Every day from midnight to sunrise, the fat sergeant sits behind the sandbags, holds a pen and complains. The skinny constable stands at the barricade with a T-56, a torch and a frown.
The constable joined the police force because they had a better rugby team than the army. He played wing for three years. That was before the knee injury, the hanging up of the boots and the endless overtime to pay for failed operations.
Today he has graduated from traffic duty to national security service. While he is grateful for the two thousand extra rupees, he prefers dodging dust and curses in rush-hour traffic to listening to this bigot whine.
The sergeant is twice his age, 'If I had put a screw at 23, you would be my son. Ha. Ha.' He has a dictator moustache and has not been promoted since the late 70s. He voted for the current president, supports the war and is proud of being a Sinhalese Buddhist.