The Circle of Friends: A Ceylon Boyhood

Stories from a Time of Simple Joys

Denzil Jayasinghe

13 min read

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Just now

Rohan and the Day of Humiliation

There are moments in childhood that seal friendships forever. Mine with Rohan was sealed on a terrible day when we were both thirteen years old, sitting in Brother Felix’s classroom.

Rohan and I had grown up together from the age of five — same school, same class, same teachers. We’d received our first holy communion together, kneeling side by side in our white shirts and pressed shorts. We’d played in the same dusty schoolyards, shared the same dreams, faced the same fears.

Rohan had a reputation as the brave one. Nobody dared pick on any boy in our class, knowing that fearless Rohan would come to their defence. He stood against injustice with a passion that sometimes got him into trouble. He believed in fairness above all else — it didn’t matter if you were big or small, rich or poor, smart or struggling. Rohan treated everyone the same.

That day, Rohan walked into our classroom carrying a notice from the principal. Back then, there were no public address systems; messages were delivered by hand, carried by a student chosen for the task. Our teacher, Bro. Felix, interrupted the lesson to read it.

Bro. Felix was a difficult man. He was a clergyman, a Christian Brother. There was no Jesus in him, The younger boys were terrified of him, and we eighth-graders had our own reasons for wariness. He had a temper that could ignite without warning. He punished students for the smallest infractions — talking, making noise, even moving a desk slowly. Low marks meant certain punishment. He would hit students on their cheeks, beat them on their palms with a long cane or a foot ruler.

What happened that day to Rohan, I cannot fully describe — even now, decades later, the memory makes me angry. My friend did not deserve that humiliation. I felt his pain as if it were my own. I could not help him then, but I stood with him in my heart.

That incident marked our friendship indelibly. It was forged not in joy but in solidarity during a vulnerable moment. We’ve been friends for over sixty five years now. Rohan lives in a remote town in Sri Lanka, a social activist and clear thinker. We discovered, when we reconnected after thirty-five years apart, that we shared many interests — both readers, both connoisseurs of knowledge, both believers in social justice.

When we met again, I was living in Australia with four children. Rohan had two kids of his own. Within a fortnight of my return to Sydney, he sent me a five-page letter written in Sinhala, detailing all his life experiences during our gap years. Reading it was a challenge — I’d become unfamiliar with my first language after living abroad — but it was worth every moment.

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Richard Nixon from Ceylon

In1968, one of my best friends was Richard Nixon. Yes, Richard Nixon — though not the presidential type. Just a handsome twelve-year-old boy with a great smile, living on our tiny island some 14,000 kilometres from America.

The story of how a boy from Ceylon came to share a name with the Vice President of the United States is rather extraordinary. In 1956, when Richard Nixon held that office under President Eisenhower, he undertook a state visit to Southeast Asia, including our island. Richard’s father was assigned as the chief chaperone to the Vice President.

After the official duties ended, Nixon wanted to travel as a civilian tourist. Richard’s father became his driver, and the two travelled to distant parts of the island in a Cadillac, just the two of them. They struck up a genuine friendship during those days on the road.

Richard’s mother was pregnant at the time. Soon after the Vice President departed, she gave birth to a baby boy. His father was so impressed with his American friend that he decided to name his son Richard Nixon in his honour.

Richard joined my formative boarding school that year. There were only three of us students in the boarding, which could comfortably accommodate fifty. We had all that space to ourselves — three boys rattling around in rooms meant for dozens. I spent three years with Richard in that Christian Brothers boarding school until I was fifteen.

Richard and I remained friends even after we left the boarding and became day students. How ironic it is that my friend Richard Nixon Rathnayake now works for the U.S. government in Washington, D.C. Sri Lanka gifted America a handsome young man with a famous name and a unique historical link.

We didn’t meet face to face for fifty-three years, but when we finally did, it was as if no time had passed at all. Distance is nothing when the bond is real.

