It is on the third day that I find the cupboard under the stairs. In it is a pettagama, an ebony chest with carving. It is too heavy for us to move, but we both know what it contains. We apply the smallest from a bundle of keys the lawyer gave us. It opens immediately.
I look to Ari. ‘What do we do?’
He does not answer me, but walks down the hall with a smile. As I open up the chest and marvel at its treasure, the cupboard’s cobwebs make me cough. I put a handkerchief to my lips and point my pen-torch along the open pettagama. Ari wanders in with two ice-filled glasses; I recognise them from the expensive crockery pile.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
He smiles. ‘Buggered if I am going to let these fall into the hands of some sarong johnnie at customs. Will you have the Chivas or a single malt Glenlivet?’
‘Single malt. But just one.’
‘Just one,’ says Ari, his face taking on a solemn look. ‘Just for Jonny.’
‘For Jonny.’
Neither of us are fond of Scotch. The shots, Ari’s first in three years, my first in seventeen months, thirteen days and eight hours, are so stiff that they bring tears to our eyes. Tears that do not stop flowing.
Jonny’s funeral is well attended by many Europeans who we do not know. An Irish lady called Morag introduces herself as the cultural secretary; she offers to help us ship his belongings.
It takes us seven days to put Jonny’s life into boxes. Morag brings in two workmen to do the heavy lifting. We tell no one about the pettagama in the cupboard under the stairs. The day before we are to hand over the keys is the 1999 World Series final. Of course Sri Lanka did not make it; we lost five of our remaining six games. I suggest, Ari agrees.
‘For Jonny.’
‘For Newcastle.’
‘Ah?’
‘They’re playing Spurs in an FA Cup quarter on the same night.’
‘So?’
‘They never disconnected Jonny’s cable. He’s paid a year in advance.’
Ari laughs. ‘Typical. But you must promise. After tonight we give everything away and do not touch it again.’
‘Scout’s honour.’
And so it is that we spend that Saturday flipping between games, sipping every possible Glen. We mix Glenlivet with Glenfiddich, Glenburgie with Glenmorangie, GlennHoddle with GlennMcGrath.
As Aspirilla equalises for Newcastle, we talk about what we didn’t find among Jonny’s belongings. No letters, no photos, no bills, no diaries. Either the lawyers have taken everything or he had nothing to hide.
We tell our wives we are staying over and drink till we collapse. We drink a million toasts to our friend, to Bolgoda, to the mighty Geordies, to the losing Englishmen. Each toast tasting sweeter than the last. And then, silently sprawled in separate rooms, we shed a few more tears.
The next morning Ari keeps his word. The rest of the bottles are donated to Manouri’s Easter Raffle, all except one. The Johnny Walker Silver Label Arrack that I had seen in one place before and had abstained from tasting. I find it while stumbling to the toilet at 4 a.m., slip it into my bag, and go back to sleep. This is one of those many drunken stupidities that I may choose not to remember.
If I Met Mathew
What would I do? Ask for an autograph? Present him with my book? Ask him what he thinks of the current side? Ask him if he ever won Shirali back? Ask if the stories about kadale and South Africa were true?
If I am fortunate to ever meet him, the only thing I would want to do is shake his hand, bow my head, and say, ‘Thank you.’
Horse Thieves
The day after the Emerson game the Island publishes a record of criminals who had been deported to Australia in the last century. Each has an unfamiliar first name, but a famous last one.
Patrick Emerson, Horse Thief (1788)
Robert Hair, Debtor (1792)
John Taylor, Manslaughter (1777)
Mervyn Chappell, Horse Thief (1844)
William Warne, Horse Thief, Murder (1821)
Joseph McGrath, Assault, Debtor (1833)
Thomas Martyn, Highway Robbery (1811)
Samuel Healy, Rapist (1842)
Edwin McDermott, Murder, Rape, Horse Thief (1799)
Francis Reiffel, Robber, Rapist (1852)
Stuart Law, Horse Thief (1823)
The article is written by my good friend T.M.K. Clementine and titled ‘Cheating is in Australia’s Blood’. I find it quite amusing, but Ari does not.
