"Daniel" by Angelo Pereira

Angelo Pereira always loved plays. He was never an actor or director of any sort, but grabbed every chance to see theatrical productions.

“I learnt a lot by watching,” he says. “I learnt a lot about plots, and about acting and directing.”

It is not a surprise, then, that into his twenties, whenever he re-read a familiar story from the bible, play-scripts just seemed to present themselves to Pereira. He took one of his completed scripts to his good friend Dominic Kellar from Pussweddilla fame, in 2011. And in December of that year, they produced “Star of Wonder” based on the story of the magi who were at Christ’s birth.

At the first staging, glancing through the audience, Pereira was surprised to realize that most of the spectators were “people not from the church and not [his] friends”. Word had got out and the play made a small hit.

And now, the events might just be about to repeat themselves. Albeit on a much grander scale.

Although “Daniel” is only the first major theatrical production of a work by young playwright Angelo Pereira, the enthusiasm behind the (literal and figurative) scenes signals much more than that. Pereira has well-known names like Jerome de Silva, Domini Kellar and Dhanan Senathirajah backing him up on a maiden project that could be the beginnings of a legacy.

The story of the play begins with Dhanan Senathirajah. Head of Finance and Planning at NDB by day, he is bible teacher on the weekends. And by night he writes. Bringing his father’s love for history, his mother’s love of God and 30 years of bible-teaching experience together, Senathirajah wrote “Daniel out of His Comfort Zone” in 2011. The book contextualizes, historically and psychologically, the biblical tale of Daniel who was thrown in the lion’s den.

Pereira had heard of Senathirajah long before 2011, so on a whim, he decided to go for the launch of “Daniel out of His Comfort Zone”.

“It was completely random,” Pereira says, “I had decided not to go, but ultimately went and even got myself a book.”

From there, the history and psychology had him hooked.

“Even while he was reading the book, [Pereira] would call me after finishing each chapter and tell me he was inspired and touched by it,” Senathirajah says.

So when, after finishing the book, Pereira suggested a play based on it, Senathirajah was ready to go. The author calls the playwright “quite brilliant”, and true to the compliment, Pereira finished the first draft of “Daniel” in what Senethirajah says was “a matter of days”.

Senethirajah was so excited to see the text of the play that he read and edited it while walking through airport terminals. And then a bigger idea started whispering.

Another pleasant surprise on Senathirajah’s list of diverse commitments is the Christian Arts Foundation (CHRAFT). And of course, he is good pals with Jerome de Silva. Here is possibly the highest accomplished English theatre director in Sri Lanka to date, and a fresh script by a passionate young writer. The rest is probably history.

Jerome de Silva “jumped at the idea” of producing Pereira’s script, Senathirajah says.

“There is so much of drama in the Bible!” de Silva enthuses. “I find it fascinating, the process of turning a bible story in to a drama.”

De Silva was, in fact, still in that very process with “Jesus Christ Superstar” when Senathirajah told him about “Daniel”. He was familiar with the story, and had already directed a musical version of it, so he took the project on with no hesitation, knowing what energy and potential it held.

From that point forward, it has been a revelatory experience for Pereira.

“Jerome is phenomenal,” the playwright says. “When I finished editing the script, I handed it over to him and told him now it’s his turn, my work is done.”

Pereira, in what appears to be a characteristically unassuming fashion, is now caught up in the production just as any other spectator would be. His eyes light up as he describes his emotions at seeing what de Silva is doing with his script, with literal showers of Nebuchadnezzar’s gold, and silent sinister smiles that say so much more than just the words on the page.

“There are elements of horror in the story which I never foresaw,” Pereira continues in disbelief. “But when I see the actors...” he trails off, lost for words.

The four main roles in the production are all played by Muslim actors, a fact that may come as a surprise to some. But for Pereira it is an encouraging opportunity to “learn from each other” and grow together, discovering that despite coming from different backgrounds, they are “on the same page”.

The rest of the cast of “Daniel” is a combination of new as well as familiar faces. Some of the actors, like Niren Ranasinghe (playing Nebuchadnezzar), are those who have already been a part of major theatrical productions. Senathirajah, the author of “Daniel out of His Comfort Zone”, the book on which the play is based, is also part of the cast. Many others are products of the Annual Interschool Shakespeare Drama Competition, and people that the director, de Silva, has been looking forward to working with.

Such a cast, under the guidance of Jerome de Silva, is bringing to life the horror and glamour of Daniel’s story. A story written with the simple and earnest pen of a young writer, Angelo Pereira, reflecting Senathirajah’s love of God and history. “Daniel” could be an unforgettable moment in Sri Lanka’s history of English theatre.

Don’t miss it!

Garrison Cemetery

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On the North end of the Bogambara lake is the hot-bed of Kandyan history. The Sri Dalada Maligawa, the old Courts Complex, St. Paul’s Church, the museum and the Queen’s Hotel all lie clustered together here. And in their midst, nestled against a hillside, lies the British Garrison Cemetery, almost forgotten.

From its establishment in 1822, this cemetery was the designated final resting place of many British and European greats from Sri Lanka’s colonial era. Despite the 1873 ban on burials within the municipal limits, special provision were made to allow relatives of those already laid there to be buried in the 3/4 acre plot. Then after Annie Fritz’s burial in 1951, even death seems to have died to the Garrison cemetery.

But Charles Carmichael, the 62 year-old caretaker at the grounds for the last 16-plus years, still lives.  And he lives to tell it’s tale to any and all who give ear, be it a simple gardener or the crown prince of the United Kingdom.

