Friday, 5 February 2010

Sarachchandra the diplomat - a few recollections



Prof. Ediriweera Sarachchandra

A great deal has already been written about Prof. Ediriweera Sarachchandra, yet to my knowledge hardly anything has been written about the three years he spent in Paris (France) as the Ambassador of Sri Lanka. This note is meant to fill this gap.

It's well known that Prof. Sarachchandra played a key role in the election campaign against the UNP Government in 1970. Though generally apolitical, Prof. Sarachchandra was drawn into it by his staunch opposition to the draconian measures against university autonomy proposed by the regime.

As an independent thinker Prof. Sarachchandra was also opposed to certain measures taken by the coalition government, particularly after the 1971 insurgency. Sarachchandra had been unanimously nominated as the chairman of the Civil Rights Movement established on 18th Nov. 1971. This I guess would have been yet another reason why Prof. Sarachchandra was considered for a diplomatic appointment by the Sirimavo Bandaranaike government.

In an interview in 1996, this is how the late professor described the dilemma he had to face: "I supported the coalition because I thought the politics of the left together with the left of centre politics of the SLFP will offer a good balance. But later on I was beginning to get critical of the government.

I headed the Civl Rights Movement which was formed to monitor violations of civil rights, specially after the 71 insurrection. When I was critical of the government, they probably wanted me out of the way - so they offered me this job, which was very difficult for me to refuse anyway as I was badly in need of the money."

By this time Prof. Sarchchandra was on the verge of retirement. He had devoted his entire life to creative and academic work within the university. Yet, it seemed that the truth of the age old Indian diction (Sarasaviya ha sirikatha eka thena nowasathi) Goddess Saraswathi and the Goddess of prosperity do not go together was beginning to dawn on him.

He never owned a house that he could call his own even at retirement. He never pocketed a cent of the charges that came from the performances of the plays he produced for the 'Sinhala natya sangamaya' of the university of Peradeniya.

When it came to the second production of 'Sinhabahu' in 1971, he had to turn to his friends for the required sum of rupees 7500. Part of that money was provided by me. (I must record here that this money was duly returned to me within one year - see Sinhabahu brochure 1972).

I went to Paris on an invitation by Prof. Sarachchandra in December 1976. It was the thick of winter in Europe. As I stepped into the official residence he welcomed me with a familiar smile and wittily quipped, 'Gala! What a great distance have you come to see for yourself a modicum of suffering and pain'.

The official residence of the Sri Lankan Ambassador was located at Neuilly Sur Saine, a picturesque suburb of Paris, surrounded by multi-storeyed apartments and dotted here and there by luxurious residences of multi million. It was really an ideal residential area.

I well remember hearing that one of the world's richest men Aristotal Onasis owned a mansion in that area. In this picturesque setting, I must say, the building of the Sri Lankan Ambassador's residence was probably the ugliest, gloomiest and dirtiest of the whole of Rue Perronet.

There was a dilapidated stable in that small compound of four to five perches. This box-shaped three storeyed building was surrounded by a high wall which seemed not to have seen any paint for an uncountable number of years. Hence it was dark in patches and covered with moss here and there. The carpets inside were not much better.

They were both old and worn out. The wall papers around had well forgotten their original colours. The electricity circuit within the house was dangerously fragile. When we think of Paris as a global trend-settler of fashions and elegant living the world over the Sri Lankan Ambassadors' residence would not have brought a respect for Sri Lanka, though it may well have degraded our image abroad.

Prof. Sarachchandra recorded his embarrassment thus "The residence of the Ambassador is in the fashionable Neuilly-Sur-Seine area, but it is one of the most disreputable looking buildings in that area.

Its roof is on the point of crumbling down, its outer walls are dirty and haven't been cleaned in the past 10 years since we began to rent out the house, its floors need carpeting and its inner walls and wood work need painting and redoing. I have felt ashamed to invite Ambassadors to my house because of its state of neglect. If felt ashamed of course, on behalf of the country I was representing. Actually, we have not had the means to maintain the house decently."

Further on the same subject he says; "It's not a question of poverty. Countries do not establish diplomatic missions in order to advertise their poverty. Vulgar ostentation is, of course, not appropriate, but certain standards have to be maintained. Poorer countries like Bangladesh keep up a more decent level and entertain better, and I'm sure that they find it more profitable in the long run.

My point is that it would be more in keeping with our national self-respect to close down missions that can't be maintained at decent levels and to put such resources to improve the missions that are left and which we feel are useful to maintain". (The Sunday Observer, November 13-1977).

Once I remember how a member of our diplomatic mission was hotly contradicted when he introduced a brass lamp with an engraved figure on top, as an authentic Sri Lankan creation. The knowledgeable foreigner traced its Indian origin. This simple incident exposes the ignorance of our officials who are attached to our missions abroad.

I would now like to illustrate how Sarachchandra the artist live inside Sarachchandra the diplomat in Paris. Sarachchandra did not forget to take his sitar when he went to Paris. Whenever he had some free time he would play the sitar in trance-like meditation.

He even hired a music teacher to improve his Kills. This person happened to be a Nepalese and was totally blind. He lived in Paris giving brief recitals on TV and visited us each Wednesday.

It was quite touching to see how Prof. Sarachchandra welcomed his teacher at the door-step and then offer him a warm cup of tea by his own hands. He would practise what he has learned until late into the night.

Sarachchandra used to get down publications of creative literature from home and read them very carefully, keeping abreast of every development in Sri Lanka. It was during the same period that he edited a translation of 'Pematho Jayathi Soko' rendered in to English by Derik de Silva who happened to be attached to Oxford University at that time.

This text was included in series of play scripts representing contemporary world theatre published by Salsburg University, Austria. His English novel titled "With the begging bowl" was based on his experience as the ambassador, and was later published in India. Inthe same period I could also see how happy he was to train a group of Sri Lankans in Paris to sing Bhakthi Gee at Vesak. He probably felt the need to create a Sri Lankan cultural environment around himself.

I feel it would be inappropriate to end this note without reference to the memories of our long walks on the bank of the river Seine. Most often, we set out from Rue perronat where the Ambassador's residence was located, along narrow paths leading to Sein, crossing Boulevard de Chateau.

We walked up to the Boulevard de General lecturer. Here one could see a few small islands (Il Dela Gon Jeane) in the middle of the river Seine, and the water of the river divide into two steams. As the evening deepened we would see holiday makers pass by in their boats studded with lights, playing sweet melodies as they melted into the distant mist.

The highrise buildings on the Courbevie area on the other side of the bank would light up plunging the reflected light deep into the water of the calm river giving it another worldly charm. This is said to be an industrial area, well described in Gue de Maupassants' stories.

As we walk along we would meet retired French couples arm in arm walk along with their extravagantly attired pet dogs. Our conversation would drift from talk about old age life-family bonds-cultural values, East and West ..... and so on. In one of these walks, professor told me how he got the title for his novel based on the 1971 insurgency (Heta Ehchara Kaluwara Ne) from a Parisian advertisement which read 'Il ne par is noir demain".

With the defeat of the Sirimavo Bandaranaike Government in 1977, Prof. Sarachchandra promptly returned to Sri Lanka and once again left the island on an appointment as a research professor at the East-West Centre, Hawaii.

There was hardly anything Prof. Sarachchandra earn from his post as Ambassador in Paris. Part of his personnel salary too was sometimes channelled to safeguard the image of our country. Unlike many diplomats who return home with a plethora of foreign gadgets, foreign furniture, cars, washing machines and what not and anxiously wait for the next posting abroad, Sarachchandra returned to his old residence at Epitamulle, Pitakotte. Since he had no vehicle of his own to get about I had to lend my old 4 Sri Volkswagen until the day he left for Hawaii (USA).

(The writer is former Deputy Principal of St. Anthony's College, Kandy and author of several publications both Sinhala and English).

Simon Navagattegama: Tribute to a literary legend

Author: Aditha Dissanayake
Source: Sunday Observer

Date: 16/10/2005


Simon Navagattegama

It would not be an exaggeration to say my heart sank to my shoes when I heard on the radio, on my way to work, on Monday morning, Simon Navagattegama had passed away. I knew I would be assigned the task of writing a tribute to him, and for the first time in my three months at the Sunday Observer, instead of facing this challenge with an overdose of enthusiasm, I wished I could run away.

I knew whatever I write would not be an atoms tribute to one of the greatest writers our country has been blessed with. Yet, here I am trying to achieve the unattainable.

Simon Navagattegama, the award winning novelist passed away on October 9. Another candle in the literary arena is no more". No. How bland the words seem to bid farewell to someone whose life symbolises the true meaning of the word Bohemian.

For, none has lived the life Simon Navagattegama lived. None dropped out of the University of Peradeniya, half way through his degree and went off to live as a hunter and a farmer in the Vanni, none returned to complete the three year degree, under special permission within eight months, and none strayed from the conventional paths set by society the way he did. A rebel in life as well as in his work, he was a hunter whose prey was the human psyche.

On an evening as the sun bids adieu to the world, he would read a slim volume of Chekhov's short stories. While reading a story by Kafka, he would chew betel, and smack his lips as if he is tasting the story.

Reading Professor Sarachchandra he would recall an event in his own past and a story would begin to form on the tip of his pen... till finally he would write a "long-short story"; one in which the paragraphs might claim kinship with a short story of Chekhov, with a novel of Martin Wickramasinghe, with a story heard in childhood, with a dream he had in the early hours of the morning.

Characters would emerge from the misty past, maimed, distorted waving their mutated arms and legs, wailing for the attention of the writer, wishing him to make them perfect.

Born on September 15, 1940 educated at Maho Vidyalaya and Anuradhapura Central College, he lived a life of a non-conformist, roamed the country with a restless mind and stopped now and then to record what he had gleaned of the mechanics of the human conscience through his work.

Having written his first collection of short stories at the age of twenty, titled Ohuge Kathawa, with his best creation, "Sansaranyaye Dadayakkaraya", he would have put to shame works of Salman Rushdie or Chinua Achebe had he written it in English.

Among the five stage plays he wrote Suba Saha Yasa was claimed by critic Gamini Akmeemana as a masterpiece which proves that the state of governance has not changed from 2000 years ago to date. An actor as well as a writer, he starred in movies like Premavanthayo, Thunweni Eha, Kinihiriya Mal and Bawa Duka.

Let this short biography suffice, lest I too become a Judas, for as Oscar Wilde once said, "Every great man has his disciples, and it is always Judas who writes the biography". Let this unconventional tribute bring a sardonic grin to your lips, the way he would have wanted it.

There is no death they say, only a change of worlds. I do not know Simon Navagattegama, where you are right now.

But I hope you will find everything you loved in this world from your golf cap to the brown corduroy trousers, from the cigarettes to the mice, to whom you dedicated "Sagara Jalaya Madi Handuwa..." whereever you are. You deserve the best.

Simon Navagattegama - An unusual mind

EVERYBODY DIES, but I never expected him to pass away that soon. Of course I may have not known in what health state he was in at the time of his death as I had not met him for some time, and being abroad.


Simon Navagattegama

I met Simon very casually and by surprise. This was at the then University of Ceylon campus in Peradeniya. I was rushing for a lecture at the Arts Theatre.

Simon wearing a planter's type of hat was seated on the left of the circular stone stockade, which we as students used to sit along in the evenings some times until the commencement of a film or some entertainment event.

The time was about 2.45 p.m and Simon was seated alone. As soon as he saw me rushing towards the Arts Theatre, he glided down to his feet and walked towards me with a book and handed that to me and said

"Namel, you may not know me, I want you to read this and tell me what you think about it". It was his first piece of published writing, a collection of short stories - "Ohuge Kathawa" (His Story). I asked "why me".

He said "I have watched your interest in literary activities in the Campus and your achievement as a short story writer winning this year's Gold Medal. I also watched you playing in Dr Sarachchandra's Rattaran.

You were a typical "gamaya" (villager) in that. I think you will like to read this book and give me your opinion on it."

I was at the end of my second year. He was completing his first year. I did not know him until that day as a contemporary of mine, but my ego swelled and was really happy that he had waited for me to hand over his creation to an unknown soul like me though I was keen on literature and involved in such activity.

This was way back in 1959. I of course read it and met him after two days at his Hall of Residence and told him that I liked the stories and wanted him to write more and more. He had the touch of Maupassant and chiefly Chekhov's influence.

We met often and discussed on our interests and became friends and our colleagues thought that we were any way weird. I don't blame.

We both of us liked to be loners and remained so. Of course with the greatest respect I must say that I found him to be a very "unusual man" and was quite different from others in his characteristics and the way he thought about the world.

He had his own version of Marxism and his approach to the thoughts of the then trend of University thought and creativity.

He hardly concentrated on his studies but was interested in literary works madly. He was a vociferous reader and was always with a book all the time under his arm pit and in his habitual hat, not the type that he used to wear in his later life but the type I mentioned earlier.

After about three months of our meeting I heard to my amazement that Simon had disappeared from the Campus and is gone to hibernation. Nobody knew why, but the rumour spread that he left the Campus because a girl had fallen in love with him and he didn't want such affair to take place. That is how he gave up the University life in Peradeniya.

We later heard that he had gone back to his village Vanni in search of raw experience. He did not want to have a degree from the University or to be a scholar in it, but a degree and to become a scholar in the University of Life.

This was the most unusual attitude he adopted in life. It is this mind-set that made him an unusual creative intellect. It is this approach to life that will register him to be an immense literary figure in the history of arts in this country.

As a dramatist he was grand, creative, philosophical, and intellectual. His dramas were theatrical and meaningful. He was really a craftsman in his art and excelled in it.

"Suba saha Yasa" itself is sufficient to evidence this. No one will have the nerve to challenge that this play is not one of the best that had been ever written in Sinhala. It would be considered a classic in time to come and that is my personal opinion for its depth, humanity and dramaturgy it inherits.

I have no intention of listing all his plays since his first attempt as a playwright "Gangawak and Sapattuwak". In each of his plays he displayed maturity and his outlook in life whilst maintaining the integrity of craftsmanship that he inscribed into them for their theatricality as philosopher and intellect is immutable.

His talents did not confine only to theatrical works but equally well he shined as a creative and impressive actor since his debut in Dharamasiri Wickrmarathne's "Shan Eliya" in 1964.

He was at his best in his own production of "Suba saha Yasa", after Upali Attanayake. Both were great actors who gave different interpretations for the same character in the play.

His creative output in novels and short story writing was no less in importance and value that he inscribes to the experience that he drew from the University of Life.

"Suddhilage Kathawa" itself suffices to establish his creativity as a story teller. What I admire in his writings is his level of depth, maturity of his experiences and the craftsmanship he instills in them.

As a multifaceted creative dramatist, novelist, short story writer, essayist and thinker than the academic achievements he gained later in life surpasses the invaluable degree that he achieved in the University of Life.

He was no doubt a bohemian, but a human being too who earned a wealth of experiences that he left behind as a legacy for the future.

Sayima Also Went !!

Author: Kusal Perera
Source: kusalperera.blogspot
Date: 15th October, 2005



Ocean full of water isn’t enough to cry for you – that probably was what the frog murmured, its divine love for the mouse sitting silent, when they had to part. Probably many thought that way too, when Simon Navagattegama departed (09th Oct.) for good. A bit too soon though, with only six decades and a little more than a half behind him. There wasn’t many that cold and breezy wet evening, who had pondered over Simon’s literature to dream into his first short story collection published in 1972, titled “Saagara Jalaya Madi Henduwa Oba Sandha”. And there after, he simply grew unnoticed and without noise as an excellent prose writer, with just half a dozen novels, no literary critic dared to dissect in full.

Simon was at his best, as a creative writer. Simon’s haunting romanticism was very much different to prose of all others. He had many layers a reader could dig into, in his creations and his metaphors were all unrealistically realistic. And that was Simon in real life too. Elusive, yet so much attached in his relationships. The Simon I came to know quite closely.

I first met “Sayima”, as we very fondly called him, some where in 1973, when he was lodging with some boarders down Initium Road, Dehiwala, in an old house over looking the sea. His school mate, another silent but talented dramatist Sumana Aloka Bandara, was in there too. All others were far away from art and literature, enjoying most evenings, till the sea went dry. Sayima wrote his stage play “Pusloadung” while in there. It was banned after 08 public shows by the Coalition government of Madam Sirimavo B. Though a school teacher then, a routine-less character, Sayima was known to frequent Lionel Wendt theatre instead of going to teach. And some one had chalked on his often closed room door, “Lionel Wendt – Simon also went”.

