Features

The Same Sun—A Short Story

Published

3 weeks ago

2026/05/10

When I finally woke up, sunlight streamed brightly through the window, filling the room with a golden glow. I could hardly believe it—the nap I had taken around four o’clock the previous afternoon had lasted the entire night. In this new country, inside a fresh-scented university dormitory, I was on the threshold of a new life. The past two days felt like a fleeting dream. Just a short while ago, I had stood at the Colombo Airport, bidding farewell to my parents, relatives, and friends.

My journey had taken me first to London on a BOAC flight (British Overseas Airline Corporation, now British Airways). From Heathrow, I boarded an Air Canada flight bound for Toronto. Each leg of the trip had stirred a storm of emotions in my heart—excitement for the unknown, but also the ache of separation.

Even after such long sleep, fatigue still clung to me. Perhaps this was what people meant by “jet lag.” The sudden ring of the phone interrupted my thoughts. I picked up the receiver, and to my delight, a familiar Sri Lankan voice greeted me. Relief washed over me instantly.

It was Sivasunderam—Siva—pursuing a postgraduate degree at the University of Toronto. He had heard of my arrival through the university’s International Student Center.

“Have you had dinner?” he asked.

“No, I kept sleeping,” I admitted.

“I’ll come by in half an hour and take you out,” he promised.

“Dinner? Isn’t it morning?” I asked, bewildered.

He laughed. “No, it’s almost 8 p.m.”

I glanced at my wristwatch. He was right. It was still the day I had arrived in Canada—I had already adjusted the time at the Toronto airport.

“Then why is it so bright outside?” I wondered aloud.

“That’s Canadian summer,” Siva chuckled. “Wait until winter—then it will be dark before you’ve even finished your dinner. Didn’t you learn about the Earth’s tilted rotation and the seasons back in school?” he teased.

I had never met Siva in person before, yet from the warmth in his voice, he already felt like an old friend.

New Encounters

Siva arrived at my room in “New Hall” of the University of Toronto, where I was staying temporarily until my room at St. George College became available. He had brought along his friend Surjeet, an Indian Sikh. Both of them lived at St. George, a residence for postgraduate students.

Surjeet was tall, striking, and carried himself with quiet authority. Unlike some Sikhs, he did not wear a turban, though a stainless steel bracelet gleamed on his right wrist. He owned a Volkswagen Beetle, but since his department was within walking distance of the dormitory—and parking was expensive—he usually left it parked at St. Gorge College and walked to the department.

As we walked together, Siva turned to me with a mischievous smile. “Have you ever eaten pizza?”

“What’s that?” I asked honestly. It was 1973, and I had just arrived from Sri Lanka.

“Then you’ve eaten roti?” he pressed. I nodded. “Well, imagine a roti topped with tomato sauce, cheese, onions, green peppers, and slices of meat, baked until golden. That’s pizza.”

At his description, my stomach rumbled. I had eaten very little on the flight and nothing since landing. Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.

We walked to a restaurant called “Pizza Pub.” Its walls were painted green, the tables dressed in red cloths, and oil lamps flickered on each one. The dim light cast a cozy glow over the room. Young couples leaned close, holding hands and whispering, more interested in one another than their food.

“This reminds me of Peradeniya,” I remarked, thinking of my old university back in Sri Lanka. “Perhaps even worse!”

“I never studied at Peradeniya,” Siva replied with a grin. “But here, pizza is everywhere. It’s inexpensive and particularly popular among students. Originally Italian, yes—but what you’ll taste here is an American version. In Italy, pizza is just dough, tomato paste, and cheese. Not nearly as tasty. By the way, have you noticed the colors? Red, white, and green—the same as the Italian flag.”

Surjeet, less talkative but decisive, called the waitress over. “A large pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, green pepper, onions, and anchovies. And please, bring it quickly—we’re starving.”

The waitress, a Canadian student working part-time, scribbled down the order with a friendly smile. Siva leaned toward me and whispered that many students took up such part-time jobs in restaurants and grocery stores to support their finances.

“I’ll try to bring the pizza right away. What would you like to drink?” she asked Surjeet politely, her tone somewhat warmer than usual.

“Shall we have a beer?” Siva suggested, looking at me.

“No, not for me,” I said quickly.

