The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

  The address I get is 3 College Street, a street I have travelled through many times before. While I drive there, through roads with more traffic lights than cars, I wonder what fresh disappointments await me. I think of my father jabbing his Jinadasa, tanked up on gal arrack. Did he expect his words to lead his son to a green fence and a flowering garden at the bottom of the world?

  Two young boys are kicking a football. At the far end of the fence, away from the flowers, there is a wicket painted on the wall. The grass around it is shorn shorter than the rest of the lawn.

  Both lads have curly hair and dark complexions. ‘Is your dad in?’ I ask. As the younger one nods, I pull out the postcard that Shirali Fernando gave me.

  ‘You must be Luke.’ He gives me a grin with teeth that have fallen out. The elder one ignores me and kicks the ball against the wall.

  ‘Kula,’ I call out. The boy raises his head, frowns at me, and then looks away.

  The garden is like the rest of New Zealand. Spacious, empty and safe. The boys keep kicking the ball as I step onto the threshold.

  I look to the sky and thank the Big Man for bringing me here. I ring the doorbell and I wait. The air is still and all I hear is the sound of ball hitting foot. Through the glass, I spy coloured shadows dancing like djinns before my eyes. And then slowly, painfully, and wordlessly, it is opened.

  Last Over

  ‘We’ll only be remembered if we win it.’

  Alan Shearer, Newcastle striker (1996–2006)

  Twenty Zero Nine

  No one wants to touch the fucking thing. Not even Nallathamby Printers in Pamankada. Every bugger I call, when I say I’m Garfield Karunasena, gives me the same reply, ‘This is that cricket book, no?’ I say yes and that is the end of the chat. I have tried big publishers like Flamingo India, but they refuse to even fart on an unpublished nobody from Colombo.

  I have renovated the old house, got a regular gig with a jazz band at Barefoot, and done some weddings with CrossFire for extra cash. Jimi will be coming to stay with me this summer. Adriana, who just got back together with her professor, will not be.

  The only local house to read the manuscript was BinPieris Publishers. These guys have put a few Gratiaen Prize winners into print. Their books are printed on good paper, have ‘saffron’, ‘monsoon’ or ‘frangipani’ in every other title, and have fewer spelling mistakes than most. When they agreed to read my manuscript even after hearing who I was, my hopes were high.

  Two days ago, Frank Pieris told me they were unable to handle my book at this point in time. I leave to pick up the manuscript that cost me 3,000 bucks in toner and paper. I plan on barging in on Farouq Bin’s office to ask what his problem is. If he can publish everyone else’s crap, why can’t he publish my harmless cricket book?

  The office is a cottage in Colpetty and my book has been entrusted to a pixie-like girl behind the counter. ‘Mr Karunasena. You’ve come for your manuscript?’

  ‘No. I’ve come to speak with Farouq and Frank.’

  ‘They’re at a lunch meeting with a client.’

  I plant myself on the couch. ‘I’ll wait. Got anything to read?’

  ‘The meeting is scheduled through the afternoon.’

  This girl is cute, but not really my type. I don’t usually go for Lolitas.

  ‘Is it, now?’

  She frowns. ‘Don’t you want your manuscript?’

  ‘No. I want to know why those two literary queens, the ones you call boss, why they don’t want it.’

  She comes out from reception and I see the rest of the pixie. Under her shalwar kameez I imagine a petite body.

  ‘Here is your manuscript,’ she says. ‘You better take it home.’

  ‘I’m not leaving without speaking to Farouq and Frank.’

  She casts a gaze down the hallway and whispers. ‘I will call you.’

  ‘Why?’

  She casts another glance down the hallway. She reaches behind reception, pulls out an envelope and hands it to me. ‘Don’t read it here.’

  Defiantly, I open it then and there and she goes into paroxysms. She tries to shoo me away. I ignore her and look at the photocopied letter.

  I swear very loudly.

  The Sri Lanka Board of Control for Cricket

  39 Maitland Place

  Colombo 7

  To whom it may concern

  It has come to our notice that a libelous and defamatious book on Sri Lankan cricket may be seeking a publisher. It was written by late sports journalist W.G. Karunasena and is an insult to the administration and players of Sri Lankan cricket.

