When I finally woke up, the sun was shining brightly through the window, filling the room with a golden glow. It was incredible. The nap I took the night before around 4pm lasted all night. In a new country, in a university dormitory with a refreshing scent, I was standing at the entrance to a new life. The past two days have felt like a fleeting dream. Not too long ago, I was standing at the Colombo airport, saying goodbye to my parents, relatives, and friends.
My trip started with a BOAC (British Overseas Airways Corporation, now British Airways) flight to London. I took an Air Canada flight from Heathrow Airport to Toronto. Each leg of the journey created a storm of emotions in my heart. Along with the excitement of the unknown, I also felt the pain of separation.
Despite getting so much sleep, the feeling of fatigue still clung to me. Perhaps this is what people meant by “jet lag.” A sudden phone ring interrupted my thoughts. When I picked up the phone, to my delight I was greeted by a familiar Sri Lankan voice. Immediately a feeling of relief washed over me.
It was Shivasunderam, or Shiva, who was pursuing a graduate degree at the University of Toronto. He found out about my arrival through the university’s international student center.
“Did you have dinner?” he asked.
“No, I was asleep the whole time,” I admitted.
“Come in half an hour and I’ll take you away,” he promised.
“Dinner? Not breakfast?” I asked, confused.
he laughed. “No, it’s almost 8 p.m.”
I glanced at my watch. He was right. That day was still the day we arrived in Canada. I had already arranged my time at the Toronto airport.
“Then why is it so bright outside?” I wondered aloud.
“It’s a Canadian summer,” Shiva laughed. “Wait until winter, then it’ll be dark before you’ve finished dinner. Didn’t you learn about the Earth’s tilted rotation and the seasons in school?” he teased.
I had never met Shiva in person, but the warmth in his voice already made me feel like he was an old friend.
new encounter
Shiva arrived at my room in New Hall at the University of Toronto, where I stayed temporarily until a room at St. George’s College became available. He was accompanied by his friend Surjeet, an Indian Sikh. They both lived in St. George, which is housing for graduate students.
Sarjeet was tall and imposing, with a quiet authority. Unlike some Sikhs, he did not wear a turban, but a stainless steel bracelet gleamed on his right wrist. He owned a Volkswagen Beetle, but because his faculty was within walking distance of his dorm and parking was expensive, he usually left it parked at St. Gorge’s and walked to his faculty.
As we walked together, Shiva turned to me with a mischievous smile on his face. “Have you ever had pizza?”
“What is that?” I asked honestly. In 1973, I had just arrived from Sri Lanka.
“So did you eat the roti?” he pressed. I nodded. “Imagine a roti topped with tomato sauce, cheese, onions, peppers, and slices of meat and baked until golden brown. That’s pizza.”
My stomach rumbled as I listened to his explanation. I didn’t eat much on the plane, and I didn’t eat anything after landing. Until that moment, I didn’t realize how hungry I was.
We went to a restaurant called “Pizza Pub”. The walls were painted green, the tables were covered with red cloths, and an oil lamp flickered on each table. Dim light gives a comfortable glow to the room. The young couple huddled together, holding hands and whispering to each other, more interested in each other than the food.
“This reminds me of Peradeniya,” I said, remembering the old university in Sri Lanka. “Maybe it could be worse!”
“I never studied in Peradeniya,” Shiva replied with a laugh. “But pizza is everywhere here. It’s cheap and especially popular with students. It’s Italian in origin, yes. But what you taste here is the American version. In Italy, pizza is just dough, tomato paste, and cheese. It’s not that good. By the way, did you notice the colors? Red, white, and green – just like the Italian flag.”
Surjeet, a man of few words but decisive, stopped the waitress. “It’s a big pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, bell peppers, onions, and anchovies. And hurry, bring it to me. We’re hungry.”
The waitress, a part-time Canadian student, wrote down our order with a friendly smile. Shiva leans in and whispers to me that many students take such part-time jobs at restaurants and grocery stores to help make ends meet.
“I’ll bring you some pizza right away. What would you like to drink?” she asked Surjeet politely, her tone a little warmer than usual.
“Shall we have a beer?” Shiva suggested, looking at me.
“No, not for me,” I said quickly.
“You’ve come this far and you’re not even trying? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. You can pay for it later,” he teased.
“Three Molson Exports, please,” Shiva said to the waitress.
As she left Shiva, turning to Surjeet, Shiva said, “She didn’t notice us and just smiled politely. Now, ask for her number!”
Sarjet chuckled, but remained silent as usual.
the taste of unfamiliar food
The pizza arrived piping hot, topped with plenty of toppings and bubbling with melted cheese. The waitress placed it on a cast iron stand in the center of the table and lit a small oil lamp underneath to keep the food warm.
“Shall I get you more beer?” she asked.
