The Legend of Pradeep Mathew (52 page)

We have an OK prime minister, even if he is a Royalist, he seems to have something of a vision. He may be able to pull off a peace deal, but of course all the yakos and sarong johnnies call him a homo and a traitor. Typical Lanka.

I read your book. I think in places it is interesting, but I have to say, in places it is rubbish. You go off the topic a lot and I don’t like how you describe me or my girls. If there was so much dust in my room, why did you come in? And you make me sound like a fool, when did I wear a raincoat and a hat? You can’t just make things like that up, Wije. I don’t like my daughters being in your book. I have asked Sheila to remove that before it is published.

I’m disappointed you didn’t use all of my Neiris Uncle stories. It seems that you never believed any of them. I don’t believe your Kuga nonsense and I think you should have your fantasies about Danila somewhere else. If Sheila reads she will be upset.

Anyway. What to do now? Sheila asks if I can edit it, but what editing for a fellow like me? I turned seventy last year, had a big party. Now it seems every week there is a funeral around me. Our world is decaying, my friend, soon I may be the only remnant of it.

I’m writing to say I can’t help you with your book. And that I miss you, my old friend. Last week Newcastle beat Man United 4–3. It was the best game of football I have seen and I thought of Jonny. They say that boy’s father received a share in the Bolgoda property as compensation. He got hold of a minister to bring those charges against Jonny. Now the minister runs Jonny’s place as a guest house. I don’t know if there was truth to the allegations, though everyone seems to think there was.

Say hello to the old Geordie. I hope you and he are both well and have met Satha, W.G. Grace and Bogart. The great Don Bradman just passed over, so hope you got a book signed. If there is a Bolgoda, then save a haansi putuwa for me.

Your manuscript made me feel sad. I never knew what went on in that head of yours. If I had, I would have told you you were the most brilliant man I knew and it has been a pleasure, sir, to have spent my years with you. And you would have punched me and told me to stop behaving like a little girl.

I cannot forgive myself for making you drink at Jonny’s. If there is one thing I regret in all my years it is that.

God bless you and your cockeyed theories.

I miss them all.

The Spin Wizard

We have all undoubtedly heard of the dashing and dynamic feats of our grinning assassin, the duke of the doosra, feared the world over, named: Muralitharan, Muttiah Muralitharan. But if I were to say the name Pradeep Mathew, you would frown in perplexed stupor.

A spinner of quixotic wizardry, a bowler of daring and devilish talents, alas, discarded by the national side after ten years of lean service, many saw Pradeep Mathew as Sri Lanka’s greatest cricketer who never was. My late good friend Mr W.G. Karunasena, formerly of the
Observer,
was known to have been writing a book about the life of Mathew and his wondrous feats. Alas, Karunasena’s untimely death halted its completion. His widow reveals that the book requires heavy editing before it is published.

I met Karunasena once and he told me that Mathew had taken more wickets per game than anyone in history. According to Karuna, had he played a full career of 100 tests and say 300 ODIs, he would have finished with well over 700 and 500 wickets respectively. While I do not acquiesce with my learned friend’s fanciful speculations, I must concur that Mathew was indeed a talent worth reckoning with.

I observed this uncut diamond, this rare flower in bloom, in action for Bloomfield on many a moon. By the late 1980s, Mathew was one of the most feared bowlers on the local club circuit, having added a flipper, a darter, a skidder, a floater and the infamous double bounce ball to his varied repertoire of deliveries. But sadly, Mathew’s temperament proved erratic, impetuous and dastardly; many accused him of not being a team player.

He did in fact play four tests for Sri Lanka, but was rotated along with the likes of Anurasiri, Wijesuriya, Kalpage, Madurusinghe and de Silva. While Mathew was an effective wicket taker, he could also prove very expensive. This, coupled with his frequent clashes with management over disciplinary issues, resulted in him being sidelined.

With the world praising wunderkinds like Warne, Murali and Saqlain, one wonders what they would have said had Mathew reached his full potential.

