Can memories be boxed in a book?

Perhaps feeling sorry for me that I have nothing to do after retirement, an agency keeps sending me books for review. To use a big word I am rather magnanimous in the reviews of these books penned in English. That is taking into cognizance all the toil and trouble an inhabitant in the developing world goes through to master the global language not encompassing those who own it as a legacy, but are stranded here. It is very easy to put a cross here and there as in a school boy's essay. But think of the background world indulged in by the writer. Of course the content matters more.

The topics vary and so does the impact it has on the reviewer. Say, "The campaign against the mosquito menace". You can go to sleep on it despite its informative aspect. "The water beds of Sri Lanka" is much more soul-stirring. When it comes to creative writing works, some fun begins. And the reviewer gets some mental satisfaction other than the financial remittance. You get bogged in curiosity as to who the writer is, as interest in the book gets enhanced.

Remember the author's name is erased off in these books so that their fame if any would not carry away the reviewer. Nor their incognito status prejudice him or her in a negative way.

But the very absence of the author's name and address leads to a fun game. Sri Lanka is a small country and its English creative writers are few and far between thanks or no thanks to the lopping off of the imperialist system of education. Hence expatriates who get a brushing off with English language and culture dominate the field. The more four letter words they, use nearer are they to awards. So those who manage to run up to catch the attention of the mighty agency diminishes in number annually.

Queer characters

Anyway remember that locating the writer or the locality that provides the background to the story is not expected of the reviewer. But there are some queer characters like me, who go "the extra mile".

Having lived a good part of life in the upcountry terrain the place is dear to me. The indigenous customs and folklore and folkdrama usually staged in local amphitheatres keep me in thrall never getting obliterated by the Colombo traffic. I will never forget the day I hung on to my father's hand and witnessed a spectacular show where a barren woman from South India (Tamil Nadu?) sails here with her husband to consult a famous, but one-eyed Veda Rala.

She does get impregnated finally, gods know how, the elders of course understood it judging by their Haas and Haaws, but never did I. I asked mother on my return, how it all happened and the only response was her having it out with father for taking me to see such vile shows. But yet it remained in my mind, especially the main actress, hips and breasts swinging, so coy and beautiful, a long pottu on her forehead. Things became more curious when father announced that the role of this woman was played by a man.

If women are given roles in the drama the whole troupe gets subject to Kili Dosha. My father adds to the fury of my mother by saying that the Veda Rala though one-eyed is one red blooded Kukula who has added a Sinhala to the Dravidian population an issue that Tamil Nadu could take up even today! But I am straying away from my main theme which is gods! My memories of the geographical aspect of the Kandyan terrain are growing dim. But I did not give up. It was the second day I asked my visitor from Talawakelle, an ardent fan of "My Musings".

Obsession

"Why are you so obsessed with this place? I cannot much remember. But there is a track from the level crossing at Peradeniya and you may enter your Eldorado".

Really it was no Eldorado or Shangrila of mine. But the place entranced me. But no human did help me. So I opened my Internet, pressed some keys with very little hope and behold, there appeared in big letters, a popular residential resort of Kandy".

Only that a map just appeared and disappeared.

So B... has zoomed to cyber publicity. But in the years that were trapped into the book, it was typical primeval territory, all the feudal customs intact. Mothers who had just delivered babies were given baths in six leaf concoctions and smouldering smoke from braziers full of kattakumanjal warmed their privy parts. Smell of garlic was all over. Grandchildren walked around the tombstones of their grandparents as dusk gathered and worshipped their disappeared souls. Just a few steps away pure crystal water tumbled down from hilly slopes carrying secrets from days of yore, when kings fought with invaders for the preservation of Lanka's sovereignty.

This then was B... now perhaps turned into a tourist complex Did the Korale Mahattaya's abode itself change faces? This is where he sat and meted out justice. His granddaughters would peep in from corners as the Korale served justice or injustice as fancy took him. There were no legal manuals. Then years passed and came modern times when the grandchildren would make use of the accumulated wealth of generations and do world tours. That is much later. Before that they would be in the Mecca of pleasure seekers, city of Colombo, attending turtories and what not, to be preened for Western life or US life, the further Mecca.

Colombo

And the mother would visit them by train carrying the very durable Kuruni Pettiya, a box made out of bamboo, stalks or "pan", that was filled with all the village eatables. The kavun, kokis, the halwa, topped with kadju, leaf packed halape, polos curry, the ala temparadu and the vambutu achcharu will be all there. The ageing and widowed Menike cannot go alone for tickets have to be collected, so Sauris Banda will trot along like a packed donkey till they caught the train. As to how they managed at Colombo Fort with all that paraphernalia, only the gods know, for we have come onto the second half of the 20th century and the city was already seething with mankind.

Can memories like this be boxed in a book like the Kandyan sweetmeats in the Kuruni Pettiya? That is the cleverness of the writer. Perhaps the writer himself or herself has not gone through such experiences but heard it all from others born and bred on Kandyan soil. That makes the writer even more clever.

But gods! Just where is B... and what is it now? Has its old face got completely extinguished? It haunts me thanks or no thanks to a clever pen.

Have I gone beyond the reviewer's role? It bothers me a bit. But I have shielded the name of the book just as Sokari did shield her or his sex in that haunting drama played in a valley steeped in the hills of distant Padiyapelella off Mathurata.