  Karunasena has been known throughout the industry as a shady character, some say he suffered from mental illness in his final years. This book is gutter journalism at its worst and it would be irresponsible to publish and taint our national team who has brought such glory to our nation.

  The SLBCC exist to protect and uphold the legacy of Sri Lankan cricket. We will not hesitate to take swift legal action against anyone who chooses to publish this antipatriotic rantings of a drunk. We trust you will do the correct thing.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jayantha Punchipala

  President SLBCC

  She snatches the paper and pushes me. ‘Go now. I have your number. I will get them to call you.’

  She shoves me through the doorway. ‘If you want this published, go.’

  I stumble down the driveway, look back at the cottage and spy Farouq and Frank peeping from behind a curtain like two pantomime cats.

  Enid Blyton

  The call I get is at 8.30 sharp and it is not from Frank or Farouq, but from …

  ‘My name is Enid.’

  ‘Like Blyton.’

  ‘That’s funny. I am calling you to advise you on your manuscript.’

  ‘Will BinPieris handle it?’

  ‘Farouq and Frank won’t. I advised them to. But they don’t want risks. That letter was sent to all the newspapers, printers and booksellers. The Prime Minister’s brother is now in charge of the Cricket Board.’

  ‘You advised them?’

  ‘Farouq and Frank don’t know a ball about books. They keep up the image in Hi! magazine. Me and the cover designers only read manuscripts and recommend. We liked your father’s book. But we have concerns.’

  ‘What’s the point if no one will touch it?’

  ‘We can try international.’

  ‘Yeah right.’

  ‘Cricket non-fiction is a small market. We have boxfuls of Pramodya Dharmasena’s biography collecting dust in our storeroom. But true fiction from South Asia on the other hand …’

  Her voice changes. She almost sounds human.

  ‘What’s true fiction?’

  ‘Are you willing to undertake changes?’

  ‘Changes?’

  ‘Get rid of the unbelievable stories.’

  ‘What unbelievable stories?’

  She mentions one.

  ‘That one’s true.’

  ‘No, it’s not. What about …’

  She mentions another one.

  ‘That’s true as well.’

  ‘I would prefer more stories like …’

  She mentions one of the more believable parts of my father’s book.

  ‘That is 100 per cent bullshit.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, my dear.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Also. Avoid real names. That is what will get you sued.’

  ‘I have to make up a name for every single character?’

  ‘Write the book as fiction, not as a documentary.’

  ‘That’s a helluva lot of work.’

  ‘If you want international, Mr Karunasena, you need to work. About the writing style …’

  ‘I can’t change my father’s …’

  ‘Not his. Yours. You’re cribbing his lines. Stop being lazy. And less swearwords please.’

  ‘How old are you, Enid?’

  ‘About half
your age.’

  ‘Funny.’

  ‘Another thing. Less about you. More about Pradeep.’

  I bite my tongue.

  ‘We do not like your father’s racial stereotypes. Tamils are ambitious, Muslims are greedy, Sinhalese are drunk. Please amend these.’

  ‘Who is this “we”? How many of you are there?’

  ‘Editorial decisions are made by three of us. We all have MBAs.’

  Enid Blyton is getting on my nerves.

  ‘One more thing. The ending.’

  Enid Blyton is using my nerves as a trampoline.

  ‘What about it?’ I say as if I am a drunk in a bar wielding a broken bottle.

  ‘To put it bluntly, it sucks.’

  ‘I think you suck.’

  ‘It’s lazy.’

  ‘It’s poetic. It crystallises the moment of discovery. I want to show that I found him, without revealing what I found.’

  ‘It’s a cop-out.’

  ‘I made a promise not to tell.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t be the first promise you’ve broken.’

  ‘I don’t like your tone …’

  ‘Will you write down what happened? Get it to us by Thursday and we shall have a contract ready.’

  ‘A contract for what?’

  ‘I shall be in touch on Thursday. See you later.’