Carmichael was working on a building site at Primrose Hill in 1997. The site happened to be the home of Durand Goonetilleke's brother. Goonetilleke was (and still is) a trustee at St. Paul's Church in Kandy, which is the custodian of the British Garrison Cemetery. At the time, schools, businesses and local government were preparing with great enthusiasm to celebrate Sri Lanka's 50th independence anniversary, and the arrival of Prince Charles of Wales for the occasion. On the prince's itinerary was a visit to the old commonwealth burial grounds.

Unfortunately, the cemetery wasn't exactly a pleasing sight.

"It was like a big jungle," Carmichael is unmoved at the memory. "Everything was down, graves were broken. I think during the perahera time elephants had also been kept here."

Archived images of the pre-restoration cemetery hang in the caretaker's office, telling a ghastly story of disrepair. Gravestones and monuments lie in bits and pieces, all over the grounds, stealthily but violently taken over by weeds and mana. The cemetery's British origins probably made it a favorite site of grave robbers. And if the scores of monkeys rioting on the premises even with four or five gardeners and a backhoe making a commotion are any indicator in 2013, their ancestors have left them a legacy and heritage here too.

Goonetilleke signed Carmichael on to undo the damage. It took a whole year with 20 people working day in and day out to restore the place. The broken gravestones had to be pieced back together, the demolished marble and granite replaced with bricks and mortar. But they made do. On what date? the restoration project was completed and celebrated in the presence of British parliamentarians, and arrangements were finalized for Prince Charles' visit.

On January 25, 1998, days before the celebrations, a bomb-blast shook Kandy's relative isolation from LTTE activity, causing damage to some of the city's best known historic sites. Prince Charles never arrived, but Charles Carmichael had found a permanent job as caretaker of the cemetery.

"There were no people around, and it was difficult," Carmichael remembers his first few months of work. "But I started taking walks in the area, and I got used to it."

Carmichael's regular days are easy going. He opens up the gates at the end of the long windy road past the Cultural Triangle Office, at 8am, and gets to whatever maintenance work must be done. Then he must employ himself until late in the evening, around 6pm, when he closes up and makes his way home to his wife, children and grandchildren. In between, he's got himself JP Lewis’s 'List of Inscriptions on Tombstones and Monuments in Ceylon’ to keep him occupied. Over the years, Carmichael has read, learnt, filled the gaps in, and internalized the stories of those long gone, who travelled thousands of miles over weeks and months, lived a hard life in an alien environment, and died far from home.

Now when visitors arrive at the British Garrison Cemetery, Carmichael gives them an insider's tour of the nearly 200 graves. When Prince Charles of Wales finally visited the British Garrison Cemetery in Kandy, on November 16, 2013, 15 years after the original tour date, he did it again.

"I consider him a regular tourist," Carmichael shrugs, "except I had change the words a bit, add a 'Your Majesty' or a 'Your Highness' here and there!"

Captain James McGlashan was the first dead person the prince was introduced to.

McGlashan, Carmichael says, was a distinguished soldier who made a name for himself in many battles. There are question about who this McGlashan really was and where he really fought, but one thing is for sure; he was somewhat reckless. The story goes that, confident of his physical prowess, McGlashan accepted a wager, and walked from Trincomalee to Kandy. On the way, he was drenched continuously in the tropical rains, and four days after his arrival in the city, forced to accept his fate at the hands of a violent fever.

"He won the bet, but he lost his life," Carmichael shrugs, bemused.

If the records are correct, McGlashan was 26 when he died. And if the records are correct, many others of those buried here died that young.

Alice Higgs, wife of Francis Wharton Le Marchand, died on January 24, 1859, giving birth to her first child. She was 20. A brochure printed by the Friends of the British Garrison Cemetery says John Robertson was the seventh and last recorded European to be killed by a wild elephant in then Ceylon. Robertson was 33 years old, possibly out hunting, when the elephant gave chase. Reports are divided but he was either killed by the creature or all the running caused sunstroke that led to his death.

Having dwelt in these stories for years, Carmichael has earned some license with them, and guesses that "maybe he was fat" and just almost laughs as he says it.

Others have died at 35, 30, 27 and a William Sydney Smith "21 years and 9 months" as one inscription reads. It hints at a bittersweet awareness that one pays in some way or the other for the privileges of a colonial life in the tropics.

William Elleray, surgeon, died at 33. "How could the others have survived?" Carmichael asks, half joking, but evidently stumped.

Worse still is a memorial stone erected in the memory of the "five infant sons" of "G and M Wait." But Carmichael knows the story is not as sad as it seems; there were 14 children in that family, he says.

And in the stillness of the midday sun, the weathered caretaker still has stories left to tell, all heart-filling in some way.

Margaret Griegson knew at 69 that she didn't have much time left. She was determined to see her son, serving on the forces in Ceylon, one last time before she quit the earth. So she boarded a ship at London, survived the trip to the tropics, and after three or four blissful months spent living her final wish, died where her child was.

Not much is known of Oteline Rudd except that she died at 37 years, and that she was the wife of William Rudd, a wealthy merchant. Carmichael says our own Robin Hood, the well-known Saradiyel once decided Rudd's treasure was extravagant enough to deserve his attention and plunder. He imagines the robbery "didn't even touch Rudd" who, it is said, owned whole mountain ranges and provinces in India and Sri Lanka. But as many great men have fallen, it is also said of him that he was ultimately not left with a chair in his name to sit on.

It is hard, very hard indeed, to imagine the richness of the history that lies buried in the grounds of the British Garrison Cemetery. Some are tales of simple folk, some of such greats as John D’Oyly, John Frasier and Lady Elizabeth Gregory. Carmichael loves telling their stories, and teaches them to 22 year-old Harsha who he believes will take his place when it comes his turn to live on the other side of the grass. But not many venture their way.

