The Wanderer
He yearned for the horizon, a restlessness that gnawed at him despite the comforts of his tiny room. His radio, a battered relic, crackled with distant voices, each a whisper of a world beyond the confines of Colombo. Books, his constant companions, offered escape, each page a portal to lands unseen. But even these pale reflections of adventure couldn’t fully quench his thirst for experience.
Two years into college, a certainty crystallised: his destiny lay beyond the city’s well-trodden paths. He longed to share his journey with the girl, to explain the unexpected detour that had shaped him — his time at the novitiate, a chapter of his life that had unexpectedly deepened his understanding of himself. His parents, though relieved he had not embraced the priesthood, had always been his unwavering support. His father, toiling tirelessly, had provided for the family, a sacrifice that filled him with profound gratitude.
Yet, the call of the unknown remained irresistible. The allure of distant shores, of experiencing life in all its raw, unfiltered glory, far outweighed any desire for the comforts of religion or the societal expectations that sought to confine him. Finally, during a visit home, he confessed his yearning for adventure and his desire to explore the world rather than follow the well-worn path of a Christian brother.
The girl, oblivious to the depth of his feelings, remained unaware of the dreams he harboured — a small house, a garden overflowing with life, and the laughter of six children echoing through the years. It was a foolish, youthful fantasy, he knew. Yet, the image lingered, a poignant reminder of the dreams that simmered beneath the surface of his restless soul.
He idly traced the worn cover of the Stardust magazine, a prized possession acquired for a mere Rupees 2.75 at the bustling second-hand book market. A Bristol cigarette, a cheap indulgence, smouldered between his fingers. Why did this need to inhale the smoke? Was it a desperate attempt to assert masculinity he still felt uncertain of, to prove to himself, to the world, that he was indeed a man, or simply a yearning for a fleeting sense of rebellion?
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, a wave of frustration washing over him. “When will this pathetic excuse for a moustache finally materialise?” he grumbled, envious of his friends who sported impressively, almost comical displays of facial hair — veritable nests of bear hair clinging stubbornly to their chins. During a recent family outing, his father had even reached out, his hand hovering over his son’s chin, a gesture that felt simultaneously affectionate and strangely disconcerting. Was it a subtle acknowledgment of his burgeoning manhood or simply a bewildered curiosity?