  Click.

  Mr Siva Nathan

  The door opens and the man before me is neither bald nor mulleted nor slit-eyed nor Pinocchio-nosed nor skinny.

  ‘Mr Nathan? Mr Siva Nathan?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘I just moved with my wife to Bulls. Was down in Castlecliff on business and I got your card.’

  I hand it to him. He nods, obviously having seen it before.

  ‘Was looking for a cricket coach for my ten-year-old. Do you take youngsters of that age?’

  ‘Not really …’

  ‘I also have a thirteen-year-old. He’s really keen to play.’

  ‘Right. Come in, will you.’

  He calls out. ‘Luke, just ten minutes, then homework, OK?’

  He is Friar Tuck in a tracksuit. He is stocky with dark hair on the back and sides of his head but none on his crown. The drawing room is blue carpets and green sofas. There is a cat asleep in a basket by the windowsill. Thin light comes through slats from venetian blinds. I see no sporting trophies.

  ‘How long you been in New Zealand, Mr …’

  ‘Garfield Karunasena. Is it that obvious?’

  ‘I’ve been here a while, I can spot someone fresh off the boat.’

  ‘How many years have you been here?’

  ‘This is the thirteenth.’

  ‘We landed last month. I’m a quantity surveyor.’

  ‘Don’t know what quantity you’d be surveying in Castlecliff.’

  ‘The new … Japanese … construction. I was glad to meet you. My boys are cricket crazy, but there’s no good coaches in Bulls. I’m Sri Lankan, so cricket’s sort of a tradition for us, you know.’

  Mr Nathan smiles. ‘Kohomada? How? How?’

  ‘Don’t tell me?’

  ‘Hard to believe, huh? Everyone here thinks I’m part Maori. Can I get you anything to drink?’

  ‘Just water, thanks. Where in Sri Lanka are you from?’

  ‘Moratuwa.’

  I walk towards the window and spy some photos on the sill near the cat. The boys appear in various sizes and guises. I do not recognise Mrs Nathan in the large family photo. She is a tubby woman with short hair and faded skin.

  ‘Your boys bat or bowl?’ asks my host, handing me a glass.

  ‘Youngest is a wild pol adi batsman. Older one is a left-arm spinner.’

  ‘Ah really. What type?’

  ‘Chinaman.’

  ‘I also used to bowl that at one time.’

  ‘Did you ever play professionally?’

  His accent is curious. It retains its Lankan lilt, but also has a rough chipped quality. Part Maori, part something I cannot identify.

  ‘Bit of club cricket here and there. But never had the temperament.’

  ‘Everyone says that you’re a wonderful coach.’ I almost tilt my neck and bat my eyelids.

  ‘I’m a much better coach than a player. As a player I never thought about what I was doing. Just did it, you know. When it worked, I rode it. When it didn’t, I fell apart. What about you? You play?’

  I let myself blush. ‘Badly. I prefer to watch.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK with water? I have an arrack.’

  I smile and shrug. ‘As long as I’m not intruding on your day.’

  He walks over to the decanter by the trolley.

  ‘In Wanganui, things don’t really intrude on your day. I’m surprised to see a young guy like you. Most Sri Lankans get bored here and want to go to Auckland or Wellington.’

  ‘You’re the only Sri Lankan here?’

  ‘There’s eight families on the other side of the river, some have been there for two generations. None of them are talking to each other.’ He chuckles and passes over his drink.

  ‘You don’t mix with the other Lankans?’

  ‘They all know me, but I try and keep away. I used to play cricket in Manawatu with some Sri Lankan doctors. Half the time buggers were fighting with each other. I’d avoid Sri Lankans if I was you.’

  ‘Sounds like good advice.’

  ‘Kula, Luke.’ He taps on the window and gestures through it. ‘Enough now.’

  He turns to me. ‘My children hate cricket. Older one watches rugby league, the younger likes soccer. What can you do?’

  ‘My ones love it.’

  ‘Best thing you can do as a father is let things happen. Let them do what makes them happy.’

  ‘Kula and Luke.’

