When Arjuna Ramanathan Became the Joker of Democracy Inside the Sri Lankan Parliament
Sri Lanka’s Parliament has survived insurrections, impeachments, crossovers, midnight constitutional coups, water bottles in committee rooms, chilli powder diplomacy, and even the occasional flying chair. What it had not prepared for—until recently—was the transformation of a parliamentary question hour into a culinary grievance forum, complete with a lament over missing red rice and vanishing curry.
Yet here we are.
At approximately 2.30 p.m. on a working parliamentary day, while a nation wrestled with debt restructuring, cost-of-living pressures, post-crisis institutional reform, and the small matter of restoring public trust in governance, Member of Parliament Arjuna Ramanathan rose—not to address any of these matters—but to inform the House, with statutory seriousness, that the Parliament canteen had run out of food.
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. Literally.
No red rice. Only “some very few curry left.”
Thus, in a single intervention, Sri Lanka’s legislature momentarily ceased to be a sovereign law-making body and became a poorly managed staff cafeteria.
A Question Hour or a Lunch Hour?
Parliamentary question time, in Westminster-derived systems, is a serious constitutional mechanism. It exists to extract accountability from the executive, to probe policy failures, to demand explanations for administrative lapses, and—on ambitious days—to defend democracy itself from executive overreach.
It is not, by tradition or practice, a Yelp review.
When MP Ramanathan invoked parliamentary procedure to raise his grievance, seasoned observers initially assumed satire. Surely, this was an elaborate metaphor—perhaps a critique of national food insecurity? A symbolic indictment of mismanagement? A clever allegory for economic scarcity?
No such luck.
This was a literal complaint about lunch.
The Acting Speaker Madam, visibly caught between procedural duty and existential disbelief, was forced to respond to a matter that would have been more appropriately addressed to a canteen supervisor than to the Hansard.
And so, officially and forever, Sri Lanka’s parliamentary records now reflect that at 2.30 p.m. on a working day, an elected representative found the curry selection unsatisfactory.
From Magna Carta to Mess Hall
Sri Lanka’s Parliament traces its institutional lineage through colonial legislative councils, post-independence democratic evolution, and decades of constitutional struggle. Members have debated emergency regulations, war powers, human rights treaties, and international financial obligations.
At no point in that long arc of history did anyone imagine that parliamentary privilege—a doctrine designed to protect free political speech from executive retaliation—would be deployed to complain about portion control.
A senior Commonwealth parliamentary historian, when shown the transcript, reportedly paused for several seconds before asking, with academic restraint, “Is this a satirical reenactment, or did this genuinely occur?”
When informed that it had indeed occurred, on the official floor of Parliament, his response was less diplomatic: “This is not merely unserious. It is institutionally corrosive.”
The Privilege Problem
Parliamentary privilege is not a toy. It is a constitutional shield forged to protect dissent, not to amplify triviality. When MPs misuse it to air personal inconveniences, they dilute its legitimacy for moments when it is genuinely needed.
In mature democracies, MPs are disciplined—politically if not formally—for far less. A frivolous intervention during question time invites not laughter but quiet marginalisation. In Sri Lanka, however, the bar appears to have sunk beneath the canteen floor.
What makes this episode more troubling is that it was not an isolated lapse. Day after day, MP Ramanathan has reportedly used his parliamentary platform to raise matters of questionable relevance, blurring the line between oversight and self-indulgence.
The issue is not humour. Parliaments, like all human institutions, benefit from wit. Churchill thrived on it. So did Nehru. Even Sri Lanka’s own legislative history is rich with sharp-tongued repartee.
But wit is not the same as farce, and satire is not the same as self-parody.
Democracy Is Not a Stand-Up Routine
There is an unwritten rule in parliamentary life: you may be funny, but you must never make the institution itself ridiculous. MP Ramanathan appears to have inverted this principle.
By converting question time into a personal grievance session, he did not merely embarrass himself. He invited the world to laugh at Sri Lanka’s Parliament as a whole.
In an era where parliamentary proceedings are clipped, subtitled, and circulated globally within minutes, such moments do not remain domestic curiosities. They become international memes. They are consumed without context, without nuance, and without mercy.
To the global audience, the message is simple: this is what Sri Lanka’s lawmakers choose to discuss.
Not debt. Not governance. Not reform.
Lunch.
The Professional Doctorate Paradox
What deepens the irony is that MP Ramanathan is not an unlettered populist accidentally stumbling into office. He is a holder of a professional doctorate—a credential that implies rigorous training, analytical thinking, and institutional awareness.
Which raises an uncomfortable question: if this is the quality of intervention produced by advanced academic attainment, what exactly are Sri Lanka’s universities teaching about public responsibility?
Education, after all, is not merely the accumulation of titles. It is the cultivation of judgment. And judgment is precisely what appeared absent in this episode.
The tragedy is not that an MP complained about food. It is that he believed this complaint belonged in Parliament.
A Legislature or a Joker’s Corner?
Political institutions derive authority not from force but from perception. Once an institution becomes a joke, its decisions—even serious ones—are no longer taken seriously.
This is the danger of allowing Parliament to drift into performative absurdity. Today it is red rice. Tomorrow it may be parking spaces. The day after, complaints about air conditioning.
Each trivial intervention chips away at the dignity of the House, until democracy itself begins to look like a badly scripted comedy show.
And unlike comedy, democracy does not survive ridicule well.
The Resignation Question
This brings us to the unavoidable conclusion. When an MP repeatedly misuses parliamentary privilege, undermines institutional dignity, and reduces democratic forums to personal theatrics, the issue is no longer procedural. It is ethical.
Is Arjuna Ramachandra fit to serve as a parliamentarian?
Fitness for office is not measured solely by elections or qualifications. It is measured by respect for the institution one inhabits. By that standard, the evidence is not flattering.
Resignation, in such circumstances, is not punishment. It is accountability. It is an acknowledgment that the office demands more than attention-seeking interventions.
If MP Ramanathan wishes to critique canteen management, he is free to do so—outside Parliament, without invoking the gravitas of democratic privilege.
Saving What Remains of Parliamentary Dignity
Sri Lanka’s democracy is fragile, bruised by years of abuse, corruption, and erosion of trust. Parliament should be the place where that trust is rebuilt, not further dismantled.
Every MP who rises to speak carries the weight of the institution with them. Some choose to lift it higher. Others, unfortunately, turn it into a punchline.
If Sri Lanka’s Parliament is to be taken seriously—by its citizens, by the Commonwealth, and by the world—it must draw a line between humour and humiliation.
Because once Parliament becomes a joker’s corner, democracy itself is no longer laughing.
It is cringing.