AN UNBROKEN THREAD
The Boy Who Appeared
The summer of 1973 arrived with the weight of a held breath. In Dalugama, afternoons were long and slow, the heat lying flat across the gravel roads, dragging even the sound of cricket chirps to a lazy rhythm. The Pamunuwila canal shimmered like a silver ribbon, carrying whispers of faraway places, though nothing ever truly changed here. People lived as they always had – quietly, carefully, as if watched by unseen eyes.
I was caught between schoolboy certainty and the unknown shape of adulthood. I did not know I was searching for anything – until Ajith walked into my life.
He appeared first as a rumour:
“That boy from Wattala… the one who doesn’t listen to anyone… the one who runs wild.”
Then he appeared in flesh – skin browned by sun, hair falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking as if the world had no claim on him.
He arrived at our gate without warning. I still remember the sound of his voice.
“Machang,” he called to me, leaning on the frame, breathless like he had run from somewhere –
or away from something.
My mother looked up from the kitchen, her eyes soft, curious. She asked no questions. She simply set another cup on the table and told me to bring him in. That was her way – quiet kindness, unwavering, like the steady flame of an oil lamp.
Ajith sat on the doorstep, legs folded loosely, talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. There was mischief in him – quick, flashing, dangerous – but there was also a rawness, as if he was made of thin glass and bravado.
I did not understand it then, but something in me leaned toward him immediately.
___________
The Thread Tightens
He began visiting daily. Sometimes he came for tea, sometimes for a borrowed shirt, sometimes for nothing at all. My mother received him like a son, and he watched her with a quiet hunger, as if trying to remember what such gentleness felt like.
In the evenings, we rode bicycles – up the road toward the church, past coconut trees that waved like weary sentinels in the dusk breeze. He pedalled recklessly, laughing into the wind, while I followed, breathless, both terrified and alive.
There was a feeling in those days – something unnamed. It lived in the brush of our shoulders as we rode, in the shared bottle of ginger beer, in the way he rested his head back and closed his eyes when the wind caught him.
The village watched us. Mouths whispered behind windows:
“That Wattala boy is always with him.”
“Not a good influence.”
“Boys like that cause trouble.”
But I did not care. When Ajith smiled, the world softened. I wanted to keep that smile safe.
Press enter or click to view image in full size ____________
Cracks in the Silence
One afternoon rain came suddenly – wild, loud, merciless. Our shirts clung to our skin. From nowhere, a quarrel erupted, sharp and unplanned, like lightning.
“You don’t know anything about me!” Ajith shouted, fists tight, voice breaking.
“I let you into my house!” I fired back, heart pounding. “I gave you everything – my books, my time, my money – what else do you want?”
His face twisted – pain, pride, fear, all at once.
“You think I came for your money?” he hissed.
“I came because… because here I can breathe.”
He turned away, shoulders trembling. The rain swallowed him as he disappeared down the road.
That night I lay awake listening to the storm. The bed felt too big. The house too quiet. I realised the truth that frightened me more than the argument:
I needed him.
Not as a guest.
Not as a friend.
As something I didn’t yet know how to name.
___________
The Return
The silence was unbearable. So I rode – through mud, through puddles, through the wind that whipped my face – until I reached his house in Gonawela.
His mother looked at me with tired eyes, the kind that had seen too many storms. She didn’t ask why I was there. She pointed silently to his room.
He sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
He looked up – eyes wet, voice small.
“I have nowhere else,” he said. “If you push me away, I am nothing.”
I reached for him.
“I won’t.”
He pressed his forehead to my shoulder.
And just like that, the world righted itself.
__________
The Summer of Music and Promises
After that night, Ajith came home with me. My mother didn’t say a word when we walked through the doorway, soaked from rain but breathing again. She simply placed extra pillows on the bed and laid out two plates of rice. The gentle acceptance in her silence felt like mercy.
Days found their rhythm. We woke to the cry of the rooster, washed at the well, ate slices of bread dipped in sweetened milk tea. Afternoons were for bicycles, rides along gravel roads where sunlight cut through palm leaves in golden shards.
And there was music – always music.
At the makeshift dance hall near Nagahawatta, coloured bulbs swayed overhead and transistor radios crackled with American hits. Couples pressed close while boys showed off with swaggering steps.
Ajith grabbed my hand.
“Machang, come. Don’t watch me – dance.”
And so I did. Clumsy at first, then letting the rhythm loosen my limbs. He sang to “I’m a One Woman Man,” voice off-key, joy reckless and free.
People stared – two boys dancing together, laughing too loudly, too close. But in those nights, the world felt safe. Small. Beautiful. Like it belonged to us.
