I receive close to 200 calls that Sunday. And a further 200 during the week. Each wanting Sri Lanka’s greatest left-arm spinner to debug their office networks. And then on Thursday:
‘Hello. Mr W.G., please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘I call about ad about Pradeep…’
‘Sorry. That was a mistake. We do not do Y2K viruses.’
‘I call…’
‘Sorry for the inconvenience.’
‘I call… because I coach him at Royal in ’82 and ’83…’
Seven Lakhs
‘That is absurd,’ screams Brian. ‘Production has begun. We have done the script, built the sets.’
‘Here, don’t bullshit, Brian.’ Danila’s boss, Jayantha Punchipala, MD of the SLBCC, has invited us for a fight. ‘You haven’t built any sets.’
Punchipala’s office looks nothing like the dingy ITL meeting rooms. After the death of Minister Tyronne Cooray in a suicide attack in 1994, the post of Cricket Board chief attracted many pretenders. Punchipala’s betting empire financed his successful bid over more qualified candidates. Within a year he would be replaced by an interim committee, but that afternoon, he was very much in control.
Most Sri Lankans smile when they are angry or ill at ease. The MD grins with his whole face. He is a thickset man, dark as a West Indian, with Elvis hair and shiny cufflinks. He directs the tea boy towards us.
‘I like the concept. But what is the meaning of this production cost?’ says Punchipala. ‘Y’all are hiring Spielberg?’
He laughs at his own joke.
‘Also, the script needs to be revised.’ He looks at me. ‘Am I right?’
‘Revised, how?’ I ask, as if I am a drunk in a bar wielding a bottle.
‘Pradeep Mathew,’ says Danila, shaking her head.
‘That fool was a troublemaker,’ says the MD, smiling at his cufflinks. ‘Also, he left debts to the Cricket Board.’
‘What sort of debts?’
‘Bigger than all your annual salaries put together, Uncle. Broke his contract and left loans. The SLBCC does not wish to promote such a character.’
‘Where is he now?’ asks Ari.
The MD shrugs. ‘Ask Dhani, Pradeep was her friend, no?’
Danila smiles and says nothing.
‘If I knew where he was, I would personally break his face,’ says the MD with a smile.
Brian has been seething in a corner for some time. He controls his voice. ‘If you like we will remove the Mathew segment. But you cannot cancel funding. Graham Snow promised these gentlemen…’
‘No offence, Brian,’ says Danila. ‘Graham Snow makes a lot of promises when he’s drunk. If we funded every one of them, we’d be bankrupt.’
‘Seven lakhs, no, Wije? We have it in writing.’
The MD pours himself some coffee. ‘There are many sports shows wanting grants. We cannot put all our eggs in one basket.’
The walls have photos of great cricketers of eras past and a few bats with signatures on them. On the antique desk is a photo of Punchipala’s wife and two sons. Next to it is a giant TV screen showing the highlights of Sri Lanka’s surprise win over Australia in the Benson and Hedges World Series. This is the reason for the meeting starting thirty-nine minutes late or at 0.39 SLT.
Under a framed photo of Madam President, the TV replays Kalu belting Glenn McGrath. It distracts us for a moment. I breathe in air that has been conditioned and freshened, listen to the low hum of the TV, and speak. ‘I suggest we call Graham Snow. It’s his money. We have invested time into this project. If anyone is to pull the plug, it should be him.’
At first there is resistance. Danila places her hand on Punchipala’s forearm and suggests this may be a wise course of action. He calls his secretary. A toy is placed on the table, black with flashing red lights. We are told that it may take a while to get Graham Snow on the line.
‘Bugger must be full busy. NSPN have extended his contract,’ says Brian, not without envy.
‘How are our boys? You think they will get into finals?’ The MD turns up the TV and steers us in the direction of all Sri Lankan conversations this holiday season.
Despite the future of our documentary being in tatters, Ari cannot resist. ‘MD. This is only our second win. We have to win all remaining games to get to the finals.’
Neither can I. ‘No. No. We will win. Our team is pumped up. They are playing for Murali.’
‘Now they have cleared Murali, no?’ says Rakwana.
