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'Sons and Daughters'

by Neville Jayaweera

Nineteen forty nine, the year that Mervyn de Silva and I entered university at Thurstan Road, was still the best of times - that is for those who were from the "right set". The 1956 dawn was not yet casting a shadow even for the most discerning to see and at the premier seat of learning, at that time our only university, the old order reigned absolute. Even though it was within the Oriental Faculty that research of any substance was being done, it was the Arts Faculty that set the tone and dominated the university's landscape.

Within the Arts Faculty itself, even though H. C. Ray, Professor of History had established a vast international reputation with his monumental "Dynastic History of India" and T.R.V. Murti, Professor of Philosophy, had just returned from Oxford where he had been Spalding Professor of Philosophy and had established his international credentials with his definitive "Central Philosophy of Buddhism", and Das Gupta Professor of Economics had published his "The Economy of Ceylon" and had also established his name internationally as an economist of rank, it was principally E.F.C. Ludowyke Professor of English and J.L.C. Rodrigo, Professor of Western Classics, neither of whom had had produced research of any consequence, or published any learned papers, who exercised dominance over the minds of undergraduates. Of the two, it was Ludowyke who was the cynosure and catalyst.

The Ludowyke mystique

There was a mystique about Ludowyke and the English department. Perhaps the mystique surrounding Ludowyke was generated more by his students than by Ludowyke personally. By 1949 the English Department had produced some graduates of fine sensibility and high intelligence, some of whom had gone into the Civil Service and some into journalism and it was they who seemed to have supplied the English Department's aura and set the intellectual climate of Thurstan Road.

It was upon this scene that a clutch of outstanding students from Royal College arrived in 1949, having carried away almost all the scholarships and exhibitions that were on offer that year for entrants to the arts faculty. Among them was Mervyn who had won the coveted English scholarship and every prospect seemed to suggest that he would profit from and himself enrich the tradition he had inherited..

From his first day at university Mervyn stood out like a sore thumb. There was a manner about him. His loping walk, his half-sneering chuckle, but most of all his humour and biting wit. Those who were closer to him could also discern a few other qualities that seemed to frame his personality. He was obviously gifted with an intelligence and a sensibility of a high order, but as a counter point, he also seemed to lack an inner cohesion, appeared to be burdened by a pervasive diffidence (which he masked behind a tinsel hubris) and had a total aversion to discipline. These qualities more than any other defined the Mervyn of the university days and progressively it was the latter that came more and more to define the essential Mervyn.

This lack of inner cohesion, manifesting outwardly as a rebellion against discipline and authority eventually cost Mervyn the legitimate fruits of his intelligence, his talents and his university career. His native intellectual excellence and high sensibility should have easily earned him a First Class but eventually he had to wait on the benevolence of the Vice Chancellor just to be allowed to sit the final exam!.

Fifty something years on, my memory of the 4 years I shared with Mervyn as an undergraduate, even allowing for the enormous amends he made later in life as Sri Lanka's leading English journalist, critic, satirist and political commentator, still fills me with sadness. Mervyn had a fine sensibility and a good mind. He could not only respond to literature with a deep sensitivity and use language with a remarkable clarity and to great effect, but could also exercise his mind on diverse issues, be they politics, art or philosophical abstractions. However, lacking the discipline systematically to pursue or build on these interests he seemed to drift into a comfortable dilettantism.

The 'cut table'

The disquiet within him soon began to manifest itself in diverse ways. He started cutting lectures, would rarely submit tutorials and was seen to be dropping out rapidly. Very quickly he fell from grace with Lyn Ludowyke, Herbert Passe and Doric de Sousa and barely scraped through in the First Exam. He spent most of his time at the "cut table" as they called it, a small group of like minded students who would gather in a corner of the Junior Common Room in the premises of College House and play a game of cards for stakes, called "asking hitting". I believe it was essentially a mug's game, hardly the place one would expect someone whose mind was being shaped by Msssrs F.R. Leavis and I.A. Richards to be frequenting. When he ran out of money for the cut table Mervyn would lope across to the tuck shop and there wait for some passing prey to scrounge 10 cts. for a "punt and gubtea", as a cigarette and a cup of tea was called then.

