Jeeva’s Verandah
Jeeva’s Verandah,” a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe, portrays the anxieties of a young boy, Jeeva, in Sri Lanka. Jeeva longs to join the older boys in his family as they smoke, joke, and discuss their dreams on the verandah. However, Jeeva remains on the periphery, excluded due to his age and an undefined “something deeper.” The story captures the universal yearning for belonging and the bittersweet transition from childhood to adolescence.
The evening was a thick soup of monsoon memories and damp earth, a testament to the recent rains. Jeeva’s yard, a minimalist canvas dotted with guava trees, was bathed in the dying embers of the day. The relentless hum of traffic and the metallic kiss of exhaust fumes were jarring footnotes to their small assembly.
A band of lads, including Jeeva’s elder brothers Priya and Mangala, held court on the low wall that faced Kandy Road, their camaraderie punctuated by a shared cigarette. “This is our rebellion,” Denzil announced, his voice carrying the gravitas of premature adulthood. Browny, Jeeva’s loyal canine companion, watched them in silence.
Jeeva, a prisoner in his school uniform, paced the veranda. “These lessons are pointless,” he muttered, his thoughts a mirror reflecting his day at Carey College. He longed for the days before the yoke of responsibility had been placed on his young shoulders.
A lamplighter, his sarong dancing with the breeze, pedalled down the street. He ignited the lamp outside Jeeva’s gate, its feeble light a lighthouse in the advancing twilight.
Mangala inhaled the cigarette, the acrid aroma of tobacco clashing with the saccharine scent of nearby frangipani blossoms. “Life is a heavy load at twenty-five,” he sighed, flicking the ash onto the ground.
Mahinda, a delicate boy who refrained from smoking, sat next to Priya, a forgotten comic book resting in his lap. Nelum, the group’s resident jester, nudged him playfully. “Cheer up, Mahinda,” he said, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
Mangala spun tales of California and his American girlfriend. “There’s a whole world out there,” he said, his enthusiasm infectious. The boys admired Mangala, the fearless one, his front teeth bearing the brown badges of his smoking habit.
Denzil, still haunted by a past encounter with Browny, stood awkwardly next to Mangala. Cyril, the group’s de facto leader, shared a cigarette with a tired authority. Jeeva watched from the sidelines, yearning to be part of their circle.
A van pulled up next door, a woman in a blue saree disembarking. “Another reminder of our exclusion,” Priya remarked. Their longing for a bottle of arrack was interrupted by the arrival of Jeeva’s mother. “Teatime, boys,” she called, and they retreated into the house, their rebellion evaporating.
Jeeva remained on the veranda, an outsider peering in. He yearned to be part of their group, to share their secrets and the smoke of their cigarettes. But for now, he was left on the periphery, a ghostly observer at the edge of their world. Denzil, who was the same age as Jeeva but attended college during the day, was an elusive presence, forever out of reach.
Jeeva’s mother quelled their rebellion for a bottle of arrack. “Teatime, boys,” she called again, and they shuffled back into the house, leaving Jeeva alone on the veranda. He was an outsider, not just because of his age, but something deeper, something inexplicable.
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