‘Wije, sometimes I am ashamed to be a Lankan. As if our ancestors were any better.’
‘It’s a joke, Uncle.’
‘What is a joke is that they are now changing the rules to accommodate the bending of the elbow.’
‘Exactly, Putha. They have scientifically proven that even the McDermotts and the Reiffels bend. If 5 degrees is illegal, everyone is illegal.’
‘How can you change a rule book because of one bowler?’
‘If you can’t change rules, Lillee will still be using the aluminium bat.’
‘That’s completely different, Wije.’
‘Anyway, the whites have been writing the rules for centuries. It’s time we added ours.’
‘But not like this.’
‘Everywhere else you are innocent till proven guilty. Murali shouldn’t have to prove his innocence. ICC should prove his guilt.’
Ari grunts and walks out with his newspaper. Unlike Ranatunga, he does not stop at the boundary.
Reggie Ranwala
The Sunday Observer reruns the ad. Don’t ask me why, I haven’t paid them a red cent extra. It is a mistake, a bank error in my favour, proof perhaps that the tide is turning. Almost two years after I stopped running it, it appears out of nowhere and I get a further barrage of calls.
Most respondents tell me about the Asgiriya test or about the Sharjah performance or about how he won Bloomfield the Cup in ’93. I mention names like Kuga, Newton and Shirali and get no reaction. I tell most of them that they do not have any information that I am willing to pay for, but they are welcome to drop in at my house for a tea and a chat. That usually scares them off.
With Reggie Ranwala, I agree to travel all the way to Panadura at my expense. That is not because he remembers me winning Ceylon Sportswriter of the Year four times. I tell him it was twice, but he insists it was four times. Not because of this, but because of one thing he says just as I am about to cut the line. ‘Mr Karunasena. I don’t know where Pradeep Mathew is. But I can tell you how he took NZ$278,000 from Sri Lanka cricket.’
Beer and Pie
Craig Turner took over the captaincy from Martin Crowe in the mid-90s. Crowe was New Zealand’s greatest batsman. He would have stood toe to toe with any of the Laras or Tendulkars of his era, had he not been painted by his country’s media as a ‘tall poppy’ and a ‘tortured genius’.
Crowe was an Aucklander who drank fine wine in fine restaurants with his fine wife and appeared in women’s magazines modelling Armani. Despite his batting prowess and leading New Zealand’s Young Guns to an unlikely World Cup semi-final in 1992, he fell out of favour with management and the public and was replaced by that lad of lads, Craig Turner.
Perhaps aware of his journeyman talents, and that his scruffy hair and hook nose were unlikely to win him Armani contracts, Turner famously said in a press conference, ‘Crowe is a wine-and-cheese man, I’m more of a beer-and-pie man.’ The press were pleased to see a good ole Kiwi bloke at the helm of New Zealand sport. Many were sick of those poofs from Auckland.
Turner was captain when Sri Lanka toured in 1995. He led the sledging against the tourists and was so flabbergasted at Murali’s action that he mimicked it on the field to the roar of the crowd.
Early on in the tour, Turner hurled the ball at shaky opener Duleep Samaraweera who, well in his crease, leapt in the air to avoid it. The ball hit the stumps, TV replays revealing that both Samaraweera’s feet were off the ground and that therefore, technically, he was out. Sri Lankan supporters, expecting Turner to c
all back the batsman, booed and hooted when he didn’t.
The one-day series went to New Zealand, who won the first two games. At Eden Park, in the last game of the tour, with Sri Lanka in command, Turner came out to bat. The first ball from Gamage he defended. Aravinda de Silva raced in from cover and hurled it at Turner’s chest.
‘I was there when Pradeep suggested it to the seniors,’ says Reggie, pouring me a lager. ‘They all thought it was a great idea. Even the Captain.’
An over later, Turner pushed out to mid-off, where Pushpakumara sped in and threw the ball at Turner’s head. Beer-and-pie language followed and even though Turner managed to get 30, he never got away from the hurl of missiles, each done with a massive grin, much to the crowd’s delight and the Kiwi captain’s chagrin.
