Dr Henry Jayasena: a humble tribute

I met him three years ago, in the make up room of a recording studio. Of course I had seen him on TV, on the screen, on stage; he was a legend. But here I was, slightly sleep deprived and nervous, trying to pin together the fall of my purple silk saree and trying to convince the make up guy that he was putting on too much lipstick on me. A familiar voice and his reflection in the mirror, a humble “hello, I am Henry”. Yeah, right. Like I didn’t know. I stuttered something to the effect of ‘of course I know who you are, I cant believe I am meeting you for real’. A gentle smile. A switch to mother tongue. “Ithin daruwa, mokadda magen ahanna yanney” I had a set of questions prepared. Written in English, translated into Sinhalese, mulled over. I had spent a sleepless night over them, wondering how you begin to ask someone about how they faced cancer and the death of a beloved spouse all in one go. I said "I have a few questions prepared, it’s mostly about how you coped with your illness, sir." The video we were recording was for an organization called Mithuruwela, a non-profit organisation set up to counsel cancer patients and their families, to create awareness about cancer, and to dispel myths about the illness. Dr Jayasena was a popular and well loved public figure, his words would matter, would make a difference. So here we were.

During the interview, before, and after, I learnt about strength and courage from this man who was famous for his dramatic and literary skills. When the video was aired I realised that tears filled his eyes once during the interview, and filled mine many times. Listening to him, I forgot that there were bright lights and cameras around us, so drawn was I to his experience and the eloquence of his telling it. He shared every incident, from the shock and denial to the long painful hours of chemotherapy to the arguments with his wife about eating, from the conversations with his doctor to how he coped with his treatment, and gradual recovery. In his words there was an incredible sincerity, and he spoke not only to all out there who have the illness already but to those who might yet fall victim to it. His voice broke for a moment when he related how his wife saw him through the illness but passed away suddenly, but he recovered quickly, no self-pity thwarted his fine sense of humour and his desire to reach out to fellow cancer patients. When he felt I was stumbling a bit, uncomfortable with the nuances of formal spoken Sinhala, ever sensitive, he switched to English. There was only one recording, and that was it.

I didn’t realise that exactly three years later he would be gone. I didn’t spend much time with him, it was only two hours perhaps. I walked with him to his vehicle and for some reason felt all choked up. He joked about incontinence. In some way he reminded me of my own father, long gone. It was good to meet you, he told me. Meeting you was a life-changing moment, sir, I said. I know, it sounds tacky, but I meant it. If / when I get cancer I will remember that sunny day in November when I met Dr Henry Jayasena. I watched the DVD of our interview again yesterday, and realised that he will keep inspiring people long after his death. “We may meet again, child", he said, in Sinhalese. I wish we had. May your Journey in Sansara be peaceful, and thank you for the courage we may all need in the future.

the charmed

snake
dances to
his master's tune
awestruck
onlookers marvel
and the charmer
swells with pride
at his power
to quell
a deadly silver
length of lethal
life

but the snake sways
to the tune
of its own
knowledge in its ancient eyes
cognizant
of its power
to strike

For a friend born in 1982

When you were
not yet one
you spent a summer
in a school building
with your parents
and yet unborn
sister

When you were slightly
older you saw black and
white pictures
of your parents
when they were young
and thought
they could only see
in black and white

It is in that
black and white
world
that they wrapped you
in a blue blanket
rushed in
one last time
to grab your favourite toy
stumbled out
of orange flames licking
their house
escaped the red wrath
of majority mobs
and made their way
to basements
until
that yellow sun
and silver sheeted
refugee camp
the smell of rice burning
when there are too many
chundus in the pot

and your first
dimpled smile.

