Making a sincere attempt to bring an unimagined and unexplored treasure trove of modern Sinhala literature to the English reading community, Montage is bringing Mahinda Prasad Masimbula’s award winning novel ‘Senkottan’ translated by
Malinda Seneviratne, veteran journalist, writer and poet.
‘Senkottan’ (The Indelible), a remarkable creation of literature by Mahinda Prasad Masimbula was his debut effort in his literary career for which he won the State Literary Award in 2013 and short-listed in Swarna Pusthaka Literary Awards and many other Literary Award Festivals in the same year. The book has been published by Santhawa Publishers and ‘Senkottan’ has blazed the trail in the self-publishing industry as one of the best-selling books in Sinhala literature.
-Third episode
‘Please, most virtuous upasaka mahattayo, it would be an honour if you would accept this blade of mine. This is my grandson….if it so happens that some merit accrues to him, that would be all that I desire.’
He was thus diffident only on account of what he had experienced in his life previously in such situations. It was only in matters concerning human society that he was wont to second guess himself constantly. It didn’t happen when he worked in the paddy field leased from the village headman promising to offer one half of the harvest. Not when he stepped into the peththere and spent entire days scrubbing soiled clothes. Not when he set fire to the wellaava to boil the clothes. Not when he ironed hundreds of pieces of cloth with the coconut shell iron, folded and kept them away neatly. However, the insults and dismissals he had to suffer in important collective efforts inflicted pain that was by no means easy to bear.
The most recent of these which came to mind had in fact happened two or three weeks at this very same township as he was returning home with his wife, Malma Ridee, following the completion of all rites and rituals associated with a girl in Kosnathota attaining puberty. He carried the bundle of white cloth as well as a bag of sweetmeats while Malma Ridee carried on her head the bundle of soiled clothes and various knickknacks. They had not paused for rest until they reached Godakawela where they decided to stop for a while, relieving themselves of their burdens, laying the bundles on the floor of the frontal area of a shop. The wicked woman in that retail shop began berating them as though they were a couple of dogs. The woman, having insulted them in the foulest of language about bringing to her doorsteps the despoiled clothes of various young girls, kicked Malma Ridee’s bundle onto the street.
A sharp stab of pain burnt through Weerappuli Henaya’s heart when he noticed that Malma Ridee’s eyes were suddenly moist.
He decided never to stop in that township ever again, but he was unable to ignore or let pass the good deed unfolding before his eyes this day. He acutely felt the abiding uncertainty which made his heart tremble. He wasn’t sure after all that he would miss out on this meritorious opportunity simply because of its magnificent scale.
The junior upasaka who held in his hand a strip of white paper on which the names of the generous were written down neatly, took the knife and asked for the name and address, ‘let’s hear the nam-gam.’ By this time those who had through contribution already become stakeholders of the meritorious act were here and there basking in the joy of the fact of giving. Most of them gravitated towards the senior upasaka who alone was responsible for having provided them with this rare opportunity to acquire merit.
Weerappuli Henaya saw all this. He hesitated and then murmured his young grandson’s name.
‘The little one’s name is Baba Henaya,’ he mentioned the name and cast a glance at the upasaka that was innocent but tinged with resignation.
‘We cannot have this meritorious effort of such great magnitude sullied in any way. You people go from house to house where puberty rituals are done. This is where kill takes root,’ he pointed out, referring to the notion of desecration by the contamination of impurities.
‘Wait a bit, I will go ask our elder upasaka mahattaya,’ he continued and went towards his senior companion.
It was as the entire earth had paused for a moment. That immense dismissal which he had experienced several times he once again felt through those he loved and served.
He could see through the crowd of people the junior upasaka inquiring something from the elder upasaka and the latter nonchalantly rejecting whatever was proposed. Weerappuli Henaya felt an immense pity for his entire clan. The young upasaka was making his way back to the cart. Weerappuli Henaya was no longer interested in whatever he had to say. He felt his own face dissolving. Finally, he felt it would be best that whatever had to be said would be said with kindness. The younger upasaka didn’t even cast a glance his way.
