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.
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·Jan 30
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