‘If we are betting everything, we need outside help.’
‘You know a match-fixer?’
‘No. A fortune-teller.’
He does not reveal his source, but tells me we should place the remaining 50,000 on South Africa beating the UAE by 150 runs, with Kirsten scoring and Donald taking wickets. We both agree to be discreet, knowing very well that if Brian, Manouri and Sheila got to know there would be death. One of us would do the deed. Like any casino, management got suspicious of the same faces taking home winnings.
Ari has bought a hat and a long coat. I talk him out of wearing them. He sulks.
I walk down the long alley by the casino and wait ten minutes inside the curry house. I nurse a plain tea and some cutlets, while Ari walks in. He has discarded the hat, but kept the raincoat and added a cigar. He has forgotten to look up the word discreet in the dictionary.
When the waiter arrives with the betting sheet, Ari announces he is placing a large bet and would like to be allowed into the sports bar. The cashier explains that the sports bar is members only, and that all bets are placed from here.
Ari catches me glaring and places his bet, muttering insults at the cashier. Once the money is accepted, the bouncer has a quiet word with him.
‘How dare you? I am a paying customer.’
‘For you, betting closed,’ says the bouncer, pulling him by the arm. For a moment I am petrified that Ari will throw a punch, but even he is not such a fool.
Later Ari laughs. ‘They must’ve thought I was a cop.’
‘Did you at least place the bet correctly?’ I ask.
Fourteen hours later, the Africans trounce the Arabs by 169 runs, despite the best efforts of Lankan-born UAE all-rounder Johann Samarasekera, who Ari reminds me was a Thomian. His brother Athula was a swashbuckling batsman who retired prematurely before the World Cup.
Kirsten scores 188, Donald gets 3 wickets. Our side bets net us Rs 90,000. Ari’s ola leaf predictions were spot on, a fact he reminds me of at ten-minute intervals.
In the interim, Danila calls to find out how the project is going. I reply, perhaps a bit too curtly, that we are batting on, despite getting no support from the Cricket Board or Graham Snow.
‘I have good news, Mr Karuna. I convinced MD to grant a bit more budget.’
My hard-nosed businessman routine evaporates. ‘From Graham Snow?’
‘He’s busy with the World Cup. We can forward this to you as a loan, provided you don’t feature Mathew.’
‘How much?’ ‘Two lakhs.’
‘What can we do with that?’
‘It’s a start, no, Mr Karuna? But no Mathew, ah?’
‘For two lakhs, how to promise that?’
‘Have you located him?’
‘Not yet. You knew him?’
‘Not really.’
I decide to change the topic. ‘Can we pick up the cheque tomorrow?’
‘Only if no Mathew.’
Mathew would be the first documentary we shoot, but best not to argue with a lady bearing a cheque. Instead I decide to be nosy.
‘Bit of a question, Danila?’
‘Ask away, my dear.’ Was she flirting? Dream on, old fart.
‘I heard Graham was in love with a girl from the Cricket Board. Was it you?’
There is laughter at the end of the line. ‘Aiyo, no. Give me some credit. He had an affair with Saleshini.’
‘Who?’
‘You know her. Came to our meetings.’
‘The mouse?’
Danila giggles. Unlike her voice, her laugh is lyrical. ‘Yes. The mouse. Don’t you know, Uncle? Sometimes mice can attract rats …’
Uncle? Ouch.
Shrewd Investors
On my way to collect the money, I think about Ari’s ola leaf and wonder where he got it. Some fake guru in Maradana or the charm shop in Bamba probably. Ari had now gone to procure a prediction for the Pakistan–Holland match.
The mousey girl meets me at reception, announces that Danila is at a meeting, and hands over a cheque. For some reason, she does not ask me to sign anything. My bus home passes the Neptune Casino and I decide to ring the bell.
I do not wait for Ari’s sorcery; I will follow my W.G. instinct and place it on Sri Lanka against Zimbabwe. The waiter smiles at me and asks me to stay for a drink. My bet for 293,000 gets me entrance to the back room, where the lights are dimmer and the seats comfier. There are TVs broadcasting karaoke and cricket matches. Local women in tight clothing serve drinks. I enjoy half a bottle, and place side bets on Aravinda top-scoring and Streak getting wickets.
