I was at the Kaanuwa in Moratumulla. A place where I was sure no one I cared about or didn’t care for would see me. A place where men in sarongs drink to forget why they drink, smoke cigarettes past the filter and start long-running arguments.
Jonny Gilhooley had invited me to his bungalow in Bolgoda to watch the final. But recent events had put a dampener on my mood. A mood that I only wished to share with strangers.
It is the first time I’ve seen chairs and tables in the Kaanuwa. Till today, it was a transit bar near Moratuwa’s central bus stand that served every type of arrack – Pol, Gal, Blue, White, Old, Old Reserve, Double Distilled, Extra Special – to every type of customer, regardless of how ragged they looked. After today, the furniture and the TV would be a permanent fixture. And it is the first weekend in the Kaanuwa’s thirty-year history that no fights break out and no one is evicted.
The bar is already full when I walk in, and everyone is wearing free Regnis hats. The floor is sodden, with leaflets advertising washing machines and fridges soaked in spilled arrack and fallen stout.
The table next to me is taken by trishaw drivers. The one who sits alongside me is well built, with copper-tinted hair, a mosque hat and a scar on his cheek. He is the only one of them who doesn’t unnerve me. He gives me the first of a million grins as he sits, creating a buffer between me and the barroom beasts.
I recognise a few of them. Comrade Bandara sits under the fan with a bottle of strong beer. He once lamented that countries who play cricket never become communist. Bandara lives in Mount Lavinia, close to my place. His nephew was murdered in the 1989 Janatha Vimukthi Peramuna purge – the government-sponsored mass execution of thousands of suspected university Marxists. ‘I hope this team doesn’t win anything for the next hundred years,’ he once said. Today he is wearing a Sri Lanka T-shirt and hooting.
It had been an eventful two weeks. I had lost seven lakhs, a son and a home. I was staying with my born-again sister and her holy husband in the suburbs of Battaramulla, and my face ached from all the smiling I had to do. The youngest of Akka’s three children had just left for studies and I was taking full advantage of her surplus mothering instincts. While the food was good and the sheets were clean, I was unable to drink and I had to join them for evening prayers.
I need not waste too much ink on the 1996 World Cup final. You all know what happened. Taylor and Ponting posted 137 for 1. Sri Lanka’s spin quartet of Murali, Dharmasena, Jayasuriya and de Silva applied the skids. Our spin quartet were no Chandra–Bedi–Venkat–Prasanna. We had only one genuine spinner of the ball and two part-timers. But coupled with our agile fielding and aggressive spirit, it was enough. 170 for 5. 245 for 7.
245 wasn’t impossible, but it was difficult batting second in a Cup final against the likes of Warne, McGrath, Fleming, Reiffel and the Waugh twins.
By the time the scoreboard read 20, both our openers were in the pavilion, removing their pads and shaking their heads. Amid the perfume of sweat, smoke and distilled spirits, we begin shaking our fists and cursing. Unfit drunks swearing at professional athletes.
Plates of steaming fried rice and devilled beef fly past my face. The bar is filled with sellers of kasippu or illegal liquor from Soysapura, fisherfolk from Lunawa, shopkeepers from Rawatawatte and the sum total of zero women. These are men escaping their obligations. Men who have nowhere to be. Men who lean against the filthy walls, oblivious to the cockroaches crawling across the ceiling wires.
Then Aravinda and Guru steady the ship and, united by a hatred of Glenn McGrath, a brotherhood begins to bind us. Outside on the streets nothing moves. As if even the cats and the crows and the beggars have found TVs to crowd around.
My companion gets chatty. ‘Ade. I can’t believe. We are winning. We are winning.’
I spy a ponytail under his mosque hat, a tattoo under his shirt sleeve and shiny chains on his throat.
‘Shut up, fool,’ growls Kalu Daniel, notorious kasippu distiller and gambler, seated below the TV with his entourage. ‘If we lose I will smash you.’
Mosque Hat lets out a nervous giggle, lights a Gold Leaf and extends his hand. ‘Uncle, fit, no? Fit.’ He is pouring with sweat and 147 minutes away from hugging me.
