Hamlet: A Memory of Youth
Hamlet: A Memory of Youth
The hum of the bus, the sticky vinyl seats, the familiar scent of exhaust and something vaguely sweet — it all melts away, and my mind drifts. It’s not just a memory; it’s a living, breathing thing, as fresh as the morning dew on a spider’s silk, pulling me back to the first time our paths crossed, Hamlet’s and mine. Sixteen years old, both of us, bound by the crisp white shirts and proper trousers of our school uniforms. And then, there he was, this boy named Hamlet. Hamlet Fonseka.
A name that snagged in my mind, a theatrical whisper in the mundane everyday. It was the first time I’d met someone plucked straight from Shakespeare’s pages. And he looked the part, too, in his own way — light-skinned, tall, with hair like polished obsidian, and a straight nose that served as a perfect pedestal for a friendly smile. And that voice? A husky murmur, a quirky flourish that added another layer to the enigma that was Hamlet.
We were kids of an age where happiness was a default setting and fun with friends was the only currency that mattered. It didn’t take long for our worlds to intertwine, our laughter echoing in the afternoons.
That first visit to Hamlet’s home wasn’t just a trip; it was an expedition. No grand expectations, just a boundless curiosity, a keen desire to peel back the layers of my own world and peek into another. As I got closer, a symphony of sounds greeted me — the faint lilt of laughter, the tinny murmur of a radio. Then, the bamboo gate creaked open, and there he was, Hamlet, his eyes sparkling with a warmth that could melt ice, his voice a soft, gentle embrace of genuine affection.
I stepped inside. His home was a revelation. It wasn’t like any house I’d known. A patchwork, a mosaic of a dwelling, built not to a blueprint but to a life lived. Wooden planks, bricks, zinc sheets — it was an organic growth, a spontaneous sprawl around an open water well and a rudimentary toilet. Their space was tight, a stone’s throw from what used to be a sweet potato patch.
With my ‘anything goes’ philosophy firmly in place, this was nothing short of novel. Simple, yes, but overflowing with life and laughter. The joyful clamour of Hamlet’s younger siblings, Hamilton, Floreen, and Maureen, bounced off the walls. And Margaret Aunty, Hamlet’s mother, a whirlwind of motion in the kitchen, her own laughter and chatter weaving into the joyous din. I was just there, soaking it all in, caught in the current of their natural, boisterous warmth.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues, I was about to make my exit. Just then, Hector Uncle, Hamlet’s father, walked in, the weary lines of a day’s work etched on his face, a cigarette dangling from his fingers.
That image, that sense of a magical place, of Hamlet’s home, cycling back under the fading light, it imprinted itself on me. I knew, with a certainty that only youth can possess, that I would always be welcome. And just like that, our friendship deepened, and I became a fixture, a regular ghost in the Fonsekas’ bustling machine. They lived for the moment, all spontaneity and open-air chatter, lives laid bare for all to see.
Afternoons were a blur of games with Hamlet and the neighbourhood kids, the distant munching of a neighbour’s cow grazing their patch of green a constant backdrop. Some nights, if I managed to wrangle a reluctant ‘yes’ from my ever-watchful mother, I’d stay over. The three of us — Hamlet, Hamilton, and I — would carve out our corners on rickety beds, a meagre share of linen and pillows, then wake to the simple joy of bread and dhal before I’d cycle home, ready to do it all again.
Their home was a revolving door of characters. Doreen, Hamlet’s elder sister, was already betrothed to Patrick, who was as much a part of the furniture as anyone. Noel, Hamlet’s cousin, nestled in among them. A lovely, chaotic hotchpotch, dominated by the vibrant energy of youth.
And then, the annual church feast, a pilgrimage to Noel’s family home in Moratuwa, some twenty kilometres away. For the Fonsekas, this was the epicentre of celebration. The air thrummed with energy, thick with the tantalising aroma of exotic delights — sizzling pork, fried everything. No wonder I was one of them, lost in the joyful throng on the southern coast of Sri Lanka. The adults, ever vigilant, kept a hawk’s eye on us boys, lest we stray into the forbidden territory of booze. Even the women, though, were throwing back shots, a sight that was both new and a little bit scandalous to my young eyes.
