ŷ������

Reading this piece of review published in Curious Reader Magazine, I discovered that my very first book, Footprints in Obscurity has been listed among 10 most extraordinary books by male Sri Lankan authors.
Here goes the intro of the review:
"Last year, when I visited Sri Lanka, I was struck by three things- the beauty of the country, the kindness of its people and the deliciousness of its food. And yet, it is a nation which, until a decade ago, had been dealing with a violent civil war that took tens of thousands of lives and changed many others. These books, written by male Sri Lankan authors, will show you Sri Lanka before and after the civil war, and the Sri Lanka of the 1930s as well as that of the present, and one of them will even take you deep into Africa.The only book on this list not set in Sri Lanka, Footprints In Obscurity is about the author’s journey through 29 countries across Africa between 2010 and 2015. Rupasinghe grew up listening to his father’s stories and, as a result, developed a fascination with Africa.
When his dream of visiting this mysterious land comes true, he embarks on a journey which questions and challenges some of his beliefs, while fortifying others. He interacts with ex-child soldiers, warlords, Ebola survivors and victims of female genital mutilation and, in Footprints In Obscurity, he gives us access to an Africa which belies our imagination".

"It is vital to have a healthy break even from one's most favourite food or most loved work, otherwise, it will take your health away"
I had two breaks from writing this year; first I had a writing break from January to March then, from March to May I had my first break from writing, and the second one was from August to September.
Again my pen bleeds, just like a sharp cut on a vein, it bleeds gently but cardinal and warm. Letter by letter, word by word, line by line and paragraph by paragraph the life of Barsha unveils, and I hear her, feel her, and a drop of her tears ran down along the face and dropped on the manuscript; the blue ink blotted what I had written pitilessly; I rephrased it with empathy, visualizing a smile, a hopeful one.

"After a short break, today I wrote a bit. Adapting to new job environment and nature of the job both at the same time. Though slowed down for some time, my pen is going to rub its point on the papers soon again; writers do not write every day, they do also have times of like others, times away from what one loves to do"

The Baobab, I named this after the baobab trees I had seen in Africa, unique with its imposing characteristics and symbolic importance for each country, ethnicity and tribe. But what my eyes can not believe even today was how I wrote this, just sitting on a bridge under the hot sun, in a dusty street in war-torn Monrovia, the capital of the West African nation. I was leaning on the cement rails of the famous Johnson bridge that still carry its painful traces of bullets, traumatic recent past of the capital of one of the poorest nations on the earth. Monserado river was flowing silently encircling Bushrod island where mortal battles took several hundreds of young lives years ago, and, at my vicinity, another iconic debris of Liberian civil war- best known as 3rd world war-the duco palace, former Hilton Monrovia was standing on a hilltop in the heart of the city. From the charismatic church in the clay street, I began to hear the Sunday morning prayers and loud singing. I walked into the church and, sat in the last row from where I could see the whole congregation that seemed hypnotized by the vigorous flow of words- holy words- of the Nigerian reverend. Sitting on the last row, observing the congregation, I began to imagine the world of an ordinary Monrovian who lives a life unique to their little nation, the land of Liberty, one of two nations in Africa that could retain untouched by colonial powers.



Liberty manacled in minds of slavery,
Barrenness wails in slummy hatchery.
Love materialized, care uncared in misery,
Love child cries in human butchery.

Decorum crucified before god’s eyes,
Soils infertile’d by sinned lazy hands.
Coins tossed in dreams of heavens,
Life is devoured by darkness of hells.

Yelling at skies kneeling at cross, shakes,
Pleading forgiveness for yesterdays` sins.
Sinning, living art as forgiven tomorrow,
Imposed blindness acquired as shadow.

Animalized Liberty guillotined thy soul,
Ever blind eyes reflects thy guilt n`foul.
Vanity is destiny chosen instead wisdom,
Imitation enslaves thee at eternal colony.