As the sun sets on the hills, Charles Carmichael locks up the small wrought-iron gate, closes up the caretaker’s office and prepares to leave. He walks down the windy road, freshly-tarred for Prince Charles’ visit, making a wish: “that more people will come tomorrow.”

Profile: Antonio Ciocia and Santore

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Antonio Ciocia first arrived in Sri Lanka in 2005, as Head of Security at the Italian Embassy in Colombo. The first four years he spent on the island were so good that in January 2011, a few months after leaving and trying to build a life in Cape Verde, he gave up and came back.

For two whole years, Ciocia scouted Colombo for the right location for a restaurant.

“It’s not easy, especially if you don’t know the place,” he shakes his head. “In the beginning I started to go by taxi, then tuk-tuk” he laughs, “then walking.”

His searches turned up nothing.

Then less than six months ago, a friend told him about the Sri Lanka Tennis Association. The administration was looking for someone to run a cafe on the premises, so Ciocia went and checked it out. It was dirty, but he loved the floor and the garden space. It clicked.

Things were suddenly on a roll, so as he began working on the renovation of the space, Ciocia got in touch with his brother back in Bari, Italy. He had found the house, but how does one run a restaurant without a chef? Ciocia’s brother had already heard about a young genius who made “fantastic” pizza and so he went to Kintamari and put the idea to Domenico Capodiferro.

Capodiferro, a third generation chef, was already in his element at a bustling pizzeria, but a matter of days later, he called back to say he was in. Santore got born.

In the two months since Capodiferro arrived in Sri Lanka, Ciocia’s introduced him to the people and places that made him fall in love with the island.  They have become close and developed a good relationship. Ciocia believes Capodiferro will be here “forever”.

Ciocia has spent a fair amount of time rendezvousing at restaurants in Rome and understands that being a chef is a lot more organizing and managing work than it looks like. He also appreciates the huge risk the 23-year-old chef has taken, leaving behind a job in Italy during a financial crisis. Ciocia takes the responsibility seriously, not just for Capodiferro, but the whole staff that works with him, and it is unlikely the restaurant will dwindle to a mere business.

Pizza is their pride, and the Italian wood-oven takes centre-stage at Santore. Their Santore, four-cheese and spicy Diavola pizzas have so far been the biggest hits, Ciocia says. They also have a comprehensive anti-pasta, pasta and salad menu including sharing options, starting at Rs.700. The pizzas come to your table piping hot with a crispy crust burnt just right, and the pastas are wonderfully flavoured.

Their aged cheeses and preserved fruits and vegetables all come from Italy. Ciocia is worried that Mozzarella will not do well travelling such distance, so he gets it fresh from Italians who make it in Sri Lanka. And when 

Capodiferro arrives to start the evening’s work, he walks in carrying bags of fresh vegetables. The young chef takes special pride in making his grandmother’s famous chocolate biscuit pudding, and the decadent cashew, chocolate Santore special as part of the South Italian desserts menu. There is obviously a lot of care and passion behind the restaurant, and this, more than the “Italianness” of it all, is what makes the food as “authentic” as it gets.

Ashok Ferry is one who is “absolutely a pizza person” as long as it’s authentic. At the jam-packed soft launch for the restaurant on October 11, he puts his thumb and forefinger together and yells “superb!” over the hubbub as he fights for his second slice of pizza. The place is buzzing.

“I am a party person. I love parties,” Ciocia smiles.

When he lived and worked in Sri Lanka from 2005 to 2009, Ciocia hosted a couple of parties ... every week. 

He remembers having over 150 people at his home once, and guests queuing in the kitchen at 9p.m. on the dot. The food was out in half an hour.

At the soft launch, people are jostling to get their hands on even a slice of pizza and prettily dressed young ladies are unelegantly stretching cheese strings across tables. Ciocia walks over to crazy-busy Capodiferro at the pizza bar and starts saying “please” for a slice when another man informs him angrily, “Hey! I was here first”.

“And I’m the owner!” Ciocia laughs.

Rest assured, it is the most relaxing place. The atmosphere is nice and the colour-tones warm. The bar is more modern and cooler, which, though it might not work artistically, is a good picture of the informality of the place. You go here for good food and fun, no pressure. There are little clay lanterns bordering the garden, giving off a soft glow in the evening. The furniture is very simple, plain wooden chairs and tables with minimal decor. Inside, the floor is the old red tile that the architects wanted to remove during renovation, but Ciocia liked too much to change. The place is just cosy. It’s easy to imagine that this is an Italian home where everybody is talking at the same time and there is too much food on the table and enough laughter to fuel the oven.

And if you’re not in for a full South Italian meal, in a few weeks, Santore will be a great place for winding down on a weeknight. The rooftop is currently bare, but Ciocia has plans for a Mediterranean bar. And there’s not much sounds better than a plain old pizza party under the stars.

MemoryScape: Layla Gonaduwa

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Both the woman and the art are like the hair. There’s shape to the short-ish style, but a few flyaway strands get caught in her fingers. It’s black, like everyone else’s, but the highlights wink a little “colour”, and if you look closely enough, a grey strand here and there will tell you she’s given life something to reckon with.

Layla Gonaduwa, self-labelled “inspirationalist” and artist, is showcasing her latest solo work, a collection of 30 wall installations in copper and enamel at the Barefoot Gallery, from October 5 to 15. The exhibition, titled ‘MemoryScape’, is what she sees as the beginning of a backward-autobiographical process.

“It’s some part of letting go,” she explains, “but also definitely an embracing and coming to terms with.”

Each piece in the collection is inspired by a distinct and intensely personal memory from the past two years or so.

“It might be difficult for people to figure out what I’m trying to say, but to me, it’s definitely snapshots of moments in my life.”