Sayima was an enormous dreamer. He had enough to dream about too. For he grew from the closeted wilderness of Navagattegama, Anamaduwa, through Peradeniya and Vidyodaya Universities and then through the extravagant and sickening city culture to absorb everything from the old Soviet culture to the modern Western life.


His was an unusual journey through life and history. He sat for his Grade Five scholarship exam in 1948, from his village school. His father had refused Rathnayake Head Master, when he wanted the little fellow to sit the scholarship exam. “Who will look after my buffalo….after me ?” the elderly farmer had asked. Yet in a remote world that knew nothing about feminism, the mother always took decisions and Simon was tutored to sit the exam. Sayima had his own slow rhythmic style of rattling off old tales like that, sitting on the bund of the reservoir, his father and other villagers had dug to collect rain water for their cultivations, when they were robust youth. “I was startled, when the Head Master’s wife, a teacher in our school told me I could go to Sanda-lankawa to sit the exam.” Sayima once told me. He had thought Sandalankawa was yet another country. His was the school, the villagers and their children, the buffaloes they chased after, the tank they ran to bathe and the thick black forest beyond, that howled mysteriously in the night.

His first trip in a “railluwa” was when he was taken by Rathnayake Head Master to Mahawa Central College, still with his neatly combed long hair knotted into a plain bundle over his nape. He became the first pupil for long years to come, to pass the Grade Five scholarship exam from his village school. The trip included a long journey from Navagattegama to Galgamuwa by bullock cart and then in a coal fed, smoking train, the railluwa. “We had a Tami
l master for English”, he told me. “He was also the hostel master”. They had to speak in English in the hostel, or be penalised a cent for every Sinhala word spoken. And when the petromax lamp was blown off at 10 in the night, the boy in the next bed would creep up to slowly pull Sayima’s long hair laid free in the night. Then, his scream “Amme” cost him a cent. Thus came the day he visited a barber for the first time.

The last time I met Sayima, he was feeble looking but was yet planning to write “something”. That was about an year ago. I asked what it would be and he said, “Don’t know, but there’s something in me, I want to tell others.” He had plenty to tell others. A voracious reader, I knew he read a heavy load of Arabian tales and Latin history. He read Buddhist scripts and Soviet literature. Well, he had read whole libraries.

His childhood innocence, the village, the universities, city pavements, socialism, capitalism, existentialism, post-modernism and his ever rebelling over read psyche, all that in a single bundle of contradictory, complex knots, Saimon Navagattegama is no more. But if, fate had it the other way round, he would light another cigarette from the one he throws away and dream about another story for tomorrow. Not me, nor any other, I know. But that’s Sayima who lived alone, yet enjoying the whole world.

Jayalal Rohana: A man of many parts


Author: Susitha R. Fernando
Source: The Sunday Times
Date: 22/05/2005
I met Muthumina who is famous for his astrological predictions recently. The meeting was not at his sweetheart Revathi's house but at Nugegoda Rotary where he teaches Drama and Theatre.

Jayalal Rohana who cames out with a memorable role on home screens discussed at length his latest role as an astrologer, who is madly in love with Revathi, the daughter of his landlord.

Talking about the plight of the today's teledrama industry Rohana said that today many teledramas are dished out from cheap low quality novels. Most of these teledramas are done from novels that are fit only for the waste paper basket.

There is also another set of teledramas which are tragedies. They are tragedies from the beginning to the end of the story. It was in this background I got the opportunity to play in Isuru Yogaya. Here is a teledrama that I really enjoyed playing a role with which I had real empathy. On the other hand the reason for the success of this teledrama is the cast. When you play with such an experienced cast you bring out the best in you unconsciously.

Explaining how he became Muthumina the astrologer Jayalal Rohana says, "I had to study astrology before I attempted the role".

It was very easy because the director's family knew this subject and director Susiran de Silva's brother R. G. Ranjan de Silva is a professional astrologer. Discussion on the shoot for the day started as early as 3 am and had to adhere strictly to the script almost as if it was of one Shakespeare's plays. This was because Astrology is a highly technical subject. Changing a single word could give a completely different meaning. So I had to memorise every word, and at the same time I was not willing to make a fool of myself as there were professionals on the subject. I am happy that I have not made any mistakes on the subject of astrology. As I was leaving Jayalal Rohana I thought to myself he will be able to foretell my future if I bring my horoscope to him.

Rohana's journey to Isuru Yogaya was motivated and encouraged by his father in the field of drama and arts. In 1976 while at school, Ananda Shasthralaya, Kotte he won the award for the best actor in Soma Perera's 'Muhudu Giya' in the All Island Interschool Drama Competition. He was fortunate to be introduced to drama and arts by an experienced drama teacher Gunasena Galappaththi of Muhudud Puththu fame.

Possessing a degree in Arts from the Peradeniya University and Masters degrees in Sociology and Philosophy from Kelaniya University, at the moment he is reading for his Masters in Drama and Theatre.

He says that he remembers with gratitude his gurus Simon Navagaththegama and Sugathapala who guided him during the course of his career. A winner of many awards of Youth Drama Festivals, Jayalal says that "Loka" was his prime achievement where he received almost all the awards in 1987 except for the Script and Best Actor. Jayalal says working under Simon Navagaththegama he was fortunate to gain experience as a scriptwriter. Jayalal Rohana says with acceptable pride that he served in the same jury ten years later and it shows his progress in drama and theatre.

Speaking of the vast store house of knowledge that he gained from various institutions offering diplomas and degrees he says that 1982 OCIC diploma course conducted by Fr. Ernest Poruthota was one of the best that he attended. Jayalal Rohana speaking of Mr. Andrew Jayamanne says he taught the subject thoroughly giving all his love and knowledge to his students and as such he is an honoured 'Guru' for all time. Jayalal Rohana wishing to widen his horizon studied Western theatre under teachers like Prof. Rudy Corrence from Belgium and A. G. Gunawardena and Trilicia Gunawardena.

In Sinhala theatre the production is economy conscious and acting ability and casting takes second place where as in Western Theatre funds are no question the focus is on talent, creativity and acting ability.

Jayalal Roahan joined television in 1986 and he contributed to one episodic teleplay as well as many miniplays. He gained popularity with his role in 'Isuru Yogaya' now being telecast on Rupavahini at 8.30 pm every Sunday.

Although he has a busy schedule in the acting field shooting on location and directing plays Jayalal says that what gives him satisfaction is the sense of responsibility he has towards arts and drama. He makes it his vision to teach and mould young minds in his many classes, Rotary-Nugegoda, Montana-Gampaha and Aurex-Anuradhapura.

Jayalal not only teaches the young but lends a hand in teaching many under graduates at Rajarata university with the hope of building up many budding artistes to the world of theatre.

Ape kattiya dared to differ - The young Sugathapala de Silva

Author: Madhubhashini Disanayaka
Source: Sunday Times
Date:
16th March 1997

The young Sugathapala de Silva

In an article published two years ago in the drama magazine 'Preksha', Simon Navgattegama speaks of a group of young players who had made a major contribution to drama in our society - the group 'Ape Kattiya' (Our Group). He concludes:

The change that occurred during the fifties and sixties in the Sinhala stage can still be seen in a mature form today. The change that Navagattegama speaks about is the portrayal of social problems on stage - the bringing in of social realism on to the field of drama that had been swept away into the form of stylized drama with its plots taken from myths and legends, distant in time and space, with the success of Sarachchandra's 'Maname' in 1956.

Though it is hard to agree with the belief that the universal themes that stylized drama usually dealt with had no relevance to the present, there did exist a criticism (and still does, as apparent in the article 'Hitting at Maname' in The Sunday Times of 16 February 1997) that the form that took the country by storm did not deal with the problems that affected its people.

Navagattegama speaks of the challenge of producing realistic drama in the fifties when the powerful "Peradeniya School" was propagating the stylized form which they considered to be closer to our traditional roots. '"Luckily for modern Sinhala drama, Ape Kattiya was stubborn enough to follow their own vision with obstinacy, completely ignoring the enormous challenge posed to them by the Peradeniya school."

OldSugathapala de Silva: Optimistic about the future of Sinhala drama
"The first name that comes to mind when I think of Ape Kattiya is Sugathapala de Silva", says Navagattegama. Banduala Jayawardena in his newest book "A brush stroke sketch of contemporary Sinhala theatre 1950-1980" (1977) says, "These plays (Sugathapala de Silva's Bodinkarayo - 1961, and Thattu geval - 1964) of the Ape Kattiya were in fact a concurrently growing protest movement against the so-called stylized theatre of tradition.

Sugathapala de Silva named this genre Thatvika or realistic drama, implying apparently that the plays which utilized myth and had lions, kings, princes and princesses for characters, had no relevance to reality. Plays of the Ape Kattiya, were on the other hand full of characters one meets in urban streets, boarding houses and mercantile offices...."

When there seems to be some interest in assessing the worth of stylized theatre in the field of Sinhala drama, it seemed fitting that we should meet the man who is supposed to be one of the founders of the opposing trend.

"I am against the word 'opposing'," says Sugathapala de Silva. "An artist is supposed to be a man of sensitivity. What has anger against another artist got to do with that kind of person? At that time what we wanted to show was that the stylized form was not the ultimate method. We had enough confidence in ourselves to go ahead and do what we believed in. We wanted to do the best we could - not put someone else down."

Also, the playwright believes that the form is subjugated to the content. He feels that the content itself would determine what the form of the drama should be. If we look at the last play of Ape Kattiya "Maratsad" (1987), we see that he does not hesitate to use a form that is far removed from realistic drama, when it suited what he had to say.

'We should be open to all styles from all over the world and enrich ourselves with what we can get," he says and this view shows why he feels that translations and adaptations have a positive influence on the drama of any country. "If we did not have drama from other countries to compare our productions with, then we can deceive the people here that everything we do is good.

"There must be a yardstick for people to judge. And why is it that we consider it all right to borrow from the West when it comes to Science and Technology, and it is wrong to do so in the field of art?" he asks, as a response to another belief that bringing in adaptations and translations of foreign playwrights was detrimental to original work produced within the country.

For Sugathapala de Silva, drama is, one way of expression. ln his involvement in it, he did not have a clear cut desire to serve any other idea than the desire to create. "Theatre is what I chose to express things I wanted to communicate. It is the expression that is important. The medium comes to one. Perhaps if my father had bought me a racing car when I was very young, driving may have been the medium of expression. Who knows?"

According to Bandula Jayawardena, however, Mr. de Silva's contribution has far reaching consequences: "But a daringly different tendency (than the drama that was done under political patronage) had been initiated in 1972 by Sugathapala de Silva in Dunna Dunu Gamuwe which had for background a company strike with trade union leaders, blacklegs and middle class wives as in Jayasena's Mana Ranjana Vada Varjana but the play ends entirely on the side of the strikers... the play opened the doors for an outburst that had been silently simmering among youthful playwrights. It took the form of a play of protest. Hindsight would make of Dunna a virtual Pandora's Box..."

Mr. Jayawardena feels that "neither de Silva's first attempt at traditional stylization in Nil Katrol Mal (1967) nor his Nandivisala (1977) attempting to make satirical use of a Jataka, nor the host of translations and adaptations he produced had as far reaching an influence as the Dunna."

It is not only in stage drama that Sugathapala de Silva has made a change for the better. His 19 years at the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation had resulted in the radio plays done by the Sinhala Service at that time, becoming enormously popular. Since he had already had experience in stage drama it was not difficult for him to deal with radio plays, he says and apart from introducing many newcomers into 'Guvanviduli ranga mandala' (radio drama) he himself wrote scripts for it.

Says Palitha Perera, now the Director of the Sinhala Service, who worked in the same unit with

Sugathapala de Silva when de Silva first joined the SLBC, "Sugath had a very good sense of judgment, when it came to understanding the worth of scripts and the skill of newcomers. That was of enormous value." Sugathapala de Silva says that it was by watching Palitha Perera, who had preceded him at the unit, that he learnt how to tackle this new medium. As a response to that, Palitha Perera smiles to say, "coming from such a man as Sugath, that would be one of the greatest honors I could get."Sugathapala de Silva is also a writer of novels, now working on his seventh. His first novel,

Biththi Hathara (1963) (The Enclosure) which was turned into a film, has a protagonist whose life seems to have resemblance to the writer's own, specially with regard to the death of the mother at a young age, and the death of the closest friend in his youth. Asked about it, de Silva smiles to say, the first novel would always have an element of autobiography.Biththi Hathara is a story of a young man's journey through various relationships, of his finding (and losing) himself through his contact with others in the process of growing up. The criss-crossing of time in the novel though somewhat confusing to the reader, gives it, even at that point, an element of audio visual art. For a first novel, the depth that he explores with regard to the complex process of living and of feeling alive is impressive.

In his novels too one can see a trend that parallels his theatre work. There are novels - original and translated - that deal with political issues. His Ballo bath Kathi (Dogs eat rice) deals with the life of a high politician, with all its intrigues, complexities and hypocrisies. His fearlessness to tackle issues that are most often left alone is still apparent when he speaks of Shyam Selvadurai's 'Funny Boy's as a work that he might consider for translation. Homosexuality is not a theme that is usually dealt with in Sinhala literature. De Silva had touched upon that theme earlier in a drama and even in his novels, aspects of sexuality dealt in a forthright manner.

Born in 1928 in Weligama, de Silva studied in a few schools in Galle and after passing the tenth grade from Jinaraja College, Gampola, came to Colombo. The expectation of his uncle, who took care of his education, was that he should study to be a doctor. But one look at the frog that he had to cut, put an end to that education.

As a boy he had been exposed to the popular Tower Hall plays and the Minerva plays of the time, brought to Gampola by his uncle. With his grandfather, he had visited the many thovils that the grandfather had been very fond of seeing. And his curiosity to learn more about art had led him to books and a great deal of reading and learning. With such a background perhaps the decision not to be a doctor may not have surprised many. Also, in Colombo, his exposure to the world of art was greater and he made full use of it by going to see as many plays as he could.

His various jobs after that time included teaching English, and working at the K.V.G. Bookshop, where he could continue his dearly loved reading. It was when he was working on the newspaper, 'Sinhala Jathiya', that he was one of a group of young men who met regularly at the Indo-Ceylon Cafe to sip tea and bite into a wade and discuss art, and exchange ideas found in books that they had read individually.

The others of the crowd included Cyril B Perera, G.W. Surendra, Vipula Dharmawardena, Ralec Ranasinghe and so on.

"I used to criticise the plays that were running at that time quite a lot" says Sugathapala de Silva, smiling at the recollection. "And once, Cyril said, then you do one and show us. That was when I wrote Bodinkarayo".

That script was entered into a drama competition organized by the Arts Council in 1962. It won awards for the best script, best production and the best male actor. Just to prove that this was not a fluke, de Silva wrote his next play, Thattu Geval in the same style.

"To enter Bodinkarayo to the competition we had to fill a form which had asked which group was presenting the play. We just put 'Our Group' (Ape Kattiya) there," says de Silva speaking of the name that had since then become very well known in the field of Sinhala drama.

Another legend in this field, that of Maname and Sarachchandra, of whom it is generally believed, Sugathapala de Silva stood in contrast according to the recent article 'Hitting at Maname' comes to mind. Among other things, it does not seem fair to criticize Maname for the paucity of its imitations. And to think that Sarachchandra himself admitted that Maname did more harm than good in Sinhala drama, is to miss Sarachchandra's subtle humour and sarcasm completely.

Perhaps it is fitting here to mention that various forms of art, once created in a country, can only enrich it. Art grows in opposition and contrast. Sometimes the reason something new grows is the existence of the old.

Mr. De Silva himself is a proponent of enrichment by whichever way it is possible and holds that form really is incidental to what has to be said. His contribution to Sinhala drama has not been slight and even now the spirit of his creative power takes him to more modern mediums like the teledrama with equal vigour and enthusiasm.

With a cheerfulness that seemed characteristic, De Silva admits that it is becoming increasingly difficult to produce stage dramas, when television attracts most of the talent, but admits that it is inevitable, given the financial difficulties that most people have to face.

But he speaks with optimism about the future of Sinhala drama. He has detected a trend of upcoming young men in this field, who produce plays for the sheer joy of its creation. They are dedicated enough to the art not to be lured into commercial, popular productions and in them, he sees hope. And when such a man as he, who has been so long in the field and has done so much by his work, does not consider the future to be too bleak, perhaps we too can take heart.

