Passionate Pen

Sense of humour displays maturity

By Sajitha PREMATUNGE

He claimed that even nuns confessed to reading his book after prayers. And no it’s not on religion, although all proceeds of the book are spent on charity.

Gaston de Rozyro

This particular book of the author - The Serendib Spirit - is of hilarious extremes, complete with obscene language, shameless acknowledgements of mischief and sins committed and even more shameless allusions to taboo subjects.

So what is it about his writing that gets even the very taciturn nuns hooked? The comedy, the humour, the wit and apt diction coupled with the authors uncanny knack for innuendo and his capability to draw on the most hilarious but mundane stuff that most of us would block out of our memory at the blink of an eye. His pieces have layers of connotations and a subtle serious message that is a part of satire.

That marked the beginning of Gastons career as a satire columnist. However baptised in the religion of journalism in the good old days, what’s referred to as the ‘Golden age of journalism’, he was an all rounder.

He has worked in every section of the paper from sub editing to sports. He was the Daily News Sports Editor and Editor of Ceylon Newspapers for Expatriates (now defunct), before he left for Malaysia in 1979 as Executive Sub Editor of New Straits Times.

He was also the Senior Editor, Publications for Singapore Monitor (now defunct) and Hong Kong Standard, Supplements and Publications Editor. He also worked as a visiting lecturer on English journalism in Shue Yan College University.

After his post the Colombo Bureau Chief of South China Morning Post he returned to Sri Lanka and started the Weekend Express (now defunct) from scratch, of which he was the founder Editor-in-Chief.

“After it could stand on its own I left.” he said. “Now I’m relaxed, writing books.” When asked whether he has not worked on anything offbeat he said he is now working on a book with a complete political and social background.

The Serendib Spirit - collection of satire pieces he published in papers around the globe - is so hilarious that I often found myself grinning from ear to ear or laughing my lungs out.

At a day and age when humour is regarded as second rate and the tendency is to dwell excessively on grim subjects like war and violence, The Serendib Spirit is a welcome treat for those who yearn for a rib tickler now and than. “A sense of humour in any person displays maturity,” he explained.

“Specially for a writer humour carries a heck of a social wallop far more effective than scathing character assassination.” He further explained that nobody likes to be laughed at and lampooning some one is far more humiliating for the subject.

However he reiterated that one should be able to laugh at ones own idiosyncrasies. “You can break the ice with humour and there’s no better remedy to get over that tense situation than a good sense of humour.”

Gaston de Rozayro said that although some of it is slightly exaggerated the subject matter of The Serendib Spirit is mostly derived from real life. Although some people regard that using ones own experiences in fiction is a trait of a bad writer, he said “You can’t write about cricket if you don’t know the satisfaction of thwacking that leather ball. Armchair imagination is insufficient.”

He explains that it doesn’t take rocket science to write with a sense of humour. Any one probably faces the sort of mundane things he writes about, “but most of them fail to see the humour in them.”

Consequently most fail to take advantage. He claims that this sort of training which allows him to see humour in mostly everything comes with the territory of being a journalist.

“As a journalist you have to keep your eyes and ears open.” He said that his journalistic career helped him to become a better writer and explained that his exposure abroad widened his horizons.

“Travel tremendously broadens your mind. You are exposed to so many different cultures and social structures.” But admits that with all its setback Sri Lanka is still the most beautiful place on earth.

History repeats

Kiran Desai

Kiran Desai (Born in 1971), the daughter of famous and award winning writer Anita Desai, is a citizen of India and a permanent resident of the Unites States. She is truly multicultural. Her maternal grandmother was German and disappeared after WW II and her grandfather was a refugee from Bangladesh.

She and her mother left India for England when she was just 14 and from there to United States where she completed her schooling in Massachusetts and studied creative writing at Bennington College, Hollins University and Columbia University. But she returns to her family home in Delhi every year.

She first came to the literary scene when one of her pieces Strange Happenings In The Guava Orchard was published as the closing piece in New Yorker and Mirrorwork, in an anthology of 50 years of Indian writing edited by Salman Rushdie. Her novel The Inheritance Of The Loss won the 2006 Man Booker Prize as well as the National Book Critics Circle Fiction Award. Her first novel, Hullabaloo In The Guava Orchard, published in 1998, which won the Betty Trask Award, was praised by notable writers such as Salman Rushdie.

It’s woven around a young boy who attempts to avoid the responsibilities of adulthood. Referring to this novel she has said “I think my first book was filled with all that I loved most about India and knew I was in the inevitable process of losing. It was also very much a book that came from the happiness of realizing how much I loved to write.”

Her second book The Inheritance Of The Toss - set in India and the US - was written in the span of seven years. It’s a novel about change. It’s woven around an embittered old judge who lives in Mount Kanchenjunga. He wants only to retire in peace, but with the arrival of his orphaned granddaughter, Sai, and his cook’s son trying to stay a step ahead of US immigration services in the Himalayas, this is going to be far from easy.

The romance of Sai and her tutor is at stake and they are forced to consider their conflicting interests, faced with a Nepalese insurgency. The judge must revisit his past, his own journey and his role in this grasping world of conflicting desires every moment holding out the possibility for hope or betrayal.

Referring to the characters in The Inheritance Of The Loss, and of her own life, she says, “The characters of my story are entirely fictional, but these journeys (of her grandparents) as well as my own provided insight into what it means to travel between East and West and it is this I wanted to capture. The fact that I live this particular life is no accident. It was my inheritance.”

