Denzil's Stories

  A Santana Poster, a Song and Seventeen Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 19 hours ago It was a quiet, humid evening at Vasantha’s house, the kind we’d grown used to in Colombo’s northern suburbs. A group of us were sitting cross-legged on the floor, passing around glasses of Portello and an occasional smoke talking about parties and cassette decks, when Mahinda walked in, arms outstretched like a magician, holding a glossy poster of a band none of us had seen before. Santana. The name sounded foreign and mystical. The men in the poster looked nothing like the showbands we knew. They had long hair, wild clothes, a kind of confident disarray. There was something in their eyes — something rebellious and free. We stared, a little awestruck in this black and white poster. That poster went up on the wall immediately. Mahinda said his uncle had brought it from overseas, along with a few tapes. That evening, he played   Soul Sacrifice   and   Black Magic Woman   on a bat...

  The Essence of a Grandmother’s Presence Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 1 day ago A grandmother’s presence is a haven of warmth, woven from the unique threads of her life’s experiences, yet resonating with a universal love that lingers in the heart through cherished, fleeting moments. Picture a day as a fourteen-year-old, alone with her while your parents and siblings are away. In her kitchen, the air hums with the comforting scent of her cooking — a blend of spices and the familiar warmth of her well-worn kitchen spoons. She guides your small hands to stir a simmering pot, sharing the secrets of her recipes with a gentle smile, or crafts a dish just for you, each bite a quiet testament to her devotion. Or perhaps she leads you to her garden, where you toss grain to her chickens as she shares tales of her childhood dog from her village days. With practised ease, she peels a mango, slicing it into a mesmerising spiral, or offers a banana or a sweet lozenge, chuckling softly when yo...

  Asoka on the Footboard Denzil Jayasinghe 6 min read · 5 days ago It was a dusty afternoon in 1974, in a suburb north of Colombo. The sun hung low over tiled rooftops, casting long, tired shadows across the road. Frangipani trees shed their white petals, scattered like forgotten confetti along the path. Ajit, Roshan, and I boarded the 193 bus to Kadawatha, elbowing past schoolboys, sari-clad clerks, and sacks of vegetables that seemed to know the route better than we did. Ajit and Roshan, fresh from tuition, carried books under their arms, collars rumpled, faces etched with the scowl of mathematics. I came from apprentice school, my shirt faintly stained with the chemical tang of telex machines, hands aching with a purpose that felt real back then. The bus rattled forward with the weary sigh of old machines. Open windows invited a warm, gritty breeze, carrying diesel, tamarind, and the faint char of roadside fires, as if the day itself were smouldering. And there, balancing on the...