During the three years we spent at Thurstan Road or even during our final year up at Peradeniya, I do not recall seeing Mervyn in the reference library. Neither do I recall him carrying a book except a much soiled and crumpled exercise book, which purported to be lecture notes. As a matter of fact, his seemingly extraordinary non-involvement with books was so perplexing that the only time I saw him carrying one has remained engraved in my mind. I distinctly remember him carrying along with his exercise book, for quite a few days, Scott Fitzgerald's "Great Gatsby"! There was nothing about his habits at that time to suggest the voracious reader he grew into later in life.

On the other hand, while he did not appear to me to be a great addict of books while at university he had obviously read widely and deeply before he came to Thurston, as his accomplishments at Royal College would testify. As he drifted away from the academic mainstream Mervyn began to develop a supercilious and sneering attitude, not only towards those of us who approached our studies seriously but even more towards his teachers.

Seriousness of any kind, whether in academic work or towards life in general he disdained. There was hardly anyone whom he did not hold in derision, quite openly laughing at his lecturers and being iconoclastic even towards the great guru, Lyn Ludowyke himself. I recall, Shantikumar Phillips who was his closest buddy in the English Department, (I was in the Philosophy Department) was quite disconcerted by this turn of events.

Shanti was fearful for his own progress in the department because he was hoping to get a First Class and pass into the Civil Service (which he eventually did, coming first in his year) and falling foul of Ludowyke, because of his friendship with Mervyn, did not seem the best way for him to set about it. Shanti, a Thomian, was a model "public school" type - had played cricket for his college, had been senior prefect, acted in plays, sang in the choir , was always courteous, always disciplined, was himself very intelligent and deeply cultured, respected his teachers and was a thorough gentleman. Mervyn's friendship with Shanti was perplexing because in many respects they were the complete counterpoint to each other.

On the other hand, one suspected that Mervyn needed Shanti's friendship precisely for that reason, as a mask for his weaknesses behind the latter's strengths.

Besides making his daily appearance at the cut table, Mervyn was already beginning to savour politics, be it only university politics. In 1952 he ran for Editor and no one would think of contesting him, so undisputed was his claim to the post. The 1952 issue of the Union magazine produced by Mervyn was reviewed in the Daily News by Godfrey Gunatilleke of the Civil Service, perhaps up to that time the most distinguished product of the English Department, as the best journal that that had been produced by the university students body. It exceeded in depth and quality anything that had been produced by Mervyn's predecessors, among whom had been big names such as Basil Mendis, Guy Amirthanayagam and Upali Amarasinghe, all outstanding products of the English Department.

Along with Felix Dias (as FDB was then known) and myself, Mervyn also came to be a regular member of the university's debating team. It was while serving with Mervyn on the debating panel that I noticed another trait in him which was that, while he did not hesitate liberally to scald his opponents with withering jibes, when positions were reversed and he was singled out for similar treatment by his opponents he would take it as a personal effront and carry the hurt with him for a long time. He was unwilling to be worsted in debate and had an incurable abhorrence of playing second fiddle to anyone. Although Mervyn was good on his feet in repartee, he was not a classical orator and throughout his years in the university did not once participate in the annual oratorical contest, in which at least four of five of us would enter the finals and where Felix carried away the gold medal on two occasions. He disliked Felix enormously, a feeling that Felix reciprocated in full measure and with a towering condescension too.

Move to Peradeniya

When the time came for the university to move up to Peradeniya in 1952 (the Law Faculty had already moved up the previous year) it turned out that even though the original intention had been for each student to have a room to himself/herself, the residential halls were not going to be completed in time and we would have to share rooms, two to each. However, we were given the option of choosing our own room mate which was an excellent arrangement. I had no one in mind who I wanted particularly to share my room with but was overjoyed when Shantikumar Phillips, Mervyn's buddy, sought me out and asked whether we could share rooms, to which I readily assented.