‘Pradeep said he would personally give his gratuity cheque to whoever ran out Turner that way. Pukka fellow, no?’
Mathew didn’t play on that tour, not even a practice game. The series was not only Sri Lanka’s first victorious overseas tour, it was also Pradeep Mathew’s last public appearance.
Ari’s Blasphemy
‘1996 was luck. We beat crap teams like Zimbabwe, Kenya and England, then beat India and the Aussies. We avoided the in-form teams. Most of our games were at home. We have never been able to string together six consecutive wins outside of Sri Lanka, either before or since.’
I advise Ari not to voice that in public. He might get buriyani shoved into his eyes.
Rules
Rules are many things, but arbiters of fairness they are not. At most they provide a little shape, dispense a little meaning, and put a young boy in Karachi and an old man in Wollongong on the same page.
Rules separate Rugby Union from Rugby League from American football. In my opinion, only one of them is worth staying up for. Hint: not the ones that use shoulder pads.
Rules are responsible for why some racket sports draw crowds and others draw yawns. Follow this logic:
In table tennis, you switch service every 5 points and race to 21.
In badminton, you fight for service. Only service can grant you points.
In tennis, four units of 15 constitute a game. Games accumulate into sets.
The very design of a game establishes opportunities for drama. A tiebreaker, the racket sport’s devil dance of one-upmanship, occurs once in a set of TT (at the end), but may occur several times in a game of tennis. In badminton, it can potentially occur with every point.
Rules explain why TT is considered boring; tennis, entertaining; and badminton, tedious. It has nothing to do with ping-pong vs ball vs shuttle.
Rules explain why Andre Agassi dates supermodels. Rules explain why World Badminton Champion Peter Rasmussen and World TT Champion Jan-Ove Waldner do not have perfumes named after them.
New Zealand rugby cricket and basketball teams are respectively called the All Blacks, the Black Caps and the Tall Blacks. The New Zealand badminton team call themselves the Black Cocks. (This is not a joke, look it up.)
When asked why by the press, the NZ badminton chief shrugged and replied that in fifteen years of holding that post, he had never seen a journalist. Since the rebranding, he has seen over twenty. As the Americanos would say, go and figure.
Sunset
‘I know you’re drinking again.’
It is a crow-filled morning. I am at the tail end of my day’s writing, readying myself for my afternoon slumber.
‘What rot are you talking? I haven’t touched the stuff since … I can’t remember.’
‘You think I don’t know why you shower at six in the morning and gargle Listerine three times a day? You think I’m a ponytail Chinaman?’
‘Because I’m hygienic, I must be boozing? Aney, get out, men.’
‘I have lived with you for thirty-five years. When have you ever been hygienic? You stayed off it for a year. What happened?’
‘My friend Jonny died.’
‘Gamini, I will give you a slap.’
‘OK. It’s all my fault. I’m weak.’
She sits down and strokes the back of my neck. I look down at my Jinadasa and punch some keys.
‘I have to write, Sheila.’
I think I prefer it when she is shouting and throwing things. Then I can beat her with logic and wit.
‘This last year has been very tough for me, Sheila. How can you understand?’
The slap is sudden and it rattles my dentures.
‘I don’t understand? Who has to explain to your brothers? Who has to bring up your son? Who has to wait till you write your big masterpiece? You’re the mad man who doesn’t understand.’
I hold my cheek and retort, ‘Has anyone seen me drinking? Has anyone found a bottle in this house?’
Sheila looks across my desk, picks up one of Ari’s drawings and frowns at it.
‘Gamini. Lie to yourself if you like. I know why you work in the middle of the night. Why you take the route past the rubbish on your morning walks. Why you are suddenly washing your own teacups.’
I close my typewriter, knowing that there will be no more work for the day.
‘Ari is Sherlock. Now you are Miss Marple? After all I have gone through, this is the accusation? And you physically abuse an innocent man. A drop has not even touched my …’
‘Ari told Manouri that y’all got drunk at that Jonny’s house.’
The bloody fool. I cannot help that his testicles reside in his wife’s handbag. I will deny till I die.
‘He got drunk. I drank tea. Sheila, I’m writing my cricket book. I have no time for booze.’
