Iwas number 89, eighty-nine. I liked being marked as a number. I was like a child soldier with a number on my uniform. It was not impersonal. I loved being the number 89.
I became the number 89 when I entered the Christian brothers’ formative boarding school at age 13.
Back then, I did not know prisoners and soldiers were marked with numbers. In my younger self, at that tender age, I was a number in a school boarding in a commune setting.
How I was marked with the number 89 is a story worth telling. On my first day of admission, Brother Jerome, the supervising director, escorted me and my parents to his office, a wooden cabin next to the chapel. He marked my name, date of birth, address, and parents’ details in row 589 in a huge register that was as big as his desk. I was the 589th student ever to enter the institute over its many decades of functioning. The first digit was removed to make it convenient for everyone currently enrolled, and the last two numbers were used to mark each boy. That’s how 89 became my number, my trade mark. It was my I.D. from that day onwards. Every boy among the forty-five boys in the institute had a unique two-digit number originating from that mega register.
The numbers allocated became handy for the supervisors in managing a gang of forty-five boys. When one borrowed a book from the library, it was marked against the boy’s unique two-digit number. When the laundry man came on each Friday, boys picked up their freshly laundered clothes, mostly white, identifying them by numbers. My pants had 89 marked in their inseams, and my shirts and vests had 89 marked in their collars.
The study hall was full of desks, identical in rows. Each boy’s desk was marked with his unique number in black paint. Under the desktop was a massive drawer to store schoolbooks, library books and stationery. I loved my desk, marked 89. It was the lightest desk in the whole study hall.
I never studied during the study hour; I could not stay still for a long time with my short attention span. I had hidden three toy figurines inside my drawer on my desk: a soldier, a Red Indian and a cowboy. Keeping the drawer open, pretending to pick books from inside the drawer, I played with them. Sometimes a game of wild west warfare took place inside my desk 89 while the others were immersed in their studies. My friend Richard was fascinated with my hidden toys and was one to walk up to my desk when the supervisor was not looking.
Nobody came to check on me because I had good grades. On my beloved desk, 89. I was left to my own devices.
In the dormitory upstairs, My bed was also marked with the number 89. My pillows, bedsheets, and sarongs (night gear) were also marked with 89. I could not escape my number 89. It stared at my face wherever I went, except in the common cafeteria where nothing was marked. Senior boys sat together, and the young guns like me were grouped separately.
When monthly boarding fees were paid, it was marked against one’s number in the payment register that the supervising director controlled.
Being recognised by a number had its advantages. There were three Denzils in the institute. There was one Denzil who was about four years older, the one who wore long pants. Then there was another Denzil, a tall, dark boy a year older. Then there was me. Denzil of 89 fame was the one and only. Without a numbering system, three Denzils would be a logistics nightmare in a large institute with many moving parts. Just think of the laundryman, dealing with his weekly laundry run, three Denzils and mixing up his carefully organised laundered clothes destined for forty-five students.
During my time, I was fluent in English. I was voted in as the secretary of the English literacy union. Now, that post came with some responsibilities, like overseeing the library. When books were given out, my job was to mark the borrower’s number in the lending register. So, I ended up recording their numbers, in a mini register of my own, just like the supervisor in charge of the mega register. It was a serious responsibility, something I could not do alone. I was helped by my friend, Dominic, a fellow student and treasurer of the union. His unique number was 93.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Demons and Devotion: A Family’s Pilgrimage Denzil Jayasinghe · “Demons and Devotion: A Pilgrimage to Tewatta” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe about a family’s pilgrimage to a holy site in Sri Lanka. The story follows Denzil, the eldest son, as he reluctantly accompanies his devout parents on this journey to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Although initially sceptical, Denzil reflects on his childhood faith and his family's hardships. However, the pilgrimage turns unexpectedly when an encounter with a priest who claims a demon possesses Denzil creates tension and leaves him angry. T he air hung heavy with a solemnity that felt out of place for a silver wedding anniversary. Denzil’s father, whose pronouncements held the weight of scripture, declared, “We are going on a special trip to the holy place of Our Lady at Tewatta. This day, showing God’s blessings, will be a private event for our family.” On a recent arrival for a two-week holiday in Sri Lanka...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
4 min read·Jul 8, 2022
Comments
Post a Comment