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The Legend of Pradeep Mathew

Page 29

by Shehan Karunatilaka


  Sheila and Kusuma tell me that rats are disease-carrying vermin and that squirrels are nature’s little gatherers. But these are not true reasons. We post-justify our prejudice. We respond to rats with revulsion as we do to certain people, without any idea why. We gravitate towards humans with bushier tails for reasons we cannot fathom. Punchipala may get away with murder, while my friend Jonny may be falsely accused of it.

  Ari plays me a spool of an Indian batsman complaining to the umpire that the crowd is shining mirrors at his eyes. The umpire’s response is clear and his voice is somewhat familiar. ‘Play on. This is not Calcutta.’ The sound quality breaks up and we hear a young Sri Lankan voice insisting that the umpire apologise to the batsman. Ari claims the voice belongs to Pradeep Mathew. I am sceptical. We hear the Skipper’s voice asking the bowler to shut up. The spool is marked ‘Indya test seris 85’.

  Pradeep Mathew was perhaps more rat than squirrel. Not so much the polecat beast that roams our roof, but more akin to the grey kitchen mouse that no one fears, but no one wants to touch. The world mistook his shyness for contempt and misinterpreted his passion as belligerence.

  There have been many times in my life when I have wished I was more of a squirrel. These days I’m glad I’m not.

  Match Over

  England reach 445 and Sri Lanka lose Atapattu and Jayawardena before the day is done. The lawyer tells us that it’s match over. Jonny is being charged with six counts of sexual assault and will be held indefinitely till the High Commission responds.

  The lawyer tells us that sometimes the police will negotiate with the High Commission and for the right price could be convinced to drop the charges, provided the culprit leaves the country. Embassies usually comply, depending on the severity of the crime and the potential for embarrassment.

  The lawyer speaks like a law book.

  ‘In light of the fact that the British High Commission relinquished a substantial sum of unemployment compensation to our client, it is doubtful they will part with more funds.’

  ‘Can’t you pay off the cops with the severance money?’

  ‘Mr Karunasena, this is no longer merely about money. If so, it would be already settled. But six different victims, claiming mental and physical trauma. The allegations are serious. Only diplomatic pressure could save him.’

  ‘But he is innocent.’

  ‘Of course. But there is the record to consider.’

  ‘What record?’

  He tells me Jonny has been deported from Thailand and Indonesia for possession of marijuana. That records have been suppressed till recently. He tells me of a strong nationalist lobby, rallying against foreigners who buy land in Sri Lanka and turn slices of our coast and slivers of our hills into holiday homes and boutique hotels. Jonny’s case will help the ‘Suddhas go home’ brigade.

  Many of them are spiritual descendants of Sinhala Buddhist leader Anagarika Dharmapala, who at the turn of the century stated without irony to a crowd at Mattakkuliya that ‘an effigy of a white man should be made of plantain stems, dressed in trousers and placed before each house and beaten in the presence of children’.

  I put the phone down and share the news with Ari. Ari reaches for the Scotch.

  This time it is I who does the restraining.

  ‘What the hell …’

  ‘Just one, Wije. To calm the nerves.’

  ‘If you have one, I will have ten.’

  ‘I’ll only have one.’

  ‘I’ll only have ten.’

  He snorts and lets me put the bottle away.

  ‘OK. OK. Take it away. Come, let’s sit.’

  Ari cups his hands and prepares for a speech.

  ‘Wije, I have something shocking to tell you.’

  ‘Haven’t we had enough shocks for the day?’

  The Yorkshireman is on Jonny’s TV and is comparing Sri Lanka’s bowling to an ‘Ilford 2nd XI’. Ari turns it off and looks me in the face.

  ‘I’m afraid to say that Jonny … is a homosexual.’

  I try not to smile.

  Ari’s Plan

  I love Sheila more than she knows. I love her shrieking voice, her penguin-like waddle, her olive skin, her flopsy boobs and her boundless kindness. I loved her on that bus to Kotahena. Asleep on my shoulder on that train to Badulla. In the back of that taxi cradling baby Garfield. For the years she put up with me. For the years she left me alone.

  But when I see Danila Guneratne in a short skirt, my loins are kindled. Desire from my groin spreads to my limbs. If she offered herself to me, there would be little hesitation.

