Now showing : The Medamulane Show

Dear Ma-hinder

My darling chap first it was the hoardings now it is the name boards. We Paradisians cannot drink so fully of the cup that delights dear. Paradisians are frugal fellows, sort of like the Spartans in outlook though not by choice but through necessity. A cup that cheers here, a pol roti there and we Paradisians are happy.

But now we get to feast and chew day and night on the likes of your face on billboards from Dondra to somewhere close to Point Pedro and your name boards from east to west. It's like watching a continuous porn movie starring the best of the BKC  (Beliatte Kassipu Club).

Often have I seen young fellows taking a sneak peak at a risqu‚ poster advertising one of those adults only biscopes at one of the lesser known theatres in town, but never have I felt the overwhelming need to call in the censor board  after seeing these rash of pictures of yourself darling.

Neither can we Paradisians thank you enough for overturning like a sitting judge the name of that little sanctuary Weerawila to Sri Ma-hinder Raj-a-pakka Pura.  Do be benevolent and name the airport you chaps are erecting in order to drive away natural birds and lure the metal birds after you as well. What better way to end it all than to have one airport named after the man who started the rot and another airport named after a man who perpetrated the rot. And soon it would not only be the villagers of Weerawila who would have lost the plot.  

In fact having seen the Sri Watchamakallit name board in Weerawila, Thellie half expected you to wear the loin cloth to Mallo's birthday bash. I mean I cannot recall any other Sri except of course the Mahathma and I thought you'd like to emulate him.

But you m'dear have done so much more for Paradise. This is why you hardly have any hoardings of the Gandhi in India but at least 20 of you on any street in Paradise. It is a grand reflection of your magnanimity and your value. What  haven't you done for Paradise.

Every time I go to the boutique down the lane to buy a  kilo of bandakka and come back with 50 grams at 100 rupees I thank those various gods of yours you pray to that they created a chappie like you.  

And Ra-kneel is getting to be quite the comedian himself isn't he. On having to field a question at the chambers recently on responsibility as the second citizen of this country, Ra-kneel wryly retorted that it was not he but Ba-sil who was the second citizen.

And don't we know it. There you were giving Boggles a chance to handle foreign affairs and then sending Ba-sil to Japan instead. But what took the cake was getting the Goatie to brief your blue group meeting on the cyanide situation. An opportunity he immediately seized upon to heap accolades upon himself. While I have never heard of goats praising their own tails I suppose it's never too late to start.

And if the Medamulane Chinthanaya as Ra-kneel likes to say is one that supports human rights abuses, abductions, corruption and all those naughty bits, then you seem to be unabashed and unashamed bout it. Much like a strip tease dancer I once encountered in a bar in Morocco.  You haven't lived m'dear unless you've seen a strip tease dancer in a bar in Morocco. But then perhaps you've seen bigger and better things in the Middle East courtesy of your friend Sour-Gin.

Anyway who am I to judge on what you may or may not have seen darling except to say that having watched your performance I can now safely say I have seen everything.

Mother of all cabinets

THINGS were  astir when I walked into Paradise Club one day last week. My friend Poet Pachchathanni, his ears always attuned to linguistic subtlety would put it differently I suppose. He would probably say agog, though the more earthy of worthies would prefer koloppan.

Never mind that because the linguistic noises emanating from the mouths of Siribiris and other employees of PC ( not to be confused with President's Counsel, Poya Counsel or President's Catchers) had little to do with linguistic niceties and would be better described as originating from Mariakade or thereabouts.

Siribiris, that long standing ( literally speaking) bar tender of PC was in a foul mood and had he two bottles of pol arrack in his hands instead of expensive cognac he would probably have dashed them against the mahogany bar to release his anger and  frustration..

Then I heard that "Tsunami" Silva, anointed King of Crab Curry and PC's affable chef, almost contributed the top of his forefinger to the Sinhala saladey he was slicing.

Events earlier in the afternoon had upset Tsunami so much that the knife in his shaking hand slashed at the cucumber like Sanath Jayasuriya outside the off stump, thus adding an ounce or two of southern blood into the salad bowl.

Had he not yelled "budu ammo" and put his forefinger in his mouth some poor diner might have discovered the tip of it among the onion rings and tomato slices.

All this hullabaloo, or as some of the streetwise habitu‚s of PC say the  gottiya ( and again not to be confused with Gotabhaya) started a few hours earlier when two young chaps walked into the club and wanted to talk to the manager.

Siribiris having taken them to his boss  was hovering around in case tea or drinks were ordered, when he heard the visitors were demanding to know who owned the premises as they wanted to rent the place. We are from a property firm they said.

Sorry, said the manager, the place is not for rent.