Memories of World Theatre Day - 1966 - Henry Jayasena

Author: Henry Jayasena
Source: Daily News
Date: 22/11/2006

THEATRE: I have a rather interesting record of the activities related to World Theatre Day 1966 in my book ‘Nim Nethi Kathawak - Vol 1’ [A story without an end]. I will translate some of the pages from that book - it should be interesting reading, not only to ‘Theatre People’ so to say, but also to anyone interested in the Arts in these hectic times where the majority of a ‘work weary’ and ‘cost of living weary’ people have very little time or money for the Arts.

If I am not mistaken it was in 1966 that World Theatre Day [27th of March] had been celebrated officially for the first time. The Director of Cultural Affairs at that time had been that quiet and dignified civil servant - Leel Gunasekera. He was a different kind of Govt. servant - courteous, knowledgeable, accessible and deeply concerned about people. He himself is a poet and a writer of immense talent. I am sure at least some of my readers will remember his two soulful novels ‘Athsana’ and Pethsama’ [Signature and Petition]. As part of the activities for that year’s ‘World Theatre Day’, we, meaning my ‘Actors Group’ was sent to Anuradhapura with our play ‘KUVENI’. Let me quote from my book:-

“Outstation shows at that time were mostly organized by our own friends who either lived in those places or who were serving their terms of office in those areas. Or else it was by some society associated with a Kachcheri, a Municipal Council, a Co-operative Society, a Temple or a Church. Earning a lot of money by organizing a play from Colombo was generally not the intention of the organizers in those times. Our friends simply loved to invite us and sort of ‘show us off’ to their friends and to the community in general. Very often our friend was the G.A., the D.R.O. the A.C.L.G. or some such high official in the area. Or else he or she could be a very respected Municipal councillor, a Grama Niladharai or a Govt. Teacher of the area. They liked inviting a group with a good play from the city, introduce them to their friends, entertain them well and light up at least one night of their humdrum lives.

Pleasurable experience

Taking plays out was certainly a much more pleasurable experience in those good old days. It was very seldom that the cast and crew were given ‘buth packets’ for lunch or dinner as it is done now. Lunch and dinner was always served in some home - sometimes in the home of the organizer or, if his place was not spacious enough, in the home of a friend. The host’s friends and relatives too were invariably invited to share the pleasure. Often we were taken to the bed side of a father, a mother, a grandfather or a grandmother and we had a nice chat with the patient. If they requested we would even sing a song or two for the benefit of the patient and they would shed tears of joy. We really enjoyed that kind of touching human relationship. That made us even more determined to give out the best of us on the stage too.


FILM-MAKER: Satyajit Ray

And so, in 1966 we were sent to Anuradhapura for the World Theatre Day by that benign Sinhalaya, Leel Gunasekera, who was Director of Cultural Affairs at that time. We left by train from the Fort railway station early in the morning. A special compartment was reserved for us. There was a huge banner right along the outside of the compartment. It said ‘World Theatre Day - 1966 - ‘Kuveni’ - Anuradhapura’. I am not sure who was responsible for that banner - whether it was the Cultural Dept. itself or whether we had got it up ourselves. With a man like Leel Gunasekera there, most likely it was the work of the Dept. itself. All I remember is that it was a very pleasurable trip - much like a picnic. The entire cast and crew travelled in the compartment. We carried all our sets, lighting equipment and the musical instruments too. There were sing-songs, organized debates, ‘hitivana kavi’ and of course some card playing too in that railway compartment that nice day!

We arrived at Anuradhapura around mid-day. We had been allotted accommodation in some class, rooms in a school. That would have been good enough for the men, but I thought the ladies needed better accommodation. How could I ask them to pull a few benches together and sleep on them?. So I met the Govt. Agent, Mr. K.M.D. Jayanetti and asked him to help. He promptly ordered that the railway station rooms be given to us. The railway mechanism being rather slow even at that time, we had to kick our heels at the railway station till about six in the evening before the rooms were made ready for us.

The organization there was rather weak. It appears that they had not taken much notice of the instructions received from Colombo. The G.A., Mr. K.M.D. Jayanetti was not even aware that a group was coming from Colombo to celebrate World Theatre Day in his domain. He was rather angry about it. Some smaller official with a big ego may have dealt with this subject. He was visibly annoyed when I insisted that I meet the G.A. “You should not treat us like a batch of school boys and school girls.” I told him firmly. “Even school girls would refuse to sleep in an open class room.” I told him even more firmly. I am sure that self opinionated official would have been taken to task, later, by Mr. Jayanetti. One Mr. Sirisena, Music Inspector of the Education Dept. and one Mr. Arampola helped us a lot when they came to know our situation. Mr, Munasinghe, the Station Master also was helpful in his own ‘slow-coach’ style.

Spirit gum

The matinee show for schools at 2 p.m. was a ‘sweaty’ performance. Since Wijeratne Warakagoda who had taken over the role of the Narrator from me had not turned up, I had to undergo the agony of applying spirit gum [in the sweltering heat!] all over my face and wear that long ‘Rishi’ like beard to play the role. I was cursing Warakagoda all the time. Spirit gum is one make up material that does not agree with me. It gives me goose pimples and makes me utterly intolerant. That was the main reason why I gave over that nice role to Warakagoda.

He played it well. He never complained about the spirit gum or the long beard. In fact he seemed to enjoy it ! Warakagoda should be thankful to me for getting him into Kuveni because that is where he found his future bride. He fell in love with my Disala [Kuveni’s daughter] played by a slim and beautiful girl by the name of Chitra Irangani Jayasinghe and married her a few years later. I was witness to the marriage from Chitra’s side and Mr. Maitripala Senanayake was witness from the groom’s side. Just for the record they have two very talented children. One is Vindhya Warakagoda, leading dancer in Channa Wijewardena’s troup for a long time, and the other is Jananath Warakagoda, drummer par excellence.

The 6.30 show was much ‘cooler’ and attended by practically everybody in Anuradhapura. Just like the Drama Festival of that year, I think it was in 1966 that we had the most meaningful World Theatre Day activities. While we played Kuveni at Anuradhapura, Sugathapala de Silva’s ‘Harima Badu Hayak’ [Six Characters in search of an Author], Prtemaranjith Tillekeratne’s ‘Vahalak Nethi Geyak’ and Dayananda Gunewardena’s ‘Ibi Katta’ were performed in Kandy, Matara and Kurunegala.”

After the performance, Mr. K. M. D. Jayanetti invited all of us to the Anuradhapura Rest House and treated us right royally. Those were the days when a G.A. was king of his district!

Oveflowing house

In my book ‘Nim Nethi Kathawak’, I also have a few more entries that would make interesting reading - 64.08.09 - Prime Minister, Sirimavo Bandaranaike was chief guest at tonight’s performance of Kuveni. There was much security in the hall because of her attendance. All doors were closed and guarded. There was an almost overflowing house. The show was good too. The P.M. came on stage after the show and chatted with us for a little while. A week later she had sent me a cheque for Rs.375/- with a little note of appreciation.

64.08.08 [Saturday] - Janelaya. Manel played Gaayani, while I played Aakaasa. Dr. N.M. Perera - Minister of Finance - was Chief Guest. He came on stage after the performance and told me that at first he was ‘worried’ about the play thinking that it was too pessimistic. “And then when the husband and wife come together in the last scene, I was happy!” Declared N.M., flashing that heart warming smile of his. Later, in Parliament, he had mentioned ‘Janelaya’ in his Budget Speech for that year, when he was dealing with the provisions for the Cultural Ministry.

67.06.10 - Mrs. Theja Gunawardhana came to see Kuveni this evening. She said it is a play that should be translated into English and produced on the local stage. I told her that it has already been done by Nalin Wijesekera with Lylie Godridge’s music - Lylie himself playing the role of the Narrator. Incidentally, later, Theja was a great fan of my Hunuwataye Kathawa. She has told me that she has seen it at least eight times !

When going through these notes of memory I also came across a little scrap book which contains some of the accounts of those days. Let me reproduce just two of them - as a sample of life in the good old days:- 64.03.10 - two dozens of stencils - Rs. 15, 64.03.12 - two packets of copying paper - Rs. 12, 64.03.14 - To roneo operator - Rs.4, 64.03.30 - To book-binder - Rs.2/50. Travelling to Chitra - 2, To Munasinghe - 1, For tea 1, To watcher - 2. The cost of living had gone up by leaps and bounds by the 1970s. I have a bill dated 77.04.06 from the then famous Art Centre Club:- 1 bottle beer - Rs.7, 6 tots of Old Arrack - Rs.7/20, 1 Soda, -/75, I pkt. Cadju - 2/50.

You will of course observe not only the high cost of living but also a measure of our decadence by the mid Seventies !

Thought of the week

Talking of the Art Centre Club, the original space which occupied that lovely water hole has now been turned into an Art Exhibition Gallery. I have climbed those stairs [with difficulty as at now] to see quite a few Art and Photography exhibitions there. All very good and noble and congratulations to the New Management of the Lionel Wendt complex for a nobler use of the space. But frankly, I do miss that water hole that was called the Art Centre Club.

You walk in - or rather climb up - after a performance and you could meet all the stage veterans of the day like Winston and Chandi Serasinghe, Lucien de Zoysa, Sita Parakrama, Earnest McIntyre, Karen Breckenridge, Lucky Wickramanayake, Keerthi Sri Karunaratne, Graham Hatch, Nalin Wijesekera and a host of other unforgettable characters. Not to mention men of the Press such as Nihal Ratnaike, Philip Cooray and many more men and women of the Arts - enjoying a bit of their favourite stuff - why not !

Namel Weeramuni: a trailblazer in local theatre

Author: Jayanthi LIYANAGE Source: Daily News Date: 05/08/2009

French playwright Jean Anouilh’s stage play Colombe, translated and directed by Namel Weeramuni as Nattukkari, is scheduled to tread the boards the Namel Malini Punchi Theatre on August 13, 14, 15 and 16 at 6.30 p.m.

It was first staged in February 1970 at Havelock Town Theatre, now known as Lumbini, with a cast comprising Somalatha Subasinghe, Upali Attanayake, Dhamma Jagoda, Namel Weeramuni, Wickrema Bogoda, Prema Ganegoda, Malini Weramuni and Wimal Kumar de Costa among others. Later in 1976 October it was produced in London at Commonwealth Centre Theatre and Bernard Shaw Theatre at West End, with a change of cast.


Scenes from Nattukkari staged during the 1970s

The come back of the drama, produced by Namel-Malini Punchi Theatre, will be of yet another new cast and Namel Weeramuni shared with the Daily News his commendations and grievances of the present day Sri Lankan theatre. The show in London had been the first time ever a full length Lankan play had been done there.

“It is very unfortunate that people write about poetry, novels and short stories but no one writes about scripts,” Namel lamented, with the published Sinhala translation of Nattukkari in hand.

“Scripts must be encouraged because then only will people start publishing them.”

He has been addicted to the theatre for the last 52 years, beginning with acting in Prof. Ediriweera Sarathchandra’s play Rattaran and making quite a number of plays in the sixties. He is a product of the University of Ceylon, Peradeniya and had as his contemporaries personalities such as D.B. Peiris, Dr. Sarath Amunugama, J.B. Dissanayake, Wickrema Weerasuriya, Mervin De Silva and Phillip Cooray.

Namel moved on to graduate from Law College as an advocate and joined the Legal Draftsmen’s Department. A trip to Canada in 1973 on a three month scholarship and the subsequent delay in coming back due to an attempt to get his leave extended to stay in Washington and later in London had him deemed as vacating his post.

“I decided to stay in London,” said Namel. “At that time, we had to get permission from the prime Minister to live abroad. I started doing odd jobs such as filling up shelves in supermarkets and working as a waiter.”

Later, he approached the Law Society in London and was exempted in all exam papers except one.

“But I needed to go through three years training as a clerk. I joined another Sri Lankan lawyer and worked as a solicitor. I had a lucrative practice with 41 people working for me.” He returned to Sri Lanka in 2002.

Namel did his Master degree program in theatre at the California State University and topped his batch, passing the nine papers he had to face with honours. His doctorate program, also in theatre, was done in Hawaii.

“Since 1959, I have been involved in theatre, acting, producing and directing my own plays and acting in other people’s plays.” His English translation of Prof. Sarathchandra’s Sinhabahu was staged in the States with an entirely American cast. It won a State Literary award for a Sinhala to English translation in 2000.

“When Nattukkari was staged in Ladies College Hall, the whole parliament was invited by Sam Wijesinghe to see the play and then prime minister Dudley Senanayake and Governor General William Gopallawa were among the audience.” Such political patronage is not there now, points out Namel.

His play Wansakkarayo, translation of Anouilh’s ‘Ardale’, produced in 1959 before he left the country, won the award for the best production at the Theatre Festival conducted by the Cultural department. While in University, he had produced Golu Birinda, an adaptation of Pro. Wimal Dissanayake who was one year junior to him. With Malini Weearamuni, he also produced an English Translation of Darmasena Pathiraja’s Kora saha Andaya (The Lame and the Blind).

Nattukkari, which is about a famous actress Alexandra, is believed to be the life of the great French actress Sarah Bernhardt.

“The play is about how an actress used to dominate theatre at that time. She was an actress who commanded an entire nation with respect and power. This is the situation in Sri Lanka too, due to television,” says Namel.

“When a play needs to be organized outstation, people want to know who the actors are. There was a time when people came to a play whoever the actors were. This is a menace created by television. People have been tuned into a world of fantasy like stars chosen in various TV channels.” He says that these stars charge a pay higher than even Amaradeva and this ironical situation is only prevalent in Sri Lanka.

“The appreciative power of the general masses has been reduced. Due to television, people from the great tradition have been brought down to the little tradition. There are shallow jokes and filthy language too. I believe there must be serious theatre here.”

In the new production of Nattukkari, the entire cast is drawn from TV and film stars.

“They are very popular. The people who went from stage are doing well in TV or film. People who are straight from TV are not that good because they don’t have the training.” Namel also points out that people who act in plays now want to join the TV and as such, the theatre is suffering. “They need to become famous over night. I have told them not go after publicity. Let publicity comes to you. We have lost a lot of potential in the theatre.” He says that the sixties and seventies were the golden era of theatre in Sri Lanka with the Bandaranaike government opening up a cultural change in 1956 and personalities such as Dayananda Gunewardena, Henry Jayasena, Gunasena Galappaththi, Dhamma Jagoda and Namel himself entering the arena.

“Their plays are the plays that are still running.” But there is a younger generation too that has come up, with names like Rajitha Dissanayake, Thumindu Dodantenna, Buddika Damayantha and Indika Fernandus keeping the theatre going. “Because of war, people became glued to the TV,” he says. “The quality of theatre has gone down. There are plays which come out as comedies but are weak and of low taste with four letter words of double meaning. They have changed the appreciative power of audiences.”

He acknowledges that there is a powerful English theatre in Sri Lanka.

“Now it is the English theatre in Sri Lanka that is surviving. In order to change that, we need to expand out audiences without which we cannot survive as an art form. Theatre needs to become an industry like the music industry. When a play is shown, there isn’t adequate discussion taking place of its merits and demerits. But our President gives an ear as he is a practical man.” Namel also comments that although theatre is a school subject from the seventh standard up to Advanced Level and all the Universities have drama courses, students do not go to see plays.

“They teach music and dancing which is not drama. After returning from the States, I went to the Art Faculty in Horana which has theatre as one of its subjects and asked the students what plays they had seen. One girl said she had seen three, Maname, Sinhabahu and Nari Bena. Another girl had seen two and yet another one. All the rest had never seen a play.

They pass out as graduates in theatre arts but what are they going to teach? They have to see not only the literary aspect, but also the practical aspect which is what we call theatre. This is not about going on stage and reading lines. You have to enact them, give life and meaning to the lines which is what we call theatricality.

You must hold the attention of your audiences and not bore them. The students must see plays and distinguish what is good from bad. A comparison must be there for you to understand scripts and develop taste or appreciative power. There must be critical analysis of plays,” he concluded.

Sokari, a Sri Lankan drama

Author:Janani Amarasekara

Source: Sunday Observer Date: 18/02/2007

Sokari, Kolam and Nadagam are some of the most popular cultural dramas in Sri Lanka. From these, Sokari is the most popular because it was very close to the day-to-day life of villagers. This is an independent cultural event which is also conducted to bless the people.