While her previous dream-inspired exhibition was more 3D, in the artist’s words, this is “more flat”.

“There is no case of interpreting it in a different way ... Maybe not for the viewer, but for me, there is no room to go anywhere else. There is no room to change colour or design, it will always be that for me.”

Knowing the exact memory the pieces spring from, imbues the colours, textures and other details with greater significance for the viewer. All the more so, since the installations are very much a literal translation of visual and auditory memory to visual and tactile symbols. One does not need a sophisticated understanding of line and light to interpret the collection. But this literalness also opens the possibility of making things concrete.

Needless to say, Gonaduwa is bold. Her glittering pottu and nose-stud testify to that. The current collection grew out of diary-entry like pieces of writing that she scrawled randomly, making it a huge emotional investment. She is not sure how she will deal with a public response and therefore it seems necessary to cement her art in this way.

The collection is also intentionally colourful, because, as she puts it, laughing, “I’ve had a very colourful life!”

With each set of pieces, Gonaduwa exhibits the writing that inspired it. Again, snapshots, abstract, but not too obscure.

“I have kept this [project] very close to my heart,” she admits. “My kids have seen some of it, but otherwise I’ve been very closed with this.”

As the project is very personal, so is the process of producing it.

“It’s an intensely physical process,” she enthuses, “and that physicalness is addictive.”

Gonaduwa works with a 50-year-old electric kiln. Once in her studio for the day, she switches it on, and while it heats up to around 1700 degrees Celcius, works through the concepts for the pieces. She first fires the copper sheet and then plunges it in water, to purify it, repeating the process until she’s happy with how it looks. Then she lays powdered glass on the copper and fires it again. This is the tricky part.

When the glass powder is laid on, Gonaduwa knows how she wants the colours and the textures to materialize. But they don’t always come out how she plans, so she’s apprehensive until she sees the final creation.

On the flip side, “there is always the chance that things might come out better than you expected” she laughs.

The glass is fired repeatedly and layer upon layer of powder applied until the depth of colour and texture she wants are achieved or even approached. In the process, the copper and glass layers are also infused into each other. Sometimes she adds fabrics, precious metals and other organic materials to the pieces as she works. The final result is a sheet of glittering, textured, patterned, brilliantly coloured glass on copper. 

These sheets are laid out, in linear progression, like mosaic tiles, to tell the story of each memory.

Through great physical exertion, she has forged a technically innovative visual representation of the electro-chemical patterns in her brain. The collection is more the artist than one might expect. The installations are uniform frames of tradition barely containing rebelliously brilliant colours that mask, if only minimally, depth and sometimes rough texture.

Layla Gonaduwa is an artist and single mother of two children without whom she would be “nothing”.

The exhibition is ultimately a flamboyant display of maternity and femininity forged, literally, in fire, declaring “look at me, this is who I am.”

“And who I am, constantly changes” she laughs.

MemoryScape is open for public viewing at the Barefoot Gallery from October 5 to October 15.

Book Review: Bernie Hay

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She writes about growing up in convents in the hill country decades ago. She must be one of those delicately built, demure ladies in a nondescript sari, with graying hair pulled neatly into a bun at the back of her head.

Not so.

Bernie Hay launched her second book, “Love, Learning and Laughter” on Saturday, September 7. The title seems incongruous in a current context, but the book and the author both surprise, and a meaningful book launch seemed to say there is much hope for the future.

“Love, Learning and Laughter” traces Hay’s experiences from childhood to her teenage and early adult years spent primarily at St. Agnes’ Convent, Matale and Good Shepherd Convent, Kandy. It is in fact a collection of articles previously published in The Sunday Times and The Sunday Island, with some tweaking.

The book is organized as a series of brief images into the life and thinking of a shepherdess-in-the-making. Hay shows us a fressh seven-year-old boarder’s sincere astonishment with the fact that nuns have toes and relates with disbelieving laughter, a nine-year-old girl’s earnest prayer as regards feminine lingerie. She writes simply, earnestly, enticingly.

But a collection of this sort that is lucid and yet tongue-in-cheek does not come by easily. It is mostly the product of what Rev. Mary Gertrude, Principal of Good Shepherd Convent, Kandy (and guest of honour at the launch), called a “bygone era” when love and laughter did in fact encompass learning. As Hay demonstrates in her writing, the mischief of their childhood equipped her with a full knowledge of the range of suitable punishments. But the deeper understanding she is left with is that the sisters that punished her loved her, and were ever ready to laugh at her escapades.

As Chief Guest at the launch, Rev. Stephen Abraham, past principal of St. Anthony’s College, Kandy pointed out, such a learning environment is rare in the current context. “Tutories” have replaced traditional schools, and our systems are producing “learned monsters” instead of educated human-beings, he said. “Teachers are potters... lamps to help illuminate the darkness of ignorance.”

Hay is proof of the old-fashioned attitude to teaching as moulding life. She enjoyed her “convent days” and then went on to the University of Peradeniya, received a M. Phil in Education (Linguistics) from the University of Colombo, taught at prestigious institutions around the country and abroad, and has been published in the Asia Reader’s Digest.

The sincerity and truth of Rev. Abraham’s address echoed that of the book and the launching ceremony. “Love, Learning and Laughter” being about young shepherdesses, it was fitting that it was in fact young shepherdesses that ran the evening. Thurumi Rathnayake, Shehani Wijewardena and Karen Tennakoon, students from the two convents, read and even sang excerpts from the two books with skill and enthusiasm that held the gathering enrapt. Their voices rang of a genuine relationship with the text which could only spring from an understanding of the experiences it related. And that spoke volumes of the school days they still have to grasp and make something of.

