Selections from මාවතේ ත්රීවිල් ජීවිතේ (Life on Three Wheels)
MAY 24
A piss-drunk gentleman got into the ata1 with bread, fish and a bag of candy.
I asked, “Where to, sir?”
“To crown myself king! Y’all are Indian bootlickers oi. Y’all suck us dry and make the Bajaj company rich… Don’t be angry, malli. I’m a little drunk. I can’t look at my little ones and woman without drinking arrack. Must be because I love them too much.”
What an odd boozer. His long beard was graying, just like his long-shot dreams.
After paying me, he tipped me a candy.
1 Ata is a name used for the three-wheeler by some of its drivers. It’s a possible variation of the word auto (shortened form of autorickshaw in Indian English). Elsewhere in the book, the author states “ata” originates from a name used for chickpeas in India.
JUNE 28
A lane in Hyde Park Corner. Because other vehicles headed that way, I went too. A traffic policeman from Kompagnaweediya police waved me stop. Fair and handsome man like a movie star. Wasted my time for no reason. Made me walk about five miles here and there. After everything, yelled at me for driving up the wrong way.
Then he smirked, “How’s filing this with the court for punishment?”
After about one and a half hours, we settled it without fines or courts.
Tempers go ballistic when you ask a light from a man whose beard is on fire—the gripes of bribes.
Heart, bear with this…
JUNE 05
Hung an artsy mouse behind the windshield of my three-wheeler. It reminds me of Ganesha whenever I see it, because he too rides a mouse. O Ganesha, grant me the wisdom for the journey on the highways.
Those going around in big vehicles call the ata a house mouse. That’s because we somehow squeeze through traffic and take our passengers to their destination on time.
The other thing is the mouse likes human company just as much as the dog, cat, parrot and mynah. Houses without mice are like eateries without dal or police stations without a cop named Bandara.
MAY 28
Wasted the entire morning in the Ragama Hospital parking lot. Caregivers get squashed standing in line for the patients, get yelled at and spend hours in queues. The amount of suffering patients go through is unbelievable.
An aunty who came with a patient was having breakfast next to the ata. I stole a look as she was eating in stealth mode. White bread and sugar. A tea bun and a banana inside the plastic bag in her hand—my guess is she’s saving them for the patient.
Aunty, we gotta deflate inflation, don’t you say?
SEPTEMBER 05
Went to the beach to buy fish with the lawyer’s missus. Fish is a lot less expensive than legal fees.
Sardines for the dog. Pilchards for the cook and guard. Squid for Proctor Sam sir. Prawns and a garfish.
She fancied a paraw head and bought it. Then complained there’s no one to clean it and gave it to me. But she didn’t bargain to lower the fare. What a sweet lady.
May more flowers of fortune blossom for you. May there be more lawsuits for you to feast on fish.
Translators’ Note:
Part-docupoetics, part-vignettes, the prose poems in මාවතේ ත්රීවිල් ජීවිතේ (Life on Three Wheels) offer an insider’s look into the unexplored subculture of Sri Lankan taxis, known as three-wheelers. The work is full of sociological depth, gained from the poet’s unique vantage point as a three-wheeler driver who converses with passengers and bystanders of all socioeconomic classes. Thematically, the collection deals with poverty, underdevelopment, environmental destruction, policing, race & class tensions, and gender & family dynamics, while making an impassioned plea for stewarding nature and children.
Edirisooriya’s ear is keenly attuned to the sounds and expressions of the Sinhala language: here, these include capturing local rhythms in “deflate inflation” and “gripes of bribes”. Notable, also, is his use of three-wheeler argot, like “ata” (three-wheeler). Based on conversations with the author, the translators have provided an immersive reading experience, attempting to localize the idioms and expressions in English.
First published as a column in the leftist Sri Lankan newspaper Lanka in the early to mid-2010s, the poems were published as a book in 2016. Though disregarded by the Colombo-centric literati, progressive circles and labour unions welcomed it as a relatable work from a marginalized voice. Re-reading this book, one can see Edirisooriya alluding to canaries in the coal mine of the 2021 Sri Lankan economic crisis: crushing inflation, an apathetic state apparatus, and corruption of the guardians of law.
E.M. Palitha Edirisooriya works as a farmer and a three-wheeler driver. He has been a columnist and contributor for several national newspapers. In addition to මාවතේ ත්රීවිල් ජීවිතේ, he has authored a book on gammadu, a traditional ritual of rural Sri Lanka.
Kasun Pathirage is a writer based in Colombo. His literary translations have been published or are forthcoming in cream city review, MAYDAY, Diode, ONE ART, and LIT Magazine. He is currently working on his first book, a collection of Lovecraftian horror with a Sri Lankan twist.
samodH Porawagamage is the author of the poetry collections becoming sam (Burnside Review Press) and All the Salty Sand in Our Mouths (forthcoming from Airlie Press).
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