A Childhood Friendship and the Divergence of Paths

Denzil Jayasinghe

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Inthe sweltering heat of August, our family would make the annual pilgrimage to Mabima for the church feast. Mabima Seeya’s sprawling home, a cornerstone of our family history, stood waiting. It was where my grandmother drew her first breath and later exchanged vows with my grandfather in the local church. Mabima Seeya, our family patriarch, flung open his doors to relatives near and far. The air buzzed with the chatter of granduncles, grandaunts, uncles, aunts, and cousins of every degree.

While the adults indulged in social rituals, we children were left to our devices in the vast yard. Here, Mabima Seeya introduced me to a lanky boy with an infectious smile — Leo Gamini. We were a rare commodity at these gatherings, and we teenagers soon found ourselves exploring Seeya’s garden, swapping stories of school life and boyhood adventures.

Leo Gamini

Gamini was a natural daredevil, scaling fruit trees with ease. After lunch, we ventured to the church grounds, peering into the makeshift stalls erected for the feast. In those few hours, a friendship bloomed. We exchanged addresses, promising to keep in touch and visit each other’s local feasts.

I can still see the entry in my 1971 journal: “P Manuel Perera, Gamini’s father. St. Sebastian Road, Kandana, next to the church.” Those were the days when letters to youngsters were sent in care of their fathers — hence the ubiquitous “C/O”.

Months later, I honoured my promise, visiting Gamini during the St. Sebastian feast in Kandana. The carnival atmosphere was intoxicating. We rode the Merry Go Round and Ferris Wheel to the beat of Sri Lankan pop and watched in awe as motorcyclists defied death in the wooden wall of the Pit of Death.

As night fell, we retreated to Gamini’s home, now bursting with relatives. Our sleeping quarters? A mat under the dining table in the living room. We talked until dawn broke, sleep finally claiming us.

The next day, after the festive mass, Gamini’s school friends arrived with a bottle of arrack. I hesitated, but not wanting to seem like an unsophisticated city boy, I took my first real taste of alcohol. One peg, then another. The room began to spin. Gamini’s arm around my shoulder anchored me as his friends drained the bottle. A fiery festive meal followed — rice, exotic pork, and other Sri Lankan delicacies that set my palate ablaze.

The drink overwhelmed my slight frame. Seeing my struggle, Gamini ushered me to his bed for a nap. Later, he and his friends saw me safely onto the bus home.

Two weeks later, it was my turn to play host. Gamini and my close friend, Ajit came. We revelled in the carnival atmosphere of my village feast. Feeling bold, I procured a half bottle of bootleg arrack from a local bar, flashing my neighbourhood influence despite being underage. We drank it, grimacing at its awful taste and smell.

Returning home late, we camped on the front verandah. Ajit strummed his guitar while Gamini sat silently. I sensed his discomfort, perhaps realising our social gulf, but I didn’t dwell on it. Sleep soon claimed us on the open verandah.

Four years passed, and I left Sri Lanka for Dubai’s promise. Then, in 1992, on the brink of migrating to Australia, curiosity and nostalgia led me back to Gamini’s doorstep in Kandana.

The man who greeted me bore little resemblance to the boy in my memories. Unkempt, unhealthy, and reeking of liquor, his once-bright smile now revealed blackened teeth. His speech had devolved into street dialect. The shock was palpable.

Life had dealt Gamini a cruel hand. Poverty had ravaged him and his young family of four, including a son with Down’s syndrome. Alcohol was his escape.

My heart shattered. The unfairness of our divergent paths over two decades struck me hard. But I quickly gathered myself, asking his wife what could make a difference. They needed a house on a small plot of land they owned, away from family pressures.

I offered to help build that house without hesitation. Before I left for Australia, I made arrangements with my father to oversee the project.

Leo Gamini Perera passed away fifteen years later. His daughter’s letter informed me of his death. But my small act of kindness had made a difference. His family had rebuilt their lives in their new surroundings.

Looking back, I see now the vast differences in class and outlook between Gamini and me. Yet, as a boy, I was blind to them. Gamini’s life was simpler, and his expectations were modest. But he taught me about friendship, about life’s simple joys. He even introduced me to my first sip of liquor at the cusp of adulthood — an experience I’m oddly grateful for.

Our friendship was brief, just a few interactions in our teen years. But it taught me profound lessons about life, luck, and the circumstances that shape our paths.

Thank you, Leo Gamini Perera, for being my friend. You’ll always hold a special place in my heart. That day I met you after twenty years changed me forever. You made me a better human.