The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

‘I don’t like hitting old men. But if necessary I will do it.’

  Then I hear a noise. It is a noise that I feel; it vibrates the van and the air around us and is followed by distant shrieks and screams. Daniel asks the driver to start the engine. The bumpy ride takes place in silence. But for once I hear things outside. The rumbling of the river. Louder than the splutter of a tractor, lower than the growl of a tank. I ask for a cigarette and my request is denied.

  When the van takes the now familiar turns, I hear the sound of helicopter blades. I hear another sound, but decipher it I cannot, perhaps a Bawa-designed hovercraft. The blindfold does not come off till I’m up the stairs, through the corridor and seated on the cane chair.

  The room is transformed. The TV and its speakers have disappeared. The table is a mess of files and papers. In the corner, Sudu and Chooti are feeding documents into an electric shredder. Kuga is duct-taping some boxes. Everyone is dressed in suits.

  On the wall by the window the smiling picture of the Leader of the Opposition has been replaced. Now there is a solemn picture of a man a shade fairer than Kuga, but with a thicker moustache. None other than the Thalaiver, the Tiger General himself.

  ‘You’ve had another important visitor I see.’

  Kuga looks up at me and then at the photo. ‘Ado Daniel, take this down, men! What are y’all doing?’

  Kalu Daniel is pouring a Tennessee whisky that shares his surname. He looks annoyed at being interrupted and casts me a grimace.

  ‘Who is that?’ I ask, pointing to the painting of what looks like a Tamil film star bearing a scimitar.

  ‘Kalinga Maga. The greatest king of Sri Lanka. Demonised by your Sinhala historians. There were many great Tamil kings. The last king of Kandy …’

  ‘Who was a paranoid tyrant.’

  ‘Ellara. The Marcus Aurelius of our nation.’

  ‘Killed by a minister’s son from the south.’

  ‘You are a humorous character, Karunasena. But today is not the day, unless you would like to be slapped.’

  Kuga finishes the last of his taping and gets up off his knees.

  ‘Come, Mr Karuna. Let’s go to the balcony.’ To the other three he barks, ‘I’ll be done in half an hour. When I come back, this room must be cleared.’

  The three of them glare at me as if it is my fault.

  * * *

  Do you recall mosquitoes being such a problem in the 80s? Or the 70s?

  Malaria. DDT …

  No. I mean in Colombo. Didn’t you just put your fan on and sleep?

  Those days I could sleep anywhere after putting a shot. Fan or no fan.

  Today everyone has to light coils, put mats, spray sprays.

  Where are you packing and going?

  Two large companies came up with a plan to breed mosquitoes along the canals of Colombo in 1986. That was my first freelance assignment. The papers say …

  Today mosquito coils are the second largest selling consumer item in this country, next to cigarettes.

  Is the government handing you over to the LTTE?

  Let’s just say my position is now … what is the word?

  Redundant.

  Untenable. Redundant? Mr Karuna. Sri Lanka will always need men like me. I will just be replaced.

  So fixing matches and running brothels isn’t your main source of income.

  I went to university in Sussex. I did my masters in Toronto. I lost two cousins in ’83. I joined because I had to. When you are young, those things are easy to identify.

  Why have you called me?

  If you find Pradeepan, I want you to give him this letter.

  Will this letter get me killed?

  Please see that he gets it.

  He wasn’t at his mother’s funeral, chances are I will never see him.

  I think you will.

  * * *

  Ari’s sister’s hearing aid was a Siemens Intuit 64, as white and cumbersome as the good lady herself. Patsy Holsinger née Byrd stopped using it after her sister-in-law Manouri took her to a faith healer in Moratuwa who cured her of a chronic ear infection. The same charlatan they tried to inflict on me.

  Ari borrowed it to eavesdrop on his daughters’ conversations, though Stephanie, Melissa and even little Aruni were aware of their father’s efforts. Manouri would warn them whenever Ari began pressing the unwieldy white receiver to the wall. One day he told me with delight that all his daughters were virgins who had friends who were boys, but who knew their limits. I remember trying not to smile and being told off.

