The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

by Shehan Karunatilaka

  We sit in a corner next to a framed photo of Curtly Ambrose in delivery stride. The café walls are adorned with cricketing memorabilia. Autographed bats, framed newspaper cuttings, photos, caps. The furniture is varnished wood and the menu is laden with pub food named after cricketers.

  Sometimes the links are obvious (Allan Lamb’s Lamb Chops), sometimes tenuous (Augustus Logie’s Caesar Salad), sometimes unappetising (Merv Hughes’ Meat Balls). The prices appear designed to keep locals away.

  ‘I heard your documentary with SwarnaVision is going to air.’

  I nod as Danila stirs her coffee. I watch the men with women at other tables trying not to get caught copping a look. She fiddles with my cufflinks and plays with her hair. I remain calm.

  ‘Uncle. I’m telling you in confidence. I don’t think the documentary will run. ITL are planning on suing. The SLBCC is also very powerful these days.’

  She ties up her hair and plays with her teaspoon. ‘Not that. I had something else to ask.’

  Steady old boy. Play it cool.

  ‘What can I do to you?’

  Idiot.

  ‘I’m sorry … for you.’

  She giggles. ‘Shall we ask for the bill?’

  The waiter arrives and she places a gold card on the table. I don’t even pretend to reach for my wallet.

  ‘You’re the one putting classified ads about Pradeep Mathew.’

  ‘Unless there’s another W.G. Karunasena.’

  ‘A lot of people are upset at the Cricket Board.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mathew wasn’t very popular. He let a lot of people down when he left.’

  ‘Like whom?’

  ‘He owed money. He fought with everyone. Be careful, Uncle.’

  ‘The G in my name stands for Gutsy.’

  ‘Why you’re so obsessed with Mathew?’

  ‘He is the greatest cricketer this country has ever produced. If you knew …’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘It seems he may be dead.’

  Her face flattens and her eyes cave in. Her voice becomes a squeak. ‘How?’

  I tell her about the sister and the notification of death.

  ‘Personally I don’t believe …’

  She is not listening to me. Her gaze is directed at the table between us. Her eyes turn glassy. The glass turns to liquid. A drop spills from the corner of her eye, leaving a trail of mascara down her cheek.

  ‘Danila?’

  ‘Sorry, Uncle. I have to go.’

  She grabs her bag and leaves me to sort out the tip.

  The Premiere

  I don’t tell Ari about Danila, knowing he would disapprove of my unchaperoned visit. It has been raining in Bolgoda; the lake and the air around it are murky. It is just us men and our bottles and our widescreen TV. About to witness the fruit of two and a half years of labour. This time I bring the Chivas Regal. Ari brings the cutlets and the litre of apple juice.

  ‘Ah, bless the rain,’ says Jonny. ‘Reminds me of Newcastle.’

  ‘That Shearer fellow is a bit of a flop, no?’ I say.

  ‘He’ll keep,’ says Jonny.

  Ari pours drinks and eyes the sky. ‘At least these rains will keep the power cuts away.’

  The sound of an over-revved engine cuts through the sound of water hitting rooftop. In tumbles Brian, carrying a crate of beer and grinning. Brian appears to have a suntan which has turned his black skin purple.

  ‘Thought you weren’t coming,’ says Jonny.

  ‘Otherwise? Jonny my bonnie. Would I miss this?’

  By 8 o’clock we are seated and restless.

  ‘Don’t know if they’ll even put our names,’ says Ari.

  ‘Uncle Wije’s name will be there,’ says Brian. ‘Him and Rakwana are thick pals.’

  ‘Dr Rakwana …’ reminds Ari.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ says Brian. ‘And I’m a chinaman with a ponytail.’

  Then the plink-plinks of Dilup Makalande’s piano and soft dissolves of Aravinda, Sanath and Satha fill the screen. We all cheer. The title appears: ‘Sri Lanka’s Finest.’

  ‘Your title, Wije?’ asks Brian. I nod my head.

  The next title appears: ‘Pradeep Mathew. The Mystery.’

  We all gasp. Everyone looks at me. I shrug.

  And over cricket footage, carefully selected in this very room, the following credits appear. Most are greeted with catcalls and shrieks of disbelief; some with applause, some with cheers.

