The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (38 page)

‘OK. Tell me your plan?’

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

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.’

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.

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.’

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

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.

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.

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.’

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.

‘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.’

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.

I recognise no one.

‘First must serve the ladies,’ says one of the witches, giving us a sideways glance. We continue to act docile and they continue to stir their cauldron.

‘Now daughter will get bakery.’

‘Aiyo, quality is bad now. That day I bought some patties. Hopeless.’

‘The breudher was superb when Muhundan was alive.’

‘The son was at Muhundan’s funeral I remember. With some pretty girl.’

‘I remember. Here. Isn’t that the same girl?’

‘That one? Are you mad? Actually might be. Looks similar.’

‘She is some size, no?’

‘That is not her, men.’

‘Why not. Look at the face.’

We follow the direction of their attention and see Danila Guneratne with Charith Silva and a few minor cricketers whom we recognise. They surge as a unit towards the entrance that we avoided. Danila’s walk is bow-legged and duck-like and utterly captivating. Greeting them is Sabi Amirthalingam and a tall thickset man who is probably her husband. We hide our faces behind our drinks as she does a head-count of the room.

The women’s gossip turns to Sivali Sivanathan’s eldest brother and some child he fathered.

‘My hearing aid is picking up interesting things on that side,’ says Ari, getting up to leave. ‘And maybe you should talk to your girlfriend in private.’

‘Go, men. Here. Don’t let that sister see you,’ I whisper. One of the quieter ladies notices Ari’s departure.

The cricket party exit past the lamp and take seats around the middle of the garden. The enclosure is packed to capacity and noisy. The house is as small as my cottage in Mount; the balcony over our heads and the staircase leading to it look like recent additions. Danila spies me, smiles and walks over. The ladies in white fall silent.

The lamp is usually lit as soon as the body enters the house. In the distance I see only three of the eight wicks flickering.

‘Hello, Uncle,’ she says. ‘I thought I might see you here.’

‘You know the family?’

‘I’ve met them, but I was never introduced.’

Danila wears jeans and a white blouse and has her hair in a bun. She spies the aunties staring at her and gives them an icy smile.

‘How’s the writing?’

‘Very good. Do you think he’ll turn up?’