Denzil's Stories

  Shadows and Whispers: The Unseen Dance of Youth Denzil Jayasinghe · The humid air clung heavy around St. Joseph’s Novitiate, thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant rumble of the approaching monsoon. Tucked away near the dusty gateway, a beacon of cool relief stood in the form of a Milk Bar. More than just a purveyor of sugary delights, Milk Bar was a sanctuary for the De La Salle boys — a haven of forbidden treats and forgotten homework. Here, one could find solace in a frothy Milo, a shot of vanilla milk, or perhaps the quiet desperation of a forgotten pencil, even the occasional, slightly-too-expensive jockstrap — a symbol of a masculinity still on the horizon. Neville, a wisp of a boy with limbs that seemed to sprout from unexpected angles, was a fixture at the milk bar. Sent by his bemused parents to board at the Novitiate, his academic record — marred by a year shamefully repeated — spoke volumes of his disinterest in following in the holy footsteps intended for him. Ye

  Shadows and Whispers: Denzil Jayasinghe · C oleen tiptoed to the threshold, her slippers hushing against the carpet. “Maybe today he forgets,” she whispered, a strand of hope as delicate as a prayer bead twining around her heart. But the room lay still, the air unstirred by the rustle of fabric. A pang of disappointment, sharp and sudden, pricked her. She nudged the door open with a sigh that seemed to scrape her soul. The lad stood by the window, down to his Hanes undies, his back a silent silhouette against the afternoon light, motionless as if carved from the dark wood of the jack trees that lined his backyard at home. Coleen scrutinised the young man keenly, her gaze on his lanky frame, settling thoughtfully on his waist and what lay just beneath, covered in white undies. “Such a mess,” Coleen muttered, her eyes flitting over the clothes draped like defeated soldiers over the chair. The lad turned, his face half-hidden in shadows, half-lit with defiance. “Hey, boy,” she began her

Untold stories Hidden Histories Denzil Jayasinghe 8 min read · Just now S harjah marked a Rex with its relentless sun and the swirling sand. Leaving his sons, Roland and Harish, behind in Sri Lanka, he landed a job as a telegraph supervisor and took up residence in a weathered villa on Khalid Bin Al Waleed Street. It was back in Colombo that fate had brought Rex and Daniel together. A young apprentice at the time, Daniel’s cheerful spirit and boldness had caught Rex’s eye. This chance encounter blossomed into an unlikely bond. Fate intervened again, landing Daniel a bank job in Dubai. Practicality then dictated that they share a villa in Sharjah with another Sri Lankan named Randy. Adrift in the desert city, the three men found solace in each other’s company. Daniel filled a void in Rex’s life, a void left by the distance from his sons and a simmering resentment towards their mother. Their shared experiences in the cramped villa, the sand ever-present, forged an unexpected kinship. Dan

Dawn’s Messenger A Tapestry of Mornings in Dubai Denzil Jayasinghe · As the clock strikes 5.30 a.m., the familiar beep of my Casio alarm pierces the silence, marking the beginning of my day. With only minutes to spare, my morning routine kicks into gear like a well-oiled machine. My attire, a neatly pressed pair of trousers and a shirt stands ready, meticulously prepared the night before to eliminate any unnecessary choices in the early hours. A swift breakfast, and I’m ready to embrace the day. By 6:15 a.m., I’m crossing the threshold of my home, the day’s freshness marred only by the acrid scent that lingers in the elevator as it descends to the ground floor. Stepping out onto the sandy trail leading to Al Arouba Road, I find the world still at rest. The storefronts of radio shops and eateries remain shuttered, and the streets are nearly deserted, save for a few men draped in Dishdasha, their heads wrapped in shawls. Despite the early hour, the air retains the warmth of the tropics,