Vijitha
Vijitha
There are some people who enter our lives with great noise and leave behind only faint memories. Then there are those rare souls whose presence is so gentle, so unassuming, that it takes years to understand how deeply they touched us.
Vijitha Nanayakkara was one of those souls.
In the Dalugama of our youth, when the roads were narrower and the future seemed impossibly distant, Vijitha moved through life with a quiet grace that set him apart from the rest of us. He was the eldest son in his family, reserved by nature, never one to demand attention. Yet beneath that calm exterior lived a heart capable of remarkable tenderness.
As teenagers, we found our way to each other almost without knowing how it had happened. There was no dramatic declaration, no grand gesture. Instead, our affection grew through shared afternoons, lingering conversations, and moments that seemed ordinary at the time but would later become precious treasures.
One such memory remains vivid.
The first supermarket in Sri Lanka had just opened, drawing curious crowds from every direction. Standing in the long queue, shoulder to shoulder, we experienced the simple excitement of being together. The world around us buzzed with activity, but my attention kept returning to Vijitha.
Later, in the adjoining clothing store, we chose fabric for a shirt. One section was a warm brown, the other a rich purple. They were unusual colours to combine, yet somehow they seemed right. We discussed the design with the seriousness only young lovers can bring to such things.
When the shirt was finally made, it became more than clothing.
Vijitha wore it often. He cared for it meticulously, washing and ironing it himself. Whenever I saw him wearing those familiar colours, I felt a quiet happiness. It was as if he carried a piece of our shared story wherever he went. The shirt became his silent declaration, spoken not with words but with loyalty and affection.
During the annual village carnival, I worked at the music bar, playing records for the crowds who gathered beneath strings of coloured lights. Amid the laughter, music, and constant movement of people, Vijitha would appear.
I would see him standing there, sometimes wearing the brown-and-purple shirt.
He rarely interrupted my work. He simply remained nearby.
Across the crowd our eyes would meet, and in those brief moments entire conversations seemed to pass between us. A smile. A glance. The slightest nod. Nothing more was needed. The music played for everyone else, but those evenings always felt as though they contained a private melody meant only for the two of us.
The badminton court outside Anil’s garden became another stage for his quiet devotion.
Vijitha played beautifully. There was an elegance in his movements, a precision that made even ordinary rallies seem graceful. Long after others had lost interest and gone home, he would remain on the court. The fading evening light would settle around us as we continued to play, neither wanting the moment to end.
Those were the years when feelings were often expressed through presence rather than speech.
Vijitha understood that language instinctively.
When we played cricket, he invariably chose the wicketkeeper’s position. Looking back, I realise how naturally he placed himself where he could watch over me. While I stood at the crease facing bowlers, Vijitha crouched behind the stumps, alert and attentive. It was a small thing, perhaps, but love often reveals itself in small things.
The deepest measure of his character came one difficult night.
After I suffered a dog bite, fear and pain settled heavily over me. Yet Vijitha did not hesitate. He stayed by my side throughout the night, sleeping in my bed I would not be alone.
There was nothing dramatic about his vigil.
No speeches.
No promises.
Just the steady comfort of his presence.
Years later, that simple act remains one of the clearest expressions of love I have ever known. It was care stripped of all performance, offered freely and without expectation.
Even ordinary gatherings carried their own magic.
On Jayantha’s balcony, friends assembled around the carrom board while plates of homemade southern treats circulated among us. Laughter filled the air. Conversations overlapped. The striker clicked against the pieces.
And somewhere amid all that youthful noise sat Vijitha.
Every so often our eyes would meet.
Those brief glances contained a world.
Life, however, has little regard for youthful intentions.
The years moved forward. Paths diverged. Distance grew. Oceans separated us. Decades passed.
Forty-five years slipped by.
Yet when we found each other again, something remarkable became clear.
The affection Vijitha had carried as a teenager had never entirely disappeared.
Time had transformed us both, but his warmth remained unchanged. There was the same sincerity, the same kindness, the same quiet joy at reconnecting. It was as though the young man who once treasured a brown-and-purple shirt had been patiently waiting somewhere inside him all along.
Many people spend their lives searching for grand romances.
My memories of Vijitha tell a different story.
Love does not always arrive with fanfare.
Sometimes it appears in a carefully ironed shirt.
Sometimes it stands patiently in a carnival crowd.
Sometimes it waits behind the cricket stumps.
Sometimes it keeps watch through a long and difficult night.
That was Vijitha.
Gentle, loyal, and unassuming.
A teenage lover whose affection spoke softly, yet endured across the years with a strength that neither time nor distance could diminish.
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