In search of that magic potion

Master and disciple pattered along the vault. Within a few minutes they found themselves close to a tomb. It was owned by Ven. Totagamuwe Sri Rahula.

"What's the magic potion you said he used?" Disciple asked.

"It's called Saraswathi Tailaya. Saraswathi means the goddess of knowledge. Scriptures say the monk was conversant in many things including six languages."

An uproarious laugher broke within at that very moment. A voice was trying to say something between the laughter and that petered out at length.

"Now where the hell that sound..." Disciple could not carry on. He felt a cold firm grip on his shoulder. It made him nearly collapse. He took a few seconds to realize it was his master.

"Don't sound so insolent. Mind your words. This is a sacred as well as venerated place. They believe the monk still has life and that's why he keeps on growing hair and nails.

"I apologize for my words..." Disciple said and then a pause reigned. He went ahead.

"But how can that be? Once someone is dead, he should be dead and gone. Nothing can outsmart death."

"That's what medicine and science rule. But there are so many spiritual things the science cannot interpret properly. Tell me what does science say when someone stops breathing for hours? It doesn't accept the very fact itself. So don't be scientific, I say."

"So Ven. Totagamuwe Sri Rahula has used Saraswathi Tailaya to gain immortality?"

"That's what they say. Time was when some quarters believed it belongs to Saint Saviour too. Ven. Sri Rahula is said to have had more power anyway."

"Such as?"

"He could get demons and spirits work for him."

"Do you believe in them?"

"I don't think my knowledge is fair enough to give you a fair answer. But that's not so important."

"Then what is important?"

"The fact that he is a scholar."

"I have heard he was well versed in many subjects such as Ayurveda."

"Not only that. He is a born poet. He authored Selalihini Sandeshaya and Parevi Sandeshaya It still inspires our modern poets."

"I have read both Sandeshayas. Well I found them utter boring. Some poems are all right, but some seem awful."

Master smiled. That smile echoed and disciple heard another within the walls. He could only wonder.

"Why, did I say something funny?"

"No in fact you remind me those who study Selalihini Sandesaya for O/Ls and A/Ls. They are not honest like you. They just mug up stanzas, meanings and their masters' interpretations. When someone asks they say they love Selalihini Sandeshaya. But I have seen it's not genuine."

"Do you enjoy it yourself?"

"I do, my son. I do. You should know the rhythm of the language before studying it. More you study the rhythm, more you develop your intuition. That helps you enjoy classics. This is same in English too. No one can really enjoy Shakespeare or Chaucer without studying the rhythm of the language first."

"Do you mean to say I lack intuition?"

"If you say Selalihini bored you, yes."

"But is that the only reason?"

"No there are other reasons too. When you are too much exposed to modern lyrics and addicted to their simplicity then you lack that intuition."

"But I think simplicity is very much needed for creative works."

"And I don't say no. I think it should be simplicity as well as beauty of the language, rather."

"How do you define beauty?"

"I have no idea. But I can tell you how to make your writing beautiful or belles lettres. When you poise a balance between ancient and modern classics, then I think you can make your style beautifully simple."

"If you can spell it out? I didn't quite get it."

"When you read Shakespeare, you shouldn't borrow all those archaic terms, but there are beautiful coinages as well as words that may seem fit to the modern audience. Are there any favourite lines in Selalihini?"

"Plenty of them."

"May be, but I need one."

"Nala bala sasala dala rala pela nuba negena

"There you are. Now anyone who has read enough modern classics can manipulate this very line to suit the modern audience. I know some people have done it before."

"But young are not so concerned about this learned monk?"

"Not all. There are some. At least there is one."

"Who is that?"

"You."

"Well, that's a compliment. But you cannot exactly say that."

"I can. If you are not interested you wouldn't need me to spell out what I have said."

Disciple smiled.

"That's interesting. But now I want to know more mysterious things about him. Magic potion and stuff."