I make the mistake of telling Ari.
‘You bloody fool! We agreed we would put it on the Holland game. I even got the prediction. How can you be sure we can beat Zimba?’
‘I’m sure, I’m sure,’ I slur.
‘What margin?’
‘100 runs or 6 wickets.’
He does not speak to me for two days.
On the third day, the Guru and Aravinda take us to the target in style with 13 overs to spare. I get a call. It is the only time I have heard someone whisper and shriek at the same time.
‘Wije. Wije. We have almost eight lakhs. I calculated. I calculated. Streak got 3, Ara got 91. Let’s tell Brian. 6 wickets exactly. You are a genius. I told Manouri!’
Heaven help us.
We get a stern talking-to from the wives, but Brian’s presence soothes their fury.
‘Aunties. I know. I know. But it was a calculated risk. Your husbands are shrewd investors.’
‘They are fools,’ says Sheila. ‘Gamini, if you use any of our money, I will skin you.’
‘The Bible says gambling is a sin,’ says Manouri.
Brian laughs his laugh and gets down to business. ‘Uncles. This is your money. To tell the truth, I had actually given up on this. Here’s my suggestion. We increase the budget to six lakhs. That way we can do the script we want, the way we want.’
It sounds fair enough and we are nodding, all except the wives. Sheila enters the negotiation. ‘What about Garfield? Sorry, Brian. I need money for my son’s education. I am sorry.’
‘It is our husbands’ money. They owe to their families. Brian, we will refund your 50,’ pacifies Manouri.
‘How can you say it is your money?’ says Brian, his voice quivering.
Ari and I look on like eunuchs. I decide to intervene. ‘There is the Pakistan–Holland game. We keep 50 for security. Take a small share for Garfield and Manouri. And place the rest on Anwar, Waqar, 130 runs or 7 wickets. We have been picking the group games well. If we win, which we will, Garfield can go to Harvard, we can go to Hollywood and Manouri can build a church.’
Then Ari opens his mouth. ‘I even have an inside source.’
‘That’s from Uncle Neiris’s woman?’ asks Brian.
‘Who’s Uncle Neiris?’ ask Manouri and I at once.
‘He’s an ace con artist. Looks after the Tyronne Cooray cricket ground.’
‘The midget?’ I ask.
‘I think he’s a dwarf,’ says Brian.
‘Not him, men,’ says Ari. ‘His wife or sister is a super fortune-teller. She sells predictions for 100 bucks.’
‘You’re getting betting tips from a saasthara lady?’ I mock.
‘Ari,’ says Manouri, ‘I am not happy.’
An argument erupts between Brian and Sheila and I am unable to get a further word in.
Garfield
Waqar held down the Dutch while Anwar and Ijaz punched the daylights out of them. The Netherlands team featured another Lankan, former pre-test player Flavian Aponso. Now it’s my turn to be livid. I drag Sheila over to Ari and Manouri’s.
‘17 for 1!’ I yell across the pantry. ‘Forget saasthara. I got everything right. If we had put half the amount, we would’ve all been millionaires.’
‘Who has the money?’ asks Manouri, ignoring my outburst.
We all look at Ari, who looks at me. ‘I can’t go in there. They think I’m a cop.’
They forbid Ari from buying any more tips and send Garfield with me to make sure I don’t do what I want to do. He sits in the trishaw listening to noise on his earphones and looking the other way.
‘Why are your jeans torn?’
I repeat myself thrice and get no reply.
The portly trishaw driver’s eyes twinkle at me through the rear-view. ‘Just like my daughters. Always sticking the plugs in the ears. But if my ones wore torn clothes, I would flog them …’
The day I take parenting advice from a trishaw driver is the day Israeli cricket gets test status. I nod politely and gaze at the Slave Island morning. Checkpoints and road closures force us to take the less-than-scenic route.
Your children’s faults are always magnified in the same way that yours are invisible. Truth be told, Garfield was better than me. He was gentler, politer and kinder. But those qualities don’t get you anywhere. He was a typical twenty-year-old, a fool who did not know he was one.