  In return for not wearing headgear, Ari had insisted on taking the hearing aid. I let him even though I could see no point. The contraption was eleven years old and amplified every sound it picked up. In a crowded place like a funeral house, it would be impossible to distinguish any specific conversation with any degree of clarity.

  Ari, the gadget man himself, tells me that I am deeply wrong. He shows me old photographs he stole on his way to the Sivanathan bathroom.

  ‘You stole photos?’

  ‘Good for your book, no?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I just grabbed the photo album off the piano, took it into the toilet and took a few. There were extras.’

  They are shots of a boy that Ari swears is Pradeep Mathew. In a cot, with family, in a junior cricket team. The handful Ari grabbed evidently came from the beginning of the album. I reserve my judgement on both the boy in the photos and my pious friend’s kleptomania.

  This friend you want me to help. Is he political?

  Only when it comes to football. That was a joke.

  These days, it’s hard with foreigners. I will do what I can, but can’t promise.

  Are you leaving the island?

  What else do you need to know about Pradeepan?

  He said he was leaving to find Shirali.

  Who said that?

  Danila.

  The Cricket Board bicycle? Pradeepan took that woman for a ride.

  She says she loved him.

  For me he was a brother. After the Indian People Killing Force came in, I had to take a break. Orders from Thalaiver. I was doing my best work then. I lost my brothers Kutti and Jegan in the Welikada Prison massacre. I watched my friend Thileepan starve to death, dreaming of Eelam.

  How long was your break?

  Five years before Eelam War 2 began. So during ’89’s failed revolution, while Sinhalese were slaughtering each other on the roads, I was fixing cricket matches.

  Danila said you and Pradeep fell out.

  We weren’t on good terms at the end, but that’s what families are like. Even though I was supporting the Sivanathans, helping his talent, getting him contracts.

  Why?

  He was my brother. Like the hundreds of Tamil brothers I had lost. I wanted to help him.

  Why weren’t you on good terms?

  He didn’t like the assignments.

  Assignments?

  A few wides, here and there. Costs a few runs, earns thousands.

  You realise I will write about this?

  You realise no one will publish if you mention my name? Not this government nor the next. Guaranteed.

  You fixed local games also?

  Had to. They were so bloody boring. All our buggers scoring centuries for the selectors. I only made them interesting.

  How did you fix 1992?

  It was a simple job. I only had to fix the last day.

  The day our batting collapsed?

  Yes.

  How many players did you tap?

  Just one.

  The captain?

  Who needed him, men? I had my boy.

  Pradeep took eight wickets in that game.

  You don’t need a ball or a bat to fix a game. There are so many things you can use.

  Like whores?

  Like kadale.

  * * *

  When the MD walked in, he said, ‘My deepest sympathies, Mrs Amirthalingam.’ She asked him how he knew her mother and he replied that he knew he
r brother well. Then Sabi said something Ari couldn’t hear because the ladies were jabbering about the rude girl flirting with the old man. Then Sabi raised her voice and asked the MD to leave. Then the MD said her brother stole half a million New Zealand dollars. Then Sabi asked them again to leave and her husband came to the rescue. The MD said that he knew her brother was not dead and that he would find him. Sabi’s husband said he was calling the Minister of Agriculture. To which the MD said, ‘Tell Jeyaraj I said hi,’ and left.

  This bit is all according to Ari. Not unlike how this whole book is all according to me.

  * * *

  It’s easy being a soldier. They tell you who your enemy is and all you have to do is aim and shoot.

  I think it’s slightly more difficult than that.

  In my line of work it’s never clear who your enemy is. I had no problems with my first assignments. Most of the names ended in vowels. I didn’t do it for money. Then the names changed. Amirthalingam. Ponnambalam. Tiruchelvam. I asked myself what I was doing it for. You get older. You realise.

  Only then you realised? What about when you were recruiting children, using suicide bombers?