‘Our leader upasaka is not agreeable,’ he said and continued on his way towards the cart.
Weerappuli Henayadid not hear anything of the loud and long speech that the elder upasaka delivered, sated as he was with the hospitality accorded at Peter’s boutique. He reflected on Anuradhapura and the Ruwanweli Seya and with utmost veneration touched the brass items in the cart and brought his hands together in worship. He then lifted Kuda Baba Henaya so that he too could do likewise, touch and worship. The carter had by this time led the bullocks from the water and was harnessing them to the cart. Weerappuli Henaya concluded that being denied the opportunity to partake of this great meritorious act was the most severe defeat he had experienced in his life thus far. The crowd dissolved into a blurred picture.
The cart then took off in the midst of loud chants of appreciation.
“Why wasn’t our knife accepted, Seeye?” Kuda Baba Henaya inquired. Weerappuli Henaya did not respond.
‘Let’s go, boy,’ he said, picked up the large bundle of clothes and tossed it over his shoulder. Baba Henaya, following suit, did the same with his smaller bundle. It was a sack that his grandfather had made for him, almost as though it was a toy he could play with.
He loved it. He dreamt of a day when he would be as good as his grandfather was, as accomplished a launderer. He wanted to be like his grandfather, a man who had won the trust of clients by the dint of excellent service. He already helped by squeezing out the water and stacking the washed and ironed clothes. He pleased his grandfather and his grandmother, Malma Ridee, helping them by neatly marking clothes with senkottan juice. As for Weerappuli Henaya, he wanted nothing for himself, but hoped to do whatever was necessary to shower this little child with merit so that if not in this lifetime then in a later bhavaya he would not be afflicted by the disease called class distinction which pervaded this cruel society. Nevertheless, the uncertainty which had taken root in his mind began to turn sour.
His grandfather had never been this silent in their travels. He would teach him many things about faraway villages, the foliage around them, their clan and their ancestors. There were times when he would break into songs with strange lyrics. Near Peter’s hopper boutique he once murmured thus into his ear:
‘At the boutique offering hoppers, oil cakes, strings and pittu
one has to watch one’s mouth for if not, trouble there would be.’
He sang this to a distinct beat. And then, while passing a tract of paddy he sang thus:
‘From the Gane Walawwa where gratitude is scarce
to de-husk the paddy did a message arrive
nothing for the work did I in return receive
drawn and quartered may that lady be.’
After leaving Godakawela, there was nothing of this kind. Heen Baba Henaya pondered this change as he picked up round stones along the road to Galahitiya and tossing them into his folded sarong. This was the ammunition he would later use with his catapult, to target bats that came to feast on the cashew tree in their garden. His father would help him in this.
Weerappuli Henaya was greatly disillusioned. He wished they would not meet anyone on their way.
It would have been so much better if they could take some path through the jungle where no one ever goes, he thought to himself. He felt an urgent need to meet Guna Ralahamy and appraise him of all that had transpired. Weerappuli Henaya liked immensely the way in which Guna Ralahamy alleviated his worries. Guna Ralahamy knew much and understood situations like this.
He felt he ought to have said the child’s name was Baba Signor and not Baba Henaya. However, he had heard in the word of the Buddha that it was wrong to utter untruths. One half of the name would be correct, but he knew that the other half would have been a lie. When you are deliberately deceitful, it rancors in the mind, this he knew.
This disappointment is better than such unwholesome and troubling thoughts. The Buddha would know the truth, whatever those arrogant and proud people did. Buduhaamuduruwo has on numerous occasions offered succour to children from the lower castes.
‘Aathe,we have run out of senkottan haven’t we?’ Kuda Banda Henaya asked suddenly.
‘We passed the township, little one…there must be some back at home which we can use.’
Then he fell silent once again and continued their journey towards Rideevita.
[Chapter 1 concluded]