The Evening Bells

Walking Beside His Mother

4 min read2 days ago

“Denzil, 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, her purple saree — bought with Denzil’s first apprenticeship wages — catching the light.

Denzil heard her soft tune, and a memory stirred: cool cement floors under his boyhood feet, incense curling from the altar, stained glass painting the church steps gold. A year ago, not long after starting his apprenticeship at eighteen, a priest’s sermon on obedience had felt like a chain, dimming his eagerness for church. Now, at nineteen, the tug inside him wasn’t guilt but something softer — like a hand reaching back through time. He rose, grabbed a T-shirt from a chair, and smiled faintly.

His father stood by the door, polishing his spectacles, his light shirt and dark trousers crisp as always. Steady in faith, quiet in habit, he never pushed Denzil to attend since the boy turned eighteen, when his apprenticeship began and his choices became his own. His gentle example spoke louder than words.

“Ready?” he asked, his small smile free of judgment, only patience.

As they stepped into the evening, the church bells tolled faintly for the six-thirty Angelus, softening his mother’s face like sunlight lingering at dusk. The road to church wound past flame trees, their red blossoms scattered on the lane. A breeze carried the scent of distant rain. Denzil walked beside his mother, not trailing as usual. She adjusted her saree, her rosary glinting under a streetlight, and said nothing, but her eyes softened.

They passed the shuttered Ruhunusiri grocery, stray dogs curling by the roadside, a radio’s faint news drifting from a verandah. The world felt small, woven from quiet houses and slow evenings, each person finding their way toward light.

At the church gates, Nicholas stood with a group of young men, hands in pockets, laughing easily. He waved. “Hey! You came!”

Denzil grinned, a touch shy. “Amma’s doing,” he said.

Nicholas chuckled. “It’s not dull, trust me.” Denzil remembered Nicholas from school — once a boy who’d skip classes to kick stones by the canal, not the church poster boy he seemed now. The contrast made Denzil wary, yet curious.

The church hall glowed with candlelight, warm with wax and lilies. The charismatic group’s lively hymns filled the air, their fervor both inviting and overwhelming. Denzil noticed their bright eyes scanning the room, hands raised in quiet anticipation. He and his mother sat near the back. She whispered her prayers, her face calm, her devotion steady. Denzil watched her, then glanced at his father, whose quiet nod seemed to anchor the room. Something in him softened, an old resistance easing.

The choir’s song rose, plaintive yet vibrant. Nicholas caught his eye across the pews, flashing a conspiratorial grin. Denzil smiled back, though a part of him bristled at the group’s energy. The hymn faded, and the charismatic group’s energy surged, their voices rising in a wave. Suddenly, they gathered around Denzil, their faces alight with conviction, hands raised toward the candlelit ceiling. “Alleluia! This boy is saved!” they proclaimed in unison. Denzil stiffened, his cheeks flushing hot, caught between embarrassment and a strange, fleeting warmth — like the memory of his mother’s hymn under stained glass brushing his heart. They laid their hands gently on his head, their prayers an urgent hum, words tumbling in sounds he couldn’t decipher — half-song, half-plea. He didn’t grasp their meaning, but their hope pressed against him, heavy yet oddly comforting, like the weight of his mother’s faith.

Afterward, Wilson Uncle pulled him aside, urging confession. Denzil’s stomach tightened; he’d dreaded the confessional’s probing questions since that sermon on obedience, its words still heavy like a locked gate. He nodded vaguely, knowing he’d avoid it.

Walking home, the moon hung low above the flame trees, their blossoms a faint red in the dark. His mother’s step was lighter, her face radiant with a peace Denzil hadn’t seen in years. She said nothing, but her presence felt like a quiet victory.

The bells’ faint echo lingered in the night’s hush. Denzil thought of the mynahs on the wire, his mother’s hymn, the candles’ glow — small anchors, never lost, waiting for him to hear them again.