by Luxman Aravind
When a clown moves into a palace, he doesn’t become a king. The palace instead becomes a circus – Turkish proverb
Politics in Sri Lanka, where the truth is often muffled by the noise of spectacle, the actions of a recently elected parliamentarian have managed to set a new low. This individual, notorious for a lifetime of attention-seeking behaviour, has once again demonstrated that his thirst for the spotlight is boundless, to the point of being pathological. His refusal to vacate the Opposition Leader’s seat in Parliament, forcing a senior and respected politician into a humiliating corner, was not an act of political defiance, but of brazen arrogance. And when the backlash inevitably followed, he emerged with a cowardly, insincere apology—a weak and transparent attempt to escape the consequences of his behaviour.
This incident is not an anomaly, nor is it a one-off lapse in judgment. It is part of a troubling and consistent pattern that goes far beyond political miscalculation—it points to a deep psychological dysfunction. This individual is not simply a political embarrassment, but a symptom of a deeper malaise in the political culture of Sri Lanka: the degeneration of leadership into a circus of narcissism and self-promotion. His actions are a grotesque display of a psyche consumed by the need for attention at any cost.
What is truly alarming is not just the audacity of his actions, but the emptiness behind them. His entire existence in the public eye appears to be constructed on the foundation of a desperate desire for recognition, with no real substance to back it up. From his antics in Parliament to his controversial statements outside it, his every move seems designed not to serve the people, but to serve himself. His political career is a series of calculated provocations, each one more outrageous than the last, each one designed to ensure that his name stays in the headlines, that his face remains in the spotlight. His actions are driven by nothing more than a need to be seen, a need to be the centre of attention, regardless of the cost to his reputation or to the country.
This is not a man with a vision for the nation, nor a leader driven by ideology or principle. He is a man trapped in his own ego, using his position as a platform for self-promotion. The seat he took in Parliament was not one earned through merit, but one seized through sheer will to dominate the narrative. His refusal to relinquish that seat was not a courageous stand against tradition—it was an infantile tantrum, a desperate act of self-aggrandisement. His behaviour reeks of someone so detached from reality that he believes his presence alone is enough to shift the political discourse. But the truth is, he is not changing anything; he is simply creating noise.
For those who knew him in his youth, this behaviour is nothing new. Accounts from former classmates paint the picture of a boy who was always hungry for attention, someone who would resort to any means necessary to ensure he was the focus of every conversation. This psychological hunger has only grown over time, mutating into the kind of attention-seeking disorder that borders on pathological narcissism. Even his success as a medical professional—achieved, not through academic brilliance, but allegedly thanks to judicial intervention—was not enough to fill the void in his psyche. His need for external validation was insatiable, and his credentials, earned under dubious circumstances, were never enough to satisfy the craving for adoration.
It is in politics that his true nature has flourished. His transition from the medical field to the political arena was not driven by any noble cause or desire to serve the people, but by a need to be seen, to be recognised, and to be admired. In a country where public figures are often seen as instruments for social change, he stands out not for his intellect, his policies, or his leadership, but for his ability to draw attention to himself through controversy. His every move is calculated to provoke, to stir up drama, to ensure that he remains the centre of public discourse. Whether it’s occupying the wrong seat in Parliament or making inflammatory statements, his tactics have always been the same: create chaos, dominate the headlines, and ride the wave of public outrage.
The most dangerous manifestation of his behaviour came when, in a video delivered in Tamil months ago, he openly declared that he had hidden an LTTE flag with the intention of unfurling it in Parliament. In a country still reeling from the scars of a brutal civil war, this was not just a reckless act—it was a profound insult to the memory of those who suffered under the LTTE’s terror. The wounds of the past have not yet healed, and for someone with no ties to the LTTE or its ideology to invoke such a symbol is not only irresponsible but deeply inflammatory. His claim was not just a publicity stunt; it was an attempt to manipulate history and trauma for his own gain. In doing so, he trivialised the pain of millions, exploiting national suffering as a tool for his own ego-driven political theatre.
This act, however, was not a mere slip of the tongue or a poorly thought-out comment. It was a calculated provocation, a deliberate attempt to position himself as a bold figure, a man willing to defy the status quo in the name of an imagined heroism. But the reality is far more pathetic. This individual has no historical connection to the LTTE, no personal struggle to justify such rhetoric, no real understanding of the weight that the LTTE symbol carries. His attempt to wield it was an empty gesture, designed solely to garner attention and inflate his own sense of self-importance. It was a desperate attempt to exploit national trauma for his own political purposes, and it exposed, once again, the hollowness at the heart of his political existence.
When the backlash was inevitable, he responded with what can only be described as a weak, craven apology. His so-called remorse, delivered with all the authenticity of a politician caught in a lie, was a performance designed to salvage what little was left of his dignity. But it was not an apology born of true self-awareness; it was a tactic, a strategic move to quell the storm of criticism without addressing the root cause of his actions. His apology, like everything else he does, was an act—an attempt to control the narrative, to ensure that he remained relevant, even in the face of overwhelming condemnation.
But this apology does nothing to repair the damage he has caused. It does nothing to address the core issue, which is not his occasional slip-ups or his erratic behaviour, but the fact that he has consistently prioritised his own ego over the well-being of the nation. His apology is not a sign of growth or self-reflection; it is simply another performance in the long-running drama that is his life. He is not a leader, he is a spectacle—a clown in the political circus, throwing tantrums for the sake of applause.
Adding another layer to his already problematic persona is the revelation that this individual has a history of exploitative behaviour in his personal life. According to sources, he is a notorious womaniser, with a pattern of predatory behaviour towards women. His treatment of women has been described as selfish and manipulative, using them for his own gratification with little regard for their feelings or well-being. This is not merely a personal failing—it is a public one. A man who cannot treat women with respect, who uses them as tools for his own satisfaction, is unfit for public office. His personal relationships mirror his political ones—shallow, self-serving, and devoid of genuine integrity.
Such behaviour is not just an unfortunate character flaw; it is indicative of a deeper psychological issue. The way he manipulates others for his own benefit, the way he thrives on attention and recognition, suggests a personality deeply affected by Histrionic Personality Disorder (HPD)—a condition characterised by excessive emotionality, dramatic behaviour, and an insatiable need for approval. People with HPD often create chaos around them, manipulating situations to ensure they remain the centre of attention, and using charm and allure to achieve their goals. This individual fits the profile perfectly. His entire political career, from his juvenile antics to his grandiose claims, has been a series of carefully orchestrated performances designed to keep him at the centre of the stage.
The media, too, plays a role in perpetuating this farce. By covering his antics with breathless enthusiasm, they feed into his desire for recognition, amplifying his voice and giving him exactly what he craves—attention. The press has become complicit in this spectacle, elevating him to a level of prominence he does not deserve. They have become enablers, unwilling or unable to recognise that they are contributing to the very circus they claim to report on. The obsession with controversy and drama in modern media ensures that figures like this thrive, while genuine political discourse and real issues are relegated to the background.
Sri Lanka deserves better than this. In a country grappling with economic instability, social unrest, and political division, the last thing it needs is a politician more interested in creating chaos for his own gain than in addressing the real problems facing the nation. The public must see through the façade of this attention-seeker, and demand that the media stop elevating him. Politics should be about service, not spectacle. Leadership should be about integrity, not self-promotion. This man embodies none of those qualities. He is a hollow vessel, making noise for the sake of noise. It is time for Sri Lanka to stop listening to his empty rhetoric and focus on the issues that truly matter. The drama he creates is tiresome, and the public should be done with the show.
