Denzil's Stories

Warakanatta: The Seven Villages of Warakanatta Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · 11 hours ago M udiyansegewatta, a quiet corner of Dalugama, was one of seven villages that made up Warakanatta, a scattered settlement linked by narrow lanes and old friendships. Tucked behind the old Catholic church, it was a place where tall, shady marthu trees dropped their long, dry pods across the path, crunching underfoot. When the wind stirred their branches, they whispered like palm fronds, as if the name Warakanatta itself came from their soft rustle. The other villages — Dalugamgoda, Nungamugoda, Kohalwila, Eriyawetiya, Wewelduwa, and Dippitigoda — stretched out like a string of pearls along the river, each with its own stories. In the sixties, Warakanatta was far from suburban. Tiled houses sat amid open gardens, where evenings arrived gently, carrying the scent of coconut oil and wet earth. There were no cars in Mudiyansegewatta, only the odd black Peugeot 403 or an old Hillman, their horns bleati...

The Evening Bells Walking Beside His Mother Denzil Jayasinghe 4 min read · 2 days ago “D enzil, it’s six o’clock,” his mother called, her voice brisk yet warm. “We leave by six-thirty.” The red cemented house hummed with evening calm — curries simmering, windows creaking, a white scarf folded neatly by her rosary and prayer book. Denzil sat by the window, watching mynahs perch on the power wire, their silhouettes sharp against the orange slant of sunset. His mother had been planning this for days, her gentle persistence wearing down his reluctance to join the church’s charismatic group tonight — a group she hoped might rekindle something in him. In the kitchen, she moved quietly, her thoughts drifting.   This boy, who once woke early for morning Mass, who walked to church with such pride, barely comes now.   She sighed, half-sad, half-hopeful.   He lingers behind on Sundays, lost in his own world. Maybe Nicholas being there will draw him closer.   She hummed a hymn, ...

The Boy Who Dared the World Timeless, symbolic of the bond that endures. Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read · 16 hours ago T he summer of 1973 arrived in Dalugama like a heavy sigh. It clung to the skin — the mingled scent of salt and coconut oil, sun-baked earth, and damp canal water. I was eighteen, having just finished school and entered that uneasy space between childhood and what came after. The streets shimmered with heat, the radio at the corner store played the same familiar hits. Everything was ordinary, yet I felt a quiet tremor of possibility. Ajith appeared in that tremor. He was sixteen, smaller than me, yet he moved through the world as if daring it to catch him. A cousin of friends, a familiar face from junior school in Wattala, he would appear unannounced at our house — and I found myself looking forward to his visits with a quiet mixture of anticipation and curiosity. Sometimes he borrowed clothes. Sometimes he asked for a cup of tea. Sometimes he simply sat on the verandah ...