Writing trends of Sri Lankan child amateurs

by Padma EDIRISINGHE

'Boamba Bheetikawa' (The bomb terror) is the title of a short story written by a young Samanera. Its central character is a youth who boards a bus on a family errand. Before him in big bold letters glares a statement that this is the Land of Gauthama Buddha while in the background goes on non - stop, taped instructions on how to thwart a bomb attack. But soon the sight of a large parcel on the lap of a man with a scheming face who looks around now and then, almost startled and panicky makes the young traveller conclude that he is in the jaws of death.

Very soon he long with all other passengers would end up bloodied and shredded to pieces. How tragic, especially since the passengers seems to be in a land of lotus eaters planning various schemes for their betterment. But soon they would be all in a horizontal position attracting curious onlookers and flies and of course the brown uniformed policemen. Finally the suspect turns out to be an Army officer returning home with gifts for his children. The conductor himself recognises him and calls him, Rane aiya.

That is the imagined or actual drama encountered by the saffron-robed young writer. The story is one submitted for a creative writing competition held by a State organisation. In the weeks preceding my sitting down to select the best ten entries I had undergone my own drama, that of a decision to quit the sphere of reading and writing changed by this invitation. There is no compulsion to go on forever and forever in a chosen field and I had opted to pack my bags and withdraw into oblivion perhaps to a leafy aranya. But the competition revealed to me an area where I could still work on, at area enveloped with grim and terrible and sorrowful events that our children seem to wallow in.

Maybe it is wrong to generalise on isolated data, but here about 100 children are just enmeshed in that world. Fun and gaiety seem to have fled their world. Most see only grim death and grisly corpses and pools of blood and a whole host of destructive weapons. These are tomorrow's adults. By the way though I was expected only to go through the short stories and use my red pen lavishly my roving eyes took in the contents of the attached birth certificate, a device to ensure that no overage or underage child has participated in the contest.

These children have all been born between the years 1989 and 1991, that is some six years after the war began earnestly in the island. The shadows of the long drawn put war fall long and large on their creations. The Samanera who authored Boamba Bheetikawa however manages to introduce some macabre humour into his story via the passengers who though at death's door are utterly unaware of it and engage in their own fancy ruminations. There is the early monk evidently meditating on life's impermanence which would be soon demonstrated to him fully. The conductor himself is trying to have a glimpse of the Hansa roo (Swan like breasts) of a young girl wearing a low necked blouse cosily seated in the seat before him while another young Romeo is throwing sidelong glances at the female besides him with dreams of a rosy future with her enlivening his mental spectrum.To contribute my own fantasies there could be a trader there counting a wad of 1,000 rupees notes to make sure that he has made a good transaction completely ignorant of the fact that the notes he caresses so fondly would soon be burning in hell's own inferno along with his plump body pampered by overeating.

Some story topic of the competition seem to have been ordained from top. Kannadiya or Mirror is such a topic that many have grappled with. But not a single child, boy or girl, had interwoven a happy tale round the mirror.

Not even a mad and arrogant queen holding it and asking, "Mirror, mirror, tell me true, who is the fairest of women in this land. Is it me?" A beauty-obsessed female always pirouetting before a mirror has never been thought of by these writers.

Melancholy or disastrous events are instead woven around it as of a grandfather getting a new pair of Kannadi or spectacles to lose them the same day, the bloated sorrow bringing an earlier death than anticipated or a young girl hankering for a pink rimmed mirror she sees in a shop stealing it and when found out, the uproar and public disgrace make her commit suicide. Death looms so large and creeps in so naturally in these children's lives who could be dubbed as belonging to the brighter segment of the Lankan child population as their creative works have been prioritised at district level, before being sent to the central network for further scrutiny.

Even the short stories that the children seem to have been given the liberty to choose the title are imbued with some sad and negative emotions. "Athmaya", a well-written story deals with a father who having lost his wife and child in an accident (a bomb attack?) is taken for a moon light walk by a child who says his grandmother has suddenly disappeared. The man finally ends up in a grave yard besides a tombstone carrying the name of the child he has been sauntering with under a moon lit sky canopy.

On realising that all this time he had been in the company of an eerie ghost with the ability to liquidate into nothingness makes him faint and then enter the world of the Dead.

Most of the young writers of the entries submitted are from the rural areas of the island as villages in Uva circling the city of Badulla, villages adjacent to areas as rock - studded Bulathsinhala and villagers in the North Central Province. Girls predominate the boys.

Whether an islandwide program is imperative to change the grim outlook of these young writers is left for more brilliant minds to conclude. It is also left for them to judge the impact of war and the pattern of dishevelled society on the mental health of children and of course on a wider scale the mental health of the general population.

