The Joys of writing

Vijaya Chandrasoma

I would like to apologize to my dwindling reading audience who opine that I waste valuable pages of the Sunday Island by writing mainly about American politics, a subject which interests very few readers. These critics include some of my closest friends. The other day, one of them called me and said, with more than a hint of annoyance: “Why the hell do you keep writing about bloody American politics? No one cares. You are a Sri Lankan. Why don’t you write about our country and our politics?”

That’s an easy question to answer. My aim is to die of natural causes, preferably in my sleep. Anyone who has read the essays I have written over the years for the Sunday Island will be aware of my hatred of former President Trump and the despicable Party of corruption and nepotism the Party of Lincoln has become.

I have similar contempt for Sri Lankan politicians and the massive corruption and nepotism that has impoverished a once vibrant, beautiful and economically stable island. I have not kept myself sufficiently informed of the nuances of local politics. Also, my style of aggressive criticism is such that my bookie wouldn’t give me any odds on enjoying a long and healthy life, had I publicly criticized the shameful acts of thievery and corruption of named local politicians, with their private armies of goons.

So I stick to American politics. America is my adopted country and my children’s home. And I can express my hatred towards Trump and his spineless cult to my complete satisfaction from 10,000 miles away in complete safety, especially as Sri Lanka is an insignificant, third world country. Most Americans are not even aware of its existence.

I have heard from a few Lankans resident in the USA and Australia who read my essays on-line. They retain a great love for the motherland. First generation Americans, however rich or famous they are, remain Sri Lankans by emotion, Americans by document, and perhaps by bank account. I am amazed that quite a few of these expatriates, including Sri Lankans, and even some misguided souls resident in Sri Lanka, support, even admire a vulgar crook like Trump. That brings me to my second reason for writing. I am certain that my violently anti-Trump articles will annoy the hell out of them. Though none of them has challenged my vituperation, and publicly explained the reasons for their continued support of a bigoted lunatic.

I doubt if any Jews would have endorsed the genocidal policies of Hitler during the 1930s. And Trump is a wannabe Hitler with an IQ of 60.Ever since my teens, I loved to read. Not just school books. My father was a voracious reader, and used to bring books home just about every week. I couldn’t wait until he finished so that I could get at them. I especially looked forward to a weekly magazine called Argosy, which I thought, in my early teens, had the finest stories. I hadn’t seen it in the bookshops in ages, so I looked it up on Wikipedia, which describes it as “a magazine made with inexpensive paper and printing, containing shocking or sensationalist text fiction by low-paid writers”. A kind of monthly English scandal rag like London’s News of the World. The magazine went out of business in the 1970s.

To my teenage mind, however, the prose in this rag was far superior to the authors we were forced to read at school, hacks like Shakespeare and Dickens.In my defence, I also thought that novels like Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead and Atlas Shrugged embodied an ideology that would save society. An ideology of “Objectivism”, describing “the concept of man as a heroic being, with his own happiness as the moral purpose of his life, with productive achievement as his noblest activity, and reason as his only absolute.” Yes, I was that stupid.

I grew up. But many, usually Republicans, even members of my own family, didn’t. They continue to believe in this ultimate ideology of selfishness, they don’t care “two hoots” about helping sections of society who, for whatever reason, have been driven to vulnerability. Amazingly, many continue to support a vile human being, a proven felon and traitor. And they still call themselves Buddhists and Christians.It is also interesting that Ayn Rand lived in poverty until her death in 1982, dependent on her social security checks, the very antithesis of her capitalist ideology.

My interest in reading continued while I was studying for entrance examinations to universities in England. By this time, my father and the exceptional teachers at my alma mater, Royal College, had imbued in me an abiding love of British and American literature. So, passing, even excelling at English A Levels, a basic requirement for acceptance to British universities, was not a tough assignment. As the late, lamented Lakshman Kadirgamar stated, the achievements of his, and those of many outstanding Sri Lankans in various spheres, represented the icing on the cake that was baked at home.

My yearning for reading never stopped. However, it was largely suspended at a time when it was of vital importance, when I gained admittance to Oxford. Life is full of choices and priorities, and, at the tender age of 19, reading and study were placed firmly on the back burner, while I was being introduced to the irresistible pleasures of the demon drink, slow horses and fast women. Those pleasures got me kicked out of Oxford, and I continued heaping disappointments on my parents after I returned in disgrace to Sri Lanka.

I continued reading the latest books and the old classics sporadically when I was living with my parents in Colombo. However, the most popular, and sought-after book in our house was a little black book named Timeform, which my father used to religiously buy every Monday. A book that gave comprehensive details of the breeding, temperament, form and latest performances, with ratings, of every racehorse running in Britain. The competition for the use of this book was fierce in my family. The love for this wonderful literature continued till the book stopped publishing after Covid 19, a revered gospel sorely missed by all aficionados of the Sport of Kings.

My few years working with Minister Gamini Dissanayake rekindled my interest in reading and writing. The Minister was also an avid reader and an anglophile, and had an enduring love of the English language. Which in those rude, pseudo-nationalist days was seen to be more of a drawback for a politician.