The Boy Who Appeared
The summer of 1973 arrived with the weight of a held breath. In Dalugama, afternoons were long and slow, the heat lying flat across the gravel roads, dragging even the sound of cricket chirps to a lazy rhythm. The Pamunuwila canal shimmered like a silver ribbon, carrying whispers of faraway places, though nothing ever truly changed here. People lived as they always had – quietly, carefully, as if watched by unseen eyes.
I was caught between schoolboy certainty and the unknown shape of adulthood. I did not know I was searching for anything – until Ajith walked into my life.
He appeared first as a rumour:
“That boy from Wattala… the one who doesn’t listen to anyone… the one who runs wild.”
Then he appeared in flesh – skin browned by sun, hair falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking as if the world had no claim on him.
He arrived at our gate without warning. I still remember the sound of his voice.
“Machang,” he called to me, leaning on the frame, breathless like he had run from somewhere –
or away from something.
My mother looked up from the kitchen, her eyes soft, curious. She asked no questions. She simply set another cup on the table and told me to bring him in. That was her way – quiet kindness, unwavering, like the steady flame of an oil lamp.
Ajith sat on the doorstep, legs folded loosely, talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. There was mischief in him – quick, flashing, dangerous – but there was also a rawness, as if he was made of thin glass and bravado.
I did not understand it then, but something in me leaned toward him immediately.
___________
The Thread Tightens
He began visiting daily. Sometimes he came for tea, sometimes for a borrowed shirt, sometimes for nothing at all. My mother received him like a son, and he watched her with a quiet hunger, as if trying to remember what such gentleness felt like.
In the evenings, we rode bicycles – up the road toward the church, past coconut trees that waved like weary sentinels in the dusk breeze. He pedalled recklessly, laughing into the wind, while I followed, breathless, both terrified and alive.
There was a feeling in those days – something unnamed. It lived in the brush of our shoulders as we rode, in the shared bottle of ginger beer, in the way he rested his head back and closed his eyes when the wind caught him.
The village watched us. Mouths whispered behind windows:
“That Wattala boy is always with him.”
“Not a good influence.”
“Boys like that cause trouble.”
But I did not care. When Ajith smiled, the world softened. I wanted to keep that smile safe.
Press enter or click to view image in full size
AN UNBROKEN THREAD
The Boy Who Appeared
The summer of 1973 arrived with the weight of a held breath. In Dalugama, afternoons were long and slow, the heat lying flat across the gravel roads, dragging even the sound of cricket chirps to a lazy rhythm. The Pamunuwila canal shimmered like a silver ribbon, carrying whispers of faraway places, though nothing ever truly changed here. People lived as they always had – quietly, carefully, as if watched by unseen eyes.
I was caught between schoolboy certainty and the unknown shape of adulthood. I did not know I was searching for anything – until Ajith walked into my life.
He appeared first as a rumour:
“That boy from Wattala… the one who doesn’t listen to anyone… the one who runs wild.”
Then he appeared in flesh – skin browned by sun, hair falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking as if the world had no claim on him.
He arrived at our gate without warning. I still remember the sound of his voice.
“Machang,” he called to me, leaning on the frame, breathless like he had run from somewhere –
or away from something.
My mother looked up from the kitchen, her eyes soft, curious. She asked no questions. She simply set another cup on the table and told me to bring him in. That was her way – quiet kindness, unwavering, like the steady flame of an oil lamp.
Ajith sat on the doorstep, legs folded loosely, talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. There was mischief in him – quick, flashing, dangerous – but there was also a rawness, as if he was made of thin glass and bravado.
I did not understand it then, but something in me leaned toward him immediately.
AN UNBROKEN THREAD
The Boy Who Appeared
The summer of 1973 arrived with the weight of a held breath. In Dalugama, afternoons were long and slow, the heat lying flat across the gravel roads, dragging even the sound of cricket chirps to a lazy rhythm. The Pamunuwila canal shimmered like a silver ribbon, carrying whispers of faraway places, though nothing ever truly changed here. People lived as they always had – quietly, carefully, as if watched by unseen eyes.
I was caught between schoolboy certainty and the unknown shape of adulthood. I did not know I was searching for anything – until Ajith walked into my life.
He appeared first as a rumour:
“That boy from Wattala… the one who doesn’t listen to anyone… the one who runs wild.”
Then he appeared in flesh – skin browned by sun, hair falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking as if the world had no claim on him.
He arrived at our gate without warning. I still remember the sound of his voice.
“Machang,” he called to me, leaning on the frame, breathless like he had run from somewhere –
or away from something.
My mother looked up from the kitchen, her eyes soft, curious. She asked no questions. She simply set another cup on the table and told me to bring him in. That was her way – quiet kindness, unwavering, like the steady flame of an oil lamp.
