Hora!

Today, being very hungover from last night's excesses and chiefly Rocklands Dry Gin, I was rudely awakened by a text message “We’ve been robbed. Get to the office asap”.
Showered and dressed, (the rapid response jumbling the cuttlefish and gin, making me nauseous) hailed an auto and told him to step on the gas, fearing the worst. Came to the office at the ungodly hour of 8:30am to find that the rest were at the police station filing the case and trying to get some brass down onto the scene.

We were not allowed to go into the office until the police arrived at the crime scene. So the staff sat outside on the terra cotta porch, waiting for the Force to turn up. We have computers (insured) and petty cash (uninsured) and that’s about it (we’re a freaking NGO for god’s sakes). Sum total of cash lost, : USD 150 (relatively big money in Sri Lanka). I know this day already is going to be one long, bureaucratic mess. Colleague informs me that Chief Inspector at local police station looks like Aamir Khan. I hang around, in the futile hope of salvaging something from the day.

The police turn up 4 hours later in a jeep (no doubt after their morning tea when they finally decide to attend to the day’s work) and the Chief Inspector descends, booted foot on the ground (EXACTLY like in the tamil movies). (Let the record reflect that there is no way he could even be a distant relative of The Khan). He parades around importantly, opening drawers, posturing, postulating. Turns out it was an inside job (which any fool could see since the ‘hora’(thief) zeroed in straight on the drawer where the petty cash was stored and jimmied the lock, leaving all our valuable computer equipment untouched. He had also broken open one of the back doors too to enter, since the front doors were impenetrable when locked. Had left one perfect muddied footprint. Also apparently had dinner at the office before he did his job since there was a food pack on the ground. The Nerve!

Chief Inspector straightens his shirt and slicks back his hair upon seeing me. Sidekick (head bowed, back bent) follows him like an eager puppy, not daring to look at me. The Sergeant of course. I half-expect Goundamani to come bounding from another door, but it's not a movie set, it’s just another day for the Dehiwala Police Force.

The crime scene is cordoned off and we’re not allowed to go into the office until the fingerprinting experts (from the CID and not the police force) turn up. They come of course after a leisurely lunch, by which time it has been five hours since the discovery and since I came in. (Notable sightings, a wild parrot in our guava-fruit tree).

I’m broiling in the heat,being bitten alive and ready to commit bloody murder. Oh, and by the way we had an interview today and I had to take the hapless candidate to the nearest Pizza Hut. Turns out he’s the chairman of a national board and wants to change jobs because everything is so damn political and uneducated louts with letters of appointment from the minister are in charge. (I could go on but I won’t).

Staff and I have an intense political discussion, about Marxism and its role in developing countries. Also about censorship. There's a Sinhala film with some nudity that's been rated as Adults Only but someone's written to the President and being the cultural lodestone, he's vetoed and banned it. The Da Vinci Code is banned here in Sri Lanka by the way.

Three fingerprint experts turn up, one to put the powder, one to dust, one to photograph (How many policmen does it take to change a lightbulb? One to change the lightbulb, one to tell him how to change the lightbulb, one to file the report). They dust everything in sight, covering probably 50% of the 2000 square foot office, including areas where the hora would have no plausible reason to go to. Turns out that the hora has used the girls bathroom.

The frenzied dusting turns up one pristine fingerprint. Everyone’s excited at the breakthrough and much photographing is done of said fingerprint. Turns out later that it was one of our staff’s fingerprints . Excitement dies down. I watch flies copulating. We all have lunch on the steps, washing our hands and feet with the garden hose. It feels wonderfully communal and I have the ever-frequent thought: how will I possibly leave?

Finally after what seems like a lifetime (during which we exchange jokes; here’s a classic. What does the man who wants to lead the best life do? He gets his salary from America, his woman from India, his car and equipment from Germany and his food from China. What does the man who is consigned to the worst life get? He gets his salary from India, his woman from America, his car and equipment from China and his food from Germany (HAHAHA)), they’re done fingerprinting and taking records of the footprints. We’re all fingerprinted too. It’s kind of exciting, but in the ‘watching paint dry’ way. The fingerprint experts pack up a mountain load of shit (despite only using talcum powder I think and camel-hair brushes). One of the littler boys who help us pack books says he’s terrified to stay alone tonight. We found a barefoot print too, so turns out there was two of them.

Finally, with half an hour left till close of business, we’re allowed back into the office. The internet promptly dies and the electricity goes off. A perfect end to a perfect day. So everyone packs up and heads home, exhausted from having done absolutely fuck-all. I asked them, doesn't this get your goat? To waste this much time? To wait and wait ? In unison they said "This is Sri Lanka".