So why did a boy born Mathew Pradeepan Sivanathan decide to shed his surname when joining Sri Lankan cricket? I could be wrong, but I suspect it had little to do with length.
Asiri Ranasinghe
‘Wije. Sometimes you’re not as stupid as you look.’
It is a week later and Ari has managed to make his Ford Capri mobile.
We are travelling with a mini-fan and a radio crackling commentary from Sri Lanka’s game in Sharjah.
‘Asiri Ranasinghe’s grip was very similar to …’
‘It was identical.’
The fight for the eleventh place in the side to face England in Sri Lanka’s inaugural test match in 1982 was between two players with identical initials. Asiri Ranasinghe was the hard-hitting batsman and orthodox left-arm spinner who was the Schoolboy Cricketer of 1976. An aggressive cricketer. He was known for his raw talent and his lax discipline.
Of course the eleventh place went to another schoolboy cricketer, a wristy left-hander who had caught Sobers’ eye. Arjuna Ranatunga scored a half-century in the test and went on to captain Sri Lanka and lead us to ’96. Asiri Ranasinghe played three games, was dropped from the side and joined the 1982 rebel tour to South Africa. Rich and banned from the game for twenty-five years, he built a house in Malabe. The one we are about to visit.
The Arosa Sri Lankans were the first non-white national team to tour South Africa during the apartheid era. The South African Cricket Board offered the rebels five years’ salary to play one series. Ironically, the key instigators Mendis and Dias were bought out by the SLBCC at the last minute and appointed captain and vice captain. A second-rate B-team of a weak side lost all their matches and were thrashed like Bantu agitators in an Afrikaner cell.
The Lankan rebels were banned from playing any form of cricket for life. Many migrated. Asiri Ranasinghe, who was only twenty-four at the time, went from job to job, leaving a trail of enemies and empty bottles.
The house he built in Malabe still stands. And as we enter the gates, we see that we are not the only visitors that day. A crowd is gathered and the garden is filled with vehicles. We are informed by a distraught servant that the master was found dead in his bedroom the night before. The death was not unexpected.
On the way home, listening to Sri Lanka collapse to 21 for 4, Ari asks me if we should not abandon this wild-goose chase for this possibly non-existent coach. I am silent. If I was a talented cricketer and paid more money than I could imagine not to play, what would I do? As we crawl through Kotte traffic, and Sri Lanka loses its sixth wicket for 47, I realise I would do exactly what Asiri Ranasinghe did. I would build a mansion and drink myself to death in it.
Big Gloves
This time Mathew is not in the trishaw. He is on the side of the road, carrying his cricket bag and wearing gloves. He hails the three-wheeler. Jabir who is driving says, ‘Sorry, have hire.’ Mathew ignores him and addresses me in the back seat. ‘You know what they say about men with big hands?’ he asks. ‘They wear big gloves,’ I reply. Mathew bursts out laughing. I join him.
I wake up with a smile on my face and Sheila in her nightdress eyeing me suspiciously. It takes me all morning to convince her that the word I said in my sleep was glove and not love.
The Bloomfield club secretary does not return our calls. Walking through the entrance we are stopped by the security guard. He checks our IDs and enquires about our business. We mention the club secretary and he mentions he has not been informed. We drop as many names as we can remember. Kaluperuma, Dharmasena, Jayasuriya. Ari tries to slip him 200 bucks and we are asked to leave. It is then that I mention Newton.
‘You are here to see Rodrigo Sir?’
We nod.
‘Let’s ask him.’
Newton comes carrying a cricket bag. He gestures to the security guard and takes us aside. ‘Wije. Go. You are not wanted here.’
‘We have an appointment,’ says Ari.
‘Did I speak to you?’ says Newton, not looking at him. ‘Wije. Did you put that notice about Pradeep Mathew on the board?’
I nod.
‘Club management issued a memo that anyone speaking to journalists about Pradeep Mathew will be fined. You will get nothing here.’
‘Wije, look,’ says Ari.
This time Newton turns to him. ‘I told you once not to talk to me. Kindly get out from here.’
