The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

  ‘Friends. How much money do you need to finish the book?’

  ‘It’s a book, Mr Kugarajah. Not a documentary. It costs only time.’

  Kuga presses the video machine and out pops what looks like a giant roti made from stainless steel.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Recordable Laser Disc. Soon this will replace cassettes and CDs.’

  What about spools, I think. He inserts another silver disk and manhandles a remote control the size of Ari’s phone. It is my Sathasivam documentary. One which, as far as I know, aired only once.

  ‘My friend next door copied this for me. He also likes your programmes.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Rohana Vindana Kumara. Pirate king of Sri Lanka. You don’t know him.’

  ‘Why am I here, sir?’

  While the Sathasivam documentary plays without sound, my host pours a third drink and lights a seventh Gold Leaf. My rumbling stomach tells me it is past lunchtime. The afternoon sun streams through closed windows and warms the room. Kuga turns up the air conditioner and doesn’t answer my question.

  ‘You will stay for lunch, I got some wild boar from Amparai. Selva is making …’

  ‘I’m not supposed to have oily food.’

  ‘Not oily. Juicy. Like those ones in Asterix.’

  He laughs.

  After the annulling of the Asgiriya test, I.E. Kugarajah invited Pradeep Mathew to dinner at the Citadel in Kandy. The tour had been abandoned, so the youngster was off duty.

  ‘Why were you in the VIP stand?’

  He jerks his head to the side, there is the crack of a bone. I wince, he smiles.

  ‘Questions, questions. Bloody journalists. I was doing business with the Minister of Cricket. Will you let me tell?’

  I put down my glass and pull out my notebook.

  ‘Of course, this is for your book. You will not mention me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  At the post-game cocktails, no one was talking about the match or the pitch. The Minister had seen to it that no awkward questions were posed and as a result the evening was awkward. I remember the New Zealanders sharing beers with the Sri Lankans. I remember Rex Palipane arguing with Ari about the ethnic problem. I do not remember seeing the unofficial Man of the Match among the circles of chattering players. Kuga had found him sulking by the lobby TV.

  ‘I told him “Great bowling, brother,” but no answer,’ says my host. ‘Then I said the same in Sinhalese.’

  It was only when Kuga spoke in Tamil that he received the flicker of an eyebrow. It was in this language that Kuga suggested they leave the party. Mathew easily received permission from the manager to be excused. It’s hard to pretend a match doesn’t exist when the record breaker himself is in plain view.

  At the Citadel, the boy grew talkative. He said he had taught himself to bowl a lot of those deliveries, but that his school coach had also helped. He said he was not angry about the match being cancelled, but was disappointed that the tour was over. He said he hated playing for Sri Lanka.

  Selva announces that lunch is ready. During this shuffling of feet, I look around and notice the bookcase behind me. It is adorned with curved carvings. At eye level are cheap thrillers by rich writers. Jack Higgins, Frederick Forsyth and Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct. There is a Collected Works of Shakespeare and Salman Rushdie’s Midnight’s Children. Standard issue in most Sri Lankan bourgeois homes and, more often than not, unread beyond page 7.

  The rest of the shelves have books about Sri Lanka’s racial problems and Tamil history.

  ‘I told him it is hard enough being a Tamil in Sri Lanka, let alone in the cricket team,’ says Kuga as we make our way to the balcony. ‘I told him that our brothers Sridharan Jeganathan and Vinodhan John suffered the same prejudice.’

  ‘What prejudice? They both had their chances.’

  ‘Vinodhan John Jeyerajasingam couldn’t make the side even after changing his name. Jeggie died in 1996. Just forty-four, the first Lankan test player to die.’

  ‘As if Sri Lankan cricket killed him.’

  ‘The president and the Minister kept him out of the side. He turned to drink. That is probably what killed him.’

  The food is served on a marble table and unsurprisingly in this idyllic neighbourhood, there are no crows swooping down from the power poles. There are no power poles.

  ‘You are working for the LTTE?’ I ask as we sit down.

  There is a stirring of menace as he reaches for the wild boar curry. ‘You think just because I care about being Tamil, I am an LTTE-er.’

  Selva decorates my plate with cloud-like clumps of basmati rice.