The Aussies crumble as Aravinda and Arjuna take us home. Intoxicated by hours of drinking and the possibility of the improbable, we begin hitting the tables and chanting. Outside firecrackers pop, first like machine gun pellets, then like dynamite.
‘Uncle! We are the champions!’ shouts my sweat-drenched companion, mid-hug. Colombo explodes into fireworks and men embrace strangers. The party goes on all night and continues for the next three years. Sri Lankans across the world stand taller, believing that now anything is possible. The war would end, the nation would prosper and pigs would take to the air.
We watch the victory lap. Gurusinha is caught wrestling a souvenir stump away from a spectator. Glaring at the man as if to say, ‘Sorry, mister, but I have taken too much crap from too many people for far too long to get to this point. This stump is mine. Go get your own.’
We watch Arjuna, next to Pakistan Premier Benazir Bhutto, thanking Wasim and Azhar for supporting us after Australia and the West Indies refused to play in Sri Lanka, following a bomb blast. My friend, his tongue fully lubricated, lets out a giggle.
‘Ado. Uncle. London, there are more bombs, no? No one boycotts Lord’s. What do you say?’
I nod and smile. ‘Johannesburg, full of AIDS and guns. No problem. Bloody bullshit. They are scared to play us.’
We watch Arjuna hoist the Cup. And we watch rerun after rerun after rerun. Credit and kudos are multiplied and then divided. And our cricketers transform from international punching bags to national gods.
My companion’s name is Jabir and even though he looks and acts like a juvenile, he claims to be a father of four, an electrician and to have driven a trishaw to the SSC over twenty years ago. He tells me how Arjuna Ranatunga used to come by bus in tattered shorts to practices. How two players of yesteryear courted the same woman for over a decade. How Sanath once had a full head of hair.
His scar begins from his ear and reaches his chin. He tells me he got it in a gang fight at a Marians Concert in Panadura. The Moratu Boys vs The Chilaw Gang. ‘We had fists, they had knives, we still won. Marians had to go home.’
I tell him about my friendship with Graham Snow and try not to appear boastful. I ask him about Pradeep Mathew and he says he has never heard of him. I ask him if he can take me to Colpetty; he says he will, but only after one more stout.
* * *
Two days before the final, I’d got a call at my sister’s house.
‘It’s some girl,’ said my brother-in-law more loudly than necessary. He and his wife both watched me as I picked up.
‘Mr Wije. How you doing?’ The vatti amma voice and the singsong delivery.
‘Been a bit unwell, Danila.’
‘Take a break from your scriptwriting, Uncle. We are about to win the World Cup.’
I laughed. ‘How sure are you, my dear?’
My sister and her husband registered looks of shock. I ignored them.
‘How can you ask that, Uncle? Kangaroo meat for dinner.’
‘Yum.’
‘I called to say it’s your lucky month. Your friend Mr Snow sent a present for you.’
‘Really?’ Probably a World Cup tie. Useful to strangle my sister’s husband, who was now pretending to read the paper.
‘He’s upset about the mix-up. He wants to donate three and half lakhs to the cause.’
‘Mr Wije. Are you there?’
‘Of his personal money?’
‘Yes. I have the cheque in front of me. Would you like to pick it up after the World Cup?’
‘No,’ I said, and watched my sister pretend to sew.
* * *
Firecrackers and music at every corner. Dancing urchins come up and shake our hands as if we are personally responsible. All the shops are open. Except the twenty-four-hour communic
ation ones. It takes us an hour to locate a telephone, by which time the fumes from my liver are baking the insides of my head.
First I call Jonny. He doesn’t pick up. Then I call my sister and tell her I’ll be taking them all out to lunch tomorrow. Then I call Ari.
‘Wije! Wije! Where are you?’
‘I can pay you back the money.’
‘How can you talk money, men? We did it, you bugger! We hammered the bastards!’
‘I told you Aravinda would do it.’
‘Excuse me. I only told you!’
‘Not going to sleep?’
‘I am giving up drinking after today. Let’s put a final shot.’
‘Don’t be a fool. I’ll come. I’ll bring your money.’
I cannot bring myself to call Sheila. I slump back in the red trishaw, feeling faintish. A long-haired lout in a tophat points a guitar at me from the sticker behind Jabir’s seat. The caption reads ‘The Guns and the Roses’.
