Alphabet is a miracle. It is a marvel for any kid. Each letter is magical for them. Now I see that experience in my grandkids — their curiosity to ape letters in their own way.
When I see my grandchildren’s efforts to scribble at that tender age, I feel grateful to witness their curiosity and joy, like generations before me.
For the majority of kids today, there is only one alphabet. I learned two, Sinhala and English. Sinhala, the main language in Sri Lanka, was widely spoken in the family, extended family, and the community. It was my native language. Bilingual skills and diversity came early for me before I turned five.
Both my father and mother had beautiful handwriting. As a kid, I wanted to imitate their handwriting. Early on, my father helped me with the intricacies of the Sinhala alphabet, in simple shapes, in byte sizes for a little kid to comprehend. Sinhala is a complex alphabet that is hard to get your head around for any non-Sri Lankan. See below:- Writing Sinhala characters is a calligraphy lesson.
Sinhala alphabet
Having mastered Sinhala script, by the time I was about eight, I could write scripted English letters, my second language, way ahead of my peers.
My English handwriting at age 8
The more I dig into my handwriting, I see a massive influence from my family before me, my father, mother and grandfather. In my spare time as a kid, I dug into their books and journals. I found beautifully crafted writing that guided them in their heyday. In my grandfather’s journals, there was plenty of writing in English and native Sinhala. He was a scholar with a career in education.
This is a photo illustration of the scripts of my parents and grandparents. It is a tribute to their beloved craft from the last century. A generation that took their handwriting seriously before the advent of digital mediums. This story carries their handwriting, up to four generations past.
Penmanship bordering on calligraphy is a great power to have in life.
My father’s writing — Don Thomas Jayasinghe
My father’s handwriting. Sinhala, English, Numbers capturing his learnings, and family records, His father’s Sinhala handwriting is on the top left page. His attempts to calligraphy and fonts, including his work to craft his fiancee, my mother’s name above.
My mother’s writing — Mary Susan Jayawardane
Top middle in a medical journal kept by both parents, on the left is my father’s writing and on the right is my mothers righting, The rest are my mother’s writing, cooking instructions, and healthcare notes. The bottom right is her name in Sinhala from one of her school books in grade 10.
Grandfather’s writing — Don Lewis Jayawardane
My maternal grandfather’s handwriting, from his journals, study notes, teaching notes, family records, proverbs and learnings.
My great grandmother’s writing — Anna Ranasinghe
I am fortunate to have a record of my great-grandmother, my mother’s maternal grandmother’s writing. She was Anna Ranasinghe, in a period in the mid-1800s for a woman to be able to sign her name was considered an achievement. I am fortunate to come from a family of learners and writers of their time.
My handwriting from school days
My Handwriting in grade 10. attempts to create my own font, My writing at grade 3 on the top right.
My font — English
Now, my handwriting will outlive me.
Recently, I created my personal font using my handwriting using font creation software. I have a TTF file that I can use to personalise my messages.
My Sinhala handwriting
My handwriting in Sinhala in 2022, The names are Denzil Jayasinghe, Natasha, Roshin, Durand, Roanna, Amelia, Darcy and Theo — three generations in Australia in 2022, a century after this story started.
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 readJul 18, 2022
Comments
Post a Comment