Three years slipped by, and the time came for Nayanidu to begin his own journey. The choice of school sparked endless debates at the dinner table. In the end, Namal and Nirmala chose Dharmaraja College—the very school where they taught.
It was a controversial decision. In Matara, a school's reputation was often seen as a child's destiny. But Namal and Nirmala were firm: a school's name didn't define a child's worth. They believed a student who excelled at a modest school like Dharmaraja held more value than one who failed at a prestigious institution like Rahula College. They knew the trade-off, of course. A "big" school offered more eyes, more scouts, and more fame for a talented athlete or artist. But at this stage, they decided that a solid foundation was more important than a famous badge.
Nayanidu was placed in a class taught by Soma, a close friend of Nirmala's.
"Ah, so this is the young man! How are you, son?" Soma greeted him with a warm smile.
"Nayanidu, this is your teacher," Nirmala said, gently nudging him forward. "Say hello."
"Hello, Teacher," he whispered.
Nirmala gave his hand a final squeeze. "I'll leave you with Miss Soma now. Listen well, and if I can, I'll peek in during the interval."
Though Miss Soma was kind, the transition wasn't seamless. Nayanidu's greatest enemy was the sunrise. Waking up early was a battle that often ended in tears and a stern scolding from Namal. But once he was finally in the car, the tears dried, and he would spend the drive animatedly narrating his schoolyard adventures to his parents.
At school, Nayanidu was a different person. Everywhere else, he was a mischievous whirlwind, bold and daring because he knew his parents were a safety net just inches away. But inside the school gates, that net felt further away. He realized, for the first time, that he was not the center of the universe.
In the village, he was used to the whispers of adults: "Look, that's Mr. Namal's son," or "Isn't Nirmala's boy darling?" But to the children in the playground—who came from every corner of the district—he wasn't "The Teachers' Son." He was just another boy in a white uniform.
Nirmala and Namal insisted on this. They refused to let his status as a faculty child turn into a privilege.
"He must be treated like everyone else," Namal told his wife. "This school isn't our kingdom; it's our workplace. Our job is to be his teachers, not just his parents, while we are on these grounds."
And so, the first four years of his education passed—quiet, steady, and remarkably normal.