  Children? Really? The US army and the British armed forces recruit at sixteen. From schools. And train them to go to the third world and shoot at someone’s mother. You think Tamil parents who wake their children at 5 to study would want them to run around jungles with guns? But after the government has raped and slaughtered those parents, I defy any fourteen-year-old to not pick up a weapon.

  Suicide bombing is a cowardly …

  Cowardly? Cowardly is when the US sit in an ocean 75 miles from Baghdad and fire smart missiles into the town. Those missiles aren’t very smart. They hit hospitals, schools, shopping malls. With suicide bombing you look into the eyes of the man you kill. You don’t flatten a city to punish a handful.

  But you’re killing your younger generation. And you’re not getting international sympathy.

  Fuck the international sympathy. The Japs used kamikazes and there was honour in committing hara-kiri for your country. Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’. ‘Into the valley of death, rode the 600, blah, blah.’ In the Crimean War walking into certain death was heroic. Not for our Eelam war? Fucking bullshit.

  So why did you leave the LTTE?

  No one leaves the LTTE. The Thalaiver runs this country by default. He decides who is elected, who lives. He is no longer a terrorist, he is a multinational CEO. Our Leader has outlasted the Dynasty. He has outlasted the UNP. He will never die.

  What if the Sri Lankan government wins the war?

  The LTTE have a de facto state. We even get our own diesel shipped from Norway. The Sri Lankan army will not win till they hold the head of the Thalaiver, blood dripping, in front of parliament.

  You’re reading too much poetry.

  This war will not end. But I have to make my living.

  This war will continue for as long as it turns a profit.

  That’s bullshit. People think it’s bravery that wins wars. It’s not. It’s cruelty. But even that’s not enough. You need to be cunning.

  All our governments have been cruel and cunning.

  Not enough. To win wars you need to carpet-bomb civilians. And to get away with carpet-bombing civilians. Believe me, the second part is tougher than the first.

  What about negotiation?

  Nagasaki. Hiroshima. Gulf. Gaza. Carpet-bomb and then sell the carpet bomb. I’m bored of this. I invited you to talk about cricket.

  Cricket then. Was Pradeep happy to fix matches?

  He was an honest Tamil boy. He didn’t like it, but what to do? After the rebel South Africa tour failed, he really didn’t have much choice.

  Father’s illness?

  He was the highest wicket taker in the Asia Cup, but no one took notice, because they believed the matches were fixed. I told him if he was going to suffer the consequences, he might as well do the crime.

  How many matches?

  After ’92, all of them. Not that he didn’t let me down.

  He let you down?

  I would lose money and threaten to break his fingers.

  Did you?

  Mad? We are not barbarians like the Indians. There they threaten the players’ children. He was my thambi. Like a little brother. If he had stayed I would’ve got him into the World Cup squad. He would have been a superstar. I still can. He’s only thirty-four.

  Now with Murali, no chance.

  Anything is possible. How do you think Murali is still playing?

  You haven’t seen Mathew since you were … since you moved here?

  I called after the father died. Said he didn’t need my money. I told him Tamils should stick together. He didn’t care.

  The papers say you are dead.

  That’s how you gain residence in Chelvanayagam Road.

  That’s what this street is called? Don’t make me laugh.

  This house is named Janathamangalam. Number 56/19. The great man himself stayed here.

  So this is a jail?

  Oh no. Jails are places where they don’t let you watch cricket.

  Really?

  Unless you have contacts. I watched every match of the 1995 New Zealand tour from the Welikada Prison, but I’m special. Pradeepan didn’t play a single game.

  That friend I told you about …

  The foreigner?

  Yes. Could you do one other small thing for him?

  Computer Printout

  It is the last I would see of Kuga or Emmanuel or Rajah or whoever he has decided to be. Ari, worried sick about Jonny, is too preoccupied to accuse me of making things up when I report the conversation with Kuga.

