Constitutions are made, talked about, cursed and amended. They never speak although they frame much of what happens in a country. In a parallel universe constitutions would talk. They would, as the Americans of the US say 'kick ass'. They would complain of aches and pains. In a parallel universe the Second Republican Constitution of Sri Lanka (democratic, socialist, let's not forget!) or the 'JR Jayewardena Constitution' would have a lot to say. We could but transcribe.
No one is made perfect. Even things of ‘top quality’ decay and perish. It’s just a matter of time. Of course there’s a lot of resistance. When there’s ‘break’, there’s often an attempt to ‘mend’. Patch-up. Even when there’s no perceivable flaw, things are done to enhance. Upgrade. In my case, both patch-up and upgrade have one name: amendment.
I was birthed in 1978. There were a few at the time who wanted me strangled at birth, but the movers and shakers of the time had enough push and pull to get me out. I was no perfect baby. I came with many flaws that were etched into my DNA by my makers. Even those who blindly cheered my birth, in time, concluded that I was not as pretty as they first thought and that I didn’t live up to my promise.
So, from time to time, I was fixed. Tweaked, some say. They all said it was for my own good. It was as though everyone who tinkered with me wanted me to live forever. But I know better. It was not my longevity that the ‘tweakers’ were concerned about, it was theirs. It reminded me of that old song by Lobo, ‘Love me for what I am’.
I can’t give any more of my soul away
And still look myself in the mirror everyday
I can’t change any more
Of what makes me be myself
And still have enough left
Not to be somebody else.
Only, I had nothing to do with it. It was all done to me. Not only was I twisted and turned, I was read and interpreted. I was named and identified. It’s the worst thing I can think of. I was never myself but always what others saw me as. For their own purposes of course.
So I am not fooled by this mending talk. Amending, rather. It’s not about me. I have a grandaunt on the other side of the world. (A)mended 27 times in 225 years or roughly once every 9 years. Well, she had a serious birth defect and had to have some 10 operations in her first year. So if you don’t count those it’s about on ‘repair’ every 13 years. And here I am, just 36 years old and already ‘fixed’ 18 times. That’s once every two years on average. I am beginning to think that this is because no one realized I was deformed at birth.
Anyway, now there’s talk of further fixing. I’ve suffered 18 operations. It takes a toll on the old body you know. I don’t think I can go under the knife again and survive. That’s only so much a body can take. I am done. I don’t want it. I want out. I want out like that dramatic line in Kingsley Peiris’ catchy song, Podi Kale Maranda Welle.
රුචිරානනී අහන්න.....එක පාර මා මරන්න
“Listen, beloved! Kill me once and for all!”