Dushyanthi: A Glimpse of Grace
Dushyanthi: A Glimpse of Grace
A Boy from the Bus Stop
Itbegan 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 there. I once realised that my monthly expenses — fees and all — amounted to more than what it cost to run our household. I never spoke of this to anyone. It was the sort of thing you wrote in a diary, or quietly thanked your father for in your heart.
In those early weeks, I felt misplaced — too young, raw, and unsure. But I was not alone. There were others like me. Errol, who still wore shorts to class. Tyrone, impossibly tall and quiet. And Carlyle, who always had a joke. We found comfort in each other. Quintus joined us later, a cheerful fellow whose family made sweets.
Then came Dushyanthi.
She entered our lives like a secret whispered in sunlight. She was beautiful — the kind of beauty you didn’t describe out loud, for fear it would sound foolish. She wore bright bell-bottoms, never the same twice, and always had a touch of something unplaceable — a perfume of confidence, perhaps, or just kindness. Her car, a black Mercedes with a uniformed driver, seemed to glide into the college gates like something out of a different life.
And yet, somehow, she noticed me.
Perhaps it was Economics that drew us together — the muddle of theories and charts, which I never quite understood. Our lecturer droned on endlessly, and I often found myself lost. She saw my confusion, I think, and one afternoon, offered to explain a few things. That’s how it began — sitting on a low wall in the sun, talking about supply and demand.
We became friends, though I never dared call it that to anyone. I didn’t quite know what to call it. She was gentle with me, never once making me feel out of place. She spoke with clarity, and from her, I picked up better English, and a quiet confidence I hadn’t known I needed.
Her home was on Rosemead Place, in Colombo 7 — a name that sounded like a dream. One day, during the holidays, she invited me there. I arrived in my best shirt, travelling by bus, and found myself standing in front of a white mansion with columns and bougainvillea. Inside, I met her mother, gracious and warm, and her younger brother, my age. For a brief while, I felt like I belonged to that world — one of light and laughter, cool marble floors and tall windows.
We had many such afternoons, in the classroom and outside it. I was hopelessly infatuated, though I never said it. She was engaged — I knew that from the start. Her fiancé would sometimes arrive in yet another sleek car to pick her up. I knew my place. I was just a friend — one she trusted, and one who silently adored her from the shadows.
I remember once riding in her car, too shy to speak. She said something about “cons”, and I nodded, pretending to understand. That night, I scoured my dictionary. I couldn’t find the word. I wrote in my diary — Smile with me tomorrow. Don’t think I’m stupid. It was a boy’s cry, soft and foolish and sincere.
Then, quite suddenly, she stopped coming to Aquinas.
No explanation. No goodbye. Just a blank where she used to be.
Time, like a polite librarian, moved us all along. I buried myself in books, passed my exams, and took a job that opened the doors to a larger life. A few short years later, I left Sri Lanka for good.
But I never forgot her.
Decades passed. I built a life. But sometimes, in the quiet of a train journey or a rainy afternoon, I would wonder where she had gone. Once, I searched for her name online. Nothing. Not a trace.
In 2017, I returned to Colombo and went to Rosemead Place. Her house was gone. Smaller, newer homes stood in its place with high gates and quiet driveways. No one knew the Rajiyahs anymore.
Perhaps she married and moved abroad. Maybe the war, so cruel and indifferent, swept her away like it did so many others. She was Tamil, and even privilege was not always protection. I don’t know. I suppose I never will.
But wherever she is — if she’s still there — I hope she’s well. I hope she remembers the boy who didn’t know what “cons” meant and who watched her walk through sunlight like a blessing.
And if she doesn’t, that’s all right too. Some people enter our lives like a quiet song. They do not stay long. But the melody lingers.
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