Reading was a natural habit that I developed from a young age. Reading helped me to become a storyteller. I have now morphed into writing, but it took me a long time to come to this stage as a writer.
The hardest thing in writing is stepping forward. It is also an act of resistance, resistance to yourself. I now lay bare to the rest of the world. It is also an act of courage.
Writing opens the door to self-discovery. It gets me to think progressively. By writing about my experiences, I re-discovered myself. It is a journey of self-actualisation and, more than anything, being honest with myself.
I am a historian, writing stories of my youth, parents, and grandparents. I have so much respect for the generations before me, particularly my parents and what they have done to make me who I am today. In turn, they helped me to make my children who they are. So, writing was part historical and part homage to my ancestry. It is also part therapeutic and part futuristic. My stories describe how difficult life was back then for my ancestors and their endurance to beat the odds of their day. It is a record for posterity.
Telling stories helps me to approach a new reality. See everything from a new perspective. Writing stories also come with a big social responsibility, particularly to my family. I had to come to terms with the past and understand my role in times gone by. Sharing my stories with the wider world helped me to continue to be a better person.
Writing about my experiences has allowed me to understand that my identity is complicated. It is not simple. It is of being human.
I go out naked in my stories, thoughts and essays. There is nowhere to hide. I become an open book. No doubt, some people will judge me.
But I am OK with that.
That’s why I say writing has made me a better person. It has helped me to understand my status and place in this world of seven billion people. Writing has stripped me to the core. It made me happy, despite the challenges at the beginning of the writing journey.
This is my legacy piece, my ancestors’ story. My kids are going to read them. Their children are going to read them. It is my ultimate legacy.
Writing has allowed me to question my thinking. I am a thought leader with a philosophical bent. I continue developing that personality through reading and writing. My life continues to change and evolve through reading and writing. I read every night to fall asleep. It is a beautiful way to end your day.
I always liked talking to people, engaging with people and making new friends. By writing and opening myself to others, I continue gaining more confidence. I talk to my friends about serious subjects, daily social challenges, and difficult subjects.
I did not have much as a young boy and a teenager. But I always had books and magazines with me. I spent at least 10% of my money on books. But I did not feel that I lacked anything. I had read so much at seventeen; my eyesight was so bad that I had to get spectacles.
Writing is one of my responsibilities. There are nearly six hundred subscribers to my stories and essays. They write back to me regularly with positive feedback. That is a great encouragement — I am service bound to my readers.
Writing is a journey. It generates a lot of energy. It is an act of stepping forward to move ahead.
We express the eternal truth; we are all born into the vast human story, and our destiny is to play a small role in that story. And when we die, the story goes on, told by others.
Cyril Stanley A story of gratitude — Denzil recalls a friend who looked out for him in his budding years in Sri Lanka Denzil Jayasinghe 11 min read · Aug 27, 2022 1 Give us a bit of background on how you met Cyril. It was the seventies in the sleepy village of Dalugama , my ancestral hometown, some ten kilometres from Colombo. With their flared bell bottoms and Afro-style hair, it was easy to notice Cyril and his younger brother Edward. I’d bump into the duo in the neighbourhood as I walked home after a day at college. A casual hello greeting turned into a conversation and an evolving friendship with the duo at an age when making friends was effortless. However, it was Cyril who reached out to me first. What did the brothers look like? C yril was a younger version of Smokey Robinson and his brother, Edward, a junior Lionel Richie but darker. Both had curly hair, grown long, copying the Afro-American idols of the seventies. Smokey Robinson, Cyril Stanley lookalike Where did they
My experiences of rebellions How waves of violence in Sri Lanka broke a young man’s heart Warning — Distressing scenes described in this story. A YOUTH INSURRECTION DURING MY BOYHOOD 1971 — There was a strong student and youth socialist movement styled on the “Che Guevara” clique. Many poor, unemployed and underprivileged young people joined this movement. My two elder cousins, my father’s brother’s children, Sisira and Marie, were also in this rebel group. In their home. They replaced Jesus’s picture with that of Mao Zedong and Che Guevara. Both of them, teenagers, boldly spoke about a future socialist society. A society in which everyone was equal in Sri Lanka. Young as I was, it was a bit gibberish to me. In April 1971, the movement turned violent. The insurrection began when the rebels started attacking police stations. The Sri Lankan government responded by deploying armed forces with brutal force. Rebels cut power lines and blocked roads with trees in the countryside. Schools wer
Arya Sinhala This story is about the significance of this costume in my family and its cultural relevance. My father wore shirts and pants as any English-educated Sri Lankan male did back in the day. Everybody gave their children English names. I am named Denzil Bernard. A few years after I was born, in the 1950s, Sri Lanka was trying to assert its ethnic identity, a decade after it gained independence from Great Britain. A new prime minister, espousing an ethnocentric identity, came into power. Emulating Indian leaders’ post-independence direction, he gave up his Western attire, despite his Oxford education and wore the national dress, Arya Sinhala. Arya is an ethnic and cultural designation to which the Sinhala race makes claims. The cultural transformation started in my family. My sister, born four years after me, was named Rekha Flora. She had an ethnic name and a Western name. Occasionally my father donned the national dress. My father’s elder brother ultimately gave up his West
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