Three Times - By Tenuli Perera

Written By: Tenuli Perera

Category: Short Stories

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In "Three Times," Tenuli Perera offers a compelling short story that delves into the quiet struggles of Nethmi, a young girl navigating significant yet unnoticed life challenges. This poignant narrative is part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026, showcasing Perera's ability to highlight themes of resilience and family dynamics. Through vivid storytelling, Perera captures moments of near-drowning, a bus accident, and the creeping pressure of academic expectations, painting an evocative picture of a young girl's silent cries for understanding.

About the Work

"Three Times" is a beautifully woven tale that explores the often invisible battles faced by individuals in their formative years. Tenuli Perera's narrative is rich with emotional depth, using subtle yet powerful imagery to convey the protagonist's internal turmoil. The mood is reflective and somber, yet it leaves a lingering sense of hope and understanding. The story's style is straightforward yet evocative, allowing readers to empathize with Nethmi's journey through her silent struggles and moments of realization.

Three Times

Original Submission by Tenuli Perera

Three Times

By Tenuli Perera

Three times, now, she had almost died, and no one had noticed.

The first time, Nethmi was nine years old.

She had slipped into the Nilwala River during the Avurudu holidays while trying to follow her older cousins along the bank. The memory came back to her sometimes, usually at night. Not the rescue itself. Not her cousin pulling her out by the arm, the collar of her new cotton dress that she and her mother brought just for this holiday, digging deep into her skin and delicate neck. What she remembered was the water closing over her head and the sudden realisation that nobody had seen her fall.

Afterwards, her grandmother wrapped her in a towel and scolded her for being careless. Her cousin laughed about it for years.

"Still scared of the water, is it?"

Nobody understood that she still avoided deep water.

The second time happened seven years later.

Her school bus had narrowly avoided a collision with a lorry near Nugegoda. Students were thrown forward. One girl's glasses shattered on the floor. Nethmi remembered gripping the seat in front of her so tightly that her fingers hurt. There were a few screams, then much later a few laughs at how funny everyone looked.

By the time she got home, it had also become a funny story. "Ane, these bus drivers are mad."

Her father laughed. Her mother shook her head.

Life moved on.

Nobody noticed that she couldn't sleep properly for a week afterwards.

The third time was slower.

So slow that even Nethmi failed to recognize it at first.

It began shortly after the new school term started. Everyone around her seemed to have a plan. One girl wanted Medicine. Another wanted Law. Somebody else had already finished three years of past papers.

Every morning, her classroom was filled with conversations about marks, university cut-offs and tuition schedules: "What did you get for the mock test?" "How many essays have you finished?" "How many hours did you study yesterday?"

And when she didn't answer quickly enough, they would smile and say, "Don't worry, you're smart! You'll be fine."

Then as the days passed, people changed their stream, saying physics was too hard. That the Arts Section was so much easier to get a good result from. More competitors entered the arena, their classroom got smaller.

At home, things were not much different. Her mother loved her fiercely. Nethmi never doubted that. She woke up before five every morning, packed lunch, ironed uniforms, left for work before the house was fully awake.

But love and understanding were not always the same thing.

One evening, after a particularly bad day at school, Nethmi sat at the dining table staring at her dinner: Rice. Parippu. Brinjal moju. Two fried sprats her mother had kept aside for her.

"Eat before it gets cold," her mother said.

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't been hungry for weeks."

Nethmi remained silent.

Her mother placed another spoonful of rice onto her plate. "You're exhausting yourself."

"I'm trying."

"I know you're trying. But everyone is stressed before A/Ls."

"It's not just stress, Amma."

Her mother sighed. "What else could it be?"

Nethmi hesitated. The word felt strange in her mouth. "I think something's wrong."

Her mother immediately shook her head. "Nothing is wrong."

"Amma..."

"You're just tired. Sleep properly. Stop overthinking everything."

Nethmi looked down at her plate. The conversation was over.

Later that night, she overheard her mother speaking to a neighbour on the phone: "These children see one thing on social media and suddenly they think they have depression."

The neighbour laughed. "So true."

Nethmi quietly closed her bedroom door.

After that, she stopped trying to explain.

Days became weeks. Weeks became months.

She still attended school. She still completed assignments. She still smiled when people expected her to

But everything felt distant.

Even literature, her favourite subject, became difficult. Words blurred together. Stories that once excited her now felt empty. Sometimes she sat at her desk long after midnight staring at a page without reading it.

Nobody noticed. Or perhaps they noticed and assumed she would be fine.

One Friday evening, her literature teacher handed back a mock examination paper. The mark wasn't terrible. But it wasn't good either. Certainly not good enough for the girl who was supposed to do well.

As her classmates compared answers, Nethmi folded the paper and placed it carefully inside her bag.

Outside, rain began to fall. The smell of wet earth drifted through the open corridor.

Instead of walking towards the bus stand, she turned in the opposite direction.

The rain grew heavier. Within minutes, her shoes were soaked.

The roads glistened beneath streetlights. A man selling roast corn stood beneath a plastic sheet near the junction. A three-wheeler splashed through a puddle like it was racing against time, spraying muddy water onto the pavement.

Nethmi kept walking. She wasn't sure where she was going. Only that she didn't want to go home.

Eventually she found herself at a small temple overlooking the lake. The evening bana had finished. The grounds were almost empty.

She sat on a stone bench beneath a bo tree and watched raindrops disturb the surface of the water.

For the first time in months, nobody expected anything from her. The silence felt like relief.

Back home, her absence went unnoticed at first. Her mother assumed she was at tuition. Her father thought she was studying with friends.

It was only after eight o'clock that panic began to spread through the house. Phone calls. Messages. Neighbours. Teachers. Friends.

By the time her father reached the temple, the rain had stopped.

She was still sitting on the same bench. The lake reflected the lights from distant buildings.

"Nethmi."

She looked up. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then her father sat beside her. He looked older than she remembered. Tired. Not just from the day, but from something heavier.

The silence stretched between them.

Finally, he said quietly, "I kept thinking you were managing."

Something about that sentence broke her. Not because it solved everything. Because it was true. Everyone had assumed she was managing. Her teachers. Her friends. Her parents. Even herself.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. The lake remained dark and still before them.

When they finally stood up, her father hesitated for a moment, like he had forgotten what comes next after something like this.

"Wait," he said softly.

He walked a short distance toward the small shop near the temple. When he came back, he was holding a paper parcel.

Inside were hot isso wade, still warm, smelling of oil and salt and something strangely ordinary. He handed it to her without a word at first. Nethmi looked down at it. For a moment she didn't move.

Her father cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Eat something," he said.

Then, after a pause, softer, almost offhand: "Don't tell Amma. She'll say I'm spoiling you."

It wasn't really a joke. More like something people say when they are trying to keep life from falling apart.

Nethmi held the parcel in her hands. Warm. Real. Something steady in a night that had not been steady at all.

Her father stood beside her for a moment longer, not rushing her, not asking anything more. Just there.

Then he said quietly, "Let's go home."

And this time, it didn't sound like an order. It sounded like something they would figure out slowly, together.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform that celebrates the rich tapestry of global storytelling. This competition invites writers to share their voices, offering a stage for diverse narratives that span different cultures and experiences. It is a testament to the power of written expression, encouraging participants to explore and express the human condition through poetry and creative writing.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Tenuli Perera for her contribution to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 with her submission, "Three Times." Her ability to weave a story that resonates deeply with readers is truly commendable. We look forward to seeing more of her work and are grateful for her participation in celebrating the art of storytelling.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.