The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

  I am sure that up till now the only signature Charith had to part with was when he signed his contract with the SLBCC three years ago. In that time the career reserve had gone on four tours and played two games.

  ‘Charith Silva. Ella. Ella.’ Two young men in slacks offer their hands. ‘Well done, machang. Well played.’

  ‘So what are you writing for Sportstar?’

  ‘I wrote the Best of Sri Lanka series.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. I remember. Very good articles.’ Charith smiles.

  ‘Which one did you like?’

  ‘I didn’t read them, but they were superb.’

  There is too much oil in his hair, too much paunch in his belly. He has remained a simple boy from Galle, which is probably why he has remained a reserve for most of his career.

  I decide to ask the question. His face lights up.

  ‘Why not? Why not? Pradeep was very good friend of mine.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘No one knows. I heard he went to get surgery in Australia.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Fellow had wrist problems. Naturally, no? You know the way he used to spin, no?’

  ‘I met his sister. Apparently he has passed away.’

  ‘What?’ Silva drops his phone. Attention is redirected at us. ‘How?’

  ‘Car accident.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In Melbourne, I think.’ I really should stop spreading unconfirmed rumours. ‘This is just what I heard.’

  ‘I didn’t know he had a sister,’ says Charith, with eyes wide and hand over mouth.

  He is silent for a long time. When he speaks, his gaze is on the floor and his voice is low. He tells me that Mathew joined the national side to impress a girl named Shirali Fernando. He tells me that Mathew was one of the most feared bowlers on the domestic circuit. That he was one of the few youngsters to snub the SSC. And that most of the senior players found him arrogant.

  ‘But I remember, every season, when he came for practice with the cricket pool, he had some new deliveries. He had over twenty different balls.’

  I nod. I know. Actually, according to Ari’s count, the figure was fourteen. Still impressive. ‘Did he get into trouble with management?’

  ‘You know the scene, no, Uncle? You have to be good with the seniors.’

  ‘And he wasn’t?’

  ‘He was a mad fellow. If I had his talent, I would be a top-class bowler. Didn’t even listen to the coach. Said he had his own coach.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  Charith pinches between his eyes and wracks his modestly sized brain. ‘You must be knowing. That fellow with six fingers, men. Coached around Moratuwa.’

  ‘Gokulanath?’

  ‘No, some other name. He had six fingers.’

  The door opens and a round-faced girl with an oval belly exits. Charith gets to his feet.

  ‘Here, Uncle, take my card. Let’s later put a chat.’

  ‘Can I call you?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  I shake the boy’s hand as he takes his wife’s hand and steps into the doctor’s office, leaving me to my morose thoughts. Mathew was probably dead and I am possibly soon to be. Arrack-swilling, meal-missing I. I who now had an inside source and thirteen lakhs in the bank.

  Or maybe not. Maybe the doctor would give me the all-clear. I would run out of here and find the coach with six fingers and the spin bowler with fourteen different balls.

  Charith interrupts my reveries. ‘This is my wife Dinusha.’

  A former southern belle, now sporting a bell-shaped body. I smile and shake hands. Charith whispers in my ear.

  ‘Your doctor is my good friend. I had a chat. You can go in next.’

  I enter the doctor’s office wishing there were more cricketers like Charith Silva The doctor gives me a year or two. Maybe more. I leave resolving to make a halfway decent documentary on Sri Lankan cricket. There is nothing more inspiring than a solid deadline.

  Hoop Dresses

  Bowlers have always had the wrong end of the stump. The job that no one wanted. All innovations over the last century from the helmet to the bouncer rule have conspired to favour the batsman. In fifty-fifty decisions, the batsman enjoys the benefit of the doubt. What’s harder? To hit a ball? Or to make someone else miss one?

  When the game was introduced in the colonies two centuries ago, the fat masters batted all day, while the emaciated slaves bowled. At charity amusements, the lady folk were relegated to bowling, their impractical hoop dresses leading to the invention of the over-arm action. Centuries later, bowling still remains a thankless job. But thanks to a few it may also have become something of an art.

  Red Trishaw

  By the beginning of ’97, we have all forgotten about documentaries. We are too busy watching cricket. For the past year Sri Lanka has been thrashing everyone in sight. Pakistan, Australia, India and South Africa. Ari remains unimpressed, claiming that only one of these victories took place outside of Asia.