"That's a good thing. But we haven't got enough time for that. All the same there is a book called Puranokthi Sangrahaya by Sunanda Mahendra. That has some mystery stuff about the monk. Go buy it."

That put an end to their conversation. Whether they left the vault that very moment or not, I cannot exactly remember.

I'm through

"It's strange we can make language our slave!" Disciple held the frost-laden bicycle bar and felt its 'warmth'.

"It's involuntary, when emotions overpower your soul."

"I am hearing something. Do you hear it too? It sounds like something from inside the house." Disciple pointed at the house they stood by.

"You don't have to worry whether I hear it or not. What does the voice tell you?"

"You bastard, I am through!"

And now it was master's turn to smile and laugh out loud. It puzzled the disciple.

"What's so funny here? Or am I going mad?"

"We have all gone mad, son. You get along with my spell, inch by inch. A master mustn't have anything better to be happy and proud of than seeing his student improve, I think."

"And that's not all. I am hearing some more."

"I know. Why wouldn't you share them with me?"

"There's a stake in your fat, black heart

And the villagers never liked you.

They are dancing and stamping on you.

They always knew it was you.

Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

And then they both fell silent. Disciple raised his voice again.

"I want to know whose lines are these."

"I am waiting for Sylvia Plath to answer my bell ring."

"Do you think she will answer?"

"She might. Or she might not. Who knows?"

"Isn't that waste of time?"

"No it is not. Especially when we are in an inspired place."

"I don't think I got you clear enough, master."

"You are holding her bicycle. The bicycle that took her to the campus. And this house had belonged to W. B. Yeats. When she bought this house, she took it as a good omen."

"Thinking of her literary works, I guess."

"Exactly. Her life was a flop anyway."

"I heard her father died when she was merely eight. I wonder what made her so arrogant about father."

"I see it little differently. Her arrogance is because she missed the company of her father. Are you hearing anything more?"

"Yes I do," and the disciple continued:

"But they pulled me out of the sack,

And they stuck me together with glue.

And then I knew what to do.

I made a model of you,

A man in black with a Meinkampf look And a love of the rack and the screw.

And I said I do, I do."

"I think she referred to her husband Ted Hughes too. Because Ted was always in black from head to toe. And remember 'Mein kampf' is also the title of Hitler's autobiography. Hitler almost annihilated the Jews. When she badly needed father's company, he left the world. So she found it very hard to survive. She did not know whether it was bad or good. Sylvia likens the relationship between her father and her to something between a German and a Jew. She saw herself as a Jew."

"Now what's its relation to Ted?"

"That's the interesting part. She was attracted to Ted, because he reminded of her father. Whatever the feelings she had for father, it was just the same for Ted too. Tell me more of what you hear; it will explain."

"If I've killed one man, I've killed two-

The vampire who said he was you

And drank my blood for a year."

Master paused awhile for the disciple to think over the lines he recited. He wanted to listen to disciple.

"Did she have Electra complex? I mean father-daughter bond?"

"Probably yes. Father's absence made her attraction even stronger. She tried to dig out her father in Ted. But obviously it was not possible."

"And the result, she got frustrated like hell?"

"It turned out worse, because she was a poet. That disappointment was too much for her to handle."

"What sort of a disappointment?"

"Hard to spell it out. But I feel a poet should never marry another. There is no emotional balance." "Don't you think Sylvia had a psychological issue?"

"It should have been worse, if she didn't write them down. Every thought, I mean."

"And Ted destroyed them."

"Not all, my son, not all. He published some of them. Put yourself in his shoes, you would do the same. Everyone of us has dignity, come to think about that. Ted was no exception. But I think Sylvia was more courageous. She had the stomach to expose her face to the oven and let it take her life but slowly. Just imagine that!"

Disciple nodded and couldn't think of anything to respond. His hand still rested on the bicycle bar feeling its warmth.

"Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

Whether he remembered or heard the line once again, the disciple had to wonder.