© Elmo Tawfeeq,
Daily Views
11/07/03

My darling Gamini,

It has taken me years to read it and I am sorry but I don’t very much care for it. Ari only suggested that I do this, that I write to you. It feels strange. Sometimes I believe you watch over me, though I never know if you are happy or not.

I did as you asked. We buried you in the coconut grove by the river on the Kurunegala Estate. Bala and Sunila were very helpful and agreed to set aside this plot. I am sitting here at this moment. On the grass by your grave, looking at the land you sold.

I didn’t know I made you so unhappy, I didn’t know you thought so little of our life. Did you really think it was completely pointless? Did you think I was pointless? You never talked to me. You never listened. For what it’s worth, I have memories I will not let you spoil.

Garfield has grown into a man. He has the same spark that you used to have. He has done well for himself and plans on returning to start a business in Sri Lanka. Little Jimi lives with his mother in Geneva, but comes every other year for Christmas. I do not know if I should give them your book.

I write to say that I will always love you and that I will cherish the life that you hated, our life, Gamini. For now it is all that I have.

And to tell you about George. I have not thought of another man since you made me leave Newton all those years ago. George is a widower who comes to our church. He is a retired architect, who lived in England till his wife passed away. We have been a comfort to each other and last Sunday he asked me to marry him.

Garfield says I should ‘Go for it’. But I want to ask you. It’s hard not having you next to me, I even miss you coughing and swearing in your sleep. What should I do, Gamini? Tell me please. You always knew best, except when it came to yourself.

George has invited me to join him in Egypt. I have always wanted to see the pyramids, but I do not think I will accept this proposal. You wait, Gamini. One of these days I will take that lover like I always said. But I don’t think today is that day.

Sri Lanka is once again in a World Cup final against the Aussies. But this time we are getting our arses handed to us.

Crumpled in my bed is a chick I met last week at ClubRB who claims to have met me when I played for Kreb’s Square. I never played for Kreb’s Square, though I don’t think it matters any more. The girl is a decade younger than me and is snoring. Naked flesh peeps through the sheets, but I would much rather watch the match.

Not that I’m really that much into cricket either. I’ll watch a World Cup when it comes around, but I can’t be arsed sitting through five days of it. I prefer football or motor racing or boxing or women’s tennis.

The last two World Cup finals I saw in bars. I was backpacking in Prague when Aussie undid India in ’03. I was making deals in Rajasthan when the Aussies hammered Pakistan in ’99. If the bastards do it again, they can claim to have conquered the subcontinent over three consecutive World Cups. They can claim to have more than convincingly avenged 1996.

This World Cup has been long-winded and dull, though it did begin with the murder of a coach and with Ireland beating Pakistan. Some say that match was fixed, I am one of them. I have kept track of the tournament as I have had nothing better to do back in Sri Lanka. All my school friends are fat and married with brats, everyone else I would rather avoid.

I have nothing to do and plenty of money to do it with.

The best way to savour the 2007 final, I figured, was from the rooftop suite of Global Towers, with a bottle of vodka, a bagful of white widow and a nineteen-year-old who, till five hours ago, I had not tasted. Great plan, not-so-great execution. Whatserface doesn’t stop nattering, her voice is a synth pop song in G#dim. I turn the volume up on the TV as Gilchrist and Hayden bludgeon us out of the game. I swallow gulps of duty-free vodka and stare at the rape of our bowlers – the fearless lion Malinga transformed into a clown in a bad wig.

I have cameo-ed three times in the tall tale you have just climbed. More of a Shyamalan cameo than a Hitchcock one. I have starred under a stage name, the name my father would’ve preferred me to be known by. My friends, enemies, both my ex-wives and everyone from my childhood know me as Shehan Karunasena. Only my parents refer to me by my first name.

You saw me ask W.G. for money, though he does not mention how drunk he was or that he referred to me as a ‘lazy useless fucker’ and that is why I left the room. He also did not know that I needed the money for something that wasn’t a sound engineering course. There is enough left out of my father’s version to write a separate chronicle.

