ගංගා තරංග රාව දී රිදී වනින්
මල් පිපී කුලින් කුලේ හැපී
ගායනා කරන්නේ ආකාශයේ නැගී
වීරයින්ගෙ ඒ යශෝ ගීතයයි...
His songs roll
off the tongue easily, as though their lyrics were stuck in our throats and
needed his melodies to be unleashed. They are addressed to us, the collective “we”,
the entire country, in ways few singers have or ever will. There must be a
secret to this, and I don’t deny that, but the truth of the matter is that he
has tapped into the collective unconscious of the nation remarkably well.
Wherever he has been and whatever he has contributed has been etched across our
minds forever. He is immortal, in whatever he has sung and whatever he has
written.
He is Amaradeva.
I remember
arguing with a music lover over the “ultimate” aim of a song once. He put it to
me that music (and indeed art) will be vindicated only when it runs parallel
with the “truth”. I asked him to elaborate on this. He explained. Truth,
according to him, was political, and hence defied the “saundarya” (aesthetic)
quality music is filled with. He argued that songs would “dig” into us only as
long as they drifted away from what he called the “indifference of the aesthete”.
He was an activist. A connoisseur. A fiery critic.
I begged to
differ, needless to say. I told him that as long as songs were made to be
reflective in an aesthetic way, and as long as songs which talked about political
realities were aesthetically crafted, they would gain popular appeal. Otherwise,
they would be so specific to the time and place they were made in that they
would lose popularity as time passed. I brought up some singers. He brought up
some singers. We argued. Heavily.
Then we got to
Amaradeva. The man quietened down. Quickly. I didn’t even have to prove what I
was saying. And I won that day. Why?
I wish I knew.
There are some
songs which remain alive in our memory no matter what. There’s a reason for
this, obviously. Perhaps they dig deep into the reserves of our minds in a way
no political song ever can. They are memorable. Lovable. Poetical. And so,
those who criticise them as being too indifferent, too aesthetically crafted,
are not telling the whole story. They are partial. What they say and think,
hence, cannot last. Not for long.
Amaradeva’s
songs cut across any divide, real or imagined. They at once beckon what we
secretly nurture in ourselves. “Sasara Wasana Thuru”, for example, reflects our
collective wish to be born in this country, frail and fragile though it is,
over and over again. It is our “pathuma”, our wish, that we are brought up on
this soil and return to it even when our remains disappear. Yes, it’s a
collective wish. The same kind of wish Amaradeva sings about in countless other
songs, penned by him or by other illustrious lyricists, prime among them
Mahagama Sekara.
It’s not just
songs of course. The true worth of the man, I feel, is to be seen in how he has
imbibed different styles and idioms to present a truly “Sri Lankan” music. Take
those films he has scored, for instance. I remember the first theme of his I
listened to. It was from Gamperaliya. I remember the opening sequence of
that film, the music tuned perfectly to a potter ambling his way along the
Southern coast of Koggala. There came a point in that film when its theme took
on a life of its own and exemplified a nostalgic attitude to the way of life it
was portraying, something the critic Philip Cooray noted when he wrote just how
dirge-like Amaradeva’s score was.
There were other
films, other scores. There was Delovak Athara, a world away from Gamperaliya
in terms of mood, scored completely by a Western orchestra. Amaradeva’s theme
for that film was unique. Unsurpassable. In its orchestration, its mood and
texture, I realised at once how eclectic, how flexible, the man was in his
ability to weave together different musical traditions together. This and
nothing more accounted for my love for his music. And songs.
He didn’t do it
all alone, by the way. There were songwriters, as I pointed out before. There
were also filmmakers, whose vision he would perhaps absorb when scoring their
works. I haven’t come across very many Sinhala films to identify what would
constitute the best musical score, but Thunman Handiya came very close
to it. There was that same nostalgia, that same bittersweet dirge, which went
in line with the film’s story. I wasn’t surprised by the fact that Mahagama
Sekara had directed it. Yes, Sekara. The “gee potha” (“book of verse”) to
Amaradeva’s “mee vitha” (“glass of wine”).
I haven’t met
him personally. Regrettably. Still, I have come to terms with the fact that one
does not need to meet him to savour him. His attitude to music is at once
recognisable in any of his songs. To him, and I’m pretty sure of this, music
cannot be defined. It cannot be put down in words, as a novel or poem can, and
it cannot be replaced by textbooks or academic treatises. He has written of how
he has made communicating his innermost feelings through music his “jeevana
pranidhana” (life mission). Nothing could be truer. I have heard the man more
than I have read him. He is music exemplified. He doesn’t need a biographer.
His voice and melodies are his life.
This isn’t all.
At a time when trends change and change fast, his is the voice of sanity that prevails.
I’ve talked with friends of all races, of all religions, be they Muslim, Tamil,
or Burgher. They all love him. They have made it a point to sing one of his
songs whenever chance permits, the most popular being “Ratna Deepa Janma Bhumi”
(for some reason). They have all committed his lyrics to memory, probably more
so than those of any other artist dead or alive. I can’t think of any other
singer who has inspired my countrymen this much. Maybe Sunil Santha, or even C.
T. Fernando. I don’t know.
Each of his
songs pithily embodies a human condition. “Nim Him Sewwa” speaks to the lover
in us, hoping that one day she who is sought will return to us, forever. “Ran
Dahadiya” is about the sweat and toil, the dignity, of the goviya who
sustains us in a way we will never be able to pay back. “Sannaliyane” is about
the inevitable vicissitudes faced by a weaver who weaves for the living and the
dead. “Siripa Piyume” tunes in perfectly with the pilgrim’s yearly progress to
the Holy Peak of Samanalakanda (Adam’s Peak). They are timeless, true, but are
also ingrained with a Sinhala Buddhist ethos which at once cuts across to every
community in our land.
He’s much more
than a singer or composer. I don’t need to write down his CV for you. It’s there
for everyone to see. He was there when Queen Elizabeth wanted a national anthem
for the Maldives. He was there in the Philippines when he was awarded the Ramon
Magsaysay award. He was there, with his beloved wife adding to what he said and
sang by his side, one month ago, at Ananda College. He was there, everywhere. We
saw him, and when we did, a kind of hush came over us. That hush I’m yet to see
with another singer or artist, whether here or elsewhere.
The truth is,
and this I’m sure of, that he is a national force. He remains alive in us and
in the memory of those who cherish him. If it’s about bringing together
different communities, be it on either side of the racial or religious divide,
no greater unifying force can be found. For he has touched what academic theses
and political frameworks cannot: that timeless, space-less wish which resides
in every human being: the wish to capture emotion and give it to the world (as
he put it once) with no antipathies to any community. He is a communicator, a
tool for harmony, and wherever he may be, he exudes that charm and humility
which immediately draw us, whoever we are, to him.
He is Amaradeva.
A Voice of the Nation, for the Nation. He turns 87 today. May we all put our
hands together. May we all wish him: “Chiran Jayathu!”
Written for: Ceylon Today ESCAPE, December 5 2014
Written for: Ceylon Today ESCAPE, December 5 2014
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