AsI step into the corner store, the scents of freshly baked bread and burning oil greet me. Mudalali, the friendly shopkeeper, flashes me a smile and calls me “Baby,” a nickname he’s given me since I was little. I don’t mind it, though. It’s comforting, like the sound of the store’s floor under my feet.
I scan my mother’s shopping list in my cane basket. We need bread, sugar, tinned fish, and coconut oil — nothing too fancy. I don’t mind running errands for my mother, but I’m tired after a long day at school. Mr Suraweera’s endless talks and yelling still echo in my head, and I’m glad to be out of his classroom for the day.
Clusters of bananas are hanging at the entrance of the store. Mudalali sells everything that the villagers need in a hurry. The shop is popular with the villagers, and the owner, Mudalali, is liked by everyone, young and old.
Mudalali is a jack-of-all-trades. He expertly weighs items, easily handles cash, and keeps track of customers who buy on credit. He even makes tea for anyone who asks. I watch him in awe as he effortlessly juggles his tasks, wondering how he does everything. But when he hands me my change, his friendly demeanour never falters.
I spy a stack of notepads and notebooks for sale in Mudalali’s cabinet and yearn to buy them, but I’m short on pocket money today. Maybe another time. With the remaining change, I buy a few Narambic lozenges for my siblings. They’re not much, but they’ll be a sweet treat after a long day. My sister and brother would be glad to gobble them.
As I leave the store, I feel a sense of relief washes over me. The afternoon sun is warm on my skin, and I’m glad to be outside. I hurry home, eager to finish my homework and catch up with my friends. But for now, I’m content with the simple joy of running errands and being a helpful son.
Cyril Stanley A story of gratitude — Denzil recalls a friend who looked out for him in his budding years in Sri Lanka Denzil Jayasinghe 11 min read · Aug 27, 2022 1 Give us a bit of background on how you met Cyril. It was the seventies in the sleepy village of Dalugama , my ancestral hometown, some ten kilometres from Colombo. With their flared bell bottoms and Afro-style hair, it was easy to notice Cyril and his younger brother Edward. I’d bump into the duo in the neighbourhood as I walked home after a day at college. A casual hello greeting turned into a conversation and an evolving friendship with the duo at an age when making friends was effortless. However, it was Cyril who reached out to me first. What did the brothers look like? C yril was a younger version of Smokey Robinson and his brother, Edward, a junior Lionel Richie but darker. Both had curly hair, grown long, copying the Afro-American idols of the seventies. Smokey Robinson, Cyril Stanley lookalike Where did they
My experiences of rebellions How waves of violence in Sri Lanka broke a young man’s heart Warning — Distressing scenes described in this story. A YOUTH INSURRECTION DURING MY BOYHOOD 1971 — There was a strong student and youth socialist movement styled on the “Che Guevara” clique. Many poor, unemployed and underprivileged young people joined this movement. My two elder cousins, my father’s brother’s children, Sisira and Marie, were also in this rebel group. In their home. They replaced Jesus’s picture with that of Mao Zedong and Che Guevara. Both of them, teenagers, boldly spoke about a future socialist society. A society in which everyone was equal in Sri Lanka. Young as I was, it was a bit gibberish to me. In April 1971, the movement turned violent. The insurrection began when the rebels started attacking police stations. The Sri Lankan government responded by deploying armed forces with brutal force. Rebels cut power lines and blocked roads with trees in the countryside. Schools wer
Arya Sinhala This story is about the significance of this costume in my family and its cultural relevance. My father wore shirts and pants as any English-educated Sri Lankan male did back in the day. Everybody gave their children English names. I am named Denzil Bernard. A few years after I was born, in the 1950s, Sri Lanka was trying to assert its ethnic identity, a decade after it gained independence from Great Britain. A new prime minister, espousing an ethnocentric identity, came into power. Emulating Indian leaders’ post-independence direction, he gave up his Western attire, despite his Oxford education and wore the national dress, Arya Sinhala. Arya is an ethnic and cultural designation to which the Sinhala race makes claims. The cultural transformation started in my family. My sister, born four years after me, was named Rekha Flora. She had an ethnic name and a Western name. Occasionally my father donned the national dress. My father’s elder brother ultimately gave up his West
2 min read·Apr 29
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