“The sorrow we feel when we lose a loved one is the price we pay to have had them in our lives.”
– Rob Liano
By Susantha Hewa
It was somewhere in the late 1980s that I saw the street-drama legend, Kalakeerthi Dr. Gamini Haththotuwegama. One evening, he came to our area leading his drama troupe. I went to see the play which took place in a spacious courtyard of a nearby temple. Being a trained English teacher at the time and also drama lover, I was looking for an opportunity to meet him and, perhaps, with some luck, to join his drama troupe. That evening, I was able not only to see the great man but to have a few words with him. A year or two later, in 1992, I entered the University of Peradeniya to read for the English special degree under a programme available for trained English teachers with G.A.Q. There, I had the privilege of closely associating with him as an undergrad. Incidentally, although I couldn’t join his street-drama troupe, I keenly participated in his drama training programmes.
Hatha, as he was popularly known, was impressive in many ways: looks, gait, manner and talk. He was full of spirit and anyone who sees him wouldn’t forget him for a long time: sharp features, expressive face which ideally suits an actor, penetrating glance and a bass voice. He often wore shabbily, but any outfit sat on him nicely. Usually, he walked fast enthusing vigour and confidence, laughed heartily and talked unaffectedly. He always had time for a friendly word and a joke, and guffawed uninhibitedly no matter where he was. Among his students he was more a friend than a teacher. He was outgoing and sociable and kept his distance only when he happened to have a cold.
Of course, I was a keen participant in his training sessions conducted at a small theatre behind the arts faculty canteen. An assortment of students from many departments and faculties gathered at this place for training in the evenings. My friend Dayasiri, who was one year my senior, and I hardly missed any of these sessions.
As he often started directing a play with no script or clearly defined plot, the training sessions were pure merriment. Taking a few students at a time he assigned them their roles in a setting so that the ‘drama’ started spontaneously without anybody having any idea of the dialogue or the direction it would take. These situations turned out to be hilarious because our lack of experience as actors often made us say the wrong thing and do something patently inappropriate in response to a prompt given by one of us. Those who were privileged to watch without being the ‘victims’ had a hearty laugh at the totally unexpected turns the scenes often took, and Hatha thoroughly enjoyed such stage hazards and was the loudest to laugh. However, those who laughed at the expense of their poor colleagues’ disastrous mistakes couldn’t afford the luxury for a long time, for nobody knew whom Hatha would pick on at the next moment to become unwitting entertainers. However, fun aside, Hatha quickly saw the potential of some such ‘tragedies’ – tragedies on the part of the actors – and would lead a discussion as to how they could be made captivating moments in the play being practiced.
There were about 50 or, often, more students participating in each session. Hatha would sit with us on the floor with his inseparable bag beside him. He would chat away till the others come, one by one, or in twos or threes. It’s a meeting place for students from almost all faculties. Often, he got us to sing songs of popular stage plays, including Maname and Sinhabahu, with him and his deep voice outdid the collective voices of all of us. Some of us who didn’t have even an ounce of music in us sang aloud confidently because our individual unmelodic voices were drowned in the sea of voices. However, one day, those who pretended to sing under cover were all exposed because that day Hatha asked us to sing individually. I was among those who were teased with a friendly wink, “Now mind you. Don’t open your mouth, hereafter”.
In Nimnaye Dumaraya, Dayasiri and I played the roles of the bull (Kilariya) and the carter, who had an affectionate relationship in which the bull was often smarter than the carter, who was regularly outwitted by the former. In the opening scene, the bull (Dayasiri) was standing alone on the stage irritably waiting for the carter (me), who happened to be unusually late (according to the script). I was to come on stage when Kilariya said something irritably about my getting late. However, Dayasiri had forgotten the lines and, unfortunately, could not hear the prompter who repeated the line aloud.
It was a moment of suspense not only for the unfortunate Kilariya and the carter, but also for Hatha sitting in the first row scratching his cheek impatiently. He was a bit upset but was enjoying our predicament with an impish smile. The audience was beginning to feel that something was wrong and after a suspense of about 15 seconds (which was an eternity), Kilariya blurted out something, which, unfortunately, was not the one he was supposed to say. I entered the stage and was at a loss without being able to give a suitable response to Kilariya, who was glaring at me in total misery! I can’t remember how we managed to pass that moment without a catastrophe. At the end of the play – which went on successfully after the initial glitch – we didn’t know how to laugh. Dayasiri was the butt of loving ridicule. Hatha was the most amused. He said “Oh, don’t tease him so much for forgetting his line; after all he was a bull; the most convincing bull I have ever seen on stage”.
A few days after the play, we started practicing for “Beckett Nopitata”. It was a mime and he had told us about the theme and described the plot. Once again Dayasiri and I had the opportunity of working together to improvise a scene. Dayasiri and I stood in front without knowing exactly how to start. We all had a hearty laugh when Hatha shouted, “Now, now, Dayasiri! You are no longer the bull in this!” Hatha was the loudest to laugh at his own joke. Poor Dayasiri could only glare at us!
Hatha was an endearing person with a rich fund of humour. He was a consummate actor and trainer. Many of us had had no previous experience in acting but his expertise, friendliness and easygoing, jovial manner helped us to quickly shed our inhibitions and become tolerably good in acting. His method of getting us to improvise in different settings gave all of us an important sense of belonging, which proved to be vital in the production of a play.
Hatha had the habit of lightly smoothing his hair backwards with his fingers with a chuckle when he managed to get his students to improvise a scene to his satisfaction. It was fun to imitate him behind his back when he had to walk out for a few minutes to attend to some matter. If he happened to suddenly walk in while one of us was mimicking him, everyone would have a hearty laugh and we had to do a lot of explaining when he asked why we were so amused!
It was a few days before the final exam and we treasured it if there was a cancellation of a lecture. We wanted every minute of our time to go back to our notes and brush up our memory and writing. That day Hatha was late for a lecture and we looked forward to scooting out to do some quick revising to prepare for a paper only a couple of days away. As we were leaving the room, Hatha walked in with an apology for being late and started the lecture. There were only five of us and for some reason he wanted us to step into the office where we all sat in a circle around a table.
He started the discussion of Othello, but we were in no mood for a lecture no matter how interesting it was. Even Shakespeare himself wouldn’t have wanted us to stay on. We were all desperately passing glances at one another in the shared feeling of getting home as soon as possible and to sit with some of our untouched notes. It was a revision lecture and Hatha was enthusiastically lecturing totally oblivious to our unease. Suddenly, one of us scribbled something on a slip of paper and passed it to the next. When it came to the last person all were nearly suffocated without being able to laugh aloud. Everybody was finding some excuse to hide the tears of smothered laughter. The note read, “O heavy hour …!”
We were all choking because, although Hatha didn’t have a clue to what’s happening, there were other lecturers in the office watching our ‘drama’ with a keen interest!
