Unveiling Contrasts Part II

 

Unveiling Contrasts Part II

An experience in a train ride.

Denzil Jayasinghe
4 min read·1 hour ago

Iwas intrigued by the contrast of my bus ride in Sri Lanka, and I wanted to experience a suburban train. The train tracks evoked memories of my childhood trips.

So, I found myself at the ticket counters in Colombo station, the central station in the capital. I felt like I had travelled back in time as I saw the wooden counters that looked like they belonged to another era, maybe half a century ago when I lived in Sri Lanka. Each counter had a row of iron rods as a fence for the queue. Behind the small window with grills, a man was issuing tickets. He would take the money in cash and give paper cardboard tickets after pressing them with a hand-operated machine that made a loud thumping noise.

The station was crowded with people from different walks of life, but I noticed a trio: an old woman, a younger woman who looked like her daughter, and a teenage boy who seemed to be the older woman’s grandson. They had bags of rags and a pile of clothes. They seemed lost and scared in the station as if they had never been to Colombo Fort station. I empathised with them as I also struggled to navigate the unfamiliar ticketing system and the barred gates. I wanted to help them, but I could only observe them discreetly.

I was lost and confused, with no signs to guide me. The announcements were in Sinhala only, and the announcer used a flat monotone voice. I couldn’t understand anything he said. I needed to find out where to go for my train, so I asked a rail worker guarding a gate. He directed me to platform four. As I climbed the overhead bridge that connected the platforms, the steps were a sad sight, dirty and needing repair.

I saw the trio again, wandering on the bridge’s walkway, looking lost and confused. The boy, his mother and grandmother held their bags and scanned the station. I felt sorry for them, even though I was a stranger in this strange place. I decided to reach out to them. “Excuse me, do you need any help?” I asked them kindly. They turned to me with surprise and gratitude. The grandmother smiled and nodded. “Yes, please. We are trying to get to Ambalangoda, but we don’t know which platform to go to,”. “Ambalangoda, in the southern line. I’m heading in that direction. You can follow me to platform four”. “Thank you so much. You are very generous,” the grandmother said. The boy looked at me with curiosity and respect. We walked down the steps and reached platform four. They followed me closely, thankful for my guidance. I got on the train in that mass of a large crowd.

The train compartments were unlike anything I am used to. The train’s doors were open while the train was moving. Some young men hung on the steps; some sat on them as the train sped by. The passenger seats were neglected. The whole train felt like it needed a makeover. The stations I passed were from another era and not cared for.

It was a unique experience. I may have high standards for public buses and trains. Millions of Sri Lankans make do with what is offered to them.

Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe.

Images belong to the original owners.

https://youtu.be/1CBiV0wUI0k

Sri Lanka

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Cyril Stanley

Image
  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
Read more

My experiences of rebellions

Image
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
Read more

Arya Sinhala

Image
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
Read more