We get out near the bus station, walk down the alleyway and stop off at the curry house. An urchin wearing a Titanic T-shirt serves up two steaming cups, a masala stain covering Kate Winslet’s face like a veil. The place was more crowded than before. Maybe word of its odd odds was spreading.
‘Garfield, you realise, all this money is not for you.’
‘Thaathi, no one calls me Garfield. My name is S …’
‘No need to tell me. I gave you both your names.’
‘I know.’
‘Listen, son. There is only about eight lakhs there. Once Aunty Manouri takes her share and Brian gets some for the documentary, you’ll only be left with one or two lakhs.’
‘I thought you were asking Mahappa.’
‘Your uncle will not give.’
‘He said that?’
I say nothing. But give the impression I’m saying yes.
‘Son. Tomorrow West Indies play Kenya. We can play it safe or play it smart.’
He grabs the betting sheet I’ve placed before him. ‘West Indies are not as good as they were.’
The boy was not a complete fool.
‘True. True enough. But Kenya? Can you imagine losing to them? Lara always top-scores and Ambrose always gets wickets. They will win by 80 runs or 5 wickets.’
‘It’s risky.’
Ragged men in sarongs jostle through the narrow shop and request roti and some curry to dip it in. Gamblers pour from one room to the next. Hungry men who will never be full. Their eyes look exhausted and enthralled at the same time.
‘What risk? If we had put on Pakistan like I said, we wouldn’t be here.’
‘Did Mahappa really say he couldn’t give?’ ‘Will you place the bet for us?’
He says nothing. But gives the impression he is saying yes.
Steve Tikolo
I tell him thrice how to fill the betting slip. He keeps saying, I heard you the first time, and then completely screws it up. He gets the winning margin (80 runs/5 wickets) and the best bowler (Walsh) right. But he comes back having put Rs 753,000 on Kenya! And instead of putting on Lara, he has put money on the Kenyan number 4, some guy called Tikolo.
I call him a buffoon and send him back to change the bet. He comes back saying they would charge a 6 percent transfer fee. I call him an imbecile and send him back in. He returns with the correct bet, on the favoured team. West Indies, Lara, Walsh at safe odds. After all, we are neither gamblers nor fools. We ride back in silence and tell the others that the payout is on Friday. The reaction is not good.
‘Are you sure they will pay?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ I insist. ‘Ask Garfield.’
Ari whispers to me as they grill Garfield. ‘Tell me you didn’t do it, Wije.’
I smile at him and put my fingers to my lips. He frowns back.
None of us are to know that chasing a paltry 166 against a non-test playing bowling attack, the Windies would collapse to 93 all out, causing one of the great upsets of the modern game. That Steve Tikolo’s 29 would be the highest score of the game.
Ari does the calculations much, much later. If Garfield’s initial mistake had stood, we would have made 6.7 million. Instead, we end up losing 7.5 lakhs.
Halal Meat
On Saturday, Garfield disappears. In the confusion, no one notices we haven’t claimed the bet money. A note is left:
Ammi. Thaathi.
Leaving for Dubai. I have no choice. Will be in touch.
Don’t worry.
G
For a while, hysteria reigns. Then Ari’s daughter Melissa spills the beans.
‘He ran off with that girl down the road. Sara.’
‘That’s Marzooq’s daughter …’
There is a crash of metallic rust outside. As if mammoths are battling robots. We look through the window. My gate is still shuddering. There are three bearded men with mosque hats. The oldest one is the biggest; he is wielding a stick and being restrained by the younger two.
‘Bring her now or I will smash this house!’
Ari shouts from the balcony. ‘Mr Marzooq. What is the meaning of this?’
‘Where is my Sara?’
Faces are peeping from behind curtains and trishaw drivers are exiting their vehicles and approaching Ari’s house.
‘We are also missing our boy,’ I say.
‘I will break your boy’s face.’
I run down the stairs. I have been drinking all morning and my run is more a tortoise-like shuffle. ‘Gamini, wait!’ shouts Sheila. Ari comes after me, the snail in hot pursuit of the tortoise. In the three minutes that it takes for us to reach the gate, a crowd has gathered.