  ‘What about Mahadevan Sathasivam?’ I ask.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘He was even given to captain the side.’

  ‘And what happened? Thrown in jail on trumped up …’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t kill his wife?’

  ‘What are you saying? Satha went around town with his Lankan wife and his English BYT. Wife knew everything. But the Sinhalayas were jealous. Satha could out-bat them and out-screw them!’

  This man would have barely been an infant when Satha was out screwing.

  I was a cub reporter on parliament duty. Those were the days of the Chelvanayagam debates. Do minorities get 50 per cent or do they get nothing? We Sinhalese knew the Tamils could out-bat, out-screw, out-think, out-everything us. So we gave them nothing. And made some of them hate all of us.

  Pradeep Mathew’s Tamil was better than expected. He told Kuga of how the Sinhalese mob had nearly turned his father’s bakery to cinders in ‘83. How his family was pressuring him to give up cricket and enter the business. How his coach had advised him to drop Sivanathan from his name if he wanted to play for Sri Lanka.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ I say. ‘Look at Chanmugam, Kasipillai, Schaffter, Pathmanathan, and of course, Muralitharan.’

  ‘That is what you all say,’ says Kuga, slapping an extra dollop of dhal on his curry-stained rice. ‘Murali. Murali. You elevate a few Tamils for your pleasure and then you destroy them.’

  We return to the living room and I gather my satchel and my notes. I ask to borrow the laser discs, but Kuga refuses.

  ‘You will not mention this visit to anyone. Not Byrd. Not the suddha.’

  Emmanuel Kugarajah offered to manage Pradeep’s career that first night at the Citadel and the boy accepted. His first managerial act was to rid the twenty-two-year-old of his virginity.

  ‘Fellow said he was waiting for a girl he loved. I said fuck that bullshit. Sorry, Uncle. Got him a Korean when we got back to Colombo.’

  Kuga tells me he has an important visitor arriving and that we will make another appointment to meet. He begins putting the discs away and tidying the room.

  ‘Sudu and Chooti will drive you back. I hope you will not mind the blindfold.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  Standing at full height, Kuga doesn’t look as short as I thought. He is almost at my shoulder. On which he puts his dark paw and squeezes. ‘Sorry, Uncle.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know who you are.’

  He increases the pressure on my shoulder.

  ‘And because you know who I am.’

  As he leads me down the stairs, I wonder if I should tell him that I do not have the foggiest.

  The Armball

  New Zealander Dipak Nathu had a beautiful armball that he employed a bit too extensively. So much so that unkind Aucklanders would hold banners saying, ‘Beware of Dipak’s mystery ball. It actually spins.’

  ITL has this footage. It is from New Zealand’s mythic 1992 World Cup where they beat everyone in the world, partly thanks to captain Crowe opening the bowling with his off-spinning armball practitioner. They then lose to a beleaguered Pakistan, who go on to whack the cup.

  Nathu speaks to Brian Gomez, whose LankaTel T-shirt, cap and tie leave little doubt as to how ITL financed his trip to New Zealand.

  ‘To be ho
nest with you, mate, I picked up the ole armball in your country.’ Dipak looks Punjabi and speaks fluent Kiwi.

  ‘Your spinner took 10 wickets against us, eh? I was reserve. I watched that fella bowl in the nets. Beautiful armballs, eh? I can’t remember his name …’

  ‘Jayantha Amarasinghe?’ prompts Brian, confirming beyond doubt that he is an idiot.

  ‘Nah, mate.’

  ‘Sanjeewa Weerasinghe?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Dark bloke, kinda shaggy hair.’

  ‘Ah,’ smiles Brian. ‘Ranjith Madurusinghe.’

  ‘Nah, mate. Not him. Listen, I think we’re expected on the field …’

  Brian could have gone on bumbling names. Roger Wijesuriya, Sridharan Jeganathan, Don Anurasiri, Roshan Jurangpathy. Nah, mate. Brian, you moron. Not them.

  Legends

  The Legends Nightclub and Bar is at the top of Empire City, central Colombo’s most overpopulated shopping mall. To reach the top requires braving seven escalators or sharing a sweltering lift with thirty-two armpits. We opt for the former. I observe the Em-Cee Boys gazing over railings at the tops of dresses. This baseball cap-and-chain wearing subculture is the fungus of Colombo’s malls. They are mostly harmless, unless of course you are under thirty and possess breasts.