Well, said the guys who looked like hoodlums out of some Chennai low-budget film, several ministers need houses. We want places to rent out.

Sorry, repeated the manager but this is not for rent.

In that case, said the two look-alike second cousins of Dehiwela Karthelis, 'we will acquire the premises.'

'How can you acquire this,' remonstrated the manager, 'my boss runs a legitimate business and he has influence you know.'

"We'll see about that. When the minister of garbage wants a house or anything else he has ways of getting it," said the duo and left promising to be back with the necessary powers.

Whether they would return with legal power or fire power was not mentioned and the veiled threat was left hanging like the Sword of Damocles, as those editorial hacks at the Pacha Patharaya say, trying to pretend they had some classical learning when the closest they had got to any kind of literature were comic strips.

The threat was bothering everybody including the club dog which was moaning and groaning like an over-loaded private bus.

"Did you hear what has happened," I asked the usual suspects gathered, as I sat down next to Poet Pachchathanni.

"My dear friend. What do you expect when cabinet ministers, non-cabinet ministers, deputy ministers who do not have official residences are each offered hundred thousand rupees a month of the poor taxpayers' money as rent.     

"All the wheeler- dealers in town not to mention the shady dealers and full time politicians and part time bribe takers, are trying to make a buck out of the hundred thousand smackaroos."

"The press is to blame, you know," claimed Kosala  'Fixer' Kehelmala. "If they did not publish about the hundred thousand rupees house rent, nobody would know. Now everybody is trying to push everybody out of their houses and house rents are shooting up like living costs."

"What do you know," contributed Mabel Manasgathe, young niece of Wendy Van Rinder Pest who I introduced to you last week. "Yesterday morning I was just putting my make- up on and trying to look decent when the door bell rang.  I opened the door. There were these three fellows. Myeee child, rowdy looking fellows I was so scared."

Mabel took a gulp of her VSOA and continued. "They wanted my house and said they will give forty thousands rupees rent. Who are you I asked?"

'Never mind that,' said one fellow who could well have done with a change of clothes, the minister of nation breaking is looking for a house and we are going to find him one quickly. He will like your house. Quite close to the wine shop and buth kade. You must get ready to move out at the end of the month.'

"Just imagine, leaving Dada boy's house to some sarong- wearing ruffian looking fellows. Myeee I quickly shut the door and took a stiff one. Have to think about it men,  at a time like this," cried Mabel, her teeth rattling against the rim of the glass as she took another swig of the VSOA.

"Yes, yes there is money in it," said "Fast Cash" Mansoor, "What men who cares who gets it. All that matters is that ministers quickly settle down to work."

"Actually Mansy boy here has a point," said Kandiah (call me Ken) Vinasapathi, Ceylon Civil Service (retired). "This is what happens when you have a cabinet big enough to fill the Bandaranaike hall. First they have no place to sit at cabinet meetings. Some have no offices to work from. Now to add insult to injury, they have no place to call home, though I am sure some have several places to lay their weary limbs."

"But how are we going to save our club from those thugs who will come back?" asked an anxious Fast Cash Mansoor.

 "Oh that's easy. We park a white van or two outside the club. When they come and see the van they will get the message fast," said a confident Fixer Kehelmala.

"But what if they also come in a white van," asked a quick-witted Mabel Manasgathe, "Myee what if they throw a couple of those exploding things. Mamma told me, Mabel dotti, don't go anywhere near those exploding men. God will never forgive them."

"I've got an idea, people," joined in Batty Bebaddha, former MP for Arakkupattu, breaking his silence. "There are many of the foreign NGO people who came here promising to build houses. They didn't build many houses but built their bank balances. If they don't want their foreign holiday in  Paradise terminated suddenly they should be ordered to build houses for ministers.

"Building homes for the homeless is a worthy cause isn't it?"

At these words of wisdom everybody nodded in unison.

If houses for homeless ministers are going to take as long as those castles in the air for the tsunami victims, will not Paradise Club and stately residences still be in danger from marauding maniacs masquerading as ministerial messengers, I thought.

So we all sat down to write urgent letters of concern to Amnesty International, Human Rights Watch, Allan Rock, the Anti-War Front, the Anti-Anti War Front, the Anti-Peace Front and the Colombo Criminals Club.

Mabel Manasgathe urged us to write also to the Burgher Breudher Association which was readily accepted.

But Tsunami Silva whispered  that we should write to Mervyn Silva - it was  flatly rejected. You can't write to Human Rights Watch and Mervyn Silva in the same language, could you?  He himself might be in search of a residence and he has a fatal attraction for clubs, they said.

A valid point, perhaps.

This is Paradise