Its main themes are migration and living between two worlds, between past and present. Kiran says that this novel “tries to capture what it means to live between East and West and what it means to be an immigrant,” and says that it explores at a deeper level what happens when a western element is introduced to a country that’s not western. Which happened during colonial times and yet again happening with regard to India’s relationship with the US.

Here she tries to explore the possibilities of intermingling of the rich and poor in two different nations and how this phenomenon changes a persons perception. Referring to the novel which has many layers of themes she had said “These are old themes that continue to be relevant in today’s world, the past informing the present, the present revealing the past.”n

The anonymous letter

By Swarnapalie Amerasekera

I married when I was twenty-eight. It was a love match. A very beautiful, kind and cultured lady became my wife. Her parents had named her Enoka, because she had long, attractive and innocent looking eyes like that of a doe. I addressed her by the pet name ‘Vasthuva, because she was my greatest treasure.

We both were contented. She was twenty-four. I found pleasure in everything that appeals to a young married man. Time passed happily, each day bringing happiness than the last. She was an excellent housewife.

Inspite of being a clerk at the bank with a tight schedule she would keep the house spick and span. She never kept servants. She prepared savory dishes for me with her own hands.

Every morning, before she set off for work, she would stroke my head and say “May the triple Gem bless you, my beloved Rohana”.

In the evening after a hard day’s work we would sit under our favourite mango tree in front of our house, huddled together like two turtle doves, and wishpering sweet words of love while the soft breeze gently kissed us. It is said that adults in love are like little children forgetting all the cares of the world. So were Enoka and I. “Enoka, supposing I die will you marry another?” I ask her. With an impish smile she says.” I don’t think there’s anything wrong in it.” My foot! I retort, that will never happen, as I will come as a ghost, and kick him away” Thus we enjoyed hours and hours of uninterrupted bliss, loving joking and teasing.

Our happiness lasted only for one year. One day as I was working in my office I received an anonymous letter. The letter stated that my wife was having a clandestine affair with the boss at her working place. It was the most terrible hour of my life. My hands started trembling as I read it.

They revealed the most unpardonable treachery ever committed against a husband. They revealed the tenderest intimacy between them and the deepest passion. How they enjoyed life at parties in posh hotels, how they had a gala time in the boss’s private room sharing their lunch and exchanging delicacies.

Imagine my horror to hear that my beautiful young wife is in the hands of another man, What is more, the letter stated how he urged her to secrecy, what he said about stupid husbands, how he advised her what to do to keep her husband in secrecy. I became mad with jealously.

My imagination ran riot. More than anything I felt utterly ashamed. It is said that human beings shouldn’t bottle up their feeling, but however much I tried to reveal it, at least to my best friend I could not words didn’t come out. My heart was bruised and bleeding.

Under the pretext of having a splitting headache, I took half day’s leave and started off home words. Surely there won’t be a smoke without a fire I went on thinking.

I lost all faith in her. No more shall I believe in her loving embraces, her kisses her innocent eyes, and her affectionate treatment all that was but cunning deceit. Recollections of the words of that letter tortured me every moment. On my way I stopped at liquor bar and drank heavily, though I am a teetotaller and have never touched liquor before.

She had returned home after work. The moment I came home, she entertained me with a hot cup of tea, and a charming smile. I threw the tea at her and smashed the cup. I bawled at her using all the filthy words I knew in my native language. She was stunned at my unusual behaviour.

She looked as innocent as babe, and pleaded me to tell her the reason for my rash behaviour, but I was firmly determined this time not to be deceived by the sixty four vile tricks of women kind. The more she pleaded, the more my anger grew. It is said that where love ends, hate begins.

In the same way, I once loved her began to hate her, I hated her very sight. Finally, I was at the end of my patience that I beat her black and blue, and pushed her out of my house threatening her never to step in crying bitterly. She bundled up a few belongings and departed from my house. I felt no pangs of conscience.

I was cruel, but she deserved it. Good riddance of bad rubbish’ I thought to myself as I went on gazing at her until she faded from my sight. from that day onwards, I became a woman hater.

It happened that after six months of our separation I received a telegram. It stated thus “Mala seriously ill come immediately”. Mala works in the same office with my wife, and she is her best friend. She has been our family friend during our good old days and she had often visited us. I thought it is my duty to visit her. With a bottle of sustageon. I visited her. Enoka too was present. Mala seems to have gone out of her mind. The moment she saw me, she began trembling, with dishevelled hair and shabbily dressed, she came towards me. Knelt down at my feet and said.

“Forgive me, Rohana, it was I who wrote that anonymous letter I felt very jealous, because Enoka is very talented, and the boss often praised her and announced that she would be given a promotion. I wished she would leave this place, Enoka is very sincere in her love to you. She is very virtuous”, from the day I wrote this letter, I get a stinging pain in my right hand. It pains me terribly. The pain increases daily becoming more and more agonizing and unbearable. No doctor could cure it”.

A shiver ran through my spine as I listened.

I shall come back to you Rohana” said my innocent wife. “From the day that you drove me out of the house. I lived all alone in a small flat and found consolation in religious activities. In the meantime I heard about a hermit living in a remote area, who was a true light teller, and I consulted him.

He asked me to offer a Bodhi pooja for a week and to lead a virtuous life. He told me not to be frustrated as I am innocent, and the truth will come out before long, because in our lives, the virtuous will be rewarded at the end, and the evil that human begins do will boomerang, one day other.