One crucial stage in life
By Aditha Dissanayake
It's a dangerous thing - buying a car. Especially when a lifetime's savings are at stake. Often when the price is right, the car is wrong (it's so dilapidated even a scrap collector would not give a second glance) and when the car is right, the price is beyond the wildest daydreams.

Sunday. "If you want to see the 'good ones' you must start as early as possible," says my father. "We should leave the moment the paper arrives."

Which means seven-thirty in the morning. Rad is at the wheel. My father sits in the front passenger seat. My mother, Nish, Madsy and I squeeze in at the back. "People will think the whole village has come to buy their car," grumbles Rad. "I have to do some marketing at Sathosa," says my mother. "Can we see the plant exhibition at the Vihara Maha Devi Park, on our way back?" asks Madsy. "The car is for me," I remind Rad. Only Nish stays silent.

His reputation for being the shrewdest among us four kids, justifies his presence.

My father marks the 'good ones' in the classifieds in red. We begin with the one at Ward Place. The address is easy to find - a huge house, a palace in my eyes with a wall like a fortress round it. "The car Daddy used," says the owner. "How much?" "Rs....." My eyebrows go up, up and up. I try not to choke. "We'll think about it and let you know," we tell him and make an honourable retreat. Back in the car, my mother says they had been observing Nish and I while we chatted with the owner. "You walk exactly like your father." "And you stand like him too," adds Madsy. Before I can figure out whether these are compliments or not, my father asks impatiently, "What did he say?" "It's Daddy's car and it's too much," I tell him. If it's worth the money, he says he and my mother will contribute the missing half. But Nish says you can buy a better car for that price.

So we head towards the next address. Pannipitiya. The owner, an old gentleman in baggy shorts says he has three cars and wants to get rid of one of them. "No hard feelings. Give me an offer," he tells Nish, but his face crumbles when Nish tells him how much he thinks the car is worth.

The next two stops are failures. Only a teenager is at home in a house in Dehiwela. The mother had gone out leaving the key of the car in her bedroom, which she had locked, explains the son. A few streets away at another address, the wife apologises profusely saying the husband had taken the car to pick the children from Sunday school. She suggests we go to the temple to see him and the car. We give up.

Then, Rad has a brain wave. "Buy a Sinhala newspaper. There will be more choices." He is right. There are so many. Some with 'original bodies' some with 'imported seats'. Some are for sale because the owner is in a financial crisis (salli hadissiyak). My father circles one in Gangithota. "Where?" He repeats the name. Gangithota. No one knows how to get there, but luckily there is a telephone number. We call the owner for directions and begin to head towards Gangithota. But on the way, my mother does the marketing and Madsy quenches her thirst for the orchid called the Kandyan dancer in a variety of colours. The car at Gangithota fits my purse and my dreams. I want to buy it immediately. But Rad and Nish are against it. "There is no market." "No spare parts." "If something goes wrong, you'll never be able to repair it."

There are more circles marked in the paper. "Are we going to see these too?" asks my father. "It's almost one thirty," says Rad. "The match begins at two-thirty," adds Nish. No more car hunting this Sunday. "We'll continue next week," both assure me. "Is the match more important?" I ask them. They stare at me as if I had said something unprintable, almost as if I had blasphemed.

"The match. How can we miss the match?" They turn to Madsy and my mother for support. I lose my temper, "I'll buy a push-bike," I tell them in anger.

Rad hits the steering wheel with a whoop of joy. "That's a great idea. How come we never thought of it before?" he exclaims.

"You can buy a full option, brand new one, straight away," says Nish.

"And A/C is free," that's Madsy.

I detect a trace of a smile even on my father's lips. This is grossly unfair. Here I am at a crucial stage in my life - about to buy a car (even though a second hand, rusty old one) and my kinsmen find it hilarious. My mother pats me on the arm and tries to console me. "Next week there will be better ones," she assures me. I take her word for it and stare out of the window. There is a rainbow in the sky. I interpret it as a symbol of hope.

Car or no car, life seems o.k. once more. At least, my life's savings are still intact.

Back to Top

Back to Mirror Magazine

Copyright © 2001 Wijeya Newspapers Ltd. All rights reserved.
Webmaster