The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

  ‘You know, me and Ari had a game trying to guess your past. I thought you were a spy. He thought you were a killer.’

  ‘I’m a homosexual.’

  Jonny’s Adam’s apple bobs up his neck. I take a gulp of tea.

  ‘He thought you were trained by the IRA. I said you were more Mossad-like.’

  There is silence.

  ‘This is damn fine tea. I don’t go for tea, but superb.’

  ‘It’s Ceylon tea.’

  ‘Don’t tell lies.’

  We sip. He looks at me, I return the gaze and nod.

  ‘I didn’t know he was fourteen. And I didn’t force myself on anyone.’

  ‘Jonny …’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve lived in Asia for over thirty years. I’ve handled worse.’

  ‘Don’t tell Ari. Bugger’s a Christian and all. They don’t take kindly to … buggers.’

  He laughs and so do I. He leans over and punches me, this bear of a man.

  ‘I’ll tell Ari when I’m ready.’

  ‘I want a pavilion ticket when that happens.’

  We keep laughing and I sip.

  ‘Damn fine tea.’

  ‘I’m giving you a crate. It’ll help you give up.’

  I stare at this fan of Newcastle United, Derek Underwood, The All Blacks …

  ‘Statistically homosexuals are 1 in 10, yes?’

  Jonny looks irritated. He scratches his head. His hair is not quite blond, not quite brown. His teeth are not quite white, not quite yellow.

  ‘So statistically one All Black is a homo?’

  ‘There’s three in the current team,’ says Jonny, pouring more tea.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you. You’d publish it. Look what happened with Fashanu.’

  Justin Fashanu, pariah of English football, played for the legendary 1981 Nottingham Forest side and admitted to being homosexual in 1990. Publicly disowned by his brother, footballer John, subject to crowd abuse and changing room jibes, Fashanu committed suicide just a few months ago.

  ‘I love drinking,’ I say. ‘Without it I can’t write, I can’t talk …’

  ‘Bollocks. The writing and talking comes from you. When you give up something, stop thinking of it as denial. You’re gaining, not giving up … ‘

  ‘Don’t preach to me, Jonny. I’ve had enough.’

  I do not tell him about the creature, even though he would probably understand. I try not to think of three All Blacks being homosexual. Or of my friend and a fourteen-year-old.

  ‘When you feel like drinking, have tea. You don’t have to believe in God, but you have to believe in a purpose.’

  I believe in my powerlessness over alcohol and I believe in a higher power. Though I’m certain his name isn’t God, Allah, Buddha or Shiva and I’m equally sure he isn’t as unkind as those who claim to follow him.

  ‘What purpose?’

  ‘Ignore the cravings. Focus on the writing. If you fancy a drink, call me first. I’m the only one you drink with. OK?’

  Jonny serves the only biscuits I consider palatable. Chocolate-coated things with marmalade in the middle called Jaffas. He gets crates shipped to the High Commission. Or used to.

  ‘How’s the case?’

  He shrugs as I step into his car, clutching my tea like a lifejacket. The creature is silent.

  ‘No one’s shitting in my pool. Probably ‘cos I no longer have one.’

  As the driver puts the Jag into gear, Jonny leans into the window. ‘If you feel better after a week, think about writing that list. It’s the only step I recommend. And stop sulking.’

  And that is how it happened. As slowly as the ending of the Cold War. As inevitably as the beginning of the oil war. After fifty years of distinguished liver abuse, I, W.G. Karunasena, gave up booze.

  Midget in the Rain

  The first time I saw him in the flesh was in ’86 at the Tyronne Cooray Stadium. The stadium got its name from the Minister who presided over its upgrading and who, in the late 1970s, tried fighting, lobbying and cajoling the ICC into granting Sri Lanka test status. That failed. He then tried wining, dining and bribing. That worked.

  These days, hardly any matches are played at the Tyronne Cooray. But back in ’86, it hosted test matches.

  I must warn you, the following story features midgets and racist language. While I myself may be something of a freak, I am certainly no racist. Sinhalese, Tamils, Muslims and Burghers all nauseate me in equal measure.

  It begins under a bo tree, early morning, in a rainstorm. The bo tree is on the side road connecting the cricket ground with the town of Moratuwa. There I am, asleep under the bo tree, about to be woken up by rain. Two millennia ago a man, just like me, abandoned his wife, son and responsibilities to go sit under a bo tree. Unlike me, that man wasn’t drunk after a cricket match. And so he ended up becoming the Buddha.