“You’ve come all this way and won’t even try? Don’t worry—I’ll cover it. You can pay me later,” he teased.

“Three Molson Exports, please,” Siva told the waitress.

When she left Siva, turning to Surjeet, Siva said. “She didn’t even notice us—only gave you a polite smile. Go on, ask for her phone number!”

Surjeet chuckled but, as usual, kept silent.

A taste of unfamiliar food

The pizza arrived, steaming hot, its generous toppings bubbling with melted cheese. The waitress placed it on the cast-iron stand at the center of the table and lit the small oil lamp beneath it, keeping the food warm.

“Shall I bring more beer?” she asked.

“No, just some chili flakes and Parmesan cheese, please,” Siva replied.

Curious, the waitress turned to Surjeet. “And what country are you from?”

Without missing a beat, Siva answered for him. “We’re from Canada, and he’s from Italy,” he said, pointing at Surjeet.

She frowned, unconvinced. “No, I mean originally—where are you really from?”

Siva, grinning mischievously, repeated, “We’re from Canada, and he’s from Italy.” His sarcasm was clear.

“I’m from Sri Lanka,” I finally added softly, breaking the playful charade.

Siva sprinkled the chili flakes and Parmesan generously over the pizza before serving me a slice. The first bite was a revelation—the crisp crust, the spicy tang of chili, the savory richness of the toppings. Though unfamiliar, it was delicious, and my hunger only heightened the taste.

After we finished, Siva asked, “Shall we get some espresso?”

Thinking it was another form of alcohol, I shook my head. “No, I’ve already had enough.”

He laughed. “Espresso isn’t alcohol—it’s strong coffee, served in tiny cups. No milk, but you can add sugar if you like.”

When it arrived, the espresso’s bitterness startled me. Not wanting to offend Siva, I stirred in plenty of sugar and drank it quickly.

After dinner, Siva and Surjeet walked me back to my dorm. Before leaving, they shook my hand firmly. It felt unusual at first, but I would soon learn that this Western handshake was more than just formality—it was a universal gesture of greeting and farewell. In some cultures, I would later discover, men even embraced or kissed one another on the cheek as a sign of friendship. Back in my room, I tried to sleep, but my mind refused to rest. Memories of my past filled the silence.

I had been born and raised in Badulla, a town nestled in the hills of Sri Lanka. My family lived in a remote village nearby—Morahela—where my parents both taught at the local school. Traveling even to Colombo for my high school years had once felt like a great adventure. I remembered my first solo journey vividly: the night train to Colombo from Badulla, traveling using my father’s railway pass.

My schooling had been a journey of its own: from Morahela Public School up to Grade 4, then to St. Bede’s College in Badulla, followed by St. Thomas’ College in the cool, misty hills of Gurutalawa, and finally Ananda College in Colombo. From there I entered the University of Ceylon (now University of Sri Lanka) at Peradeniya, the historic campus in Hantana, nestled near the ancient kingdom of Kandy, and later worked as an engineer at the Arpico Factory of Richard Pieris & Co. Ltd. Each step had felt like climbing to a new peak.

Now, I had crossed oceans—through London and into Toronto, Canada. This was the first time I had ever left my homeland, and the thought carried both pride and melancholy. My mind wandered back to Morahela, where my mother, unbeknownst to me, had transferred ownership of our family home and nearly four acres of surrounding land into my name. Years later, while working overseas, I would renovate that home—adding electricity, running water, modern bathrooms with hot water, even an air-conditioned room, and living quarters for a caretaker. Whenever I returned to Sri Lanka, that house became my retreat.

At the Toronto central bus station, I found myself weighed down with two large suitcases and the carry-on bag. Unsure of the way to the university, I asked the bus driver for help. With fatherly kindness, he advised, “Son, don’t even think of walking with all that luggage. Take a taxi.” He even hailed one for me, sending me safely toward the University of Toronto’s International Student Center.

After completing my final exams at the University of Ceylon, I was not among the lucky few offered posts as Instructor, not to mention Assistant Lecturer. Ironically, I had graduated with first-class honors in engineering and had even won the Dr. Hewavitarane Prize for best overall performance across all departments of Engineering at University.

