Denzil's Stories

Two sides of the same coin Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read·Just now My mother was her parents’ second child, and my father was his parents’ second and last. I stayed in my father’s family home for the first four years. Next to us, my uncle and his family, with three children, shared the same ancestral land in a detached home. We grew up embracing nature and the sounds of vehicles, with the number one road, in Sri Lanka, Colombo-Kandy Road, as our witness. Our front yard became a lake of splashing fun when the rain poured. Once, a storm brought us a gift from the heavens: a fish that landed on our lawn. But we didn’t stay there forever. We moved to a house that belonged to my mother’s mother. It stood on a vast land, far from the dusty road that led to it. A bamboo gate welcomed us in. A water well greeted us at the front, and a toilet bid us farewell at the back, away from the house. We had a garden of wonders, with coconut and fruit trees, coffee plants and more. A separate kitchen was m

  Carolis, the tailor: A Boy’s first experience with a Tailor Denzil Jayasinghe 2 min read·Just now I ran home excitedly one afternoon, bursting through the door with the news that I would receive my First Holy Communion the following month. My father looked up from his newspaper, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a smile. “That’s wonderful news,” he said. “We’ll need to make you some new clothes.” The next day, my father went to Pettah and bought several yards of pristine white fabric. He planned to get me a long-sleeved shirt and pants. I had never been to Carolis’s before, but I had heard stories about his skill and craftsmanship from my father. He was a master tailor, and his work was in high demand among the locals. A few days later, we cycled to Carolis’s tailor shop near the sixth milepost on Kandy Road. I sat on my father’s bicycle pole as we rode, feeling excited and nervous simultaneously. I had never been to a tailor’s shop before and didn’t know what to expect. When we a

  Journey across the monsoon A father agonises over letting go of his son Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read·4 hours ago It was a monsoon season that I will never forget. A muggy Wednesday in April 1977 marked the beginning of the monsoon, bringing with it a sticky heat and a damp breeze. The air felt thick and wet, enveloping everything in its moist embrace. The temperature soared, making sweat drip from every pore. Denzil was not his usual self that day. Instead of coming home late and sneaking into his room as usual, he roamed shirtless, in his shorts, his bedroom door left wide open to reveal a half-packed suitcase on his wooden bed. It was evening. The house resounded with the sounds of my younger children helping their mother. A group of Denzil’s friends had gathered on the veranda, their laughter and conversations filling the air. Cyril, Ajith, Nimal, Mahil, Asoka, Leonard, and Suneth – their voices rose and fell in animated conversation. I wondered if Denzil knew how hard it was for