Chirping sounds of birds filtered through the open window grills. The soothing sound of a koel bird intercepted the repetitive chirps — a calming playlist first thing in the morning.
Then the sounds of the family radio of holy sermons, the Buddhist Pali Gatha, followed by Catholic preaching. A dose of religion before the start of the day was mandatory. Being good and virtuous was baked into children’s DNA.
This is how my day started in a quiet village, some ten kilometres north of the capital of Colombo, in Sri Lanka, where I am from and raised. It was a great way to start the day in tune with nature.
Where I grew up was a small commune where loosely erected fences marked the properties. Everything belonged to everyone. The land, fruit trees and shared playgrounds in the collective. No barricades. Open social connections. It was the polar opposite of modern-day gated villas. It was a mini-state with socialist democracy. Kids grew up not knowing barriers and classes. Sparse fences were there to cross and creep through. Collaboration with and respect for each other was ingrained.
Kids going to city schools mingled with the kids from the village schools, not knowing the stark differences in society and education standards.
The story of Mudiyansegewatta was written centuries ago. Everybody was related to everybody. Two, three, four and five generations ago. Everybody was a son, a daughter, an uncle, an aunty, a grandfather, and a grandmother. One could never escape the relationships. You belonged to everyone. You were common property.
Everybody smiled at each other. Everyone told stories. Grandmothers, grandfathers, grandaunts, granduncles. Stories of generations ago.
Everyone walked on ancestral land, passed down by generations before us. Extending respect to neighbours, relatives and everyone on the street, fellow uncles, aunties and fellow brothers and sisters.
On the gravel road linking the commune’s homes, the kids were heading to school. Fathers and uncles, some wearing pants and some wearing white sarongs, were heading to work on foot or their bicycles. Grandfathers and grandmothers assembled in their front verandas. Grandfathers cleared their throats for the whole neighbourhood to hear. They virtually growled. Standing near the gravel road, Grandmothers chatted with the boys and girls walking past. Grandfathers, with their grey beards, smoked black cigars. Grandmothers combed their grey hairs in public in full view of the neighbourhood. Mothers swept the gardens with garden brooms. Lives lived only and on display.
A few grandfathers wearing coats and grandmothers with white veils walked to the church for daily mass. They did not bother with mundane tasks like sweeping or smoking, instead choosing to invest in their life beyond death.
At the church, the bell rang multiple times to let the neighbours know that mass would start. It was a bell designed to remind everyone that the church was the cornerstone of this small village.
A passing tricycle that delivered bread to the households went by. The delivery man, wearing khaki pants and a vest, was a household figure, bringing bread and tasty pastries from a bakery in Colombo. A bullock cart with a man without a vest passed by, delivering firewood to the neighbourhood.
Before I was born, my destiny was set in my neighbourhood. I was Lewis’s grandson, Thomas’s son, Susan’s son, Barbara’s grandson, and so and so’s someone. It was a life lived with our hearts, eyes, and ears in the neighbourhood. I belonged to everyone. I was a shared property. Everyone had a say in my well-being.
Everyone had a right to ask me where I was heading. What are you studying? What grade are you now? Did you pass the exam? Oh my! Have you not grown so quickly? Then the comments. You are tall. You have grown up. You look like your mother. Oh, you look like your father. You got your grandfather’s smile. Everyone felt free to ask and comment. I was a homegrown product for community review. Everyone was. It was where boys and girls learned the art of active listening with ears wide open. It was where everyone learned to smile bright and wide.
These are memories of my street, growing up as a boy, inshrined with a legacy. They are narratives of a world gone by. They have become chapters in my life story, my descendants’ stories. In 2022, it is their legacy from centuries ago in Sri Lanka, some eight thousand kilometres away from Australia, where my story is penned.
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 Stan...
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 ...
20 quick-fire questions * If you could give your younger self one piece of advice, what would it be? Your life would not turn the way that you planned. It is OK to be naïve and stupidly young. What do you like doing in your spare time? Writing and reading. Both complement each other. What would you change your name to? My family's name is Jayasinghe. ජයසිංහ in Sinhala in the original script. Phonetically, it is pronounced Jaya-Sinha in Sri Lanka. But in English, through generations, it was spelt Jayasinghe, which sounds differently in English. I would change its spelling to Jaya-Sinha to align it with its original sound. Perhaps my grandkids in Australia could do it. What’s your favourite time of day? The morning hours. I am most productive in the mornings. What is your biggest weakness? I could get carried away with what I could be doing. Sometimes, I must pinch myself to stop what I am doing. What is your favourite colour? Green. Always from my kid days. Would you believe I had...
4 min read·Dec 22, 2022
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