  Men have no control over what quickens their pulses or hardens their pricks. We do not know when or where lust will strike and we are powerless to its tyranny. We build religions and elaborate social laws to stifle these appetites. Not all of them succeed.

  Jonny has been my friend since Sri Lanka won test status, since the ’82 soccer World Cup. Ari and I have never known him to be anything other than gentle and generous.

  ‘Wije. Who knows what goes through a man’s head when the lights are out? How can we know?’

  ‘He’s not a paedophile, Ari.’

  ‘The boys were aged between fourteen and nineteen.’

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  ‘That’s what the police said.’

  ‘Have you told Manouri?’

  ‘Are you mad? She would ban me from associating with him.’

  ‘I suggest we tell no one.’

  ‘I agree. But what do we do?’

  ‘We must talk to the families.’

  ‘The victims?’

  ‘Don’t call them that.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘This was consensual sex. He must’ve paid them. They must’ve come willingly. He’s not a rapist. Let’s convince them. Maybe even offer some money.’

  ‘There is no such thing as consensual sex with a fourteen-year-old.’

  ‘OK. Tell me your plan?’

  ‘My plan,’ says Ari, ‘is for you to talk to your Kuga.’

  Willey

  Peter Willey, international umpire and former England batsman, was involved in two infamous commentary moments. Neither is apocryphal. When he caught Dennis Lillee off the bowling of Graham Dilley, the scorebook read ‘Lillee ct Willey b Dilley’. When he faced Michael Holding in 1976, commentary legend Brian Johnston innocently uttered the words, ‘The bowler’s Holding, the batsman’s Willey.’

  Wiggling My Ears

  I can move my ears without touching them. I discovered this skill in the playground as a child. I don’t know how I do it. I just empty my mind, flex my scalp muscles and wiggle like a rabbit.

  It is my party trick, though the last time I went for a party was when Ronald Reagan was in office.

  According to Reggie Ranwala, Mathew was triple-jointed. He could reach behind his right hip and remove his sweater with his left hand. He could open a bottle of Fanta with two bent fingers and a thumb. He could touch his elbow with his middle finger. Without these deformities, the floater, the skidder and the double bounce ball would not exist.

  Sri Lanka produces freaks. Our jungles have been graced by white elephants, golden frogs and blue leopards, though I possibly made that last one up. Our towns are blessed with men who can hang from hooks, women who walk on fire and midgets who record cricket matches.

  Aluminium Bat

  In the 1978 Ashes, Dennis Lillee used an aluminium bat at a time when nothing in the rule book stipulated the bat had to be made from wood. Opposing captain Mike Brearley complained that the ball was going out of shape. To which Lillee retorted, ‘Then maybe you should change the f****** ball.’

  Maiden

  An over in which no runs are scored. The phrase ‘bowling a maiden over’ remains one of cricket’s most overused and unfunniest puns.

  Newspapers

  The bail hearing is set for two weeks. Only relatives and lawyers are allowed to see the prisoner. Ari and I spend days staring into space. We no longer talk of innocence, only of
friendship. The offence carries a twenty-five-year sentence.

  Sheila brings in the tea and the papers. She knows very little. ‘Look at these bakamoonas. Face like a papol. I thought Sri Lanka won the test match.’

  ‘But Newcastle lost to Arsenal,’ says Ari, the quick thinker.

  ‘Now y’all are following football, is it?’ She appears in a good mood. I ignore her and share the Sunday papers with Ari. I take the sports, Ari takes the news, Sheila takes the classifieds.

  My paper is still gloating over Sri Lanka’s historic win and talks of us becoming world test champions by the year 2000. There is an announcement of the building of a ground in Dambulla to mark the five-year death anniversary of Minister Tyronne Cooray, patron saint of Sri Lankan cricket.

  Sheila giggles. ‘Look at these people. “Attractive Educated Buddhist Govigama Female, looking for foreign gentleman, 45+, working in Canada/USA/Australia. No fools please.”’

  ‘When I fall in love, it will be for visa,’ croons Ari.

  ‘“35 years. Good looks. Tamil Virgin bride seeks same. Dentists preferred.”’ Sheila laughs. ‘She has a hope and a half.’

