Love and be loved - In memory of Manik Sandrasagra

Yes, he loved women,
with abandon, and without
jealousy. He loved the plants
villagers smoked and cooked.
He enjoyed palavering
with headmen and washer women,

and at the end of the visit
driving off for cocktails
in the capital, sipping whisky
and nibbling on hot prawns,
on the verandah at Barefoot,
near the sea, with the rumbling

of jeeps and musical stop signs
as roads are blocked against
unwanted bombers. He loved
Tamils and Sinhalese,
Burghers and Muslims.
He wore a monk’s robes

to walk away from British
justice. He would say: The case
was cooked. I had no chance.
Whose laws determine right
and wrong? Yet he despaired
with us about the impunity

of the current set
of rogues. The old rogues
who went to Oxford but forgot
the code upon their return
to the island; they knew
at least what pretence

they surrendered
to have their perks
and sit on the elephant’s
back for the duration
of their terms. But
for fifty years now

some are shot before
they finish, and thus fate
turns until kingdom
come and we sit down
before the ocean
and say: Send us

another murderous
wave to wash us
away; yet we realise
always there are
rich red yolks
in the nest

who will burst and fly
and seek dry land
restoring the cycle
to live and let live
until we tip the balance
again and another

guru comes
swaddling out
of his clothes to say:
love and be loved.
There is no other
rule. Love and be loved.

By Indran Amirthanayagam, May 19, 2008 (on the cremation of Manik's body), Pic by Dominic Sansoni