The main purpose of performing this drama is to give priority to the religious connection between people, bring prosperity and provide some fun to the people.

This type of drama is very popular in hill country areas such as Badulla, Hanguranketha, Matale and suburbs. Its origin differs from province to province. According to Professor Ediriweera Sarathchandra's book Sinhala Gami Natakaya, the origin is as folows:

In the country named Kasi, there was a man named Guruhami. He got married to a beautiful woman named Sokari and hired a servant named Pariya. They started moving from country to country in search of a job.

At some point, they decided to come to 'Sinhala Deshaya' (Sri Lanka). They left their home at an auspicious time and after passing seven oceans, arrived in Sri Lanka.

First of all, they went to worship Sri Pada. Then, they went to a village named Thambaravita where they decided to settle down and build a house. Then, Guruhami went to the village in search of some rice, but because he didn't know the language, he faced a lot of difficulties. However, he managed to find some rice, but suddenly realised that there was no water to cook it with. Thus, he had to go to the village again.

This time, a dog which lived in the house of the village doctor, bit Guruhami. He somehow managed to come home . He lay down and rested a while. Pariya, who thought that Guruhami was dead, tried to use the opportunity to get closer to Sokari. Sokari got angry with Pariya,and ordered him to call the doctor.

When Pariya went to the doctor, the doctor refused to pay a visit unless Sokari herself came and asked him to see the patient.

Then, Sokari went and brought the doctor. The doctor treated Guruhami until midnight, and left the house with Sokari at dawn.

Guruhami, who was heart-broken, complained to God Kataragama about the tragedy. Then, he was given a sign to find Sokari. Guruhami traced her to the doctor's place. He took her back home and beat her, but after sometime, he forgave her and advised Pariya to take care of Sokari from then on.

Where and how it is staged

Usually, Sokari is staged in a 'kamatha' (in the paddy field). A pestle is kept in the middle of the stage and a lantern is lit on it to light up the place. The place where the drama is staged is marked with cords.

A 'malpala' is prepared on a side. 'Gurunnanse' is there with a book, while a horane player, thalampota player and drummer help the Gurunnanse to read the story.

He introduces all the characters and when he introduces them, they come and dance around the pestle.

Characters of the drama

1. Guruhami

2. Sokari

3. Pariya-Rama

4. Doctor

5. Soththana

6. Hettiya

7. Carpenter

8. Matchmaker

9. Snake charmer

10. Kali amma

Language and communication used...

All conversations in the drama include a mix of Tamil and Sinhalese. They use words with double meanings most of the time. Similar funny phrases are used in the 'Daha Ata Sanniya', 'Kola Sanniya', 'Kohomba Kankariya' and 'Gammadu'. Some events in the above dramas are very similar to those of Sokari'.

This is a very interesting cultural drama which was staged more often during the good old days. But it is very rarely seen nowadays. Some of our old cultural rituals are dying out now and that's why we are carrying these articles to increase your awareness about them.

Thursday, 4 February 2010

Discovering lives of others - Jayalath Manoratne relating a bird’s eye view with Sudu Redi Horu :

Jayalath Manoratne

Seasoned actor Jayalath Manoratne is back with what he excels in - stage dramas. The creator of popular stage plays like Puthra Samagama, Thala Mala Pipila, Guru Tharuwa, Andarela, Lokaya Thani Yayak and Makara has staged his 10th play titled Sudu Redi Horu recently. The drama is based on contemporary social issues which are the results of social destruction and follows the structure of our rich literature Sandesha Kavya and the concept of docu-play introduced by reputed dramatist Dayananda Gunawardena to the local drama scene.

“Sudu Redi Horu does not follow the structure of the stage dramas doing the rounds today. The Sandesha Kavya is delivered by certain species of birds and I have chosen to engage a Sudu Redi Hora (Asian Paradise Fly Catcher) for this play.

“The play revolves around what the bird witnesses during his flight and much like the bird’s name suggests, we realise that individuals in the society have disguised their true selves from others,” Manoratne explained the essence of his creation.

Apart from Manoratne, Rodney Warnakula Chandrasoma Binduhewa, Sampath Tennakoon, Ajith Lokuge, Susil Wickramasinghe, Giriraj Kaushalya, Mali Jayaweerage, Fernie Roshini make up the cast. The modern day Sandesha Kavi were written by Rathna Sri Wijesinghe. Navaratne Gamage composed the music while Ravibandu Vidyapathy was the choreographer.

A scene from Sudu Redi Horu

Swinitha Perera designed the costumes; Jagath Padmasiri was the make up artist and Lionel Bentharage made the stage settings. Sri Lanka Telecom Mobitel sponsors the play.

Staging plays is not a money-spinner today but we see you constantly engaging in this field.

It is true that it had not become a field that brings in money but our media of expression is stage dramas.

I consider it our duty to keep this form of art alive.

It is a very powerful medium that drives home points in an effective manner. It acknowledges theatregoers on certain aspects of the society and prepares them to appreciate quality productions.

How did you develop the basis of this play?

The episodes took form from certain incidents which I observed from the society. The play takes the form of a satire because it pricks the core of some of the prevailing social issues. However this is done in an artistic manner.

What are the dates scheduled for the drama?

We will be staging the play at Anuradhapura and Kekirawa on November 19 and 20, Lionel Wendt on November 21, John de Silva on November 23 and Horana on November 29.

Your character in Lalith Ratnayake’s Arungal is quite popular.

(Smiles) After a long period I got to play a novel character.

It is based on an estranged relationship between a young man and his stepfather. The tele creation explores their relation with a deep angle. I play a pivotal role as the stepfather.

What else are you involved in these days?

Rathriya Manaram, my tele drama is telecast on Rupavahini on Sundays at 7.30 p.m. Sarath Dharmasiri’s Suvisi Vivarana is the next movie slotted for release. I also hope to launch the script of Sudu Redi Horu.

Tuesday, 2 February 2010

⎀ි⎁්⎀ීāļē ⎄ා āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎀ේāļ¯ිāļšා⎀ේ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē

Author: āļ‰āļą්āļ¯ිāļš āˇ†āļģ්āļŠිāļąැāļą්āļŠු Source: Silumina Date: 05/10/2008

āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļ§ āˇ„ිāļ¸ි āļ¯ීāļģ්āļ āļ‰āļ­ි⎄ා⎃āļē āļšි‍්‍āļģ⎃්āļ­ු āļ´ූāļģ්⎀ āļœී‍්‍āļģ⎃ිāļē āļ¯āļš්⎀ා āļ¯ි⎀ෙāļēි.

āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļšāļģු āļ…āļģි⎃්āļ§ො⎆ාāļąි⎃් āļ­āļ­්āļšාāļŊීāļą āļ‡āļ­ැāļą්⎃āļēේ ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āˇ„ැ⎃ිāļģීāļ¸් āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļąිāļģ්āļ¯āļē āļąāļ¸ුāļ­් ⎃ං⎀ිāļ°ිāļ­ āˇ€ි⎀ේāļ āļą āˇƒිāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ¸āļœිāļą් āļ‰āļ¯ිāļģිāļ´āļ­් āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­.

āļ´ෞāļģ āļģාāļĸ්‍āļēāļēේ ⎃ිāļēāļŊ්āļŊāļą් āļ…āļąි⎀ාāļģ්āļēāļēෙāļą් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‹āˇ…ෙāļŊ āļąැāļģāļšිāļē āļēුāļ­ු āļļ⎀āļ§ āˇ€ූ ‘āļąීāļ­ිāļ¸āļē ⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļē’ āļąි⎃ා ⎃ිāļē āļ…āļģ්āļŽ āˇƒාāļ°āļš āˇ€ි⎀ේāļ āļą āļąො⎀āļģāļ¯āˇ€ා ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļœāļ­āļšිāļģීāļ¸ේ ⎀āļģāļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃ාāļ¯āļē āļ”⎄ු āļŊāļ¯්āļ¯ේāļē.

āļ­āļ­්āļšාāļŊීāļą āļ‡āļ­ැāļą්⎃āļēāļ§ āˇƒāļ¸ාāļĸ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļąāļ¸āļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ­ීāļģāļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€āļą āļšāļģුāļĢු ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ°āļēෙāļą් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ”āˇƒ්⎃ේ āļ”⎄ු āļāļĸු⎀ āļ´āˇ… āļšāˇ… āļ…āļ¯āˇ„āˇƒ් ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸීāļē āļšāļ­ිāļšා⎀āļą් āļšෙāļģේ āļļෙ⎄ෙ⎀ිāļą් āļļāļŊāļ´ෑ āļ…āļ­āļģ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļšāļģු⎀āļšු ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ”⎄ුāļœේ āļ¸āļ­āˇ€ාāļ¯ීāļ¸āļē āļ¸ැāļ¯ි⎄āļ­්⎀ීāļ¸ āˇƒු⎀ි⎁ේ⎂ ⎀ූ āļļ⎀, āļ´්āļŊේāļ§ෝāļœේ āļļො⎄ෝ ⎃ං⎀ාāļ¯āļ¸āļē āļģāļ āļąා⎀āļŊ āļ āļģිāļ­āļēāļš් ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ”⎄ු āļēොāļ¯ාāļœෙāļą āļœොāļŠ āļąāļœා āļ‡āļ­ි ⎃ංāļšāļŽāļą āļ¸āļœිāļą් āļœāļ¸්‍āļē ⎀ේ.

āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļ‡āļ§ිāļš් (Attic) āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ‘āˇƒේ ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļąිāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļļāļģāļ´āļ­āˇ… āļ¸ැāļ¯ි⎄āļ­්⎀ීāļ¸āļš් ⎃ිāļ¯ු āļšāˇ… āļ¯ āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļąāˇ€ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āˇƒāˇ„ āļģෝāļ¸ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ‘⎀āļą් āļ¸āļŸāļšāļ§ āļ´ි⎅ිāļ´āļą්āļąේ āļąැāļ­.

āļļ⎄ුāļ­āļģ ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් Comedy of Errors āļœāļĢāļēේ ⎄ා⎃්‍āļē āļģ⎃āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēෙāļą් āļ’⎀ා āļļො⎄ෝ āļ¯ුāļģāļ§ āļ­ෘāļ´්āļ­ිāļ¸āļ­් ⎀ිāļē.

āļ´ුāļąāļģුāļ¯āļēෙāļą් āļ´āˇƒු āļēුāļģෝāļ´ීāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎀්‍āļēාāļĸ ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļ´ුāļģු⎂ාāļģ්āļŽ āˇƒāˇ„ āļļුāļģ්⎂ු⎀ා āļ´ාāļą්āļ­ිāļš āˇ„āļģ⎃ුāļą් āļĸී⎀ිāļ­āļē āļ‹āļ´āˇ„ා⎃āļēāļ§ āļŊāļš් āļšිāļģීāļ¸āļ§ āˇ€ැāļŠි ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļšැāļ´ āˇ€ිāļē.

āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļēේ ⎀ි⎀ිāļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯ āļļි⎄ි⎀ීāļ¸ āļ¯ āļŠāļ§ āˇƒāļ¸ාāļą්āļ­āļģ ⎀ ⎃ිāļ¯ු ⎀ූ⎀āļšි.

āļ…āļ¯්‍āļēāļ­āļąāļē ⎀āļą āˇ€ිāļ§ āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝ , ⎃āļēිāļ¸āļą් ⎂්āļąāļēිāļŠāļģ් ⎀ැāļą්āļąāˇ€ුāļą්āļœේ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąූāļ­āļą āˇ„ා āļ´āˇ්āļ ාāļ­් āļąූāļ­āļą āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āļ¸ාāļ­ෘāļšා āļļāļģāļ´āļ­āˇ… āļŊෙ⎃ āļ¸ෙ⎄ෙāļē āļšැāļŗāˇ€ාāļœෙāļą āļ­ිāļļේ.

āļ¸ෙāļŊෙ⎃ිāļą්āļ¸ āˇ€ි⎁්⎀ීāļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ´ුāļģාāļ­āļą āļĸāļą āˇƒāļ¸ාāļĸāļēāļą්⎄ි āļ´ැ⎀āļ­ි āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸ āˇ„ා āļĸāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļ‹āļ´ාāļē āļ¸ාāļģ්āļœ āˇƒ්⎀āļšීāļē āļąāļą්⎀ිāļ° āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු ⎀ෙāļąු⎀ෙāļą්, āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¸ුāļ› āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­.

āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸ āˇ„ා āļĸāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļŠāļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁⎃්āļ­ āļ‹āļ¯ා⎄āļģāļĢ āˇƒāļ´āļēāļēි.

⎀ැāļŠāˇ€āˇƒāļ¸් ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļēාāļą්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļĢāļē āļ¸āļœිāļą් āļ¸āļģ්āļ¯ිāļ­ āļˇා⎀ා⎀ේāļœ āļ­ෘāļ´්āļ­ිāļ¸āļ­් āļšāļģāļą, āļ´āˇ€ිāļ­ී‍්‍āļģāļšāļģāļĢ āļ‹āļ´ාāļē āļ¸ාāļģ්āļœāļēāļš් āļŊෙ⎃ ⎀ිāļšāļ§ āļąාāļ§āļšාංāļœ āļĸāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļšāļģු ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ´āļģිāļˇා⎀ිāļ­āļē ⎃ැāļļෑ ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸීāļē āļĸී⎀ිāļ­āļēේāļ¯ී āļ¸ුāļ¯ා⎄ැāļģිāļē āļąො⎄ැāļšි āļ†āˇ€ේāļœ āļĸāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļē āļ¸āļœිāļą් āļ´ිāļ§āļ­āļ§ āļšැāļŗāˇ€ා āļ¸ුāļ¯ා⎄ැāļģ āļ´ුāļ¯්āļœāļŊāļēා āļ­ෘāļ´්āļ­ිāļ¸āļ­් āļšිāļģීāļ¸ේ āļšි‍්‍āļģāļēා⎀āļŊිāļē ⎃ිāļēුāļ¸් āļš්‍⎂ුāļ¯්‍āļģ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą (Macro Political) āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸āļēāļš් āļŊෙ⎃ ⎄āļ¯ුāļąා āļœāļ­ āˇ„ැāļšිāļē.

⎃ු⎃ාāļ°ිāļ­ āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļšāļēා

āļ…āļ¯ āˇ€āļą āˇ€ිāļ§ āˇ€āļģ්āļ°āļąāļē ⎀ී āļ‡āļ­ි ⎀ීāļ¯ි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē, āļ†āļ´āļą āˇ€ේāļŊා āļģංāļœ (Lunch Time Theatre) ⎀ැāļąි ⎃ු⎃ාāļ°ිāļ­ āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļšāļēා āļąො⎀āļą්āļąāļą් āļ‰āļŊāļš්āļš āļšāļģāļœāļ­් ⎀ිāļšāļŊ්āļ´ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ා⎀āļą්⎄ි āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļēāļˇා⎀āļēāļ§ āˇ„ා ⎀්‍āļēාāļ´්āļ­ිāļēāļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ°ාāļą āˇ„ේāļ­ු⎀āļš් āļŊෙ⎃ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļ´‍්‍āļģāļšා⎁āļą āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļˇා⎀ිāļ­āļē āļ´ෙāļģāļ¸ුāļĢේ āļ¸ āˇ€ෙāļēි.

āļšāˇ€āļģ āļ°ාāļģāļĢා⎀āļš් āļ”āˇƒ්⎃ේ āļ‰āļ¯ිāļģිāļ´āļ­් ⎀ු⎀āļ¯, āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē ⎄ා āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎃ාāļģ්⎀āļ­ි‍්‍āļģāļš āļŊෙ⎃ āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļš āļĸāļąāļ­ා⎀ āļ†āļšāļģ්⎁āļąāļē āļšāļģāļœāļ­් āļļ⎀ āļ¯, āļ”⎀ුāļą්āļœේ āļ†āˇƒ්⎀ාāļ¯āļą āļ…⎀⎁්‍āļēāļ­ා āļ´ූāļģāļĢāļē āļšāļģāļą āļŊāļ¯ āļļ⎀ āļ¯ āļ´ෙāļąේ.