As the night wore on, the temptation became too much for Hamlet. Cigarettes, nicked from his unsuspecting Uncle, Noel’s father — a truly colourful character — beckoned. We slipped away, Hamlet and I, a quick, conspiratorial dash into the shadows for a stolen smoke. A small rebellion, a whisper of defiance in the grand symphony of that unforgettable night.
The Moratuwa streets bustling around me, my mind was still awash with the Fonsekas. Doreen’s wedding, so close, yet shadowed by the looming spectre of insufficient funds. The weight of it, etched on their faces. I couldn’t stand by, not when Hamlet, my friend, and his family, were suffering in silence. I had to help.
Then, the request came: 500 rupees — a fortune. I had nothing. But turning my back on them? Unthinkable. My heart was heavy, but my resolve was firm. I racked my brain, and a plan began to form, hazy at first, then sharpening into focus. Nimal. My wealthy friend, whose father owned businesses and a fleet of vehicles, was back in my grandparents’ town.
The next day, Hamlet and I met Nimal. It took some doing, a fair bit of persuasion, but when I laid out the truth of it, Nimal, after a pause, agreed. 500 rupees.
The relief that washed over me when I handed that money to Hamlet was immense. The gratitude in his eyes, a silent thank you that spoke volumes, made every ounce of effort worthwhile. Cycling home, I knew, deep down, I’d done the right thing. The Fonsekas could celebrate, unburdened, and I, in my small way, had helped make it so.
The air crackled with excitement. Doreen’s wedding, held in a neighbour’s friendly home, was a kaleidoscope of joy. Booze flowed, food disappeared, and the melodic, irresistible sounds of Nihal Nelson’s Baila songs filled the night. He was an upcoming singer from Noel’s hometown, and his performance was nothing short of spectacular. Everyone danced, boys and girls, until the clock hands spun past midnight.
After the revelry, I crashed, literally, in a corner on the ground, lulled to sleep by the fading echoes of laughter and music.
A month later, an adventure. Hamlet and I, a grueling day of buses and trains, but the promise of something new kept our spirits soaring. We arrived, not to a grand destination, but to a vast, green sea of rubber plants, my uncle’s estate.. The sheer scale of the property was awe-inspiring, and we wasted no time diving into its depths, playing games, bathing under the open sky, just soaking in nature’s embrace.
Night fell, and with it, the electricity disappeared. No matter. We made our own light, found solace in stolen cigarettes and hushed conversations in the dark, always careful, always watchful for the houseboys and helpers. A trip etched in our memories, a wild, free adventure.
Our bond, once so firm, so unbreakable, began to fray. My mother’s precious meat mince machine. She’d lent it, expecting it to be handled with care. But it came back damaged. Beyond repair, and beyond their means to fix it. I felt the tension the moment I walked through the door. My mother’s fury, a palpable thing in the air.
It was the beginning of the end. We drifted apart, Hamlet and I. I can’t help but wonder if that damned mince machine was the final nail, or if it was just fate, our destinies pulling us onto different paths. Our friendship, like a grand play, had simply run its course.
As for Nimal, I never paid him back. Never could save a rupee. And Nimal, well, he had his own ideas about Hamlet and me. A story for another day, that one.
A few short years later, I boarded a plane, leaving Sri Lanka behind for good. A pang of sadness, yes, for the past receding below me, but also a sense of moving forward, embracing the future. That was nearly half a century ago.
But Hamlet, the boy I met on a bus, the friend who opened up a world, his memory remains. Enshrined. A constant whisper from my schoolboy days, a beacon from my youth.
Tragically, in 2020, Hamlet met his untimely end in Sri Lanka, succumbing to a sickness caused by his smoking habit. The memory of his vibrant spirit, now extinguished, leaves a painful ache.
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