Iwoke up on Wednesday morning feeling off, like something wasn’t right. I dragged myself to the breakfast table but couldn’t shake the feeling. It was like I was in someone else’s body. I munched on bread and jam and tried to ignore the feeling, but it stayed with me as I walked to school.
Once I got to school, I remembered why Wednesdays suck. We have Chemistry and Sinhala back to back, two of the most boring subjects ever. Seriously, who wants to learn about atoms and compounds when you could be reading, painting or drawing? The teachers don’t seem to get it. They made the schedule for themselves, not for us. I’m curious if Mr Chapman knows how much we hate Wednesdays.
Sitting in class, I couldn’t help but daydream about the perfect schedule. It would have a whole block for art and another for math. But that’s just wishful thinking. I love art, but it’s not a subject they teach in the science faculty where I study. So I have to do my art projects on the sly, usually when bored at the boarding house. It’s not fair.
But I’m serious about my art. I have a whole set of watercolours, acrylics, brushes, and a pad of white paper. Away from school, I was super excited to work on a sketch I had finished with my 2B pencil last week. Then disaster struck, and my artwork got ruined.
As I was painting, a kind of film formed over the top of my bluish-green and white paints. I tried to brush it away with water, but the colours started to bleed and dissolve. It was like the paints trapped underneath were trying to escape. My heart sank, and I felt gloomy.
Until last week, I had been working on a painting of the boarding house with its white walls, blue glass windows, and the coconut trees next to it. I had painstakingly painted the different colours of the surrounding garden. But now, it all seemed fake. It wasn’t anything real or meaningful. Then I chose to paint the De La Salle statue because it looked great, but what was the point?
Sitting there staring at my ruined painting, someone asked me what I was doing.
“Are you painting today?” they asked.
“Yeah,” I replied, feeling embarrassed.
“What are you painting?” they asked.
“Not really; I am trying to fix my drawing,” I said.
“Huh, show it to me when you finish.”
“Sure,” I muttered, feeling defeated.
I returned to my desk, trying not to spill water or attract more attention. I took out my sketch and started painting, trying to salvage what I could. It was going okay until I messed up again. This time, I accidentally painted over the statue. I groaned in frustration, feeling like a failure.
I put down my brush and sighed. It was just one of those days.
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 ...
Neville at the Edge Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 10 hours ago In the lazy, sun-dappled days at St. Joseph’s Novitiate, where the beach seemed to hum with the scent of jasmine and the distant promise of monsoon clouds, there was a little haven we boys held dear — the Milk Bar. It was a humble shack just beyond the school’s creaky gates, its tin roof glinting under the noon sun, its wooden counter cluttered with frothy glasses of Milo, bottles of sweet vanilla milk, and a jumble of pencils and dog-eared notebooks for forgetful lads like us. To us, De La Salle boys, it wasn’t just a shop. It was a sanctuary, where the weight of prayers and the Brother-Superior’s stern frowns dissolved into the clink of coins and the soft buzz of our chatter. Neville was always there, a gangly boy with limbs that seemed to outgrow him, as if they belonged to a taller shadow. His parents had sent him to the Novitiate dreaming he’d don a Christian Brother’s collar, but Neville, with his twice-failed ...
Packing lists An addiction to packing lists Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read·Nov 6, 2022 My fascination with packing lists started when I was young. Eventually, it became a life-long habit, a kind of addiction. When I enrolled at the Christian brothers’ formative school at eleven, a packing list was given to my parents. 2 School shorts 2 School shirts, white 2 Baniyans, aka vests 4 Pairs of white socks 1 Sarong 2 Casual shirts 2 Casual shorts 2 Handkerchiefs 1 Toothbrush 1 Comb 1 Bedsheet 2 Pillowcases 1 Pair of black shoes 1 Pair of canvas sports shoes My parents went into fast gear to assemble the packing list. My father started from the bottom of the list, the shoes. He took me by bus to Colombo to P G Martins, a shoemaker. We came out of that shoe store with DS-branded black and Shinwa-branded canvas shoes. Also bought was a Ford suitcase, in shiny sky-blue colour. Mother bought vests and socks from Velona, a garment outlet run by one of our relations, Aunty Helen. A trip to a ta...
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