  My bed of leaves receives spit from above, dollops of rain as thick as curd. I crawl to where the trunk curls inwards, to where the wood has wrinkled. I check my shirt and my slacks for unusual stains. There is a reason for this. I once woke up under a postbox to find the chest pockets of my borrowed suit filled with vomit – the previous evening’s potato masala, if you must know.

  It is the final day of the second test vs Pakistan. Sri Lanka are 45 behind with Arjuna and Guru new at the crease, negotiating grenades from Imran, Wasim and Qadir. Much to the glee of the crowd and the dismay of the touring team, the umpires halt play for bad light.

  Rumour has it that the Minister and the SLBCC have instructed the umpires to deliver victory. I believe the bad umpiring is the result of incompetence and not partiality. No one at the clubhouse last night seemed to agree. I remember arguing this with Brian and Renga at one in the morning. I do not recall how I came to be lying here.

  A prod in my ribs.

  ‘Yann. Ah.’

  ‘Uncle is asking you to go.’ A female voice with a Tamil cadence. She is dark, with an apron over her sari, holding a bag filled with ticket stubs, plastic cups, cigarette butts and paper plates. Next to her, attached to the umbrella poking my ribs, is a midget in a white Sri Lanka cricket shirt. His head is shaped like a dented papaya and he is the height of his umbrella. Behind him is a cart filled with empty bottles. Both characters smell of garlic and sweat.

  ‘Uncle says you can’t sleep here.’

  The midget continues his unintelligible grunts. His words are burped out at intervals and appear to have little connection with each other. The woman translates.

  ‘Uncle has looked after this ground for forty years.’

  I realise sleep is now an impossibility. The midget walks off. From a distance I observe the boils on his feet, the shuffle in his gait and the indecipherable tattoos on his arms. The woman gargles spit and squirts betel juice across the pavement.

  ‘You both sell kadale in the stands, no?’

  ‘We sell so many things. You want madana modakaya?’

  A Double M is a mixture of cough syrup, ganja and foul-tasting herbs. Favoured by some drunks, it guarantees three hours of intoxication, a splitting headache and at least one erection.

  ‘Too early, no? No thanks.’

  ‘Uncle works in the scoreboard,’ says the woman. ‘He supervises the pitch. Because of Uncle, Sri Lanka has never lost here.’

  I call out to the unlikely curator of the Tyronne Cooray. ‘Uncle. You think we can draw this game?’

  He snorts. ‘Ani. Vaaren. Ekek. Out. Na.’

  ‘Uncle says no Sri Lankan batsman will get out today.’

  The sound of grasshoppers and frogs has given way to crows and distant cars. Light reflects off the metal chairs in the stands. The stadium is small and tacky. In three hours it will be full.

  ‘Does Uncle think the umpires cheated?’

  ‘Umpire hora. ‘

  Uncle launches into a tirade. I only catch a few words. ‘Para demala. Umpire Francis, Buultjens, Ponnadurai. Lansiya. Demala. Horu. Pradeep Mathews.’

&n
bsp; ‘Uncle says the umpires are Tamil and Burgher and all crooks. Like Pradeep Mathews.’

  ‘Aren’t you Tamil?’

  ‘Uncle is OK with me.’

  ‘Tell Uncle he’s a racist pig.’

  Pradeep Mathew has done nothing so far in this, his second, test. He has stayed at the crease for two hours and scored no runs. He has not been asked to bowl.

  ‘Uncle says you are a disgrace, but Mathew is a bigger disgrace.’ She smiles to reveal dentistry that hasn’t seen a dentist in a while and to distance herself from the messages she delivers. She wears a pottu and a sparkle of silver in her nose.

  ‘Tell Uncle his ground is Asia’s biggest disgrace. My grandmother could bat on it.’

  The midget turns around. ‘Mokek? Kiwwa?’

  She tells him that I said Mathew was a crook.

  Pradeep had walked for caught behind, even though the umpire had not given him out. He took a catch off Rameez Raja and then confessed to taking it on the bounce. Rameez went on to score 122.

  The midget points the umbrella at me and bellows. The woman translates. ‘Uncle says if Mathew had batted on, we would have scored 400. If he shut up, Rameez would have been out for 3.’