Ajith sat on the doorstep, legs folded loosely, talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. There was mischief in him – quick, flashing, dangerous – but there was also a rawness, as if he was made of thin glass and bravado.
I did not understand it then, but something in me leaned toward him immediately.
AN UNBROKEN THREAD
The Boy Who Appeared
The summer of 1973 arrived with the weight of a held breath. In Dalugama, afternoons were long and slow, the heat lying flat across the gravel roads, dragging even the sound of cricket chirps to a lazy rhythm. The Pamunuwila canal shimmered like a silver ribbon, carrying whispers of faraway places, though nothing ever truly changed here. People lived as they always had – quietly, carefully, as if watched by unseen eyes.
I was caught between schoolboy certainty and the unknown shape of adulthood. I did not know I was searching for anything – until Ajith walked into my life.
He appeared first as a rumour:
“That boy from Wattala… the one who doesn’t listen to anyone… the one who runs wild.”
Then he appeared in flesh – skin browned by sun, hair falling over his forehead, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, walking as if the world had no claim on him.
He arrived at our gate without warning. I still remember the sound of his voice.
“Machang,” he called to me, leaning on the frame, breathless like he had run from somewhere –
or away from something.
My mother looked up from the kitchen, her eyes soft, curious. She asked no questions. She simply set another cup on the table and told me to bring him in. That was her way – quiet kindness, unwavering, like the steady flame of an oil lamp.
Ajith sat on the doorstep, legs folded loosely, talking and laughing as though we had known each other for years. There was mischief in him – quick, flashing, dangerous – but there was also a rawness, as if he was made of thin glass and bravado.
I did not understand it then, but something in me leaned toward him immediately.
---------------
The Thread Tightens
He began visiting daily. Sometimes he came for tea, sometimes for a borrowed shirt, sometimes for nothing at all. My mother received him like a son, and he watched her with a quiet hunger, as if trying to remember what such gentleness felt like.
In the evenings, we rode bicycles – up the road toward the church, past coconut trees that waved like weary sentinels in the dusk breeze. He pedalled recklessly, laughing into the wind, while I followed, breathless, both terrified and alive.
There was a feeling in those days – something unnamed. It lived in the brush of our shoulders as we rode, in the shared bottle of ginger beer, in the way he rested his head back and closed his eyes when the wind caught him.
The village watched us. Mouths whispered behind windows:
“That Wattala boy is always with him.”
“Not a good influence.”
“Boys like that cause trouble.”
But I did not care. When Ajith smiled, the world softened. I wanted to keep that smile safe.
Press enter or click to view image in full size ____________
Cracks in the Silence
One afternoon rain came suddenly – wild, loud, merciless. Our shirts clung to our skin. From nowhere, a quarrel erupted, sharp and unplanned, like lightning.
“You don’t know anything about me!” Ajith shouted, fists tight, voice breaking.
“I let you into my house!” I fired back, heart pounding. “I gave you everything – my books, my time, my money – what else do you want?”
His face twisted – pain, pride, fear, all at once.
“You think I came for your money?” he hissed.
“I came because… because here I can breathe.”
He turned away, shoulders trembling. The rain swallowed him as he disappeared down the road.
That night I lay awake listening to the storm. The bed felt too big. The house too quiet. I realised the truth that frightened me more than the argument:
I needed him.
Not as a guest.
Not as a friend.
As something I didn’t yet know how to name.
___________
The Return
The silence was unbearable. So I rode – through mud, through puddles, through the wind that whipped my face – until I reached his house in Gonawela.
His mother looked at me with tired eyes, the kind that had seen too many storms. She didn’t ask why I was there. She pointed silently to his room.
He sat on the floor, knees pulled to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, my voice breaking.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
He looked up – eyes wet, voice small.
“I have nowhere else,” he said. “If you push me away, I am nothing.”
I reached for him.
“I won’t.”
He pressed his forehead to my shoulder.
And just like that, the world righted itself.
__________
The Summer of Music and Promises
After that night, Ajith came home with me. My mother didn’t say a word when we walked through the doorway, soaked from rain but breathing again. She simply placed extra pillows on the bed and laid out two plates of rice. The gentle acceptance in her silence felt like mercy.
Days found their rhythm. We woke to the cry of the rooster, washed at the well, ate slices of bread dipped in sweetened milk tea. Afternoons were for bicycles, rides along gravel roads where sunlight cut through palm leaves in golden shards.
And there was music – always music.
At the makeshift dance hall near Nagahawatta, coloured bulbs swayed overhead and transistor radios crackled with American hits. Couples pressed close while boys showed off with swaggering steps.
Ajith grabbed my hand.
“Machang, come. Don’t watch me – dance.”
And so I did. Clumsy at first, then letting the rhythm loosen my limbs. He sang to “I’m a One Woman Man,” voice off-key, joy reckless and free.
