The Policeman, the Tyres, and the Hoppers

Denzil Jayasinghe

4 min read

·

7 hours ago

An excerpt from “The Policeman, the Tyres, and the Hoppers” by Denzil Jayasinghe, a memoir of a 1973 incident in Sri Lanka. The author and his friends, after a late movie, are stopped by harsh policemen who deflates their tires for riding without lamps. Forced to walk, hungry and dejected, they find a small restaurant selling hoppers. The simple meal revitalises their spirits, transforming their misfortune into a source of laughter.

Inthose days, the Humber bicycle my father owned had passed into my hands. It was a solid, respectable machine, with a black frame and chrome handlebars that still bore traces of his pride of ownership. On that night in 1973, I was riding it in the company of my friends — Cyril, Nelum, and Mahinda — returning from a late filmi show in Colombo. The streets were half-empty, the air unusually cool, and the sound of our pedalling echoed faintly in the silence.

We set off from Maradana, past the great façade of the railway station, and turned into Maligawatta Road. Our path was towards Baseline Road, and to our right the Samantha cinema still glowed with the last stragglers leaving. It was well past midnight, and not a lamp glimmered from our bicycles. My Humber had one, but it was worked by a dynamo that made pedalling feel like climbing a hill, so I had long decided it was better left unused.

Halfway down the road, policemen emerged from the shadows and stopped us. They were led by an inspector who spoke with a harshness as though we had disturbed his sleep. He accused us of riding lawlessly, and when we offered no protest, he demanded we choose between two punishments: spend the night in his police station or suffer the indignity of deflated tyres.

At twelve-thirty in the night, no boy in Colombo would volunteer to taste the inside of a police lock-up. Our hunger too was growing urgent, gnawing like a second policeman. Cyril, who was the natural leader among us, stepped forward and parleyed with the inspector in a calm manner. After a few sharp exchanges, a compromise was reached.

One constable came to my Humber and, with an air of great ceremony, unscrewed the valve. The long hiss of air leaving the tyres sounded like the bicycle itself sighing at the injustice. One by one our machines were flattened, until they stood like stubborn cattle refusing to move.

We had no choice but to walk, dragging them along Baseline Road. It was a four-kilometre journey, and the night, though cool, seemed to perspire through our skins. Shops lay closed, shutters down, restaurants dark, the streets deserted except for the occasional dog.

By the time we reached Kandy Road, our tongues were dry and our tempers brittle. It was then that we noticed, like a lamp burning in a deserted temple, a small wayside restaurant still open. From a wood-fire stove came the unmistakable hiss and crackle of hoppers meeting the pan.

We stopped in our tracks. The sight of that hearth was enough to restore hope in humanity. The cook, a wiry man with a towel tied round his head, was expertly lifting hoppers from their shallow pans and piling them high on a tin plate. The smell wafted into our nostrils and worked like a spell. Cyril was the first to announce, “We must eat here, or perish on the road.”

The man eyed us suspiciously at first, perhaps taking us for strays released from a reform home. Our flat-tyred bicycles leaned against the shuttered shopfronts like exhausted sentries, while we, their masters, stood in anticipation.

“How much?” asked Cyril, trying to sound dignified.

“Ten cents each,” said the man, with the assurance of one who knew he was dealing in necessity.

That was the moment when our coins clinked out of our pockets with a speed they had never known before. Soon the hoppers began arriving — round, white, with golden crisp edges curling upwards, each one steaming.

Nelum, the quietest among us, devoured his first two without a word, only to exclaim suddenly, “I never knew hoppers could taste like this!” Mahinda was more practical: he placed his next order even as he swallowed the last morsel. I myself tried to pace my eating, but every time I resolved to stop, another hopper appeared before me like a divine offering.

The cook, now convinced of our harmlessness, grew genial and even advised, “Eat slowly, boys, or you’ll choke.”

But advice had no place here. Coins slid, hoppers vanished, plates reappeared. For that half hour, the restaurant was ours. By the time we declared ourselves satisfied, we had eaten enough to feed a small family.

We rose at last, heavier in stomach but lighter in spirit. Our bicycles, though still flat, no longer seemed a burden. With a final look at the glowing hearth and the man still turning out hoppers for some invisible clientele, we resumed our long trudge home.

And so we walked on, dragging our lifeless bicycles past the sleeping city, our mouths still tingling with the taste of hoppers. By the time we reached Dalugama, the night’s troubles had already shrunk into a tale we could laugh about — proof, perhaps, that even misfortune, when fed on hot hoppers, can lose its sting.

Subscribe to my stories https://djayasi.medium.com/subscribe