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Farewell my mother

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  Farewell my mother Denzil Jayasinghe 6 min read · Just now This piece originated in May 2012, in the immediate aftermath of my mother’s passing, and was subsequently revised in 2026 with the aid of generative AI. S he slipped away on a Sunday morning — the 29th of April, 2012 — while the world outside her window in Dalugama continued its unhurried Sri Lankan rhythm. Mary Susan Jayawardane, my mother, was seventy-eight years old. She didn’t struggle. She just stopped breathing in her sleep, as if she was tired of the effort of living, and let go. Press enter or click to view image in full size Her three children were scattered like seeds across the globe. I was in Sydney, under the vast Australian sky. My brother was in Winnipeg, buried in Canadian snow. Only my sister, who lives close to the old family home, had the grace of being nearby. She visited that morning, as she always did, never knowing it would be her last. Death has a cruel talent for subtraction. I did the math on my...
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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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