That's life

I have always wanted to drive. For one thing I won't have to iron Daddy Boys clothes for days on end, juice every fruit he brings home and do countless other favours for him if I need him to drive me somewhere.

Oh, and apart from all this there is the aspect of personal freedom, but o wonder if that counts if Daddy Boy were to give me a fuel allowance (which he would definitely have to do, for writing a little column does not exactly put you in competition even with... okay lets face it, a fourth grader who saves money to buy Barbie Doll stickers).

Then there is also the fact that Daddy Boy doesn't think he is good enough to give driving lessons to his baby daughter. Well, it must be that for certainly he can't be thinking that his daughter is not fast enough a learner. Bro Boy is more liberal and democratic. He does not need to be plied with juices and ironed clothes and such to drive me anywhere. And he also doesn't mind letting me have a go at the wheel, when the car can't be seen anymore from the kitchen window (although this was before I nearly sent Kapila ayya's cow to cow heaven).

Another advantage of being able to drive myself would be that I might actually be able get to my lectures and church service on time. I might actually get o see exactly how a lecturer would walk into class and also get to witness the beginning rites of a church service.

But am I ready to acquire all these luxuries at the expense of the notorious Sri Lankan neighbourhoods we have? I mean, all those infamous little towns where people have been calling each other Chandi Harris, Marana Sira and Gahana Nihal and all sorts of other violence and destruction related names for so long that even their respective mothers have forgotten how their sons were originally named.

It is in these towns where if you happen to hit someone, you will be dragged out of your vehicle and beaten within an inch of your life (most of time they just go the extra inch). If you refuse to come out to get beaten up, they will set fire to our lovely car (there is no guarantee here though, they will probably set fire to it even if you do voluntarily come out of your car).

All this would be done before actually bothering to find out whether the accident was really your fault.

It may have well been that the other person involved in the accident had actually jumped in front of your vehicle in an attempt to end her life (broken love affairs or failed eighth grade exams usually happen to be the reason, although here too I can't offer you any guarantees because it could also be failed sixth grade exams).

So, what should I do? Choose to run the risk of being beaten up in a seedy town by Sri Lankan equivalents of tattooed meaty armed Bubbas complete with the goatee and body parts pierced not necessarily to accommodate earrings (more as witness to survived stabbings in the past)

I'll make juice and iron clothes all my living days honey.

by Dilini Algama