‘Come back, Wije! They will turn you into halal meat!’ says Ari.
The Marzooq brothers are attempting to prise the stick from their father. The stick flies off in the scuffle, bounces on the tarred road and lands at my feet. I pick it up and begin swinging. The crowd coos with delight and takes a step back. The Marzooqs advance. ‘Uncle. Don’t try anything.’
‘Where is that bloody son of mine?’ I scream. ‘I will make hal … mincemeat out of him.’
In the distance I hear Sheila wailing. The Muslims stop in their tracks.
‘Come, Marzooq. We’ll find this fool and we’ll thrash him.’
I begin walking to their car. The crowd parts like the Red Sea.
Even though I feel like a lie-down, I keep up my bravado. I lift my baton to hammer the de Saram Road signboard. ‘Let’s go! I will break his head!’
And suddenly there are people restraining me. They drag me into my home and lock the door. I am force-fed cups of tea and asked to sit still.
An hour later Mr Marzooq enters with his sons. We share more tea. Melissa Byrd tells us the rest of the story. My son and Sara Marzooq have been seeing each other for over two years.
‘You knew this?’ bellows her father.
‘No, did you?’ I snarl back.
‘They did.’ Melissa points to the two boys. She had evidently inherited her father’s talent for subtlety.
The eldest boy receives a slap. There is a flood of Tamil exchanged between father and sons. That is when Sheila hands me a letter that has just arrived. She gives me a look that could curdle beer.
Dear Ammi/Thaathi
I’m sorry for causing drama. I am in Dubai and have a contract to play bass with Capricorn. I can save money for studies.
I am with my wife, Sara. This is the only way for us to be together.
Please do not be upset. I will stay in touch and send money.
Your son,
Garfield
PS: Do not show to Sara’s family.
PPS: Don’t blame Thaathi about the money. I am the one who placed the bet.
The elder Marzooq boy grabs the letter. ‘Come, Vaappa. We will bring her home.’
Sheila runs after them. ‘Mr Marzooq. Don’t you dare hurt my son …’
I rise to g
o before realising that the entire Byrd family is staring at me.
‘Tell me you didn’t put all of it, Wije?’
‘How much did you put, Gamini?’ asks his wife.
‘What did Uncle Wije do?’ asks nosy Melissa.
I tell them very quickly. In the second that it takes for the truth to sink in, I make a hasty exit, chased to the door by raised voices and fists.
Check-up
Last week I woke up shivering. This week I wake up sweating. Sheila spies a note from Nawasiri in the post. It is the hospital calling me in for my annual check-up. My body notifies me that the prognosis will not be good.
‘Didn’t you just go for a check-up?’
‘No. That was to make an appointment.’
‘When is your appointment?’
‘Sheila, I have writing to do.’
I lock myself in my room and decide to leave it till after next month’s World Cup.
Persona Non Grata
Just as the Marzooqs begin assembling a SWAT team, young Sara comes home by herself. The sixteen-year-old realises that being a little princess is far more pleasant than being a musician’s wife. The Marzooqs have the marriage annulled. My son calls and I refuse to talk to him.
The Byrds take turns in coming over and blasting me. Brian Gomez rings up and calls me every name under the sun. Everyone insists I pay back the Cricket Board from my personal money, of which I have none. Garfield stays in Dubai and sends a cheque for 5,000 dirhams. I tear it into pieces and post it back to him. A week later, following a blistering arrack-fuelled row, Sheila asks me to leave the house.
I find myself in the same position as the internationals who dared tour apartheid South Africa in the 1980s. I am universally shunned. It would be a few years later that men more famous than me would be banished for committing the very crime that I had. Betting more than they could afford on a game of cricket.
Nineteen Ninety-six
Where were you in 1996? Who did you hug when Ranatunga hammered that 6 off Warne? I hugged a sweaty trishaw driver with a scar running down his cheek. As far as hugs go, it wasn’t bad. Though I, who grew up in a no-hugs-please-we’re-Sinhalese atmosphere, am hardly an expert.
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 10
