The London Matter
The London Matter
Set in the mid-1970s in Ceylon, this tender, emotional story captures a charged conversation between a restless young son and his quietly resilient mother. Denzil dreams of escape and reinvention in London; Susan clings to caution, memory, and maternal hope. A story of ambition, migration, and the ache of letting go.
“Iam fed up with this place. Let me go to London. I’m not staying here. You know I don’t belong here. I can get my papers and everything. All I need is some money,” Denzil said. His voice was sharp, but behind it was that familiar teenage tremble — anger blooming from restlessness.
Susan, sitting on the cane chair without an armrest, didn’t answer straight away. She adjusted her long gown, stained with the morning’s coconut sambol.
“Denzil!” she said finally, a little too loud. “Well, it’s a close call. England, London. Nobody in our family has gone there. Not even to India.”
She looked at him — all bone and youth — standing by the door in the verandah. He did not wear a shirt. The few hairs on his chin he was trying to grow looked like a smudge.
He folded his arms. “That’s not my fault. Just because everyone else stayed behind and waited for the government or fate to hand them a miracle doesn’t mean I have to do the same.”
“You think England will be that miracle?” she asked quietly. “Why should I send you to London?” she added, louder.
“I know it,” he said. “Look at this place. Ration cards. No stereos. No television. Bread queues. And that stupid patrolling policeman who gives me stares every time I ride the bike past the bakery.”
“Don’t say ‘stupid’ in front of me,” she muttered, out of habit.
He sighed. “Amma, please. Just help me. Edward said he can talk to his brother in Germany about the air ticket. He already has one cousin there. Rajah, my friend, is in London too. I can stay with him. I want to go to England because everyone speaks English. In Germany, I only know Irene, my penpal from West Germany.”
“The one who sends you shirts and things?” Susan quipped.
She shook her head — more at the memory of Denzil’s friends than anything else. “Your friends wouldn’t talk sense if they were paid to.”
Denzil slumped into the wooden chair across from her. It creaked.
“You’re not listening. I’m not asking for your blessing, Amma. I’m asking for a little money. Just a push. After that, I’ll manage.”
She didn’t respond. In the courtyard, a koel let out a single, tired call.
Finally, she said, “You’ll go there and what? Get stuck washing dishes? Live in some cold house where no one knows your name?”
“It’s still better than here. Better than being stuck behind a telex machine, dealing with stupid supervisors.”
Susan looked at her son. Really looked. There was ambition in him, a rage even, but also a kind of hunger she recognised — because she once had it too.
“I had dreams, you know,” she said quietly. “When I was your age. But then… your father, this house, children… dreams become smaller.”
“I don’t want mine to become small, Amma.”
She looked at him. “Do you think mine didn’t matter?”
“No,” he said, unsure. “I mean… yours were different.”
She got up and poured tea into two enamel cups.
“Denzil, listen. You are my firstborn. I can’t stop you. I won’t even try. But if you go, you go properly—no chasing after some friend’s promises. No running. If you go, you go with a plan. You go with dignity.”
He was quiet.
She placed the cup in front of him.
“I’ll give you some money. Not much. But only if you promise to write. And to come back if it’s too much. Pride won’t feed you in London, child.”
He nodded. Slowly.
“Okay. I’ll write. Just give me ten thousand rupees. You can sell my scooter when I’m gone.”
“You better. I’m not going to have my firstborn disappear into the fog like some ghost. I’ll ask Thaththa for the money.”
He smiled, for the first time that morning.
Outside, the light was beginning to change.
But for now, there was tea.
And the beginning of a goodbye.
Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe
Comments
Post a Comment