The Sunday Outing

Hathara Kendare — What the Film Forgot to Say

Denzil Jayasinghe

5 min read

·

3 hours ago

In1967, Dalugama still called itself a village, though the village had begun to dissolve at the edges. The bus from Colombo came more frequently now, its arrival bringing with it dust, city smells, and something harder to name — a restlessness, perhaps, that did not belong to the place. Men who used to cycle to work — neat, confident strokes of the pedal — now stood at the roadside with briefcases and plastic bags, already dulled by the soot clinging to their polished shoes and sandals. They waited for their CTB bus like supplicants, their movements careful, as though afraid to step out of line.

The houses remained modest: squat cement structures painted in fading shades of mint and pink, with iron and bamboo gates and chicken wire fences. Yet within those walls, every family tried to preserve a little elegance. Potted crotons on verandahs, lace-covered cane chairs. In the mornings, radios played buddhist prayers or government bulletins, and the clink of earthern pots echoed in kitchens. By afternoon, heat and silence settled over everything like a cotton blanket, heavy and suffocating, stirred only by the opening of windows to let air through or the low scrape of a chair being moved across concrete. There had been a time, not long ago, when people knew what to expect from life. But change had begun — not loud, not dramatic, just a slow rearranging of what had seemed permanent.

Around then, the Himali Cinema opened in Kiribathgoda, the closest town, a mere walking distance from Dalugama. It is a brand-new, bare and bright building with metal panel doors and red vinyl seats. Everyone called it modern, though that word felt like a foreign coin passed from hand to hand, its value never quite agreed upon. The old hall, the Myna Camp, on a hill in Dalugama, had been different. People had huddled together on wooden benches, the floor sticky underfoot, the screen flickering like a ghost’s bedsheet. But no one complained — it had been part of the charm, the imperfection that made things human. Still, no one missed it. The Himali was clean and orderly. That counted for something.

On a Sunday afternoon, Thomas took his family to the new cinema. He had planned it days before but said nothing until the morning. Then he shaved carefully, ironed his shirt, and shined his shoes till the leather looked almost new. These were quiet acts, unspoken declarations that this outing mattered. Susan dressed in her green saree, the one with the grey border that she brought out for visits and church functions. She pinned her hair back, chose the small gold studs that were once a wedding gift. She did not say much, but Thomas knew this was her way. It had always been her way. He had admired it once.

They sat in the second-class section. Thomas believed in these small calibrations, appearing neither proud nor careless. Their daughter curled against Susan’s side, her small fingers tugging gently at the saree pleats. The youngest boy drifted off almost immediately, head tilted, mouth open. The eldest sat between his parents, legs rigid, already practising a posture of adult restraint. Thomas watched them all, his eyes moving from face to face, and felt something shift inside him — not sadness, not pride, but something quieter and more complicated to name. An ache, perhaps, that came from the knowledge that time had begun to slip between his fingers.

“They’re showing Hathara Kendare,” he said, his tone gentle, almost casual. However, it was meant for the children — an offering disguised as conversation, as if the naming of the film might summon their excitement, or at least their attention.

“I saw the poster,” Susan replied. She glanced at him, then looked away.

“It’s a comedy. The children might enjoy it.”

She nodded, and that was the end of the exchange. It was enough.

He bought a packet of sweets. He asked if she was comfortable, if the children could see. His voice stayed soft and unobtrusive — like someone folding paper lanterns in the dark, careful not to tear the corners. It was not a language of love, perhaps, but a language of care, of habit worn into tenderness.

The lights dimmed. The theatre fell into the hush just before a film began, that momentary suspension of thought. The screen lit up, and the same names appeared — actors, directors, playback singers — names that had been in the credits of his youth. He felt a flicker of surprise at how little had changed. And yet everything had.

The film offered the usual absurdities: pratfalls, mistaken identities, moustachioed villains. Stanley Perera was there, his belly straining under his costume, still chasing love interests. The jokes by L. M. Perera were silly, and the audience laughed. His daughter leaned forward to catch each moment, her breath catching at the songs. Beside him, his son chuckled now and then. And Susan, once, smiled. It was a fleeting smile, faint and almost reluctant — but it came from somewhere deep, untouched by routine. And that, more than anything in the film, unsettled Thomas.

Because it suddenly, vividly reminded him of when he had first known her — a time of shyness and promise, when he had waited weeks to see that smile, had watched for it like a signal, and had imagined futures into which it might lead. That memory came back with a sweetness that hurt.

Then Rukmani Devi appeared. Older now, the lines at the corners of her eyes gentler than before, but the grace is still there. Watching her, Thomas was pulled into a time he hadn’t visited in years: himself as a young lad, sprawled under a tamarind tree with friends, speaking in hushed tones about the heroines they adored, as though beauty itself were a kind of talisman. They had thought that the world waited just ahead of them, full of possibilities. But now, as she sang onscreen, he saw it differently — that the world did not wait, it moved on. Without permission, without regret.

When the film ended, Susan gathered the children’s things. She checked their clothes, tucked stray hairs behind their ears, and made neat and practised movements. She was always like that. Thomas followed her out into the evening air, which had finally begun to cool. The stalls were closed, and the last bit of sunlight rested low over the tiled roofs.

They walked in silence, their footsteps in rhythm. Thomas felt something hollow in his chest, not precisely from sorrow. It was more like the silence left after a familiar song ends — a pause in which the listener wonders if something important was missed or if that was all there ever was.