A Tale of Friendship and Time
Hilary’s Tale
“A Tale of Friendship and Time. Hilary’s Tale” by Denzil Jayasinghe recounts the author’s enduring friendship with Hilary, a charismatic and kind-hearted individual. The narrative spans their childhood in Sri Lanka, diverging paths in adulthood, and eventual reunion in Sydney, Australia. Denzil reflects on their shared experiences at St. Benedict’s College, the dynamics of their respective friend groups, and the impact of Hilary’s presence on those around him. The excerpt highlights the enduring power of friendship and the nostalgic memories associated with youth and shared experiences. Denzil’s writing evokes a sense of time and place, transporting readers to the vibrant atmosphere of 1960s-1970s Sri Lanka.
Our journeys commenced almost simultaneously, like two vessels departing from Ceylon’s shores. My destination was the golden sands of Dubai, while Hilary’s compass directed him towards Saudi Arabia’s arid landscapes. A decade and a bit later, our paths crossed again in Australia. The shared experiences from our formative years at St. Benedict’s were enough to maintain our friendship.
Friendship, a fragile blossom, needs only care to flourish. Ours did, under the nurturing influence of Hilary, whose radiant soul and infectious smile remained unchanged. He is the central character in this narrative of our camaraderie.
Hilary was a friend to all my friends, who were like satellites orbiting my world. This group included Prithie, Rohan Dias, another Rohan known as Parakarama, Shirley, our ninth-grade class monitor, Dudley, Krishantha, Gladwyn, and Sherman, a curly-haired boy my age and brother of Ainsley. Their enduring bond was evident in their camaraderie. The group was somewhat nepotistic, with interconnected relationships binding them together. I was not part of their inner circle, but I was there, navigating the maze of their complex relationships.
Our paths diverged during lunchtime. I dined at the Christian Brothers’ drill hall turned lunchroom, facing St Lucia Street, while Hilary and his group ate under the Banyan tree or in the long passage leading to the classes.
During high school, I spent more weekends with my parents. Parakarama, whose father was a bigwig in the cinema industry, often provided free movie passes. These allowed me to watch popular films like “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang”. However, upon reaching the age of fifteen, he could not obtain tickets for films like “Helga”, which provided knowledge about the human body, or for “Blow Hot Blow Cold”, a risqué film prohibited for those under eighteen.
Hilary’s friends, who had transitioned to wearing long pants to symbolise maturity, always stuck together. For me, this was a sign of growing up. But being slightly underage and shorter, it was a luxury I couldn’t afford. Yet, all these trivialities seemed to fade away in Hilary’s presence, who alternated between long and short pants. His smile reached into the depths of one’s soul. He was everyone’s friend.
In those days, Hilary didn’t confide much in me. Our lives intersected only during certain classes and the lunch routine. For a brief period, we joined some boys in reading novels by Enid Blyton, but Hilary soon lost interest. To his gang of friends, I was mostly seen as an annoyance.
These boys had a supply line of elusive clothes and a guaranteed diet of foreign clothes, shoes, and odd records from the Western world. At this time, the government banned many imported things as austerity measures. Many traders surfaced, peddling goods on the underground market, including LPs, timepieces, and pre-owned European tops and bottoms.
When exam time came, these boys got together to study and cram. But these things never worked. You pass exams from continuous studies without cramming the year’s last two months. But they used this opportunity to go to movies and hang out in each other’s homes. Their mothers allowed them the freedom to do whatever they wanted, a steady supply of snacks and curries coming from their hot kitchens, served by obedient ayahs.
After one of those movie afternoons, thanks to Parakrama, I went to Hilary’s home. I was merely this lost young fellow, and nobody expected me to do much else but listen. It was chaotic, for I had two younger siblings, four years and eight years younger. In Hilary’s home, he had two sisters, who were early teenagers, and I could talk to them. These sisters attended a girl’s school run by nuns, the Holy Family convent in Colombo, not far from their home. They, too, travelled to school in their father’s Skoda, driven by their father and sometimes by their sarong-wearing chauffeur.
After high school, I dropped out after the Big 10, the general certificate of exams, to do my higher studies at Aquinas College. Now, we were in different colleges. If we met, it would be at music concerts or church feasts, which every lad frequented. I started wearing long pants then.
Each time I met, Hilary would share his interest in being a fixer and how much he enjoys making things. I said,’ I have no future in this stupid place. I am going abroad, somewhere in Europe, perhaps England.’
Hilary and I both managed to leave, not for Europe or some other Western destination. Hilary went to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, Dammam and Jeddah, and I went to Dubai, the neighbouring state. Eventually, we reunited in Sydney; his kids went to the same Christian school as my kids, and then through Hilary, we met all those long-lost friends in Sri Lanka, North America and New Zealand.
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