Denzil's Stories

The flight to Dubai This story is about what happened during my maiden flight to Dubai. Read on. W ithin a fortnight after I got a job offer in Dubai, I had to fly out of Sri Lanka. I had flown with Air Ceylon with my family and alone, within the small island of Sri Lanka, but this was the first time I was taking off, crossing the high seas and international borders. It was a big deal to go overseas at a time when only the high class could travel outside Sri Lanka. It was a proud achievement not only for the passenger but for the entire family. Some announced the departures in local newspapers with a photo of the traveller, detailing the family pedigree and the elite schools attended. For them, it was a badge of honour to boast about. On the 21st of April 1977, I was flying into Dubai on Singapore Airlines from Colombo airport. Wearing my only suit and tie, carrying my Ford suitcase, which reminded me of my school boarding days, I set off. I must have looked pretty young when the airpo

Prejudice to Dubai Denzil describes a few simple joys of Dubai in the seventies. At twenty-one, I was sure I was already a grown-up man. I decided what I wanted to do with my life, being used to independence and freedom from my teenage years. My parents were different and encouraged me, defying the norms of the day. So, I left for Dubai, alone, with their backing. I had only ten Dollars with me, hidden in my back pocket. It was a bold move for someone who grew up in a backwater country where most parents dictated to their grown-up children. My flight to Dubai was my first international flight. It was not without some spectacle and amusement. A kind, mature Afrikaner couple who sat next to me on the flight wanted me to  move with them  to Capetown. Ignoring them as tactfully and gently as possible, I stayed the course, landing in sunny Dubai. Dubai, here I was. Ernest Hemingway once wrote, “wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you”. He wrote this about Paris, but for

The friends' gaming zone These magical events occurred in the sixties and the seventies in my home village in Sri Lanka. O nce upon a time, if I were ever feeling bored, I’d shout out across my fence to my neighbour and good pal, Linton, getting his attention. While chit-chatting with Linton, we leaned over and shouted to Lal, Linton’s neighbour on the opposite side. Not satisfied with the three-way chatter, long-distance, across three properties, Linton and Lal crossed over the fence markers to my garden. The three of us, now face to face, got into a rapid exchange of news, what we had been up to since our last meeting less than 24 hours ago. My parent's home was on a large property with many open spaces. It had a huge garden, wide and long. It was the gathering space of choice for the neighbourhood young out to enjoy a sunny afternoon. Lightly erected fences let kids slide through easily between properties, bypassing the narrow gravel street. Our loud, boyhood noises attracte