The Stone-Thrower of Wattala

Tracks of Madness

Denzil Jayasinghe

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It is a short story about Nicholas, a man living in Wattala, Sri Lanka, whose mental instability leads him to antagonise local schoolboys. Through Nicholas's tragic tale, the story explores themes of madness, societal cruelty, and the inevitability of fate.

Aman named Nicholas lived in the heart of Wattala, where the sun blazed down mercilessly. His house stood close to the bustling Railway station, where time seemed to slow down, and the air carried the scent of distant adventures. But Nicholas was no ordinary man. Like a kite caught in a storm, his mind fluttered between sanity and madness.

Every morning, as the schoolboys marched past his house on their way to St. Anthony’s College, Nicholas would emerge from his doorway. His eyes, wild and bloodshot, fixed upon the innocent faces. The boys, sensing danger, would quicken their pace, but Nicholas was relentless. He would hurl insults at them, words that stung like nettles. In return, the boys — those mischievous birds of youth — hooted back, their laughter echoing through the narrow lanes.

“Pissa!” they called him, a name that clung to him like a curse. Mad man. Nicholas wore it like a badge of honour, his tattered shirt flapping in the wind. And so, the battle began — a silent war between the boys and the stone-thrower.

Stones, smooth and heavy, became Nicholas’s weapons. He scavenged them from the railway tracks, where they lay like forgotten memories. As the boys passed, he would fling them precisely, aiming for their heels or heads. Nimble as squirrels, the boys dodged and ducked, their laughter ringing like temple bells.

I watched this peculiar drama from a safe distance. My schoolbooks were forgotten, and I marvelled at the absurdity of it all. With his unkempt beard and wild eyes, Nicholas seemed tragic and comical. What had twisted his mind? What ghosts haunted him?

One fateful day, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the tracks. Nicholas stood there, stones clutched in his trembling hands. The boys approached, their voices rising in anticipation. Barbs were exchanged — the usual banter — but something snapped within Nicholas this time.

He hurled the stones, not at their feet, but directly at their hearts. The boys scattered, their laughter replaced by fear. Nicholas, oblivious to the world, stepped onto the tracks. The ground trembled beneath him, and he looked up, eyes wide.

The train hurtled toward him — a metallic beast with no regard for madmen or their delusions. Nicholas’s mind, already fractured, failed to register the danger. He stood there, arms outstretched, as if challenging fate itself.

The impact was swift and brutal. The train’s front engine struck him, and Nicholas’s head — severed from his body — flew like a broken kite. The boys, drawn by morbid curiosity, gathered around. They saw the head, still animated, rolling and spinning on the tracks. Death had not silenced Nicholas; it had merely unshackled him.

News spread like wildfire. Our school buzzed with whispers — the tragedy of the stone-thrower, the severed head that defied death. Nicholas became a legend, a cautionary tale for the boys who dared mock him. And I, too, carried the memory — the absurdity of life, the fragility of sanity, and the train that cared not for our human follies.

Note: In the quiet corners of Wattala, they said that Nicholas’s head haunted the railway tracks, seeking answers to questions only madness can ask.