‘Real umpires haven’t no-balled him,’ says Mrs Kolombage. ‘Only that fellow Hair. Must cut that hair. Hee. Hee. You saw that, Doctor? Watch. Watch. McGrath is shouting at our Kalu. Next three balls, Kalu whacks him for fours.’
It is more words than she has spoken in all previous meetings combined.
‘Hello. Graham Snow speaking.’
His voice crackles from the toy on the table. The static is worse than my Samyo radio, which gives me perfect reception from Lord’s, Barbados and Cape Town, but can only offer broken signals from neighbouring Mumbai. Danila reaches for the remote and kills the TV.
‘Hi, Graham. This is Jayantha Punchipala. Sri Lanka Cricket Board.’
‘Hi, Jayantha.’
‘We have your friends, Karunasena and Byrd.’
‘Hello, chaps. Sorry for being out of touch. My schedule’s been mental. Love those scripts. Magnificent work. Can’t wait to see the films.’
‘We have my advertising manager, Danila…’
‘Hi, Dhani.’
‘My accounts manager, Yasmin…’
‘Look, Jayantha, could we skip the roll call? I’m really busy.’
The MD drops his accent. ‘Graham. I am sorry but the Cricket Board cannot approve a script with Pradeep Mathew.’
‘Why not?’
The MD explains. Graham responds.
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying. Look. Let’s shoot all ten. We can choose which ones we run.’
‘I’m sorry, Graham, but that is not advantageous.’
‘Look here. I’m providing funding. Either you give the money to W.G. and Ari or I donate it to the Bangladeshis.’
Danila winks at me and places her hand on the MD’s shoulder. He brushes it off. Brian, Ari and I resist the urge to punch the air.
The call is ended. The MD looks like he’s just been run-out without facing a ball. He snatches a chequebook from Danila and begins scribbling.
‘We are washing our hands of this. OK? From now on you deal direct with Graham.’
Brian lets out a yelp. ‘Excuse me, sir. The agreed fee was seven lakhs.’
‘Who agreed on seven lakhs?’ asks Danila.
I am more worried by the familiarity with which she handles the MD’s briefcase than with her changing allegiance.
‘This is an insult,’ yelps Brian, getting to his feet. ‘We have written proof.’
Ari extracts the signed requisition from our files and passes it to Brian.
Brian bangs it on the table. ‘See.’ And we do.
Rs 100,000 Only
‘Is that a 7?’ asks the mousey girl.
Ari grabs it. ‘My dear, it is quite clearly a…’ He narrows his eyes and looks at me.
The MD has donned his suit jacket. Danila is holding his briefcase. They are evidently departing together. He shoos us from his office. ‘Sort it out with your good friend Graham.’
Chinese Rolls
We are back to meeting at ITL. We are served Chinese rolls and tea with floating lumps of milk powder. I have stopped wearing polished shoes and combing my hair. Brian has stopped calling us names. Ari has stopped cursing Graham Snow.
‘Bottom line,’ says Cassim. ‘ITL will require at least four and a half lakhs to shoot ten shows.’
Rakwana no longer attends meetings.
‘Also, if you are using footage,’ says Mrs Kolombage, ‘there is a fee.’
‘What about sponsors?’ asks Ari, trying to look hopeful.
‘If you can find,
of course, why not?’ says Cassim.
‘Can you help?’ I ask.
‘ITL is only contracted for production,’ says Mrs Kolombage.
I liked her better when she was a parrot. How could two wretched old men find sponsors? How many logos would Brian need to wear on his undies? Brian no longer talks at meetings. He is typing on his mobile phone and shaking his head. He has sulked all afternoon. He still blames Ari and me for not checking the cheque.
At Ari’s insistence, we fork out Rs 49,750 for the footage. The sight of two boxes of videotapes is more than he can resist. The long walk to the ITL cashier’s is done to the soundtrack of Brian bitching.
‘You can’t even shoot a hand-held porn film with Rs 50,000. That’s it, Uncles. I’m done with this.’
‘Just wait, Brian. I think W.G. should write to Graham,’ says Ari. ‘Tell him the budget.’
‘Why me?’
‘You’re the writer.’
