Echoes from the Bridge
Memories of Lost Friends and more of a memoir of lost souls
A path unfolds across a brief bridge spanning a waterway. Whispers circulated that a young man should never cross the bridge after dark. An apparition of a woman, clad in a white saree and cradling a sick infant, is said to materialise and plead for assistance. If one halts, the spectral woman allegedly strikes the young man dead.
It was a mix of fear and fascination that made me wobble between disbelief and chills as I cycled past the supposedly haunted bridge. To be safe, I pedalled faster than usual, but I never encountered this ‘woman in white with an infant in her arms’.
This essay is not about the ghosts and their false stories in my old country. It is about my friends in my teenage years, all lads who perished in my short life in Sri Lanka.
Where do I start? Allow me to begin with the first lad who perished. His name was Merril, but his last name was unknown to me. Merril and I were from different social strata. He attended the local school, was not fluent in English, and stood taller than me. The concept of sophistication was foreign to him. During my mid-teens, I primarily socialised with peers with similar social backgrounds. However, in my late teens, I befriended a small group that interacted with everyone in our neighbourhood. Inspired by their openness, I broadened my social circle, and Merril became a part of it.
Merril virtually lived in the streets near the church. He would hang out with my friends and go to parties, music shows, and movies together. He was the type of guy who would go to great lengths for a friend. When my wristwatch, my most cherished possession at the time, was stolen, Merril tirelessly helped me search for it day and night. We found it, but that’s a separate story I’ve shared previously, which you can read here.
Destiny would take me out of my old country soon afterwards. Merril visited my parents regularly in my absence with our mutual friends. A year later, one of these friends wrote to me that Merril had tragically died in a motorcycle accident. I was in disbelief. Merril never owned a motorcycle. The story goes that he had borrowed a bike from one of his generous friends for a joy ride, only to crash and die instantly, not far from the bridge where the so-called ghosts appeared in the night.
Then there was Shirley, a daring street fighter and a friend of Merril’s. He embodied the spirit of a warrior. Despite his lean physique, he was a wrestler and would go to lengths to protect his friends. His education was limited, but we had a good rapport. He would invite me to spend time with his girlfriends, a privilege he extended only to me among his friends. He stood up to street gangs, leading a life I could hardly fathom. The fearless Shirley left our homeland before I did to work on ships as a seafarer. When I was in Dubai, he surprised me with a visit. Tragically, a few years later, Shirley died in a road accident in Sri Lanka, leaving behind a young family in tatters.
Ajith was more than just a friend; he was a collection of moments that brightened my life. He was a few years younger than me, and our bond formed during challenging times. I became his mentor and confidant. Ajith’s relationship with his father was stormy, leading him to seek refuge at my place. We shared clothes, beds, and the quiet corners of our hearts. Despite my efforts, his education, which he dropped out of, didn’t flourish as I hoped. Still, our connection went beyond words. Ajith became a regular visitor at my parents’ home, and they welcomed him like a son. Life took us in different directions — I left the country to chase dreams in Dubai, while Ajith came to Dubai as a driver a decade later. But visiting his living quarters shattered my illusions. His humble living facility altered my perspective of my affluent life in Dubai, exposing the stark disparities and social injustices and ultimately leading me to relocate to Australia. Tragically, he passed away from an undisclosed illness, leaving behind a young family in turmoil. His youngest child never had the chance to meet him.
In our heydays together, I had to traverse the same bridge that carried me to his home. I still miss my old friend — the bridge builder, keeper of secrets, and silent witness to our journey. The laughter of my old friend still echoes, refusing to fade.
Frans, a shadowed soul in my home village, danced on the precipice of chaos. His parents, addicted to liquor, wove a tapestry of broken promises and shattered dreams. But Frans, with eyes wide as the moon, sought solace in the company of friends — much older boys. A young rebel, he smoked from a young age. We shared stolen moments behind rusted fences; Frans would slip into my room, borrowing my tank tops like armour for youth parties. Our connection frayed when I moved out of Sri Lanka. I often wondered about Frans, the boy who wore my borrowed memories, and whispers of his fate reached my ears — an echo from across the ocean. Northern Ireland, a land scarred by sectarian violence, became his new home. The story goes that he joined the ranks of the IRA, a soldier in a clandestine war. His laughter, once innocent, now echoed in the chambers of rebellion. And when the final curtain fell, he perished — a footnote in a story of strife in that country.
