When a Father Let Go
When a Father Let Go
The Interview
Denzil wore his best clothes that morning — beige bell-bottom trousers, stiff with starch, an off-white shirt whose sleeves he had ironed the night before, and a colourful tie with tiny blossoms that his father had chosen from the shop on Second Cross Street. His father had held it up against Denzil’s collar and nodded with solemn approval, saying, “This one has personality. A little colour never hurts when you’re trying to impress.”
It was April 1973. Colombo was already awake when they reached Fort, the air thick with petrol fumes, sea salt, and the sharp tang of roasted peanuts from a cart at Chatham Street. His father accompanied him all the way to the Australia Building on York Street, where the Overseas Telecommunication Service — the OTS — had its head office. The building stood tall, cold, and grey, its wide steps worn by decades of footsteps, mostly of men in white shirts, pants, and black shoes.
Outside the entrance, his father paused. “Are you nervous?” he asked — not out of habit, but genuine curiosity.
Denzil shook his head. “No, Thaththa.”
And it was true. He had no fear, nor any real sense of what to expect. It was his first job interview, and he had not prepared. Confidence — that strange, unfounded confidence of the young — held him up like scaffolding.
His father smiled faintly, then touched his back with his hand, just once. “Alright then. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t forget your manners. Look them in the eye.”
And just like that, he was gone. He turned, adjusted the collar of his shirt, and walked away with the quiet purpose of a man who had no time to waste on ceremony. Back to the municipal council where he worked — a place of fraying ledgers, creaking ceiling fans, and men in sweat-dampened shirts moving paper from one side of the desk to the other with a diligence that passed for devotion.
The lift operator in the Australia Building wore a khaki uniform. He slid open the collapsible grille, nodded at Denzil to step in, and pushed the lever upward. The elevator groaned into motion. Denzil had never been in one before, and though he tried to appear unfazed, his heart thudded with each upward jolt.
The first floor was already busy. Young men in white shirts filled the corridor, some seated on benches, others standing awkwardly by the window, fanning themselves with manila folders. A few fathers had stayed back, leaning against walls, their eyes scanning every movement. There were no women. Not one. The field of science and technology, the hallowed domain of logic and machines, was still considered a man’s world in that corner of the island.
Inside the interview room, the air was cooler, the silence heavier. The panel consisted of three men: Vernon Watson, the General Manager with thick spectacles; Neil Zoysa, the Engineering Manager, who drummed his fingers on the table when he wasn’t speaking; and Elmo Pereira, the Operations Supervisor, who sat slightly back, watching with an expression neither welcoming nor hostile.
They asked clear, clipped questions in English. Denzil answered each one without hesitation. He had no idea if he was saying the right things, but he spoke as he had always spoken in college — his voice steady and neutral, his vowels rounded from years of textbooks and elocution drills.
Near the end, Zoysa leaned forward. “How come you speak such good English?”
It wasn’t a compliment. It was a probe, a challenge. Perhaps even suspicion.
Denzil hesitated. His English? It had never struck him as anything special. It was simply what he had learned, one word after another, like climbing a staircase he hadn’t known would take him anywhere.
He smiled faintly, uncertain — the kind of smile that hovers between apology and politeness. A reply stirred somewhere — I read a lot, he thought, as if that might explain it, might justify what they found surprising. But the words stayed where they were, unspoken. Instead, he let the silence answer for him, offering only that muted smile people wear when they’re not sure if explanation will help or harm.
Zoysa made a small grunt. The interview ended soon after.
That afternoon, Denzil returned to college as if nothing had happened. He told no one, not even his closest classmates.
Two weeks later, a registered letter arrived. His mother received it from the postman and placed it on the table, careful not to smudge the ink. It was from OTS. He had been selected as a Trainee Overseas Telegraphist. He was to report for duty on the 2nd of May. The starting salary was 250 rupees a month.
“Not bad,” his father said, turning the letter in his hands. “For someone who just turned eighteen.”
His father handled the correspondence, as always. The acceptance letter was typed on his old typewriter, with carbon paper between the sheets so a copy could be filed in a brown envelope with string ties. His familiar scrawl marked corrections in the margins — suggestions on phrasing, even a gentle reminder to thank them for the opportunity. All Denzil had to do was sign it. And in doing so, he signed away the last bit of boyhood he had left.
Later, he would learn he had ranked second out of the twenty-five candidates selected. He was also the youngest. Some others had better qualifications — engineering diplomas, or prior work experience. But it was not the most polished who triumphed — it was the most undaunted.
Denzil didn’t dwell on any of it. At that age, everything feels like the first chapter of a novel whose ending is too far to imagine.
Comments
Post a Comment