Shifting Sands, Solid Ground:

A Journey of Homes

Denzil Jayasinghe

3 min read

Colombo, Ceylon, mid-fifties. My first breath was a fragile gasp in the sterile, somehow comforting, De Soysa Maternity Hospital on Kynsey Road. Three days later, the world shifted. I was swaddled, a tiny parcel of new life, and carried to 69 Kandy Road, Dalugama, Kelaniya. This wasn’t just a house; it was the echo of generations, my father’s ancestral home, built with the calloused hands of my grandparents. The scent of wood polish and Kadayamma’s spice-infused cooking clung to the walls. In the gentle hum of family life, it was here that I first felt the warmth of belonging. The house, soon christened “Denzil,” became more than a dwelling; it was a promise, a legacy waiting to unfold.

Then, at four, the familiar walls of “Denzil” receded, replaced by the boundless expanse of 248, Mudiyansegewatta. My maternal grandmother’s ancestral land was a world without the hum of electric lights but alive with the symphony of crickets and rustling leaves. Leaving the semi-urban comfort of Kandy Road, I plunged into village life, a realm of open skies and untamed freedom. Each day was a canvas of exploration, climbing mango trees, chasing fireflies in the twilight, and building forts in the tall grass. Under the vast, star-studded sky, it was here that my childhood and teenage years took root, a time etched in my soul with the indelible ink of pure, unadulterated joy.

The rhythm of village life shifted again as I entered my teens. Boarding schools, first in Wattala, then in Mutwal, became temporary homes. The clang of school bells replaced the rustling leaves, and the scent of the sea mingled with the chalk dust of classrooms. Holidays were brief returns to Mudiyansegewatta, a bittersweet taste of freedom before the school gates closed again.

Then, Dubai. The desert sun, a stark contrast to Ceylon’s lush green, beat down on my new reality. The Inter-Continental Hotel, then the bank, provided jobs but not a home. Rashidiya, then Sharjah — each address a temporary foothold in a land of sand and ambition. The first Arabic villa was a furnace of sand and heat, a jarring introduction to a world so different from mine. Later, the apartment in Sharjah became a haven shared with fellow exiles, each chasing their dreams. I financed the building of my parent’s new home back in Mudiyansegewatta. A modern house, a way to give back, and a sense of pride.

Marriage, children, and a constant quest for space: the cramped apartment near Al Ghubaiba Road, then the more prominent Al Moosa Building, and finally, the family home in Satwa. Each move marked a new chapter, a new stage of life. But the foundations were shifting.

Australia. A new continent, a new beginning. 5, Tully Place, Quakers Hill, a cramped introduction to migrant life. Then, 179A, Farnham Road, where our fourth child was born. The joy of building our own home in Glenwood, 5 bedrooms, symbolises our new start. 52, Diamond Avenue, a temporary rental, while 15 Kenford Circuit, a gated community dream, rose from the earth.

The dream shattered. A legal settlement, a parting of ways. The vast spaces of Kenford Circuit became a lonely echo. A simple apartment in Merrylands, a stark contrast to the family home. Then, Turramurra, a step towards rebuilding. 13 Estuary Crescent, The Ponds, a new house, a new partner. Then, the house in North Kellyville, 22 Welford Circuit, a brief moment of stability.

The cycle continued. 52 Overly Crescent, Schofields, a rented townhouse, a pause before the next chapter. Then, I went to 3 Waley Street, Marsden Park, my creation, and every design element was mine. A cozy two-story house, a reflection of my evolving self.

Looking ahead, an apartment near a Metro station, a simpler life and a place for my six grandkids to hangout (without their parents). The addresses, the houses, they are more than just places. They are the markers of a journey, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, a constant search for home in a world of shifting sands.