  SwarnaVision presents

  A Dr Rakwana Somawardena Production

  Assistant Producers M. Cassim, B. Kolombage, B. Gomez

  Set Design Stephanie Byrd, Melissa Byrd

  Graphics SwarnaCyber Ltd

  Music Dilup Makalande Voice-overs Dr Rakwana Somawardena, B. Gomez

  Script W.G. Karunasena, A. Byrd

  Produced and Directed by Dr Rakwana Somawardena

  Brian is yelling filth at the TV. ‘Calm down. Calm down,’ yells. Jonny ‘Let’s watch the damn thing.’

  They had remained faithful to my script. Almost to the word.

  Video: Mathew’s googly to dismiss Vengsarkar in ’85.

  Audio: VO (Brian): Incredible talent. Brilliant variations. A mystery on the pitch. And off it.

  Video: Montage of Mathew’s 5 wickets in the World Series.

  Audio: VO (Brian): When Pradeep Mathew bamboozled the Australians at Adelaide, taking the wickets of Border, Jones and Boon, it seemed to be the emergence of a new talent.

  Video: Graham Snow speaking to Brian. Brian not visible.

  Audio: Graham: Pradeep Mathew was the cricketer who never was. He was tried young. Discarded. Tried again. Dropped. No one said, hang on. We have a real talent here. We have to nurture this.

  Ari looks at me. ‘How many times has he come to Sri Lanka? Not even one call.’

  ‘Aiyo, Ari. Don’t start.’

  ‘Shh!’ says. Jonny

  ‘&@#%$,’ says Brian.

  Video: (New shot) Rakwana Somawardena clad in MCC whites, wearing a V-necked woollen jumper and stroking a ruby-red cricket ball, walking into the Kettarama pavilion.

  We all erupt in laughter. ‘Very good for the bastard,’ says Brian. ‘Look at him, sweating like a pig.’

  Audio: Rakwana (Speaking to camera. Accent: deepest, darkest Oxford): Why did Pradeep Mathew only play four tests? Why did he never blossom into greatness? The answer can be summed up in one word: …

  Right then, the lights go out. The image on the TV collapses like a dead star. We sit in darkness, pupils dilating, listening to the rain hitting the lake, waiting, hoping for it to only be a short powercut, but knowing it won’t be.

  Powercut

  Brian and Ari jabber on their cellulite phones. Jonny and I light candles and open the French windows. The rain has stopped and the night is cool.

  ‘Brian! Language!’ calls out Jonny. ‘WeeGee, mate. I’d like to talk to you after this fool goes home.’

  ‘Something serious?’

  ‘Hope not.’

  ‘I’m going home,’ announces Brian. ‘All-island powercut. Will continue till midnight.’

  ‘Isn’t there a place with a generator where we can watch?’ I ask.

  ‘By the time we drive into town, show will be over.’

  After he leaves, we sit by the lake.

  ‘How can there be powercuts with all this rain?’ asks Jonny.

  We speculate that there is a drought in the hydro catchment areas. Or that Ms 2ndGeneration’s regime is helping itself to more than the usual quota.

  ‘Why are we still relying on hydropower?’ asks Ari.

  ‘Imagine if we had nuclear,’ I say.

  We all shudder at the thought of Lankan bureaucrats splitting atoms.

  Jonny tells us how much he loves this country. ‘But your idiots are fucking it up. You’re killing the wildlife, robbing the holy cities and sticking DVD shops in the Galle Fort. The only people who care about preserving this island are suddhas like me.’<
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  A mild breeze ripples the lake. Jonny is wearing a batik sarong and no shirt; his skin is hairless and freckled pink. He has seen more of this country than Ari and me combined. He once tried to build an eco-resort in Dambulla, but was blocked by the local authorities.

  ‘Most of the local council are hunters. Found this beautiful place in Digana. Government wouldn’t let me buy it.’

  The word Jonny should have used was poachers. Hunting is what his ancestors did in those very same forests hundred years ago. I keep my thoughts to myself.

  ‘Lads. I want you to hear this from me.’

  Bats skim the night sky in silence. Ari and I exchange glances.

  ‘There’s some trouble around the village near Lunawa. To do with some of the locals. It’s all bullshit. Most rumours are.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘They’re making out that I’m a … you know … like Arthur C. Clarke.’

