Coconut Dreams
A Sri Lankan Coming-of-Age Story
Leaving home, I wasn’t just a son or brother stepping out the door. The click of the gate behind me was like a bird taking flight. Familiar coconut trees and lampposts greeted me, yet outside felt vast and real — a world of streets, houses, aunties, shops, schools, and dreams. It was a thrilling adventure, a journey into the unknown, that I was embarking on.
Though physically separate, the home remained constantly in my thoughts and conversations. It felt different when I talked to the neighbourhood boys. Invisible borders, perhaps of education or language, divided us. My mission was to bridge that gap, to understand them and their simpler lives, content with what they had. It was a revelation, this connection that could blossom between people from completely different realities.
Never feeling superior, I belonged not only to my family but also to a world of exploration and fearlessness outside. As I grew older, literally eighteen, I saw the common thread weaving through our lives — a youthful yearning for the future. Unlike them, for whom life was about survival, the future for me was a distant but beckoning horizon. The path to get there, the rules to break, remained a mystery. That’s why I never bothered with a driving license, yet zipped around on my dad’s scooter like it was always mine.
My circle of friends was a diverse bunch. These were just Cyril, Edward, Suneth, Ajith, Mahinda, Leonard, and Nelum. Some had clear goals, strong opinions, and defined roles. Some worked, some didn’t. Some relied on others financially. I, the odd one out, juggled a telecommunications apprenticeship with prestigious night classes in accounting. My fluency in English opened doors to a wider literary world and imagination.
Most working guys found their niche in hotels and odd jobs. Faith-wise, there were Christians, a faith passed through generations. Some were brash, others shy. All of them smoked, and if they could find it, any amount of alcohol was fair game. While we didn’t share much in common, a deep respect and the unbreakable bond of youth held us together. We were all music lovers, crazy about girls, carnivals, and the sheer thrill of possibility that stretched before us. We were a band of brothers navigating the complexities of life together.
I listened to their ideas but carved my path. We embraced every experience, a premonition of the vast potential ahead. Yet, the future remained largely unexplored territory. We lived in the moment, oblivious to what tomorrow might bring.
The older generation, of course, disapproved. We were rebels with no respect for the past. They saw our era as a decline, a stark contrast to their values. We, in turn, felt they had lost their spirit and couldn’t comprehend our way of thinking.
The Catholic Church’s doctrines felt like an empty charade — confessions, masses, novenas, all devoid of meaning. But I had my struggle and couldn’t bring myself to tell my parents. They knew I skipped mass, assuming I lingered outside to ogle the veiled girls. Secretly, I was probably one of those ‘non-believers,’ though even I hadn’t fully grappled with that yet. The 70s, after all, was a time for questioning everything, a time of personal and spiritual turmoil.
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