Shanti was profusely grateful because he did not want to share a room with Mervyn. For one thing, Shanti was bent on serious study and he did not see how that would be possible with Mervyn as a room mate and for another he did not think it was a good thing that Ludowyke should know that he and Mervyn were sharing rooms. Thus it was that Shanti and I came to be first occupants of Room 58 in Jayatilleke Hall, an isolated room at the corner of the Hall, just below the fish pond at the Peradeniya entrance to the lower Hantane Road.

Rather naively we thought we had found a safe haven from where to pursue our studies, but much to our chagrin we were mistaken.

Shanti and I had developed a tight work schedule which required at least eight hours of study in our rooms, besides daytime lectures, which meant that we were up at four in the morning and stayed up till eleven in the night. However we found that keeping this schedule was proving increasingly difficult because Mervyn would barge in at anytime and completely disregarding our feelings would hang around for hours. We had a whistling electric kettle in our room and tea and coffee at hand. No sooner the kettle started to whistle Mervyn who lived a few rooms down the corridor would come knocking on our door and would not go away until he had consumed several cups of coffee. As the weeks passed this became quite disconcerting, particularly to Shanti. I had developed the habit of completely ignoring Mervyn and carrying on with my work but Shanti remained under his spell and did not have the strength to ask him to leave.

Consequently Shanti suffered a series of migraine attacks which deepened his discomfiture. To make matters even more embarassing we had a gentle reminder from our neighbour, Vincent Panditha, himself an outstanding sudent, later getting a First Calss and passing into the Civil Service himself, that goings on in room 58 were disturbing him and his colleague T.K. Francis. Simultaneously, we noticed that Mervyn was disintegrating rapidly. Things were falling apart and the centre was not holding. It was as if some malevolent power had laid hold of him and was driving him to destruction.

He had stopped attending lectures and had set up a "cut table" in some garage somewhere on the campus and about three months before the final exam was told that he would not be allowed to sit the exam. The news had reached his fiancee Lakshmi who hastened up to Peradeniya to take control.

Lakshmi came to see Shanti and me and pleaded with us to help her get Mervyn back on the rails which of course we said we would. I believe Lakshmi also spoke to Ludowyke and the Vice Chancellor and persuaded them to let Mervyn sit the exam which they did. Lakshmi was a woman of deep Roman Catholic faith (Mervyn was an agnostic) and it was probably her faith that enabled her to sustain Mervyn during those months of deepening crisis. Much to our admiration she looked after Mervyn with a deep maternal devotion and in later life I am told that it was she who helped Mervyn to re-integrate and make it through life.

The struggle for better butter

During those chaotic months at Peradeniya we also saw how vulnerable Mervyn was to the lure of politics, not national politics, but just any politics, and not just as an interested spectator or commentator, but as an agitator.

Mervyn led the first students revolt on the campus. One day the students of James Pieris Hall (I think) decided that their warden was consuming the butter that should have been given to them and that they were being given margarine instead. Caught up in a frenzy of revolutionary fervour the students decided to launch an agitation, to march in procession with packets of the offending margarine on their heads and hold a protest meeting on the cricket field by the tennis courts. The Vice Chancellor declared the demonstration irregular but the students decided to march notwithstanding. By the time the demonstration reached the cricket field the margarine had all melted away, but never mind, some one had hired a mike and loudspeaker and the revolutionaries went ahead with the meeting.

Shanti and I were watching the whole circus from the embankment separating the cricket field from the tennis courts and were amazed to see Mervyn, who was not even a member of James Pieris Hall, climb on to an old pakis pettiya and harangue the student body. Pointing to the tennis courts near by he said that they should take a "Tennis Court Oath" and not relent until butter had been restored to its pristine place. Referring to the Vice Chancellor's ruling Mervyn thundered, "We may be irregular but we are not illegal" and went on to invoke the Magna Carta, the UN Covenant on Human Rights and a lot else besides in defence of the students' right to packs of better butter.

