Asoka on the Footboard

Denzil Jayasinghe

6 min read

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5 days ago

Itwas 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 footboard, stood Asoka.

One hand gripped the railing; the other dangled, trusting the wind to steady him. He wore denim trousers — blue, a rarity in a time when import bans made such items a luxury. His shirt was pressed, the collar flicked up like a question, his hair holding its defiant shape against the heat. He looked like a star from a Sinhala film, all confidence and polish.

But that day, Asoka wasn’t performing.

A few seats ahead sat a girl in her school uniform, ribbons stiff in her braids. She didn’t look up. Perhaps she never did. But he was there for her. The way he leaned, the way his eyes traced her shoulder, said everything. In those days, a glance could fuel months of silent hope. A smile — real or imagined — could become a lifelong keepsake.

Somewhere between cracked roadside stalls and whispering paddy fields, we began to talk. Maybe Ajit spoke first, his sun-bright grin breaking the quiet, or perhaps it was me, drawn to Asoka’s quiet charisma, half in admiration, half in envy.

Friendships, I’ve found, sometimes slip in quietly — like a shadow joining yours in the fading light.

Asoka welcomed me into his world. His home stood apart in our suburb, its glass front wall bold and modern. Inside, the furniture was sleek, designed for a future we hadn’t yet reached. Dixon, his father, was a chief designer at a premium furniture company, his speech measured, his thoughts gentle. His mother, a teacher, had a warmth that drew you in. She lit lamps each evening, her fingers moving with quiet rhythm. Sunil, the eldest, was loud, bold, and always mid-sentence. Sarath, nicknamed Kalu, was quick with humour and jabs, light on his feet. Manju, Asoka’s sister, was sharp-witted and never let you forget it. Sudath, the youngest, thirteen years younger than Asoka, spoke little; his large eyes drank in the world as if it might vanish.

The house pulsed with life. A stereo played softly, a constant heartbeat. We played cricket with friends in the neighbouring plot, shouting and laughing as balls rolled into gardens. No one minded. The world felt quieter then.

Beneath a mango tree stood a small shrine. Each night, Asoka’s mother offered flowers — frangipani, hibiscus — and lit an oil lamp that flickered gently. That light, I remember most, holding back the dark.

The biggest Wickremaratne event was the dane, the almsgiving. Relatives arrived from Ambalangoda, faces browned by the southern sun, hands worn by labour. Monks sat on chairs draped in white, while pots of curry and rice steamed in the backyard. I served food with trembling hands — a Catholic boy among Buddhist monks. But no one looked at me strangely. In that house, everyone belonged.

Then, the following year, came Sarath’s wedding. Kalu. A new wing was built for the couple, marriage, expansion, and hope. The ceremony wove traditions, blending faiths. We danced under paper lanterns, laughed until our sides ached. It felt like forever might be possible.

The big matches were our pilgrimages. We’d pile into Sunil’s orange Borgward, its engine coughing like an old uncle. The car groaned under too many boys, bottles clinking under seats, transistor radios crackling with cricket commentary, laughter drowning it all. We chased venues across towns, danced without rhythm in roadside cafés serving dosa on metal plates, and shouted too loudly. Sometimes fists flew in hot-headed scuffles.

Asoka, Denzil, our friends, my father Thomas and Uncle Dixon

These rare photos from the 1970s capture cherished moments of friendship and fraternity. In the first photo, all three brothers appear together — Asoka is standing, Sarath is beside my father, and Sunil is seated on the ground, surrounded by our circle of close friends. In the second photo, Sarath (Kalu Ayya) rests his hand on my father’s shoulder — a simple, powerful gesture that speaks to their deep bond. By the time these photos were taken, I had already left Sri Lanka, but the ties of friendship remained strong and enduring.

The friends’ clan had come to see me off at the airport during one of my frequent visits — every six months or so — to reconnect with family and friends. In the first photo, you can see Sunil Ayya, Mahil, and Asoka standing in front of their HiAce van — the very first HiAce ever imported into Sri Lanka, back in 1977.

Although his friend, I, was already out of Sri Lanka, Asoka continued to visit my family. In these photos, he appears alongside their family’s Borgward car, with my brother, my mother, and my father, who is seen on the Lambretta scooter.

Those adventures were youth — glorious, messy, reckless. Now, decades on, they feel like dreams of someone younger, unbroken by time.

And yet, nothing ever truly is.

In the early eighties, when I built my own home, Dixon drew the plans. He asked for nothing, delivering sketches one afternoon, drawn by hand with quiet generosity.

In the late eighties, Sunil appeared in Dubai. Older, married, but still Sunil. I picked him and his young family up in my Pajero, and we drove into the dunes, the desert swallowing the road. We talked of nothing and everything, and the years fell away like sand.

I’ve known the Wickremaratnes for over half a century. Asoka now visits Melbourne, where his daughter has settled, and I sometimes join him. Sunil and Kalu are gone — both passed too soon. I recently visited Sunil’s family in Los Angeles. Sudath — silent Sudath — is there too, grown and kind.

When I close my eyes, I see the 193 bus. I hear it's rattling. I smell tamarind on the wind. I see Asoka, clinging to the footboard, chasing a glance that rarely came.

In the end, the girl he watched married Asoka.

Those were days when the world fit inside an afternoon, when friendships needed no grand vows — just a ride, a grin, a shared secret. A boy in denim, not yet bruised by life, hoping for something soft and wordless in a girl who rarely looked up.

And that was enough.

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