The Boy by the Window
The Boy by the Window
During a train ride from Moratuwa to Colombo
The afternoon express puffed along like an old, tired creature — slow and steady, making its way through the tracks along to Colombo from Moratuwa. It passed beaches, little halts where boys waved from tracksides, and quiet stretches of sand where sunlight played on the coconut trees. Now and then it slowed, almost stopping, as though tempted to rest beneath a shady tree. Then, with a sigh and a jerk, it would pull itself forward again, jolting the passengers from their thoughts.
At the open door, a few men clung to the rails, chatting and laughing, their voices carried off by the wind. Inside, in the heat and stillness of the compartment, young Denzil sat by the window, one hand holding the wooden rail. His fingers traced the grooves of the wood as the world rolled by outside.
Something brushed the back of his neck — light, like a leaf. He turned, expecting to see a moth or perhaps just a breeze playing tricks. Instead, there was another boy beside him, thin and quiet, a schoolbag on his lap and books wrapped neatly in brown paper. He looked about the same age — maybe a little older — and didn’t say a word, his eyes resting on the floor.
Next to the boy sat a man in a white sarong and cotton shirt, his back straight, his face calm. One of his hands rested in his lap. The other… Denzil couldn’t see. It seemed to disappear into the folds of the man’s garment. For a moment, Denzil stared, unsure if the arm was simply hidden or missing altogether. There was something unfinished about him, something unspoken.
The train jolted again. Denzil felt a touch at the back of his neck — a hand, warm and steady. He stiffened slightly. It wasn’t the schoolboy. It was the man.
He didn’t understand it. It wasn’t rough or unkind. It reminded him of how his father used to pat his back after a long day in school. But this was different. Unfamiliar. He sat still, uncertain. The scenes outside rolled on, as calm and silent as ever.
Stations came and went. The crowd thinned. The schoolboy with the books got down at Dehiwela. The man remained. His hand now rested gently on Denzil’s back, moving slowly, like someone remembering something. Denzil didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t move away, and yet he didn’t lean in either. The touch was strange, not frightening, but puzzling. The man looked at him once — briefly — and there was something apologetic in his eyes. They were red-rimmed, and a few strands of grey ran through his hair. He wasn’t large or imposing. Just a tired-looking man in a corner seat of a slow-moving train.
The boy sat very still. Outside, the sun dipped lower over the shanty homes near the tracks, and the train went on — clicking, clattering — into the long, drowsy afternoon.
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