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Self-Portrait

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Self-Portrait Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 6 hours ago I turned sixteen that year, in the kind of heat that made the whole village move slower, and I was looking for something I couldn’t have named at the time. Not a girl, not yet. Something closer to just wanting to see myself plainly, without anyone’s eyes on me but my own. My mother’s dressing table had a long mirror, the kind that showed you the whole of yourself instead of just the face you gave the world. I stood in front of it one afternoon with a pencil and a few sheets of paper, and I drew what I saw. Not well. Not with any training or theory behind it – I didn’t know what an artist’s studio was, had never heard the word “model,” had no idea life drawing was a discipline other people took seriously. I removed my short pants with elastic waist band stitched by my mother. I only knew I wanted to put myself down on paper, exactly as I was, and see if the two versions matched. Looking back now it has the shape of something bohem...
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From Colombo to the World Cup

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From Colombo to the World Cup Denzil Jayasinghe 6 min read · Jun 29, 2026 S ome friendships begin with people. Mine began with a football. In the Colombo of the 1960s, football belonged to every boy. We did not need much to play it. An open patch of ground, two piles of stones for goalposts, and a ball were enough. Cricket was a game for those who could afford bats, pads and gloves. Football asked for very little and, perhaps because of that, gave us so much. I was never one of the fast boys. I was small, happier with books than with games, and not particularly gifted with the ball at my feet. At school I usually found myself standing in goal. It suited me. While the others ran themselves breathless, I watched the game unfold before me and let my thoughts wander beyond the field. The Colombo sun, however, never left me alone. Before long my fair skin would turn an alarming shade of red, and the boys watching from the sidelines would point and laugh. There was no malice in it. I laughed...
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Arjan’s Long Journey

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  Arjan’s Long Journey In Sharjah, I came to know Uncle Arjan as more than a family friend — he became a quiet guide and a steady presence in my life. His stories hinted at a past shaped by the Indian Partition, when a young Arjan left Sialkot with his family and faced the upheaval of a divided homeland. Behind his calm dignity was a journey of loss, resilience, and renewal. This chapter follows that path, and the bond I formed with him over the years, revealing how history shaped the man I knew and admired. Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · 2 hours ago 1 W hen my uncle Arjan Dev Ralli, spoke of Sialkot, he spoke not of a place on a map but of a world that had once belonged to him. He was nineteen years old in the summer of 1947. At that age, a young man usually dreams of the future. Arjan’s future seemed certain enough. His family owned eighteen acres of farmland outside Sialkot. There were farming sheds, livestock, orchards, and a substantial six-bedroom brick house that had shelter...
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