At one stage he recalled the "Storming of the Bastille" and looked as if he might stampede the student body to storm the Vice Chancellor's Lodge instead, but by that time the marshals had arrived and amidst ubiquitous hooting from the students, dispersed the assembly, but not before they had burned a copy of the Daily News and Mervyn had delivered another barb. One of the marshals who came to disperse the students was named Bolton and Mervyn roared, "what bolt from the blue is this that seeks to crush us?". That evening Mervyn came to our room with Nimal Karunatilleke, who had marched with him, shoulder to shoulder, in the students' struggle for butter. In later years Nimal was to become MP for Matale and the two became great friends. Mervyn, fresh from his first political triumph was beaming from ear to ear. He told us how fulfilled he felt addressing a mass audience and what a sense of power he had with a mike in his hand. He said that there was no question but that politics was his calling!

One of the most engaging aspects of Mervyn's personality was his sense of humour and his sharp wit, often biting and scalding like a whip. He was not always original but the speed with which he flashed his tongue gave it the ring of authenticity. Once in a Law College vs University debate some one on the other side said, "Mervyn de Silva deserves a half blue for wit" to which Mervyn flashed, "And you deserve a full blue for half wit". Once, when he and I were on opposing sides I looked at him across the platform and said with scorn, "Then there is Mervyn de Silva who cannot say boo to a goose", whereupon Mervyn walked up to me and said "boo" in my face. Touch‚! At another debate someone on the opposite side said scornfully, "Mr Chairman, the gentlemen of the other side have no brains" to which Mervyn responded pronto, "but that is because we use ours more often than you use yours". One of his finest was his re-naming of Hilda Obeysekera Hall. Hilda Obeysekera was walled in right round by a high rampart so that none could enter therein except by the grace of its warden, the redoubtable Miss Mathiaparanam. An exasperated Mervyn promptly re-christened Hilda Obeysekera "Waldorf Astoria".

Deconstructing Mervyn

One of my last impressions of Mervyn on the Peradeniya Campus was in November 1954, about an year after we had both graduated. He was already subbing on the daily news and was writing a column titled "Daedalus", and I was on the teaching staff of the Philosophy Department awaiting entry into the Civil Service. The Indian Philosophical Congress which meets only once in ten years was meeting that year in Peradeniya and scores of philosophers from all over the world had arrived there and were living in Jayatilleke, Arunachalam and James Pieris Halls. The chairman of the local organising committee was Prof. G. P. Malalasekera and as one would expect of him, he had arranged to conduct all the philosophers in a perahera from Jayatilleke and Arunachalam Halls where they were all asked to congregate, to the Arts Theatre , led by Kandyan dancers, lee keli and three elephants .

As the perahera led by the ponderous pachyderms wound its way along the Galaha Road to the Arts Theatre, the elephants plastered the road with liberal dollops of droppings and the philosophers had a hard time picking their way through them and upon arrival at the Arts Theatre had to spend a lot of time scraping things off their shoes. The whole effect was quite hilarious, which of course was not lost on Mervyn.

Thereupon, immediately after the opening address Mervyn sought an interview with Malalasekera and opened with a typically Mervyn pun. "Sir" he said addressing the professor and referring to the elephants , "I see that you never fail to make a weighty contribution to anything intellectual". Flattered, Malalasekera replied, "Yes! Yes! After all we are the custodians of Theravada doctrine", completely missing Mervyn's elephantine pun.

I believe that somewhere amidst the fading archives of the Daily News there must be the hilarious edition of the "Daedalus" column Mervyn wrote after his visit to the Philosophical Congress.

Mervyn did not have many friends, except of course around the "cut table" and Shanti and I were perhaps his most intimate intellectual associates at Peradeniya, the guys with whom he would share his frustrations over Ludowyke and Doric and discuss things of the mind. At Thurstan Road, at least till we went up to Peradeniya, he was also befriended by Duleepkumar, Shanti's twin brother. Sadly, Shanti passed away prematurely more than a decade ago and now there are only Duleep and I left to deconstruct Mervyn de Silva's undergraduate years.