  ‘Both named after great men.’

  I scratch my head. ‘Only great man I know named Luke was Skywalker.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘A man called Lucky, my first coach, taught me a lot of things. I didn’t always listen to him.’

  The arrack stops in my throat.

  ‘Kula was named after Mr Gokulanath, the man who taught me everything I know about cricket. Sadly, both men are no more.’

  ‘I have heard that name …’

  ‘Very strict man. Could spin a ball on water. Taught me all the grips. Told me to think of nothing when I bowled. To empty my head of thoughts.’

  ‘There was a famous coach called Newton Rodrigo. Had six f …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Newton Rodrigo.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  I have to put my glass down. ‘Excuse me, could I use your …’

  ‘Sure. Down this way.’

  I splash my face with water and glare at my eyes. I look more human on the days that I don’t smoke. On the way out I pass an open door. The two boys are seated at desks listening to terrible, terrible Pacific Island hip-hop. I peep in.

  The walls are covered with posters of severed limbs with the words Saw on them. The computer screen is bigger than my TV at home and is rigged to what looks like several time bombs. Wires scale the walls like ivy and creep along the floors.

  ‘It was you, Kula. Wasn’t it?’

  The boy on the larger desk with the larger head of curly hair turns and looks at me. ‘What?’

  ‘You put your dad on Crikipedia.’

  ‘Is that why you came?’

  ‘Yes.’

  For the first time he smiles. ‘Good.’

  Back in the sitting room, Mr Nathan is pouring a second shot. ‘Come, let’s sit in the garden.’

  The Kiwi sun glares its lasers into my skull. We sit on a bench and look over the shorn lawn.

  ‘Bring your boys next week. I don’t charge, but we encourage parents who can afford it to donate towards equipment and stuff.’

  ‘Sure. What made you coach there?’

  ‘I used to coach at Wanganui Collegiate.’

  I nod. ‘The old English boarding sc
hool?’

  ‘The job pays and the facilities are good and all, but I couldn’t stand the kids. Bunch of rich brats. Spoilt. I teach there for the money. I guess that’s why we all do things.’

  I nod and sip.

  ‘But some of these Maori kids, you should see their talent. Raw talent. Like our guys.’

  I nod and sip and nod.

  ‘I have one guy like Joel Garner. Big fella, thundering pace.’

  ‘I saw them playing on the beach. There is an interesting spinner. Fair boy.’

  ‘Ariki. Troublemaker, but he’s a quick learner.’

  ‘He was bowling this strange ball. Bounces twice.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he smiles. ‘That was a thing my coach Mr Gokulanath invented. You can’t bowl it in a match. It’s illegal.’

  ‘It’s genius. How do you bowl it?’

  He gestures to the wicket painted on the fence. ‘C’mon. Grab that bat.’

  I don’t think. I just do what he says. I stand where the fence is. He warns me to watch my shins. And then he runs in.

  The Guatemalan

  I have seen genius twice in my life. Once was in a garden in provincial New Zealand. The other was on the streets of Covent Garden.

  The kid was dark and lanky, almost hunched. He had a weasel face and thick hair. Behind him was a tabla player and an amp. Surrounding him were about a hundred people, all with their jaws on the pavement.

  His guitar spoke languages, sang sonnets and hypnotised strangers. The Guatemalan kid could push buttons that I could barely reach. I hated him for having a gift I would never share regardless of how many decades I practised.

  I think of the Guatemalan as I watch Siva Nathan bowl. I watch the ball become conscious as it is guided by something other than gravity and wind. I give up trying to hit the deliveries and just marvel at the man’s skill. The ball sits in the air for longer than necessary and spins at impossible angles. ‘Play late. Watch the ball.’ Mr Nathan has barely broken a sweat.

  After missing several overs’ worth, I finally manage to hit a double bounce ball back to the bowler.

  ‘That’s right,’ says Mr Nathan. ‘Play late. Always play late.’

  He holds the ball with his long fingertips and turns it into a gyroscope.

  ‘Don’t think about it. Just see it in your head. And push your wrist this way. Simple.’