Myhome could not rival rich people’s homes for splendour, but within it, there was harmony and culture I can only dream of now. It was a plain brick house with clay tiles, but it was well-built, constructed to last — a creation of my grandfather in his heyday, designed as a weekend getaway. It was well-ordered to suit the times, featuring a front veranda and a front room with a separate entrance that came in handy as I entered my teenage years. The dwelling comprised a living room, a dining room, four rooms, and a kitchen.
We possessed simple wooden chairs with cane bottoms. A large dining table stood in the middle of the dining room, larger than anything I had ever seen. There were no marble-topped tables with lace, only a simple wooden table so weighty that nobody could lift it. A few glass cabinets stored the meagre cutlery and crockery we owned.
Statues of Mother Mary, Jesus, and a few saints adorned a box in the centre of the living room. One could observe the next-door neighbours’s water well and their bathing habits through the large windows with metal grills.
Our house was cleaned twice daily, with my grandma handling the morning sweep and my mother taking care of it in the afternoon. They used a broom made of wood and coconut husk. The floor got a fresh shine from discarded coconut powder every three months. Nothing was wasted; everything was re-used to the max.
Coconuts played a significant role in our daily routine, with approximately fifty coconut trees gracing our property. Our meals were infused with the rich flavour of coconut milk, and for the youngsters, refreshing coconut water was the only beverage of choice. Whenever a coconut plucker, clad in a loincloth, a traditional attire resembling a contemporary g-string, arrived to harvest coconuts, our abundance allowed us to generously share the surplus with our neighbours. Inside our home, instead of a conventional ceiling, a roof supported by joists and horizontal studs crafted from trunks of coconut trees adorned the space.
We didn’t have locks on the doors inside our home, only colourful curtains. It was a casual atmosphere where anyone could walk into any room without knocking. Privacy wasn’t a thing. Whether I was changing clothes or completely undressed, it was just part of the open living style. Our house was always bustling with visitors like aunts, uncles, grand uncles and grand aunties who came to stay.
We had a kerosene cooker and a wooden stove in the kitchen, both seeing plenty of use. Kids were encouraged to observe the cooking and daily chores and even help.
The water well stood quite a distance from our home. We were fetching water using a bucket attached to a rope. Laundry was done at the well, with clothes scrubbed by hand.
The street was a fair distance away. When electricity finally reached us, we needed an extra power pole in the middle — a whiz-bang addition to our large garden. Until then, the house was lit by oil lamps in the night.
At 9 pm, our house became quiet. The oil lamps gave a soft light, like they told stories about our day and how much we loved being together. The rooms, which used to be so busy, became calm as everyone, old and young, went to sleep. The curtains moved slightly in the night breeze, making a gentle sound like a bedtime song. Our house, under the moonlight, slept peacefully — a safe place for dreams and memories. We all looked forward to a new day when the sun rose.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Neville at the Edge Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 10 hours ago In the lazy, sun-dappled days at St. Joseph’s Novitiate, where the beach seemed to hum with the scent of jasmine and the distant promise of monsoon clouds, there was a little haven we boys held dear — the Milk Bar. It was a humble shack just beyond the school’s creaky gates, its tin roof glinting under the noon sun, its wooden counter cluttered with frothy glasses of Milo, bottles of sweet vanilla milk, and a jumble of pencils and dog-eared notebooks for forgetful lads like us. To us, De La Salle boys, it wasn’t just a shop. It was a sanctuary, where the weight of prayers and the Brother-Superior’s stern frowns dissolved into the clink of coins and the soft buzz of our chatter. Neville was always there, a gangly boy with limbs that seemed to outgrow him, as if they belonged to a taller shadow. His parents had sent him to the Novitiate dreaming he’d don a Christian Brother’s collar, but Neville, with his twice-failed ...
Packing lists An addiction to packing lists Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read·Nov 6, 2022 My fascination with packing lists started when I was young. Eventually, it became a life-long habit, a kind of addiction. When I enrolled at the Christian brothers’ formative school at eleven, a packing list was given to my parents. 2 School shorts 2 School shirts, white 2 Baniyans, aka vests 4 Pairs of white socks 1 Sarong 2 Casual shirts 2 Casual shorts 2 Handkerchiefs 1 Toothbrush 1 Comb 1 Bedsheet 2 Pillowcases 1 Pair of black shoes 1 Pair of canvas sports shoes My parents went into fast gear to assemble the packing list. My father started from the bottom of the list, the shoes. He took me by bus to Colombo to P G Martins, a shoemaker. We came out of that shoe store with DS-branded black and Shinwa-branded canvas shoes. Also bought was a Ford suitcase, in shiny sky-blue colour. Mother bought vests and socks from Velona, a garment outlet run by one of our relations, Aunty Helen. A trip to a ta...
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