  I call up my old journo acquaintances looking for reassurance. Rajpal Senanayake of the Times has never heard of Kuga, neither has Sonali Sirimanne, the Leader writer who exposed former President Mr Benevolent Dictator’s dealings with underworld thug Soththi Upali. Rajeeve Ayub of Virakesari remembers a man called Emmanuel who ran casinos in Mutwal. Only Dalton Athas, a young war reporter, remembers the name I.E. Kugarajah from a list of Colombo-based LTTE collaborators.

  I reopen the letter I am to deliver to the phantom I am chasing. It is a computer printout in the style of Kuga’s other notes and made about as much sense.

  Pradeepan

  Hope you are well.

  I have your final payment from Anandan.

  I regret your actions. But I miss your friendship.

  Please reply

  iek@hotmail.com

  Danila calls up, skips small talk and asks why we were kicked out of the funeral. ‘Are you working for Kugarajah?’

  ‘We’re not.’

  There is hesitation.

  ‘One day, ’92 or ’93, I think. Pradeep wanted me to pick him up from hospital. He had a broken finger and a black eye. It wasn’t a cricket injury.’

  ‘That’s when he was out for an entire season?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me how he got it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He stayed in bed for weeks. Complained of headaches. In his sleep he would say this name.’

  I notice Ari coming down my driveway huffing with intent. ‘Danila, can I call you back?’

  ‘When I asked him he said Kuga was the reason he wanted to leave Sri Lankan cricket.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Be careful, Uncle. These are dangerous people.’

  She cuts the line right when Ari enters my room panting.

  ‘Let’s go. Jonny’s being moved.’

  The Lissa

  The Aussies claim ownership of the flipper, invented by Clarrie Grimmet in the 1930s. Ari and I do not dispute this. Grimmet snapped his fingers along the ball’s axis and made it skid off the pitch, keep low and, more often than not, connect with the wicket.

  Mathew upped the ante by developing a ball that skidded and changed direction. He used it against tailenders in the 1989 Australia series and picked up 3 wickets. Walking back after a ski
dding googly toppled his bails, pace bowler Merv Rackemann spat in the direction of the bowler, ‘You been sticking your dick into the seam, mate?’

  Mathew dismissed Rackemann, Alderman and Lawson with googly flippers in Melbourne in 1989. Ari believes it is probable that somewhere in the grounds Shane Warne witnessed this feat and spent the next few years attempting to emulate it. That therefore it is correct to say that Pradeep Mathew indirectly revived the flipper.

  I reply that if three tailenders fall in the outback and there is no one to hear them, then no sound is made. And to attempt to convince an audience ten years later that such a sound existed is an exercise in foolishness.

  Bombs

  The drive to the Hokandara Remand Camp in Ari’s Capri takes over three hours. We get lost several times. After Kadawatha, the roads pass through paddy fields and bewildering wilderness. The road itself is cruel, inflicting torture on the Capri’s creaking chassis. After three weeks in Welikada Maximum Security, Jonny has been moved to this prison camp reserved for the aged, the infirm and the white collar. I wonder how kind they are to the white skin.

  We listen to the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation, SLBC, and do not speak. It is the only station the Capri will pick up and Ari prefers it that way. This afternoon, a middle-aged lady is talking about Duke Ellington’s visit to Colombo. As we enter through a barbed wire fence, a rare bootleg of the Duke’s performance at the Galle Face Hotel crackles through Ari’s tiny speaker.

  The place looks like a rundown retirement home. It is not an unpleasant place, but it is eerie. The gravel that crunches under our tyres is brick coloured and stretches through checkpoints towards the open camp. A red dryness hangs in the air we breathe. The mini-fan clipped to the top of the rearview mirror is powerless to prevent our shirts from sticking to our backs.

  Policemen walk dogs along the barbed wire while stray cats pick at abandoned rubbish bags outside. We have to show our identity cards to four different policemen with clipboards before we are allowed to park. Prisoners wear white shirts and shorts, and are herded from one asbestos building to another. It looks like a village school, but is as noisy as several construction sites. Beyond the vegetable fields, we see an empty quarry.