flattering because Niresh was two years older than him.
By the time they were sitting down to eat, at a table across the room from his uncle’s, Amrith had forgiven Niresh his lie.
From what he knew of his uncle’s cruelty to his mother, Amrith guessed that his uncle had been harsh to his son when he was younger. The relish with which Niresh wielded his power over his father made Amrith suspect it was newfound; an ascendancy that had come to his cousin as he grew taller and stronger than his father. Amrith was glad of this shift of power. It was his uncle’s just due for the unhappiness he had caused in so many lives.
That afternoon, Niresh confessed to Amrith a burning desire he had since coming to Sri Lanka — he wanted to drive one of those three-wheeled, scooterlike, open-sided trishaw taxis that were parked outside the hotel gates. He did not speak Sinhalese and he wanted Amrith to translate for him.
At first, the trishaw drivers were amused at the proposition but, when they saw that Niresh was serious, they eyed him with suspicion. The youngest among them, a boy about eighteen, wanted to know if his cousin had driven before. Niresh produced a card with his photograph on it,which he held out to them, saying it was his driver’s license. The writing was in English and they could not read it. Amrith could. The laminated card was for membership at a gym. His cousin held his gaze intently and Amrith had no choice but to confirm for the trishaw men that it was, indeed, a driver’s license.
The youngest driver agreed for the princely sum of three hundred rupees. Niresh was unfazed. He drew out a thick wad of hundred-rupee bills from his wallet and counted three. Amrith watched him in awe. He did not even own a wallet.
Once the trishaw driver had pocketed the money, he handed over the keys. With a grin of utter delight, Niresh took his place in the driver’s seat. He looked like a giant in a Lilliputian conveyance, his long legs sticking out beyond the edges of the trishaw, his head brushing the roof.
Niresh started the motor and shouted above its noise for Amrith to hop in. He could not refuse as it would raise the suspicions of the owner. He reluctantly took his place in the backseat. The young driver was showing Niresh the controls, but his cousin seemed to barely listen. He was revving the engine, anxious to be on his way.
Finally the driver stepped aside, Niresh revved the engine to its utmost and, with a war cry, they took off, the trishaw weaving drunkenly from side to side. After a few moments, Niresh managed to straighten the front wheel and they picked up speed, leaving the trishaw men behind. Amrith hung on grimly to the bars that separated the back from the driver’s seat.
His cousin was beside himself. He kept whooping
yee-ha, yee-ha
over and over again, as if he were a cowboy riding a horse. He threw back his head and roared in delight, his hair standing up on end in the breeze.
After some time, Amrith loosened his grip on the bars. He began to enjoy the adventure, to look out at the passing scenery. Then they rounded a corner and, ahead of them, they saw a brood of chickens in the middle of the road. Niresh cried out as the chickens squawked and fluttered into the air. He swerved to avoid the birds and the trishaw tipped madly. It careened off the road and rushed towards a thicket of bushes. Amrith and Niresh yelled in fear and, the next moment, the trishaw plowed right into the foliage and wedged itself between two branches, its wheels growling in the dirt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niresh bellowed. He switched the motor off and thumped the steering wheel, as if the vehicle were at fault.
Amrith got out. His legs were wobbly and he held on to the side of the trishaw for a moment.
They crept out from under the foliage and stood on the road.
Amrith could taste grit in his mouth. His cousin’s face was covered in dust and there were leaves and twigs in his hair. Niresh was looking at him too.
By the time they were sitting down to eat, at a table across the room from his uncle’s, Amrith had forgiven Niresh his lie.
From what he knew of his uncle’s cruelty to his mother, Amrith guessed that his uncle had been harsh to his son when he was younger. The relish with which Niresh wielded his power over his father made Amrith suspect it was newfound; an ascendancy that had come to his cousin as he grew taller and stronger than his father. Amrith was glad of this shift of power. It was his uncle’s just due for the unhappiness he had caused in so many lives.
That afternoon, Niresh confessed to Amrith a burning desire he had since coming to Sri Lanka — he wanted to drive one of those three-wheeled, scooterlike, open-sided trishaw taxis that were parked outside the hotel gates. He did not speak Sinhalese and he wanted Amrith to translate for him.
At first, the trishaw drivers were amused at the proposition but, when they saw that Niresh was serious, they eyed him with suspicion. The youngest among them, a boy about eighteen, wanted to know if his cousin had driven before. Niresh produced a card with his photograph on it,which he held out to them, saying it was his driver’s license. The writing was in English and they could not read it. Amrith could. The laminated card was for membership at a gym. His cousin held his gaze intently and Amrith had no choice but to confirm for the trishaw men that it was, indeed, a driver’s license.
The youngest driver agreed for the princely sum of three hundred rupees. Niresh was unfazed. He drew out a thick wad of hundred-rupee bills from his wallet and counted three. Amrith watched him in awe. He did not even own a wallet.
Once the trishaw driver had pocketed the money, he handed over the keys. With a grin of utter delight, Niresh took his place in the driver’s seat. He looked like a giant in a Lilliputian conveyance, his long legs sticking out beyond the edges of the trishaw, his head brushing the roof.
Niresh started the motor and shouted above its noise for Amrith to hop in. He could not refuse as it would raise the suspicions of the owner. He reluctantly took his place in the backseat. The young driver was showing Niresh the controls, but his cousin seemed to barely listen. He was revving the engine, anxious to be on his way.
Finally the driver stepped aside, Niresh revved the engine to its utmost and, with a war cry, they took off, the trishaw weaving drunkenly from side to side. After a few moments, Niresh managed to straighten the front wheel and they picked up speed, leaving the trishaw men behind. Amrith hung on grimly to the bars that separated the back from the driver’s seat.
His cousin was beside himself. He kept whooping
yee-ha, yee-ha
over and over again, as if he were a cowboy riding a horse. He threw back his head and roared in delight, his hair standing up on end in the breeze.
After some time, Amrith loosened his grip on the bars. He began to enjoy the adventure, to look out at the passing scenery. Then they rounded a corner and, ahead of them, they saw a brood of chickens in the middle of the road. Niresh cried out as the chickens squawked and fluttered into the air. He swerved to avoid the birds and the trishaw tipped madly. It careened off the road and rushed towards a thicket of bushes. Amrith and Niresh yelled in fear and, the next moment, the trishaw plowed right into the foliage and wedged itself between two branches, its wheels growling in the dirt.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Niresh bellowed. He switched the motor off and thumped the steering wheel, as if the vehicle were at fault.
Amrith got out. His legs were wobbly and he held on to the side of the trishaw for a moment.
They crept out from under the foliage and stood on the road.
Amrith could taste grit in his mouth. His cousin’s face was covered in dust and there were leaves and twigs in his hair. Niresh was looking at him too.
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