  ‘That you’re a scientific visionary?’

  ‘No. That I’m friends with young boys.’

  Ari bleats like a lamb. ‘Who? Who? Who is saying? I have played table tennis with Sir Arthur. He is a gentleman and so are you. That is defamation. I know some lawyers.’

  Jonny sips from a can. ‘I already have lawyers. It’s gone to the cops. Don’t think they have a case. Just thought you should know.’

  The lights come on at midnight as promised. The newspapers announce powercuts from 7 to 9 every night for the next two weeks. These powercuts are less than punctual. Some arrive at 6, some well after 8. Some last for forty-five minutes, some for three hours.

  As a result, we manage to catch seventeen minutes of the Sanath show, six minutes of the Sathasivam show and twenty-five minutes of the Arjuna show. Aravinda is not seen, Mathew is not repeated. Ari reckons the timing of the powercuts is political; that it is no coincidence which shows ran for the longest. I remind him that Arjuna is our only international cricketer not to appear in commercials and that he probably deserves some airtime. Ari scratches his bald spot and tries to think of a response.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gamini,’ says Sheila. ‘They will repeat the shows after these powercuts are over.’

  I do not worry, even though I know they will not.

  During the powercut months, families get closer, sales of battery-powered inverters increase. Ari makes a few from car batteries in his garage and makes a buck. People go for walks on Galle Face and parliament grounds. Isso vade salesmen do good business. Tales of gross mismanagement flourish. The government spends half the rescue budget on generators from Singapore that don’t work. Advertising revenues plummet. ITL goes out of business. And I, W.G. Karunasena, sit in the darkness and drink.

  Murali

  The first test meanders across the screen, punctuated by so many ads that we sometimes miss the first ball of the next over. Even though the action takes place in Cape Town, RupaVision have found a way to pollute what we see with their logos, their sponsors’ logos and an unending stream of selling messages at the foot of the screen.

  Welcome to Sri Lankan cricket in the dot-co-dot-lk era. Ari is about to invest in a computerised internet thing. I gaze at my browning papers and the scrappy books crowding my Jinadasa typewriter and realise that I am too old for new tricks.

  I pour another shot. On African pitches, Sri Lanka’s bowling attack looks particularly pedestrian. Cullinan, Cronje and Kallis help themselves to runs. ‘This is buffet bowling. Help yourself,’ says the Yorkshireman in the commentary box, reading my thoughts.

  The creditors representing ITL sue SwarnaVision for violation of copyright. SLBCC sue SwarnaVision for unauthorised use of images. All live shows are confiscated by the court. All revenues are frozen.

  On TV, Muralitharan is the only bowler who is testing the batsmen. What a bowler he has blossomed into. His wrist flapping in the wind, unleashing curling deliveries that drop just out of the batsman’s reach and turn at impossible angles.

  I have spent the morning checking my books. As far as I can ascertain he is the only wrist-spinning off-spinner in the history of the game. While he may not quite have the genius of Mathew, he appears to have a discipline over his art that eluded Mathew. Even though his career had some overlap with Pradeep’s, sadly, we are unable to interview him for our articles.

  ‘What a bloody pigsty.’ Sheila enters and grabs the glass from me. ‘Gamini. It’s 9.30 in the morning.’

  She is right. It is too early in the morning for a domestic row.

  ‘Very nice. Now your documentary is over, you’re just going to sit around drinking. Is that your plan?’

  ‘Sheila, leave me alone, I’m tired.’

  ‘Today the powercut will be six hours. Enough time for you to drink. Come, let’s tidy up this mess.’

  ‘I don’t know what y’all are writing.’ Sheila is filing Ari’s diagrams and dusting the shelves. I am collecting empty crockery. Glasses outnumber plates by 4 to 1.

  ‘What happened to your book?’

  ‘It’s been shelved,’ I murmur.

  In forty-five minutes the room looks liveable again. I give Sheila a hug, she pushes me away.

  ‘Aney, brush your teeth, men. Smell like a tavern.’

  We do not mention last night’s argument, which had me sleeping in the office room. Garfield had sent a letter. His contract in Switzerland was being extended. He was getting married to a Swiss girl named Adriana.

  The boy would end up a performing monkey with zebra-coloured children. Another failure to add to my trophy cupboard. With the money from the World Cup all but over, I discontinue running the classified ad.