I look where Ari is pointing. And then I see what he sees.
‘Show me your hand, Newton,’ I ask.
‘If you don’t leave this minute, I will show you both my hands.’
And then the security guard comes to escort us from the premises.
Let’s be Friends
She asks me how much I would pay if she gave me a letter written by Pradeep Mathew. I tell her three thousand rupees and she agrees to come over.
‘This could tell us where he is,’ says Ari.
Power cuts are scheduled for June. The airing of our documentary is scheduled for March. Ari and I pretend not to care. Garfield joins a band in Geneva. He sends us a money order for five hundred Swiss francs. Sheila does not let me touch it. There is no more talk of sound engineering or further education. There is no more hope that my son will turn out better than me.
He will drift around the world and return home penniless and hopefully I will not be around.
Newton refuses to talk to us. My calls are unanswered. My book is not returned.
I have ignored doctor’s orders and suffered no consequences. I decide that it is work that is keeping me young. I drink to more work and staying busy. Ari keeps his World Cup resolution.
She is in her early thirties and wielding three children, two girls and a boy, all under five. She has thick glasses and frizzy hair.
‘Harini Diyabalanage.’ She extends her hand. ‘I have to be at Montessori in half an hour. Here is the letter, have a look.’
The boy is sitting on Ari’s carpet patting the ground. The two girls are chasing each other around Ari’s desk. ‘Here. Here children. Come, I’ll show you some magic.’
‘Heshika. Nerissa. Behave,’ barks the mother.
‘This is not written by Pradeep Mathew,’ I say.
‘The poem is,’ says Mrs Diyabalanage.
I hand the poem to Ari, who has got the girls drawing on file covers.
Skin is silky
Hair is honey
I will serve you
Reach your star
At your smile
Lovely lady
I am yours
‘It spells …’
Ari nods. ‘I can see.’
Harini Diyabalanage went to Visakha College with Shirali Fernando. The two were pen pals till Harini got married a few years ago. The letter was written in 1986. Shirali had just migrated to Australia and was bombarded with love letters from a cricketer called Pradeep Mathew.
‘We were popular girls,’ says Harini.
‘Where is this Shirali?’ asks Ari.
‘I heard she got married and moved to New Zealand. But then I heard she was working at the Cricket Board. I also lost touch. Can I collect the money?’
The letter is handwritten on ruled paper written in light green and sprinkled with glitter.
‘Miss. This is not the letter we were expecting. Do you have anything written by Pradeep Mathew?’
‘How should I have? I didn’t know him. I was friends with Shirali. That poem is written by him. We agreed on the payment.’
‘Fine, fine. We will pay,’ says Ari as a puddle appears on his carpet, right where the boy is sitting.
‘If I find out more, I will call,’ says our visitor as she pushes her bundles of terror out of the room.
* * *
‘Pradeep is soo sweet. He sends me presents and writes me poems. I’ve attached one, its soo cheeesy. Please don’t show it to anyone. I hope I’m not leading him on. I told him I want to just be friends, but you know how Lankan guys are. Oh my God. I forgot to tell you. I met this guy called Larry. What is it with me an
d cricketers … ‘
Excerpt from a letter from Shirali Fernando to
Harini Diyabalanage
Postmark Melbourne
11/12/86
The First Note
This Sunday’s Leader has the headline, The Norwegians are coming, the Norwegians are coming. Men with briefcases from Scandinavia are attempting to succeed where bombs and guns have failed.
‘Newton can’t be who we think he is,’ says Ari. ‘He hates Mathew. Thinks he’s crap.’
‘So what?’ I say. ‘Elizabeth Taylor said she hated Richard Burton. That is after she had married him twice. It is easy to hate the thing we love.’
‘Ammataudu. When did you become Mr Philosophy?’
I have been reading a Ladybird book about the Golden Age of Hollywood, permanently borrowed from the now defunct Rawatawatte Lending Library.
‘Here. You remember telling me about Montgomery Clift?’ I ask.
‘Of course. He was the Pradeep Mathew of the silver screen.’
