The Sunday paper
The Sunday paper
A boy reads a Sunday paper with his father.
3 min read·Feb 26Onthat quiet Sunday morning, the six of us went to mass — my father, mother, younger sister, brother, Kadayamma, my grandmother, and I. The service ended at 9 am, and we returned home, ready for a day of relaxation and unwinding.
As soon as we entered our home, my father, free from work obligations, turned on the radio and began scanning the medium-wave channels. My siblings and I joined him at the dining table for breakfast while my mother and Kadayamma prepared the food in the kitchen. We savoured each bite without complaint, letting the local songs and advertisements from the Telefunken radio fill the air.
Father lounged on the veranda, basking in the warmth of the morning sun. Then, with his favourite Sunday newspaper, Lankadeepa, he eased into his armchair and began reading. He deftly folded it in half to make it more manageable, shielding his face with it while I followed him, shedding my vest and sitting near his feet, with my eyes on the newspaper in his hand.
I was fascinated by the sound of the opening and closing newspaper, drawn to the cartoon section on the back page. I longed to read the latest cartoons and kid section, eager for an amusement or two to start the day off right. I wish he’d hurry up.
I was fixated on the “ලන්දේසී සටන” (Resistance to the Dutch) carton on the paper’s last page. I waited for the moment when my father was done with the first and the second page.
My eyes were locked on the newspaper; its pages spread like a vast landscape waiting to be explored. But the carton illuminated with art created to hypnotise children on the last page held me captive. I longed for my father to reach the end of the first two pages so I could enjoy the carton on the last page.
Patiently, I bided my time, waiting for the perfect moment to make my move. Then, finally, as my father relinquished his hold on the first and second pages, I seized my chance and took the coveted section from his grasp, splitting it apart from the rest of the paper with a swift, decisive motion. It was a ritual that we both had gotten used to. Him splitting and letting go of the paper, and me grabbing the pages he had done with.
Now the newspaper is in two parts. Without hesitation, I immersed myself in the carton, studying the bold strokes and intricate lines of Susil Premaratne’s artwork. With each passing moment, I felt the call of imagination and artistry ignited by the power of the print.
As I finished indulging in the fantasy conjured by the carton and its mesmerising artwork, I felt a sense of completion wash over me. It was time to move on to the next part of the newspaper and return the previous pages to Father.
But my father was lost in the pages of the newspaper, his mind absorbed in the world of news and current events. No amount of talking could draw him out of his reverie, and all I could hope for was a brief “Mmm” in response to my attempts at conversation.
My mother, ever the caretaker, brought a cup of tea for my father, but he remained engrossed in his reading, oblivious to her gesture. It reminded us of the power of the written word, how it could captivate and ensnare, drawing us into worlds far removed from our own.
In that section of the paper I just exchanged were the romantic stories meant for young adults. I’d read them, trying to absorb love stories about falling in love, first kisses and looks. All this was when I was around ten to twelve years old. I wished I was older to experience these stories in real life.
Reading the weekend paper was a ritual for a father and a son until lunchtime every Sunday.
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The images belong to the original owners
Onthat quiet Sunday morning, the six of us went to mass — my father, mother, younger sister, brother, Kadayamma, my grandmother, and I. The service ended at 9 am, and we returned home, ready for a day of relaxation and unwinding.
As soon as we entered our home, my father, free from work obligations, turned on the radio and began scanning the medium-wave channels. My siblings and I joined him at the dining table for breakfast while my mother and Kadayamma prepared the food in the kitchen. We savoured each bite without complaint, letting the local songs and advertisements from the Telefunken radio fill the air.
Father lounged on the veranda, basking in the warmth of the morning sun. Then, with his favourite Sunday newspaper, Lankadeepa, he eased into his armchair and began reading. He deftly folded it in half to make it more manageable, shielding his face with it while I followed him, shedding my vest and sitting near his feet, with my eyes on the newspaper in his hand.
I was fascinated by the sound of the opening and closing newspaper, drawn to the cartoon section on the back page. I longed to read the latest cartoons and kid section, eager for an amusement or two to start the day off right. I wish he’d hurry up.
I was fixated on the “ලන්දේසී සටන” (Resistance to the Dutch) carton on the paper’s last page. I waited for the moment when my father was done with the first and the second page.
My eyes were locked on the newspaper; its pages spread like a vast landscape waiting to be explored. But the carton illuminated with art created to hypnotise children on the last page held me captive. I longed for my father to reach the end of the first two pages so I could enjoy the carton on the last page.
Patiently, I bided my time, waiting for the perfect moment to make my move. Then, finally, as my father relinquished his hold on the first and second pages, I seized my chance and took the coveted section from his grasp, splitting it apart from the rest of the paper with a swift, decisive motion. It was a ritual that we both had gotten used to. Him splitting and letting go of the paper, and me grabbing the pages he had done with.
Now the newspaper is in two parts. Without hesitation, I immersed myself in the carton, studying the bold strokes and intricate lines of Susil Premaratne’s artwork. With each passing moment, I felt the call of imagination and artistry ignited by the power of the print.
As I finished indulging in the fantasy conjured by the carton and its mesmerising artwork, I felt a sense of completion wash over me. It was time to move on to the next part of the newspaper and return the previous pages to Father.
But my father was lost in the pages of the newspaper, his mind absorbed in the world of news and current events. No amount of talking could draw him out of his reverie, and all I could hope for was a brief “Mmm” in response to my attempts at conversation.
My mother, ever the caretaker, brought a cup of tea for my father, but he remained engrossed in his reading, oblivious to her gesture. It reminded us of the power of the written word, how it could captivate and ensnare, drawing us into worlds far removed from our own.
In that section of the paper I just exchanged were the romantic stories meant for young adults. I’d read them, trying to absorb love stories about falling in love, first kisses and looks. All this was when I was around ten to twelve years old. I wished I was older to experience these stories in real life.
Reading the weekend paper was a ritual for a father and a son until lunchtime every Sunday.
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe
The images belong to the original owners
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