She holds both my hands in her lap and leans forward. I avert my face, feigning indignation and offence, half-expecting another slap.
‘If you want, keep lying,’ she says. ‘I just want one thing from you.’
‘Then will you let me go?’
‘Of course. I want us to sit and discuss this. You and me. One hour. No typewriters.’
‘When?’
‘Today sunset. Right after your nap. The only time of day that you are sober. We’ll go to the beach. No one will shout. No one will throw things. If we are to let you drink yourself to death, let us at least have discussed it like adults beforehand.’
‘I’m sober now.’ Deny till you die. ‘We can go for a walk now.’
She places a kiss on my cheek and smiles. ‘Maybe you will need to think about what you’re going to say to me.’ She clears the cups from my desk. ‘I’ll see you at 5.30.’
The Level
There is a theory that drunks are plagued by thirsty ghosts who wander purgatory seeking earthly delights. Of course it is an absolve-myself-of-responsibility theory and that is probably why I like it. When alcoholics and depressives refer to demons, this is perhaps what they believe.
It is unnerving to think that the dead walk among us and are invisible, particularly if you are a curvaceous young girl about to take a bath. But it is as likely an explanation as any, if you believe in a soul, which even godless W.G. Karunasena does. When we feel despair, it is a thousand-year-old spirit cursing in our ear; when we feel craving it is a drunk apparition coaxing our tongue.
I take a bottle of Mendis Double Distilled to Reggie’s Panadura residence. It is as much to coax his tongue as it is to steady mine. His home is built on a plot of land that would be considered spacious in Colombo, except that it is bisected by an ugly wall. Two postboxes sit in opposition to each other on painted gates. R.O.B. Ranwala and A.R.L. Ranwala.
Both gates have Beware of Dog signs, though only one house appears to have canines. I approach A.R.L. because it is closest and watch as three parayas rush to the gate, barking loud enough to wake the neighbours, which is what happens. An old watcher calls out. ‘Lionel mahattaya or Reggie mahattaya?’
‘Reggie.’
‘This side.’
The wall goes through the house. On brother Lionel’s side, a second floor is being added. The dogs return to running through bamboo scaffolding. Brother Reggie’s does not appear
to have been renovated in decades.
He comes to the gate wearing a Sri Lanka cricket shirt and a Sri Lanka cricket hat and a green sarong. His eyes light up at the bottle of Mendis.
‘I have seen you somewhere before.’
‘I write for Sportstar,’ I say, handing over the bottle. I decline to mention that it was three articles, three years ago.
‘Ah. You must know Rajesh Singh.’
‘Why not? Raj is a good friend of mine. How do you know him?’
‘He was same batch as my good friend Dilip Vengsarkar.’
‘What? You know Vengsarkar?’
‘Vengsarkar’s wife and my wife are second cousins.’
‘Gurusinha is married to my aunty’s niece.’
He leads me through small rooms with red floors and too much furniture. We enter a dark room at the end of the house.
‘Ah. So must’ve seen you at the matches.’ He scrutinises the mess of typefaces on the Mendis bottle as if he is choosing a fine wine. ‘Even if I am plastered, I always remember faces.’
When he opens the curtains, I see the room is larger than I first thought. It resembles a gift shop in a Nugegoda mall selling only Sri Lankan cricket paraphernalia. In the corner, hanging in an open almirah, is every Sri Lankan cricket shirt from 1985’s canary yellow/sailor blue number to today’s multi-coloured, tea logo-branded monstrosity.
Photographs are not framed, but pasted with cellotape on walls. Each features Reggie, with his papare trumpet, a different style of Sri Lankan T-shirt and the same moustache, with his arm around Kapil, Imran, Wasim, Arjuna, Shane, Gower, Viv, Hadlee, Aravinda, Tyson, Trueman.
‘You know Graham Snow?’
‘Why not?’
‘He dedicated his latest book to me and my friend.’
‘I have lot of books, but don’t get to read, no time. Every time I start, I fall asleep. You want cricket books? My friend Elmo Tawfeeq has a tha-dang library.’
The Legend of Pradeep Mathew Page 35