Champa’s Unconventional Symphony
“Champa’s Unconventional Symphony” by Denzil Jayasinghe tells the story of Champa, a transgender man living in Sri Lanka who challenges societal norms with his appearance and behaviour. The excerpt details Champa’s daily life on Nagahawatta Road, highlighting his resilience in the face of prejudice and his unique way of navigating the world. Despite facing ridicule and misunderstanding, Champa finds solace in the company of children and the acceptance of a few open-minded adults. The author uses vivid imagery, describing Champa’s clothing, physical features, and mannerisms to paint a picture of a complex and unforgettable character. Through Champa’s story, The author explores themes of gender identity, social conformity, and the power of human connection.
Champa was an anomaly, a discordant note in the symphony of Nagahawatta Road. His forties had etched lines of resilience upon his face, and he wore them with pride. His attire defied convention: shorts that revealed hairy legs, a riotous shirt splashed with colours, and hair cascading down to his neck, trying to conceal his bald pate. But the red lipstick — an audacious flourish — set him apart. In an era when gender norms were rigid, Champa danced on the fringes.
The locals gawked, their eyes tracing the contours of his eccentricity. Neighbours exchanged knowing glances, their whispers trailing him like shadows. Yet Champa remained undeterred. His broad shoulders bore the weight of odd jobs — labour that bent his spine but not his spirit. Honesty clung to him like a second skin, and the community grudgingly accepted his peculiarities.
His feet, though, were a marvel. Enormous, they anchored him to the earth, defying the laws of proportion. With each step, he etched his presence into the pavement, leaving behind a trail of curiosity and bemusement. He never wore slippers but moved around barefoot.
Champa’s speech was a rhapsody of imperfections. Twisted teeth shaped his words, and his mouth contorted into a grin that belonged only to him. Where did he live? A mystery. Some claimed he resided with an aging mother, while others whispered of hidden chambers where he communed with spirits. But every evening, like clockwork, he materialised at the junction, facing Kandy Road.
Talcum powder dusted his dark skin, an alchemical attempt to lighten it. The lipstick, a beacon of defiance, adorned his lips. The young boys — those raucous echoes of adolescence — gathered like crows. They hurled insults, their voices sharp as shards of glass. Champa absorbed their ridicule, his smile unwavering. He revelled in their confusion, a riddle they couldn’t solve.
Friendship eluded him among adults. Instead, he gravitated toward children — their innocence a balm for his soul. Their laughter, unfiltered and pure, resonated with him. And a few adults, kindred spirits, saw beyond appearances. To them, Champa was a living poem, a testament to resilience.
At the crossroads where Kandy Road intersected Nagahawatta, the boys circled him. Their taunts were relentless, fueled by ignorance. They couldn’t fathom his truth — the biological enigma that defied textbooks. Yet Champa persisted, weaving through their jeers. His oversized hands brushed against their scorn, and he followed people like a silent shadow.
His perpetual grin became a fixture — a sunbeam in the gloom. Some grew weary of it, their patience fraying. But Champa remained, scratching at life’s mysteries. His hands moved rhythmically, a dance of longing and acceptance. Boys stared, bewildered by this man who dared to be different.
Champa’s existence was a hot-potch, dissonant yet hauntingly beautiful. He played his part, unyielding, in the grand opera of Nagahawatta Road. And when the world yelled, he responded with that crooked smile, a flourish of red against the mundane.
But then, there was the matter of his scratching habit. Champa wasn’t exactly Mr. Subtlety. Sure, the boys had adjusted to his questionable fashion choices, but this was another head-turning level. Imagine a man possessed by an itchy demon, a demon with a particular fondness for his groin. It wasn’t a polite little scratch, mind you. This was a full-on churning, hand-powered excavation project happening beneath his shorts.
Now, these boys weren’t exactly monks. They’d seen their fair share of wedgies and playground mishaps. But this? This was uncharted territory. Fresh out of the quick-grow-up phase, their young minds had a meltdown. It was like a nature documentary gone rogue — a glimpse into the secret life of… well, let’s say nobody hadn’t covered this in the birds and the bees chat. Especially not the part about the “particularly well-endowed” participant, who now we know was transgender.
Despite this, Champa’s unique form of self-expression was part of what made him so unforgettable. He found ways to express himself boldly in a society that shunned him. The children, in their innocent cruelty, were his toughest audience. Yet their laughter, even when mocking, was a sign of life, a connection he cherished. His scratching became an unintentional comedy, a distraction from the daily grind for some, a subject of endless fascination for others.