Principal of St. Agnes’ Convent, Matale, Rev. Mary Dilrukshi expressed her hope that “Love, Learning and Laughter” would be an inspiration to current and future generations of shepherdesses. Hay is of the same mind.

Nothing of what we imagined, she wears a loose leopard-print blouse over black slacks and deep red lipstick, and sports a short crop of jet-black hair. The author and her book are as surprising to us, as life was to her. Standing at the podium at the Good Shepherd Convent Main Hall, Bernie Hay remembers the dreams she dreamt in that very place, many many years ago.

“Some of those dreams were realized, some sadly not. But amazingly, some things I never dreamt of happened. So go on dreaming, girls...”

*“Love, Learning and Laughter” and Bernie Hay’s first book, “Lives that Touched My Own” are both available at Sarasavi Bookstores.

Pearl Stephen: A Global Legacy

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It was impossible for the woman to keep this beautiful 8-month-old boy. The girl-child was her original burden, and their father, for all his “love,” wasn't going to provide for illegitimate children. He had another family to take care of. She was helpless.

Then someone told her she should go to Kandy town and find the wife of a certain pastor. They told her she would help.

The woman was sitting with her child in the Kandy City Mission lobby when the pastor’s daughter walked in. The 16-year-old girl couldn't think of a single thing more delightful than a baby at home, so she connived and cajoled and finally convinced her mother to take the baby in.

So began the story of Pearl Stephen's legacy.

Pearl Stephen was a remarkable woman, an award-winning social worker and activist. She was best known as the founder-director of the Women’s Development Center which has strengthened thousands of underprivileged women and children all across Sri Lanka. Yet her greatness lay not in what she did, but who she was.

The night Pearl gave in to her daughter Shanthi’s pleas, the baby refused to take a bottle. The child’s screams of hunger echoed through the house, punctuated by the scoldings of Pearls’ husband and Shanthi’s father, Rev. George Stephen.

“We didn’t know what to do,” Shanthi, now Thilakaratne, half-laughs, half-cries. “So we did the only thing we could think of. We prayed.”

Eventually, the baby became an inseparable part of the family. More and more destitute women began to show up looking for the Madam who would somehow help, and Pearl just kept taking them in.

“We used to joke that it was like living at the Fort Railway Station,” her older son, Frank Stephen, reminisces. “Sometimes at breakfast I didn’t know who I was eating with. And sometimes I was even angry about it.”

People from all walks of life were in and out of their home. But when the number of children living in the manse got out of control, Pearl finally set up a home in Balana, Kadugannawa.

But she didn’t stop there.

Pearl started asking why these children from the streets were showing up at her doorstep, and the answer was the women. Unwanted pregnancies, abusive lovers, financial dilemmas and all other domestic problems take their toll on the women of the house. Without the support or know-how to deal with these situations, many are forced to abandon their children.

In the aftermath of the violence of 1983, Pearl decided to take her passion to a new level. A table and a few chairs in the church garage, and the Women’s Development Center was a registered Non-Government Organization by 1986.

Pearl, her friend and co-social-worker Annie Kurian and three others were the original staff. They travelled to rural areas, gathering volunteers and helped in small ways to uplift the women they met. By the time the rioting began again in the late 80’s, the WDC was well resourced. It was able to distribute provisions to stricken families and supplies to over 1,000 schoolchildren in many districts, through their volunteer groups.

Since then, the WDC has grown into a 150-strong force of determined, lively women with forums in ten districts from Vavuniya to Nuwara-Eliya and Ampara. They currently network, equip and mobilize over 15,000 women to effect transformation towards gender equality at grassroots level through advocacy, prevention, intervention and rehabilitation. Their Community Based Rehabilitation program works with over 600 children and youth with disabilities in Kandy and Matale, operating nine centers through a 43-member staff. The WDC HIV/AIDS Prevention program introduces alternative income generation opportunities to commercial sex workers and education to vulnerable groups and government departments such as police officers. They also provide Family/Psychological and Legal Counseling free of charge.

The Crisis Intervention Center in Haragama does the heart-work of the WDC, providing shelter to destitute women and young girls who have been sexually abused. Pearl’s vision was to meet ignored needs.

Looking back, her son Frank sees 1993 as a point-of-no-return in his mother’s career. A group of women from Batticaloa that arrived in Kandy for training at the WDC were taken into custody by the police, along with some staff.  Pearl was suspected of aiding the LTTE.

“That was when she knew she really had to keep doing this,” Frank says.

Among the staff that was taken away was Pearl’s driver, Felix Wijerathne. It was only his first week of work at the WDC when he was almost accused of transporting terrorists into Kandy.

Since being released, Felix aka “Wijey” has been cross-country countless times with Pearl and has story upon story to tell of their adventures together. Some of these stories are funny, some bizarre, some even scary. But what stands out of them is the relationship Pearl built with her employees.

Once, Wijey, the only Sinhala person in the vehicle, was asked to stay behind at an LTTE check point in Mullativu, while the others went ahead to Kilinochchi.

“Madam didn’t want to leave me there alone, so she stayed behind with me and asked the others to go ahead,” Wijey says, admiringly. “There was never a madam-driver distance in our relationship, sometimes we ate out of the same plate.”

Pearl moved across social barriers as readily as she moved across the country when she thought there was a need she could fulfill. She had a good grasp of English, Malayalam, Sinhala and Tamil and this equipped her to reach out to any and all.

“She never said no,” Shanthi smiles. “If a pregnant girl showed up at the Crisis Intervention Center and I turned her away for lack of space, I would get scolded. If there are no beds, she'd say, let her sleep on the ground, or tell one of the other girls to give up their bed. For her, it was not about the WDC, it was about the girls.”

To countless of these women that have been through the WDC, she was a mother, friend and mentor. What set Pearl apart from others who play these roles in society, was the fact that she listened, in every sense of the word, to those she led.

