Richard de Zoysa's other Eden

The murder of Richard de Zoysa was a turning point in the gruesome story of how the Sri Lankan government handled nationwide civil disobedience which grew into dangerous armed rebellion in the 1980s and early 1990s. Marking a dark period in the history of the sunny island, the official figures of the dead and the disappeared from this era cross 75,000 while it’s widely speculated to cross well into six figures. In this terrifying picture, Richard is one of the most visible figures. 

Belonging to a family of influential artists, educated at one of the most prestigious private schools in Colombo and a gifted poet, playwright and journalist, Richard had all the right networks and access. Like most people from his background, Richard could have remained above and beyond the chaos that ravaged the lives of rural and lower middle class youth in the island. Like many with connections abroad, he could’ve left as soon as possible. But, he didn’t. Well aware of his privilege, Richard de Zoysa used his education, talent and connections to speak about the injustices that gripped the lives of young Sri Lankans, the ugliness of strategically propagated racial tensions and the growing anger towards oppressive governance. His poetry, plays and writing resonated the significant mind shifts of the time, questioning the machinery at work to maintain the class and race gaps. He did this in a way that broke linguistic and ethnic barriers to extents that even more directly political figures could not. Of course, this charismatic, creative, and eloquent man with leftist leanings meant danger to many powers. 

Richard’s body was found on a beach, not too far from where he went to school as a child. It was discovered by a fisherman who recognised the face of this well-known actor. The records mention that it was beaten, broken, mutilated and shot at point blank. His mother and other eyewitnesses identified the abductors as high ranking police officers reporting directly to the President, making it one of the most strongly evidenced and widely publicised cases of rumoured government death squads. But, all identified suspects were never sentenced; instead, the leads were ignored by the police and the two main officers identified by eyewitnesses were allowed to walk free while two only got interdicted as punishment after the trial. None were even imprisoned. The two high ranking officers involved in Richard’s murder ended up dying in a bomb attack, along with the President, in an incident that many deemed karmic. Sri Lanka’s current President Ranil Wickremasinghe was one of the youngest ministers of the government at the time of Richard de Zoysa’s murder, and is said to have brushed off the death as ‘suicide or something else.’ 

Not failing to leave a mark even in his death, Richard triggered many significant milestones in the common citizen’s fight against a corrupt regime. Local and international media flooded with tributes, excerpts of his work and most importantly, questions that demanded answers. Time magazine published a piece on his death—that particular issue is still banned in Sri Lanka. The BBC did a tribute play for him many years later. Richard’s incredibly courageous mother—Dr. Manorani Sarvanamuttu— started the Mothers Front amidst death threats. It remains an active voice for families of the forcibly disappeared in the North and the South.

Richard's work—articles, plays, acting and writing remain, changing minds and telling the story of how people get played by governments to stay divided and fighting, for the benefit of a few. His poetry is particularly powerful; some pierce, shake, mock, and prophesy powers and their players as much as the played; others give views into his loves, encounters and lend us glimpses into intricacies of being a queer human in a conservative society. 

This book is a small volume of poems by Richard de Zoysa. It’s a treasured part of our library, reminding how even the most difficult questions can be asked with beauty, grace and wit. It’s an essential collection that carries the very essence of Richard; his daring to ask the hard questions, the strength to remain someone that isn’t the expectation, and most importantly, the beauty of being a human who loves the world and embraces all its experiences—the terrible and the blessed. 

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Monthly Story, September 2022

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Image → Ron Lach

Archetype → Ruler

Rasa → Bhayānakam (भयानकं): Horror, terror. Presiding deity: Yama. Colour: black, Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

Archetype → Ruler

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Mettānanda heard the eerie sound of the devil bird ringing from the forest as he walked down the monastery veranda bordering the lagoon; Villagers thought the cry of this particular owl—similar to the screams of a person getting strangled—as a sure omen of death. Mettānanda assumed charge of the monastery two days ago when the head monk Gunasāra went missing. He made his way to Gunasāra’s chamber to find the police superintendent's number from the old monk’s phone book.

