How the ‘vala’ was born

Saturday, 15 November 2014 00:00 - - {{hitsCtrl.values.hits}}

The article on Henry Jayasena in last Saturday’s issue of the Weekend FT referred to the ‘vala’ – the open air theatre in the Peradeniya University campus. It all started when Dr. Sarachchandra was looking for a place to stage ‘Maname’. He narrates the story of how it all came about in his book on his life story which he insists is “not an autobiography”. Dr. Sarachchandra was in a staff bungalow – one of three located on Sanghamitta Hill. He used to come down the hill and walk towards the Arts Block every day and he noticed an empty space on the left hand side of the road at the bend as one passes the Hilda Obeysekera Hall. The terraced area was covered with overgrown bushes and resembled a flight of steps. At the bottom was a flat space ideal for a stage. The whole place had the look of a piece of a ‘valanda’ – clay curry pot.

“Although I had seen this place every day it drew my attention only when I started looking for an open air theatre. I found it to be a place ideal for an amphitheatre with a natural setting. Plays could be staged once the space at the bottom is flattened. The audience could sit on the terraces and watch,” he writes. The one thing he feared was about the acoustics. He had to check out how the sound would be. One evening he came along with two or three others and got them to talk and sing. He realised the sound would be perfect. “It was so natural. It reminded me of the Epidauras Theatre in Greece. Even if you light a matchstick from whatever place it could be heard everywhere.” He was satisfied. The big hurdle was how it could be built. He had no authority or influence over the university’s maintenance division or the administration. The administration would only do what the vice-chancellor or the registrar orders them to do. He felt it wouldn’t cost much – they only had to clear the place, cement the bottom space and erect a temporary cadjan shed behind. The Vice-Chancellor at the time was Sir Nicholas Attygalle. “He was the top-level English-speaking type who did not show much interest in the arts. Earlier he had been a Professor in the Faculty of Medicine who was virtually ignorant of what was going on in the fields of drama, literature and music. I didn’t know whether he read anything other than medical books. He would have got to know from the academic staff who used to sit round him daily and gossip that someone called Sarachchandra on the university staff had produced a drama called ‘Maname’ which was being highly-appreciated by theatregoers. He may not have grasped what ‘Maname’ meant. He may not have had any interest either. “However, due to the insistence of the staff members he called me and discussed what I had done. When I told him I had only produced a play and not created anything marvellous, he asked why the others were speaking so highly about it and why they were forcing him to see it. He asked me whether it could be shown inside the campus. Then I asked him since there was no place to stage it whether the place I had earmarked could be arranged. He immediately called the officials and ordered them to build an open air theatre in the spot I had chosen. The obedient officials straightaway got going, cleaned up the place, flattened the area I had indicated, and prepared a round stage and cemented it. The amphitheatre was ready in three days,” Dr. Sarachchandra relates how it all happened. In the audience on the opening night were the Vice-Chancellor, a few staff members, a top official of the Rockerfellow Foundation office, students and people from the neighbouring villages. ‘Maname’ was born on 3 November 1963. It was performed in an open air theatre maintaining the traditional style of a ‘nadagama’ on the full moon night in March 1958.

‘Henry Jayasena, the one and only’

A rejoinder by Shyamon Jayasinghe, Melbourne

The article on Henry Jayasena published in the Weekend Daily FT last weekend was a well-deserved tribute paid to a humble and very able dramatist outside the Sarachchandra school who had worked tirelessly to further Sinhala drama in Sri Lanka. He has been described as a “simple man,” and that is an apt catch-all description of the man. Working all alone without the fame of a Sarachchandra to help him, Henry Jayasena soon came to prominence as a homegrown kind of drama producer. He developed on a different line from Sarachchandra. He did prose drama and that too sans lyrical embellishment. Henry operated more on a colloquial level when handling his prose. But it worked and he soon stood out as one the leading lights in Sinhala drama in his time. Henry Jayasena tackled themes that are of daily relevance to ordinary folk. ‘Apata Puthe Magak Nethe,’ ‘Janelaya’ and ‘Manaranjana Wedavarjana’ have been mentioned. His scholarship to Germany did him good as he adapted Caucasian Circle (Brecht) to the Sinhala audience. In this, Henry came close to the concept of total drama that Sarachchandra strove to achieve. ‘Hunuwataya’ was a big hit, aided as it was by Shelton Premaratne’s musical score. Above all, Henry Jayasena, although of modest built, had a considerable stage presence as an actor – something like Winston Serasinghe. He filled the stage when he came in. About 10 years ago, we got down Henry and Manel Jayasena to our home when my wife, the late Malini Jayasinghe, organised a local production of ‘Hunuwataya’ with local acting and musical talent. Henry did his defining role of Azdak. I remember the morning when Henry settled down in our lounge. He pulled a cigarette and began to smoke when my wife gently told him that it is not done in Australian homes. With a memorably friendly and humoured glow on his face, Henry took that advice and went out to the verandah to resume his deadly exercise. The couple stayed for a month and we took them around where they were hugely welcomed. During these visits Henry invariably sang his favourite, ‘Pem Kekula Pipee’. He used to love potato chips from McDonalds and ate so much that he heightened his diabetic condition. I took him to local GP Dr. Nihal Heenatigala who examined Henry and expressed shock at the high reading. We offered the GP his fee but Nihal refused, telling Henry, “We should pay you for the honour of your visit.” Despite the GP’s warning, Henry didn’t care much about his health as he used to surreptitiously bring out a 200 ml bottle of Scotch from his coat pocket and sip it. That was the “simple man” – the centre in the article.