Undeterred, I secured a position as an Assistant Works Engineer in the private sector. The job came with a fully furnished house rent-free, a generous salary, and two afternoons a week free to teach as a Visiting Lecturer at the University of Moratuwa.

I still remember the day of my job interview. The factory was located in Nawinna, a suburb of Colombo, and I wanted to stay overnight at a nearby guesthouse. When I asked the receptionist of the guesthouse for a room, she looked at me quizzically and asked, “For how many hours?” Only then did I realize the nature of the place. Embarrassed, I clarified that I wanted the room for the entire night.

That night was sleepless—not only because I was nervous about the interview, but also because the room was stifling without air conditioning, mosquitoes swarmed mercilessly, and disturbing noises came through the thin walls. A young woman cried in the next room, while an older man murmured consolations, repeating, “Lovers don’t cry.” The next morning, I glimpsed the pair—the man far too old, and probably as old as her father.

Despite the restless night, I faced my interview bravely and secured the job.

Before leaving Sri Lanka for graduate studies, I had risen to a permanent position of executive engineer in the private sector. Shifting from the authority of that role to the humility of a student’s life in Canada was a difficult adjustment, but a necessary one. This is my story of coming from Sri Lanka to Toronto, Canada.

by Clarence de Silva

All News Advertisement

Features

The Division Bell Mystery

Published

1 day ago

2026/05/29

Thilina Walpola

Tales of Mystery and Suspense 3

The murder, in a private dining room in the house, is of a financier with whom the government was negotiating a loan. When this seemed difficult the Minister of Home Affairs agreed to lead discussions, since he had known Mr Oissel the financier when they were young. Hence the private dinner, but when the Minister stepped out for a vote, Oissel was shot just as the Division Bell rang.

The Brahms and Simon detective novels, the first of which I wrote about last week, were amongst several books by the pair that Robert Scoble gave me when I was in Australia towards the end of last year. Amongst them was another thriller of a very different sort, though that too was written and set between the wars.

Called The Division Bell Mystery, it was set in the House of Commons, the first such book I believe, and was by Ellen Wilkinson, a Labour MP who became Minister of Education in Attlee’s government after the war, having served previously as Parliamentary Private Secretary to several ministers. Her hero Robert West is also a PPS, but a conservative, and his Minister, of Home Affairs, is an old style aristocrat, not much loved by the less orthodox Prime Minister, who nevertheless needs his support on many occasions.

The murder, in a private dining room in the house, is of a financier with whom the government was negotiating a loan. When this seemed difficult the Minister of Home Affairs agreed to lead discussions, since he had known Mr Oissel the financier when they were young. Hence the private dinner, but when the Minister stepped out for a vote, Oissel was shot just as the Division Bell rang.

West was just outside the door when the shot was heard, and when he opened it saw only the dead body with a revolver beside it. The assumption that this was suicide was however challenged by Oissel’s grand-daughter Annette, who was his heir, on the grounds that he would never have killed himself. But her view was given greater credence by the Inspector put in charge of the case who said there were no burn marks on the body which would have been the case had Oissel fired the pistol himself.

Matters are complicated by the fact that Oissel’s flat had been burgled while he was at dinner, and Jenks the policeman allocated to him, who had served the Home Secretary and seemed more acceptable to Oissel than someone from the Security Service, had been killed. Matters get even more complicated when Annette says her grand-father’s notebook in which he wrote his secrets in cipher was missing.

That was found in Jenks’ pocket, and then a photographer came to West to say he had been asked by Jenks to photograph this. More worryingly for West, he finds in the Home Secretary’s drawer a few pages from the notebook with what appears to be an interpretation of the cipher.

Ellen

Overwhelmed by all this he confides in a recently created peer who knows all about the business world, who insists that they leave the house party at which they had met over dinner and discuss the matter with the Prime Minister who promptly summons the Home Secretary.

But the Home Secretary had gone to Scotland to launch a ship over the weekend, so the meeting could take place only on the morning of the Monday, when difficult questions were expected on the adjournment motion. He admits at the meeting that he had got Jenks to take the notebook, and also that he knew the code since it had been created by him and Oissel when they were young.

