showing : The Medamulane Show
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
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
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
of all cabinets
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
'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
"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
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.
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
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.