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There were also a few who tragically passed away. While I wasn’t particularly close to them, they were friends or friends and thus indirectly became part of my extended friend circle.
One such individual was Lucky, who was a few years my senior. He was engaged in trade from his early years, and I was not privy to his business. He lived in a spacious house with his parents and a brood of good-looking younger sisters. While they went on family vacations, he would entrust the keys to their home to our mutual friend, Shirley. The house transformed into our sanctuary, our guest house where we could privately hang out with girls. Later, while in Dubai, I received the shocking news of Lucky’s demise. He had been fatally shot, and rumours suggested that a business deal gone awry was the cause.
Then there was Anil, a boy with a dark complexion. I would join him in his front yard for badminton games with the local boys. As evening fell, we would gather at his place for card games. His father was friendly, offering us cigarettes and the occasional shot from his bottle. Anil was known for his fearlessness. While I was in Dubai, I received the tragic news that Anil had been shot dead by a robber he had pursued. His courage, unfortunately, led to his untimely demise.
Then, there was Victor, a schoolboy who resided behind our church, adjacent to the cemetery. He was a student at the local school. Tragically, he drowned in the sea while I was in Sri Lanka, and it took several days to recover his body from the water. His untimely death sent ripples of shock through the young community in my neighbourhood. I paid a visit to his humble home, with its low roof, to offer my final respects. The sight of his swollen body in an open casket was deeply unsettling.
The bridge at the beginning of this essay, steeped in local lore and personal memories, served as a symbolic gateway to the world of my friends. It was a testament to their lives, struggles, and enduring friendships formed in my early years growing up to be a man. Whenever I crossed that bridge, even after many decades, it served as a poignant reminder of the young lives tragically lost too soon. Their memories continue to resonate, echoing in the silence, a testament to their enduring spirit.
Boys from my school years, too, perished before their time.
In the sun-dappled courtyard of our middle school, where laughter echoed, and friendships bloomed, there was a boy named Chithralal. His smile was as warm as the afternoon sun, and his eyes held secrets — secrets he’d share only with those who truly listened. Chithralal was a year junior, yet he walked with a confidence that belied his age. When we met, he’d put his arm around me — a simple gesture, but one that etched itself into my memory. His touch spoke of camaraderie, of shared secrets whispered under the ancient banyan tree. We were kindred spirits, navigating the labyrinth of adolescence together. Fast forward — I received the news a few years beyond high school: Chithralal had passed away. The words hung heavy like monsoon clouds threatening to burst. How could someone so full of life slip away? I attended his funeral — a sombre gathering of familiar faces. The sun hid behind grey clouds as if mourning alongside us. We stood there, the echoes of our middle school days swirling around us. The laughter, the pranks — they all danced in the shadows. The story whispered among us was that Chithralal had taken his own life. Failing exams, they said. But I wondered — what darkness had crept into his soul? What storms had raged within him, hidden behind that infectious grin?
Then there was Cassian from my high school and my village. Officially, he drowned in the river, a sad accident. But whispers, like smoke signals, told a different story. Love, disapproval, and the river being a “convenient” solution. We all knew the truth, but his funeral was filled with unspoken secrets.
One last addition to this essay. It has nothing to do with the bridge or the friends I lost forever.
In my short life in Sri Lanka, in the neighbouring Kiribathgoda, a notorious gang leader, Manchanayake, lived. I had never seen him. Yet, his reputation was well-known to all. Everybody knew the terror he was. Tales of his brutal acts and his practice of extorting hush money from local businesses and shops were familiar. On my first visit to Sri Lanka from Dubai, I learned of Manchanayake’s demise. Curiosity led me to want to see what this gangster looked like. Accompanied by a few friends, I visited his humble, thatched abode, which had been transformed into a house of mourning. To my shock, I saw his lifeless body, marked with visible scars and holes, torn ears, hair strawn, body pinched black and blue, evidence of a torturous end. It was said that an irate businessman with political connections had meted out to Manchanayake a dose of his own medicine.
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