“She never turned anyone away from her office without letting them speak,” Shanthi says.

And she listened.

Pearl heard a cry rise in her city that most did not. The cry of the down-trodden woman. And she chose to answer it with every breath.

Most trees, as Pearl's brother, Rev. Reggie Ebenezer shared at her funeral service, are hardest at the heartwood. But palms, on the contrary, are hardest at the bark and softest at the center.

This was Pearl.

She came across as curt and businesslike on the surface, but inside, she ached for the marginalized, the unsung heroes on whose shoulders the powerful ride.

As her husband George Stephen sees it, there was one such unsung hero in Pearl’s childhood whose story spurred her on. Her mother, Mary Ebenezer, was a humble Malayalam woman who served her husband, an exacting man, day in and day out. This was Pearl’s reality of gender relations until she was married to Rev. George Stephen.

George Stephen is a humble man. He saw the relationship of his wife’s parents and decided one morning, that his relationship with his wife would be completely different.

“She was like his slave,” he says, thoughtfully. “I decided I would reverse that.”

The love and mutual respect they had was what inspired Pearl to share the possibility with other women. Her children know that Pearl could not have impacted the lives of half the people she helped, if not for her husband.

“A lot of the time, women are pressured to stay at home and look after domestic affairs,” Shanthi muses, “but Dadda always supported her and it was because of him that she went so far.”

“For my mother, women could go anywhere,” Frank says, “but the difference was, she wasn’t a feminist. She was firmly grounded in the family.”

Pearl’s oldest grandson, Sean Stephen, knew his grandmother was a woman passionate about her work. But it was not until after her death that he began to understand the breadth of her reach, and the force of the impact she made. Until then, he knew her great cooking, the dumplings she made on his birthday, and her calm demeanor.

“She had a bubbly laugh,” he smiles, “and her whole body shook with it.”

Sean remembers that “Pearl Mummy” always took the time to do little things that made her many biological, legal and self-declared grandkids feel special. Her children remember her beef curry, the lime pickle and stewed mangoes. They remember how she cooked, how she sewed, how she was their everything. Her husband George remembers what a wonderful companion and strong helper she was.

But Pearl Stephen’s legacy was not built just for these. Pearl’s legacy was built for every woman that packed the Presbyterian Church at her funeral service. For every woman who stepped up, boldly out of their comfort zones, to bear her coffin.

Pearl Stephen’s legacy was built for every woman with a crushed heart and a broken body, whose 8-month-old child has no place to call home.

Moses

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His voice is deep and firm, tinged with melancholy and almost at odds with his coarse features and stocky frame. The way his eyes take us in as we step across the threshold, I imagine he must have been a force to reckon with, before he was crippled. Recall Moses Thangarasa.

Close to midnight on 27 March, 2010 the 33-year-old three-wheeler driver found himself hit and then dragged along the railway lines near Meewathura by a night-train. The accident left him with two vertebrae fractured and both legs amputated quite high above the knee. After months of treatment at the Peradeniya Teaching Hospital and therapy at the Center for Handicapped in Kundasale, Moses was finally sent home. But he is hardly comforted.

Moses currently lives in his father’s sister’s small house with her children and grandchildren on a steep incline in Irugalbodiya, off the Mahakande Road. He has crutches and prostheses acquired through the goodwill of his friends and well-wishers, but finds it difficult to use them due to his spine-injury. His existence is confined to the bed beside the living-room window, and the outhouse when his cousin Susantha is home to carry him to the yard. Otherwise he is forced to use a bedpan that his aunt Chandra cleans after him. “She can't even go anywhere” he regrets, “not even to a relatives’ in an emergency. It’s impossible, because of me.”

This is what he hates the most. Moses’ father died when he was only 16, so after O/L at Wimaladharma College in Penideniya, he began working. He was employed as a gardener at the Royal Botanical Gardens in Peradeniya for some time, then at a garment factory and later as a security guard. “There’s no one thing, miss” he tells me with an open smile, “I’ve worked many jobs”. Finally his father’s younger brother Jayantha bought a three-wheeler and leased it to Moses to run on hire. From the age of twenty-plus, this has been Moses’ steady source of income. Having got used to earning close to 25,000 rupees a month and being able to spend on and support others, to now depend on charity for support is incredibly frustrating.

“If I'd always depended on other people it wouldn't have been this difficult” he continues. Far from wallowing in self-pity though, Moses is industriously looking for ways in which he might overcome his handicap and start working again. He would be happy to engage in any work that can be done without the use of his legs, but admits he is most comfortable hiring his taxi, so is looking for ways to acquire a modified three-wheeler so he may return to the stand.

Susantha, who is Chandra’s son, is also a three-wheeler driver. “We all suffer because Moses is not at the stand anymore” he says. The other drivers at the Galaha Junction, where Moses used to park his vehicle, apparently still discuss that drivers from other parts of Peradeniya wouldn’t come with “chandi part” and occupy their lot if Moses was around; “he is not afraid of such people”.

It is probably the fact that Moses was always there to support and defend his friends that made them all come together, pool their resources and help concrete the small gravel road that leads up to Susantha’s house. “Some gave cement, some gave sand, many came and helped with the work” Moses says quietly, humbled.

The quietness and humility must be new. When he speaks there is that inevitable tone of the patient suffering in Moses’ maimed body, but his eyes light up once in a while with a fierceness and boldness that must have been the source of strength to his friends.

