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 ...
Demons and Devotion: A Family’s Pilgrimage Denzil Jayasinghe · “Demons and Devotion: A Pilgrimage to Tewatta” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe about a family’s pilgrimage to a holy site in Sri Lanka. The story follows Denzil, the eldest son, as he reluctantly accompanies his devout parents on this journey to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Although initially sceptical, Denzil reflects on his childhood faith and his family's hardships. However, the pilgrimage turns unexpectedly when an encounter with a priest who claims a demon possesses Denzil creates tension and leaves him angry. T he air hung heavy with a solemnity that felt out of place for a silver wedding anniversary. Denzil’s father, whose pronouncements held the weight of scripture, declared, “We are going on a special trip to the holy place of Our Lady at Tewatta. This day, showing God’s blessings, will be a private event for our family.” On a recent arrival for a two-week holiday in Sri Lanka...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
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