‘Can you name the films he turned down?’
‘Sunset Boulevard, On the Waterfront, Rebel Without a Cause, The Hustler.’
‘If he had taken those roles, he would’ve been the greatest star of all time. And no one would’ve heard of Holden, Brando, Dean or Newman.’
‘What have you been reading?’ asks Ari. ‘Books?’
The nuisance calls precede the notes. A throaty voice in Sinhala, ‘Hello, who is speaking?’ When my son was in the house nuisance calls were a common occurrence and there are many ways of dealing with them.
Indignation: ‘You called me. Who the hell are you?’
But this will only result in a ‘Who the hell are you?’ competition.
Filth: ‘I am the
But, for a mind that thrills in nuisance calls, these exchanges delight more than they offend.
I usually answer with the surreal. Unrelated nonsense delivered deadpan.
Gruff Voice: Who is this?
Me: Burton.
GV: Who?
Me: I was born Burton Richard. But I changed my name to Clift Montgomery.
GV: Where are you speaking from? Me: Norway.
GV: Ah?
Me: You can get a ferry through Helsinki.
By this stage bewildered callers usually hang up. Not this one.
GV: Helsinki is in Finland.
I decide to switch gears. I talk in rapid Sinhala.
Me: Gokul dead. AR dead. GenCY dying. Nihal liar. Lucky liar. Is it Newton?
GV: Are you mad or senile?
Clearly not working. I seek refuge in technique number 4. Radio static. Sudden bursts at high volumes. My pocket Samyo transistor can pick up the BBC commentary perfectly, but every other frequency crackles like an oven of bees. I hammer it at full blast for thirty seconds. The caller hangs up.
The same caller, two days later.
Gruff Voice: Mr W.G., please.
Me: Who’s speaking?
GV: Pradeep.
Me: I thought you were dead.
GV: Why are you putting ads about me in the papers?
Me: So that you would call me …
GV: Who are you?
Me: Can we interview you?
GV: No. I will interview you.
Click.
The next day a note arrives. It is a computer printout with a few typed sentences:
Why are you interested in Pradeep Mathew?
Who is your employer?
Write answers below and return in very same envelope to your own letter box.
In detective novels, you can trace the make of the typewriter and track down the phantom note writer. I can imagine going to the Mount Lavinia Police Station with such a request.
Me: Ralahamy, can you analyse the writing on this?
P.C.: Certainly sir, I’ll get ballistics onto it right away.
That is, sadly, a load of – pardon the French – bollistics. The response will be, Uncle, where you from, full name, date of birth, religion, race, caste, time of day, alignment of planets, blah, blah till the khaki-clad penpusher fills up one foolscap page with squiggly, indecipherable handwriting.
Then he will ask you to come back next Wednesday when he has typed it up and shown it to the SSP and the ASP.
But I could not deny that this was exciting.
I call Ari and tell him the news. He is over in minutes. He enters with a bottle of greenish juice. I decide not to ask.
‘Ari, why are you wearing a raincoat and a hat?’
He pulls out a cigar and begins pacing and talking like he has a mouth full of bulto sweets. ‘What we have here is a sap who is trying to play games. Let me see the note, Jimmy.’
‘Who’s Jimmy?’
‘Just as I thought. Guy’s an amateur.’
‘How the hell do you know he’s an amateur?’
Ari waves the cigar. ‘You gotta lot to learn, son. A pro would misspell words to throw us off the scent.’
‘What scent? The only scent here is coming from that green stuff in your bottle.’
‘It’s important how we respond to this.’
‘I already have,’ I say, handing him a typewritten paper.
Who are you working for?
I, W.G. Karunasena, Ceylon Sportswriter of the Year, 1969 and 1976, have worked for the Observer, Daily News, Island, Kreeda, Ravaya. My work has appeared in Sportstar, on the Sri Lanka Broadcasting Corporation, SLBC, sports round-up and will appear in a SwarnaVision TV documentary. Now retired, I, with my colleague, Ari Byrd, am writing about the life of Pradeep Mathew.
Why are you interested in Pradeep Mathew?