āļ•āļąෑāļ¸ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎃ං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ිāļēāļš, āļ•āļąෑāļ¸ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯āļēāļš āļšāļŊිāļą් āļšāļŊāļ§ āļ¯ුāļģ්āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀āļĢāļ­ා āļ‡āļ­ි⎀ීāļ¸ āˇƒ්⎀ාāļˇා⎀ිāļšāļē. ⎀ි⎁්⎀ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļšāļŊා⎀āļ§ āļ¯ āļ‘āļē āļ´ොāļ¯ු ⎃āļ­්‍āļēāļēāļšි.

āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් āļ¯ුāļģ්āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀āļĢāļ­ා ⎃āļŗāˇ„ා ⎀āļœāļšි⎀ āļēුāļ­්āļ­ේ āļ…āļ¯ා⎅ ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āˇƒāļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇāļēāļ­්, āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļšāļģු⎀āļąුāļ­් āļ¸ි⎃ āļ…āļ¯ාāļŊ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯āļē āļąො⎀ේ.

āļ¯ුāļģ්āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀āļĢāļ­ා āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āˇƒිāļ­āļ¯්āļ¯ී ⎃ිāļ­āļ§ āļąැāļœෙāļą āļšෝāļ´ āˇƒāˇ„āļœāļ­ āļąොāļ´āˇ„āļą් ⎄ැāļŸීāļ¸āļ§ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēේ ⎀ිāļˇāˇ€āļ­ා āļ­āļ¸ාāļ§ āļ…āļ¸āļ­āļš āļšāļģ⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āˇ€ිāļ ාāļģāļšāļēා āļ‰āļŠ āļąොāļ¯ිāļē āļēුāļ­ු ⎀āļą āļ…āļ­āļģ ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļšāļēාāļœේ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ේ⎁āļē āļ…āļąි⎀ාāļģ්āļēāļēෙāļą් āļ¸ āˇ€ි⎂āļē āļ¸ූāļŊිāļš āļ¸ි⎃ āļˇා⎀ āļ¸ූāļŊිāļš āļąො⎀ිāļē āļēුāļ­ුāļē.

āļ¸ෙāļšී āļ´ූāļģ්⎀ිāļšා⎀ ⎃āļ§āˇ„āļą් āļšāļģāļą āļŊāļ¯්āļ¯ේ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē āˇƒāˇ„ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ…āļģāļˇāļēා ⎀ි⎁්⎀ීāļē ⎄ා ⎀ි⎁ේ⎂āļēෙāļą්āļ¸ āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ´ැāļą āļąැāļŸී āļ‡āļ­ි āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁්āļą āļšීāļ´āļēāļš් ⎀ිāļ¸āļģ්⎁āļąāļē āļšāļģāļąු ⎃āļŗāˇ„ා āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ේ⎁āļēāļš් ⎀⎁āļēෙāļąි.

āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļšāļŊා āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ා⎀āļš් āļŊෙ⎃ āļ´ි⎅ිāļœැāļąීāļ¸āļ§ āļļ⎄ුāļ­āļģ āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļš āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļš āļ´‍්‍āļģāļĸා⎀ āļ¸ැ⎅ි āļļ⎀āļš් āļ¯āļš්⎀āļ­ි.

‘āļ‘āļē ⎃āļģāļŊ ⎀ිāļąෝāļ¯ා⎃්⎀ාāļ¯ āˇƒāļ´āļēāļą (āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸්⎄ු āļ­āˇ€āļ­් āļ”āļļ්āļļāļ§ āļœො⎃් āļ‘āļē ‘āļœාāļ¸්‍āļē, āļļො⎅āļŗ āļģ⎃ා⎃්⎀ාāļ¯āļēāļš් ” āļēි ⎄ැāļŗිāļą්⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āļ­āļģāļ¸් ⎃āļģāļŊ āļ¯, ⎃ාāˇ„āˇƒිāļš āļ¯ āˇ€ෙāļ­ි) āļ‰āļą් āļ…āļą්‍āļēāļ­āļģ ⎀ූ ⎀ිāļˇāˇ€āļ­ා⎀āļš්, ⎁āļš්‍āļēāļ­ා⎀āļš් āļąැāļ­ි ‘⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē āļąො⎀āļą ‘ āļšāļŊා ⎂ාāļąāļģāļēāļš් “ āļŊෙ⎃ ⎄āļŗුāļą්⎀āļ­ි.

⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎄ා āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļēāļąු⎀ෙāļą් āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯āļšāļģāļĢ āˇ€āļ āļą āļ¯්⎀āļēāļš් āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļģංāļœāļšāļŊා āļ´ාāļģිāļˇා⎂ිāļš āˇāļļ්āļ¯ āļ¸ාāļŊා⎀ේ āļ´āˇ€āļ­ී.

āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļ§ ‘⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃්’ (āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸්) āļēāļ¸āļš් āļąොāļšāˇ…⎄ැāļšි āļļ⎀ āļ¯ āļ‘⎄ෙāļēිāļą් āļ¸ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļē ‘āˇƒීāļģිāļē⎃්’ (āļļැāļģූāļģුāļ¸්) āļšොāļ§ āˇƒැāļŊāļšිāļē āļąොāļēුāļ­ු āļļ⎀ āļ¯ āļ‘āļ¸āļŸිāļą් āļ…āļą්‍āļēාāļŊාāļ´āļēෙāļą් āļšිāļēැ⎀ෙāļēි.

āļ¸ෙāļąāļēිāļą් āļ´ෙāļąීāļēāļą්āļąේ āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎃āļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇāļēෙ⎄ි āļ­āļ­්’ ⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃්’ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āˇƒāˇ„ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ…āļ­āļģ āļ‡āļ­්āļ­ේ āˇƒāˇ„ ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´āļš්‍⎂āļ¸āļē ⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් ⎀ිāļģුāļ¯්āļ°ාāļģ්āļŽ āļ¯්⎀āļēāļš (Binory Opposition ) ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ°āļēāļš් āļļ⎀āļēි.

⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් ‘⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃්’ āļąāļ¸ැāļ­ි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎃ාāļ°āļąීāļē ⎄ෝ āļ°āļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€ීāļ¸āļ­් āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļąි⎂ේāļ°āļąීāļē ⎄ෝ āļāļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€ීāļ¸āļ­් āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ´ූāļģ්⎀ āļąි⎁්āļ ිāļ­ āļ†āļšāļŊ්āļ´āļēāļš āˇƒිāļ§ āļ‘āļšී āļ¯ෙ⎀āļģ්āļœāļē āļ‡āļœැāļēීāļ¸āļ§ āļŊāļš් āļšāļģāļą āļļ⎀āļēි.

āļ¸ෙāļšී āļ…āļģ්āļļුāļ¯āļē ⎄ෙ⎅ිāļšāļģāļą āļąිāļ¯āˇƒුāļąāļš් āļ¸ෙāļ¸ āļŊිāļ´ිāļē āļŊිāļēāļą āļšාāļŊāļēāļ§ āļ‰āļ­ා āļ¸ෑāļ­ āļ‰āļ­ි⎄ා⎃āļēෙāļą් ⎄āļ¸ු⎀ේ.(āļ¸ෙāļ¸ āļąිāļ¯āˇƒුāļą āˇƒāļ´āļēාāļœāļą්āļąා āļŊāļ¯්āļ¯ේ āļ´ු⎀āļ­්āļ´āļ­්⎀āļŊ āļ´āˇ… ⎀ූ ⎀ිāļ ාāļģ ⎄ා ⎀ැāļŠි ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ´ුāļ¯්āļœāļŊāļēāļą් āļ´ෞāļ¯්āļœāļŊිāļš āˇ€ ⎃ිāļ¯ුāļšāˇ… ⎀ාāļ ිāļš āļ…āļ¯āˇ„āˇƒ් āļ¯ැāļš්⎀ීāļ¸් ⎄ේāļ­ු āļšොāļ§ āļœෙāļąāļē ) āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļąāļ¸ැāļ­ි ⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා āļ…āļ°්‍āļēāļš්‍⎂⎀āļģāļēා, āļ¸ෙāļģāļ§ āˇ€ිāļ ාāļģāļš āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļš āļ´‍්‍āļģāļĸා⎀ ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් ⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē āļšුāļŊāļēāļšāļ§ āļŒāļąāļąāļē āļšāļģāļąු āļŊැāļļ ⎃ිāļ§ි āļ…āļ­āļģ āļ”⎄ු ‘⎃ි⎃ිāļŊ āļœිāļąිāļœāļąී, āļ´āˇ€ුāļģු ⎀⎅āļŊු, āļ…āļąāļą්āļ­ āļģාāļ­ි‍්‍āļģāļē , āļ´ුāļģ⎄āļŗ āļšāˇ…ු⎀āļģ , āļ‰āļģ āļ¸ැāļ¯ිāļēāļ¸ ‘āļēāļą ‘āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් ‘ , āļ‘⎄ෙāļēිāļą්āļ¸ āļĸාāļ­ිāļš āˇ„ා āļ…āļą්āļ­āļģ් āļĸාāļ­ිāļš āˇƒāļ¸්āļ¸ාāļą āļļ⎄ුāļ¸ාāļąāļēāļ§ āļ´ාāļ­‍්‍āļģ ⎀ූ ⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා āļšෘāļ­ිāļą් ⎄ි āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļ´āļšāļēා ⎀ීāļ¸ āļŠāļ§ āˇ„ේāļ­ු ⎀ිāļē.

āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ි⎀ාāļ¯

’āļ‰āļģ āļ¸ැāļ¯ිāļēāļ¸ ‘ ⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා āļšෘāļ­ිāļē ⎃āļ¸ාāļĸ āļœāļ­āˇ€ීāļ¸ෙāļą් āļąොāļļෝ āļšāļŊāļšāļ§ āļ´āˇƒු ⎄ෙāļ­ෙāļ¸ āļ‰āļ­ාāļŊි āļĸාāļ­ිāļš āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļšāļģු āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝ āļœේ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļšෙāļ§ි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ¯ෙāļšāļš් “⎄ොāļģු ⎃āļ¸āļœ āˇ„ෙ⎅ු⎀ෙāļą් āļēāļąු⎀ෙāļą් āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļē āļšāˇ…ේāļē.

āļ¸ෙāļšී āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢ āļ¯්⎀ිāļ­්⎀āļē ⎀ේāļ¯ිāļšාāļœāļ­ āˇ€ූ ⎃ැāļĢිāļą් āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸ුāļą් āļļāļģāļ´āļ­āˇ… āļ…āļģ්āļļුāļ¯āļēāļšāļ§ āļ¸ු⎄ුāļĢු āļ¯ුāļą් āļļ⎀ āļ´ෙāļąෙāļą්āļąāļ§ āļ­ිāļļුāļĢි. āļ¸āļą්āļ¯, āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļœේ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ¯්⎀āļē ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ”⎀ුāļą් āļ¸ෙāļ­ෙāļš් āļ‹āļģ āļ¯ී ⎃ිāļ§ි āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ි⎀ාāļ¯ āˇƒුāļąු⎀ි⎃ුāļąු āļšොāļ§ āļ´ුāļ´ුāļģු⎀ා ⎄ැāļģී āļļ⎀āļš් āļ´ෙāļąෙāļą්āļąāļ§ āˇ€ූ āļļැ⎀ිāļąි.

āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļ­āˇ€āļ¯ුāļģāļ§āļ­් āļ­āļ¸āļą් ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ”⎄ු⎀ ⎃්āļŽාāļą āļœāļ­ āļšāˇ… ⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē āļšුāļŊāļšāļēේ āļģāļŗāˇ€āļą්āļąේ් āļšෙ⎃ේāļ¯ āļēāļą්āļą āˇ„ා āļ¸ෙāļ¸ āˇ€ිāļš්‍⎂ිāļ´්āļ­ āˇƒිāļ¯ු⎀ීāļ¸ āļ…āļģ්āļŽ āˇ€ිāļœ‍්‍āļģ⎄ āļšāļģāļą්āļąේ āļšෙ⎃ේāļ¯ āļēāļą්āļą āļ”⎀ුāļą් ⎄āļ¸ු⎀ේ ⎀ු āļļāļŊ⎀āļ­් āļ…āļˇිāļēෝāļœāļēāļš් ⎀ිāļē.

āļ‘āļš් āļ´ිāļģි⎃āļš් āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ­āļ¸ āļąි⎁ේāļ°āļąීāļē āļ†āļšāļŊ්āļ´ āļ¯ āˇ€ෙāļąāˇƒ් āļąොāļšāļģ āļœāļąිāļ¸ිāļą්, āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļ¯ āļ†āļģāļš්‍⎂ා āļšāļģāļœැāļąීāļ¸ āˇƒāļ¯āˇ„ා ⎄ුāļģුāļļු⎄ුāļ§ි āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ාāļ¯āļēāļš් āļœොāļŠāļąැāļœූ⎄.

“āļ‘āļš āļ¯ිāļœāļ§āļ¸ ‘āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් ‘⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා āļšෘāļ­ි āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļšāļģāļĢāļēේ āļēෙāļ¯ීāļ¸ āļąි⎃ා ⎄āļ§āļœāļ­් āļ¸ාāļąāˇƒිāļš āˇ€ෙ⎄ෙ⎃ිāļą් āļ¸ිāļ¯ී ⎀ි⎁‍්‍āļģාāļą්āļ­ිāļēāļš් āļŊāļļා āļœැāļąීāļ¸ āˇƒāļŗāˇ„ා āļ¸ෙāļšී ⎃āļģāļŊ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļ¯ෙāļš āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē āļšāļģāļą āļŊāļ¯ āļļ⎀āļēි.

āļ’ āļ¸ෙāļšී āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ාāļ¯āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­ී‍්‍āļģāļēāļšāļģāļĢāļē ⎃āļŗāˇ„ා āˇƒāˇ„ාāļē āļ¯ෙāļą āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āˇƒාāļš්‍⎂ි āļ¯ āļ´ැ⎀āļ­ීāļ¸ āļ”⎀ුāļąāļ§ āļļāļŊ⎀āļ­් āļ…āˇƒ්⎀ැ⎃ිāļŊ්āļŊāļš් ⎀ිāļē. āļ‘āļąāļ¸් āļšි‍්‍āļģ⎃්āļ­ු āļ´ූāļģ්⎀āļēේ āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‹āˇ…ෙāļŊෙ⎄ි āļ¯ී āļ›ේāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸ (Tragedy) āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ­ුāļąāļš් āļ‘āļš āļ¯ිāļœāļ§ āļģāļŸāļ¯ැāļš්⎀ීāļ¸ෙāļą් āļ´āˇƒු āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļšāļēා ⎀ි⎁‍්‍āļģාāļą්āļ­ිāļēāļ§ āļ´āļ¸ුāļĢු⎀āļąු āļ´ිāļĢි⎃ ⎃āļģāļŊ ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēāļēෙāļą් āļēුāļ­ු ‘⎃ැāļ§āļģ්’ āļąාāļ§āļšāļēāļš් āļģāļŸ āļ¯āļš්⎀ා āļ­ිāļļීāļ¸āļēි. āļ’ .

āļ­āˇ€āļ­් āļšොāļ§āˇƒāļš් āļ­āļ¸ āˇƒ්āļŽා⎀āļģāļē āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ෙāļąු⎀ෙāļą් āļšැāļ´ āļšිāļģීāļ¸āļ§ āļšි⎃ි⎃ේāļ­් ⎃ූāļ¯ාāļąāļ¸් āļąො⎀ූ⎄. ⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļšāļģු⎀āļą් ⎀ාāļĢිāļĸāļšāļģāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸ේ āļ¸ෑāļ­ āļ‹āļ¯ා⎄āļģāļĢ āˇƒāļ¸āļœ āļ”⎀ු⎄ු āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āļ¯ āļ‘āļšී ⎄ේāļ­ු āļ¸āļ­ āˇ€ාāļĢිāļĸāļšāļģāļĢිāļ­ āļšුāļŊāļšāļēāļ§ āļ…āļ­ු⎅āļ­් āļšāˇ…⎄.

āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļąāļ§ āļ…āļąුāļšāļ¸්āļ´ා āļšāļģāļąු āļģි⎃ි ⎀ූ āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸ෙāļš් āļ”⎄ු āļąොāļļෝ āļšāļŊāļšිāļą් āļ¸ āļ­āļ¸ ‘āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āˇ€ැāļģැāļ¯්ā āļ­ේāļģුāļ¸් āļœāļąු āļ‡āļ­ැāļēි āļ´ැāˇ€āˇƒූ⎄. (āļ¸ො⎀ුāļą් āļ…āļ­āļģිāļą් āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸ෙāļš් āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļ¸ීāļ§ āļ´ෙāļģ āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ොāļœේ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļš් “āļ¯්⎀ිāļ­්⎀“ āļ…āļ­āļģිāļą් āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸ෙāļš් āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āˇ€ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļ¸ීāļ§ āļ´ෙāļģ āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝāļœේ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļš් “āļ¯්⎀ිāļ­්⎀“ āļąāļ¸ිāļą් āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļē āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­ි āļļ⎀ āļ´āˇ€ා āļąොāļ¯āļ­්⎄.

āļ‡āļ­ැāļ¸් ⎀ිāļ§ āļ…āļ¸āļ­āļšāˇ€ ⎃ිāļ§ිāļē⎄) āļ¸ේ āļ…āļ­āļģ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃āļą්āļą āļœේ් āļ¸ෙāļšී āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€්‍āļēාāļēාāļ¸āļē āļ…āļœāļē āļšāˇ… āļ…āļē āļ¯ āˇƒුāļŊāļļ āļąො⎀ූ⎄. āļąොāļļෙāļŊ් ⎃āļ¸්āļ¸ාāļąāļŊාāļˇී āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝ āļœේ āļ…āļą්āļ­āļģ්āļĸාāļ­ිāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļ¯ිāļąා ⎃ිāļ§ිāļą āˇ€ිāļ´්āļŊ⎀ීāļē āļšීāļģ්āļ­ිāļēāļ­්, āļ”⎄ුāļœේ āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āˇ€ි⎁්⎀ ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļš āļ´‍්‍āļģāļĸා⎀āļœේ ⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀āļąා⎀āļ§ āļ´ාāļ­‍්‍āļģ ⎀ී āļ­ිāļļීāļ¸āļ­් āļēāļą āļšāļģුāļĢු āļ‘⎀āļą් āļ´ිāļģි⎃āļš් āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¸ුāļ› āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļļāļŊāļ´ාāļą්āļąāļ§ āļ‡āļ­.

⎄ුāļ¯ු āļ´ාāļģāļˇෞāļ­ිāļšāļēāļš් ⎃ේ āļ´ෙāļąුāļĢāļ­් āļ‘⎀āļą් āļąිāļœāļ¸āļąāļēāļšāļ§ āļ‘⎅āļšෙāļą්āļąāļ§ āļ­ුāļŠු āļ¯ුāļą් āļ†āˇƒāļą්āļąāļ­ āļ¸ āˇ„ේāļ­ු⎀ ⎀āļą්āļąේ āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝāļ§ āˇƒේ āļēුāļģේ āļ‡āļ¸āļģිāļšාāļąු āļą්‍āļēාāļēාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ„ෝ ⎀ිāļ ාāļģාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ„ෝ āļ´ිāļ§ුāļļāļŊāļēāļš් ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ”āˇƒāˇ€ා āļąොāļ­āļļāļą āļŊāļ¯ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāˇ€āļŊ āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ…āļœāļēāļą āļŊāļ¯්āļ¯āļą් āļ…āļ­ි⎁āļēිāļą් āļ¯ුāļŊāļļ ⎀āļą āļļැ⎀ිāļąි.

1997 āļģාāļĸ්‍āļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‹āˇ…ෙāļŊේ ⎄ොāļŗāļ¸ āļąāˇ…ු⎀ා, ⎄ොāļŗāļ¸ āļąි⎅ිāļē ⎄ා ⎄ොāļŗāļ¸ āļ…āļ°්‍āļēāļš්‍⎂āļĢāļēāļ§ āˇ„ිāļ¸ි ⎃āļ¸්āļ¸ාāļą āļ¯ිāļąාāļœāļ­් āļļāļą්āļ¯ුāļŊ ⎀ිāļ­ාāļąāļœේ āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē āļšāˇ… ‘āļģෝāļ¸āļē āļœිāļąි āļœāļąී’ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēāļ§ āļ‘āļšී ⎃āļ¸්āļ¸ාāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļąāļē āļšිāļģීāļ¸ āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āˇ€ āļļො⎄ෝ āļ¯ෙāļąා āļ…āļ­ි⎁āļē ⎀ි⎀ේāļ āļąාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€ ⎄ෙ⎅ා āļ¯ුāļ§āˇ„.

‘āļģෝāļ¸āļē āļœිāļąි āļœāļąී’ āļ…āļąු⎀āļģ්āļ­āļąāļēāļ§ āļ´ාāļ¯āļš āˇ€ු āļģේ āļšුāļąි āļœේ Run for your wife āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļē ⎃āļģāļŊ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļš් (Light Comedy) āļļ⎀ ⎃ැāļļෑ āļē. āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් āļ‘⎄ි āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļ…āļąු⎀āļģ්āļ­āļąāļē ⎀ූ ‘āļģෝāļ¸āļē āļœිāļąි āļœāļąී’ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļē ⎀ි⎁ි⎂්āļ§ āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēāļš් ⎀ිāļē.

1997 āļģාāļĸ්‍āļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‹āˇ…ෙāļŊේ ⎀ිāļąි⎁්āļ āļē āļ¸āļĢ්āļŠāļŊāļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēේ āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ´ාāļģ්⎁්⎀āļēේ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁⎃්āļ­ āļļ⎀ āļąි⎃ා āļēāļ§ āļšී ⎃āļ¸්āļ¸ාāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļąāļē āļšāˇ… āļļ⎀ āļ´ැ⎄ැāļ¯ිāļŊි ⎀ āļ´ෙāļąී āļēāļēි. āļŠāļ§ āˇ€ිāļģුāļ¯්āļ° āˇ€ූ āļ…āļēāļœේ āļ‘āļšී ⎀ිāļģුāļ¯්āļ°āļ­්⎀āļēāļ§ āˇ„ේāļ­ු ⎀ූāļēේ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēෙāļą් “āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸්” āļēāļ¸āļš් āļ´‍්‍āļģāļšා⎁ āļąො⎀ීāļ¸āļēි.

(āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් “āļ…āļģ්āļŽ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļē āļšිāļģීāļ¸ේ āļŠāļąිāļēා ⎃්āļšොāļŊ⎃්āļ§ිāļš āˇ€්‍āļēාāļ´ෘāļ­ිāļēāļšāļ§ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļē āļšැāļ´āļšිāļģීāļ¸ āļąි⎃ා āļģංāļœ āļšāļŊා⎀ේ ⎃්⎀ේāļ ්āļĄāļš āļ‰āļą්āļ¯්‍āļģāļĸාāļŊāļē āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļģංāļœ āļšāļŊා⎀ āļšෙāļģෙāļą් āļ…āļ­ුāļģුāļ¯āļą් ⎀ෙāļ¸ිāļą් āļ´āˇ€āļ­ිāļą āļļ⎀ āļ…āļ­ිāļģේāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් ⎀ු⎀ āļ¯ āļ…āˇ€āˇƒ්āļŽා⎀ෝāļ ිāļ­ āˇ„ෙāļēිāļą් ⎃āļŗāˇ„āļą් āļšāļģāļ¸ි.

āļēුāļģෝāļ´ීāļē āļģංāļœ āļšāļŊා⎀ āļļුāļ¯්āļ°ි ⎀ි⎂āļēāļš āˇ€්‍āļēාāļēාāļ¸āļēāļš් ⎀ෙāļ­ āļŊāļු⎀ීāļ¸ේ āļ…āļąāļ­ුāļģු āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗāˇ€ āļ…āļą්āļ­ෝāļąි āļ†āļģ්āļ§ෝ ⎃ිāļē Theatre and it s Double āļšෘāļ­ිāļēෙ⎄ි āļ´ැ⎄ැāļ¯ිāļŊි⎀ āļ¯āļš්⎀ා āļ‡āļ­) āļģāļ āļąāļēේ āļ…āļģ්āļŽāļ¸āļē ⎃āļģāļŊ āļļ⎀ āļąි⎃ා āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēේ ⎃ාāļ°āļąීāļē āļļ⎀ āļąො⎃āļŊāļšා ⎄ැāļģිāļē āļēුāļ­ුāļļ⎀āļš් āļ‘āļšී āļ…āļ¯āˇ„āˇƒිāļą් āļœāļ¸්‍āļē ⎀ේ.

āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļģāļ āļąāļēāļš āˇƒාāļģ්āļŽāļšāļ­්⎀āļē, āļŠāļ§ āˇ€ෙ⎃ෙ⎃ිāļą් āļļāļŊāļ´ාāļą āˇƒිāļ¯ු⎀ීāļ¸්, āļ…āˇ€āˇƒ්āļŽා ⎄ා ⎃ං⎀ාāļ¯ āˇ€ිāļą්‍āļēා⎃āļšāļģāļĢāļēේ ⎁ූāļģ āļļ⎀ , āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēේ ⎃ාāļģ්āļŽāļšāļ­්⎀āļēāļ§ āļ¯ āļāļĸු ⎀ āļļāļŊāļ´ාāļēි. āļ¸ේ ⎃ිāļēāļŊ්āļŊ ⎀ෙāļ­ āˇ€ි⎀ේāļ āļšāļēāļą් āļ…āļą්āļ°āˇ€āļą්āļąේ āļ´ෙāļģ āļšී āˇƒāˇ„ ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´āļš්‍⎂āļ¸āļē āļ ිāļą්āļ­āļą āļ¸ාāļ¯ිāļŊිāļē āļąි⎃ා āļē.

āļ‘āˇƒේ āļ¸ āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļģāļ āļšāļēāļą් ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē āļšāļģāļąු āļŊāļļāļą āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļšෙāļģේ āļēොāļ¸ු⎀āļą්āļąේ āļŠāļ§āļ­් ⎀āļŠා āļ ූāļŊ āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ිāļēāļšි. ⎀ිāļ¯ේ⎁ීāļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļ¸ෙāļą් āļēුāļģෝ - āļ‡āļ¸āļģිāļšාāļąු ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļš āļ´ිāļ§ුāļļāļŊāļēāļš් āˇƒāˇ„ිāļ­āˇ€ āļ’⎀ා āļąොāļ´ැāļ¸ිāļĢීāļ¸ āļŠāļ§ āļ¸ූāļŊිāļš āˇ„ේāļ­ු⎀ ⎃ේ āļ´ෙāļąේ.

āļšෙ⎃ේ ⎀ු⎀ āļ¯ āļ¸ෙāļąāļēිāļą් āļ´ෙāļąී āļēāļą්āļąේ, āļ…āļ¯්‍āļēāļ­āļą āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļšāļŊා⎀ෙ⎄ි āļ°ූāļģා⎀āļŊි (Hierarehy) ⎃්⎀āļˇා⎀āļēāļš් āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ී āļ­ිāļļෙāļą āļļ⎀āļšි. ⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯ āˇ්‍āļģේ⎂්āļ¨āļ­්⎀āļēේ āļ…⎀āļœāļ¸āļąāļēāļšāļ§ āˇƒාāļ´ේāļš්‍⎂ ⎀ āļ…⎀āļģෝ⎄āļĢ āļ…āļąුāļ´ි⎅ි⎀ෙ⎅āļšāļ§ āˇƒāļšāˇƒා āļ­ිāļļෙāļą āļļ⎀āļšි.

1. “ ⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃් (āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸්) āļąාāļ§්‍āļē

2. ⎀ිāļ¯ේ⎁ීāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą

3. āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą

āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē āļ´ොāļ¯ු ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් ‘⎃āļģāļŊāļē āˇƒāˇ„ āļœ‍්‍āļģාāļ¸්‍āļēāļē’ āļēāļą āļ´ාāļģāļˇෞāļ­ිāļšāļē, āļ¸ෙāļ­ෙāļš් āļšි⎃ි⎀ෙāļš් āļšāˇ€āļģāļ¯ාāļšāˇ€āļ­් āļ¯ැāļš āļąැāļ­ි, āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් āļ´āˇ€āļ­ිāļą්āļąේ āļēැāļēි ⎀ි⎁්⎀ා⎃ āļšāļģāļą āˇ„ොāļŊ්āļ¸āļąāļš් āļ´āļģිāļ¯්āļ¯ෙāļą් āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎃āļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇāļēෙ⎄ි āļ´āˇ€āļ­ී.

āļļ⎄ුāļ­āļģāļē ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ‘⎅ිāļ´ිāļ§ āˇ„ා āļāļĸු ⎀ āļ’ āļ…āļ¯āˇ„āˇƒ ⎀ෙāļąු⎀ෙāļą් āļ´ෙāļąී āļąො⎃ිāļ§ිāļąු āļŊැāļļු⎀ āļ¯, āļ´āˇ්āļ ාāļ¯් āļąූāļ­āļąāˇ€ාāļ¯āļē ⎀ැāļąි āļ ිāļą්āļ­āļą āˇ€ිāļŊා⎃ ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ¸āˇ„ා āļ†āļ›්‍āļēාāļą (Great Narratives) ⎀āļŊ āļ…āļ°ිāļšාāļģිāļ­්⎀āļē ⎄ා āļ…āļ°ිāļ´āļ­ි āļ¸āļ­āˇ€ාāļ¯ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁්āļą āļšāļģāļąු āļŊැāļļු⎀ āļ¯ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ¸ෙāļ¸ āļ´ාāļģāļˇෞāļ­ිāļšāļē āļąොāļąැ⎃ී, āļąොāļļිāļŗී āļ´āˇ€āļ­ී.

āļ¸ෙāļšී āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ි⎀ාāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļ…āļģ්āļļුāļ¯āļē āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸ෙ⎄ි āļŊා āļļāļŊāļ´ෑ āļą්‍āļēාāļēිāļš, āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āˇ„ා ⎃āļ¸āļšාāļŊීāļą āˇ„ේāļ­ු ⎃ාāļ°āļš āļ¸ු⎅ුāļŊ්āļŊāļš් āļ´āˇ€āļ­ී āļ‘āļšී ⎄ේāļ­ු āļ…āļą්‍āļēෝāļą්‍āļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ´āļģාāļēāļ­්āļ­ āˇ€āļą āļ…āļ­āļģ āļ’ āļ‘āļšāļš් āļ…āļąෙāļš āļ´ෝ⎂āļĢāļē āļšāļģāļēි.

āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļļāļ§āˇ„ිāļģ āļą්‍āļēාāļēāļšāļģāļĢāļēේ āļ¸ූāļŊිāļšāļēා āļŊෙ⎃ ⎃ැāļŊāļšෙāļą āļ‡āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊ් ⎃්⎀āļšීāļē āļšා⎀්‍āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļēෙ ⎄ිāļŊා āļ¯āļš්⎀āļą āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ාāļ¯, āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා “ ⎃ීāļģිāļē⎃්” āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ…āļģāļˇāļēා āļ´ෙāļģ āļšී āˇƒāˇ„ ⎃āļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´āļš්‍⎂āļ¸āļē āļ ිāļą්āļ­āļąāļē āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āļļāļŊ āļ´ෑ āļļ⎀ āļ´ෙāļąේ.

āļšා⎀්‍āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļēෙ⎄ි āļ¯ී āļ…āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊ් āļ›ේāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸ (Tragedy) āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļē, āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēāļ§ āˇ€āļŠා ⎁්‍āļģේ⎂්āļ¨ āļļ⎀āļš් āļ¯āļš්⎀āļēි. āļšා⎀්‍āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļēේ ⎄ිāļ¯ී āļ”⎄ු āļ›ේāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸āļē, ⎀ීāļģ āļšා⎀්‍āļēāļē, āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļēāļą āļ°ූāļģා⎀āļŊි ⎃්⎀āļģූāļ´āļēේ āļ…āļąුāļ´ි⎅ි⎀ෙ⎅ āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē āļšāļģāļēි.