Jabir has also let his hair out; his also has the texture of an old broom.
‘Jabir. It has been a pleasure to have shared this day with you. I now want you to take me to my wife.’
‘No problem, Uncle,’ he says in harmony with his tooting horn.
‘But first, one more stop.’
* * *
The odds weren’t as good as the Holland or UAE games. Probably because the result was harder to pick and the bookies more emotionally vested in the result. Not surprisingly, the curry house behind the Neptune was more crowded than usual. I spotted a misprint on the red cyclostyled paper. The odds of Aravinda being top scorer were inverted, paying out far more than they should. I took it as a good omen.
I had watched the semi-final in India keenly and had observed Aravinda bowling. He was in good form and the Lahore pitch might suit his gentle off breaks. I had no time for Ari’s ola leaf predictions, I jumped in with both feet. Put down Aravinda for best batsman and bowler and bet on a convincing Lankan victory (90 runs/7 wickets). Three and a half lakhs would yield returns, provided all my horses came first.
So an hour before the toss, for neither the first nor the last time, W.G. Karunasena bet with his heart and not with his head. People stared at me as I handed over the bundles of cash. ‘Aravinda best bowler? 7-wicket win? Fool,’ said the drunkard next to me. I smiled. All or nothing. I would have enough spoils to share if Sri Lanka pulled it off.
On the big day, Aravinda took 3 wickets and scored 107 not out and we got there with 7 wickets to spare. God bless Lady Luck. God bless Graham Snow. God bless the Guns and the Roses. God bless Sri Lanka.
* * *
Jabir cranks his radio up. His trishaw is cobwebbed and falling apart, but he has a gleaming stereo and a box speaker behind my head. I am not a fan of rocker music. I prefer Jim Reeves. From modern music I like ABBA and Shakin’ Stevens. Jonny once bought me a cassette by a singer called Meat Loaf; he said it was modern opera. It only had one good song.
On the side streets, cricket games have sprung up along the gutters. Children in baseball caps and mosque hats re-enact the glory of Lahore, watched by smiling soldiers with guns. Dancing fools, papare bands and giant TVs greet the awakening sun.
I feel euphoria. My bag is filled with more money than I can spend. I will tell everyone that it is my gratuity and not care if they believe me. Either it is a random universe and the lottery has delivered me my numbers. Or it is presided over by a deity who does not despise me as much as I thought. Either way it is good.
I will now finish my documentary. Sheila will take me back. Garfield will come home. As Meat Loaf would say, ‘Two out of three is not bad.’
Before leaving, Jabir shakes my hand. ‘I only tell this to my good friends. After today, I think you will be one of those. This scar wasn’t in a gang fight. I fell off the mat slide in Sathutu Uyana when I was small. Don’t tell anyone.’ He lets out his hyena giggle and pockets my generous tip.
So now you know how I can afford to place an ad in the Sunday papers every day for the next six months. And how I can afford, at least financially, to drink to my liver’s discontent. It is now time for us to explore the rest of the iceberg.
Charith Silva
I fall sick straight after the victory. Delighted by the money I bring home, Sheila nurses me with love. Manouri, now my best friend, brings in roti, lunumiris and her blessings. Ari sets up the TV in my bedroom and we enjoy the afterglow of highlights and interviews. It is evident that the world shares our joy. A world that warms to underdogs and cheers those who humble Australia.
The World Champions return the next day to be greeted by Buddhist priests chanting blessings and cash rewards from Kandy’s sacred Temple of the Tooth.
‘That’s ludicrous, Wije,’ says Ari the spoilsport. ‘What if a Sri Lankan becomes world boxing champ? Will the Buddhist clergy pay him a lakh for beating a man to a pulp?’
Buddhism is a non-violent, non-materialistic philosophy everywhere, that is, except for this fair island of ours.
On the same day eighteen soldiers are killed and ten are injured in a landmine in Mallakam in the war zone up north. Almost the same number as the squad that returned from Lahore. Does the nation decide to celebrate victory or mourn the dead? What is more important, Sport or Life? Stupid question.
The same benefactors that cursed my foolishness now praise my good fortune. ‘Who knew you had so much gratuity?’ says Sheila, rubbing Tiger Balm on my brow. Brian arrives with a camera crew and a bottle of whisky that is confiscated at the door by my sweet wife. His face is everywhere, pointing microphones at anyone associated with bats or balls.
