funeral or not. Then again looking at it from another angle it is not only the family members who will have to sweat it out on each and every individual who attends the funeral until the ordeal is over. The funeral parlour has sufficient accommodation and it is a place where you don't have to attend to the visitor's comforts or discomforts. One can finish off the final episode with the shortest possible time and it will be a relief for the dead and then others who he has left behind. None of the religions advocate any of this nonsense, unfortunately none of them will come out with contradictions either. Taking all this and more into consideration does one really think that it is sensible to spend one's resources more than what is necessary, on a human body that will, in the end rot and perish, six feet underground or to be consigned to a fire. |
|
News | Business | Features
| Editorial | Security Produced by Lake House |