A secret self inside Mettānanda tingled when entering Gunasāra’s chamber; It was a large space, split into an office, a sleeping area and a bathroom in the back. It was easily three times the size of other monastery chambers. Of course, Mettānanda had been there many times before. But, today it felt different; The air in the room itself felt light and vacant. Mettānanda’s calm and collected outer mind tried to quiet the tingling secret-self; But, as he circled the head monk's messy desk, the secret-self only seemed to draw a strange new charge.

He looked through the desk, eyes and hands peering through the scattered mess of newspapers, cheques, countless hospital bills, blood sugar reports and some foreign currency—probably from someone staying at one of the rentable meditation rooms at the monastery. Mettānanda felt his nerves throb as he started to comprehend the level of disorganization he’d have to untangle when he became the head monk. He cut that thought process short, in respect of the probably-departed.

Mettānanda found the battered phone book and started thumbing it for the Police superintendent’s number. He sat down on the deep black armchair and dialled the number; This was the same chair that Gunasāra got made in secret using the wood of the only ebony tree in the neighboring forest. Mettānanda marvelled at how comfortable it was. As he turned the electric fan on, Mettānanda’s side glance registered a new arrack bottle tucked away in one of the inner shelves of the desk. He didn’t have to hold back the smirk; It was no secret that Gunasāra drank.

Mettānanda drew a long breath to compose himself just in time as the Superintendent answered the phone. Mettānanda explained how the head monk had been missing. It took a lot of effort to maintain his usual calm and assuring voice. “Yes, yes. I’m the acting head monk of the monastery. Anyway, even when head monk Gunasāra was here, he was so busy with things that I took care of most things, no? So, we are okay but thank you Superintendent sir… Okay, see you in a short while. May the Triple Gem bless you,” Mettānanda finished the call.

Even after the superintendent had hung up, Mettānanda remained seated on the ebony chair. He drew another long breath; Another charge of energy crawled up his spine. It felt good to not have Gunasāra’s authority hanging over his head.

Mettānanda tried to arrange the mess on the desk, but inside, his secret self was vibrating with an intensity nearing levity. Realizing that his hands were shaking slightly, Mettānanda shrank at the thought of seeming listless when the superintendent arrived. He pointlessly squeezed his hands into fists. In a rush of desperation, Mettānanda reached for the arrack, cracked it open and drank a few sips. The arrack gave him a sharp and brief composure. Trying to take hold of himself, Mettānanda drank some more. The liquid burnt down his throat and simmered the secret-self awake a little bit more. As Mettānanda organized the head monk's desk to his liking—while sneaking in a few more sips in between—his secret self grew more and more comfortable in his skin.

By the time one of the novice monks had escorted the police superintendent to the office, Mettānanda had managed to finish half the bottle, arrange the desk neatly, and stuff Gunasāra’s hospital bills and reports into a plastic bag.

After a brief, friendly conversation with Mettānanda, the superintendent took the bag of documents and left without making any records, promising to return later with more police officers. He didn’t seem to care for the arrack smell floating in the air currents. But, the novice monk seemed visibly disturbed. He was one of the young ones who liked to follow Mettānanda around.

“What’s that smell?”, the novice asked.

“Don’t act like you don’t know Gunasāra’s drinking habit,” Mettānanda barked.

“But, he hasn't been here for almost two days,” retorted the young one.

Mettānanda considered the novice for a steely second. “Why don’t you come back here first thing tomorrow morning and mop up the floor then?”, he ordered rather than requesting.

The novice looked again at Mettānanda—it was the first time the young monk had glimpsed the thing lurking inside.

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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Monthly Story, August 2022

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Image → Ron Lach

Archetype → Rebel

Rasa → Hāsyam (हास्यं): Laughter, mirth, comedy. Presiding deity: Shiva. Colour: white, Adbhutam (अद्भुतं): Wonder, amazement. Presiding deity: Brahma. Colour: yellow

Archetype → Rebel

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Leela stopped to catch her breath before shouting again between the bars of the police cell.

“You!”, she shouted, pointing at the back of the police deputy walking away. His shoulders hung from the relief of having just locked in Leela—the loudest woman he had ever encountered—pricked up again at the sound of her voice.

“You’re a dog! A hired dog paid to bark at us people,” she shouted at his back, trying in vain to rattle the heavy bars. But, the bars stood resolute and responseless.

