Denzil's Stories

The Price of Ten Rupees Lessons in lending money Denzil Jayasinghe 5 min read · 5 days ago I had a friend once — Edward Gamini. A thin boy with quick eyes and a grin that disarmed even the sternest master. One hot afternoon, under the banyan tree behind our classroom, he asked if I could lend him ten rupees. Ten rupees. I can’t quite recall how I came by that money in 1970. Perhaps an uncle had slipped it into my hand during a visit, or maybe I’d found a few forgotten notes tucked in one of Father’s drawers. Whatever its origin, it seemed an immense fortune to a fourteen-year-old — enough to buy patties, cream buns, and bottles of orange barley at the school canteen for a week, or two, if I were careful. But boys at that age do not think of such things. Money is not yet sacred or serious; it is another thing one passes around, like a marble, a ball, or a secret. So I lent it to him, trusting that he would return it during the holidays. A month later, I rode my old Raleigh bicycle to hi...

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, ...