  ‘You’re looking for brides for Garfield?’

  ‘No. Just. Garfy is together again with Adriana. Little Jimi is talking now.’

  I’d like to think our son named my grandson after the great Jim Laker, though somehow I doubt it.

  ‘It says here that powercuts are going to start again,’ says Ari. ‘Maybe they will replay our documentary.’

  The print quality of our papers has improved in inverse proportion to the quality of the writing. Sportswriting these days is a string of clichés and spelling mistakes. I note with amusement that Newton has started a column on the women’s cricket World Cup. It is as unreadable as that sport is unwatchable. I put down the paper and sip some tea.

  Right then Sheila and Ari say ‘My God’ at the same time. Her shriek and his croak are almost harmonised. I thought these things only happen in those bad films I used to not watch at the New Olympia. Being the Thomian gentleman and all, Ari lets Sheila speak first.

  ‘Dulcie has died.’ Sheila explains that Dulcie was her classmate who got married to Bunchy and then got divorced and then worked in a shop at Vilasitha and then married the boss and then went to Zambia and came back with an accent and three children.

  We nod sympathetically.

  ‘She was married to your Elmo Tawfeeq’s wife’s cousin.’

  I let her hand me the paper and I let my gaze fall upon it.

  ‘Shall we go for the funeral, Wije?’ she asks.

  ‘Why would I go for Elmo’s cousin’s wife’s funeral? I wouldn’t even go to Elmo’s.’

  ‘I’m going to go with Manouri,’ grunts Sheila.

  She gathers the tea tray and departs.

  Ari places his paper in my lap, just as something else catches my eye: Political thug dies in prison.

  I ignore this and look at Sheila’s obituary. Ari snorts in annoyance as his paper falls to my feet.

  ‘Are you blind, Wije? Listen to this.’

  While he reads his article, I do not take my eyes off the obituary column.

  Government sources reveal that I.E. Kugarajah, aka ‘Kuga’, convicted LTTE collaborator linked to the deaths of Brigadier Clancy Kobbekaduwa and Minister Lalith Dissanayake, died while serving the fifth year of a life sentence. In 1996 the LTTE attempted unsuccessfully to negotiate terms for his release. Cause of death is still unknown. (Reuters)

  I stare at my friend, realizing that all three of us have been excited over different things.

  ‘That wasn’t in the obituaries,’ says Ari.

  ‘No, it wasn’t.’

  Right then the phone rings. I know that it will be the owner of a white van long before I pick it up.

  Unsung

  The same part of our heart that warms to the underdog should spare some affection for the unsung hero. The defender who assists the goal scorer. The stock bowler who props up the wicket taker. The nightwatchman who scores nothing and saves the game.

  I have a favourite unsung hero and it is not P.S. Mathew. Neither is it M.J.M. Laffir, World Billiards Champion 1973, who lived in poverty and died in obscurity. It is another forgotten Lankan sportsman. His name is Kumar Anandan.

  Before his death in 1984, attempting to swim the English Channel, V.S.K. Anandan held world records for:

  Swimming the Palk Strait in 51 hours (1971)

  Twist Dancing for 128 hours (1978)

  Balancing on one foot for 33 hours (1979)

  Treading Water for 80 hours (1981)

  Walking non-stop for 159 hours (1981)

  159 hours non-stop walking amounts to 296 miles covered over six days. If Mathew’s story adds years to my life, I will one day tell Anandan’s as well. Sheila brings in my shirts, washed and ironed. She sees the last sentence and strokes my hair. ‘Careful, Gamini,’ she says. ‘One donkey at a time.’

  Obituary

  Sivanathan, Sivali (1927–1998)

  Wife of the late Muhundan. Loving mother of Sabi and Pradeepan. Beloved grandmother of Ram, Raj and Rakil. Sister of Mathew, Shashi and Thangu. Cortège for Borella Kanatte leaves 4.30 from 31 Daham Mawatha, Kadalana, Moratuwa. No flowers.

  That was what had caught my attention, though I have to admit, Ari’s was the bigger find. He looks pleased that he finally has my attention and follows me to the phone. When I pick it up it is not the voice I expect.