The policeman sat down at his desk and sighed as Leela turned around throwing her fists into the air. ‘Who’s power? People’s power! You can’t shut us down!’ she chanted.

Her shouting echoed around the cell and fell dead. From the adjoining cell, two women sitting on the floor watched her. One woman chewed betel, wore a chītta wrap and a stained T-shirt. The other wore smudged makeup, a long skirt, and a red satin blouse that took on a ghostly glow under the fluorescent light. Watching Leela, both wore expressions of half-hearted contempt. Leela recognised this contempt so well. From her university days—spent mostly in student protests—Leela had seen how, for most people, it was easier to respond to rebellion with a sudden disdain for lawlessness than to join its exhausting current towards upheaval.

Leela considered the two smoldering faces for a second; “You know why governments always make fools out of people? Because people act like goats who only know how to get herded; you sit here chewing away till the jackals come...,”

“Goats?”, snarled the woman chewing betel; the word ‘goat’ seemed to have struck her somewhere particularly sore. An escaped smile twitched Leela’s mouth; she knew that poking where it hurts was the fastest way to get people up and angry.

“Why does ‘Madam’ here get her own cell? Some big insurgency fellow?” the woman in the red blouse asked the policeman, cocking her head at Leela.

“Please be quiet, I’m trying to record this arrest,” said the policeman, his voice strained between concentration, exhaustion, and annoyance.

Leela felt her mouth open automatically in reaction, despite her best efforts to savor the secret pride of being speculated a ‘big insurgency fellow’. “Trying to send me to the Counter Subversive Unit? Dog!” she screamed at the policeman. But he scribbled away, determinedly ignoring the three women.

“Counter Subversive Unit? Damn good!” the betel woman’s voice cut through. “You insurgency-types belong there”.

“I heard there’s a torture chamber in some coconut plantation where you people are being taken to…”, the red-bloused woman said, unable to hide the glee on her face.

Leela seethed at them; “Yes! Goats like you’d rather see me dead than put effort into rising from your slavery. But, you know what? You’ll never see our revolution dead! Victory to people’s liberation!” she shouted, throwing a fist into the air. But, somewhere at the back of Leela’s mind, her husband’s voice echoed; ‘But, do the people you’re trying to liberate really want to be liberated?’

“To hell with your revolution. We have enough problems as it is,” said the red-bloused woman. “Since you got here and started shouting, they’ve even forgotten our dinner. You insurgency people never make it easy for the rest of us you know,” she said.

The policeman picked up the telephone and reminded someone about dinner.

“You don’t see the enemy do you? You don’t see how they make it about your people vs. my people, and keep us at each other's throats while they empty the bank…?” Leela shouted.

A man in khaki shorts walked in whistling; He held a tray of wrapped food and a glass of water in one hand and three carelessly stacked metal plates in the other. The man smilingly placed the tray on the policeman’s desk; He slid the metal plates under the bars without looking at the women and strolled back out, whistling.

“Wonder what’s in the special meal for Sir...” the betel woman remarked pointedly, picking up a plate.

“Not goat feed for sure...” said Leela, wiping food from the bottom of her plate.

The betel woman’s angry retort was cut off the next second when, suddenly, the electricity blacked out. Everything paralyzed into a soundless night.

“Police station being attacked? They cut the power? Apooo! The insurgency people are coming to kill us!” The red-bloused woman started wailing. “Let the thirty-three thousand gods see this! Oh gods I haven’t sinned that much...”

“Quiet! No one is coming to kill us!” the policeman’s voice snapped.

Without the ceiling fan and fluorescent lights driving them away, mosquitoes took over like a hungry choir. Leela heard their humming circling her. Their stings punctured her skin; She swatted one and got food on her forehead. To her side, a curse erupted in the betel woman’s voice with the sound of a metal plate being dropped loudly onto the floor. The startled policeman—who sounded as if he had just knocked over the glass of water—clicked his tongue in annoyance.

“What the hell is this power cut?” asked the betel woman.

No one responded. Even Leela had nothing left to say.

Only a quiet idea floating in the dark seemed to present an answer too uncomfortable to swallow. It settled down amidst them, growing painfully apparent against the dark.

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The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.