The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (18 page)

I let my gaze wander. Three separate practices are overlapping on this modest ground. Newton is keeping wickets to a young girl bowling surprisingly competent medium pace. The Bloomfield 1st team is having a net session. I recognise the captain, Villavarayen.

The clubhouse is not as regal as the SSC. It has neither the heritage nor the ostentation nor the visible trophy cabinet. I have a cutting of my
Observer
classified ad.

‘Do you mind if I paste this on your notice board?’

‘Have to actually get permission, but go ahead. Shouldn’t be a problem.’

I take one last glance at the coaching list. One name leaps out.

‘Does Asiri Ranasinghe still work for the club?’

The secretary closes the book and shakes his head. ‘That fellow we gave enough and more chances. Always bloody drunk. He got sacked last month.’

I see Newton Rodrigo leading the women off the field and decide it’s a good time to lead Ari home.

Sri Lanka is considered the land of long names, long waits and long promises. But, contrary to popular belief, most pages of Colombo’s phone book are taken up by shorter Portuguese derivatives like de Silva, Perera and Fernando.

That said, Sri Lanka has also produced leg spinner Ellewelle-kankanage Asoka de Silva and Kurunegala first-class player A.R.R.A.P.W.R.R.K.B. Amunugama. I was going to type out his entire name, but life is too short, mine especially.

When a New Zealand journo, with a nose resembling the beak of his national bird, asked me why Lankans have long names, I told him I would rather have a long name than a long nose. He replied he’d rather have a long you-know-what. Such is the insightful cricketing analysis that goes on in the press box.

As Kiwi journo whinges on, I point out that John Wright could be pronounced Jo-Ha-Na Wa-Ri-Ga-Ha-Ta, but that our Sri Lankan names regardless of length are pronounced as they are spelled.

Most Sinhalese and some Tamil names follow the adjective–noun formation:

The only nation that can rival us for name length is Thailand. In contrast to our adjective–noun formulae, names like Thaksinatra-kulyingyong appear to be harbouring full-blown sentences.

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.

‘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.

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.

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.

‘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.

*  *  *

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 who ed your ing mother.’

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:

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.