Demons and Devotion:
A Family’s Pilgrimage
“Demons and Devotion: A Pilgrimage to Tewatta” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe about a family’s pilgrimage to a holy site in Sri Lanka. The story follows Denzil, the eldest son, as he reluctantly accompanies his devout parents on this journey to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Although initially sceptical, Denzil reflects on his childhood faith and his family's hardships. However, the pilgrimage turns unexpectedly when an encounter with a priest who claims a demon possesses Denzil creates tension and leaves him angry.
The air hung heavy with a solemnity that felt out of place for a silver wedding anniversary. Denzil’s father, whose pronouncements held the weight of scripture, declared, “We are going on a special trip to the holy place of Our Lady at Tewatta. This day, showing God’s blessings, will be a private event for our family.”
On a recent arrival for a two-week holiday in Sri Lanka, Denzil, the eldest child, was swept along in the current state of his parents’ devotion. It was just after Christmas, the previous week.
The Journey Begins
The 25th wedding anniversary day dawned, the 30th of December 1978; with it, their pilgrimage began. Denzil, his parents, Thomas and Susan, and his brother, Rohitha, with a basket overflowing with snacks and drinks. Denzil’s parents, ever practical, wore simple clothes — his mother in a vibrant yellow saree, a gift from Denzil’s from Dubai, and his father in a plain shirt and trousers. The brothers, however, were a stark contrast in their seventies garb — Denzil in a billowing white T-shirt and flared jeans, his brother in a red shirt and bell-bottom jeans mirroring his big brother’s style, both sporting long locks. Their journey, a far cry from the comfort of Denzil’s Dubai life, involved a series of buses. First, a rattletrap to Kadawatha, another to the bustling interchange at Ragama, and finally, a cramped minibus to their final destination.
Memories and Devotion
Despite Denzil’s reservations about the shrine, he couldn’t deny the depth of his parents’ faith. The past year had been a whirlwind of hardship — their only daughter’s elopement and his father’s politically motivated suspension from work. With Denzil back for two weeks, he yearned to make them happy. Even if the prospect of a brick-and-mortar shrine filled with praying figures held little appeal, he was determined to honour their wishes.
As a child, faith had been a source of comfort. It had helped him through his studies and instilled a sense of security in his family. Back then, nights were spent huddled together, praying for his family’s well-being. Now, a wave of memories washed over him — his ailing grandmother, the mentally sick grandmother, the unwelcome relatives who overstayed their welcome, and the constant stream of relatives demanding attention. He also remembered his parents’ budgeting prowess — carefully rationing food, kerosene, school supplies, and transportation costs.
His mother, who had been making pilgrimages to Tewatta since she was a little girl, led the rosary recital at the vast basilica church. Her voice, a gentle murmur, weaved through the sacred mysteries, punctuated by the occasional “Hail Holy Queen” and prayers for the departed. Denzil, his knees aching from kneeling, found himself gazing at the shrine’s soaring ceiling, a majestic building that dwarfed everything else.
A Touch of Discomfort
His mother’s stare, a silent prompt for the customary “Pray for us” after each prayer, broke his reverie. He knew that look — the one who could admonish him about his smoking habit or sleeping nude.
The prayers continued for eternity, punctuated by visits to various statues — Mary, Joseph, and the plethora of Saints. Ever the pragmatist, his mother bought candles and lit them individually, adding their tiny flames to the sea of flickering light. Finally, near noon, they found themselves at the replica of the Lourdes grotto. Denzil’s stomach grumbled, mirroring his brother’s complaints of hunger.
They walked up to a stall that sold rosaries, medals, statues and scapulars. Denzil’s mother bought two medals of Saint Christopher, the protector of young boys for her two boys.
A Meal and an Unexpected Encounter
They found a spot under the expansive canopy of a palm tree, with the basilica in their line of sight, and laid out their picnic. After consuming the homemade food, they savoured his mother’s exceptional milk coffee, which provided a comforting warmth from within.
Beside the basilica stood the mission house, and from its doors emerged an elderly priest — Father David Soyza, a man whispered about in hushed tones for his supposed ability to exorcise demons. Young men, women, virgins, mothers — they were all said to be within his purview. In his prime, he was a renowned figure in a nation where the shadow of demonic beliefs loomed over all faiths, not excluding Catholicism. Denzil scoffed, but his mother had the opportunity for her Almighty’s blessing, especially with her sons by her side.
Denzil’s mother, a firm believer in the power of symbols, produced two medals. With a hopeful glint, she handed them to Father Soyza, who wore a dirty white robe, a black belt, and a messy bald head with strands of white hair. “For my sons, Father,” she pleaded, her voice barely a whisper.
The old priest cradled the medals in his left hand, their metal cool against his wrinkled skin. He mumbled a sequence of prayers in a language that danced on the edge of comprehension. His lips moved silently for a moment longer, and then, with a final flourish, he returned the medals to Denzil’s mother.
“For your boys,” he intoned in a deep and gravelly voice.
Though harbouring doubts about such rituals, my father remained silent, unwilling to disrupt his wife’s faith. Father Soyza readily consented to my mother’s appeal, delving into recollections of his time as a respected soothsayer among the naive faithful. He placed his hands on Denzil and his brother’s heads. Denzil, bristling with anger at the unwanted touch, felt a surge of defiance. This mumbo jumbo held no sway over him.
A Revelation and a Choice
Father Soyza finished his pronouncement with a dramatic flourish. “This boy,” he declared, pointing a finger at Denzil,” has a demon inside him! Bring him back for an exorcism.”
Suddenly, it lodged in Denzil’s stomach like a wave of nausea. He cringed inwardly and barked a laugh, a harsh sound that echoed in the vastness around him; his lips pressed into a thin line. However, Denzil saw the flicker of concern in his mother’s eyes. His father, on the other hand, remained an enigma. Her face was now an unreadable mask, usually etched with worry lines.
The air crackled with tension. Denzil’s bravado wavered slightly under the weight of his mother’s silence. They turned and walked out without another word, leaving Father Soyza alone amidst the flickering candles. His mother’s silence gnawed at Denzil more than any pronouncement of demonic possession. He glanced at his brother, who offered a small, nervous chuckle, but the humour never reached his eyes. The once joyous pilgrimage, cum wedding anniversary, now hung heavy in the air, leaving a trail of unease in its wake.
Denzil’s laugh turned into anger. He told his mother, “Wait till this mad Father Soyza sees my real devil”. He was furious about this Catholic exorcist.
This is how Denzil remembers his parents’ 25th wedding anniversary, a private affair spoilt by a Catholic exorcist who prayed on the vulnerable believers of his religion.
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