The text messages that flooded into the mobile phone echoed a lament. It was not clear to whom the woeful story was intended. It was evident that the lamentation of the message was from a woman or a girl. The aim of her rain of accusations was my friend, Dharmadasa Batuwangala, the well known journalist and the protector of Women’s Rights in Sri Lanka. Now I have fountains of doubts about him. Is he a rascal in the form of a friend? A sensitive artist wearing a mask? Text messages overflowed like water bursting out of a floodgate.
The words became clearer. “He ruined me; my money, my jewellery, my self respect, my life.”
A counter argument arose in my mind suggesting whether the text messages, modern day canards, carry any weight of trust and truth. But the female sender has given a mobile phone number asking those who received the message to contact her. Can’t it be a malicious grudge? Anyone could get a sex worker to send a text message. Sex worker…
My colleague Sudesh once told me that now sex workers are given the decent name as ‘Club Girls’. The text message took me into a different territory. The messages did not allow me to think about how different interpretations and meanings are ascribed to words.
“He is cruel and thankless person. He poisoned his German shepherd dog. He would have done it because the dog used to bark at women who visit him and become agitated particularly in the presence of his mistresses. I only understood the reason of the dog’s death later,” the message concluded.
After an instant shock, my memory brought an incident on a day that I visited Dharmadasa at office to discuss some issues on forthcoming literary event. Before we started our conversation, I heard his melodious ringing tone on his mobile. Dharmadasa answered the phone with an indifferent, ‘Hallo’.
I heard the pitched voice of the caller.
“Sir, your dog is seriously ill and vomiting.”
“It’s okay. Did he eat grass?”
“No, Sir, it’s not like this…, the animal is continuously vomiting…”
Dharmadasa shut off the phone and threw it to a drawer without uttering a word. Later he gave me a lift to the city and I did not sense any difference. Dharmadasa was turning on the steering wheel engaging in a small talk. There was no difference at all; Dharmadasa’s dog’s illness …the servant calling him urgently. This insignificant incident had quite easily had slipped out of my memory. It was this dead memory gaining new lease of life after I received the text message.
From time to time, I had visited Dharmadasa at his residence in Nugegoda.
Dharmadasa is a journalist as well as a person who played a prominent role in the field of literature. He was also known as a talented actor. His numerous talks on literature and the sensitivity of a literatus which were aired through media often.
The following day, I went to meet up Dharmadasa nourishing my fear. The cause of my doubt and fear was Dharmadasa’s ferocious dog. But that day, the house and the environs was engulfed in silence of a graveyard. I enquired Dharmadasa about it.
“Where is the dog?”
“Oh, it died”
I was confused and fixed on the flashing black lines on the mobile phone’s monitor.
The humane nature of a man…? Different dimensions of it…? How can we realise them? The text message was taking me to an entirely new territory.
“ Dharme is now going out with Charundhya. When he was with her, he did not answer my calls. When I inquired he said that he was bathing in a river and caught up in a current,” Sudesh told me.
I was confused and could not recognise anything like a person woken up from a hypnotic session. Could a text message which we consider sometimes not carrying the weight of truth, has the potential of unearthing treasure? I did not think so, because text message surprisingly merged words and phrases. Because, a lot of memoirs directly or indirectly linked with that lament began to wake up in me.
I went into my Study contemplating whether I should call the number she had given. Suddenly I was curious to browse a piece of creative writing which Dharmadasa praised to the moon in newspaper as an original writing on an enchanting subject written with beautiful diction.
It was only recently he had begun praising this creative writer named Charundhya. I could remember clearly that some time ago, Dharmadasa did not even mention about her creations let alone praising the writing or the author.
“How can they be creative writers? They are women working in NGOs. Why should we give publicity to NGO activists? ” Dharmadasa once told me.
I browsed through the newly printed pages of Charundhya’s latest book thinking how and why Dharmadasa ‘s judgement of her work had changed. “Have you read Charundhya’s latest book?” asked Dharmadasa when he suddenly visited me at my editorial office. After that, he cautiously opened his briefcase and presented me with a copy of the latest anthology of short stories by Charundhya.
“Just read it. I am going write about it to the newspapers. The short stories are extremely good and lyrical,” he emphasised.