Because of the violence, both political and ethnic, rampant in our country, I was toying with the idea of emigrating to the USA in 1990, especially when Minister Dissanayake, a senior cabinet minister of the UNP, fell out of favour with the Premadasa government. He was stripped of his portfolios and reduced to the lowly level of a backbencher. In those bad old days, the method of eliminating political rivals was, well, eliminating them, but permanently. Minister Dissanayake decided to pursue higher studies at the University of Cambridge, and advised me to duck out of sight for a while. I was widely known as a loyalist of Minister Dissanayake.

The decision to leave Sri Lanka was clinched after my good friend, Richard de Zoysa’s tortured body was washed ashore on Moratuwa beach. Richard was a journalist, actor, TV anchor and anti-government political activist, who produced a drama criticizing the Premadasa regime. He was also one of the smartest, most charming men I have been privileged to meet.

So my love of reading was once again displaced by our desperate effort at survival, after the decision to emigrate to America. I really do not remember how I managed during the initial 10 months when I was alone in Los Angeles, without a permit to legally seek employment. I have some close friends to thank for my survival.

Things became better when the rest of my family joined me, also on a tourist visa. We were able to apply for permanent residence, which also came with a document authorizing employment.

After a hard struggle of nearly six years, involving working for minimum wage, the artful manipulation of credit cards and help from my mother, we were finally awarded the much-valued Green Card. We also finally achieved our premier ambition, which made the ten-year struggle completely worthwhile. All three of our children completed their education most successfully with degrees from three of the finest universities in the country. Achievements based on merit and hard work, which all the resources available to my family couldn’t buy.

I resumed single life after 30 years of marriage, and moved to Phoenix. The five years in Phoenix were desperately lonely, but Phoenix’s wonderful public library network enabled me to pander to my favorite habit, devouring both the classics and the latest bestsellers at no cost at all.

When the war ended in 2009, I decided to retire in Sri Lanka. The best damned decision I have ever made. I kept on reading, and writing long, boring letters to my children and friends, which were either ignored or replied with a few, curt comments. I also wrote, usually in my cups, lengthy epistles, insulting, hateful letters to people I perceived to have wronged me. I did not send them, though getting all that hatred off my chest was immensely satisfying. I was writing for my own benefit, a form of therapy. The struggle of an old man fighting loneliness.

I have always been interested in American politics, and was a registered Democrat after I became a citizen. In fact, I was a vital volunteer in the Obama campaign office in Phoenix in 2008, performing, couple of hours a day, essential tasks of licking stamps and answering phones in my thick Sri Lankan accent.

On my return, my reading habit was satisfied by the resurgence of e-books, and I was able to keep reading the old classics and new best sellers at little cost. Reading and working out the English horse racing form also continue to provide hours of pleasure daily. And the ability to meet on a regular basis, and call and receive calls from my old and new friends in Sri Lanka at any time, keeps loneliness at bay, a pleasure denied to even the richest friends of my generation living in foreign lands.

I started writing only when the monstrous Trump fraudulently won the election in 2016, with the help of his master, Putin. I sent one of these articles to my old friend and cousin several times removed, a senior newspaper editor in Sri Lanka for over half a century, who today is the editor of the Sunday Island. Much to my surprise, he ran the piece.

Seeing my name in print for the first time reminded me of a story related by Dr Sashi Tharoor, the brilliant Indian diplomat, politician, writer and orator, about the addiction to writing. Briefly, he says that every reader is a potential writer. And the more he/she reads the greater the potential for writing becomes. He started reading when he was 10 years old, and his first writings appeared in the print media when he was 11.

He talks of an addiction, a craving that he felt after seeing his name in print. He has since authored 18 books, mainly on India and the oppression of the British Empire. His books, and the thousands of essays he has written, many of which have been published by the New York Times, the London Times and the Washington Post, provide an insight into Indian culture and how India has evolved into the largest democracy in the world.

Plummeting from the brilliant to the mediocre, while Dr Tharoor had his articles published when he was 11 years old, my first essay was published by the Sunday Island when I was 75 years old, when The Donald was aspiring to, and cheated his way into the White House. When I saw my name in print for the first time, I was hooked. Examples of Trump’s vulgarity, his ignorance, his cruelty and his incredibly narcissistic incompetence provided me with ample fodder to write on a weekly basis. After about a year of submitting articles venting against Trump, I asked my friend, the editor, whether I should continue on this journey of hatred. He said, “Keep them coming. The hatred is shared.”

In summary, I keep writing. I take great personal pleasure and satisfaction in writing. I keep writing to express my opinions about the horror I feel that that a cultish sect of white supremacy, led by a vulgar traitor, is attempting to take control over the country which gave me and my family a second chance in our hour of need. I write to feed my addiction to seeing my name in print. I write to provide myself with a meaningful diversion as an antidote against loneliness. Most of all, I write to share with my grandchildren, already avid readers, a part of my life which will otherwise not be known to them.

They are the only reading audience for whom I write.