āļ›ේāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸ āˇ„ෙ⎀āļ­් āļ§‍්‍āļģැāļĸāļŠි ⎄ා āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļēāļą āļ¯්⎀ි āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇේāļ¯ āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ”⎄ුāļœේ āļ´ැ⎄ැāļ¯ිāļŊි āļšිāļģීāļ¸ේ āļ¯ී āļ§‍්‍āļģැāļĸāļŠිāļē āļ‹āˇƒāˇƒ් āļœāļ­ි ⎃්⎀āļˇා āļ‡āļ­ි ⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් āļē⎄āļ´āļ­් āļšි‍්‍āļģāļēා⎀āļą්⎄ි āļēෙāļ¯ෙāļą āļ´ුāļ¯්āļœāļŊāļēāļą් āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ…āļąුāļšāļģāļĢāļēāļš් āļļ⎀āļ­් āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļąāļģāļš āˇ„ෝ āļ´āˇ„āļ­් āļ´ුāļ¯්āļœāļŊāļēāļą් āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ…āļąුāļšāļģāļĢāļēāļš් āļļ⎀āļ­් ⎃āļŗāˇ„āļą් āļšāļģāļēි.

āļ…āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊ්āļœේ āļ¸ෙāļ¸ āˇ€ිāļœ‍්‍āļģ⎄āļē ⎄ොāļŗ āˇƒāˇ„ āļąāļģāļš āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āˇ€ිāļģුāļ¯්āļ°ාāļģ්āļŽ āļ¯්⎀āļē ⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් āˇƒāˇ„āˇƒāļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´āļš්‍⎂āļ¸āļē ⎃āļļāļŗāļ­ා⎀ āļ´ාāļ¯āļš āļšāļģāļœāļąිāļ¸ිāļą්, āļ‘āļ¸āļŸිāļą් āļ…āļą්‍āļēාāļŊාāļ´āļēෙāļą් āļ§‍්‍āļģැāļĸāļŠිāļēāļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇූāļ­්⎀āļē āļŊāļļා āļ¯ී āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ´āˇ„āļ­āļ§ āˇ„ෙ⎅ා āļ‡āļ­.

āļ­āˇ€āļ¯ āļ§‍්‍āļģැāļĸāļŠිāļē āļ¯ේ⎀ ⎀ෘāļą්āļ¯ āļœාāļēāļą āļšා⎀්‍āļē āļąාāļēāļšāļēāļą්āļœේ āļ¸ූāļŊිāļšāļ­්⎀āļēෙāļą්āļ¯, āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļļො⎄ෝ āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļąāļœāļģ⎀āļŊ ⎃ාāļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļēිāļš āļ ාāļģිāļ­‍්‍āļģ ⎀ිāļ°ිāļēāļš් ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් ⎁ේ⎂ ⎀ āļ´ැ⎀āļ­ි āļŊිංāļœ āļ´ූāļĸා āļœීāļ­ āļąාāļēāļšāļēāļą්āļœේ āļ¸ූāļŊිāļšāļ­්⎀āļēෙāļą් āļ¯ āļ†āļģāļ¸්āļˇ āˇ€ූ āļļ⎀ āļ‡āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊ් āļšා⎀්‍āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļēේ 4 ⎀āļą āļ´āļģිāļ ්āļĄේāļ¯āļēේ āļ¯āļš්⎀āļēි.

āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ¯්⎀ිāļ­ීāļēිāļš āļšොāļ§ āˇƒැāļŊāļšීāļ¸āļ§ āļ§‍්‍āļģැāļĸāļŠිāļēāļ§ āˇƒාāļ´ේāļš්‍⎂ ⎀ āļ‘⎄ි āļ´āˇ„āļ­් ⎃āļ¸්āļˇāˇ€āļē āļ¯ āļ­ුāļŠු āļ¯ී āļ‡āļ­ැāļēි ⎃ිāļ­ීāļ¸ āļēුāļš්āļ­ි āļēුāļš්āļ­āļē.

āļšා⎀්‍āļē ⎁ා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģāļē āļąāļ¸ැāļ­ි āļ‡āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊිāļēාāļąු āļ¸āˇ„ා āļ†āļ›්‍āļēාāļąāļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļē āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ´āˇƒුāļšාāļŊීāļą āļą්‍āļēාāļēāļēāļą් āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¸ුāļ› āˇ€ āļļāļŊ āļ´ෑ āļ…āļ­āļģ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎀ෙāļ­ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ ⎀ූ āļ‘āļšී āļ‡āļģි⎃්āļ§ෝāļ§āļŊිāļēාāļąු āļ ූāļŊ āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ිāļē āļ´āˇƒුāļšාāļŊීāļą āļą්‍āļēාāļēāļ°āļģāļēāļą්āļ§ āļ¯ āļ…āļąිāļ ්āļĄාāļąුāļœ āˇ€ āļļāļŊāļ´ෑāļ¸් āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­ි āļļ⎀ āļ´ෙāļąේ.

āļēāļ§āļ­්⎀ිāļĸිāļ­āļšāļģāļĢāļē ⎃āļ¸āļŸ āļ´ැāļ¸ිāļĢි āļēුāļģෝ āļ‡āļ¸āļģිāļšාāļąු āļ…āļ°ිāļ´āļ­ි⎀ාāļ¯ී āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ āˇී‍්‍āļģ āļŊංāļšා⎀ āļąිāļ¯āˇ„āˇƒ āļ¯ිāļąා āļœැāļąීāļ¸ෙāļą් āļ´āˇƒු⎀ ⎀ු⎀ āļ¯ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁්āļą āļšිāļģීāļ¸්⎀āļŊāļ§ āļŊāļš් āļąො⎀ූāļēේ āļ´āˇ්āļ ාāļ­් āļēāļ§āļ­්⎀ිāļĸිāļ­ āļ¸ාāļąāˇƒිāļšāļ­්⎀āļē āļąි⎃ා āļ´āļ¸āļĢāļš් āļąො⎀ේ.

āļ­āˇ€āļ¯ුāļģāļ§āļ­් āļ†āļģ්āļŽිāļš, āļ¯ේ⎁āļ´ාāļŊāļąāļ¸āļē , ⎄ා āļ†āļ°්‍āļēාāļ´āļąිāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļļāļ§āˇ„ිāļģිāļą් āļēැāļ´ෙāļą āļŊංāļšා⎀ āļ†āļģ්āļŽිāļšāļ¸āļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ¸ෙāļą් āļ¸ āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸් ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ¯ āļ…āļŊුāļ­් āļēāļ¸āļš් āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļē āļąොāļšිāļģීāļ¸ āļąි⎃ාāļē.

āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļ…āļ°්‍āļēාāļ´āļą āļš්‍⎂ේāļ­‍්‍āļģāļēේ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎄ා āļģංāļœāļšāļŊා⎀ ⎀ි⎂āļēāļē āļēāļ§āļ­ේ āļ…āļ°්‍āļēāļēāļąāļēāļ§ āļļāļŗුāļą්⎀āļą āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ෙāļą් āļ…āļ­ි āļļ⎄ුāļ­āļģāļē āļ­āˇ€āļ¸āļ­් āļēුāļģෝ – āļ‡āļ¸ෙāļģිāļšාāļąු ⎃āļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇāļēෙ⎄ි āļąි⎂්āļ´ාāļ¯ිāļ­ āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ āˇ„ෝ āļ‘āļ¸āļŸිāļą් āļ…āļąුāļ¸āļ­ āļšāˇ… āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ āˇ€ේ.

⎀āļŠාāļ­් āļœැāļ§āļŊුāļšාāļģි ⎀āļą්āļąේ āļ‘āļšී āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ āļ¸ේ ⎀āļą āˇ€ිāļ§ āļ‘āļ¸ āˇƒāļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇ āļ­ු⎅ āļ´āˇ€ා āļļāļŊ⎀āļ­් āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁්āļą āļšිāļģීāļ¸්⎀āļŊāļ§ āļŊāļš්⎀ āļšෞāļ­ුāļš āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļēāļ§ āļŊāļš් ⎀ූ āļ¯ැāļąුāļ¸ āˇ€ීāļ¸āļēි.

āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļąāˇ€ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි

āļ´ෙāļģāļ¯ිāļœ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļēāļēāļą්⎄ි āļ´āˇ€ා āļ¸ූāļŊිāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą්, ⎄ා⎃්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļē ⎃āļģāļŊ āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු⎀āļŊිāļą් āļ”āļļ්āļļāļ§ āļąොāļœිāļēේāļē. ⎃ං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļēේ āļ´āļģිāļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āˇ€ිāļ¯ු⎂āļš āļˇූāļ¸ිāļšා⎀ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļˇූ āļ´ැāļŊැāļą්āļ­ිāļē āļ­ෘāļ´්āļ­ිāļ¸āļ­් āļšිāļģීāļ¸ āļ´ිāļĢි⎃ ⎀āļą āˇ€ි⎄ි⎅ු ⎃āļ´āļēāļą්āļąāļšුāļœේ āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļē āļ…āļ­ිāļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸āļĢāļē āļąොāļšāˇ…ේāļē.

⎃ිāļēāļŊ්āļŊ ⎃ුāļ›ාāļ­්āļ¸ (Plays with happy endings) ⎀āļą āˇƒං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ āļąාāļ§āļšāˇ€āļŊ āļ‘āļą āļšāļŽා āļąාāļēāļš – āļąාāļēිāļšා⎀āļą්āļœේ āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļ¸āļĢීāļē āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු ⎃ාāļš්⎂ාāļ­් āļšිāļģීāļ¸āļ§ āļ´āļĢි⎀ිāļŠ āļœෙāļąāļēāļą්āļąෙāļšු, āļ”āļ­්āļ­ු āļļāļŊāļą්āļąෙāļšු , ⎃ැāļŊ⎃ුāļ¸් ⎃āļšāˇƒāļą්āļąෙāļšු, āļšāļŽා āļąාāļēāļšāļēාāļœේ āļē⎃ āļ‰āˇƒුāļģිāļą් āļēැāļ´ෙāļą්āļąෙāļšු āļŊෙ⎃ ⎀ිāļ¯ු⎂āļš āļ āļģිāļ­āļē āļŊāļු āˇƒāˇ„ āļ ූāļŊ āļ…āļģ්āļŽāļēāļšිāļą් āļˇා⎀ිāļ­āļšොāļ§ āļ‡āļ­.

āļ‰āļą්āļ¯ීāļē āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļē ⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා⎀ේ āļ¸ෙāļą් āļ¸ āļ‘āļē āļ…āļąුāļ¯āļ­් āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļē ⎃ිāļąāļ¸ා⎀ේ ⎀ීāļģāļēාāļœේ āˇƒāˇ„ාāļēāļš āˇ€ිāļšāļ§āļēා āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļē ⎀ීāļ¸ෙ⎄ි āļŊා āļļāļŊāļ´ෑ⎀ේ āļ¸ෙāļšී ⎀ිāļ¯ු⎂āļš āļˇූāļ¸ිāļšා⎀ āļļ⎀ āļ´ෙāļąේ.

āļ¸ෙāļąැāļą්āļŠāļģ්āļœේ āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļąāˇ€ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āˇƒāˇ„ āļ´්āļŊෝāļ§āˇƒ් āˇƒāˇ„ āļ§ෙāļģāļą්⎃්āļœේ āļģෝāļ¸ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි⎀āļŊ āļšāļŽා āļ†āļšෘāļ­ිāļēāļ§ āļļෙ⎄ෙ⎀ිāļą් ⎃āļ¸ාāļą āļšāļŽා āļ†āļšෘāļ­ී ⎃ං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ āļąාāļ§āļšāˇ€āļŊ āļ´ැ⎀āļ­ීāļ¸ āˇƒං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ිāļš āˇƒංāļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸āļĢāļēāļą් āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āˇƒාāļš්‍⎂ිāļēāļš්⎀ීāļ¸āļ§ āļ‡āļ­ි āļ‰āļŠāļšāļŠ āļļෙ⎄ෙ⎀ි.

(āļ­ේāļĸා āļœුāļĢ⎀āļģ්āļ°āļą āˇƒ්⎀āļšීāļē āļ¸ාāļąāˇ€ ⎀ිāļ¯්‍āļēා āļ´āļģ්āļēේ⎂āļĢ āļ¸āļŸිāļą් āļ…āļąා⎀āļģāļĢāļē āļšāļģāļą āļ´āļģිāļ¯ි, āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āļ¯ේ⎀ āļ¸āļĢ්āļŠāļŊāļē, āļģෝāļ¸ āļ¯ේ⎀ āļ¸āļĢ්āļŠāļŊāļē ⎄ා āļˇාāļģāļ­ීāļē āļ¯ේ⎀ āļ¸āļĢ්āļŠāļŊāļē āļ‘āļšāļ¸ āļ¸ූāļŊāļēāļšිāļą් āļ‹āļ¯්āļˇāˇ€āļē āļŊāļļා āļ‡āļ­) āļĸāļ´āļą් āļąෝ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēāļą්⎄ි āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ¯ෙāļšāļš් āļ…āļ­āļģ ⎄ේ āļ‘āļšāļ¸ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēේ āļĸ⎀āļąිāļšා āļ¯ෙāļšāļš් āļ…āļ­āļģ ⎄ෝ āļģāļŸ āļ¯āļš්⎀āļą āļš්āļēෝāļœāļą් āļąāļ¸ැāļ­ි ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēෝāļ­්āļ´ාāļ¯āļš āļšෙāļ§ි āļąාāļ§āļš āˇ€ි⎁ේ⎂āļē, āļœී‍්‍āļģāļš āˇƒැāļ§āļģ් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ¸ෙāļą් ⎀ි⎁‍්‍āļģාāļą්āļ­ිāļē ⎃āļ´āļēāļą āļ‹āļ´āļšāļģāļĢāļēāļš් āļ´āļ¸āļĢāļš් ⎀ිāļē.

āļ¸ේ āļ…āļą්āļ¯āļ¸ිāļą් āļ´ෙāļģ āļ´āļģ āļ¯ෙāļ¯ිāļœ āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą්āļ¸, āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‰āļ­ි⎄ා⎃āļēේ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ°ාāļą āļ°ාāļģāļĢා⎀ේ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē⎀āļŊ āļ´ැ⎀ැāļ­්āļ¸ āˇƒුāļģāļšිāļą āˇƒāļģāļŊ āļ‹āļ´ාංāļœāļēāļš් āļŊෙ⎃āļ§ āļ´āļ¸āļĢāļš් ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēāļē ⎄ා āļ‹āļ´āˇ„ා⎃āļē āļŊāļු⎀ීāļ¸ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļšෙāļģේ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ⎀āļą āļ ූāļŊ āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ිāļēāļ§ āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āˇ„ේāļ­ු⎀āļš් ⎀ී āļ‡āļ­.

āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸

āļ‘āļ¸ෙāļą්āļ¸ āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ‰āļ­ි⎄ා⎃āļēේ āļ¸ුāļŊ් āļ¸ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ා⎀āļą් ⎀āļą āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸āļēෙ⎄ි ⎄ා āļĸāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē⎀āļŊ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¸ුāļ› āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āˇ€ූ ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēāļē, ⎃āļģāļŊ ⎄ා āļœ‍්‍āļģාāļ¸්‍āļē ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēāļēāļš් āļēැāļēි ⎄āļŗුāļą්⎀ාāļ¯ීāļ¸āļ§ āļ¸āˇ„ා ⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļēේ ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļšāļēāļą් āļ‰āļš්āļ¸āļą් ⎀ීāļ¸ āļ¯ āļ¸ේ ⎃āļŗāˇ„ා ⎀āļš‍්‍āļģ ⎀ āļļāļŊāļ´ා āļ‡āļ­ි āļļ⎀ āļ¸āļœේ ⎄ැāļŸීāļ¸āļēි.

āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸āļē āļšොāļ§āˇƒ්⎀āļŊāļ§ āˇ€ිāļˇේāļ¯āļąāļē āļąොāļšොāļ§ āļ­āļąි, āļ’āļšීāļē āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎃ංāļœāļēāļš් āļŊෙ⎃ ⎃ං⎃්āļŊේ⎂āļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āˇ€ ⎀ිāļ¸āļģ්⎁āļąāļē āļšāļģāļą āˇ€ිāļ§ āˇƒāˇ„ āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸āļēේ āļļāļģිāļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āˇ„ා⎃්‍āļēāļĸāļąāļš āļ…āˇ€āˇƒ්āļŽා āļēāļŽාāļģ්āļŽāˇ€ාāļ¯ී āļ­āļģ්āļšāļąāļēāļšිāļą් āļąො⎀ āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ාāļą්āļ­āļ¸āļē āļ­āļģ්āļšāļąāļēāļšිāļą් ⎀ිāļœ‍්‍āļģ⎄ āļšāļģāļą āˇ€ිāļ§ āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸āļēේ āļ‘āļšී ⎄ා⎃්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸āˇ€āļŊ āļœැāļšුāļģු āˇƒāˇ„ ⎀ිāļ āļš්‍⎂āļĢ āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු āļšāˇ€āļģේāļ¯ැāļēි āļ´ැ⎄ැāļ¯ිāļŊි ⎀ේ.

āļĸāļą āļēාāļ­ුāļšāļģ්āļ¸āļē ⎄ා āļĸāļą āļąාāļ§āļšāļē āļ ූāļŊ ⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļēේ āļšāļŊා ⎀ිāļ­ා⎀āļš් āļŊෙ⎃ āļ¸āˇ„ා⎃āļ¸්āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ¯ාāļē ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් ⎄āļŗුāļą්⎀āļąු āļŊැāļļීāļ¸ෙāļą් āļ´ැāļą āļąැāļŸී āˇƒāˇ„āˇƒāļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ° āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´āļš්‍⎂āļ¸āļē ⎃āļļāļŗāļ­ා⎀ේ āļ…āļģ්āļļුāļ¯āļē āļ“āļ­ි⎄ා⎃ිāļš āˇ€āļģāļ¯āļš් ⎀ිāļŊ⎃ිāļą් āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āˇ€ ⎀āļą āˇƒāļ¸ාāļĸ āļ¯ෘ⎂්āļ§ි⎀ාāļ¯āļēāļą්āļ§ āļāļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļļāļŊāļ´ෑāļ¸āļš් ⎃ිāļ¯ුāļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­.

āļ­āˇ€āļ¯, ⎀ි⎁ේ⎂āļēෙāļą්āļ¸ āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļšāļŊා⎀ෙ⎄ි āļ‡āļ­ි ⎀ූ āļ¯ුāļģ්āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀āļĢāļ­ා ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļ¯ āļ‘āļšී āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļē ⎀ැāļŠි āļ¯ිāļēුāļĢු āļšāļģāļą āļŊāļ¯ී. ⎃ි⎃ිāļŊ් āļœුāļĢ⎃ේāļšāļģ, āļ§ෙāļąි⎃āļą් āļšුāļģේ, ⎃ුāļąිāļŊ් ⎁ී‍්‍āļģ ⎀ැāļą්āļąāˇ€ුāļą්āļœේ āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢ āļļො⎄ෝ ⎀ිāļ§ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļąො⎀ ⎄ා⎃්‍āļēෝāļ­්āļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļšāļ­ා āļšීāļ¸ේ ⎀ිāļąෝāļ¯ාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļģංāļœ āˇ€ිāļē.

āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēāļš āļ¸ූāļŊිāļš āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļ´āˇ€āļ­ිāļą āļąි⎁්āļ ිāļ­ āļ­āļģ්āļšāļą āˇ€ිāļŊා⎃āļēāļš් ⎄ෝ āļšි‍්‍āļģāļēා⎀ේ āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ාāļąුāļšූāļŊ āļ…āļˇි⎀āļģ්āļ°āļąāļēāļš් ⎄ෝ āļ´āˇ€ා āļ’⎀ාāļēේ āļąො⎀ු āļ…āļ­āļģ āļļො⎄ෝ ⎀ිāļ§ āļ‘āļšිāļąෙāļšāļ§ āļ…āˇƒāļ¸්āļļāļą්āļ°ිāļ­ āˇ„ා⎃්‍āļēāļĸāļąāļš āļšāļ­ාāļļ⎄ āļ¸āļœිāļą් āļšාāļŊāļē āļœෙ⎀ා āļ¯āļ¸āļą āˇƒ්⎀āļģූāļ´āļēāļš් ⎀ූāļēේ āļ´ැ⎄ැāļ¯ිāļŊි āļŊෙ⎃āļ¸ āˇ€ෙ⎅ෙāļŗ āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු āļ´āļ¸āļĢāļš් āļ¸ුāļŊ්āļšāļģ āļœāļ­් āļ‘āļšී āļģංāļœāļą āļ’⎀ාāļēේ āļąිāļģ්āļ¸ාāļĢāļšāļģු⎀āļą් ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļŊෙ⎃ ⎄āļŗුāļą්⎀āļą āļŊāļ¯ී.

āļ’⎀ා āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁⎃්āļ­ āˇ€āˇāļēෙāļą් āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļšāļēා āļ†āļšāļģ්⎁āļąāļē āļšāļģāļœැāļąීāļ¸ āļąි⎃ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎀⎁āļēෙāļą් āļ¯ි⎀āļēිāļą āļ´ුāļģා āļąිāļģāļą්āļ­āļģ⎀ āļģāļŸ āļ¯ැāļš්⎀ිāļĢ. āļ¸ේ āļšි‍්‍āļģāļēා⎀āļŊිāļē āļąි⎃ා āļ‘āļšී āļģංāļœ āˇ€ි⎀ේāļ āļąāļē āļšāˇ… ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļšāļēāļą් āļ´āˇ€ා āļ’⎀ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļŊෙ⎃ ⎃āļŗāˇ„āļą් āļšිāļģීāļ¸ āļąි⎃ා āļ´ෙāļģ āļšී āļļāļŊāļ´āļ­‍්‍āļģāļēāļ§ āˇƒි⎀ිāļŊ් ⎁ා⎃්āļ­ී‍්‍āļģāļē āļ…āļąුāļ¸āļ­ āļšිāļģීāļ¸āļš් āļ¯ āļŊැāļļිāļĢ.

āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļš්‍⎂ේāļ­‍්‍āļģāļēෙ⎄ි āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ෝ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āˇ„ෝ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļ´ි⎅ිāļļāļŗ āļ¸ොāļŠāļŊāļē āļŊෙ⎃ āļ‘āļē ⎃්āļŽාāļ´ිāļ­ āˇ€ූ āļ…āļ­āļģ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ෝ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āˇ„ෝ āļšිāļēූ ⎃ැāļĢිāļą් āļ¸ āļ‘āļšී āļąාāļ§්‍āļē ⎃ි⎄ිāļēāļ§ āļ‘āļą āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļēāļš් āļ¯, āļ‘⎄ෙāļēිāļą් āļ¸ āļ‘āļšී āļąාāļ§්‍āļē⎀āļŊāļ§ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ ⎀ූ ⎀ි⎀ේāļ āļą āˇ„ා āļ¯ෝ⎂ාāļģෝāļ´āļĢ āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ෝ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āˇ„ෝ āļšිāļēāļą āļ•āļąෑāļ¸ āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļēāļšāļ§ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ ⎀āļą āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļēāļš් āļ¯ āļ‡āļ­ි⎀ිāļē.

āļ…āļ¯්‍āļēāļ­āļąāļēේ āļŊාංāļšේāļē āļšොāļ¸āļŠි āļ‡āˇƒුāļģේ āļ´āˇ€āļ­ිāļą āļļāļģāļ´āļ­āļŊāļ¸ āļ…āļģ්āļļුāļ¯āļē āļ‘āļēāļēි. āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēෙ⎄ි āļ´‍්‍āļģāļšා⎁āļą āˇ„ා āļ†āļšāļģ්⎁āļą āˇāļš්‍āļēāļ­ා⎀ āļœැāļą āˇƒāļŊāļšා āļ‘āļ¸āļœිāļą් ⎃ාāļ°āļąීāļē āļģංāļœාāļąුāļˇූāļ­ි āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēāļš āļąිāļēැ⎅ෙāļą්āļąāļ§ āļēāļ¸ෙāļš් āļ­ැāļ­් āļšāˇ… āļ¯ āļŠāļ§ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ ⎀āļą්āļąේ āļ§ෙāļąි⎃āļą් āļšුāļģේāļŊා āļœේ āļšුāļŊāļšāļēේ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē⎀āļŊāļ§ āļ‘āļŊ්āļŊ ⎀ූ ⎀ි⎀ේāļ āļą āļ¸ āļē.

āļ‘āļšී ⎀ි⎀ේāļ āļą āļ´āļ¯āļąāļ¸් ⎀āļą්āļąේ āļ­āļ­් āļšෘāļ­ිāļē āļ¸āļ­ āļąා⎀ āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļē āļ…āļģāļˇāļēා ⎀ූ āļ´ූāļģ්⎀ āļąි⎁්āļ ිāļ­ āļāļĢාāļ­්āļ¸āļš āļ†āļšāļŊ්āļ´ āļ¸āļ­āļē.

āļ…āļ­ි āļąාāļ§āļšීāļē ⎃ිāļ¯ු⎀ීāļ¸්

⎃āļģāļŊ ⎄ා āļ•āļŊාāļģිāļš āˇ„ා⎃්‍āļēāļē āļ¯ැāļąāˇ€ීāļ¸ āˇƒāļŗāˇ„ා āļ§ෙāļąි⎃āļą් āļšුāļģේ āļšුāļŊāļšāļē ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āļšāļģāļą āļŊāļ¯ āˇ„ා⎃්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļ‰āļ­ි⎄ා⎃āļē āļ´ුāļģා āļœāļģ්⎄ා⎀āļ§ āļ´ාāļ­‍්‍āļģ ⎀ිāļē. āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් ⎃ිāļēුāļ¸් ⎀ිāļ¸āļģ්⎁āļąāļēāļš āļ¯ී āļ´ෙāļąී āļēāļą්āļąේ āļ¯ාāļģිāļēෝ ⎆ෝ āļœේ āļļො⎄ෝ āļąාāļ§්‍āļē⎀āļŊ āļ¯ී āļ”⎄ු āļ´āˇ€ා āļ‘āļšී ⎄ා⎃්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­ි āļļ⎀āļēි.

āļ‘⎄ෙāļ­් āļ”⎄ු āļ‘āļšී āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āļšāļģāļąු āļŊāļļāļą්āļąේ ⎀āļŠා āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁⎃්āļ­ āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢāļš් ⎀ෙāļąු⎀ෙāļą් ⎀ීāļ¸ āˇ€ැāļ¯āļœāļ­්āļē. āļ‘āļąāļ¸් āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļēāļš āˇ„ෝ āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēāļš āˇ„ෝ ⎃ාāļ°āļąීāļē āļąි⎁ේāļ°āļąීāļē āļļ⎀ āļ­ීāļģāļĢāļē āļšāˇ… āļēුāļ­්āļ­ේ āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āˇ„ා⎃්‍āļē āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļą āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļ¸āļ­ āļąො⎀ āļ‘āļšී āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ āļšāļģ āļ‡āļ­ි āļ…āļģāļ¸ුāļĢු āļ…āļąු⎀ āļļ⎀ āļ…⎀āļ°ාāļģāļĢāļē āļšāˇ… āļēුāļ­ු⎀ āļ‡āļ­.

āļąෝāļģ්⎀ීāļĸිāļēාāļąු āļąාāļ§්‍āļēāļšāļģු ⎄ෙāļą්āļģිāļš් āļ‰āļļ්⎃āļą් āļ­āļ¸ āˇƒāļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē āļąාāļ§්‍āļē āļšෘāļ­ි ⎃āļŗāˇ„ා āļ…āļ­ිāļąාāļ§āļšීāļē (Melo Dramatic) ⎃ිāļ¯ු⎀ීāļ¸් ⎄ා āļ…āˇ€āˇƒ්āļŽා āļ‡āˇƒුāļģිāļą් āļ†āļˇා⎃āļē āļŊāļļාāļœāļ­් āļļ⎀āļ­්, āļ‘āļšී āļ‹āļ´āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āļ…āļ­ිāļąාāļ§āļšීāļē ⎃āļģāļŊ āļļ⎀ිāļą් āļ¸ිāļ¯ී āļœැāļšුāļģු āļ…āļģ්āļŽ āļ´‍්‍āļģāļ­ිāļ´ාāļ¯āļąāļēāļšāļ§ āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎁⎃්āļ­ āļŊෙ⎃ āļ¯ාāļēāļš āˇ€ූ āļļ⎀āļ­් āļ…āļ´ āļ…āļ¸āļ­āļš āļąොāļšāˇ… āļēුāļ­ුāļē. (⎄ෙāļą්āļģිāļš් āļ‰āļļ්⎃āļą්āļœේ A Doll’s house āļšෘāļ­ිāļē ⎀ිāļ¸āˇƒāļą්āļą)

āļ…āļąෙāļš් āļ…āļ­āļ§ āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļēāļˇා⎀āļē āļēāļąු āļšāļŊා āļšෘāļ­ිāļēāļš āļ…āļģුāļ­්⎃ුāļą් āļļ⎀āļ§ āˇƒාāļš්‍⎂ිāļēāļš් āļŊෙ⎃ āļ­āˇ€āļ¸āļ­් āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎃āļą්āļ¯āļģ්āļˇāļēෙ⎄ි ⎀ි⎁්⎀ා⎃āļēāļš් āļ´āˇ€āļ­ී.

āļšොāļ¸āļŠිāļē ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļąāļēේ āļĸāļąāļ­ා⎀ āļ†āļšāļģ්⎁āļąāļē āļšāļģ āļœැāļąීāļ¸ේ ⎄ෙ⎀āļ­් āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļē ⎀ීāļ¸ේ ⎁āļš්‍āļēāļ­ා⎀ āļąි⎃ා āļ¸ āļ‘āļē āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් āļšāļŊා āļˇා⎀ිāļ­ා⎀āļš් āļŊෙ⎃ āļ´ි⎅ිāļœැāļąීāļ¸āļ§ āļļො⎄ෝ āļ¯ෙāļąා āļ¸ැāļŊි⎀ෙāļ­ි.

āļ´āˇ්āļ ාāļ¯් āļąූāļ­āļąāˇ€ාāļ¯ි āļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ේ⎁ ⎀ි⎃ිāļą් āļĸāļąāļ´ි‍්‍āļģāļē ⎃ං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ිāļē ⎄ා ⎃āļ¸්āļˇා⎀්‍āļē ⎃ං⎃්āļšෘāļ­ිāļē ⎀ැāļąි āļ†āļ ිāļģ්āļĢāļšāļŊ්āļ´ිāļš āļēෙāļ¯ුāļ¸්āļš‍්‍āļģāļ¸ āˇ„ා āļ…āļ°ිāļ´āļ­ිāļ´‍්‍āļģ⎀ාāļ¯ āˇ€ිāļ¯්⎀ං⎃āļąāļē āļšිāļģීāļ¸āļ§ āļ­ැāļ­් āļšāˇ… āļ¯, āļĸāļąාāļ¯āļģāļē āļ¯ිāļąාāļœāļą්āļąා āļšොāļ¸āļŠි ⎄ා āļ´‍්‍āļģāˇ„āˇƒāļą āˇƒිāļēāļŊ්āļŊ āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් āļąො⎀āļą āļšāļŊා ⎀්‍āļēාāļ´ෘāļ­ි āļŊෙ⎃ ⎄āļŗුāļąාāļœැāļąීāļ¸āļ§ āļļො⎄ෝ āļŊාංāļšේāļē ⎀ිāļ ාāļģāļšāļēāļą් ⎃ු⎃ාāļ°ිāļ­ āļ´ේ‍්‍āļģāļš්‍⎂āļšāļēāļą් āļ¸ෙāļą් āļ¸ āˇා⎃්āļ­‍්‍āļģාāļŊāļēීāļē ⎀ිāļ¯්⎀āļ­ුāļą් āļ´āˇ€ා āļ´ෙāļŊāļšෙāļą්āļąේ āļšāˇ€āļģ āļ…⎀⎀āļģ්āļ°ිāļ­ āļ­āļ­්āļ­්⎀āļēāļš් āļąි⎃ා āļ¯ āļēāļą්āļą āļ­āˇ€āļ¯ුāļģāļ§āļ­් āļļැāļģෑāļģුāļ¸් āļ…āļą්āļ¯āļ¸ිāļą් āļœāˇ€ේ⎂āļĢ āļšāˇ… āļēුāļ­ු⎀ āļ‡āļ­.