Overall, how does one assess Mervyn's time as an undergraduate. At one level, viewed against the stereotype or liberal model of the good university student, against the Newman (The Idea of a University) model so to say, they were four wasted years. Talents unfulfilled and an intelligence of star quality never given an opportunity to shed its lustre. An inner life, riven by diffidence which he would not confront, but seemed constantly to be running away from, and an outer life lived at high intensity but without cohesion or visible fruitage.

However, at another level, viewed against the model of the writer and the artist, it was perhaps these very things, the incoherence and the chaos of his soul that was the foundation upon which he was to build, the mud from which were to bloom the lotuses of later years. Putting the most constructive hypothesis upon the anguish and the disquiet that were at the heart of Mervyn's personality one can say that they are perhaps the sine qua non, the primal substance of all ceativity. They represent the price that all writers and artists have had to pay some time in their lives before they could create. To judge those who are so burdened (or so endowed, depeding on one's perspective) by the stereotype, is grossly to misunderstand the nature of the creative mind and to miss out on the stuff of genius.

Mervyn may not have been the finest mind that the English Department had nurtured up to that time, but he was certainly its most gifted writer, its sharpest wit and its most multi faceted personality. Assuming that Mervyn had turned out to be a disciplined scholar, winding up with the much vaunted First Class, he would probably have ended his days as a Professor of English or as a Permanent Secretary and nothing would have been more grotesque or a greater caricature of the person who Mervyn ultimately could become and finally came to be, than that.

Mervyn's life and career after he left university, stands in sharp contrast to his life as an undergraduate. It was as if embers that had been smouldering and spluttering for four years at university, finally ignited and burst into flames. His career as a journalist, as a literary critic, as a satirist, as a political commentator, as a broadcaster, both within the country and abroad, is without peer, either before or since and is not likely to be equalled for a long time to come, if at all.

What or who catalysed the chaotic undergraduate Mervyn into the top class journalist and internationally recognised commentator? Who or what caused those spluttering embers to come alive? First, I think it was his wife, Lakshmi who throughout his career, more than anyone or any circumstance, provided Mervyn with an anchor and a point of reference, who supplied the cohesion and the focus that he lacked throughout his time at university. She was always there for him and he hardly travelled abroad without her and quite literally he was lost without her. Lakshmi must have been a woman of extraordinary patience and a fathomless capacity for understanding and love! Second, it was his work itself that re-integrated Mervyn. Aspiring to be the Editor of the Daily News and the Chief Editor at Lake House, on the strength of his obvious merits and excellence rather than on the basis of preferment, provided the focus for his energies and a reference point for his life.

Once I passed into the Civil Service and Mervyn into journalism, it was right and proper that we should keep within our respective boundaries and so it was that we kept a safe distance from each other. I recognised his right to criticise and lampoon me which he did quite regularly with all the zest born of interactions from the past. However, after my wife and I relocated to the UK, Mervyn and Lakshmi would often contact us when they came to London and come round for a meal. It also gave me great pleasure to help raise funds for running the Guardian.

I would like to end this piece on a personal note. I have written this evaluation of Mervyn de Silva's university years on the invitation of his son Dayan Jayatilleke who was keen to have on record an account his father's time at the university written by someone who had been with him throughout the four years. Apparently I am the last of those who were close to Mervyn throughout his time at Thurstan Rd as well as at Peradeniya. As can be expected, like all such evaluations and reminiscences, mine has been a subjective one, my view of Mervyn being framed within my own values and standards. It should therefore be self evident that such personal and anecdotal accounts cannot lay claim to objectivity. Besides, I have had to trawl my memory for 50 years to resurrect events and incidents which had begun to fade at the edges. It is entirely conceivable that someone else who shared those four years with Mervyn might have seen him completely differently.

In a sense we are all trapped within our respective perceptions which in turn are shaped by our own value systems. Therefore I would ask that this be borne in mind when making judgements about Mervyn on the basis of what I have written. Making judgements about anyone tells us as much about the judge as about the one in the dock.

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