  I am thinking of turning Pradeep Mathew into a book when Brian comes calling. ‘Uncles. Shall we do the doco now?’

  Brian is now wearing sunglasses that cost more than my entire wardrobe. The past year has been a good one for him. He has been getting a regular gig with Maharani TV.

  ‘Now that I have contacts, I can get interviews.’

  ‘Only if we do one on Mathew,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t think SLBCC will approve a show on Mathew.’

  ‘So? Tell them to hang. I have five lakhs left from betting money.’

  ‘No need for the money. I will get funding. You get me the scripts done.’

  ‘Only if we do one on Mathew.’

  ‘Forget Mathew,’ says Brian. ‘We will call it “Lanka’s Top 5 Super Best” …’

  ‘We will call it “Chinaman: Sri Lanka’s Greatest Unsung Hero”,’ I suggest.

  ‘That’s a stupid name, Uncle,’ says Brian.

  ‘Yes, Wije,’ says Ari. ‘No one will want to see that.’

  * * *

  ‘I was involved with coaching Sri Lanka cricket at various times in the 1980s. I have never heard of this boy Mathew.’

  Sir Garfield Sobers, world’s greatest all-rounder

  Interviewed by Brian Gomez at Colombo Cricket Club,

  December 1996

  * * *

  Now whenever Ari comes over to help with the scripts, he brings over a coloured concoction in an Elephant House bottle. This one looks like blood, even though he tells me it is watermelon mixed with lime.

  The fool had made a vow to Manouri and his five daughters that if Lanka won the Cup, he would give up booze and cigarettes. Instead of doing what any red-blooded, lily-livered man would do, that is, find a loophole to wiggle out of, Ari kept his word. ‘A Thomian’s word is his honour.’

  He replaces gin with thambili, whisky with kola kenda, and Gold Leaf with fruit. And refrains from grumbling. I ask him how he’s coping.

  ‘Fair exchange, Wije. To see Ranatunga hammer Warne over the ropes with 44 balls to spare is worth all the arrack in arrackland.’

  Who can argue?

  ‘Do you know what I found in my filing cabinet?’

  ‘Termites?’

  ‘All those tapes that Mrs Kolombage got for us. You had forgotten about them, no?’

  The next two months are bliss.

  We sit at Jonny’s and pore over the televised history of Sri Lankan cricket since 1978, the year of televisation. We spend a week there. No wives. Jonny and I boozing. Ari juicing. The lake reflecting orange into Jonny’s veranda. Ten hours of cricket watching behind you. And hundreds more before you. I cannot think of a better description of heaven.

  * * *

  ‘Fellow had talent. I won’t say no. But bugger was lazy. And to tell you frankly, quite arrogant. Actually I don’t know why y’all are doing a show on him?’

  Ravi de Mel, Sri Lankan opening bowler (1984–93)

  Interviewed by Brian Gomez at ITL Studios,

&
nbsp; January 1997

  * * *

  The three twenty-minute pieces on the World Cup heroes are effortless. Everyone Brian interviews has plenty to say about Captain Cool, Mad Max and the Master Blaster.

  We then set to work researching Satha and Mathew. There is some useable footage of Mathew’s thirty-four-match career, but obviously none of Satha’s which ended in 1951.

  Mahadevan Sathasivam was jailed for the murder of his wife in the early 1950s. It is universally accepted that he was innocent; that his wife, cognisant of his numerous affairs, was granting him a divorce; that the real murderer was William, the domestic aid. That’s right, apparently the butler did it.

  Those cuckolded by Satha’s amorous activities or slighted on the field by his delicate blade were glad to see the playboy batting hero get his comeuppance. Having controversially captained Sri Lanka vs Bradman’s Invincibles, Satha went on to captain Singapore and Malaysia, perhaps the only man to captain three countries at the sport.

  Opinion on his character was divided. Praise of his deft strokes and fleet footwork was unanimous. Sir Frank Worrell described him as the best batsman he had ever seen.

  Pradeep Mathew elicited no such outpouring of anecdote. Those who remembered him, remembered him vaguely. Everyone seemed surprised by his death, but none too concerned.

