The next few days were the Vesak festival. Three days of glittering pandals and Vesak lanterns were not to be missed. Also not to miss were the popular food stalls that sprung everywhere. My friends boasted about what they did last year, how they ate free food to their hearts’ delight, met some girls at the Galle Face Green, and walked back home.
My friends planned to spend a night roaming the city streets. It was going to be an all-night vigil. I had never stayed up a whole night out, leave alone a Vesak vigil. This would be my first time.
When the sun set, I sneaked out of the house without telling my mother where I was going. I knew she would never let me roam the streets of Colombo all night long.
I met up with my friends and strolled along the main Kandy Road. The whole area was dazzling with colourful paper lanterns and clay oil lamps. We sampled some free food stalls, stuffed our faces with delicious treats and walked along Kandy Road. With throngs of so many people, moving was slow. We did not mind, for there was so much to watch, enjoy and take in.
Cyril was our leader, guiding us through the crowds and keeping an eye on the younger kids like me in the group. We stopped to admire a Vesak pandal that sparkled with a thousand colourful bulbs. The sky opened up and poured down rain. We scrambled to find shelter from the downpour and found one.
Under that cramped shelter, a punk from a rival gang yanked my neck long hair to provoke me, looking for trouble. Cyril noticed my predicament and rushed to my rescue right away. He dared the wannabe tough guy to fight him instead. The coward chickened out and backed off.
We left that episode behind us and walked a couple of miles along Kandy Road, where more food stalls offered us free treats, lanterns glowed in the dark, and decorations added festive cheer. A huge stage with a large crowd caught our attention at the junction at the 4th-mile post. We watched a stage drama performed by artists wearing colourful masks that made them look like mythical creatures.
We then proceeded to Grand Pass on foot, slowly making our way through the large crowds. We stopped at Grand Pass to watch the pandal light up with multi-coloured bulbs. The pandal depicted another story from one of Buddha’s previous lives, extolling his virtues, compassion and generosity.
The pandal was beautifully constructed, with intricate details and vibrant colours. It was a feast for the eyes, and we were all captivated by the story it told. I learned that there were 500 such stories. We spent a long time at the pandal, taking in all the details and admiring the girls on the side. That was the main game, attracting the opposite sex.
Then we continued walking, but it was a struggle to move together. There were so many people, and we were all jostling for space. We had to hold hands to keep from getting lost in the crowd. There were people of all ages, from young children to old grandparents. There were men, women, and everyone in between crowding the streets. There were people from all walks of life. The air was filled with laughter and religious music. We stopped at more pandals on our way, admiring their lightwork and listening to colourful stories of the previous lives of Buddha. In all, we sighted eight pandals, stopping at most of them.
We finally arrived at the Galle Face Green, past one in the morning. I had never stayed out this late but was too excited to care. I was with my friends, and we were having the time of our lives.
We spent hours at the Galle Face Green, meeting new people and walking along the beach promenade. We teased the girls, hoping one of them would respond. But none of them did. It was like a huge carnival atmosphere, not something religious and sanctimonious,
Before we knew it, it was five in the morning. We had to start walking back home. The once-busy food stalls were empty, and the roads were getting deserted.
I walked into our home, exhausted from the eleven-kilometre walk. The time was seven in the morning. The sun was up, but I was thinking of my bed. My mother was waiting for me at the front door, looking at me sternly.
She was furious, and without warning, she slapped me, and I was shocked. I didn’t know what I had done wrong. I was so fatigued, but the shock was too much to bear. I did not know what hit me.
I went to my room and cried alone. I was so tired, and I just wanted to go to bed. It did not dawn on me that I was wrong. I was so naively stupid and young.
For the next few days, silent treatment followed. I did not talk to my mother and stayed away from her. I suppose that was part of my growing pain.
She was right, of course. I had broken my curfew, and I had worried my mother. I had turned into a lost soul. I smoked, drank, and did things that would shock her if she had found out. Maybe my mother sensed that her oldest son was going astray.
But my response to her slap would have surprised her badly. I’d never forget her desperate and sad look after she slapped me.
I knew my mother worried about me, and I felt terrible. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I didn’t know how to stop myself from making bad choices. I was lost and confused. “Why is this life so hard?” I thought to myself.
My mother was always there for me, but I pushed her away. I was ashamed of my actions and didn’t want her to see me that way. But she never gave up on me, like staying up till I reached home every night. Maybe I took her care for granted.
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
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