I remember a statement made by a public figure, that after the war ceases there would be so much flotsam and jetsam to clear. Our children's tainted minds belong to the commodities that need purification though tragedy can beget great literature.Anyway above are not my only observations. Though the competition had been open for writers in English too the children had submitted only essays in this medium.

Not even school children of Colombo, Kandy and other major cities have submitted any creative writing in English. And this stalemate condition after the prevalence of this language ever since 1796 in the island and the present impetus to popularize this global language, educationally and socially.

PS

September is the month dedicated to literature in Sri Lanka and October, the month dedicated to reading. The above competition has been organised to encourage reading and writing of school children and is an annual event. All winning entries are published and packed into a booklet, a very laudable literary venture.

The last retreat

There is a little brown fellow hiding,
Among the slippery objects in my bathroom.

Occasionally presenting himself,
With thoughtful looks and ponderous movements,
And to greet and enlighten me at dawn.

"Rana Temporaria",
Or "Bufo Melanostictus"?
One or the other -
Should I care?
Vague, but horrifying scenes,
Inside chloroformed laboratories,
Flashes through my mind,
How the tiny, soft, red heart keep on thumping,
The only feeble sign of life,
Struggling to remain alive,
While every other organ is robbed, one by one,
For the sake of human advancement!

He crawls on to the edge of the wash basin,
And sits looking at me complaining,
Wet with chlorinated water.

I want to say sorry though,
Or treat him with a morsel of food,
Nay! Homo Sapiens Sapiens!

Not until,
A little more of naturalisation,
In this lifeless jungle.

U.M.S. Ranatunga

Realisation

The little princess,
Rosy cheeked, starry eyed,
Clad in golden attire,
A crown of diamonds, gleaming on her head.

She sang like a Nightingale,
Danced like a fairy, mesmerizing the audience,
A thunderous applause,
As she stepped out.

She slipped into her torn, mended uniform,
Stepped into her shoes - worn out in front.

At her mud and wattle home,
She was still dreaming of,
The Princess she was.

Her meal.....
Several pieces of Manioc,
Hm-m-m. It tasted good,
For she was so...hungry,
"Is there any difference from a royal meal?"
She wondered,
Basking in her mother's loving embrace,
And her tummy full,
She asked herself,
A"m I not a Princess now?"

Neela VITHANAGE

Thoughts of a Teacher

Trying to see the best in you
And the dreams in your heart
A year was spent trying to change
Your life in to a world more wonderful

Words failed you
Actions fell apart
In the end just to realize
You do not care at all

Cannot change a human being
'He is who he is'
No one else can change that
So how can a teacher like me
Change students at all

Nisansala DHARMASENA

Child hero

Hails a child hero, in the annals of our motherland,
Whose verve has veered into a well-known legend,
He was "Madduma Bandara" the illustrious Sri Lankan son,
His valour and courage, did equal none.

Sri Wickrama Rajasinghe, a just king at first,
Degrading his self, with his liquor lust,
Sceptical was he, of his minister Ehelepola,
To being conspiring, to become the king of Sinhala.

Ehelepola's foes, added oil to king's kindled wrath,
Who determined to curtail - the life he hath,
Sensing the terrible outcome of Rajasinghe's anger,
Ehelepola realised, he should be in Kandy no longer.

To avenge Ehelepola, who defected to English shelter,
"Kill his family" roared the king with fury helter-skelter,
"Her Lady" the two sons, and her infant daughter,
Were dragged by king's men, to the ground, Bogambara.

Elder son in fear, cried and tried to run away,
But the younger so valiant, that no threat could sway,
"My dear Aiyandi, no need being afraid!
I'll show you how to die," little Madduma Bandara said.

Dauntless, he marched towards the executioner,
"Cut my head off!" challenged he, in the bravest manner,
The rapier with a soft thud, severed his tiny head,
To "Mahawamsa" - the Sinhala Chronical, his name was reverently thread.

W.P. Somawardana

Aftermath of love

I feel very sorry,
When I think of those years,
And tell our story,
With remorse and tears,
She was a pretty one,
Like a beauty queen,
And was second to none,
With a waist very lean.

I met her at a fair,
And talked with our eyes,
As she seemed very rare,
And decent and wise,
We got friendly very soon,
And visited nearby parks,
Meeting every afternoon,
Like two happy young larks.

I wanted soon to marry,
And live a happy life,
To be always merry,
By making her my wife,
When her parents knew,
Our far gone love affairs,
As my assets were few,
They became very despair.

Hence we had to sever,
Our long cherished wishes,
And to depart for ever,
Like two stranded fishes,
She started sobbing,
When we shook our hands,
Now we are living,
In two far off lands.

Davidson GOONETILLEKE