  * * *

  ‘Mathew, Mathew, like a statue,

  When in form, none can match you.’

  Reggie Ranwala, Sri Lankan cheerleader

  Interviewed by Brian Gomez at SL vs Pak, Kettarama

  Stadium, April 1997

  * * *

  Brian is too busy interviewing players and pundits and ex-players and ex-pundits to find a sponsor. Jonny says he knows the media director at SwarnaVision, a state-of-the-art channel not belonging to the state. He says they have huge budgets, international sponsors, studios and directors from India.

  The meeting is set up and we take our five scripts, our three films and our waning enthusiasm to plush offices in Pannipitiya. I don’t bother to iron my shirt or shine my shoes. We are kept waiting for half an hour and then greeted by a blood-curdling polkatu accent.

  ‘To what, pray tell, do we owe this pleasure?’ says Rakwana Somawardena, newly appointed director of SwarnaVision.

  ‘A pleasant surprise,’ says Cassim.

  ‘Surprise, surprise,’ says Mrs Kolombage.

  * * *

  ‘Statistically Pradeep was Sri Lanka’s best ever spinner. Statistically I am the best left-handed batsman in test cricket next to Gower and Sobers. That is, if you only take my average when I batted at number 3 and 4.’

  Uvais Amalean, SL wicketkeeper (1987–93)

  Interviewed by Brian Gomez at Port of Spain, June 1997

  * * *

  I stayed away from the production. Sponsors had been obtained and while the scripts survived unscathed, additions were made to the production which I didn’t understand. They were employing a computer graphics division and had commissioned composer Dilup Makalande and his guitar-shaped keyboard.

  Ari seemed excited and I left him to it. He got his daughters, Stephanie and Melissa, both drama teachers, involved in set design and wardrobe. Sheila tells me that Stephanie, the tall one, is divorced and carrying on with a married man. Melissa, the round-faced one, is a local nightclub queen. Ari, as usual, is oblivious to all this.

  * * *

  ‘One could say that Prasad Mathews was a mediocre spinner who lacked discipline. One must have discipline if one is to succeed at international level.’

  Famous Lankan Commentator

  Interviewed by Brian Gomez at SLBCC Ball, August 1997

  * * *

  I dream of trishaws. I am in the back of what appears to be Jabir’s red one. I am reaching for a bottle at my feet which keeps rolling from my grasp. I ask the driver to slow down. He speeds up. I scold. He turns around and holds up his hand. ‘How many fingers am I holding? How many fingers?’ I recognise his shaggy hair. He is Pradeep Mathew. ‘I thought you were dead,’ I say. ‘We will all be soon,’ he says, and drives into Beira Lake.

  * * *

  After all that drama with the World Cup betting, we don’t even use any of the spoils. SwarnaVision agrees to finance. They say they will pay for the scripts and for Brian’s interview footage. Brian agrees on the condition that he is retained as presenter. I agree on the condition that a Mathew episode is shot.

  We sign documents, hand over our footage and wait.

  The cracks in Ms 2ndGeneration’s political regime, which we voted in three years earlier to deliver us from civil war and economic ruin, are starting to show. There are rumours of impending power cuts as droughts cripple our hydro power catchment areas and war rages in the north and east.

  We are finally allowed to see a rough cut in October. It is unveiled for the board of directors of SwarnaVision in the boardroom on the seventh floor.

  We take our seats and make nervous jokes. The film opens with Sir Garfield Sobers talking about Sri Lanka’s talent. Music that is glorious, but somehow inappropriate, swells to a crescendo as Brian reads out my intro line: ‘For Sri Lankans, cricket is not a game of gentlemen. It is a game of geniuses …’

  The action cuts back to Sir Garfield, who is now talking about Aravinda de Silva. The shot reverses to show the interviewer nodding ponderously with furrowed brow.

  Cassim and Mrs Kolombage giggle with surprise. I look at Ari in horror. The interviewer is not Brian. The man with the microphone is not tall, dark and funny looking. He is short, fair and speaks with an accent.

  Brian gets up from his seat and, before the SwarnaVision board of directors, in raised voice, with raised finger, begins describing the genitalia of Rakwana’s mother.