People stared – two boys dancing together, laughing too loudly, too close. But in those nights, the world felt safe. Small. Beautiful. Like it belonged to us.
Under the lights he would look at me, and there was something in his eyes – gratitude, defiance, longing, fear.
A silent sentence never spoken aloud:
If I am lost, hold me here.
__________
The Sister and the Boundaries of Innocence
Ajith had a younger sister – thin as a bird, hair tied cut short like a boywith, always humming while she swept the yard. Thirteen years old, eyes bright with the curiosity of early womanhood. She liked to sit near us, watching, listening, laughing at everything.
She had a kind of unguarded beauty – pure, unshaped, not yet claimed by the world. Once, for a brief second, I felt the tug of affection. It frightened me. I stepped back from it, as though crossing some invisible line.
Ajith noticed.
“She is still small,” he said softly.
“I know.”
We smiled, understanding without words. She was not part of that story. She was only innocence passing through a summer that belonged to him and me.
__________
The Fight That Nearly Broke Us
But not all days were gentle.
One evening, as dusk fell purple and thick, Ajith grew restless. Something was wrong – his father had shouted, a neighbour had mocked him, or perhaps the world had been too heavy that day.
He snapped at me, sharp and sudden.
“You think you’re better than me because your life is clean. You don’t know what it’s like where I come from.”
Anger rose in my chest.
“I gave you a home, Ajith! My mother… she cares for you like a son. But you push us all away.”
His voice cracked.
“Because I don’t deserve any of it.”
He said it like a confession.
And there it was – the wound behind the defiance.
We didn’t speak for two days. The house felt hollow. I lay awake, listening for his breath that was no longer beside mine. Without him, the nights stretched endlessly.
___________
The Ride Back
On the third day I could not bear it. Before dawn I climbed onto my old Raleigh bicycle and pedalled hard toward Gonawela. The air was thick with mist; dew clung to my trousers, the chain groaned with every turn.
At his house, bougainvillea petals carpeted the ground in red and purple. His mother opened the door, eyes tired but kind. She didn’t need explanations. She simply pointed to the back room.
Ajith sat on a mat, back to the wall, staring at nothing.
“Come home,” I whispered.
He looked up slowly, eyes swollen with sleeplessness.
“You still want me?”
I knelt beside him, took his hand.
“You never stopped belonging.”
His shoulders shook – not from sadness, but from relief.
He nodded. And with that small movement, the world stitched itself together again.
__________
A Home of Three
My mother never asked where he had been. She served bread with butter and pol sambol, then pressed more into his hand as if trying to fill the emptiness inside him. That was her gift – no judgement, only warmth.
“If two young men can share a room,” she said, “they must learn how to share the world.”
Ajith slept peacefully that night, breathing deeply, one arm flung across the pillow. I watched him in the darkness – the softness of his face, the fragility hidden beneath bravado.
I realised then:
I was not trying to save him.
I just could not imagine a world without him.
__________
The Departure
But youth is not a place one can stay.
Within a year I left Sri Lanka for Dubai – chasing work, chasing a future. On the morning of my departure, Ajith stood at the gate, hands shoved into his pockets, pretending not to care.
“Write to me,” I said.
“Three words,” he replied, staring at the road. “Just write three words: I remember you.”
I wanted to say more – wanted to tell him what he meant, how he had changed the shape of my heart. But in our world, boys like us did not speak such truths aloud.
So I simply said:
“I will.”
__________
Years Later
Life carried us into different worlds – jobs, marriages, children, quiet routines. But sometimes, at night, when the house slept, I would hear his laughter in my memory – the reckless joy of a boy who dared to exist.
Many years later, I returned to Gonawela. The roads had changed, houses painted new colours, but the tree near the gate was still there, branches heavy with red flowers.
For a moment I saw us again: two boys on bicycles, chasing the wind, believing the world could not touch us.
I realised something then:
Love is not always a romance.
Sometimes it is an unbroken thread – running silent beneath years, holding two souls forever in the same story.
Ajith and I did not live in the same house anymore, nor even the same country. But somewhere, the thread pulls lightly, reminding me that once, in a small town under a blazing sun, we saved each other.
And that is enough.
No, that was not enough.
Life did not honour his brightness.
Ajith grew into a man with few choices. He became a driver – one of those men who wait outside offices and factories, absorbing the heat and dust of the roads, paid less than what their labour deserved. The years were not kind. Some illnesses come silently to poor people; they go unspoken, untreated.
He did not live long. He died in his thirties, before his face had even lost its youth.
His son was still in the womb then.
The boy never saw his father. And in time, even the stories of Ajith – the laughter, the small rebellions, the bright morning he once was – began to fade among those who survived him.
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