He thought he should resign, and even contemplated suicide, but the Prime Minister told him that that would be even worse for the government, and that he should go home to bed. The Prime Minister said that he himself would handle the question, which he did with aplomb, insisting that confidentiality was needed until the inquest. What had happened would be made clear then, he declared, leaving West and Inspector Blackit and Lord Dalbeattie what seemed the impossible task of solving the murder.

Dalbeattie had suggested that West ask a female Labour MP who was very fond of him to get what information she could from the staff. That there was some involvement there had become clear when West, going back late one night to collect a briefcase he had left in a dining room, found someone lurking in the dark in the corridor outside the private rooms. Room J, where the murder had happened, was meant to be guarded throughout by a policeman, but he had left the room having felt dizzy, and it seemed that his coffee had been drugged. West’s sudden appearance however had prevented anyone else getting into the room.

Dalbeattie decides to recreate the scene of the murder and has a dinner party in Room J on the Tuesday night, inviting West and Annette and the society hostess at whose house he had met, and also Patrick Kinnaird, an MP who was engaged to Annette, as well as the Permanent Secretary to the Home Ministry.

After coffee Inspector Blackit comes in with Grace, the Labour MP who had got the confidence of the staff, and a journalist who had also been helpful, and just as they say they think they are on the track the division bell rings. Grace jumps up and tells the Inspector that that provides the solution and they get a ladder, and sure enough find the revolver in the space where the bell is. Directed at the place where Oissel had sat, it had been primed to go off with the ringing of the bell. The waiter who had helped to set things up made clear who the murderer had been.

The reason for the murder and the confused motives of all those involved made for a fascinatingly intricate mix. But also impressive in the book were the descriptions of the isolation possible in the crowded premises of the house, the forceful characterization of the members – Grace based on the writer, the society hostess based on Nancy Astor, the first female MP – and the laid back nature of senior politicians which West realized had to change in the brave new world of high finance.

Features

The challenge of keeping value-based politics alive

Published

2 days ago

2026/05/28

Sahan Weerasooriya

Anti-migrant protests in Durban, South Africa. BBC

The current outbreak of anti-immigrant protests in Durban, South Africa is bound to have taken many a subscriber to value-based politics or political idealism quite by surprise. After all, this is evidence that despite the historic accomplishments of nation-builders of the stature of the late President Nelson Mandela it cannot be taken for granted that identity politics, including racism in its worst forms, is no more in South Africa.

At the time of this writing details are scarce on the substantive root causes of the protests but it could very well be that economic grievances, particularly on the part of the majority community in South Africa, are contributing considerably to the disaffection. Shrinking employment and material prospects are likely to figure majorly among the factors igniting the unrest.

Fortunately, the local authorities in Durban are losing no time in calling for peaceful co-existence among the relevant communities and are pointing to the vital importance of stepping-up national integration processes. Apparently, immigrants in sizable numbers from neighbouring countries are present in Durban. However, international TV footage of the protests quoted some local authorities as saying that the majority of the immigrants in some centres that housed them were not illegal migrants and had the documents that entitle them to be in Durban.

In the Durban protests the world has fresh proof of the socially divisive consequences of the gathering globe-wide economic disaffection, touched off particularly by the continuing crisis in West Asia. Going ahead, the world would need to brace for increasing identity-based unrest of the kind it is just witnessing in South Africa.

Considering that the material lot of ordinary people everywhere could only aggravate progressively, with the US and Iran showing no signs of negotiating an end to their confrontation any time soon, it will be left to the more democratic and progressive sections of the world community to initiate positive measures collectively to bring a measure of relief to the discontented.

The swiftness with which such relief will be provided would depend crucially on the importance those sections taking up these undertakings attach to value-based politics as opposed to Realpolitik of power politics.

Going by these yardsticks, Italy could be considered to be moving in the right direction. Recently Italy came to the fore in initiating the collective named, ‘Rome Coalition for Food Security and Access to Fertilizer’, which has as one of its aims the swift provision of fertilizer to economically weak African countries.

In a recent statement Italian Minister of Foreign Affairs and International Cooperation, Antonio Tajani, said that a principal aim of the project was to ensure that the farmers of Africa gained easy access to fertilizer, considering that food security is a growing concern among some of Africa’s economically vulnerable countries.