  I get up. The scoreboard gleams in the morning sun. Arjuna 0 not out. Guru 4 not out. How long would they survive? I spy some of our players in cricket whites approaching the nearby nets.

  The woman and the midget walk to the entrance, picking plastic bags out of puddles. The sun is now visible and it looks like there is no more rain to save us.

  I pass the nets by the stadium entrance. The batsmen are Uvais Amalean and one of the Ratnayakes. Nervous tail-enders likely to be sent in early. The bowlers are medium pacer Kosala Kurupparachchi, hero of the last game, and Pradeep Mathew, zero of this one.

  It takes me a while to realise something is amiss. Mathew, left-arm chinaman bowler, is bowling with his right arm, in the style of opposing spin wizard, Abdul Qadir. The mimicry is spot on. Amalean unsuccessfully tries to smother the ball with his pad.

  I want to go closer, but I’m afraid they will mistake me for a beggar. In the distance the woman and the midget are removing leaves from the pitch. Mathew switches to left arm off a longer run-up. His shaggy hair is locked in a headband. He gallops in, a replica of Wasim Akram, turns his arm into a slingshot and bowls. Amalean succumbs to a yorker.

  The batsmen change every fifteen minutes. Guy de Alwis, Duleep Mendis, Ravi de Mel, followed by the men of the hour, Ranatunga and Gurusinha. I stand behind the scoreboard, mesmerised as Pradeep Mathew, the honest cricketer who has not been asked to bowl in that game, imitates every Pakistani bowler including Imran and Zakir Khan. He even does the sideways delivery skip of Mudassar Nazar.

  The Pakistan team arrives at the ground and the Sri Lankan skipper instructs Mathew to stop. While he walks away, I run up to him. He removes his headband and shuffles to the dressing room.

  ‘Excuse me. Is your name Mathews?’

  He turns his head, avoids my eye and keeps walking.

  ‘Who taught you to bowl like that?’

  His voice is deep and unsteady. ‘Enakku English theriyadu.’ I don’t know English, he says in Tamil.

  ‘Sinhala dannavada?’ Do you know Sinhala? I ask in Sinhala.

  But he has disappeared through a doorway that I cannot enter. The security guards are having their morning tea and eyeballing me. I begin the long walk to the press box. Below the scoreboard, the midget and the woman appear to be burying something in the outfield. I look their way and they stare daggers.

  I fall asleep for the first session and wake up after lunch to the applause for Guru getting his 50. Some of the Sinhala journos take off to a nearby tavern, but I am unable to tear myself from the game. By the end of the day, Guru is unbeaten on 116 and Arjuna is 135 not out. The match is well and truly saved and the series remains drawn 1–1.

  I arrive home shortly after nine, bringing Sheila her favourite, pittu and baabath curry. I had switched to beer after tea and am not fully drunk. Sheila sees none of these silver linings and locks me out to spend the night on the veranda’s reclining chair.

  The Spools

  I am watching a teledrama with my wife and Kusuma, our servant girl. Every scene is interrupted by twelve commercials. Each scene consists of characters staring in opposite directions and crying. My medicine makes me drowsy and the evening’s entertainment does not stay the drooping of my lids.

  I am aware of visitors and of Sheila saying that I am asleep.

  ‘Aney Sheila, is it OK if I move the spool player here?’ says a familiar voice.

  I open my eyes during the news break. Israel and Palestine are not getting on. What a surprise. Wonder how their cricket team is doing.

  ‘Was that Ari?’

  ‘Go to bed, Gamini. Instead of snoring here.’

  ‘Not sleeping.’

  She snorts and cleans her TV-watching glasses with the sleeve of her housecoat. I close my eyes and don’t sleep as more teledramas roll by. The voice returns.

  ‘Thank you, Sheila. Do you mind if I use the spool player. Just five minutes.’

  ‘You stole ITL’s spool player,’ I murmur without opening my eyes.

  Ari tugs at my arm. ‘Come, come, Wije, you must hear this.’

  The walking stick has become my permanent accessory. The swelling on my feet has all but vanished and I no longer need one. But I like how it looks on me. I now have the air of a colonial planter or a Victorian detective, or so I believe. Jabir is also there with a grin from eyebrow to eyebrow, cradling a cardboard box in his skinny arms. Ari helps him carry it into my office. In the distance, the same commercial is repeated thrice in the same ad break.