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Nimal and the Bus Stand

Iwas sitting on the metal bar at the bus stand one evening after apprentice work, my nose buried in a book as usual, waiting for the bus home. Across the way stood a young man with straight hair and a necklace — someone whose face seemed vaguely familiar. He smiled at me, and soon we were chatting, me still perched on my metal roost, him standing.

His name was Nimal Ranatunga. When Route 132 rumbled up, bound for our hometown, we climbed aboard together. In a gesture that would seal our friendship, Nimal paid for my ticket. As the bus lurched through Colombo’s bustling streets, we talked and talked — two late teens on the cusp of discovering the world.

Finding a kindred spirit was a joy I hadn’t anticipated that afternoon. Our chance encounter at what we came to call the “monkey bar” — our cheeky name for the bus stand — blossomed quickly. We discovered common ground everywhere: music, fashion, mutual friends. Nimal’s cheerfulness was infectious, his zest for life a tonic I didn’t know I needed.

In those forty-five minutes of our slow, swaying journey, I knew I’d found a friend worth keeping. As my stop approached, we made plans to meet again after work. Little did I know that this would be the start of a friendship spanning decades and continents.

Through Nimal, I was inducted into a vibrant circle of friends — Asoka, Raja Rohan, brothers Mahil and Dayal, Sumith, Peter, Glen, Saliya, Parawahera, and young Azlaff, still a schoolboy. Some were familiar faces from my past: Glen and I had lived on the same street and attended Montessori together; Sumith and I had been in junior school together; Peter and I had shared high school days.

This gang was wonderfully diverse — Buddhists, Catholics, Muslims, Burghers, Sinhalese — though in our youthful exuberance, such distinctions meant little to us. We were just friends.

Life took on a new rhythm. After-work hangouts, weekend adventures, shared dreams and schemes. Colombo became our playground. We devoured movies, concerts, cricket matches — all with tremendous gusto. Fashion was our battle armour, and we had a secret weapon: Kalu Mahattaya, a talented tailor who could conjure up any style we fancied.

The Battle of the Maroons was our event of the year — an annual cricket encounter at The Oval in Colombo every March. Nobody went to actually watch cricket. We went for the carnival atmosphere, the drinking and singing with music bands at the sports stadium. With carefully tailored denim jackets and jeans, zaggy haircuts, and large collections of drinks hidden in car boots, we descended on the stadium like a conquering army of youth.

Not all our escapades were wise — racing to the city, sometimes on the wrong side of the road, fuelled by youthful bravado. But we survived, as young people do, and the memories remain golden.

Today, Nimal lives in Toronto in retirement. Asoka remains in Sri Lanka, while Raja Rohan shuttles between Boston and our home island. Mahil lives in Los Angeles, his brother Dayal in Sri Lanka. Sumith is in Toronto. Glen and Peter are in Melbourne, Saliya in Edmonton, young Azlaff in Los Angeles. I keep in touch with all these wonderful people more than fifty years later, scattered across this small world like seeds carried by the wind.

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Ajit and the Gift of Laughter

Iwas fifteen, and Ajit was fourteen. We were both in boarding schools during term time — I in a Christian Brothers’ formative boarding, Ajit in the school boarding on campus. But we attended the same school, and that’s where our paths crossed.

The first time I met Ajit was at our school’s annual concert. I was immediately drawn to his stylish clothes, particularly a pair of white suede shoes that seemed impossibly sophisticated. We exchanged only cheerful smiles and a few minutes of conversation, but something sparked.

After that encounter, we met regularly during school breaks — in the canteen, under the big banyan tree, on the staircases of the large buildings. It was natural for two cheerful boys to bond and chatter. What stood out most was Ajit’s wit. He was quick and could laugh at any situation, even at himself. That was a huge asset for me, as I was trying to assert myself and find my place in the world.

We had much in common, living similar lives governed by timetables. Boarding school life had given us both a range of skills — organisation, independence, the ability to look after ourselves. These would serve us well in the years to come.

As the school year ended, we made plans for the Christmas holidays. I wrote his address and birthday in my address book — he went straight to the top of the list and remains there still, all these decades later.