  I spend the next few days slumped in my chair, watching the so-called World Champions being outplayed by Hansie Cronje’s men. There have been rumours of corruption and match-fixing in South Africa, though it is hard to believe, judging from this polished South African performance.

  Images flash across my face. My eyes droop. I do a cost–benefit analysis of walking to the wine store vs lying here thirsty. And then Ari bursts in and tells me that Jonny has been arrested.

  Inside a Rambutan

  Jabir’s trishaw arrives from Dehiwela and takes us south on Galle Road.

  ‘How much are you drinking, Wije? Sheila is very worried. Me and Manouri as well.’

  I have agreed to associate with Ari since he gave up booze on the condition that he doesn’t try to convert me. He is about to give me an I-have-seen-the-light speech.

  ‘Wije. I have seen the light …’

  ‘You will see stars soon, if you don’t shut it.’

  Neither of us discuss Jonny, the charges, or the possibility of his guilt. We have known him for almost twenty years. That is all we need to know.

  At the Moratuwa cop shed, Jabir tries the back door, Ari tries the front.

  But no favours are being offered. Jabir reports that the suddha was arrested last night.

  Ari calls DIG Raban, an old Thomian. I watch Ari’s tone simmer and his body language atrophy. The news appears bad. Ari hangs up and shakes his head. ‘Three different boys around Moratuwa have brought complaints. All are under sixteen. The bail hearing is tomorrow.’

  We and the lawyer are the only ones in the court on Jonny’s side. Though at times I am not even sure about the lawyer. No one from the High Commission shows. Bail is set at Rs 50,000, which the lawyer has managed to raise. Ari and I sign for the defendant.

  Jabir helps us jostle the crowd. A crowd who are hooting and jeering. A rotten guava hits Jonny on the side of the head and the police jump in with their batons.

  ‘Good arm, whoever threw that,’ smirks Jonny.

  ‘Must’ve been Jonty Rhodes,’ I say.

  The first words he says when we climb into the lawyer’s car are ‘Ari, WeeGee, I didn’t do what they say I did.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ says the lawyer. ‘Even if you did do it, they can’t just arrest you like that.’

  Ari and I sit in silence as the lawyer advises how to set about the trial.<
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  ‘Does it have to go to trial?’ asks Ari.

  ‘Of course, Uncle. Child abuse is not a joke. Especially by a foreigner.’

  Jonny gazes out of the window. Arms on his drooping belly. ‘The foreign service fired me. Do I have a case for wrongful dismissal?’

  ‘Otherwise? Of course you do, Mr Gilhooley.’

  ‘Why don’t you leave the country for a little?’ I ask.

  ‘Court has his passport,’ says the lawyer.

  We drop Jonny in Bolgoda. We offer to stay with him, but he says he prefers to be alone. Ari hugs him, the lawyer hugs him. I shake his hand. Dark thoughts accompany me home. All the good in the world you can fit inside a rambutan. And still have enough room for you and me.

  Joy

  The match is on and there is no powercut. Ari sips tea as I find the bottle I had hidden behind my Wisden Almanacks.

  ‘You think he did it, no?’ asks Ari.

  ‘Has he ever talked about women since we’ve known him?’

  I begin clearing the floor of notes from the previous months.

  ‘Jonny doesn’t talk about anything except cricket and Newcastle United. That doesn’t mean he’s a homo.’

  ‘I will support him.’

  ‘So will I.’

  Ari joins in the clearing. Some paper napkins fall from a folder that Ari is shelving. They are in Ari’s handwriting and we both recognise them.

  ‘I say. You kept those napkins from when I hammered Newton?’

  I nod with a grin. I have bus tickets from 1963, when I was courting Sheila. I have notes passed in class at Maliyadeva in the 1950s. Throwing away is something I do reluctantly.

  ‘Gamini. Phone call.’ She is looking sternly at me. ‘Now speak nicely.’

  I take the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Thaathi.’

  ‘Hello. So how are things?’

  ‘Going well. Working …’

  ‘Do you need money? Is that why you’re calling?’

  Pause.

  ‘No. Do you?’

  ‘Ammi says you’re getting married?’

  ‘I got married this morning.’

  ‘Is she pregnant?’