Ranjith's Reign

 

Ranjith’s Reign:

A Portrait of a Lonely Ruler

Denzil Jayasinghe
·

Ranjith, a retired engineer and a proud patriarch, ruled his domain from an old easy chair. His home, full of memories and mothballs, was a relic of a past era. A huge family portrait, a symbol of wealth and virtue, hung on the wall — a tribute to his sacrifice, which paid for his sons’ costly foreign education.

His sons, far away, looked at him with hidden thanks and silent loyalty. Ranjith demanded their loyalty and made them return and stay in his old home with him. But trouble came when a blast killed many Catholics in Sri Lanka in 2019. His younger son and family ran back to Australia, and his elder son did the same. They hardly came now, and Ranjith realised that Sri Lanka was no longer a place for him.

Ranjith, a faithful Catholic, held a rosary and a newspaper in his hands. The Bible gave him peace, but the world outside troubled him with moral dilemmas. His elder son’s divorce, a stain on God and family, was cut out of his story. Ranjith hid his shame with a lie, saying, “She’s in Canada; she’ll be back soon,” a comfort as familiar as an old shawl.

Ranjith’s soul was joyless. He searched within himself and found only troubles. He talked in a sorrowful voice. His wife, a silent phantom, worked without a sound, receiving only commands or scowls from him. He would sit at the table and wait for his wife to bring a bowl for his hands. He would never go to the kitchen and lend a hand in the housework.

Once a keen teacher who tutored students from his home in his retirement, Ranjith became a bossy ruler in his old age. He taught math and life with royal authority, expecting his subjects to obey him. He thought he was a king, his words the truth, his views the only ones that mattered.

But time, a tricky clown, had other plans. A bad artery struck him down, sending him to surgery and a forced deal with death. His life, once bright, became slow and dull. His face swelled, and his voice stayed loud but sad. His world, once big, shrank to his house — a scene for his fading glory.

Ranjith’s mind, a mean friend, told him secrets. At night, he saw angels and demons and heard voices that told him stories of magic. Once a comfort, the Bible became a charm — a sign of order in his chaos. The oil lamps by the Jesus statue made dark shapes, showing the end of Ranjith’s rule.

Dear reader, this is not a story of a happy young man turned into a grumpy old one. It is a warning from the moist air of Negombo — a reminder that even the greatest building can fall under the pressure of pride and time. For Ranjith, the emperor had no clothes, and his realm was as weak as the dust in his home. The only trace of his old self was a hint of a playful spark in his eyes — a memory of the boy who once ran after fun and dreams, now chased by regrets and fears.

Disclaimer: The above is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author has made every effort to portray the characters and events in a fictional and entertaining manner.

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