Denzil's Stories

  The Quiet Resolve of Thomas Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read · Just now In the gentle hush of forgotten mornings, before the village stirred and the crows began their quarrels on the rooftops, my father, Thomas, would already be awake. His feet would find the cold floor without hesitation, the way a tree knows its roots. He was never one to complain. It wasn’t in his nature, and the world he was born into did not offer the luxury. His father died when he was fifteen. A leg wound, a minor illness, no warning. He had made tea in the back kitchen that morning, and by nightfall, he was gone. Sometimes, childhood ends not with a birthday or a graduation, but with the silence that follows an empty chair. After that, Thomas began living between the moments. He woke early to sweep the porch, arrange tins of lentils and soap cakes, and help his mother lift crates meant for stronger arms. Then he’d dash off to school, carrying his weariness like a second satchel. He lived behind the village sh...

  The quiet courage of a boy A suitcase and a spine Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · Just now In the gentle hills where some boys learn to grow up too soon, Denzil grew up differently. Not with the soft cotton of comfort, but with something coarser — rough homespun — stitched with hardship, and a quiet kind of defiance that comes not from anger, but from knowing one must go on. At twelve, when most boys still chased dragonflies and skinned their knees, Denzil walked into a Christian Brothers school, a place wrapped in promises but cloaked in silence. There, in the long shadow of the chapel and the echoing dormitories, he learned that cruelty sometimes wore a cassock. But he didn’t let the darkness devour him. No, one morning, just as the crows were stirring and the mist still curled around the frangipani bushes, he packed a small suitcase and walked out. Not with loud declarations, but with a kind of grace. That, I’ve always believed, is the real face of courage. Later, he returned —...

  Dushyanthi: A Glimpse of Grace A Boy from the Bus Stop Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · 1 hour ago It began a new chapter — not in the grand sense of adventure, but in the quiet, uncertain way that most things begin in youth. I had just joined Aquinas University College in Colombo, a name that carried the weight of prestige, although to me, it was simply a strange new world. I was seventeen plus, from a modest household, and the only vehicle I had ever owned was a second-hand bicycle. Most of the other students arrived in their own cars, and some even drove themselves. I arrived by bus, usually a little breathless from the walk. This was my first time studying alongside girls. Up until then, I had known only the jostle and rough camaraderie of boys’ schools. At Aquinas, things were different—the classrooms were brighter, the conversations softer, and something about the place made me feel small, like a boy in a coat too large for him. My father must have made sacrifices to send me ...