Portrait

yanik tissera photographs vikram seth

if you are someone that is truly a fan of english literature, if you’ve ever been moved by salman rushdie or set free by george orwell, if you’ve ever been disturbed by anthony burgess or addicted to hunter s. thompson, if you ever laughed with jane austen or loved with william shakespeare, if you ever saw life through the eyes of virginia woolf, then despite all odds, the galle literary festival would have been for you. for all those that didn’t come or came and refused to enjoy it just to make a statement, you either lost a lot, or you aren’t truly a lover of literature. sure, everyone reads; but have you ever really felt? do you remember crying throughout most of ‘the time traveler’s wife’? do you remember losing faith at the end of ‘nineteen eighty four’? do you remember your heart breaking for ‘the hours’? do you remember holding your stomach as you laughed to ‘good omens’?

to smile casually at the writer that once sat down and wrote ‘a suitable boy’, to have heard the man that once found the courage, the audacity to write ‘the city and the pillar’ call george bush ‘dumb-dumb’, to have been told the simplest, greatest secrets of creative writing by the man that made himself a not only a gay icon, but a literary landmark by writing’funny boy’; it was a pleasure that i, for one, would not have missed for the world.

i didn’t get to have lunch with tim severin, nor dinner with william dalrymple, i could not afford this. but it was ok; it would have been ok to have just been there, inside the fort, if just to see them, feel them walk past you, humbly, quietly, shyly.

so, yes, it may have been somewhat exclusive, but anyone that claims that a festival of english literature can be open to everyone is an idealistic, unrealistic fool. english literature is esoteric, it appeals only to a minority rather than the masses. it is for those that can not only read and write english, but for those that can do it well enough to appreciate not just words, but literature written in it. literature isn’t just books, my friend. it isn’t just words. sydney sheldon is not literature. john lennon is. dan brown isn’t, c.s. lewis is. we cannot be so politically correct as to forget that clear distinction.

not to say that the festival itself was perfect. organizationally, it has a long way to go and many lessons to learn. but if i were to downplay the immensity of the experience it offered to me just because of it’s own imperfections, well then i would be silly and ungrateful. i was not there for the fancy jazz shows or the cocktails, the expensive lunches or dinners. no, i was there for them; to see them, to hear them, to get to know them. and i did. and for this, i am elated.

you cannot take that from me. i saw them, spoke to them, learnt from them; and that, for everyone, should have been the most important thing about the galle literary festival 2008.

calling actors aged between 17 - 22 for casting in the first of mind adventures’ productions for this year.

samurai - by geoffrey case

a darkly comic tale set in ancient japan, where the citizens of a small town have been benefiting enormously from the presence of a magic sword. this is the story of what happens once they realise the sword has to be returned…

the production will incorporate elements of traditional Noh theatre, which include mime, mask and martial arts-based movement.

audition date: 27 january 2008

venue: the wendy whatmore academy

5, 13th lane, colombo 3.

time: 4pm

requirements:

participants must perform one dramatic monologue from memory. improvised monologues also permitted.

experience in martial arts or any other performance art (dance, mime etc) considered an advantage

ALL ARE WELCOME.

all i know is, i am suddenly terrified. on the surface i am calm and even comfrontational. but inside, every time i pass a policeman on the street, my stomach clenches up, and i pray with every fibre of my being to not be stopped. the numerous bad experiences; questions that insult, injure and threaten; lead to prove that if there is anyone i need to be protected from, it is those very men that are supposed to protect me.

a few nights ago, a hen party at global towers has just come to a close and three of us leave together in one cab. two of us are fairly sober, one of us is not. D runs back into global towers to buy a bottle of water, while i hold out C’s head, out of the cab window. two cops, one young, one old, pull up next to the cab on a motorbike. the older one comes towards us. opens the van door and asks for identification, and proceeds with the usual set of questions that would seem to you and me are futile; “where are you coming from?” “where are you going?” etc. i answer confidently. i have nothing to hide. D comes back, and he asks her for ID. in the bustle of the scene, she momentarily misplaces her ID. inside, my heart sinks. i know he is looking for something, anything to pin on us; three girls, alone on marine drive, well dressed; and this could be all he needs.

he proceeds to ask for my name and address. i feel like saying my name and address are on the identification i offered him, can’t he read? and yet, i am afraid of the consequences and aware of the delicacy of the situation. i’m smart enough to not be too smart. i tell him my name and address. he writes it down on a notebad of blank pages. finally, he asks for my phone number. i am suddenly convinced of my notion that this man is far from trust worthy. the words spring to my mouth; “i know my rights, you can’t take my phone number”, but once again, i am compelled to restrain. out of fear. i think fast and give him my home phone number. in retrospect, i can think of a million things i could have done, but in the moment, i am scared shitless. he takes all our names and addresses and writes them in his notebook. he is looking at me; my legs, my breats. i can tell. the moment he moves to the front of the van to talk to the cab driver, i call my mother. i tell her he asked for my phone number. she stays online.

he checks in our bags, much more thoroughly than he must have ever checked any vehicle or house, i’m sure. he finds nothing, but decides that a toothbrush in C’s bag makes her ’suspicious’. he starts talking in riddles; “where are your other friends?” “how often do you come here?” “do you always come in cabs?” we are quick to establish that we do not make a habit of visiting global towers as he seems to suspect. i tell the truth; my friend is getting married and we rented an apartment between us and threw her a party, now it’s over and everyone’s going home. he continues with his funny questions. i know what he is insinuating. i wonder if he truly believes we are prostitutes, or whether he is simply implying that to insult and humiliate us. i feel it is the latter. he is just that kind of man, i can tell.

after a long while, he finally plays his ace. he threatens to take us to the police station. he says we are ’suspicious’ and that he feels he should haul us in. D boldly asks him to kindly explain to us why we are suspicious. he picked the wrong girls to intimidate, although we are trembling inside, we are not afraid on the surface. he wants us to be scared; he wants us to say “please don’t do that, i’ll do anything” so that he can get in to the cab and ask for a ‘favour’. i am not afraid of being taken to the cop shed; in fact, i far prefer that to being stuck here all alone with not a dog in sight with a pervert policeman. i am more afraid of what he can do to us, here and now. my heart is in my mouth. i am aware of what men like him are capable of. all he has to do is send away the other policeman and the cab driver.

my mother calls D. D tells the policeman her aunt is on the line, if he is detaining us, to please explain to her why. i fix my eyes on the number on his shoulder, made brave by my mother on the phone. he gets agitated, and tells us to leave.

how pathetic is life when i must the fear a person that i am entitled to go to for protection?

i know of policemen who have brazenly touched a girl’s breast, a policeman who has gotten into the vehicle next to my friend and unzipped his fly.

at the end of the day, i feel violated and very, very scared. where is the sanctity of life?