As I got off the bus and laid my feet on the ground, my recollections of a rustic village shrouded in coconut trees, tiny waterways, cadjan homes, and bare-chested villagers returned. Of course, times had flown by, yet the scenes were not that different three decades later. I quickly grasped the surroundings, framing and comparing them to my memories.
Crossing the road, I walked into the house where my grandmother was born at the beginning of the twentieth century. The old vintage home was not that different, with a new portico and some additions. It retained the original foundations and shape.
How did I get here?
I had this urge for a long time to visit and pay respect to the lands and waterways my ancestors had come from in Sri Lanka. Shrouded in mystery and awe, my memories were a mash-up of my childhood and teenage years. I yearned to relive an experience from over three decades ago, shrouded in the dreamy haze of nostalgia.
Dreams are to be realised. In 2008, I was back in my old country. I found a day to spare between family get-togethers and juggling my life as a father to four teenagers in Australia.
I took a two-hour gruelling ride by bus to Giriulla, some seventy kilometres from the heart of Colombo.
My heart pounded as I approached the familiar house where I had spent hours of my childhood. Memories flooded my mind as I stepped over the threshold, each as vivid as the day it had been formed. But my thoughts were focused on two persons in particular — Handapangala Seeya, my granduncle and younger brother of my grandmother and his grandson, Aruna, my second cousin.
Handapangala Seeya was a fixture in my young life. I remembered the sound of his footsteps as he walked up the creaky front porch, the way he would tousle my hair and flash a warm smile. I had looked up to him with a reverence that only a child can feel for an older, wiser mentor. He wore a striped sarong, and a black jacket and donned a man bun, the only grand uncle in my extended family with shoulder-length hair.
As I moved through the entrance, I felt a sense of nostalgia wash over me. The walls were faded and peeling, the furniture worn and frayed. But the memories were still as vibrant as ever.
Finally, I looked at the room where Handapangala Seeya had spent so much time. It was a small space, cluttered with furniture, with a large window that looked out onto the garden. I could almost see him sitting on his bed with a cigar in his mouth, lost in thought, the afternoon sunlight casting a warm glow across his face.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to summon his presence. For a moment, I felt as though I could feel his hand on my shoulder and hear his voice in my ear. But when I opened my eyes, the room was empty.
I knew he was gone and had left this world years ago. He had asked for me on his deathbed. But at that moment, it felt like he was still with me, a constant companion in my thoughts and memories.
In the dimly lit corner of the room, a figure lay slumped in a wheelchair, his bare chest rising and falling gently. I hesitated momentarily, wondering if I had entered the wrong house. But the familiarity of the room told me otherwise.
As I approached the figure in the wheelchair, he stirred, the wheels creaking, echoing through the room. Then, slowly, he sat up, his eyes fixed on me with a curious expression. Then, I noticed the striking resemblance to Aruna, Handapangala Seeya’s grandson, aunty Juliet’s son; Juliet was my godmother.
Aruna, in 2008 in his wheelchair
“Hello, Denzil Ayya; I am Aruna,” he said, his voice soft and gentle.
I was taken aback, shocked by his appearance. How had Aruna become wheelchair-bound? When I left Sri Lanka years ago, he had been a handsome, active young boy on the run. We spent countless hours together, exploring the countryside and bathing in the waterways in his village. Me being the eldest among the cousins, he looked up to me as the fun-loving, fearless leader of the cousins whenever I visited them or took family holidays together in the hill country.
But now, as I looked at him, my heart ached. He was a vulnerable, middle-aged man, his skin pale and his eyes dull. I could see the pain etched on his face, the struggle to maintain a cheerful facade despite his obvious discomfort. For me, his teenage frame of the boy was edged in my mind. This was a fucking surprise, him, wheelchair bound.
I didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him. The weight of the years between us, the distance that had grown between our lives, was suddenly overwhelming. But as I looked into his eyes, I knew I had to try.
“Aruna,” I said softly, clapping his hand. “It’s good to see you again.”
I saw tears in his eyes. Then I listened to his story.
He had a workplace injury at the construction site a few years ago. It was a spinal cord injury, paralysing him permanently. Despite months of treatment, there was no cure. Destined to live in a wheelchair from his mid-forties, he did not sound physically and mentally right.
His life was forever changed by one fateful day at the construction site, where he suffered a catastrophic injury that would haunt him for the rest of his days. The spinal cord injury tore left him permanently paralysed and utterly devastated.
In the aftermath, he was cast into a world of unimaginable pain and suffering, enduring countless months of gruelling treatment and agonising therapy in hospitals across Sri Lanka and India. But no amount of medicine or science could reverse the irreversible. His mother, my godmother, Aunty Juliet, paid all that.
Now permanently confined to a wheelchair, his body was a mere shadow of its former self. His disability bore down upon him with crushing force. But it was not only his body that was affected; his mind too had been scarred by the trauma of his injury, leaving him struggling to find meaning and purpose in a life that had been robbed of all its former promise — the promise of a young boy, as I remembered him.
My heart shattered into a million pieces as I was forced to confront the harsh reality of the world beyond my privileged first-world bubble. Immersed in a culture where laws and compensation regimes protect workers, I had been utterly blind to the injustices that plagued my old country. But all that changed in an instant when the tragic story of Aruna, a construction worker in Sri Lanka,
The sheer unfairness of it all hit me like a ton of bricks as I realised the magnitude of the suffering that so many people like Aruna have endured. The nostalgia that once filled my heart was replaced by a wave of deep anger and frustration at the injustice that permeated the world beyond my comfortable illusion.
The unfairness of workers like Aruna in my old country was not lost on me as I bid him farewell. I had no solutions to his situation.
Aruna died in his fifties after I saw him. He never saw his grandchildren.
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...
6 min read·Mar 12
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