Losing Lostboy

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‘The Jharnalist Returns’ – those were the words Sanjaya Senanayake inscribed into a screensaver he designed for my then candybar Nokia phone. He engaged in the past time as we braved through what seemed to be an endless linear editing session of a video that had something to do with paalak ke pakode. The screensaver was one of several ways Sanjaya made me come across as cooler than I actually was. What better name than could I pick for this blog?

That day in the editing suite was towards the end of 2003. Sanjaya and I had met earlier that year. Running late, I had rushed into a packed classroom on my first day at the Asian College of Journalism in Chennai. I hastily made my way towards the only vacant seat and as soon as I sat down a towering figure turned towards me with an outstretched hand to shake – “Hi, I’m Sanjaya from Colombo”.  I remember mumbling back an introduction even as I tried to mask the immediate sense of intimidation I  felt. Sanjaya’s imposing physical personality was however only restricted to that first appearance, for he was a true blue softie with a big, kind heart. His ability to engage with both the boisterous and the diffident drew people close to him. In a batch of 90 opinionated and diverse students you would be hard-pressed to find someone who didn’t refer to Sanjay as a friend.

We weren’t instant best buddies but by the end of our time at J-school it was pretty clear that in Sanjaya I had found a friend for life. After college came to a close, I made my way to Delhi for work. Sanjaya decided to backpack his way around Kerala. Elaborately detailed postcards describing the sunset and the like made their way to me at the guest house I was put up at. About a month later as I headed back from a day of drudgery in live Television, there he was waiting at the guest house – “Surprise!”.

Sanjaya spent the following month with us in Delhi. Conversations that ran into the wee hours. Partying in strange Punjabi discotheques. Shared Rs 20 Chowmein dinners. Idling away in bookshops and cafes in Connaught Place. Deep discussions while loitering about India Gate. Lazy weekend afternoons sprawled on the lawn at the much-fabled No 4 Bhagwandas Road – where he was stayed while in Delhi.

During the course of that month I remember feeling particularly despondent early one morning. Sanjaya made his way across town at 6 am armed with a copy of a book of feminist fairytales. He took a seat and read aloud. No judgement. No patronising. He just read and read till I felt better. That’s the kind of friend he was to me.

Sanjay and I both turned 23 that summer. He was exactly a day elder to me and we ended up having a spontaneous joint party in the guest house that was then home to me and several of our ACJ batchmates. It remains the most memorable birthday party I’ve had and I’m sure everyone present fondly recollects that night. Sanjay left us just a couple weeks short of what would have been 10 years since that night. I blew out another candle but Sanjay couldn’t make it to the birthday he so wanted to.

My Gmail and FB inboxes are dotted with hundreds of emails from 2006 onwards exchanged back and forth. The ones before that are lost forever. There are the general catching up notes, pictorial descriptions of untouched landscapes in Sri Lanka’s troubled north-east where he shot several documentaries, inane banter and gossip and the periodic invitations to the Island attached with some latest cheap flight scheme as an enticement. I have the email he sent me after his weekend spent sneaking in to the LTTE headquarters (Kilinochichi) during the thick of hostilities. There’s the first draft he scripted for a movie he wanted to make. There’s also the mail he wrote about the love of his life – Zainab, soon after they began dating.

Karuna and I took Sanjay up on his offer to visit Sri Lanka in August 2008. He drew up a columnised itinerary with lots of alternatives, told us what to pack and treated us to five days of non-stop adventure. My memories and impression of the beautiful island will always be through the picture he created for me.

The ocean. That was always Sanjay’s first love. The Island boy himself testified that he didn’t have it in him to live in a landlocked city. Such places made him literally feel like a fish out of water. He was only at peace by the sea. I’ve seen him look out into the ocean with the same affection whether it was during an early morning weather report shoot at the Marina in Chennai, a late night sauntering down Marinedrive in Mumbai, or while laying back in the sand during short holidays in Mahabalipuram and Unawatuna.

2003 – Chennai. 2004 – Chennai, Delhi. 2006 – Mumbai. 2007 – Bangalore, Chennai, Mahabs. 2008 – Colombo, Unawatuna, Kitulgale, Shimla. 2011 – Bangalore. 2013 – Bangalore. Dates on a calender and places on a map that bring back so many vivid memories.

Sanjay always took the road less traveled. His interests knew no boundaries. He began his career as a teenager producing a TV magazine show on conflict resolution. At ACJ as a SAF scholar, he was the only student without a bachelors degree to make it to a postgraduate course. Among other things, he spent time as a communications professional with Transparency International and also trained several batches of university students in the basics of Broadcast Journalism and studio work. During the course of the Tsunami and its aftermath, he relayed first hand accounts from affected areas through text messages. Those messages made their way to the internet and received worldwide attention. Then of course were the many documentaries he filmed.

Whatever path Sanjaya chose to take, his forte remained the same. He was by essence a storyteller and could see drama in the most innocuous of situations. He would make himself comfortable, bring his hand towards his mouth to cough and clear his throat and in his thick Sri Lankan drawl start off with a “Riiieeeght, sooo…..”. This was accompanied with his customary movement of hands. He always had an audience and would regale us with tales of people, places and  settings beyond our realm, but all part of the expansive life he chose to live.

Like he did with most of his close friends, Sanjay loved to poke fun at me. Back in college he had nicknamed me ‘Yellow’, alluding to my supposed jaundiced appearance. Karuna was always ‘Disco’. He had a name and story for everyone. Years later he also confessed to starting a nasty rumour about the reason I had dark circles. Each revelation was inevitably accompanied by a flurry of giggles. You couldn’t possibly be angry with him. He secretly enjoyed being made fun of as well.

In all my years of knowing Sanjay, I don’t ever recall him being upset, angry or sad. He was always happy and with a grin on his face. He had this innate ability to look at the lighter side of things. His humility made him laugh off even his own worries. During our chats after he received news of the terminal nature of his cancer, it was not me but Sanjay, who did the justifying and consoling. For him even then, Sri Lanka’s socio-political climate was more of a matter of concern.

Lostboy. Island Boy. Morquendi. It didn’t matter how you knew Sanjaya Senanayake. His was a life that will be celebrated, not mourned. In what would be his last email to me, Sanjay apologised in advance for not being around to see my baby boys grow up or to host them in Sri Lanka when they turned 18. In an earlier email that updated his near and dear ones about his ill-fated medical condition, he asked us all to tell our children about him and the things we did together. ‘I know that because of you, I will live forever’ were the words he ended with.

Adhyant and Nirbhay – this post is in part for you. I hope we get to read this together one day and recount all the amazing stories about my dear friend. Narratives from his life can teach you far more than what my mundane existence and lectures will. It’s been a year since Sanjaya left us and I still can’t digest the fact that he’s no longer here. Living in denial has some advantages. I just picture him probably walking down the streets of Kabul or averting a landmine in what was Sri Lanka’s war zone or maybe laying on the ground sideways in the middle of nowhere, filming something with a video camera in hand. Or better yet – plonked on the sand at a beach, gazing at the horizon with zen-like calm. I tell myself that I’ll hear from him someday soon through a pop-up in my inbox or a sudden phone call to announce that he’s coming to town. That’s how I want to remember Sanjaya – always taking risks, always alive and kicking and of course always, always smiling.