Denzil's Stories

  A Child’s Journey Through Time St. Anthony’s College, Wattala: Denzil Jayasinghe · T he year was 1960, and I was just a little nipper starting out at St. Anthony’s College in Wattala. My grandma, Kadayamma, used to take me to school every day. She was my rock, always there for me, making sure I was safe and sound. Back then, things were different. We didn’t have fancy school buses or air-conditioned cars. No, our ride to school was a bit more…rustic. We’d hop on a Bakki Karatthe, a kind of buggy cart with seats at the back, driven by a bull. The rider would sit in front, gently prodding the bull to go faster. It was an adventure, that’s for sure. But as Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) got more modern, we switched to public buses. The bus ride was a four-stage saga. First, we’d walk from our house on Mudiyansegewatta Road to the seventh-mile post at Dalugama. Kadayamma would hold my hand tight, teaching me the important lesson of walking on the right side of the road (a habit that’s stuck ...

  I was a page boy. Denzil Jayasinghe · The year was 1958, and Ceylon, a land usually draped in the emerald caress of palm trees and the sapphire shimmer of the sea, was instead cloaked in an unsettling gloom. Whispers of violence and ethnic tensions hung heavy in the air, like the scent of overripe mangoes after a storm. I was but a three-year-old page boy then, my world a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds that swirled around the sturdy legs of my grandmother, Kadayamma. Kadayamma, unlike the flamboyant butterflies flitting through the gossip circles, was a woman of quiet elegance. Her simple white Redda and Hatta, the traditional Sinhalese attire, held the grace of a swan, and her silver Kondakoora hairpin, gifted by her late husband, glittered like a constellation trapped in her neatly coiled hair. But even her serene eyes couldn’t shield me from the tremors that shook our island home. One day, hushed tones and worried glances painted Kadayamma’s face as she spoke of horrors unf...

  Tales from a Year Four Classroom Golden Eggs and Mortality Denzil Jayasinghe · Y ear four arrived, not a conquest but a quiet transition. The same faces, sun-baked desks, a classroom fraternity hardened by shared experience. Rohan Vincent, Rohan Weerakkody, Sirimal De Zoysa — names echoing on the dusty playground, each carrying the weight of childhood bravado and a hint of something darker. They were our protectors, these boys with fists that spoke louder than words, a shield against the petty cruelties of schoolyard life. Yet, their dominion came at a cost, a silent understanding that loyalty had its price. Mrs Dulcie De Silva, our teacher, wielded the cane with a practised hand, not in anger but with grim efficiency. Arithmetic became the language of survival, each multiplication table a mantra chanting against the future’s uncertainties. Music lessons with Mrs. Pieris, the “Singing Teacher,” were an escape, her booming voice filling the room with English melodies, a world away...

  Whispers of Eldeniya Denzil Jayasinghe · T he crunch of gravel beneath my bicycle tyres marked my arrival. Eldeniya, a place where shadows stretched long in the afternoon sun, welcomed me. The open living room lay before me, its sparse chairs like silent witnesses to Noel Ayya’s presence. His khaki shorts spoke of informality, a departure from the colonial echoes that once haunted these walls. Noel’s eyes brightened as they fell upon me. “Hello, Denzil,” he said, his voice warm and familiar. I returned the greeting, my own words soft: “Is my aunty here?” My outstretched arm indicated the half-lit bedrooms and the kitchen beyond. And there she was — Aunty — her gown’s folds cradling her hands. “Did you come on your bicycle?” Her eyes danced with surprise and delight. Without waiting for my answer, she beckoned me inside. “Denzil ayya is here!” she announced, ensuring her children knew of my unexpected visit. The side door swung open once more, revealing Christanthi and her two bro...