  The last escalator is the least crowded, but I still find the journey nerve-wracking. Decades ago I read about a child in Maharagama whose foot was shredded by the teeth of one of these moving staircases. The thought still makes me shudder.

  The Legends sign above the entrance is unlit. The club is filled with afternoon sunlight and scurrying workmen in plain clothes. The walls are plastered with posters bearing the logo of a tea company, the same one seen on the front of our cricketers’ shirts. Danila is trotting in high heels, hair loose, directing young boys in ties. It was Ari’s idea to meet her.

  She sees both of us and there is a smile. ‘Hi. Hi.’ She gives us both a delicate handshake. ‘Crazy day, no? They’ve pushed the event to tomorrow. Going mad. Give me a second. I’ll come.’ The smile vanishes as fast as it appears, causing one to question its authenticity.

  We sit at the bar and I gaze upon fine vodkas, gins, whiskies and rums hanging upside down, glistening like the pipes of a grand organ. It is then that I realise that my favourite colour is Mendis Double Distilled mixed with ginger beer, a colour somewhere between sunset and gold.

  Jonny boasts of his drug use as if he is privy to some sort of divine enlightenment. How can XTC or LMD or whatever these children take compete with alcohol, a drug refined over the centuries by all the great civilisations?

  ‘Take it easy, Wije,’ says Ari, reading my face. ‘Two bitter lemons, please.’

  ‘I’ll have water,’ I say to the giraffe-like bartender. He looks at me an instant too long.

  ‘Today you are doing the talking,’ I say to Ari as we lean back and look upon the club’s leather-clad interior. Couches where who knows what debauchery takes place. I have seen how Ari’s Melissa and her friends dress on a night out.

  ‘Of course,’ says Ari, doffing his silly cap. ‘Leave it to me, Putha.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ says the bartender. ‘Are you related to Garfield?’

  I narrow my eyes at the giraffe. Ari breaks the pause.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Garfield is his son.’

  ‘You have the same face cut,’ says the barman. ‘Garfie played bass for Apple Rain after Joe died. Good fellow. How is he?’

  I sip my water hoping this overgrown horse will shut up. But he doesn’t.

  ‘I heard he got a break in Switzerland with Capricorn. There money is good, ah.’

  I begin picturing the bartender’s giraffe head impaled on a cocktail skewer marinated in single malt whisky when Danila comes over. ‘Come, let’s sit.’

  She is wearing a short skirt and a saffron blouse that curves with her figure.

  ‘Tell Garfield that Manilal said hi.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Ari, as we take the couch by the window.

  ‘We are playing well, no?’ says Danila.

  ‘Only at home,’ says Ari. ‘Let’s see how we do in England.’

  ‘You’re not at the Cricket Board?’ I ask, pretending I am unaware of the scandal draped across the pages of last year’s Leader that had forced her out of the cricket board.

  ‘I’m back in advertising.’ She fishes a card out of her handbag and places it before us. Her title and the three letters that describe the firm are meaningless to me, but I presume it is a good position, which allows one to order around young boys in ties.

  ‘I’m also not with that bastard,’ she says, fingering a cigarette. Had the whole town suddenly taken up smoking?

  ‘Which fine gentleman do you refer to?’ I realise to my dismay that Bogart is back in Ari’s voice box. ‘The ex-president of the SLBCC or Pradeep Sivanathan Mathew?’

  Danila glares at me and I do not know where to look, so I let my gaze fall.

  ‘Are you looking at my …’

  Ari chuckles and I feel blood rush to my ears. ‘No. Are you mad?’

  ‘Why not?’ asks Danila, arching her back and looking down at her cleavage. ‘They’re perfectly worth looking at.’

  I feel blood rush elsewhere.

  Ari coughs. ‘I am sure many men have fallen for your … charms, Danila. Or should I call you Shirali?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Are you not Shirali Fernando? Former lover of Pradeep?’

  She leans back, less like a lady taking offence, more like a rat snake about to strike. She keeps her eyes on us as she calls one of her minions and with a cupped fist orders a glass of wine. Then she doubles over in laughter.