Unlike, other books termites seems taking a longer time than expected. It’s been already two years that the book has been fleshing up gradually. Today the manuscript has reached its mid-point, the 50% landmark, and the story seems to get interesting; a lot of changes has happened to the original story as the writing progressed but there is no change in the theme. Writing is like coming to a shore, look around and then you notice an island far across the waters. You are caught by a sudden desire to get there, and at the shore, you notice an abandoned wooden boat. You have no clue about the currents, winds and the depth of waters, and you do not even know how to swim but the urge to get to the island is irresistible. You climb into the boat and begin to row across the immense waters: currents take you far away, winds begin to gust against you pushing you away from the dream island, and the cruel waves brutally breaks under the boat abruptly lifting you and dashing pitilessly on the surface of the waters. It seems the whole universe conspires against you gathering it’s all forces. Yes, your desire remains alive, you keep rowing, defeated in one moment, and next minute as a victor, you row longer than imagined, and the path to the island was longer than speculated, and at the end of a weary long journey, you get to the shoe of the island of fantasy, where you begin to discover the unseen and the unheard. That is how a book starts and none knows how it ends...
I am sure Termites will bring you the unseen and the unheard about hundred thounsands of Barshas living in brothels in Bangladesh

My very first book Footprints in Obscurity was born out of an unforeseen adventures in over twenty counties where I have travelled in Africa, and the second book was an adventure beyond imagination; I was writing a book on a child solider in Sierra Leon, and the book was named Behind the Eclipse as I wanted to show some light in the life of the Mutilated Young Life once called a fearless Westside Boy. Then I was caught in the middle of Ebola Crisis and retained in West Africa throughout the crisis. That was it; I rewrote the story but did not change the name, that was a top-match though. The shortly after the onset of Donbas crisis in Ukraine, I happened to go to the eastern part of Ukraine where the flames of separatism remained fleshly lit, it was in 2015, Bayan remained a cloudy story limited to a corner of my mind, and, in 2016 it became the story of Ivan Nikolaevich. It was completely an unexpected pice of writing and I did not have a sketch of it till it finish it. I just allowed myself to vent. There was a story in it. Even today, among all by books I have an inexplicably profound attachment with Bayan, probably I see my seventies through it.

And Barsha, the Bengali girl I met in Termites was hundred percent unlooked-for, and Termites was first a short story that was never published. One day, while sipping a glass of Scotch on a rooftop of an apartment complex in Cox Bazar, Bangladesh, I had an urge to go to my room and pull out the short story called Termites. I leafed though the 40 pages exercise book, and then, that evening, I scribbled over another 40 pages adding 80 pages to the story. The it was 2 am in the morning I went to bed, still crowded streets in Cox were live with noises, mourns, shouts and laughs of constant human struggle.

The following day I began the writing the novel Termites. The rain of fire��, Yes, calamities are mirrors of human resiliency, they do project the enormous willpower and endurance encapsulated within us in a fracture of a second. I have witnessed it first-handedly in all major calamities around the world, in the past one and half decades, but there is a strain of human resiliency that grows with the human with his growth and remain unfractured with each fracture of bones. I kept looking at them in Maungdaw, Buthidaung, Rathedaung, Sittwe, Cox Bazar, Jalan Bukit Petaling, wordlessly but tearfully, and decided to tell the world a story of a Rohingya.

In brief, all of my books so far were just surprises, and stories scattered in different parts of the word, and writing during times of calamities, while working for vulnerable and affected population around the world.

