Denzil's Stories

The Cricket Priest and Other Tales of Dalugama Denzil Jayasinghe · D alugama, a village nestled in the heart of Ceylon, pulsated in a rhythm all its own. However, the heart of this rhythm wasn’t the bustling market or the local politician but the parish priest — Father Charles. Father Charles, a man of the old, had little patience for the winds of change sweeping the world in the sixties. Miniskirts, a symbol of liberation in the West, were met with his disapproval as “immodesties” from the pulpit. Yet, beneath his stern exterior, a playful spirit resided. He’d often be seen in the dusty afternoons, cassock rolled up to his knees, captaining the village boys in a game of cricket. His booming voice, directing plays from behind the wicket, was a familiar sound in Dalugama. Image created by Bing/CoPilot Father Charles held a place in the villagers’ hearts that even the local MP couldn’t rival. He was more than a religious leader; he was a friend, a confidante, and a source of amusement fo

The Magic of Our Dusty Lane: Memories of a Ceylonese Village Denzil Jayasinghe · A yiyoe! (අයියෝ) polishing brass was a pain worse than the midday sun beating down on your neck! Every week, I was armed with a tin of Brasso and a rag, rubbing those old pots till they gleamed like the eyes of the gods they sat beside. There were four or five of them, some fat and round like my mother’s cooking pots, others tall and thin like my grand uncle’s walking stick. They arrived with my aunt and uncle and took their place on the pedestals, silent witnesses to our family’s goings-on. Outside, our dusty lane buzzed with life. Vendors peddled their wares on their trusty steeds — bicycles, foot-pedalled trishaws, even bullock carts. With his tinkling bell and khaki shorts, the bread man had a metal box overflowing with crusty loaves and soft buns. Kadayamma, our grandmother, always bought from him, remembering him from her days running a shop on Kandy Road. Then there were the fish vendors, their crie

  A Childhood Friendship Across the Fence Denzil Jayasinghe · I was incredibly fond of my neighbour, Linton. My parents moved into the house where I grew up when I was four. I lived next door to Linton for the next seventeen years until I left my home at a young age. In those seventeen years, I was away in a boarding for four years when I visited home during school holidays. So, I knew Linton for only thirteen years. Linton’s home was small. They had one bedroom, one living room and an outdoor kitchen. Their land was tiny compared to our vast land. But these things did not matter for the little kid in me, for whom size and money were not factors in life. In between our homes was a makeshift fence that one could creep through at will. Many coconut trees, fruit trees and flowering plants were scattered between our homes. I played numerous games of Elle, cricket, marble, football and hide and seek games with Linton. I was this suave kid attending a private school while Linton attended the

  Dalugama’s defiance: A village fights for its soul Denzil Jayasinghe · T he year was 1960, and whispers of change hung heavy in the humid Sri Lankan air. Mrs Bandaranaike, a whirlwind of charisma and controversy, had swept into power, her nationalist winds threatening to uproot the traditions that had anchored our village, Dalugama, for generations. One of those traditions, the beating heart of our community, was our Catholic school. But the government, fueled by suspicion and a thirst for control, declared war. They demanded all Catholic schools be handed over, their doors shutting on the laughter and learning that had nourished our children for years. Fear, cold and sharp, clawed at our hearts. This wasn’t just about bricks and mortar; it was an attack on our faith and our identity. Dalugama wouldn’t go down without a fight. We, the villagers, rose in unison. Mary Akka, my neighbour and a lioness with eyes that could melt stone, led the charge. Kadayamma, my grandmother, with her s