Denzil's Stories

  Kelaniya Rail Station A relic from the past Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 11 hours ago In 1970, twenty-two years after Ceylon shed the husks of empire, the Kelaniya Railway Station slouches by the Kandy Road, just north of the Pattiya Junction — a timeworn relic, stubbornly enduring, like damp that clings to stone. Once soaked in the sweat and ceremony of British rule, its walls stand with a quiet defiance. Their faded grandeur peels like old wallpaper, a sneer at the bright, uncertain promise of freedom. The nameboard, battered yet unbowed, announces   Kelaniya   in Sinhala, Tamil, and English — three scripts jostling for primacy in a noble and grudging gesture. But the English catch the light longest, its imperial lineage still claiming its place in the sun. Just below, in a smaller, sheepish font, the board whispers its altitude—   twelve   feet above sea level—etched   in English alone, as if the native tongues could not be trusted with such technica...

  The House That Dreamt of Other Shores Denzil Jayasinghe 8 min read · 19 hours ago C risis entered Denzil’s life early, not as a sudden storm but as a slow, persistent dampness, creeping into the corners of his childhood, into the very walls of the house where he grew up. It was a dampness no sun could ever quite chase away. In the Jayasinghe house, Catholicism lived not in the heart, but deep in the bones — worn thin by generations, a habit more than a faith, stitched into the family fabric like forgotten coins sewn into the lining of an old coat. Brittle with the years, that stoic belief could sometimes turn quietly cruel. Even when Thomas, his father, was posted to a remote, lonely town, his mother remained behind to keep the house upright — a house already sagging under burdens not her choosing. Chief among them was an old woman, her mother, whose mind had long ago wandered into places from which it could not return. Her rage moved through the house like wild weather. And Denz...

  The 261 to Wattala Morning Ride to School Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read · 2 days ago T he 261 to Wattala, scheduled to leave Mahara Junction at half-past seven, arrived early, as it always did, not with urgency, but with the unhurried certainty of an old friend who knows the morning rhythm better than any clock. It stood idling under the old jack tree near Jinadasa Stores, its metal body dulled by a permanent skin of dust. Not road dust, but the kind that settles over time and refuses to leave. The Mercedes-Benz emblem on its nose had long since lost its pride. What stood out was its red CTB emblem. Marking it is run by the Ceylon Transport Board. Sun, rain, and countless fingers had worn it smooth, less in reverence than in repetition. The St. Anthony’s boys, led by Christo, had already taken up their thrones. Brown limbs draped over cracked rexine seats, their schoolbags slouched beside them like tired dogs. They were noisy and not quiet in that way only schoolboys can be when t...