  ‘Ari. Only half an hour, ah?’ calls out Sheila. ‘Gamini has to rest.’

  ‘Hamu wants tea?’ asks Kusuma.

  ‘No need.’ The creature is still asleep.

  My room is neat and dust-free. ‘You’re not writing, are you?’ says Ari, untangling wire.

  ‘I will soon,’ I say, trying to believe myself.

  Jabir flicks the cobwebs from the casing he is holding.

  ‘Eh!’ shrieks Ari. ‘Don’t touch the spool!’

  They exchange roles. Jabir plugs in the machine while Ari extracts the spool and I lie on my haansi putuwa.

  ‘Ari sir, only for this weekend, OK ah? Uncle Abey is holiday. After Monday must give.’

  ‘Jabir. If you can’t speak English, stick to Sinhala.’

  My gaze falls from the wall I no longer stare at, to the morning’s papers on the desk. Coup to oust SLBCC boss. The recently appointed president, Jayantha Punchipala, is already unpopular with his employers. Punchipala’s dirty betting links are getting another airing in the Sunday Leader. There is no mention of illegal cricket betting behind the Neptune Casino in Colombo 3. Meanwhile our cricketers are losing. We have suffered a series defeat to South Africa. The team of ’96 is unchanged and unsteady.

  The spool clicks into place. The room fills with static, bird sounds, cuts, blips, clips, taps, raised voices, long hisses, distant clapping.

  We’ll bat … karkkark … crackle … Isaywhat … quiet … Zulqi will play … clipclipclip … howzatt … Sidath … paduppadup … whack … Kaushik in … crackle, silence, crackle … Kosala out … clap, clap …

  And so on. And so on.

  ‘You came all this way to give me a headache?’

  Ari is consulting his notepad and tweaking knobs.

  ‘Shouldn’t you return this contraption to ITL?’

  ‘End bit. End bit, I think,’ says Jabir, evidently not to me.

  ‘Thanks, Jabir,’ says Ari. ‘Very helpful.’

  ‘Look, I’m tired,’ I say, rising to leave.

  ‘Wait, wait, here.’

  The spool stops fast-forwarding. Ari flicks a switch and I stop and listen. Footsteps … clip … blip … woodhittingstone … footsteps … doorslam … silence.

  And then two voices, barely audible but somewhat familiar:

/>   You are a buffalo? You are deaf?

  It’s not his fault.

  This fool’s fault only. The series is gone.

  We can’t win, Aiya.

  If we got 300, we have chance. Now no chance.

  It’s not easy. These Pakis bowl like bhoothayas.

  [A third voice, shaky and quiet.] I was out.

  Sha. It can speak, ah?

  I was out.

  The fucking ball didn’t touch your fucking bat.

  But it did.

  Skipper asked you to occupy crease. Amalean and de Mel can’t bat.

  Now we’ll be out before tea.

  Let him be, Aiya.

  Poised between doorway and chair, I look at the cover of the spool. Pasted is a piece of paper, browned by time with shaky black writing: ‘PaksTan Test, 86.’

  Ari calls out, ‘Kusuma, aney make us some of that wonderful tea.’

  He sits on the stool before me. ‘Wije boy. You better sit down.’

  My Version

  This is the story. It begins in the 1760s, when the Dutch dug tunnels and canals below Colombo to transport their plundered loot around the city and towards the harbour. It shifts to the 1830s, when the British closed the tunnels and shut the canals and began building roads and banks and cricket grounds.

  It then shifts to 1941. After Nanking. Before Pearl Harbor. The Japanese had held ground against Russia, colonised Manchuria and believed they could take over Asia. The Allies had lost parts of Burma and the Philippines. If they lost Colombo and Trincomalee, the Japs would have access to India, the jewel in the melting crown.

  So the Brits decommissioned one of Colombo’s cricket grounds and turned it into a fully equipped aerodrome. It was a timely move. The Japs sent a fleet of bombers to disable Colombo harbour on 4 April 1942. The aerodrome at the cricket ground served its purpose. Her Majesty’s Thirty Squadron shot down fourteen enemy planes and expelled the intruders.

  The fight was not without casualties. Pilot Officer Don McDonald watched two of his comrades sink in trails of smoke over the Indian Ocean. When he exceeded his quota of hits to his tail, he aimed his plane at the sea swell. He missed the waves by 100 feet and crash-landed on the green grass of Galle Face.