Then came the postcard. Ajit had contracted chickenpox. Our plans were in jeopardy. I pondered whether to visit him, knowing the risk of infection. But I had made a promise to my good friend.

I took off for Ajit’s home, some forty kilometres away, using a combination of bus, train rides, and long walks. It was the longest journey I’d travelled on my own up to that point. My parents had no idea that the friend I was visiting was covered in chickenpox blisters. Good friendships, I reasoned, were for better or worse.

Two hours later, I arrived at Ajit’s home. He was resting in the front room, his body full of blisters. I was happy to see him again, and he was delighted that I’d come. I spent hours chatting with him at his bedside. It pained me to see his body ravaged by those red dotty blisters, but cheerful Ajit was full of his usual humour and chatter.

I met his father, Jeff — a fair, tall, flamboyant, and charming character who called me “Putha,” meaning son. He had an accent when he spoke, and his European features came from English ancestry. I met Ajit’s eager siblings — sister Shanti and brothers Rohan and Marius, all younger than Ajit.

We spent those precious days by the Moratuwa river, swimming and playing water sports despite Ajit’s condition. It was there, in that murky water, that I lost a gold ring. It probably remains buried in the riverbed to this day, a small sacrifice to friendship.

Ajit had a caring relationship with me, always looking out for me. His friendship helped me see the world as bright rather than dim, full of dynamism rather than dead ends. He taught me to view challenges as opportunities and pitfalls as lessons. Ajit contributed immensely to my coming of age.

Years later, when I’d left for Dubai and he’d stayed in Sri Lanka, we maintained our connection through letters. When he came to visit me in Dubai, he brought his guitar and filled my small apartment with music and laughter. His gusto for life, his ability to find humour in any situation — these reminded me of who I had been before the weight of adulthood settled on my shoulders.

Today, we are both grandfathers in our twilight years. We are very different people now — Ajit having lived in Sri Lanka all his life, me having left six years after we met. But our fraternity and love for each other remain, sealed by a friendship built on innocence and curiosity.

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Hilary and the Smile That Reached Souls

Some people have a gift for friendship. Hilary was one of those rare souls whose smile reached into the depths of one’s being. He was everyone’s friend.

Hilary’s gang wore long pants — a symbol of maturity in those days. For me, being slightly underage and shorter, long pants were a luxury I couldn’t yet afford. But all these trivialities seemed to fade in Hilary’s presence. He alternated between long and short pants himself, unconcerned with such conventions.

In those school days, Hilary didn’t confide much in me. Our lives intersected only during certain classes and at lunch. For a brief period, we joined some boys in reading Enid Blyton novels, but Hilary soon lost interest. To his main gang, I was mostly seen as an annoyance. These boys had access to elusive imported clothes and odd records from the Western world — luxuries banned by government austerity measures.

Our journeys away from Ceylon commenced almost simultaneously, like two vessels departing from the same shore. My destination was the golden sands of Dubai, while Hilary’s compass directed him towards Saudi Arabia’s arid landscapes — first Dammam, then Jeddah.

A decade and a bit later, our paths crossed again in Australia. The shared experiences from our formative years at St. Benedict’s College were enough to maintain our friendship. Friendship, after all, is a fragile blossom that needs only care to flourish. Ours did, under the nurturing influence of Hilary, whose radiant soul and infectious smile remained unchanged.

Eventually, we reunited in Sydney. His children went to the same Christian school as mine. Through Hilary, I reconnected with long-lost friends scattered across Sri Lanka, North America, and New Zealand. He was the thread that stitched our scattered lives back together.

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Rohan Upali and the Mysterious Humber

Among the many Rohans at our school, Rohan Upali stood out. He was larger than life, with a heart as big as his stature. We often wondered if he had royal lineage — he treated everyone with familial affection, calling us all “brother.”

Rohan’s gang was a tight-knit group: the class monitors Jayantha and Shirley, and other towering figures like Chandra, Raja, and Ruan. With their long pants, they were the epitome of the school’s social hierarchy. But Rohan, with his enigmatic half-smile, seemed to know something we didn’t — a secret that bound them together.