  ‘You’re serious?’ The glass is placed and another cigarette is lit.

  ‘We know that you met him in Melbourne in 1989. We know that …’

  ‘My God. You are serious. Uncle, can I ask you? Do I look stupid to you?’

  Ari stops his monologue, I almost stop breathing.

  ‘If you knew how much I hated that bitch.’ She calls out to the bar. ‘Upendra. Where the hell is the band, men? Call that bloody Manilal.’

  She leans forward, smiles at me, and points at Ari. ‘He goes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ splutters a flabbergasted Ari.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Byrd. I’m not discussing my personal life with you.’

  ‘It’s OK, Ari,’ I say. ‘Let me take this.’

  Ari walks off cursing and sits at the bar. I resist the urge to punch the air like Tim Henman.

  Hand on Knee

  Ageing has many drawbacks. Not least the proximity of death and the visibility of decay. But also, in the eyes of the world, you cease to be a sexual being. Children are repulsed at the thought of their parents at it. Nauseated by the very act that spawned them.

  We are all as old as our eyes and slightly older than our teeth. Everyone has blood running through their veins. Sheila and I have enjoyed a full and rewarding sex life. We don’t have to dress like prostitutes to advertise it.

  Why should we deny and suppress our desires while the young are allowed to drape theirs across our faces? If a twenty-eight-year-old puts her hand on my knee, she is being warm and endearing; if I do the same I become a rapist. And that is why the young have power. Because they are desirable and we are not.

  She tells me she ‘dated’ eight Sri Lankan cricketers since 1990 but only ‘went out’ with two. I must ask Ari’s daughters to decipher these terms for me. She tells me she broke off with the president of the SLBCC because he slept with his servants. She speaks of her lovers without shame, perhaps believing she is being refreshingly honest. This I find insulting. Though I am unsure how to feel about the hand on my knee.

  Danila Guneratne

  She joined the three-letter-named agency straight after her A-levels. She went to Bishops College and liked to party.

  She worked on the SLBCC account as a junior executive, long before World Cups and multi-million rupee deals. The Cricket Board may not have p
aid as much as her other client, Anchor Milk, but it brought prestige, a rich social life and the occasional overseas trip. She was promoted twice and in ’95, the client offered her a job at the SLBCC.

  ‘Was that when you began your relationship with the MD?’ I ask as politely as I can.

  ‘No. That was after Pradeep left me.’

  Ari calls out to us from the bar. Tells us he is departing. We wave him off. Thankfully there is a table between his line of vision and the hand on my knee.

  ‘Aiyo. Change the music, men. Kenny G is bit G, no. Play that blues CD I bought.’

  The man behind the bar executes Danila’s bidding. A ballad sung by a lady who sounds half asleep floats through the ceiling speakers. Danila lowers her eyelids and sings along to the chorus.

  ‘I love this song.’

  ‘Sounds to me like she’s taken drugs.’

  ‘She probably has. Listen to how sad she sounds. Listen to this song enough times, Uncle, and it will be your friend.’

  The hand removes itself as she tells me that a certain top order batsman kisses like a goldfish. That a certain bowler is a bit too quick between the covers. That the vice captain took her to Kandalama Hotel before and after his marriage.

  ‘Do you know she never let Pradeep have sex with her? Some virginity pact with God. Then she blamed him for straying. He worshipped her. Said she was the only one who believed in him.’

  Danila’s first meeting with Pradeep was during the 1992 test against Australia played in Sri Lanka. Mathew had been recalled to the side and Danila was between boyfriends.

  ‘I picked him up,’ smiles Danila. ‘Believe me, Uncle, that’s something I hardly ever have to do.’ She tilts her head, blows smoke and flashes her eyes. I believe her.

  ‘I told him, “Pradeep, keep me away from that Ravi de Mel.” He smiled and asked me why I was hiding. So I told him.’

  She had been drunk at a previous function, had sat on de Mel’s knee, but had ended the night kissing one of the Aussie batsmen. ‘Men are like Montessori babas in a sandpit. If one picks up a toy, everyone wants to play with it.’

  Pradeep kept his arm around Danila when his fast-bowling nemesis approached. During the evening, he complained about Shirali and how she didn’t like his friends.