The tree at Mudiyansegewatta

Fairy lights in December

6 min read13 hours ago

At248 Mudiyansegewatta, the Christmas preparations followed their familiar logic — part ritual, part rebellion against the passing year. A green dwarf bamboo tree, its twigs cut that morning from the paddy field with the help of the next-door neighbour, Linton, had been planted in an old flower pot.

From its branches hung the relics of years gone by — greeting cards from teachers and school friends who had not so long ago since vanished into silence, their messages yellowed and edges curled with the brittleness of memory; tiny Majorette dinky cars, French-made and once gleaming, ferried home from Dubai in Denzil’s suitcase as penance for a childhood denied; and glass baubles dulled with dust, their colours faded into soft, nameless tones — shades that now spoke only in the language of forgetting.

The fairy lights — those, too, had their story. Imported from Dubai, carried in Denzil’s Eminent, Taiwanese-made suitcase, bought at the price of ten Dirhams — they now blinked with the mild confusion of old wiring, reds stuttering into greens, blues skipping their turn. But once lit, the whole house seemed transformed — less like the worn house it was, more like something imagined in a song. The heat outside became irrelevant, the mosquitoes disappeared, and the political tensions of ’77 with a rightist junta government melted into the background like the faint hum of a radio left on in another room.

Denzil’s mother, Susan, stood at the door of the parents’ bedroom, holding a damp napkin in one hand, her frock tucked at the waist. “Yes, yes, very pretty,” she said, not unkindly. “But what people forget is, come January sixth, someone has to sort this mess out. All of it. Carefully back into their little cardboard boxes. The balls in old newspapers, the wires untangled, and the cards flattened. A job fit for punishment.”

Denzil pretended not to hear it. He was stretched out on the old red settee, wearing his white shorts stitched by Kalu Mahattaya, his private tailor. The TDK pedestal fan wheezed beside him, doing very little.

“Mother,” he murmured, not quite opening his eyes, “must we pack everything up this time? I’m leaving on the third. Let them be, leave them out. It’s always so quiet once they’re gone. Like the house has been emptied of some spirit. I plan to be back next year, I promise you.”

Susan raised her eyebrows but said nothing. She looked at the fairy lights, their slow, uncertain flicker reflected in the glass of the cabinet door. There was no honest reply to give. After a few seconds, she turned and walked back toward the kitchen, muttering about dust and how people were very good at leaving things behind — but not so good at putting them away correctly. She then smiled and thought, “ This boy of mine has come only for two weeks, let him do what he likes. Let him enjoy his temporary holiday.

The next morning, Denzil surveyed his handiwork and decided it needed improvement. The cards and ornaments were perfect, but the lighting was woefully inadequate. The family hall’s illumination came from a solitary bulb hanging a few yards away. That wouldn’t do. Not now, not with the house expecting joy. He resolved to get his friend Nimal to help — a proper ornamental line of coloured bulbs beneath the tree, something bright and festive, something that would transform the dull hall into something unique in all of Dalugama.

He brought Nimal over that very afternoon.

Nimal, known among friends as “Master Fix-it,” was the sort of friend every boy dreamed of having. Denzil trusted him completely — he’d seen him bring dead dynamos to life, restore electric bells, even coax erratic transistor sets into song. Though Nimal worked at the Chartered Bank, his real talents showed not at a desk, but in the odd assortment of tools he carried in a biscuit tin. He valued friendships more than job titles.

Rohitha, Denzil’s younger brother, hovered nearby, eyes wide with anticipation. “It’s going to beat everyone in Mudiyansegewatta,” he said, nearly dancing with excitement. “It’s going to be the best Christmas tree in the neighbourhood.”

Nimal smiled modestly and got to work. With a spanner and a scrap of wire, he created a new circuit, installed an independent switch, and carefully arranged the coloured bulbs. The bamboo tree came to life in no time, twinkling with bluish, greenish, and reddish lights, dancing in the late afternoon shadow.

“When you switch it on in the evening, do it carefully,” Nimal instructed.

Thanks to Nimal, Denzil experienced a quiet triumph. He stood before the glowing tree, hands on hips, his heart full. He had done it. He had brought a measure of beauty into the old house, something of his own making, a memory to leave behind.

“This is wonderful,” he said, his voice almost reverent, as though he’d managed to return something sacred to the home he had to leave again too soon.

That evening, Denzil’s closest friends came over — Asoka, Raja, Mahil, and his younger brother Dayal. These boys and Nimal had known him since leaving school, joined him at music shows, defended cricket scores, shared heartbreaks, got into fights and quietly had a drink and the odd smoke. That they were Buddhist and he, Catholic, made no difference. If anything, their presence made the evening feel fuller, a quiet, unspoken testament to the old bonds that still held, despite time, distance, or doctrine.

Together, they fussed over the final touches — readjusting the glass baubles, securing the fairy light wires, and repositioning the greeting cards for the best effect. Mahil found an old string of bells and insisted it go near the door. They laughed, teased, and stood back to admire. Even Nimal, his shirt now damp with sweat but his mood content, knew his effort had found its place in the night.

Denzil, thrilled with their joy, opened his liquor bottles — Cutty Sark, Johnnie Walker, Dimple, and Ballantine’s — lined them up like trophies on the coffee table. He even pulled out a packet of gold-coloured Benson & Hedges cigarettes from the two cartons he had brought duty-free from Dubai. There was no ceremony, no speeches, just a shared, boyhood ease — the kind that sits low in the stomach and says, This is enough.

Seeing the gathering and sensing its quiet importance, his mother agreed to make a quick dinner for the boys — fish curry, a reheated dhal curry, and plain rice with leftover lime chutney. They took over the family hall, glasses in hand, smoke curling lazily to the ceiling, and Denzil sat among them, one leg on the coffee table, laughing and drinking with the easy confidence of someone who had, for a brief moment, anchored himself fully in the place he came from.

And for that one evening, under blinking fairy lights, between mouthfuls of warm food and the murmur of remembered jokes, it felt like he had never left.