At the cashier’s we are told that the government no longer subsidises ITL’s refreshment expenses. We are required to fork out a further Rs 50 each for the tea and short eats. Brian is livid.
He refuses to carry the two dusty boxes and will not allow us to transport them in his Datsun. He waits while we negotiate with a three-wheeler and says he is thinking of going back to radio. He also tells me that Jayantha Punchipala’s wife stormed into the Cricket Board office last week and called Danila Guneratne many unsavoury names.
‘Call me when you find sponsors,’ he says.
‘You will also look?’ I ask.
He puts the car into gear and avoids my eye. ‘Definitely,’ he says and drives off.
Yellow Card
These days I only smoke when I write. Drink, however, is a different story. If I could I would drink in my sleep. I know men younger and healthier who have suffered the inconvenience of multiple bypasses. I know drinkers whose bodies were unable to keep up. Who exchanged the bottle for sobriety and the permanent frown it brings.
I have watched drinking acquaintances find solace in religion and family. I have seen men go from being life-and-soul-of-the-party to disagreeable old teetotaller. I have seen diabetic thirty-year-olds convinced that they were cursed.
I, on the other hand, have been blessed. For the mornings and afternoons of my working life, I have treated myself to a compulsory shot, and have treated breakfast and lunch as optional extravagances. And, contrary to chemistry and biology, for sixty years my bill of health has been clean.
And while Sheila and Ari argue that alcohol cost me jobs at the Daily News and the Island, they do not know of what they speak. Alcohol has enhanced my life and the world I inhabit. It has given me insight, jocularity and escape. I would not be who I am without it.
It begins with the swellings around my stomach and legs. Then I am unable to sleep. Then I shit droplets of blood. I tell no one about my visit to Nawasiri or the tests that I took or how much they cost. I take it as a warning. A yellow card. If I behave myself, I may not have to miss any games.
Ambarella Juice
We have almost given up on sponsors and of ever getting through to Graham. I return home empty-handed and Garfield stops talking to me.
Unfortunately, Sheila doesn’t. I have to convince her that I am working even when I am staring out of the window. My morning hangover muffles her shrieks. Unable to fight back, I let the moment pass and it always does. I wonder if cricketers have money troubles or screeching wives.
Saturday night is spent like most Saturday nights. On Ari’s balcony with bottles. Ari’s balcony is the only one on de Saram Road with a clear view of the sea. We watch stray cats negotiate the tiles of rooftops. There is barely enough room to swing one of them on this ledge with parapets. I am drinking my usual and Ari has a glass of what looks like urine.
‘Ambarella juice. Rochelle gave Manouri a blender. Have some. Good for your insides, Wije.’
I sip some through the straw. The type a drowning man would clutch at.
The drink is not as putrid as I thought. I want to tell Ari that my insides are rotting, and even though this is the place, it is perhaps not the time.
‘Rochelle is getting married, no? Do you Burgher buggers have to give dowry?’
‘Nope,’ says Ari, pouring the urine-coloured ambarella into the glass-coloured glass. ‘We just put on booze and fry cutlets.’
Cushioned in sea breeze, Ari and I discuss the possibility of an ambidextrous bowler. Ari thinks the idea is nonsense and even though I argue, I secretly agree. We reminisce about 1983, the year Sheila and I and little Garfield moved to Mount Lavinia, next door to Ari, his first wife Norma, and the girls.
We talk about the riots. Our friends Krish and Nathan who fled to Canada. We talk about Kapil Dev’s high catch to dismiss the great Viv Richards, how he plucked the World Cup seemingly out of the air. I tell him how Kapil refused me a one-on-one because I wrote India off in my preview of the final. We savour the warm air and toast to memories.
‘Some fellow has called you?’
‘Satyakumar Gokulanath. Old Tamil gentleman. Former Royal fielding coach. Can we chat with him at your place?’
‘Why?’
‘Sheila doesn’t like me drinking at home.’
‘But you still do.’
‘Not that. Were you at the ’83 Royal–Thomian?’
‘Of course. I had liver problems that year. Remember?’
Ari is now pouring arrack and I am swimming in my thoughts.
‘I didn’t know you then. We only met in July when they came to burn Nathan’s house.’
