Threads of Time: A Colombo Chronicle

The Unbroken Chord: From Galle Face to Norfolk County

Denzil Jayasinghe

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“Threads of Time: A Colombo Chronicle” is a personal essay by Denzil Jayasinghe, reflecting on his lifelong friendship with Nimal. Denzil recounts their shared youth in Colombo, Sri Lanka, highlighting Nimal’s positive influence and the adventures they shared. Despite geographical distance and time, their bond endures, strengthened by shared values and intellectual compatibility. Now, in their later years, they rediscover the depth of their connection, appreciating both the unchanging core of their friendship and the ways they’ve grown individually. The essay is a testament to the enduring power of human connection that transcends time and distance.

The tapestry of memory unfolds before me, each thread a testament to a friendship that has weathered the storms of time. Here I sit in the quiet corner of Norfolk County, Ontario, my salt-and-pepper hair a stark reminder of the years that have passed since those halcyon days in Colombo.

Nimal, my buddy, friend, mate and companion in this sojourn of reminiscence, was once the sun around which my youthful world revolved. He stood as an unwavering pillar of certainty in the turbulent landscape of our teenage darings in Sri Lanka. Time seemed to bend to his will, his punctuality bordering on the mystical. His smile, ah, that smile — it was a force of nature, wide and brilliant, spreading across his face like the first rays of dawn breaking over the Indian Ocean. It lit up the grimy corners and bustling streets of our Colombo, infecting all who witnessed it with an inexplicable optimism.

In those days, I was a confused kid, unaware of the void within me, a hollow space carved by insecurity and self-doubt. But Nimal, with his unwavering presence, filled that emptiness without either of us realising it. He was the counterweight to my hesitation, the yang to my yin in the delicate balance of our friendship.

Bravery cloaked him like a second skin. I remember when rowdy lads from a rival school cornered us in a narrow gully. Nimal stepped forward, his eyes, usually dancing with mirth, hardening into volcanic lava. “You’ll have to go through me first,” he said, his voice steady as the ticking of his ever-present watch. And though he was outnumbered, something in his stance made them pause, then retreat, muttering empty threats.

Nimal’s world enveloped me like the warm embrace of a familiar blanket. He ushered me into the intricate tapestry of his life with boundless generosity. His friends became my friends, their faces and names etching themselves into the chronicle of my youth. His parents, with their well-worn hands and kind eyes, welcomed me as if I were another son returned from a long journey.

The heart of their home was the dining table, a sturdy wooden affair scarred by years of use. I found my place there, not as a guest but as a family. The aromatic curries, the steam rising from freshly cooked rice, and the sharp tang of pickles became the flavours of belonging. I bathed in their well and drank their cow’s milk, and his younger brothers became my own. In turn, my little brother found in them the camaraderie of spirits unbound by blood.

Our youth was a symphony of shared adventures. We got caught by the police, and three kids were riding on my scooter, which Nimal confidently steered. We sported the fashionable ‘shaggy’ haircuts of the seventies, courtesy of the coolest hairdresser in the country — another of Nimal’s discoveries. We raced along Galle Face Green, ignoring speed limits and even daring to venture onto the wrong side of the road, our laughter carried away by the sea breeze.

With Nimal, there was no negativity, no gossip or useless chatter. Everything was positive, reliability baked into his very being. He was everything a young, confused friend could need — a beacon of courage in the often dark and confusing maze of youthful bluster.

Nimal and Denzil on this photo

As life pulled us in different directions, scattering us like seeds in the wind, I found myself on the sun-baked shores of Australia while Nimal made his home in the vast expanse of Canada. For decades, our connection hung by the tenuous thread of occasional letters and a phone call — fragments of our lives crossing oceans and continents. The weight of our twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties pressed upon us, leaving little room for the luxury of reminiscence.

Yet, even as our paths diverged, the memories of those days remained a wellspring of strength. When opportunity knocked in the form of a job offer from Dubai in our early days, I thought of Nimal first. The prospect of working together in a foreign land filled me with excitement. But fate, that capricious playwright, had other plans. A logistical tangle kept Nimal rooted in place while I ventured forth alone.

Time, in its infinite wisdom, has brought full circle what once was separated. The modern age, with its marvels of instantaneous communication and affordable travel, has bridged the gap that years and miles have created. And so, here we are, rediscovering the bonds of our shared past, our friendship a testament to the enduring power of human connection.

As we sit here, grey-haired and wrinkled, I marvel at the enduring nature of our kinship. It’s as if the decades that stretched between us have suddenly compressed into insignificance. We still think in tandem, our minds moving in a synchronicity that defies the years of separation. The easy flow of our conversation, devoid of meaningless prattle, is a testament to the depth of our connection.

Our shared scepticism towards established religions, once a rebellious stance in our conservative upbringing, has mellowed into quiet, rational atheism. We approach the divine with the cool logic of scientists, finding wonder in the observable universe rather than in ancient texts or ornate rituals.

The clarity of thought that marked Nimal in our youth has only sharpened with age. His arguments are still razor-edged, cutting through obfuscation with surgical precision. And I find my thoughts mirroring his, our minds two sides of the same logical coin.

We laugh about how we’ve become bolder in our attitudes, no longer constrained by the social niceties that often stifled us in our younger days. Age has granted us the freedom to be unapologetically ourselves.

Yet, for all our unchanged essence, we are not the same boys who once raced recklessly along Galle Face Green. We have grown, adapted, transformed. Like chameleons, we have taken on the hues of our adopted lands. I speak of Australia with the same fierce pride that colours Nimal’s voice when discussing Canada. We have embraced these countries wholly, and our Sri Lankan roots are now entwined with maple leaves and eucalyptus.

It’s a peculiar alchemy, this blend of the unchanged and the evolved. We are at once the same and utterly different like a familiar melody played on new instruments. As we sit here in Waterford, in Norfolk County, Ontario, Canada, trading thoughts and memories, I feel a profound gratitude for this friendship that has withstood the test of time and distance.

In Nimal’s eyes, I see reflected the same wonder I feel — that we can still connect so seamlessly after all these years and experiences. It’s as if we’ve been engaged in a decades-long conversation and picked up where we left off, our minds still in perfect harmony.

I pondered how people are so alike, no matter how far apart. I have two tattoos, and he has two tattoos. It’s funny how these things travel. Like a story passed from one town to another, changing a little each time but keeping its heart intact.

His daughter has her father’s handwriting etched permanently on her skin. I couldn’t help but chuckle at this; two of my daughters have done the same. There they are, walking around with a piece of me always with them, just as Nimal’s daughter does with him.

It’s these little things, you see, that make you wonder. Here we are, Nimal and I, living in what might as well be two different planets. Yet, somehow, our lives rhyme. It’s as if an invisible thread connects us, weaving patterns we can’t always see but can certainly feel.

Perhaps that’s the beauty of it all. In this vast, often bewildering world, we find comfort in unexpected echoes of familiarity. They remind us that we’re all part of the same grand, mysterious story, no matter where we are.