Sharm de Alwis’ sudden demise leaves a blank space in the columns we so eagerly read in the Island. And we will miss them as we shall his caring humanity, his effervescent sense of humour and warm friendship.
Death comes to all of us and over time even memories of friends who have crossed the great divide fade away through eternity. Not so, however, with widely read columnists whose inky trademark and keyboard imprints will remain in the history books and archives, available to generations to come.
Sharm was a stylish sports writer. He belonged to a yesteryear class whose alumni are alas so few in these times. He wrote often for the Island, and occasionally to the Daily News, and The Leader about sportsmen and sportswomen and of men and mice. There was much about rugby, some about cricket and then about boxing where he had a track record of being an irrepressible pugilist. He also shared many a personal anecdote of which there was a classic about being a jail bird…more on that later.
He wrote with a flourish with brightly coloured anecdotes and vignettes that gripped our attention. There was a time when I cautioned him that his writings were more about Trinity that readers may find it difficult to ingest drawing from criticism leveled against this writer. And his response was an unapologetic yes, adding “that is what I know best and I cannot hide my fancy, and others have the liberty to write about theirs!’’
To be fair though, we read his columns for the style that was unique and for the engaging literary flourish that made good reading and for the variety of his coverage.
In his own reminiscence he traced his writing style to a curious chain of events that evolved from at attempt at Kandyan dancing that grew into prose and poetry: I had been destined to be tutored in Kandyan dancing by the best in the world – Nittawela Gunaya Gurunanse. And here was I, during the vacations, worshipping every robust movement of a supple and masculine frame and also the limpid movements of his protege, Vajira….that I did not have the fluidity of Kandyan genes to perform in the ‘eloquence’ of Dance, I turned my attention to the limpid poetry of Byron, Keats and Shelley et al.
Through those beginnings the cocktail that he offered in his writings was shandied with a host of anecdotes and spiced, I would add, with full blooded sparkling wine
There was a time when he reported back after a male dominated Trinity social event and wrote about ‘females in gorgeous plumes who were mercifully brought into the enclave rather than be left to waft their loveliness in the wilderness of another room. Their presence brought about a fake suck-in of our (his) bellies and a false air of bravado. I did fetch courage to impose: “I am Sharm de Alwis. Can you remember who your husband is?” They all got full marks but if the day extended, the husbands would have fluffed the QA!’
The exclamation marks in his writings had special appeal and an engaging twist. For instance referring to his choice of a dream Sri Lankan Rugby XV he justified it by graphically adorning his selection with vivid expressions of such giants as Y. C. Chang as a Chip of the Great Wall of China who with Hadji Omar were a team of battering rams; of Hisham Abdeen, the Crown Jewel, who defied description; of Mike de Alwis who was the finest hooker ever to be in local rugby and sacrificed his front teeth and ribs for the game; of Lanil Tennekoon who felled opponents like a lumberjack, the bigger they came, the harder they fell; of Thajone Savangam and Jeff de Jong two who played together for club and country and understood every move the other would make, inseparable at the base of the scrum or at the bar; of S. B. Pilapitiya who remains the ‘Prince of scrum halves’ even though there have been many pretenders. He would be airborne in feeding his threes and could not, therefore, be tackled. In a five yard scrum, he would leap over the defence to plant tries at will; of Nimal Maralande who remains the best in the position adding that Mohan Sahayam, ‘the Smiling Assassin’ sold dummies like he was selling ‘waday’ and would plant the try and hold the uprights as he laughed into the wind; and of Viper Gunaratne (Snr), safe as Horatio on the Bridge when try plundering opponents descended like ‘the Huns from the hills his tackles hospitalized his adversaries.’
On Boxing he wrote about Britain’s Heavyweight Boxing champion of the 60s who had put Cassius Clay on the deck in their first bout, Henry Cooper steadfastly refused to indulge in rugger, “There’s too much going on in them scrums and I am not in a position to reciprocate.”
What goes on in the rugger fields is more an extension of unpolished street fighting he wrote. The pomp and majesty of street fighting was displayed by Kalu Abay and Podi Mahattaya of Dehiwela. It was Podi Mahattaya who introduced me, he wrote, to three superlative exponents of the black eye trade who had been fellows of Watupitiwela’s Borstal town and had been discharged for good behaviour when their boxing skills were honed by coach de Silva who also had had a hand in turning out crisp boxers from Christ Church, Kotte. The three from Borstal town were crowned the champions in the All-Ceylon Boxing meets of the late 60s in the categories of Bantam, Feather and Light weights.
On to cricket, he wrote that the pace and the rhythms of cricket inspire more good writing than any other sport. Next to opera and music, the literature on cricket waxes most eloquent and to pay homage to the game and to the players is a galaxy of worthy writers
And with glee and humility he wrote about his three days in Welikada’s remand prison: I was a remand prisoner in Welikada’s high security jail 21 years ago and if my term was to be only three days, it possibly was due to the poetic licence that “fish after three days begins to smell.” I went in on a Friday afternoon and came out on Monday but in those three days I met a clutch of some swell guys who were incarcerated only because the milk of human kindness flowed freely within them that they fought another’s cause to uphold the dignity of fair play.
My first night was in the ‘dorm’ and as none in my family knew of the requirements I slept in the sack cloth the prison authorities had given me after they took my clothes and belongings and gave me a number. I was prisoner 134. That was my identity. A kind inmate warned me to be careful of my shoes and my spectacles because anything is booty within the dungeon.
I was imprisoned because of a motor mishap in which I had accidentally knocked down a policeman. Why I was given special treatment by my fellow prisoners was explained to me: “Sir, kochchiyekuta wadek dhunna nisai”. Information had got around faster than in the Bush even without smoke signals. If I were to sing of my experiences rather than cringe it has been explained by Evelyn Waugh when she wrote, “Anyone who has been to a public school will always feel comparatively at home in prison.”
Three days were a romp for me and if I did not ask for my term to be ended sooner it would have been sustained by St Augustine’s confession, “Give me chastity and continency – but not yet”.
In one of his recent columns he signed off with a somber prescience: I trust I have filled your cup of joy. Mine overflows.
Indeed you have Sharm!
M.V. Muhsin
Mohamed@mvmuhsin.com