  * * *

  ‘Aside from my good friends, Sri Lankan cricket gurus Dublew Gee Karoona-sayna and Aree-ya-rat-ney Byrd, no one really remembers Pradeep Mathew. And that my friends, is one of cricket’s greatest tragedies.’

  Graham Snow, England cricketer (1968–82)

  Interviewed by Rakwana Somawardena, SSC,

  October 1997

  Shirali Fernando

  ‘He only took cricket seriously because of a girl,’ says Kamal Kiriella.

  Kiriella works in finance, sweats a lot, and gives the impression that he sleeps in his tie. He is a busy man so I have to go to his office, where I am served biscuits and given fifteen minutes.

  ‘You are a relative or what?’

  Kamal and Pradeep met at an Old Royalists Law vs Medicine match.

  ‘Our buggers, any excuse for a match. Half the buggers weren’t doctors or lawyers. I don’t remember Pradeep ever being at Royal.’

  They then tried out for the Hampshire University XI in ’84. Neither made the grade, but both made the squad.

  Kamal has few illusions about his abilities. ‘We were fresh off the boat. Pradeep bowled googly. I hammered pol adi. We were unfit, lazy buggers. They just kept us in the squad because we were brown.’

  Pradeep had been sent to his mother’s sister in Southampton. He enrolled to study accounting. Which he changed to computing. Which he then changed to physics.

  ‘Moody bugger. Didn’t get on with the aunt. Didn’t mix much with the suddhas. He had one friend, this tall physics nerd, that was it.’

  In what was neither the first nor last example of serendipity in Mathew’s life, the University 2nd XI happened to be practising at the county ground alongside the visiting Lankan team. The students were asked to bowl at Mendis, Dias, Wettimuny, Madugalle et. al, who, though international test cricketers, were unknown outside of the Sinhalese Sports Club.

  ‘Matty had real talent. Real talent. Fellow played the fool. Can you imagine? He bowled to the national side in the style of Ian Botham. He imitated each of the English bowlers. Agnew, Allot, Ellison, Pocock. The whole Lankan team were stunned.’

  Pradeep and Kamal were invited to the Lankan High Commissioner’s house for a rice and curry dinner. The Minister was present, as was the manag
er Abu Chanmugam, who asked Pradeep if he would like to try out for the national team. Pradeep smiled and declined.

  ‘No one asked me. I suppose Lanka had enough and more pol adi batsmen,’ reasons Kamal.

  Throughout this monologue, several boys in ties bring Kamal papers to sign. He does so without breaking eye contact or breaking narrative.

  Outside I hear someone shouting at a peon. You can tell a lot about an organisation by how they treat their peons.

  Several cricketers came up to them and asked Pradeep about his effortless action mimicry and his promising chinaman bowling. But Pradeep, ill at ease in mixed company, said little.

  Batsman Wettimuny, on the eve of a career-defining century, thanked the boys for bowling at them. ‘I feel I have already faced the English attack. You should improve your talent.’

  The skipper got drunk and started a baila. Those days Sri Lankan cricketers weren’t afraid of making fools of themselves in public. This they did on the field on a regular basis.

  Kamal Kiriella describes the party as ‘full arthal’ and ‘maara jolly’. Aside from the cricketers there were Sri Lankan families and their sons and daughters. Mathew followed a group of them upstairs, drunken baila clearly not his thing. Kamal tagged along.

  ‘These British Lankan chicks you should see, ah? Full sexy, but also hi-fi.’

  It was in the High Commissioner’s office that Mathew saw the girl of his dreams. Away from the festivities, the expat kids were watching a show called Top of the Pops.

  ‘These two sexy girls were dancing like … what’s that woman with the hair …’

  ‘Boney M?’

  ‘No, men. Cyndi Lauper! That’s the one.’

  I nod as if the name had been on my tongue’s tip.

  ‘The hot one sat down; the chubby one, Shirali, the High Commissioner’s daughter, was begging people to dance. No one would.’

  According to Kamal, Shirali was a ‘tease’ and everyone was taking her for a ‘bite’. It was supposed to be her farewell, as her father was about to be transferred back to Sri Lanka.

  ‘Then suddenly our man jumps in, pulls her, and starts break-dancing. He couldn’t dance for toffee, but everyone thought he was being a clown. After that, he starts chatting to Shirali. Didn’t even know the bugger could chat up.’