‘Ah. Right. Right. The Royal–Tho was in March… obviously. My first sober Big Match since 1952.’ He grins. ‘′52 I got cockered. Thora won. ′53 I got even more cockered and we won by an innings!’
The pre-poya moon casts a white glow on Ari’s balcony and reflects off his bald spot. In the distance, the sea snores.
‘I got cockered every year for the next thirty years, but only two more results. We won in ’64, they won in ’69. Then in ’83 I had my hepatitis scare. Must look after the liver, no? You lose your liver, you can’t live.’
Ari is so engrossed in his chatter he fails to notice the look on my face.
‘So in 1983 I stay sober. And the year I am sober those beggars thrash us.’
Ari grins.
‘Now I realise that in life and in cricket, whether I booze or not, what will be, will be.’
We croak a few refrains of ‘Que Sera’ and I lift my glass to the being of what will be.
Ari’s eyes narrow. ‘You know that Royal cheated?’
I roll my eyes.
‘Listen to this. The whole Royal team were wearing blue and yellow caps when they were bowling. Who does that?’ ‘Blue and gold.’
‘Yellow. If that is gold, I’m a Chinaman with a ponytail. Wije, do you know what I saw?’
‘The Royalists raping your little girls in style?’
‘Apart from that. Everyone said I am sour grapes, that I was drunk. Bullshit. I was fully sober. I saw what I saw.’
‘What, so?’
‘There were five bowlers in the Royal team. Their spinner took 5 wickets, their pacey took 3. According to the records, that is.’
‘So?’
‘I swear to this day. On Norma’s grave, rest her soul.’ He crosses himself. ‘In the second innings, there was a sixth bowler on that field. He took all the wickets. No one noticed except me.’
Satyakumar Gokulanath
When he tramples Manouri’s flowerpots, I know there is going to be trouble. Ari, not noticing, leads us up his garden path to the chairs on the lawn. We take seats around a formica table, sheltered by araliya trees. It is the place where Ari sees guests he doesn’t want his wife to see.
With Satyakumar Gokulanath, there is plenty not to see. He mumbles and shakes. His face is all jowls and his hair is dyed oily black. He wears a faded Chinese collar shirt adorned with multiple food stains. His slacks are tented over his twig legs and his sand
als are covered in Manouri’s compost. He looks like he has spent his whole life painting houses without ever bothering to change clothes.
I have seen him before at the Visible Bar in Katubedda and at the Kaanuwa in Moratumulla. He is one of those drunks who stand at the bar talking to no one. At the Kaanuwa, everyone stands – the carpenters, the trishaw drivers, the sportswriters who miss their buses. I have seen Gokulanath bare his beedi-stained teeth at four-finger widths of neat gal arrack and knock it back in one gulp. Gal is a close relative of turpentine and just as tasty. Strange for this creature to be coaching a Colombo 7 school.
The day is pleasant. Drinks cool, sunshine bright, grass green, company peculiar. Ari has put on a spread of rambutan, shelled and deseeded so as not to offend our fragile teeth. I could not think of a worse hell than living in a house with six ladies, but I see it has its advantages. Our guest has arrived drunk and is demanding more. Before we begin, he wants to finalise the fee.
Mr S. Gokulanath was the assistant coach of the Royal 2nd XI from 1968 to 1997. He taught PT and environmental studies at Royal to Forms 2–3. When the government changed in ’70, he taught PE and social studies to Grades 7–8. When the government changed again in ’77, he was teaching saramba and parisaraya to Years 8–9. There is a Sinhalese phrase which translated reads: ‘The changing of the pillow will not cure the headache.’
Gokulanath is a skeletal man with bad posture. He is a Jaffna Tamil who speaks impeccable Sinhalese, but shaky English. I have translated, paraphrased and attempted to replicate.
He spends a full hour tanking up on booze while Ari ribs me about Sunday’s classified debacle. Gokulanath tells us the reason he was reading the Sunday classifieds that day was to look for work. After twenty-nine years of service, he was sacked from Royal College on a false allegation and was not given his thirty-year bonus or his pension.
We voice our sympathy and Ari talks about what snakes the Royalists are.
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 7