Put simply, I believe him to be the greatest Sri Lankan cricketer of them all. I remember his performances in the ’85 World Series, the ’88 Asia Cup, the ’87 Test series vs New Zealand. At his best he was better than anyone I have seen. Are you really him?
Ari frowns. ‘As usual, you have written an essay. And why mention my name?’
‘Why? Scared?’
He adopts that silly bulto voice. ‘Kid. I’m an undercover cat. I don’t need the publicity.’
I fold the paper. ‘We put this in the envelope and we keep the original.’
‘Let me get a siri-siri bag. We must preserve the fibres on the note.’
Ari comes back with a supermarket bag and a permanent marker. He gingerly places the note in the bag. He crosses off the word Cargills and writes ‘Exhibit A’.
Sheila walks in with the tray of tea; she smirks at Ari in his raincoat and sarong. ‘Who’s this? Kalisama nathi Bogart?’
Ari allows a grin. ‘Who’s this broad? Of all the tea joints, she had to walk into mine.’
Sheila looks at our evidence bag and walks out, saying, ‘Y’all are mad.’
Ari suggests we spend the night on his balcony, where we take turns doing surveillance on my letter box. The plan is hatched and the bottles are opened. We put the note in the envelope. We drink and stay up till dawn. Ari, his juice; me, my arrack. We discuss who the letter writer might be. Bloomfield? Newton? Ari suggests it’s someone playing a prank.
‘How many know about what we are doing?’ asks Ari.
‘No one cares. You, me, Brian, Sheila, Manouri.’
‘I bet Sheila is up to something.’
‘Maybe Brian or Jonny.’
‘Ah. What are you saying? Of course it is Jonny. Who else?’
‘Have you heard from Mr Jonny?’
‘No, fellow has been a bit strange lately.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, something is going on with him.’
We fall asleep at sunrise and Manouri shakes us both awake at nine. ‘Like children y’all are.’
Ari gasps. ‘Postman, postman.’
A bald man on a bicycle in a dung-green uniform is inserting letters into the box of 20 1/1 de Saram Road.
Ari croaks, ‘Oi, don’t remove the letter already there.’
The postman looks up.
‘What letter? No letter, sir.’ And rides off.
By the time we rub the sleep from our eyes and will our bodies to brave the stairs to the letter box, both he and our letter are nowhere in sight. Just junk mail from Regnis offering easy payment on sewing machines. In the evening comes the call.
Gruff Voice:
Mr W.G.?
Me: Yes.
G.V.: I told you to write on that very page.
Me: Didn’t have room.
G.V.: I suggest in the future you do exactly what I say.
Click.
And for a while at least, that, as they say, is that.
Cricket Café
One week to go. ‘Which will they air first?’ I call Rakwana. I am the only one still speaking to him.
‘Not entirely sure. We’re still putting the finishing touches. The edit is complex and nefarious.’
‘I thought Aravinda, Pradeep, then Sanath, Satha, Arjuna would be a good sequence.’
‘No sirree. There are other factors to consider, Mr Karoona.’
‘Have you been to Texas recently?’
‘No. Why?’
‘No. Just.’
‘Power cuts may happen later. In the second month. We’ll save Mathew and Satha for then. Put the important ones first.’
I bite my tongue. ‘Can I get a preview?’
‘Even I may not get a preview. But I’ll try my best, pardner. Definitely.’
Danila Guneratne asks to meet for coffee. Sheila sees me polishing my shoes and combing my hair. ‘Wedding or something?’
‘Business meeting.’
‘Me and Manouri will watch your show from here. Can’t come all the way to Bolgoda.’
‘Aiyo. In vain. Would’ve been fun,’ I say, hiding my delight. Jonny’s place is no place for maidens.
Danila is to meet me at the Cricket Café in Colpetty. Is this what the youngsters would describe as a date? The room turns its head as she enters and even though she walks bow-legged and wears glasses, her allure is undeniable. Miniskirt, red blouse, straightened hair.
‘Ah. Uncle.’ She kisses me on the cheek; her perfume sweetens the air.
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 14