“Defeating the bias was the main challenge I faced when I was writing “Behind the Eclipse��

Tamba is from rural West Africa, from a region where the cultures are barely known to the rest of the world. His world has very little in common with the culture I originate from. His faith: worship of ancestors, then Christianity—Charismatic denomination—they have remained quite distant from my life. Understanding that was not as difficult as beginning to interpret how Tamba would think about everything he encounters in his life- his ambitions, social interactions, relationships, fears, and loves. I had to consider all these factors to stay in the socio-cultural context of Tamba, the Kissi boy who was growing up in remote West Africa that remained, unlike today, almost completely disconnected from the civilised world.
I had to visualise, scenes and acts of the story—as it was a work of fiction—matching to the social norms and mores, not only of Kissi society but also the other tribes with whom Tamba interacts, and also to highlight the social and cultural dynamics, or in other words, the evolvement of West African society, then Liberia as a country, with Western influence. It was practically an experience of living the life Tamba had in a time of great change. A journey I endured with enormous difficulties, battling with the values I have been oriented on, and the norms I had been taught by my own society. And the nearly contrasting faiths that Tamba and I followed.
It would have been easier for me to tell the world that the cultural practices of old Kissi society were primitive, and taboos in the modern context, but I strived to avoid that force of blindness and instead to look behind the curtain of cultural bias. Without labeling the culture of Tamba, and the other tribe (the word tribes I perceive imperialistic but I have left with no option), I made attempts to see the beauty of the world in their eyes, and explore the rationale of their every single act. Regarding worship of ancestors, I found it psychologically healing for them to be in communication with someone who already understood their problems and social values.
Tamba always questioned his faith; as a converted Christian he was supposed to believe the God,and yet, he could not get rid of his devotion and respect of ancestors. At one point I imagine me as Tamba, praying to his grandfather—the ‘Oldman’—and try to visualise how he would feel. It was actually a feeling of great relief and freedom. I did not allow either my oriental culture or Buddhist philosophy to intervene in my imaginary world where Tamba lived, the life he lived and what he encountered. Basically I did not allow Tamba to think like an Asian or Buddhist but made sure that he lived a piece of life across all cultures in his time, to discover all faiths around him, live all experiences possible, and go on a journey of self-discovery, through one of the most difficult times in human history: he would be able to show the world his courage, resilience and endurance in the face of adversity.
Tamba did it well I believe.

This morning, from a place where there were no urban luxuries, in the far eastern part of Asia, I resumed Termites. Surprisingly, I ended up writing over 1,000 words in the 2nd part of the book. I believe writing is a meditation: it sustains life, heals the mind. The moment I began to feel the flow of emotions, running in my veins, that reaches the pen that I hold with care and gentleness, is the opening of the gates of mind, and it begins to purge, and finally appears before my very eyes in form of words, sentences, paragraphs and chapters which gradually uncloses a novel. The immense skies, fertile earth, green trees, blue waters, colorful flowers and diverse animals, all in one word ? The powerful nature, Yes, if a book can be the epicenter of that power? That is how I feel about Termites when Barsha talks��

Pramudith D. RupasingheBayan‘When the muscles shrink, the skin wrinkles. When the sight fades, the beauty becomes unavailing, when hearing weakens, the music falls silent and when the legs are tumbling, the paths where I walked along, miles after miles, become mere fantasies. And when ability turns to disability, you have to know the journey of life is reaching it`s destination, patiently and gradually; allow it to reach! patiently and gradually, and breath till the last bit of air granted to you. Its your obligation.��

Pramudith D Rupasinghe
Bayan

‘I always knew that happiness is composed with short living shallow feelings whereas the sadness is deep with a long life; often happiness dies and resurrects, and the sadness just fall dormant when we are happy knowing that we will wake it up sooner than later. Happiness is like a wave, sadness is like the innermost depth of an ocean.
In sadness, you remain introvert, left alone. In happiness you tend to be an extravert, you start sharing. In sadness you close your eyes; you delve deep within yourself. And when you grow old sadness grows with you leaving just an infinitesimal space for happiness. That is what many of us fail to accept and embrace as a part of growth��. He threw a look at his fingers and said.
‘Now, when I play my Bayan, my fingers constantly keep reminding me of the future which is shorter than my past��. He smiled showing his brown teeth.