Denzil's Stories

  The taste of Roti Salt, Fire and Memory Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read · 21 hours ago W e’ll do it,” said   Kadayamma,   her voice low but certain, like the breeze that stirred the guava leaves outside. “Come, I’ll show you.” She led the way into the kitchen, her bare feet making soft sounds against the red cement floor. The boy followed, small and quiet, like a shadow stitched to her presence. The kitchen smelt of old woodsmoke and cumin. Sunlight slipped in through the slats of the window and fell across jars of lentils and dried red chillies. Everything here seemed to belong to another time – battered clay pots, rusted ladles, a coal-black kettle that had whistled through many school holidays. From one of the earthen jars tucked into a corner,   Kadayamma   scooped a fistful of flour and placed it carefully in a mixing pot. Then she picked up a coconut, brown and fibrous, tapping it with her knuckles like one tests for ripeness in mangoes. Crack! It split cle...

  The Wedding and the Waking: Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · 2 days ago A Tapestry of Mabima, 1968–1972 It was the year 1968, and the village of Mabima was stirred awake – not by wind or rain, but by the rustle of silk, the clink of wedding plates, and the footsteps of relatives arriving one by one like homing birds. Mabima Seeya’s second daughter, Susan – who shared a name with my own mother – was to be married, and for a time, all the hills around our ancestral home seemed to lean in to listen. Preparations took on a life of their own. The scent of sweets and freshly ground spices drifted from the kitchen, wrapping itself around guava trees, veranda railings, and children’s laughter. In the old house, one could hear the broom’s soft scrape, the chime of borrowed crockery, and the calls of aunts and cousins in every room. Mabima Seeya moved about in his white drill suit – at other times, in a crisp white sarong – with the quiet authority of a man who had watched over many seasons,...

  The Nameplate Dalugama, Ceylon – 1959 Denzil Jayasinghe 3 min read · 2 days ago A fter a breakfast of bread and wood apple jam – the sort of meal that tastes better when eaten without haste, when sparrows chatter on the veranda and time moves like the gentle Kelani River not too far away, Thomas pushed back his chair with the contentment of a man nursing a small joy. The door protested gently as he opened its hinges, releasing the morning into the house like a shy visitor bearing gifts of light and birdsong. “There’s something I must show you,” he said, his words dancing with barely contained delight, the way a child might speak of a butterfly caught in cupped hands. “Last night it was too dark – you couldn’t have appreciated it properly in that poor light.” Susan paused in her clearing of cups and plates, her curiosity awakened like a cat stretching in sunshine. “What could it be?” “Step outside with me, won’t you?” And there it gleamed in the tender morning sun – a nameplate, m...