“He never had to borrow money from anyone before” Susantha says as he drives us back down the hill to the main road. Now, Moses is completely dependent on Susantha and Chandra for his survival. Susantha himself earns very little with his taxi, and this income is spread thinly between his mother, three siblings and their families as well as Moses. His younger brother is a bus conductor who though hardly employed, brings home about 2,000 rupees on a good day. Susantha himself is at work from 5am to 9pm. “I have no time left even to spend with my baby” he says, speaking of the whiny little 2-year-old girl that was ogling at us as we chatted with Moses, and wailed to be held by the father as he left with us.

“What to do?” he continues, unable to despise the crippled man for the heavy burden. Susantha is firmly convinced that he must provide for Moses because they are his only family left. Moses’ mother, who is employed in keeping house at a university lecturer’s residence, visits sporadically, but “she doesn’t care much, she never has”, he says. He believes she has been psychologically unstable since her husband’s death over fifteen years ago. Moses thus recognizes and appreciates Susantha’s generosity and only yearns to show his gratitude with some return. But the task is nearly impossible with his limited resources and reduced capabilities. His voice dropped and he looked down to merely mumble as I left that this is what he needs me for, to find him some help.

If anyone has advice or is able to help, he would appreciate a call on 777 182 259 or financial assistance could be made available to the People’s Bank S/A 0572-0014-000-9766.

More than two years of complete dependency on others has probably left Moses an altered man. He must have the kind of hindsight many of us are not blessed (or cursed) to acquire. “I have learnt a lot after this accident, miss” he told me, while his tone said they were not all pleasant lessons. If nothing else, he has learnt humility, which is a difficult lesson for anyone to learn, let alone a strong and hefty man in his early thirties. He simply pleads for help.

LG’s 50th Anniversary

No matter how little his name is heard these days, even a tiny inclination to western music will have you “knowing” at the mention of Lylie Godridge. Back before choirs and musical ensembles blossomed like mushrooms and a-capella was the fashionable kind of singing to do, he was making musical history in our little island. Now, it is reported, some ask if the LG Singers are from LG at Abans!

“It was a good opportunity for us to learn that humility must go hand in hand with what we do” laughs current choirmaster (and Lylie’s son) Willie Godridge. And far from being an insult to the choir, it seems a testimony to Kalasuri Lylie’s character and integrity as a musician that the LG Singers aren’t a famed choral ensemble.

Even as a young boy, John Lylie Godridge, born March 4, 1928 to a poor family in Kotahena, showed clear signs of musical genius. His beautiful treble earned him scholarships to school and the attention of scores including the then Governor of Ceylon, Sir Andrew Caldecott. Already more than familiar with stage performance and radio air-play, at twenty-three he was made a soloist in the Colombo Philharmonic Choir’s rendition of Bach’s ‘St. Matthew’s Passion’, earning the chance to meet the likes of Peter Pears and Benjamin Britten. In 1981 Lylie was commissioned by President Jayawardene to tour the world as Sri Lanka’s Singing Ambassador, and in 1993 honoured with the Kalasuri title. Scores of music lovers remember him for his mellow baritone, others for his skill at all things musical, but despite all his worldly achievements, most remember Lylie Godridge for his jolly, unassuming nature, his humility, and his gentleness.

While any of us would have grabbed the opportunity to make a fortune and rise in society, Lylie Godridge, despite his “star” qualities, remained true to his conviction that as his musical abilities were a gift from God, he must use them as a gift to God. He placed his commitment to Christianity above every kind of achievement, moving further and further away from profit-making ventures. Though to some his choices may have seemed peculiar, to those he inspired, there was no replacement.

The LG Singers (now careful to call themselves the Lylie Godridge Singers!) seem a reflection of the dear old man that started them up and kept them going to his very last days in 1998. And this character that refuses to be affected by ambitiousness and remains simple is what sets the LG Singers apart from (boldly we say) all other vocal ensembles in Sri Lanka.

Willie remembers their heyday when Christmas time alone was packed with upto fifteen performances, and a year’s work probably involved close to thirty nights of singing. From there the LG Singers have come to rare performances made only on request, but their spirit remains the same.

The choir is just heading into its 50^th anniversary, and from its birth at 2A Allen Ave., on 15 May 1962, hardly anything has changed, not even the practice/rehearsal (both words are inaccurate, really!) schedule. As many of the “boys” (very much so at heart at least!) put it, they look forward to the weekly session. Whether they are preparing for a performance or not, Tuesday evening 6pm is the “sacred” time “like Sunday mass” as Eshantha de Andrado, member of 25 years, puts it. “It’s like the boys club” laughs Willie, “without the wine and the women”, but plenty of the song.

And the songs themselves have hardly turned over. A special thanksgiving service celebrating the 50^th anniversary of the LG Singers will be held on 19 May at St. Paul’s Church on Kinsey Road starting 6pm. Of the nearly twenty spiritual numbers they plan to sing that night, Willie says only two have been added to the repertoire after he took over from “Pater”. ‘Swing Low’, ‘Nobody Knows’ and ‘Let the Heav’n Light’ are among the popular spirituals on the program while those like ‘Rock-a My Soul’, ‘Spiritual Medley’ and ‘Sinner Man’ are the LGs’ favourites, the ones Willie laughs they have “possessed”.

Negro spirituals have always been the LGs’ forte, but over the years they’ve built up a vast repertoire of a-capella numbers ranging from classical to contemporary styles. The LGs staggering commitment to music and to the man behind their music – nearly every Tuesday of the year for fifty years is no small feat! – if nothing else, has taken them places. They have performed in Galle, Jaffna, Batticaloa, many times in Kandy and twice in fact in India. A potential performance in Israel though it never materialized still speaks volumes for the strength of the choir. Through all this, not one of the LGs has ever profited a cent or intended to do so, all proceeds from their performances being donated to charity.

