The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (15 page)

*  *  *

Firecrackers and music at every corner. Dancing urchins come up and shake our hands as if we are personally responsible. All the shops are open. Except the twenty-four-hour communication ones. It takes us an hour to locate a telephone, by which time the fumes from my liver are baking the insides of my head.

First I call Jonny. He doesn’t pick up. Then I call my sister and tell her I’ll be taking them all out to lunch tomorrow. Then I call Ari.

‘Wije! Wije! Where are you?’

‘I can pay you back the money.’

‘How can you talk money, men? We did it, you bugger! We hammered the bastards!’

‘I told you Aravinda would do it.’

‘Excuse me. I only told you!’

‘Not going to sleep?’

‘I am giving up drinking after today. Let’s put a final shot.’

‘Don’t be a fool. I’ll come. I’ll bring your money.’

I cannot bring myself to call Sheila. I slump back in the red trishaw, feeling faintish. A long-haired lout in a tophat points a guitar at me from the sticker behind Jabir’s seat. The caption reads ‘The Guns and the Roses’.

Jabir has also let his hair out; his also has the texture of an old broom.

‘Jabir. It has been a pleasure to have shared this day with you. I now want you to take me to my wife.’

‘No problem, Uncle,’ he says in harmony with his tooting horn.

‘But first, one more stop.’

*  *  *

The odds weren’t as good as the Holland or UAE games. Probably because the result was harder to pick and the bookies more emotionally vested in the result. Not surprisingly, the curry house behind the Neptune was more crowded than usual. I spotted a misprint on the red cyclostyled paper. The odds of Aravinda being top scorer were inverted, paying out far more than they should. I took it as a good omen.

I had watched the semi-final in India keenly and had observed Aravinda bowling. He was in good form and the Lahore pitch might suit his gentle off breaks. I had no time for Ari’s ola leaf predictions, I jumped in with both feet. Put down Aravinda for best batsman and bowler and bet on a convincing Lankan victory (90 runs/7 wickets). Three and a half lakhs would yield returns, provided all my horses came first.

So an hour before the toss, for neither the first nor the last time, W.G. Karunasena bet with his heart and not with his head. People stared at me as I handed over the bundles of cash. ‘Aravinda best bowler? 7-wicket win? Fool,’ said the drunkard next to me. I smiled. All or nothing. I would have enough spoils to share if Sri Lanka pulled it off.

On the big day, Aravinda took 3 wickets and scored 107 not out and we got there with 7 wickets to spare. God bless Lady Luck. God bless Graham Snow. God bless the Guns and the Roses. God bless Sri Lanka.

*  *  *

Jabir cranks his radio up. His trishaw is cobwebbed and falling apart, but he has a gleaming stereo and a box speaker behind my head. I am not a fan of rocker music. I prefer Jim Reeves. From modern music I like ABBA and Shakin’ Stevens. Jonny once bought me a cassette by a singer called Meat Loaf; he said it was modern opera. It only had one good song.

On the side streets, cricket games have sprung up along the gutters. Children in baseball caps and mosque hats re-enact the glory of Lahore, watched by smiling soldiers with guns. Dancing fools, papare bands and giant TVs greet the awakening sun.

I feel euphoria. My bag is filled with more money than I can spend. I will tell everyone that it is my gratuity and not care if they believe me. Either it is a random universe and the lottery has delivered me my numbers. Or it is presided over by a deity who does not despise me as much as I thought. Either way it is good.

I will now finish my documentary. Sheila will take me back. Garfield will come home. As Meat Loaf would say, ‘Two out of three is not bad.’

Before leaving, Jabir shakes my hand. ‘I only tell this to my good friends. After today, I think you will be one of those. This scar wasn’t in a gang fight. I fell off the mat slide in Sathutu Uyana when I was small. Don’t tell anyone.’ He lets out his hyena giggle and pockets my generous tip.

So now you know how I can afford to place an ad in the Sunday papers every day for the next six months. And how I can afford, at least financially, to drink to my liver’s discontent. It is now time for us to explore the rest of the iceberg.

I fall sick straight after the victory. Delighted by the money I bring home, Sheila nurses me with love. Manouri, now my best friend, brings in roti, lunumiris and her blessings. Ari sets up the TV in my bedroom and we enjoy the afterglow of highlights and interviews. It is evident that the world shares our joy. A world that warms to underdogs and cheers those who humble Australia.

The World Champions return the next day to be greeted by Buddhist priests chanting blessings and cash rewards from Kandy’s sacred Temple of the Tooth.

‘That’s ludicrous, Wije,’ says Ari the spoilsport. ‘What if a Sri Lankan becomes world boxing champ? Will the Buddhist clergy pay him a lakh for beating a man to a pulp?’

