Hittatiya was a sprawling village in Matara, a place where the shadows of three major city schools often eclipsed the smaller Hittatiya Dharmaraja College. To most, it was an overlooked institution, but to the Kumaradasa family, it was the center of their universe.
Their home stood less than a kilometer away, but their connection to the school was deeper than distance. It was where the family began. It was in those classrooms that Namal Kumaradasa, a young teacher, first met Miss Nirmala Wijesinghe. A schoolhouse romance blossomed into a marriage, and soon, they settled into a quiet life nearby.
Eighteen months later, the house was filled with the cry of their firstborn. They named him Kanil Nayanindu—a name bestowed by his grandfather, Sadiris.
With the new arrival came a crowded, bustling house. Namal's parents moved in to help, and Nirmala's father, Somasiri, joined them. Since Nirmala's own mother had passed seven years prior, her mother-in-law, Prema, stepped into the role with a tireless, quiet kindness.
But for Somasiri, the walls of the house felt like they were closing in.
Back in his own village, Somasiri was a man of the streets. He couldn't walk ten paces without a neighbor hailing him, or find a corner where a game of carrom wasn't waiting. In his daughter's suburban yard, he was a ghost. He paced from one corner of the garden to the other, his feet tracing a path of restlessness. He missed the belonging of the village; here, he was merely a guest in someone else's rhythm.
"Nirmala," he would practice in his head, "I was thinking of heading back to the village. Since your in-laws are here... I could always come back later, couldn't I?"
But the words always died in his throat. I am her father, his subconscious scolded him. I should be the one she leans on. How can I leave just because I am bored?
Nirmala, however, saw him. She watched him through the window, pacing the yard like a caged bird.
"Dad is bored," she whispered one night, leaning back against the couch after a long day.
"I know," Namal replied softly. "I haven't had much time to talk to him. I'm sorry."
"No, it's not that," Nirmala said, her voice tinged with sadness. "He just doesn't belong here like he does in the village. He's terrified of telling me, because he thinks the truth will break my heart."
"I can't just tell him he has nothing to do here," Nirmala sighed. "If I suggest he goes back to the village because he's bored, he'll only worry. He's gentle—sensitive, like a child. If I say it out loud, he'll realize I've seen through his brave face, and that will hurt him more."
"He doesn't really talk to my parents either, does he?" Namal asked. "I'll tell them to make an effort to include him."
The next evening, after the dust of the workday had settled, Namal finished his wash and stepped onto the porch. He found Somasiri standing there, staring out at the small garden. It wasn't like the village with its towering, ancient trees; here, there were only a few ornamental flowers in pots and a single Willard mango sapling.
"I brought that mango tree for nirmala's birthday" Namal said, stepping beside him.
Somasiri turned, a small smile touching his lips as he pulled himself from his thoughts. "Has it ever borne fruit? Is it sweet?"
"We harvested some once," Namal replied. "A bit sour, though. Better for a curry than eating plain."
Somasiri nodded slowly. "Do you remember the mango tree back in our village?"
"I do," Namal smiled. "The one in the far corner of the yard..."
"Father was so happy that you spoke with him yesterday," Nirmala told Namal the next morning as she readied herself for school.
"I'm glad," Namal said, "but it's still going to be hard for him. I spoke to my parents, too. They have no ill will toward him—they say they get along fine—but they noticed something. Whenever they are together as a couple, your father seems... uncomfortable."
It was a quiet change that had taken root in Somasiri since the day his wife passed. The loss had been a mountain he couldn't climb over. While he had eventually found a way to keep living, the wound remained open. Seeing a couple together—whether they were young lovers or old companions—acted like a mirror to his own loneliness. Every time he saw them, he was reminded of the love he had lost, and his heart would sink into a familiar, heavy ache.
Until the boy turned two, Somasiri moved between these two worlds—a temporary resident in his daughter's home, a ghost returning to his village for air. Occasionally, Nirmala and Namal would join him on these trips. Even Prema came along once or twice, finding a strange peace in the rural quiet. Though they loved the visits, Namal's parents often held back; they feared that if they crowded him, they would rob Somasiri of the very freedom he sought in his own village.
For Namal's family, the village was a revelation. They were from Kottawa, a bustling suburb on the edge of Colombo. Coming from the fast-paced, concrete sprawl of the city, the raw, unfiltered friendliness of the Matara countryside was a source of inspiration. When Namal had first been posted to Matara for his teaching job, he'd worried he could never adapt to the slower pulse of the south. Now, it felt like home.
But time moves differently when a child is involved.
Once Nayanidu turned two, the plan they had long discussed finally went into motion. The boy was enrolled in a daycare center. The morning routine became a blur of activity: Namal and Nirmala would drop Nayanidu off on their way to school and pick him up as the final bell rang.
With the child now cared for during the day, the house grew quiet. The purpose that had kept the grandfathers there—the constant need for extra hands and watchful eyes—had shifted. With a mixture of relief and heavy hearts, Somasiri and Sadiris finally packed their bags and returned to their respective villages.