Aboy on the threshold of adulthood has this strange capacity to experience sensations that escape the notice of others. His bedroom becomes his fortress.
That’s what it’s like, the door to a boy’s room through which generations ooze and drip. First, long before me, it was my grandfather’s room, then a generation later, his son’s room, and now it is mine.
The door to my room remains closed no matter what; there are constraints on those who enter it. It is always locked. There are many secrets to hide, diaries holding intimate journal entries, coded notes, and centrefolds under the hard mattress made of coconut fibre.
Regarding arrival, advance notice or knocking before entry is a strange concept for islander Lankans. Locking it with a brass key is the only way to control access. However, it is not absolute control, for my mother has a spare key, although she hardly uses it.
Everyone is always free to come in and go free of charge to our house, but I control access to my room with my brass key. So I might have come after a bath, wrapped in a towel or a sarong, and some relation from the ancestral villages who have dropped by with their wife and kids are standing there next to the door. Or a granduncle or a grand aunty sitting on an armchair with a big smile.
All I can do is smile and yell for mother, drape some clothing over my body and never stop to wonder how long these guests plan to stay. The eldest son needs a job, and the daughter’s getting engaged; a government form needs to be filled out, and someone in the family needs to gain admission somewhere. The granduncle or grand aunty might want more. They are inquisitive. I think the older they get, the more probing they become.
The visitors could be glad, sad, greedy, or needy. Who knows what attribute brought them near my door?
Then they quip and try to probe about my lifestyle, calling me ‘putha’, meaning son. What do I study? How old am I? I would not give in to these fathoms. I give out the bare minimum information. Let me remain a mystery to them.
Suddenly it is mealtime. Meals must be shared; after all, everyone must eat. I must share my fish, egg and pappadams with visitors, engaging in small talk. Instead, I should be sharing juicy gossip with girlfriends or boyfriends and saying things my mum could not hear. Then the uncle or the grand uncle smile, adding comments and critiques about how thin I am — and chiming in their perspective. The word privacy is not in their dictionary. Emotional intelligence is thrown out of the door. Everyone claims to own me, and maybe they eye me with suspicion.
What do they know of the secrets behind my closed door? How could they not understand that my door knows all my secrets? What lay under the bedsheets, those things that come in handy every night? Would they know the music artists my walls are plastered with? What would they think of my idol, David Bowie? Would they see the concrete grill with my grandfather’s initials L. J? Would they ask what those huge study books are? What are the novels I read?
They comment that I look like my mother and have her complexion. Is this a compliment? Do they think that I am feminine? Are they setting me up on a gender garden path? I do not understand genetics and am confused. I am what I am.
Instead, how easy is it to open my door to my friends? They embed into my room, integrating into it. They do not ask silly questions, instead cherishing what they see. I feel sorry for the visitors, who look at me strangely. Is it with awe or a surprised look? I cannot wait for my father to turn up after work and take care of their complaints and needs.
One of my friends turns up. He parks his cycle in the garden, resting it on the rose apple tree. I am glad. My friend is given immediate access to the room. I do not need to waste my time with these probing visitors.
I am into small talk with my friend, resting on my bed. I put my Sony transistor radio on. My friend admires my clothes on my clothes rack. He tries one of my T-shirts and wants to borrow it for a party. I let him happily.
Denzil’s ancestral home, his room is in the front, with a window on the right. The photo was taken in the 1970s.
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