CONTINUITY
Archaeological evidence proves that the Avukana Buddha statue in Anuradhapura was constructed during the reign of King Dhatusena (5th Century A.D.). But a legend buried deep in the Kala-Oya valley confers this honour on King Dutugemunu (2nd Century B.C.).
The world was all blue and green. Nothing but blue and green that poured down at him from the deep still sky, and shot up from the dark, tough wilderness beneath him. Perched on a wooden gallery on top of a massive rock that emerged from the sea of moving green forest all around, he could feel the green and blue crashing and exploding midway in the air around him, exploding with the exultant force of life. The brown fingers holding the hammer and chisel shook for a second before they chipped away the last piece of rock from the chin of the statue. Then the fingers set the tools in motion, back and forth, rhythmically smoothing the sharp, raw edges of the rock.

Now, only the eyes remained to be carved and shaped out of the rock.

The sculptor laid down his tools and sat back. The tension left his body in a long deep breath. Yes, only the eyes were left. Yet it is the hardest part of his work. For what expression can he create in those eyes of stone? How could he give life to those eyes, those eyes of the Buddha, the one who saw it all? And the meaning he carves out in those eyes should harmonize with the nature of the rock, just as the rest of the statue did. It should be something that lives with the hard, rough rock, not something which lives apart from it.

The sun was moving slowly behind the statue, lengthening the shadows to the east. When twilight slips away into night, he needs to descend from the top of the rock, and leave the stone figure to merge with the life around it. For at dawn the next day the troops must resume their march to Anuradhapura. Nearly two full-moons had passed since they had had to halt here, in the dry forest between Anuradhapura and the hamlet of Sasseruwa. After the tremendous victory at Vijithapura, the strongest fortress of the Tamil King Elara, the Sinhala troops marched north-east towards the Kala-Oya. As they neared Sasseruwa, word reached them of the floods that broke the banks of the river. They camped in the hamlet for a fortnight, till the floods ebbed. But as they headed north again, those messengers who rode ahead of the troops returned to announce the impossibility of crossing the flooded river. Again they camped, this time near the edge of a forest, a few miles to the west of Sasseruwa, with an impatient king and dampened spirits. But tomorrow they would march the last few miles to the north-west to cross the river, having heard of a clear sky and a somewhat placid, though brimming river.

A few miles beyond the river the land lay under the rule of the Tamil king. So, king Dutugemunu was to go beyond the river with his soldiers behind him, and his trust in the honesty of his cause. It was the last stage of his battle against Tamil rule, having fought his way steadily to the north from Digamadulla, his victorious march culminating at the capturing of Vijithapura, the strong-hold of King Elara. Even as he fought against the Tamils, Dutugemunu knew the Tamil King to be a noble ruler, compassionate and just. But the destruction caused by his subjects was unpardonable. The two kings will confront each other in a deadly duel, but King Dutugemunu will always remember that he fought not against King Elara, but against the malicious fist of the destructors, be they Tamil or any other. He was acting, as many kings before him did; and he knew that many rulers long after him would have to repeat his act.

He often thought that this small dot of land was destined to be the ground for a rich fusion of many different ways of life and thinking. It is in the hands of the ruler to ensure the harmlessness of such fusion, to protect the land, the people, and the original thoughts that shaped these people. Which, King Dutugemunu vowed, he would do.
The wind blew from the east, carrying the scent of the monsoon rain, and the endless greenness beneath him moved with a swishing that broke the stillness in the air. The sculptor peered down at the statue. He knew that if he stood at the base of this massive rock, he would see the folds in the robe of the Buddha rippling at the wind's touch; hundreds of folds, delicately carved and smoothed laboriously out of the stone. The sculptor had been working on this statue until two full moons had rounded. For days he had been on top of wooden galleries, attached to the rock, with nothing but trees, the sky, and the birds who dipped in and out of the air, around him. And on his mind, the image of the Buddha. The Buddha, of compassion, serenity and beauty. But it was the Buddha in his strength and endurance that haunted the sculptor's mind. For it would be wrong to carve a substance of mind that did not equate to the substance the rock. And moreover, it would be an insult to the Buddha, to carve him as something apart from the nature of the rock, and from the roughness and tenacity of life around this rock. For, the Buddha and nature were one. The sculptor, looking down at he figure, recalled the half-finished j image of the Buddha that he left behind at Sasseruwa. When they camped at Sasseruwa, the wise king, sensing the unrest among his soldiers, ordered each of them to accomplish some type of work, using their skills. The sculptor, having seen a massive rock rising out of a clearing in the woods, had set to work carving something that he had wished to all his life. Then, as the news of the subsiding waters of the river reached them, he had had to abandon the half finished statue. But the king, seeing this figure, had exclaimed in wonder, and ordered his sculptor to carve a replica of the Sasseruwa statue when he found a similar bulk of rock as they camped a few miles from Sasseruwa again. The shadows were lengthening fast. The cawing of the crows, which up to now had been occasional, began to fall on his ears more frequently. The sculptor took up his chisel once more this time, for the last time. He collected all his thoughts and spun them around one image and one feeling in the centre of his mind. As the seconds passed, these spinning images formed a rhythm, which flowed down his hand, through his fingers, into the stone; pouring life into it. The wind blew stronger, and the trees made a perpetual rustle. The sun was brimming on the edge of the western horizon, spilling the last of his rays across the sky. The throbbing, deep blue had diluted, and now long crimson streaks among the fusion of purple, pink and blue, cast a saffron glow on the land and the trees. The noises of the evening vibrated in the air. The sculptor climbed down. When he reached the ground, standing away from the rock, he pulled the strong rope attached to the wooden platform on which he had been sitting throughout the day. The structure collapsed and the planks hit the ground. He carried them and piled them aside, one by one. The villagers will collect them the next morning. All this time he had not looked up once. But now, he stepped back, facing the massive rock, and slowly raised his head. There he was, the Buddha, both hands raised from the elbow, one touching the robe, the other held up with the palm outward, blessing. The figure, although attached to the rock by a straight, thin bar of stone, seemed to have grown out of the rock. As he gazed at this creation, the sculptor knew that it was wonderful. He had carved an image of the Buddha in stone; strong, enduring and true; true and real as the rock itself. The people when lifting their eyes to this magnificent image will feel the strength, the living force, pouring into them. The shades of the western sky made a halo, as the Buddha faced the east. The Buddha faced the east, so that as the sun rose each morning, the figure would catch fire and become alive. It shall always be a symbol of renewal and life. And a symbol, not of eternity, but of endurance; not of everlasting glory, but of resilience that is of Sri Lanka itself. The sculptor knelt before the Buddha and worshipped. Then, as twilight began to fade, he walked over to the recumbent slab of stone on the right of the statue, carrying his tools. There, in the rock, was a little pool of water, which the villagers said, never dried. There he knelt, and one by one, dropped his tools in the water and listened as they splashed into the water, sank and settled at the bottom. Thus, he thought, those tools shall lie there, without anyone knowing, but there, always; as another symbol for the people, as symbol of the creative force by which the people thrived. It shall be dormant at times, but alive and ready to catch fire at any moment. As night flowed in, the moon, climbing up from the east with its soft white light, stopped midway in the firmament and worshipped the Buddha, spreading a white glow over the image. And for a glimmering second it illuminated the small solitary figure standing by the recumbent stone. And then the moon went on. The writer laid down his pen and walked out. He stood, gazing northwards where history was being re-enacted. And he hoped that this soil would still prove alive with resilience.
