Working in Multitudes: Rediscovering Martin Wickramasinghe

It was on the day before his birthday, in 2019, that I called Indunil.

- BY UDITHA DEVAPRIYA

Launch of George Keyt - Absence of a Desired Image.

"Here, are you free tomorrow? There's a place I want to take you to."

After finishing work the following day, I hired a tuktuk. Picking up Indunil, I proceeded to Kohuwela. There we stopped by the Keell's building. I had not explained why we had come. As we got down from the tuktuk my friend gave me a bemused and puzzled stare. "Where are we going?"

I did not answer. We passed the Keell's building. Soon he saw that my eyes were set on an old, decrepit building behind. It was the sort of building you never really noticed unless you strained your eyes. It did not just stand apart from the other buildings in the vicinity, it seemed to belong to an older period. It almost seemed on its way out.

We went up three flights of stairs. The closer we got to the top the more visible became its old and worn-out state. There seemed to be no soul in the building. Pigeons had made it their lair. One could see their droppings in every corner: stretches of white across old red polished floors. Hardly the sort of surprise for one's 18th birthday.

This was the office and location of the old Tisara Bookshop. I did not tell Indunil until we reached the top floor. There, in a warehouse that had once served as one of the most sought after and popular book stores in the country, lay tons and tons, volumes and volumes, of reprints and old editions of books from a totally different era.

I beamed at him as he stared at the collection.

"Pick whatever you want," I said, "and happy birthday."