Journey across the monsoon
Journey across the monsoon
A father agonises over letting go of his son
Itwas 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 me to let him go. He seemed unmoved as he marched around the house, moving effortlessly between his friends and family. His confident demeanour masked the nervousness that lingered beneath the surface.
Finally, Denzil found a place to sit. He plopped down on the dining table, where the children often sat to do their homework. He sat down abruptly, adjusting himself and placing a notebook and a bank passbook beside him. He waved the bank book before his face as he called out to me.
He said, “Thaththa, I have something to tell you.” He handed me the passbook and continued, “I don’t have any money in this bank book, but you can use this if you need it. And these are the addresses of my friends,” he showed me the notebook. “Friends from school, boarding school, and college.” His words sounded casual, but I could sense the undercurrent of nervousness in his voice. Did he think he wouldn’t see his family again?
The worry about my son leaving for a foreign land weighed heavily on my mind. “How would he cope without his mother? He is still so young, a mere boy, although he thinks he is a grown-up man. He would encounter strangers and face challenges without a father to guide him. What if he fell ill? Who would take care of him at night? Who would turn off his radio? I am proud of his bravery, but I cannot help but fear the difficulties that awaited him in a new country nobody in the family has set foot. I can only hope that he would be fine.”
More of Denzil’s friends gathered on the veranda. Edward, Mahinda, Merril, Raja, Pathmasiri. Sunil, Asoka’s elder brother, arrived in his Borgward car.
The moment to depart from home to the airport was approaching. Though not shedding tears, my wife had her eyes brimmed with tears. She showed remarkable strength. Neither of us knew when we would see our son again. Trying to lighten the mood, I told her, “Don’t worry; if everything fails for him overseas, he can become an artist.”
Some of my relatives were present as well. Prominent among them, Artie, my cousin, who arrived in his black Hillman, commented, “You raised a son, and now he is leaving you.” I chose to ignore his insensitive remark. I hoped Denzil hadn’t heard it. His sister, Chutti, said, “Bring some scarves for me.” Denzil beamed, radiating his usual self-assuredness.
The clock struck seven in the evening, and he retreated to his room to get ready. I could see him changing through the partially opened door.
Denzil emerged from his room, a bright smile adorning his face. He wore his only suit, a blue crimplene suit paired with a colourful tie. Looking at him, I couldn’t help but see the schoolboy he once was, with his clean-shaven face and youthful appearance. It wasn't easy to meet his gaze. I had to conceal the emotions welling up within me. How had it come to this?
Everyone gathered in the middle of our hall, standing before the statues of Jesus and Mary. I avoided looking at my wife, who remained silent by my side, her eyes red.
“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” I murmured, reciting the familiar prayer. “Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.”
Doubts crept into my mind. Had I truly loved my son enough? Was there anything I had done to hurt him along the way? I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee,” I continued, seeking solace in prayer. “Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”
The flickering lamp on the altar cast a gentle glow, adding an air of solemnity to the room. I tightly embraced my son, conveying all my love and pride. My wife kissed his cheeks, her silent tears speaking volumes. His younger siblings clung to him, unaware of when they would see their elder brother again. Denzil remained oblivious to his departure's impact on our family. With a joyful expression, he lifted his gaze, briefly glancing at his sister, brother, mother, and then me, before casting his eyes downward and heading towards the cars parked in our driveway.
Denzil’s uncharted journey
Atthe Colombo airport, security questioned if Denzil was going abroad for studies. At 10:35 pm, the flight took off as scheduled. It was his first international flight, bound for Dubai on Singapore Airlines, SQ707. He was the first among his parents’ generation to leave Sri Lanka.
Today, in 2023, not a single descendant of Denzil’s parents remains in Sri Lanka, a nation that has sadly descended into a failed state. Denzil lives in Sydney, Australia — his direct family, including grandchildren, a total of twelve.
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