I remember vividly that I was in the ninth or tenth grade during a time of terror. Back then, most of my siblings were deeply immersed in creative pursuits. Gradually, not only our parents but even we ourselves came to understand that writing poems, songs, short stories, and essays was dangerous given the prevailing circumstances. The irony, however, was that no one in our family had any political affiliations.
To prevent further complications, we decided to put our writing on hold for a while and made the painful decision to destroy everything we had created. My father worked at an office that was established with Russian aid (it was shut down a few years later when I was in high school, leading to mass layoffs). Russian magazines and books, sent to employees’ homes free of charge, had suddenly become dangerous possessions.
The amount of poetry I had written was immense. I burned them all along with those magazines. But what I regretted most was destroying my sister’s poems, for I still believe her talent far surpassed mine.
Among my works, there were two stories—one called “The Stranger” and the other “Brothers.” “The Stranger” was a novel. Instead of burning them, I buried both manuscripts, wrapped in polythene bags, in a corner of the garden, hoping to retrieve them someday. However, before doing so, I removed the first chapter of “The Stranger” and the first two pages of “Brothers.”
When I finally unearthed them years later, they were water-damaged and rotten. At the end of 1998, I published a collection of short stories titled “The Stranger,” which included the salvaged first chapter. The book won the Youth Award for the best publication of 1999. Yet, apart from the copies submitted to the Library Services Board, the rest remained unsold. Bookstores in Colombo, though willing to display them, refused to pay me for the copies they took.
Despite winning several literary awards for short stories submitted to university competitions alongside the Youth Award, I never attended any of the ceremonies. Over the next two years, I published several short stories in newspapers, including “The Old Writer” (Ravaya), “Sanda” (Dinamina), “Soldier’s Wife” (Lakbima), and “Arunachalam Upaya” (published in a now-defunct newspaper).
When the Youth Service Council announced a publication project for new works, I submitted a poetry collection titled “Chandramukhi.” Months later, I was informed that it had been accepted for publication. I spent days visiting the Council’s corridors, only to realize that their promise had been a deception. Eventually, they claimed my manuscript had been lost. The same year, I was notified that a lyric from the collection had won a merit certificate at the Youth Awards Ceremony. I declined to attend the event to receive it.
During this period, while working night shifts, I started writing a novel titled “Anuttara Niruttaraya.” Pressured by a deadline change, I hurried to complete it, convinced it was a flawed creation. Yet, at the urging of friends, I submitted it for publication assistance under the Library Services Board.
Meanwhile, at a friend’s insistence, I compiled my short stories into a book titled “Sanda.” A friend, Disa, loaned me Rs. 50,000 to finance the publication. Repaying the debt in monthly installments, I gained nothing financially from the book. When I approached a well-known bookstore in Maradana, the manager scolded me for not featuring a Hindi actress on the cover, claiming that was why the book wouldn’t sell. They took 40 copies, promising to pay Rs. 25 each, and handed me a mere Rs. 1,000.
As selling books became more burdensome than writing them, I contemplated quitting. Just then, I received notice that “Anuttara Niruttaraya” had been approved for publication assistance. My mother insisted I sign the agreement. However, in an unfortunate turn of events, the Library Services Board later claimed a lack of funds and offered only half the promised amount in installments. The printing press began demanding payments, adding to my distress.
“Anuttara Niruttaraya” eventually secured second place in the novel category that year.
“You wrote it in a hurry, and it still turned out well,” my mother said.
“I’m not going to collect the award,” I declared. My mother, however, went in my place, returning with the certificate and the Rs. 6,000 prize money.
For years, unsold copies of “Sanda” and “Aagantukaya” gathered dust, eaten by rats and soaked by rain. Finally, on the verge of discarding them, a former teacher of mine intervened, arranging for their distribution to school libraries.
“How much do you want for them?” he asked.
“Are you joking? How much should I pay you to take this trash away?” I responded bitterly.
“Don’t call books trash,” he admonished.
“Take what you want. I feel no joy seeing them,” I said.
Unable to escape the compulsion to write, I started another novel, “Malin.” Around this time, a friend secretly submitted a collection of my lyrics for publication assistance. It was accepted. But when I brought the manuscript home, I told my mother I had lost interest in publishing books.
“Then why do you keep writing?” she asked.
I had no answer. Perhaps it was an illness. Perhaps an addiction. Either way, I resolved to correct my mistake and stopped writing “Malin.”
“Since the contract is signed, finish this book,” friends urged. Reluctantly, I took the manuscript to my friend Sampath’s press. It was only because of him that the book materialized.
As the State Literary Festival neared, I received persistent calls from the Cultural Department.
“Why don’t your books have your contact details?” an official asked when I visited.
“I used to include them, but not anymore. Besides, this is my last book.”
“Oh, don’t be so discouraged! Your book has made it to the final round!”
I laughed. “And how is talent decided here?” I asked.
“That’s why we exist—to support literature!” she reassured me.
“Then buy a few of our ‘Ravana Dahana’ CDs,” I said. There was no reply.
Instead, they commissioned us to design the festival’s invitation card, promising Rs. 5,000. We worked tirelessly, yet, years later, we were never paid.
Some time ago, our association, “Ravana Brothers,” planned to publish a history booklet for schoolchildren. We sought sponsorship to distribute it freely. However, misinformation spread online, accusing me of selling it for Rs. 20,000. A monk called, questioning my integrity.
“Who said such a thing, Venerable?” I asked.
“Jali…,” he replied, naming someone from an online history group.
“If I were to write a book, it wouldn’t be a problem for anyone. I don’t copy from others.”
The call ended. A week later, the accuser published his own history book for sale.
Recently, as I cleaned my bookshelf, I stumbled upon the first two pages of “Brothers”—the very pages I had saved before burying the manuscript. The paper was crumbling, nearly unreadable. Yet, as I read, I was transported back 35 years—to a time when writing was both my solace and my curse.