I refuse to be filmed on my sickbed. Ari attempts to give learned answers to Brian’s dumb questions. All it takes to transform Brian from a likeable chap to a rambling fool is the turning on of a camera.
‘So Mr Byrd, would you say, that, as a distinguished follower of Sri Lankan cricket, that Sri Lanka, who, as you know, are world champions, having comprehensively beaten Australia, will Sri Lanka, who are in peak form, Mr Byrd, will they do well, in the upcoming Sharjah tournament?’
‘I predict we will win every one-day tournament for the next year.’
Brian nods and smiles.
‘And then the bubble will burst. And we will fail to build on this glorious moment.’
‘CUT!’ yells Brian to his crew. ‘Uncle, you can’t say negative things.’
‘Then our friend will have to be silent,’ I croak.
‘Wije has found money to do the documentary,’ says Ari. ‘Almost nine lakhs.’
‘Ah. Superb.’ A month ago, Brian would have leapt in the air. ‘Let’s do something,’ he says, with the vagueness of a man who has much on his plate. ‘Definitely.’
Ari looks at me. ‘Wije. Let’s wait. Now too much cricket on TV. See. See.’
On Ari’s TV, Sanath Jayasuriya is diving to catch a tin of powdered milk.
I disagree. I tell him that if ever, the time is now. Brian and the camera crew pack up and leave us. ‘Get well soon, Wije,’ says Brian. ‘Definitely, we shall do something.’
Highlights are interspersed with more commercials. Murali selling life insurance. Mediocre spinner Pramodya Dharmasena holding a pot of jam and grinning. Garlanded coach Tom Whatmore selling refrigerators. World Cup reserve Charith Silva drinking a colonial brand of Ceylon tea.
‘Sha. Our Silva is also cashing in,’ I exclaim.
‘Wije, you and I played more cricket during the Cup than he did! What do you say?’
We have a laugh as the portly paceman sips tea and wobbles his head from side to side. We then watch Ravi de Mel, retired and greying, discussing the biomechanics of Murali’s action. On the other channel we see former MD Jayantha Punchipala accept a nomination for president of the SLBCC. Danila is absent from the press conference. As is the former president, who was ousted a week after delivering World Cup glory.
Sheila demands that she accompany me to my check-up. While the return of the money won me my civic rights, the upper han
d in our marriage still eludes me. I relent and agree to go with her on Friday. I then make an appointment for Thursday and visit Nawasiri Hospital alone. I rue my mistake. This privatised hospital runs like a government department. I have to present my letter to reception, get it stamped by accounts and then obtain three separate results from three different departments. The results are as lucid as Ari’s hieroglyphic notebooks.
Perhaps the hospital’s aim was to source business by rendering everyone who came there ill by shunting them up and down poorly ventilated corridors. It was working.
I have to channel a doctor who is seeing his thirty-fifth patient for the day. I take number 74 and hope that Nawasiri’s chronology is as garbled as its service. I sit back and sigh. A drink would be nice. A fan would be nice. And then I notice everyone staring at me.
The nurses are giggling, the children are whispering, the sick and their minders gape in my direction. I check my zipper. It is up. I check my shirt. It is clean. I check behind me.
‘You are Mr Karuna, no?’
It is Charith Silva, career reserve and public tea drinker.
‘Ah, Charith.’ I always assume first name with young cricketers. Makes me appear closer to the pulse than I am.
‘You are with Silumina, no?’
‘I write for Sportstar.’
‘Wow,’ he says, not caring. ‘Uncle, please, can I sit next to you?’
I look around. The whole hospital has stopped to stare.
His gold chains jingle. He sits down and mutters.
‘Please talk to me, Uncle. Don’t look.’
It is then that I realise that only I stand between this B-grade cricketer and an autograph stampede.
I comment on the heat and ask if he’s waiting for the doctor. He says his wife is expecting and gradually the hospital returns to normal. Aside from a few children who approach for autographs, we are not bothered.
‘Uncle, I also can’t believe. Two TV ads and I can build my house. Everyone is giving bonuses. I didn’t even do anything.’
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 11
