Ticket to Friendship:
A Colombo Coming-of-Age Tale
The metal bar at the bus stand was my perch that fateful evening, my nose buried in a book as I waited for the after-work bus. Across the way stood a lad with straight hair and a necklace — a face I’d glimpsed before, someone from my suburb. His smile was an invitation, and soon we were chatting, me still atop my metal roost, him standing. Nimal Ranatunga, he called himself.
When Route 132 rumbled up, bound for our hometown, we clambered aboard. Nimal paid for my ticket in a gesture that would seal our friendship. As the bus lurched through Colombo’s bustling streets, we chattered away, two late teens on the cusp of discovering the world. Finding a kindred spirit was a joy I hadn’t anticipated when I’d set out that morning.
Our chance encounter at the ‘monkey bar’ — our cheeky name for the bus stand — blossomed quickly. Music, fashion, mutual friends — we found common ground everywhere. Nimal’s cheerfulness was infectious, his zest for life a tonic I didn’t know I needed. In those 45 minutes of our slow, swaying journey, I knew I’d found a friend worth keeping.
As my stop approached, we made plans to meet again after work. Little did I know that this would be the start of a friendship that would span decades and continents.
True to my word, I waited at Duke Street the next day, intentionally waving off buses. Our mateship flourished with each shared journey. Nimal introduced me to his world — the majestic Chartered Bank where he worked, lunches at ‘Green Café’, evenings at city bars. We sported matching zaggy, seventies-style hair, and regulars at the swankiest salons in Colombo.
Nimal’s home became my second haven. I’d cycle over, greeted by his athletic policeman father and kind-hearted mother. The Ranatunga household was a tapestry of fascinating characters — the policeman brother, the sister studying medicine in far-off Moscow, and the charming younger siblings. Their home gym, the Woodstock poster in Nimal’s room — it all spoke of a family embracing life with both arms.
Set on a sprawling plot beside a paddy field, the Ranatungas’ home was always open and welcoming. Fresh milk from their own cattle, baths drawn from the backyard well, meals shared at their generous table — the Ranatungas’ warmth knew no bounds.
Through Nimal, I was inducted into a vibrant circle of friends — Asoka, Raja Rohan, Mahil, Dayal, Sumith, Peter, Glen, Saliya, Parawahera, and young Azlaff. Some were familiar faces from my past, others new comrades-in-arms. Our gang was a melting pot of cultures and beliefs, though in our youthful exuberance, such distinctions meant little.
Life took on a new rhythm — after-work hangouts, weekend adventures, shared dreams and schemes. Colombo became our playground, and Asoka and Saliya’s cars expanded our horizons. We devoured movies, concerts, and cricket matches all with gusto.
Fashion was our battle armour, and Kalu Mahattaya was our secret weapon. This talented tailor could conjure up any style we fancied — our fashion genie.
Our escapades weren’t always wise — racing to the city, sometimes on the wrong side of the road, fueled by youthful bravado. But those reckless moments we have cemented our bond, creating memories that would last a lifetime.
Little did I know then that this chance encounter at a bus stand would lead to a friendship that would weather time, distance, and life’s many twists. Nimal and I have remained connected through it all. Not bad for two lads who started with nothing but a fearless attitude and an open heart, eh?