The statement went on to mention that some 30 countries hailing from the Mediterranean region, the Middle East, the Balkans as well as the FAO had been invited to join the coalition. The venture is far-seeing in that food security is main among the reasons for social discontent which in turn could degenerate into endemic political turmoil and bloodshed. Separatist violence and geographical fragmentation of countries wouldn’t be too far behind these developments, as Africa itself has often proved.

It is hoped that more G7 countries would take the cue from Italy and do what they could to ease the hardships of economically distressed countries, particularly of the global South. In these efforts they would need to break rank with the US, which is today brutally indifferent to the consequences of its policy of making ‘America First’, come what may.

Going by current developments, the Trump administration seems to be blithely oblivious to the wider, deleterious effects of its policy course in West Asia. Besides rendering Iran militarily and otherwise impotent nothing else seems to matter to Washington, as regards West Asia. This is policy short-sightedness of an extreme kind. After all, right now West Asia could be said to be sitting on the proverbial powder keg.

On the other hand, Iran is not giving the world the impression that it is doing anything constructive to get out of the policy straitjacket that it wove for itself decades ago. Rather than enter into a policy of ‘live and let live’ in relation to Israel in particular and initiate a process of reconciliation with the latter, it has chosen to operate within policy parameters that continue to damn Israel. This has put Israel always on the ‘defensive’ so to speak and prevented the opening up of space for meaningful dialogue.

That said, Israel is obliged to explore the possibilities of entering into a negotiatory process with the Arab-Islamic world that could lead to a de-escalation of tensions and bloodshed. It cannot continue to look at its neighbours through lenses that distort them as archetypal enemies who should be ‘wiped off completely from the face of the earth.’

In other words, the need is urgent for Realpolitik to give way to value-based politicks. Italy is beginning to prove that the latter approach could be pursued with some success. May be the EU and the UK could throw their weight behind these initiatives as well and establish that international politics could be refashioned on the basis of humane, civilized norms. The UN would need to be fully supportive of these moves and prove an organizational nucleus of the operations that follow.

In fact the time is ripe for people of conscience to collectively stand up on the side of peace and say ‘No’ to war and violence. Organizations such as the ICRC, the WHO and Medicines Sans Frontiers have already taken up this call. Referring to the widespread destruction of health facilities and their dehumanizing results these organizations have said, among other things, that ‘This is not a failure of the law. It is a failure of political will.’

True, ‘failure of political will’ among those powers that matter accounts for the runaway, uncontrollable nature of war and destruction in contemporary times, but more fundamentally it is a failure of the human conscience. It could very well be that the phenomenal levels to which violence and war have been unleashed today have had the effect of deadening consciences. This is a matter for urgent study and wide discussion.

Features

Vesak celebrations … with Cuteefly

Published

2 days ago

2026/05/28

Sahan Weerasooriya

Perfect for celebrations, gifts, and meaningful occasions // Gift pack

I would describe Indunil Kaushalya Dissanayaka as innovative and creative, and she operates under the name of Cuteefly.

Indunil always comes up with something novel to celebrate special occasions, and she does it with candles … and that’s her profession.

She was in the spotlight when she created a happening scene, with candles, for Christmas, Sinhala and Tamil New Year, and Valentine’s Day.

As lanterns light up Sri Lanka for Vesak, the Colombo-based candle maker is quietly turning wax and wick into little pieces of the festival.

Candles reflecting Vesak themes

Her candles reflect Vesak themes – light, peace, remembrance, giving, etc., to enable you to fill your Vesak celebration with devotion and beauty.

Among her Vesak creations is a lotus-shaped soy candle, scented with sandalwood, lavender, etc., meant to burn during this Vesak Poya Day.

Indunil Kaushalya Dissanayaka: Customers
praise her for her creativity

These handcrafted Vesak candles are perfect for offering at the temple, she says.

What makes her creations so novel is that they come in different shapes, scents, themes, and all are handmade.

What’s more, her customers have heaped praise on her for her creativity.

According to Indunil, her creations are perfect as a thoughtful gift … to bring beauty, unity, and light into every moment.

Says Indunil: “Our beautifully handcrafted Unity candles are designed with premium detail and love, making them perfect for celebrations, gifts, and meaningful occasions.”

Cuteefly, says Indunil, is available online.

Readers could contact Indunil on 0778506066 for more details.

He Facebook Page is: Cuteefly.