Four Lies and a Truth

Four lies I’ve been told:
1. the dead are only sleeping
2. life is worthwhile
3. love is beautiful
4. I will never forget you

four things I’ve learnt:
the dead aren’t sleeping,
death is only the beginning of another ending

life is a series of Monday mornings
and Friday evenings

love is a driver-less bus on a broken rail track, traveling nowhere
and

when someone says ‘I will never forget you’
what they really mean is
‘I am leaving you’

One thing I’ve been told and found to be true:
hangovers feel like hell

July 2007

Random questions

Will dog eared pages
in books
grow tails to wag
in happiness at being
the chosen ones?
Will Kangaroo courts
have prison cells
in pouches?

Do dead ends have live means
or do they yearn to
be reborn as
cross roads?

Some day will
love triangles
cover the earth?

Suicide

So I was invited to talk to some first year undergrads at a university recently. We discussed Plath, and my (rather inadequate) tribute to her, "Fish Rising". One of them asked me whether I portray suicide as something positive in my work, specially "meeting my aunt". The answer is no. never. it aint worth it. however hard life is, that is all we can choose. Here's something from my own experience.


Analgesic

Pain killers
that’s all they are
white pure
innocuously oval
two per
perforated line
that boundary
that marks the limit

that can be
crossed
all it takes is
some pressure
of thumb and forefinger
some extra pain
to take two more
then another and then two more
you go through a
whole card like this
and another
until the pure white pills
become as familiar
as the water that
eases them down your
tired throat

The pain
all you want is
For the pain to
Dissolve like disprin
And make you one with the water
Where softness is your bed
And your rebirth
is water
is the womb again

Safe.
All medicines should be kept out of reach of children
The absurdity of warnings
The absurdity of childhood
You remember your
Grandfathers’ words
When you were a child
Too much of anything is bad
When you wake up in the
Hospital
your insides
are liquid
no limits this time
no boundaries
along a perforated line
more than double the dose
of pain
killers
that’s all they were
Pure White
Innocuously oval.

Miser

It’s in moments spent alone
that I love him most
I am rich
I am Silas
counting shining silver
slivers
of time together
unimaginable

how a remembered half smile
the laughter in his throat
an almost-kiss
the memory of a hello
the sight, stored in the mind
of him turning away to leave
a chance meeting
his hand over my mouth
the way his hair curls around the
collar of his blue denim shirt

Can add to treasures
In moments spent alone
I can be Shylock
Dream of my pound of flesh
turn over the gold coins
in my hands
and put them away
to admire on another day

After 37 years my mother apologizes for my childhood (By Sharon Olds)

When you tilted toward me, arms out
like someone trying to walk through a fire,
when you swayed toward me, crying out you were
sorry for what you had done to me, your
eyes filling with terrible liquid like
balls of mercury from a broken thermometer
skidding on the floor, when you quietly screamed
Where else could I turn? Who else did I have? The
chopped crockery of your hands swinging toward me, the
water cracking from your eyes like moisture from
stones under heavy pressure, I could not
see what I would do with the rest of my life.
The sky seemed to be splintering, like a window
someone is bursting into or out of, your
tiny face glittered as if with
shattered crystal, with true regret, the
regret of the body. I could not see what my
days would be, with you sorry, with
you wishing you had not done it, the
sky falling around me, its shards
glistening in my eyes, your old, soft
body fallen against me in horror I
took you in my arms, I said It’s all right
don’t cry, it’s all right, the air filled with
flying glass, I hardly knew what I
said or who I would be now that I had forgiven you.

My Sister's Fish

when death arrived
that august vacation
taking us by surprise
my sister and I
all of eleven and thirteen
were separated by grief
when

half the population
of the glass tank.
was
the upturned body
of the flamboyant fish
white underbelly exposed
finality floating
still
golden fins

through tears
and accusations
about who
was to blame
each claimed the other
as her own.

Lizzy’s dead
(that’s what
her fish was called).
No, it’s Dizzy that’s dead
she said
back and forth across that



space
we argued
trying to apportion
death’s dark gift until

my father
mediator, occasional fascist
stepped in
slightly hung over
little patience for child psychology
said to us
if you don’t stop fighting
I will kill the other one.