Shattered car window by Aartyhr. My camera melted in an unrelated incident
Woke up at some hour not exactly clear where I were. My friend brought me a water and Panadol and told me to get out of her house. Go downstairs past the rents and stand in the sunlight doorway, looking despondently at my socks. I’m not wearing shoes. Walk past the rents again, find my sapaths and walk onto Flower Road. I have met them twice in similar shameful circumstances. Last time I said my name and serial number and literally ran away. Not at all marriageable. Walk for a while. Curse the sunlight. Cannot find car. There are no parked cars. There are a lot of moving cars. This is shaping up to be a proper proper day. Ax the meter maid and she takes me to the security guard so they can both laugh at me. There are signs now but there were no signs at night. Great. Cinnamon Gardens police it is.
Get out of the Trishaw and try to find the door to the police endroit. There is a bureau of Organized Crime or something oddly named, like that Ministry of Corruption and Bribery. That’s not me. Dude, there’s my car. Go inside and talk to guy who is aware of car but seems to have no protocol for this kinda thing. He, like, finishes and I’m like OK. Go get in the car and insert key. Car won’t start. Mmmmmm. And all my stuff is gone. There is shattered glass all over the backseat. I am in trouble. I call my little sister.
I didn’t piece this together till later cause my brain was very very angry with me but apparently the Bomb Squad DJs shattered my little back window, opened the car, impounded all my sheet and towed the car. Flower Road is a high security something or rather now. Or always was, but how the shit would I know. Right now I’m sitting in the car wondering wtf is wrong with me. I am the opposite of hungry.
My sister is telling me to put some pants on and come to dinner. I’ll be back in a minute. Indian food. Great.
So, I get back in the policier and ask money where my stuff is and he opens some dossier with the number and asks me some questions and walks me outside to talk to with 14 other people. The one thing that confuses me about the Police Station is that there are literally 18,000 officers there but it takes forever to get anything done. What they are doing I know not. The gang of fourteen knows nothing, except one guy who’s cute but looks a little vicious. Some guys walk over to das car, open hood and plug my battery back in. The guy is holding one end of the connection and asking me to start the car. I find this odd, but this is a country where respectable adults stick pens in electrical sockets. The car starts. Money takes the keys and tells me to wait. I lean back and try to figure out if I’m hungover or still drunk. I can’t listen to music. It’s hot.
This other cop comes up and tells me to come over, but there is absolutely nothing happening and I go back cause I wanna sit down. Then he comes again and something is sorta happening. They give me a bill for Rs 3000 for breaking my window and towing the car. OK. I have the casheesh so that’s settled. Talk to the prosperous Officer In Charge and then some things and some things and they tell me to sit down and wait. I am happy to sit. For ever. I look at the numbers on their uniforms. 54039, 30009, 25650 (or something). There are so many fucking cops. This is going nowhere until a policier with no number and some medals sits down. He’s a lovely man and I speak broken Sinhala and sorta follow what he’s saying and he says ‘pauw’ and asks me how old I am and if I’m married and stuff. I’m an idiot but I have an honest face and some people seem to like me. He’s a sweet guy, very kind face. He tells them to get me out of there and then they start doing stuff. I have been sitting next to a big wooden chest for like half and hour. They open the chest and give me my belongings. Urgh. Then the guy fills out the report and I sign it and another thing and I sign it and I’m like can I go and they’re like you can go. Say bye. The Public Relations officer happened to be there and he walks me out. He saw my card and asks if I can help him get press for stuff. I ask if they use computers and he kinda scratches his head. Okay. I say I’d love to.
Amma’s tells me shit happens but it seems to extra happen to me. I can’t drive her car anymore. For a while. Dunno. I ate some kiribath and watched TV and movies for 8 hours straight. Cleaned the car and cut my finger. Sucked the blood and I think I ingested some glass.
This life is a tyranny of small things. It looks solid but it shatters into discrete little pieces. One car, four wheels, three gadgets, one laptop, four chargers, four USB cables, five keys, one glasses, one National ID, one driver’s license, two money cards,
three two linen pants, two national shirts, 32 teeth, five fingers and ten toes. Ten fingers. If any of these things breaks or goes missing it puts a fork in my day. And they do. The tyranny of small things.