Even as they celebrate their 50^th anniversary this year with a thanksgiving service and not a gala performance at a grandiose location, the LG Singers honour their founder’s vision of music as a “gift from God” that must be shared, not made use of. Lasantha Tennekoon, Choirmaster at Trinity College, Kandy has teenage memories of the LGs as “a jolly bunch of people” and Lylie Godridge as a man who understood the “true spirit” of music and simply “wanted music to live on” in people’s lives. And it is probably this joy of sharing that makes the LGs’ meetings absolute stress-free fun.

It would be misleading to imagine though, that since they seem to have so much time for fun, and since as even Shanthilal Perera, who has been with the LGs now for 26 years, “can’t really think of anything that has changed”, that the Lylie Godridge Singers has deteriorated in any way. Paul Bibile was one of the twenty-odd singers first invited to form the group, and remains the only original member who still sings with them. At 79 going on 80, his voice is unbelievably steady and firm, and one is unlikely to find him catching his breath whether he sings or speaks or works one of his two jobs. If he is any indication of the level of vocalist produced and breath and voice control demanded by the LGs, then one cannot help but be impressed.

Funnily enough, not many of the LGs see themselves as musicians, and according to Willie, some of the current members were not even quite sure they were capable singers until they started singing with the choir. This is one of those “things” about a genuine love for music, that while sharing the love and joy of a good listen, one inevitably also shares something of one’s gifts and talents in the capability to produce. It works like love; giving increases the receiver’s ability to give. And so they sing and sing and sing...for themselves undeniably, for God inevitably.

Love Dance

This interview was much unexpected fun!*gloats* at mention in the jubilee souvenir.

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Thaji is lost for words. She can’t begin describing the experience, a dream that “actually happened”. “I was in tears just before I got on stage that night” she tells me, of her first performance at the Joyce Theatre in Manhattan, NY. As part of the Chitrasena Dance Company, it was Thaji Dias’ great privilege to be on stage at ‘Samhara: The Braid’, an international dance collaboration that premiered this February in India and then toured internationally to flattering reviews.

For six straight nights, Thaji presented Kandyan Dance with Mithilani Munasingha to a sold out audience glittering with famed dancers and choreographers such as Mikhail Baryshnikov and Mark Morris. Dancing alongside them were renowned Odissi performers Surupa Sen and others of the Nrityagram Dance Ensemble. If you’re familiar with the two dance forms, I reckon you’re incredulous. If you’re not, let me explain.

Marina Harss of ‘DanceTabs’ magazine writes: “Kandyan dance is more vertical, Odissi is all curves; the first is dynamic and muscular, the second fluid, ever-shifting, difficult to pin down; one is more athletic, the other more theatrical and poetic. The contrasts are endless.” So despite a common South-Asian heritage as well as a shared performance ethic, the two forms are vastly different in their delivery, if not in the basics, then (to this untrained mind) in the level of human perception they attract attention from.

No one thought it was possible. According to Heshma Wignaraja, choreographer at the Chitrasena Dance Company, neither company is inclined to producing “fusion or whatever you call it”, and the only reason ‘Samhara’ was possible was because both companies functioned within a framework of “complete respect” for the other’s form. The production is hardly a performance gimmick and is more a labour of love and learning.

“If my aunt was here, she would jump to tell you it’s the love they have for each other” Thaji laughs as Heshma mischievously tells me how the collaboration was a result of the strong friendship between two world-class dancers Surupa Sen and our own Upeka Chitrasena. Yup, it’s largely a family affair. Thaji and Heshma are in fact, first cousins, granddaughters to Chitrasena and Vajira. It seems that these strong personal bonds between the artists and the mutual admiration and respect are what finally carried the production through to its success.

From July to October of 2011, Heshma and Thaji travelled often to India, spending two-and-a-half weeks at a time at the Nrityagram Dance Village in Bangalore. From their description of it, only an intense love of art and perfection could have kept them going through the gruelling twelve-hour work-days of conceptualization and rehearsal that ultimately resulted in a satisfactory union of the forms. The name ‘Samhara’ (which means “gathering” among other things) as well as the tag ‘The Braid’ are symbolic of this “union”.

In case we are being misleading though, Heshma is very particular that they were never interested in producing a “fusion” of Kandyan and Odissi. ‘Samhara’ is in effect a dialogue, not a chorus. And the dialogue takes place in two vastly different ‘languages’. The issue for artists set off on such a venture is far greater than that for those set to fuse languages, because bilingual dialogue is also concerned with the problem of staying “true” to each “language” and still being intelligible via the other, to avoid disjointedness.

And unquestionably, the learning experience has called Heshma as choreographer for the Kandyan dancers to push the boundaries of the tradition into which she was born and bred. She is excited about the possibilities though keenly aware of the sensitivities of such experimentation. Even during the conceptualization of ‘Samhara’ she spent days in thought with Thaji and their aunt Upeka, weighing the implications, within the tradition of Kandyan dance, of the “movements” and “phrases” they composed.

Despite the long and arduous process though, both are unhesitant in declaring that the time, energy and mental and physical exhaustion were fully worth it. “We loved every moment of it!” Heshma declares, gazing knowingly at Thaji who smiles back with an asserting nod. The cousins often share smiles and giggles like youngsters, as though they are in disbelief of the dream they have lived. Working with Surupa Sen and performing at the Joyce Theatre has evidently been a life and ethic altering experience for them. “The whole production says a lot about Surupa” Heshma says admiringly, “because she doesn't flaunt herself or her achievements, she is simple and true”.

Far from a collaborative “performance” by the Chitrasena Company and Nrityagram Ensemble at the Lionel Wendt, what I expect ‘Samhara’ will offer on the nights of 12 and 13 May from 7pm onwards will be a sharing of joy and of a new discovery. Not a jarring and forceful mix but a sublime dialogue of love.