Denzil's Stories

  Leslie and the Glitch: A Satirical Tale of Language and Identity Denzil Jayasinghe · 1 I magine life in a village under the Sri Lankan sun, where wisdom shines brighter than fancy words. That’s where I grew up, content with the local lingo and mango tree whispers. Then there was Leslie, my classmate, like a character from an old movie stuck in white clothes. He loved English like a dragon guarding a dictionary, speaking it grandly, even if it came out jumbled with his slow stammer. He’d be a one-man Shakespeare show at the bus stop, greeting everyone with booming “Good mornings!” and speeches about anything from clouds to stray dogs. He thought his fancy talk made him the village hero, leading us simple folks into a world of big words. Meanwhile, I wished for invisibility, like a chameleon hiding in chutney. His English pronouncements were spotlights I desperately wanted to escape. It was like having a loud peacock for a friend, attracting unwanted attention while I craved peace (in

  From Black and White to Colour: How Photography Shaped My Life as the Eldest Child Denzil Jayasinghe · T he firstborn child gets a lot of attention from the parents and grandparents. They are the golden child, the heir of the family name, who has a bright future ahead. The world seems like a blank page, waiting for them to write their story. But then the second child comes. And the third. And maybe even more. The firstborn child must share the attention and the resources with the siblings. The world has become more crowded and complicated. The firstborn child feels less special and more responsible. Being the eldest is not easy. They must be the trailblazer, the guinea pig, who learns everything first. They must share, be patient, and make do with less. They must trade admiration for respect. They must watch their siblings enjoy the love that was once only theirs. But being the eldest is also a blessing. They learn empathy, resilience, and leadership. They become independent, resourc

  The Echoes of Courage: A Journey in Words Denzil Jayasinghe · 4 In the hallowed quiet of the study room beneath the weight of Bro. Ignatius’ sagacious words, I ascended the steps to the podium with a tangle of nerves and excitement within me. This was my moment, an opportunity to unveil the realms of my soul to those gathered. Bro. Ignatius, a mentor and guardian in the boarding school, had kindled my love for English. Words, to me, were not just tools; they were magic. Under his guidance, I delved into the intricacies of the language, weaving stories that sprang from the recesses of my imagination. His words echoed in my ears, resonating with encouragement as I ventured forth. “Let your heart and imagination guide you, Denzil. You have a great story to share, and everyone will love it.” And so, with those echoes reverberating within, I stood at the precipice of storytelling. In the quietude of the dormitory, I practised the unfamiliar syllables, moulding them into sentences that res

  Fractured Silhouette: A skinny lad’s obsession. Denzil Jayasinghe · D ubai’s gilded mirage dances just out of reach, mocking me with its glittering promise of solace. 112 pounds clinging to my bones, I’m a wisp of a lad in a city built for excess. They call me “skinny,” “Duval”, “stick,” the words echoing in the canyons of glass and steel. I swallow them down, along with my meager breakfast of buttered bread and boiled egg. Security, that once-comforting blanket, has become a threadbare top, offering no warmth against the hunger gnawing at my soul. It’s not food my stomach craves, but numbers. Columns of emerald Dirhams stacking in my bankbook, a monument to my sacrifice. Each stroke of the clerk’s pen a symphony, drowning out the hollowness inside. I work myself into a feverish trance, every spare Dirham a brick in the wall I build around my heart. Sleep is a thief, stealing hours from the relentless pursuit. Five-thirty dawns, the city still cloaked in sleep, and I’m already a slav