I opened the book. A piece of paper among the pages of the book slipped down, first to my lap and then to the floor. I realised that it was a fax and I had no intention of learning who had sent it.
“Oh, that’s a fax for me”, Dharmadasa said with a beaming smile. I did not say anything.
It’s okay, you can read it. It’s for me?
“Who has sent it?”
“Charundhya”
I began to read the fax apathetically.
“I am in a grave trouble. I am helpless. My travelling bag has been robbed. I could only describe to you about this desert mentality. But I cannot tell you how you should help me. But, I need your help. I am helpless. “
“Then, Dharme, did you help her?”
“How could I ignore her? She is a national asset!”
I guessed whether it was because of this fax that new eye and interpretations appeared in Dharmadasa’s mind by recognising Charundhya’s talents. Thereafter, he continuously published articles and reviews in newspapers appreciating and praising her work presenting his unique observations and conclusions. In my view, people come forward to help an artist or a creative writer because of huge benefits that one would receive from them. This can be done without getting the ego hurt and thereby earning fame.
I thought, that the text message which caused my curiosity would have offered a key to make out the contour of figures that played diverse roles on diverse platforms. But I dialed the number of the person who had sent me the SMS with some hesitation.
A strong wind blew as if to wipe out the world. My heart beat became intensify fearing that the wind would turn into a cyclone. I could remember my desire and hope in sometime to see rain and to hear the strong wind blowing continuously. But now even darkness cast down with the rain would not stop my baffling fear.
I felt the heat of a wave of lava from the active volcano emerging from a silent sea causing a disruptive Tsunami. Suddenly my thoughts were with the imprisoned Chinese intellectual Liu Xiaobo as I had to submit an article about him for the newspaper. I attempted to evaluate the eligibility or ineligibility of presenting the Nobel Peace Prize for 2010 to him. What is the marvel of one State’s betrayer becoming the messenger of peace for another? How could all these happen?
The Norwegian Nobel Committee had issued a press release saying that they decided to award the Nobel Peace Prize for 2010 to Liu Xiaobo for his long and non-violent struggle for fundamental human rights in China. But China says that presenting Nobel Peace Prize for a person, who is currently serving a term of prison for treason, is an uncivilised act.
Should I portray him as a betrayer of a system or as a humanist …?
Instead of writing on Xiaobo, what invaded my mind was the image and memories of Dharmadasa. He played a vital role in protecting women’s rights in Sri Lanka. The systems with contacts and his drinking buddies had also given him a platform; space on weekly literary supplements of several papers. Most of the people I knew considered him as a sensitive artist. He held on to his position and status like a child clings onto the mother’s milk to promote these activities. Though it was clear to me that most of the modern day artists’ sensitivity is only for financial and other benefits, until I launched my search for reasons yesterday’s morning walking to Sanari’s place near Baseline Road, I did not doubt about Dharmadasa’s sensitivity and humanism.
In a dark room in a dilapidated house, I met Sanari who was recuperating following an unsafe and illegal abortion. It struck me that she was familiar and that Dharmadasa had once introduced her to me at a literary conference. “I who sent that SMS as I could not bear my plight any more”, Senari said sadly. It was clear that she had forgiven Dharmadasa’s action and was repenting over the text message for whatever the reason. Though the long and oversize house court gave her a fancy look, her childish smile was attractive.
“I sent it to only two persons in the Newspaper office. One is Ranjan and other person is you. Please keep it as a secret.”
Amid coarse noise of a moving train that shook the rail tracks, I looked around in a confused and hopeless manner. I was not sure of what my hopes were and why I felt hopeless.
“I was furious on hearing a radio programme when I was languishing at the hospital”
“What’s it about?” I asked curiously.
“It was an interview and Dharmadasa was the guest of the programme. Could I be insensitive when a woman was suffering at a hospital because of him and he had gone to the radio station for a programme? “
“What did he say in the programme?”
“The same usual stuff; human rights…the gravity of injustices… the innocence of Asian woman …male dominance… its repercussions… The need to change the laws to punish rapists…”
I could not look at the sad look of her face.
I got up as rainwater gushed into the house. Heavy rain continuously pounded on. The entire heavens opened up naked and empty.
Courtesy - Sunday Observer - By Ranga Chandrarathne
