It happened in the Himalayas

Figuratively putting it, the scene presented a sea of giant green canopies interspersed with equally big boulders. And placing the area geographically, it was the thickest area of the gorgeous Himalayan terrain where the most incredible things happened in the days of yore. Into its coves, crowned heads withdrew to avoid the hustle bustle of city life and fastidious royal courts and then came their spouses to share the glory-cum-trauma of wildlife.

The wildest and most incredible of events could be staged here such as the slow drift of a rock that blocked a cave. It was dawn and the mother Yakkini was yet fast asleep. Her son,a freedom loving youth had just managed to move the barring rock and get out into the wide world.

Sounds familiar? No. It is not prince Sinhabahu but another of the same calibre. Name?

Sorry. I could not catch the name, sounded like Padamanavaka. A Jathaka tale? That too I am not sure. Featherhead writing big, of what are you sure then? Don’t blame me. This is what happened.

Vendors

I was seated years back in a Kegalle bound coach in the Pettah bus stand amidst the usual cacophony of vendors selling their wares, mothers calling out to lost kids and red bandanas flashing the muscular might of those, with nothing worthwhile to do, but ever ready to start a scuffle.

And then a man entered the scene beating on his rabana and singing his Viridu. At first everyone including me gave a lethargic ear but faintly I heard the words, Apa Maha Bosathun and Padamanawaka. Perhaps my imagination filled the rest making me conclude that the Viridu man was weaving a Jathaka tale into a story. Never guessed it was going to be didactic.

However, he had captured his audience by now awaiting the departure of the vehicle. About ten more seats to fill. So the Viridu singer could certainly go on thanks to the avarice of the coach operators who would not budge till all the seats were filled. Now the man got in to make himself more audible and also to make his own “cash—collecting” activity more feasible. Nobody sings for nothing these days.

Unusual glare

Back to the Himalayan terrain. The Yakkini awakens and notices an unusual glare within the cave. Further she notices her son’s absence. Then the truth ,the stark truth dawns on her. Her son has escaped from the cave. Many a time he had striven for this task but today he had accomplished it.

Frantically she gets out of the cave herself and runs through the thick forest seeking for her son.

The Viridu man sings submerging all the chaos in the Pettah bus stand with his melodious voice and the beat of his rabana,

“The Yakkini, distraught, now runs after her son,
Through the giant trees, through the giant rocks,
Will she find him, her precious only child.
She beats her ample breasts and cries out in torment,
Ah! My dear son, answer me, where are you?

The passengers hold their breath. Never mind the wait for the empty seats to fill. Everyone is anxious about whether she finds her son or not.

Attention

The Viridu singer goes on, walking up and down the aisle of the coach, the coins trickling on to his rabana, a scarlet bandana swinging on his head. The audience is following the story with rapt attention, though they do not suffer from gullibility that this was a recent drama. Most of them know that it occurred a millennia ago when Yakkinis roamed the North Indian forests.Now the distraught mother comes to a river bank and lo and behold! Or Budu Ammo, as they say in local parlance, the son she had brought up so protectively is on the other side of the river, gesticulating wildly to show that he is out to conquer all he sees.

The beat on the rabana increases to enhance the melodrama.
“Come back, my son, come back!”
“No. Amma. I want to see the wide world,
I am tired of that prison, the cave.”
But expostulates the mother.
“You know no vocation to live in that wide world
It is a terrible place
That raises no hand to give free
One has to work and work and work,
Otherwise you are ruined.
So come back and I will teach you a trade or two,
So that you can fit into the cruel wide world.”

The seats in the bus now filled, the conductor shoos the singer away. And so all of us are denied the end of the tale.

I myself was enroute to the venue of an Extended Adult and Youth Education Progarm in Kegalle. Already retired I was given the option of choosing my topic I found myself talking on “The need for vocational training among the youth.” Soon I was embroiling my speech with the Viridu singer’s tale that kept the audience in thrall.

I wished that the raban player was there to accompany me and sing melodiously those lines,
“You know no vocation to live in that wide world,
Which is a terrible place , not raising a hand to give free,

So one has to work, work and work.”