The Displaced Keyring

The Lad with the Empty Pocket

“The Displaced Keyring. The Lad with the Empty Pocket” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe. The story follows Denzil, a young Sri Lankan man who experiences anxiety after potentially misplacing his luggage keys during a flight from Colombo to Dubai. This incident represents a deeper fear of losing his identity as he navigates a new life as an expatriate. Through a moment of kindness from an airport worker and the rediscovery of his keys, Denzil finds reassurance and a renewed appreciation for the connections to home that ground him in his new surroundings.

The Colombo-born Denzil, now a reluctant and inexperienced expatriate, felt the weight of departure settle upon him like the monsoon rains on Kandy Road. Even at 30,000 feet, the essence of Colombo clung to him, a persistent reminder of the fortnight spent in the embrace of his ancestral land. The days had unravelled with the swiftness of cotton threads from his mother’s bed sheets — family gatherings filled with the aroma of coconut sambal and hoppers, impromptu games and trips with friends, and furtive glances exchanged with girls that he fancied on the pews of his village church.

Now, ensconced in the confines of the Singapore Air flight bound for Dubai, Denzil was adrift in the disparate space between worlds. The year was 1977, a time of transition for many like him, caught in the ebb and flow of migration. On the three-and-a-half-hour flight, he was melancholic and disoriented after his brief holiday of two weeks with his loved ones, falling asleep as he struggled with the idea of leaving his parents, his little brother, and his friends, who gave him joy. The cabin’s monotonous drone offered no solace, merely amplifying the sense of displacement that had become his constant companion.

As the aircraft descended into Dubai’s harsh, sun-bleached landscape, Denzil felt the abrupt shift from Colombo’s embrace to the unfamiliar efficiency of the Gulf. The modest airport’s air-conditioned indifference contrasted with the comforting warmth he had left behind. With a mixture of relief and trepidation, he disembarked, his mind already reaching for the content of the black Monarch suitcase that held his meagre treasures — his mother’s carefully wrapped sweets, a pair of boxer shorts worn smooth by countless nights, an address book bearing the details of boyhood friends, and a delicate animal tooth necklace from Nimal, still carrying the whisper of his fingertips.

But as his hand sought the familiar contours of his key ring, a cold dread, reminiscent of the chill that settles over Galle Face Green on a January evening, crept through him. Except for his father’s handkerchief, the trouser pocket was empty, devoid of the talisman that would unlock his belongings and, by extension, his identity in this foreign land.

A knot of worry tightened in Denzil’s stomach, a familiar feeling these days. Misplaced keys. How could they be misplaced? He replayed the scene in his mind — the worn Monarch suitcase, its brass clasps stubborn as ever. He’d wrestled it shut with his brother’s help, shoving clothes in with practised efficiency. They’d said their prayers, the usual litany before the faded plaster saints, Jesus and Mary gazing down with their serene, slightly chipped smiles. His father, bless his methodical soul, had double-checked — passport, tickets, keys. Denzil had patted his pockets then, a comforting jingle against his thigh. And then, into Asoka’s Hi-Ace van he’d climbed, the Sri Lankan heat already clinging to the air.

The worry gnawed at him, a dull ache that threatened to bloom into full-blown panic. The crisp new novels, his mother’s carefully wrapped sweets, ridiculous gifts, and keepsakes were all potentially lost to the abyss of misplaced keys to his luggage.

In that moment of panic, a memory of a simpler time in Sri Lanka surfaced — clear as the waters off Mount Lavinia beach. It was a time when a misplaced key was an invitation for community, not cause for alarm, when neighbours would gather, armed with borrowed tools and steaming cups of tea, to solve such minor crises.

Encouraged by his memory, Denzil made his way to one of the airport officers, winding through the airport’s maze-like hallways with a single-minded focus. The Emirati attendant smiled kindly, noticing his worried expression and directed him back to the plane on the tarmac.

Denzil raced down to the ground level from the spiral stairs and across the airfield without hesitation. He swiftly ascended the boarding stairs to the waiting Boeing 747. Finding the crew still preparing to disembark, he explained his return, citing the need to search for his lost keys.

To Denzil’s amazement and relief, the errant key ring was found wedged between the seats. As relief coursed through him, Denzil felt a smile spread across his face — as rare and precious as a breeze in May.

With his keys secured and his connection to home restored, he made his way again through immigration counters to the baggage claim, prepared to face his life again in Dubai. He was a little wiser now, a little more attuned to the precariousness of his position in this world of perpetual motion. Yet he also carried a renewed appreciation for the small mercies — a recovered key ring, a moment of kindness, a memory of home — that could unlock entire worlds of belonging in this strange new land he would now call home.