Rajan Dasanayaka

The mornings are still quiet in my neighborhood, but they carry a different weight now. It is not the kind of peace that comes from stability—it is the heavy silence of uncertainty. The election has passed, and the results have not brought relief, only more questions. The same faces remain in power, promising recovery, but for people like me, the numbers on paper mean little. The price of rice has not fallen. The electricity bill still makes my heart sink. The pension I worked for my entire life remains a joke.

I am 63 years old and have lived in Colombo, Sri Lanka, my entire life. I had planned to retire this year, to finally rest after decades of service to the government. I spent years believing in my work, even when the system around me felt corrupt and inefficient. But when my pension was slashed, I knew I had no choice. Retirement was no longer an option. I will keep working, though I am not sure for how much longer. The younger ones in my office do not have it any easier. They say that this "recovery" is only for the privileged, that the real struggle is still hidden behind closed doors and empty wallets.

The day laborers who once borrowed money to invest in their futures now borrow to eat. Families that were once middle class are now rationing meals. I see men in neatly pressed shirts waiting in long lines at government offices, trying to negotiate their debts or beg for some relief. The real crisis is not just about numbers. It is about dignity, about what happens when a man who has worked his whole life can no longer afford to be proud.

People whisper about what will happen next. Some still hope for change, others have given up. As for me, I do not know anymore. All I know is that tomorrow, I will wake up, take the same bus, and keep moving forward. Because what else can I do?