BORN LIKE THIS

Living in a third-world country is harder than you think.

I am the first child in my family. We were wealthy once, and I was born in the heart of Colombo.

My mother always said I came into this world like a blessing she had been waiting for her whole life. She lay in that hospital bed, holding me close, her eyes full of something I would later understand as pure, overwhelming love. My father rushed in soon after, breathless and smiling, eager to see me.

In those early years, everything felt perfect.

I never once doubted that my parents loved me more than anything else in the world. And I loved them just as fiercely, even before I understood what love truly meant. They made me feel like I was the center of their universe as if I was a queen, and they existed only to protect and uplift me. They supported me in everything.

My father was a professor at the University of Colombo. A man of discipline, intelligence, and pride.

My mother… she was the heart of the home.

She had dreams, big ones. Dreams that stretched far beyond the walls of our house. But in the world she lived in, those dreams were not meant for women. Or at least, that’s what she was told.

She argued with my father about it. I remember the tension, even if I didn’t understand the words. It went on for days, maybe weeks. And then, one day, it stopped.

She gave in.

She said he was right.

Even as a child, something about that didn’t sit right with me.

I was too young to question it but not too young to feel it.

***

Some of my earliest memories belong to my grandmother.

I would cling to her legs, refusing to let go, as she told me stories filled with lessons I didn’t yet understand.

“The little girl didn’t listen to her mother,” she would say. “She didn’t obey her customs. One day, she ran away… and they found her dead.”

Her voice would drop at the end, heavy with meaning.

“Do you understand, my beautiful Amaya, why we must respect our customs?”

I looked up at her, confused but curious.

“Yes, Aachi… but how did she die? Did the customs kill her? Was the custom a ghost?”

For a moment, she stared at me then burst into laughter.

A child’s logic.

“I see how you’ve understood it,” she said, still smiling. “Now go to sleep, my child. Don’t disturb your grandmother.”

She sat back in her chair and continued knitting, as if the story hadn’t just planted something deep inside me.

***

By the time I turned five, life had already begun to change.

I was enrolled in an international school, following the Cambridge syllabus. It was a new world, bright classrooms, new friends, unfamiliar conversations. I loved learning. I loved going to school. It gave me something I didn’t yet have words for freedom.

“Did you watch Peppa Pig yesterday? I love Peppa Pig!” my friend Nikasha asked one day, her eyes lighting up.

I froze.

A memory surfaced sharp and sudden.

A few months earlier, my father had come home to a locked door. My mother hadn’t heard him knocking, she was inside, listening to music. I was on the floor, playing with my toys, unaware of what was about to happen.

When she finally answered his call and opened the door, her face had already changed. I remember that.

Fear.

What happened next felt like a storm.

My father walked in, his anger filling the room. Without hesitation, he grabbed the television and smashed it onto the ground.

The sound echoed.

“From now on, no one watches TV in this house,” he said, his voice cold and final. “If I catch any of you, you can leave.”

***

“Nikasha?” she called again, pulling me back.

“My dad broke our TV a few months ago,” I said quietly.

She blinked, confused.

“Why? Was he angry at the TV?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know.

***

The school bell rang, saving me. We ran outside, laughing, pretending nothing was strange, waiting for our parents.

I felt relieved. Not because I had answered but because I didn’t have to explain what I didn’t understand myself.

Would a man really destroy something over something so small?

***

“How was school?” my father asked later, his tone unusually light.

I looked at him carefully. He was in a good mood.

“Good. The teacher said I was well-behaved. I got stickers too,” I said, trying to match his energy.

I loved stickers. They felt like proof that I was doing something right.

“That’s my girl,” he said, smiling. “I have good news too. I can’t wait to tell you when we get home. Fingers crossed.”

My mind raced.

What could it be?

Is it my birthday?

No… that didn’t make sense. I had just celebrated it last month. I knew birthdays only came once a year.

And mine had been perfect.

The house filled with balloons, laughter echoing through every room, my friends gathered around me. My mother’s sweets, everyone loved them. For a moment, it felt like nothing in the world could go wrong.

So what was this surprise?

I held onto the thought, excitement building quietly inside me.

Fingers crossed.