Myparents never sat me down to share stories of their growing up. They spared me the hard stories of their lost childhoods and the sacrifices they made as kids in a world much harsher than I grew up.
They put themselves on the line so the next generation could have a good life. I benefit from their sacrifices, blood, tears and sweat.
I want to go back in time and sit beside my mother, who had just lost her mother to mental illness. I want to know how she dared to take abuse from her sick mother. I want to know how she dealt without a mother's love at such a tender age. How she managed that large household, made of brick, without electricity, surrounded by acres of paddy fields? I want to know what she cooked for her father and siblings. I want to record how she ran the house without a mother. I want to know how she protected her younger sister. I want to sit with the teenage version of my mother and ask about her dreams. I want to know how she dealt with moving homes and schools at short notice. I want to know how she studied after finishing the housework. I want to know how she supported her single father. I want to know how she felt when visiting her sick mother at the mental asylum. I want to know how my mother helped her orphaned cousins living in her household. Is that her secret to leadership?
I want to go back in time and sit with my father, fifteen years old, who had just lost his father. How did he deal with it? Did he miss his father? Did he cry when his father’s coffin was lowered to the ground? I want to know when he decided to help his widowed mother. What time did he get up in the morning to help his mother run her shop? What was it like to distribute food orders in the morning for his mother? Did he enjoy serving customers and measuring groceries in the afternoons? How did he study under a kerosene lamp at night? Did he miss his father’s loving touch when he slept alone at night? What did he feel carrying his shoes in his school bag and wearing them at the school entrance to save wear and tear? What did he feel about walking that long distance to school every day? Did his bare feet hurt as he stepped on the pebbles? How did my father help his orphaned cousin? What was it like to be a kid during WW2? What was it like being poor?
I want to know what they laughed about with friends and cousins. What did they do to relax? Did they not get a chance to relax?
I want to make a home movie with my father and mother when both were kids and in their teenage years, when their young bodies and were hard at work paying in blood and sweat.
By some fate, the year 1942 was significant to both my parents. In that year, my father, fifteen, lost his father. In the same year, my mother, eight, lost her mother to mental illness. Traumatic events for two young kids. Though two unrelated events, that year defined their lives and mine.
I wish I had unsettled them. I wish I had pried them about their childhood, like opening a closed door. I wish I had found a small opening. I wish I pushed my head inside and witnessed their childhood. My parents had an entire life before me, which I wish I had experienced.
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 ...
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...
The Man with the Bicycle A Godfather Without English Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read So this fellow, Wijetunga, arrived one humid afternoon in Warakanatte – a name given by the government, clipped from some dusty file in a distant ministry, and pinned onto our village like a misfitting badge. He came not with fanfare, but with the tiredness of a man who had travelled not just across provinces but across unspoken expectations. The new Grama Sevaka – government-appointed village functionary, dispenser of forms and permits, arbitrator of neighbourly disputes, and authoriser of rice ration books. He hailed from Enderamulla, a place that stirred vague murmurs among the older women in our family – whispers of ancestral ties, of some great-uncle’s cousin’s child from that neighbouring village. But no one invited him for tea. No one mentioned him at the dinner table as anything more than “the new man in the office.” Despite the murmurs, he remained a stranger- neither embraced nor excluded-...
3 min read·Sep 27, 2022
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