Buddhism is a non-violent, non-materialistic philosophy everywhere, that is, except for this fair island of ours.

On the same day eighteen soldiers are killed and ten are injured in a landmine in Mallakam in the war zone up north. Almost the same number as the squad that returned from Lahore. Does the nation decide to celebrate victory or mourn the dead? What is more important, Sport or Life? Stupid question.

The same benefactors that cursed my foolishness now praise my good fortune. ‘Who knew you had so much gratuity?’ says Sheila, rubbing Tiger Balm on my brow. Brian arrives with a camera crew and a bottle of whisky that is confiscated at the door by my sweet wife. His face is everywhere, pointing microphones at anyone associated with bats or balls.

I refuse to be filmed on my sickbed. Ari attempts to give learned answers to Brian’s dumb questions. All it takes to transform Brian from a likeable chap to a rambling fool is the turning on of a camera.

‘So Mr Byrd, would you say, that, as a distinguished follower of Sri Lankan cricket, that Sri Lanka, who, as you know, are world champions, having comprehensively beaten Australia, will Sri Lanka, who are in peak form, Mr Byrd, will they do well, in the upcoming Sharjah tournament?’

‘I predict we will win every one-day tournament for the next year.’

Brian nods and smiles.

‘And then the bubble will burst. And we will fail to build on this glorious moment.’

‘CUT!’ yells Brian to his crew. ‘Uncle, you can’t say negative things.’

‘Then our friend will have to be silent,’ I croak.

‘Wije has found money to do the documentary,’ says Ari. ‘Almost nine lakhs.’

‘Ah. Superb.’ A month ago, Brian would have leapt in the air. ‘Let’s do something,’ he says, with the vagueness of a man who has much on his plate. ‘Definitely.’

Ari looks at me. ‘Wije. Let’s wait. Now too much cricket on TV. See. See.’

On Ari’s TV, Sanath Jayasuriya is diving to catch a tin of powdered milk.

I disagree. I tell him that if ever, the time is now. Brian and the camera crew pack up and leave us. ‘Get well soon, Wije,’ says Brian. ‘Definitely, we shall do something.’

Highlights are interspersed with more commercials. Murali selling life insurance. Mediocre spinner Pramodya Dharmasena holding a pot of jam and grinning. Garlanded coach Tom Whatmore selling refrigerators. World Cup reserve Charith Silva drinking a colonial brand of Ceylon tea.

‘Sha. Our Silva is also cashing in,’ I exclaim.

‘Wije, you and I played more cricket during the Cup than he did! What do you say?’

We have a laugh as the portly paceman sips tea and wobbles his head from side to side. We then watch Ravi de Mel, retired and greying, discussing the biomechanics of Murali’s action. On the other channel we see former MD Jayantha Punchipala accept a nomination for president of the SLBCC. Danila is absent from the press conference. As is the former president, who was ousted a week after delivering World Cup glory.

Sheila demands that she accompany me to my check-up. While the return of the money won me my civic rights, the upper hand in our marriage still eludes me. I relent and agree to go with her on Friday. I then make an appointment for Thursday and visit Nawasiri Hospital alone. I rue my mistake. This privatised hospital runs like a government department. I have to present my letter to reception, get it stamped by accounts and then obtain three separate results from three different departments. The results are as lucid as Ari’s hieroglyphic notebooks.

Perhaps the hospital’s aim was to source business by rendering everyone who came there ill by shunting them up and down poorly ventilated corridors. It was working.

I have to channel a doctor who is seeing his thirty-fifth patient for the day. I take number 74 and hope that Nawasiri’s chronology is as garbled as its service. I sit back and sigh. A drink would be nice. A fan would be nice. And then I notice everyone staring at me.

The nurses are giggling, the children are whispering, the sick and their minders gape in my direction. I check my zipper. It is up. I check my shirt. It is clean. I check behind me.

‘You are Mr Karuna, no?’

It is Charith Silva, career reserve and public tea drinker.

‘Ah, Charith.’ I always assume first name with young cricketers. Makes me appear closer to the pulse than I am.

‘You are with
Silumina,
no?’

‘I write for
Sportstar.’

‘Wow,’ he says, not caring. ‘Uncle, please, can I sit next to you?’

I look around. The whole hospital has stopped to stare.

His gold chains jingle. He sits down and mutters.

‘Please talk to me, Uncle. Don’t look.’

It is then that I realise that only I stand between this B-grade cricketer and an autograph stampede.

I comment on the heat and ask if he’s waiting for the doctor. He says his wife is expecting and gradually the hospital returns to normal. Aside from a few children who approach for autographs, we are not bothered.

‘Uncle, I also can’t believe. Two TV ads and I can build my house. Everyone is giving bonuses. I didn’t even do anything.’

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.

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?