Caught Between Worlds:

The Peeling of Tradition

Denzil Jayasinghe

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A short story excerpt set against the backdrop of a politically turbulent 1973 Colombo, the story follows Denzil, a young man grappling with the expectations of his traditional family and his desires. In his father’s office, a place of order and stability, Denzil faces his father’s concern over his withdrawn demeanour and his mother’s disapproval of his choices. The story highlights Denzil’s internal conflict as he navigates the chasm between duty and personal yearning, mirroring the changing sociopolitical landscape of Sri Lanka.

The smell of Colombo hung thick in the air that July afternoon in ’73. Curry leaves and cinnamon wrestled with the pungent tang of protest signs. The city simmered, just like the political unrest that choked the streets. Me, Denzil, I weaved through the throng, feeling as lost as the city itself.

1973 was a year in which I was caught between two worlds, much like myself. The echoes of British rule still clung to the buildings, but a new kind of restlessness crackled in the air. It mirrored my turmoil, this constant clash between what they expected and what I craved.

I was at Father's office just as the day’s heat waned. The place was a portrait of order, everything in its proper place, just like the man himself. Father, all crisp shirts and glasses, looked up from his ledgers. A flicker of warmth, a rare thawing in his usual stoicism, crossed his face when he saw me. It wasn’t much, but in our family, a raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

A silent exchange passed between us, ending with a subtle nod from Father towards the peon. The man, all-knowing, nodded and practised efficiency, hurried to get my usual cuppa. There was a comforting familiarity in that little ritual amidst the chaos of the outside world.

The office itself started to wind down as the afternoon wore on. The clerks moved slower, the clatter of typewriters a soothing lullaby. I sank into the familiar wooden chair opposite Father, the steaming cup warming my hands. The sweet scent of Ceylon tea, both nostalgic and confining, filled the air.

Father leaned forward, his hand reaching across the vast desk — a physical symbol of the gap that sometimes stretched between us. His fingers, rough from years of holding pens, closed around my wrist. Worry etched itself onto his face as he looked me up and down.

“You’re fading away, son,” he mumbled, a mix of concern and a light scolding in his voice. “When was the last proper meal you had?”

I looked out the window, trying to avoid his gaze. Heavy with expectation, his words settled on my shoulders like a damp towel. The air grew thick with unspoken words, with the weight of tradition pressing down on me. I longed to throw it off, like the beads of sweat dripping down my face. “Maybe that’s just who I am,” I thought, the words stuck in my throat like a stubborn fishbone.

Undeterred by my silence, Father took off his glasses, the click of a punctuation mark in the tense silence. His bare eyes, usually hidden behind a shield of glass, held mine with an intensity that made me squirm.

“Your Mother,” he started, his voice softening like butter left out too long, “needs your understanding. And your brother and sister… they look up to you. You've got to be their anchor in these crazy times. Don’t argue with her, alright?”

The heat outside was stifling, but the thought of home, of the simmering tension between me and Mother, sent a shiver down my spine. I was caught between duty and desire, mirroring the island, torn between the old ways and the pull of something new.

The ceiling fan stirred the heavy air, casting dancing shadows on the files and faded maps that lined the walls. My mind was a whirl of questions. Why did Mother push me away so much? How could I be the son they wanted and still be myself?

Suspended between the past and a future that was anything but straightforward, I felt the weight of my situation. I was a young man in a young nation, both of us searching for who we were supposed to be.