Being the eldest of two other siblings, I had some serious family responsibilities. When I turned ten, my father was posted to a remote town. I became the man of the house by stealth, albeit at that tender age. Our family was large, with two grandmothers living in our home. Running a large household was a big business in a village in Sri Lanka in the sixties. I helped my mother with many things in the household.
On weekends, I accompanied my mother to shopping, helping her carry the shopping bags. We went to the markets and clothing stores together. I was her travel companion in a country dominated by men. Probably, her guard.
I loved going to the Pettah market in Colombo with her. We took the trip, a ten-kilometre ride from our village, by bus. The groceries, fresh fruit, and vegetables from the main market in Sri Lanka were bound to be cheap than in the local town centre.
The Pettah market was busy with buyers, traders, go-betweens and workers. Dark-skinned bare-bodied men wearing knee-length sarongs shuttled up and down the streets with cargo on their shoulders. Some men pulled their long trolleys, overburdened with gunny bags of merchandise. Lorries plied the roads, bringing fresh produce from country towns in Sri Lanka. Slow bullock carts slowed the traffic movements on tight and narrow roads. Everyone jostled in the tiny spaces in massive mass movements.
The market had everything, groceries, fish, dry fish, vegetables, and fruits. Everyone haggled. Many men and women from all walks of life, city and village folks, roamed the narrow streets and tight passageways, picking vegetables and groceries. The strong mixed smells of fruit and vegetable with labourers’ sweat were heightened by the tropical heat in Sri Lanka.
For a small boy, watching the market was a lesson in commerce, both wholesale and retail.
Amongst these commotions, I helped my mother to carry the shopping, walking close to her on the narrow paths in the busy market.
My mother held my hand in case I lost my way as she jostled with the crowds, navigating the tight passageways among a myriad of humanity in this constricted market, where personal space was a novel idea.
An unforgettable thing happened one day. I was looking at toy cars at a vendor, as my mother was buying vegetables. I got carried away and drifted admiring the toy cars, a boy’s wonder.
After a few minutes, I looked around, searching for my mother, but I could not find her. I panicked. It was the fear of my life. I walked up and down to find her, but she was nowhere to be found. I thought of what I could do to go home alone, but I had no money.
My mother had instructed me to return to the last place in case I was lost. So, I stayed in the same area near the toy vendor, hoping my mother would turn up. I looked up and down everywhere, hoping to glimpse her or her saree.
To my absolute luck, my mother turned up after a few minutes. I felt it was a lifetime of waiting. She gave me a blast for not staying with her. She was red with anger. She nearly hit me that day, and I was lucky to escape her punishment. Nevertheless, I was happy that we found each other again. She must have seriously worried about losing her eldest boy.
As I was still reeling from my shock, my mother took me to a drinks stall. She bought me a cool falooda drink. It was the tastiest drink I had ever drunk after those few minutes of angst only a short while ago. Maybe, that was how my mother expressed her joy in finding her boy.
I learnt my life lesson and never drifted from my mother when we shopped from that day.
As I got older, I shopped alone for the family in my local town centre. My mother gave me ten rupees and a list of things I had to buy. My mother was always organised, with a list of things. She knew the likely prices of each item.
I visited the shops, fish stalls, vegetable stores, and groceries with her list. I learnt the art of negotiating prices with the vendors. Then, I rode my bicycle with a huge bag of groceries on its handle for the family.
I continued to help my mother into my teenage years, often shopping with her at the weekend markets in Colombo. I was bigger now, and I could carry a bigger load. I had earned her confidence so much that she could send me alone to Abdul Rehmans, a famous appliance store in Pettah, to buy our family’s first electric iron by the age of fifteen.
I loved being her helper and her proud shopping companion.
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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