The rumour was that Rohan cruised in a Humber, a classic car that only rich kids were supposed to have. His father was prominent in the shipping business, though Rohan never talked about it. They said he drove that monster himself, though he wasn’t much older than us.

Out of mischief or prudence, he had a routine. He’d park the car a block away from school and have his chauffeur hop in the driver’s seat, switching places before rolling up to the gates. Then Rohan would stroll in, cool as could be, sitting in the passenger seat, acting like he didn’t know a carburettor from a candlestick.

Sometimes I’d be at the office paying school fees when I’d see the chauffeur park that beast — the Humber — right under the main building’s fancy overhang. Out would walk Rohan, squeaky clean in his white shirt and pants, strolling by like an innocent kid who wouldn’t know how to drive a tricycle. Then he’d make his way through the halls with that signature half-smile, greeting everyone, before being caught up with his long-pant-wearing friends.

We all knew better than his act suggested, but he played the part well. There was something wonderful about that — the way he maintained his mystery while remaining everyone’s big brother.

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The Letter I Never Sent

Iwas sixteen when I sat on the steps one afternoon, writing a letter to my dearest friend. I’d been waiting to say these things for so long, but somehow the words never came out when we were face to face.

The letter spoke of confusion and friendship, of jealousies and hopes. I wrote about my fight with Rohan — not really a fight, just a tiff over something he’d said. I wrote about wondering if he was jealous, about not wanting to visit his house anymore, about being able to do without his impressive comic book collection.

I wrote about a girl named Ramani, whom I’d pointed out at a church feast. I worried about what other boys at school might think if they saw us together. I worried about what our mothers might say.

That letter captured all the anxiety and sweetness of being sixteen — the intensity of friendships, the fear of judgement, the desperate desire to be understood. Whether I ever sent it, I cannot now remember. But the feelings it expressed were real, as real as anything I’ve ever felt.

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A Lifetime of Circles

Looking back now from the vantage point of my later years, I see that my life has been defined not by achievements or possessions, but by these circles of friends. They were my education in what it means to be human.

From Rohan, I learned about courage and standing up for what’s right. From Richard Nixon, I learned that names don’t define us — we define them. From Nimal, I learned the value of a simple gesture, how paying for someone’s bus ticket can begin a lifelong friendship. From Ajit, I learned about loyalty and the healing power of laughter. From Hilary, I learned that some people are simply conduits of light, making everyone around them brighter.

These friends are scattered now across the globe — Toronto and Los Angeles, Melbourne and Boston, Sri Lanka and Washington D.C. But the bonds remain, stretched thin perhaps by distance and time, but never broken.

We write to each other still. We visit when we can. We remember the days when we were young and fearless, when Colombo was our playground and the future stretched before us like an endless road.

I write these stories for my children and grandchildren, who will never know Ceylon as I knew it. They are Australians, rooted in this new soil in a way I never quite will be. But they carry within them the blood of that tropical island, the spirit of those friendships forged in schoolyards and on bus stands, in boarding schools and by muddy rivers.

May they understand that home is not just geography. It’s the people who stand with you when you’re humiliated at thirteen. It’s the friend who pays your bus fare. It’s the companion who visits you when you have chickenpox. It’s the smile that reaches into your soul. It’s the mysterious classmate with the half-smile and the Humber. It’s all the people who, by loving us, teach us how to love.

The island of my youth exists now only in these stories and in the memories of old friends scattered across the world. But it lives on in us — in the way we treat our children, in the friendships we nurture, in the values we hold dear.

When I close my eyes, I can still see them: Rohan standing brave against injustice, Richard Nixon smiling with his famous name, Nimal paying for my ticket on Route 132, Ajit laughing despite his blisters, Hilary with his soul-reaching smile, Rohan Upali emerging from his mysterious Humber.

They are the treasures of my youth, more precious than gold rings lost in rivers, more valuable than any success or achievement. They are the proof that I lived, that I loved, that I was loved in return.

And that, in the end, is all that matters.

For all the friends who made my youth golden, and for all the children who will carry forward the gift of friendship into new generations.