The letter trembled in my hands, not from the gentle evening breeze that swept through my apartment window, but from the weight of history it carried. The crisp white paper bore a military insignia at its corner, faded but unmistakable. My eyes traced over the words again, disbelieving.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑀𝑟. 𝑆𝑅𝑁𝑌 𝐺𝑢𝑛𝑎𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑑ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑎,

𝐶𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑙𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛𝑠 𝑜𝑛 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑎 ℎ𝑎𝑙𝑓 𝑚𝑜𝑛𝑡ℎ𝑠 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑡 𝑆𝐿𝑀𝐴, 𝐷𝑖𝑦𝑎𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑎𝑤𝑎. 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑔𝑒.

𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡, 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑟𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦, 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛, 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑜 𝑎 𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑚 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑠𝑒𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑𝑛’𝑡 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 ℎ𝑜𝑛𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑡. 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑤𝑒 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑜𝑛.

𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑘 𝑦𝑜𝑢.

 

𝑆𝑖𝑔𝑛𝑒𝑑, 𝐶𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑆𝑈 𝐴𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑦𝑎 𝑃𝑊𝑉 𝑎𝑛𝑑 64 𝑆𝑜𝑙𝑑𝑖𝑒𝑟𝑠

A phantom letter from fallen heroes. My hands shook violently now. Captain Saliya Upul Aladeniya had stood his ground at Kokavil transmission tower thirty-five years ago, choosing death over surrender alongside sixty-five brave men. Their bodies were never recovered from that blood-soaked earth. And yet, somehow, their voices had found a way to reach across the divide between the living and the fallen.

Outside, Colombo pulsed with life: car horns, street vendors, and children racing home from school. A Sri Lanka at peace, unknowing of the price paid by those sixty-five souls. I pressed the letter to my chest and closed my eyes. When I had accepted Director Rajapathirana's offer to play Aladeniya in his film, I had thought it was merely another role. I never expected to become a vessel for ghosts.

I opened my eyes and gazed at my reflection in the window glass. Beyond my face lay the twinkling lights of a nation that had nearly forgotten its defenders. "I will tell your story," I whispered to the shadows. "I swear it."

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐫,
I had sat across from Director Rajapathirana in his cluttered office, surrounded by awards and framed movie posters. Most featured my face, Yashwin Gunawardena, Sri Lanka's beloved romantic hero, the man whose on-screen kisses made teenage girls swoon and whose dramatic proclamations of love had become cultural touchstones.

"Mr. Yash, we would like to cast you as the lead character in our new film," Rajapathirana had said, sliding a thick manuscript toward me.

"Another love story?" I'd asked with a practiced smile.

The director's expression had hardened. "No, Mr. Gunawardena. A war story. A true one."

He had watched me carefully as he explained. "You are Saliya Aladeniya. Captain Saliya Aladeniya. That officer who sacrifices himself for the freedom of our land."

The name had stirred something in me, a vague recollection from history lessons long forgotten. A battle. A siege. A last stand.

"I will look at the script and tell you," I had replied professionally, expecting to take the customary two weeks to consider the offer.

That night, as rain lashed against my windows, I began reading. The story of Kokavil unfolded before me not as a dry historical record but as a living testament. I saw Aladeniya boarding that train from Kandy, unaware he would never return. I felt the growing desperation as supplies dwindled. I heard the whistling artillery shells and the crackling flames. By dawn, tears had soaked the manuscript's pages, and I knew this was not merely a role to be played but a sacred trust to be upheld.

My call to Rajapathirana had come not two weeks later, but mere hours after receiving the script.

"I need to do this," I had told him, my voice thick with emotion. "Not for my career. For them."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Sri Lanka Military Academy at Diyatalawa stood like a sentinel against the misty highlands, its colonial architecture a reminder of histories layered upon histories. Our convoy of actors arrived on a Monday morning, greeted by stern-faced officers who showed no difference to celebrities.

Captain Lanka Sooriyabandara, a compact man with eyes that had seen combat, assessed us with unconcealed skepticism. "So, you're the movie stars who think you can play soldiers," he had remarked, pacing before our ragged line. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll either understand what that means, or you'll quit."

To Be Continued…

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