  ‘Kuga wants you to go to the funeral.’

  ‘Whose?’

  ‘Pradeep’s mother’s. The address is …’

  ‘I have it. It’s in the papers.’

  ‘Kuga asked me to make you write it down.’

  Even the underworld has its sticklers. I let Kalu Daniel spell each syllable even though my hand goes nowhere near a pen.

  ‘After the funeral, you are to report to Fort Railway Station tomorrow morning at 8.’

  ‘Is Kuga dead?’

  Click.

  Traffic

  ‘You are mad,’ says Ari in Jabir’s trishaw. ‘What are you planning on doing?’

  ‘Observing. What else?’

  ‘Observing for what? Wije, you were the one who told me not to get carried away with being a detective.’

  Just past the Katubedda market, the traffic slows down to 12 metres an hour. Then around Tower Cinema, it grinds to a halt. I used to spend some mornings at the 10.30 show, drinking in the dark amid panting couples, planning my day’s articles. The movies were mostly Sinhala soft porn with titles like Bala Kaamaya (Power Lust), Mamath Gaaniyak (I Am Woman) and the rape–revenge saga Agey Vairaya (Her Fury) and its seven sequels.

  Ari believes this is the reason I have no appreciation of good cinema. Jabir gets out of his three-wheeler and surveys the column of metal boxes shining in the heat.

  ‘Bloody cops. Must be some election rally. Wije sir, Ari sir. You didn’t bring any bombs, no?’

  Ari says he left his at home and I ponder that in precisely fifteen minutes schools will open and we will be flooded by impatient white vans.

  ‘It seems they have found bombs in Vihara Maha Devi Park,’ says Jabir.

  ‘Can’t take New Galle Road?’ asks Ari.

  ‘I think that’s where the rally is.’

  The traffic starts to move. By the time we reach the junction, the police have stopped the security check and are waving us through.

  ‘If Pradeep Mathew is alive, would he go to the funeral of his only surviving parent?’

  ‘I doubt.’

  ‘So why are we going?’

  ‘Because tomorrow I meet Kuga.’

  ‘Kuga is dead.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  The white cloth draped over power poles tells us we are close to the funeral house. We ask Jabir to wait nearby as we get down; he says he wants to come in for some funeral rice. Cheap steel chairs line the pavement. We follow them and the direction of the chatter.

  ‘Ari,’ I say. ‘The only way
I can ask him to do something for Jonny is if I do something for him.’

  My friend smiles. ‘Why didn’t you say so? Come, let’s go observe.’

  Funeral House

  The first priority is to enter unobserved. This is not difficult for two old men at the funeral of an old lady. We blend in deftly, especially since I talked Ari out of wearing any headgear. Like the rest of the garden’s population, we are clad in white. Ari’s shirt is ironed and tucked into his belt. I wear an open-necked kurta. It bounces off my newly acquired belly.

  Sri Lankans generally have their wakes at home. They usually begin as solemn affairs with early visitors walking past the brass lamp with its flickering wicks, bowing at the open casket and sitting outside on metal chairs, condoling with relatives. Once the body has cooled and crowds have arrived, tongues loosen and gossip ensues.

  The maliciousness of this gossip is directly proportional to the distance from the casket and the bereaved. Ari and I take seats behind a herd of old ladies in white saris. Their conversation drops in volume at our approach. They are of the age where fat is beginning to turn into skin.

  I exaggerate my dependency on my cane. Ari wears his sister’s hearing aid and pretends to adjust it. They decide we are harmless and continue their chatter. Like most women whose husbands have slid into senility, they no longer take men very seriously.

  ‘The son is not coming?’

  ‘I heard he is in Australia.’

  ‘I heard New Zealand.’

  ‘I heard he was dead.’

  ‘No. No. He. married a Sinhalese.’

  ‘That’s even worse.’

  ‘What was his job? Didn’t study even.’

  ‘Some sports something.’

  A servant girl holds a tray of drinks to us. The choice is between Necto and Lanka Lime. One is red, one is green. Both taste like food colouring. We take one each and survey the rest of the crowd. They are mostly dark and Tamil-looking. The men are dark and moustached and the women coffee coloured and pottu-ed.

 

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