“No, just chili flakes and Parmesan, please,” Shiva replied.
Interested, the waitress turned to Surjeet. “So, what country are you from?”
Shiva answered for him without missing a beat. “We are from Canada and he is from Italy,” he said, pointing to Surjeet.
She frowned, unconvinced. “No, first of all, where are you from?”
Shiva repeated with a mischievous grin, “We’re from Canada and he’s from Italy.” His sarcasm was obvious.
“I’m from Sri Lanka,” I finally added softly, breaking my playful pretense.
Shiva generously sprinkled chili flakes and Parmesan cheese on top of the pizza before offering me a slice. At first bite, I was surprised by the crispy texture, the spicy aroma of chili peppers, and the flavorful taste of the toppings. It was something I wasn’t used to seeing, but it was delicious and only made me more hungry.
After finishing, Shiva asked, “Would you like an espresso?”
I shook my head, thinking this was another type of alcohol. “No, I’ve already eaten a lot.”
he laughed. “Espresso is not alcohol. It’s strong coffee served in a small cup. It doesn’t have milk, but you can add sugar if you like.”
When it arrived, I was surprised by the bitterness of the espresso. I didn’t want to anger Shiva, so I mixed it with a lot of sugar and drank it right away.
After dinner, Shiva and Surjeet dropped me off at my dorm. They shook my hand firmly before leaving. At first it seemed unusual, but I soon realized that this Western handshake is more than just a formality, it’s a universal gesture of greeting and farewell. In some cultures, I later discovered, men would hug each other or even kiss each other on the cheek as a sign of friendship. I went back to my room and tried to sleep, but my mind wouldn’t rest. Memories of my past filled the silence.
I was born and raised in Badulla, a town surrounded by hills in Sri Lanka. My family lived in the nearby remote village of Morahera, and my parents taught at the local school. Even traveling to Colombo during high school used to feel like a grand adventure. I vividly remember my first solo trip. We traveled by night train from Badulla to Colombo using my father’s rail pass.
My schooling was a unique journey. From Morahera Public School to Grade 4, then St. Bede’s College in Badulla, St. Thomas College in the cool, misty hills of Gulutalawa, and finally Ananda College in Colombo. From there I enrolled at the University of Ceylon (now the University of Sri Lanka) at Peradeniya, the historic campus of Hantana near the ancient Kingdom of Kandy, and then worked as an engineer at the Richard Pearis Company’s Alpico factory. Each step felt like climbing a new peak.
Well, I crossed the ocean, passed through London, and entered Toronto, Canada. This was the first time for me to leave my homeland, and the thought was accompanied by both pride and depression. My mind returned to Morahera. There, without my knowledge, my mother had transferred ownership of our family home and about four acres of surrounding land into my name. Years later, while working abroad, I renovated the house. We added modern bathrooms with electricity, running water and hot water, as well as air-conditioned rooms and a caretaker’s quarters. Whenever I returned to Sri Lanka, that house became my retreat.
At Toronto’s central bus station, I found myself weighing down with two large suitcases and a carry-on. I didn’t know how to get to the university, so I asked the bus driver for help. “Son, don’t even think about walking with all that luggage, just take a taxi,” he advised with the gentleness of a father. He called me and gave me a safe ride to the International Student Center at the University of Toronto.
After completing my final examinations at the University of Ceylon, I was not one of the lucky few to be offered a post as a lecturer, let alone an assistant lecturer. Ironically, I had graduated from the Faculty of Engineering with first class honors and had also won the Dr. Hewabitarane Award for the best overall performance in all departments of the Faculty of Engineering at the university.
However, I secured a job as an assistant works engineer in the private sector. The job included a free furnished house, a good salary, and the opportunity to teach for free two afternoons a week as a guest lecturer at the University of Moratuwa.
I still remember the day of my job interview. The factory is located in Nawina, a suburb of Colombo, and I wanted to stay overnight at a nearby guesthouse. When I asked the receptionist at the guesthouse about the room, he asked me with a quizzical look, “What time is it?” Only then did I realize the nature of the place. Embarrassingly, I made it clear that I wanted that room for the night.
I couldn’t sleep that night. Not only because I was nervous about the interview, but because the room had no air conditioning, it was stuffy, the mosquitoes were relentless, and the thin walls emitted disturbing noises. In the next room, a young woman was crying, and an older man was whispering words of comfort to her. “Lovers don’t cry.” The next morning, I caught a glimpse of them. The man was too old, probably as old as her father.
Despite the sleepless nights, I braved the interview and was able to get the job.
Before leaving Sri Lanka for postgraduate studies, I had been promoted to the permanent position of Executive Engineer in the private sector. The transition from the authority of that role to the humble student life in Canada was a difficult adjustment, but a necessary one. This is my story of coming from Sri Lanka to Toronto, Canada.
Written by Clarence de Silva