I featured again placing that ridiculous bet on West Indies vs Kenya. I have been depicted as a petulant punk and an ungrateful good-for-nothing. Not completely inaccurate. Though in my opinion the person best matching that description was the man behind the typewriter.

3 overs from the end, Bridgetown’s Kensington Park falls into darkness. Outside Colombo’s night sky begins to look as fucked-up as Armageddon. The film, not the biblical forecast.

‘What the hell’s going on?’

Whatserface is wrapping the sheets around her, but I can still see her ripe banana nipples. She is darker than my girlfriend, but less shapely. There is a crease on her cheek from where she has been laying her empty head.

‘I think Colombo’s under attack.’

She switches channels.

‘Oi. That’s the World Cup final!’

‘Chill out, rock star. I’m just checking.’

The news on RupaVision tells us that LTTE light aircraft are attacking an Air Force base outside Colombo. The army are deploying anti-aircraft tracer bullets to repel the attack. The public is urged to stay inside and away from windows.

‘Don’t stand there,’ says Whatserface. ‘The bullets can hit you.’

Below me is Colombo’s Marine Drive. Our window faces north and from where I stand I can see the angry ocean as well as the tracer bullets spitting forth from the rooftop of Colombo’s tallest building. For a bullet to hit us it would have to have the directional properties of a Pradeep Mathew double bounce ball.

‘Can you turn the cricket back on?’

It is 210 for 8 and the match is gone. 3 more overs, 50-odd runs. Duckworth and Lewis have made the difficult impossible, especially without stadium lights on a soggy pitch.

None of the commentators know what the fuck’s going on. One says that Sunday is a reserve day and that if the lights don’t come back on, we can come back tomorrow. Sinhala commentator Palitha Epasekera emotes that the World Cup finals cannot be decided by Duckworth–Lewis. He urges the Lankan captain to ask for the match to be annulled.

‘Aney, you brought your guitar also. Play me one of those Kreb’s Square songs. Do you know Cumonova?’

‘I never played for Krebs. My band was called Independent Cycle.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you said …’

‘So you would sleep with me.’

‘Really?’

‘Sorry, that slipped out.’

‘You’re such an arsehole.’

‘Are we done?’

‘Drop me home now.’

‘Not while there’s tracer bullets, sweetie. Just chill and let me type. I’ll take you home after it’s finished.’

‘Arsehole.’ She pours a vodka and lights a cigarette and makes as much noise as she can doing both.

I finished reading Thaathi’s manuscript yesterday afternoon and I have it with me now.

I made a third cameo in it that you may not have noticed. It was at my father’s bedside with my son Jimi. Yesterday afternoon, after turning the last page, I found out that my father did not recognise me. And neither, I suppose, did you. I thought that W.G. had blessed me on his deathbed. Now I find out it was not me he was blessing.

The old house has been locked up for over a year. Ammi covered the furniture and fastened the gates before flying off to Rwanda with George. I am coming home to a dust-ridden house that I no longer hate. The sensation is not too dissimilar to that of shagging an old girlfriend.

Ari Uncle is still living next door, though most of his daughters have moved out. Only Aruni the youngest and Stephanie the lesbian remain. Melissa, the first girl to show me her breasts, is married to some dude in Bangalore.

Last week I was in my father’s office room, smoking up and not playing my Music Man acoustic. I walked over to Thaathi’s shelves and rummaged through crooked shoeboxes stacked amid books that were no longer read. Each was filled with files filled with papers filled with scribbling.

I was seeking W.G.’s poetry: the love songs that had won my mother over, the pastoral odes from the Badulla years. Maybe amid the stuff that Thaathi wanted to set fire to, there was something I could set to music. Instead I find the words ‘The Legend of Pradeep Mathew’ scrawled in thick correction fluid on the side of a heavy black box. Inside are sheaves of yellowed paper filled with typing, not unlike the crumpled A4s next to my bass, except for the typing bit.

WTF is this? The old man hung out with a terrorist? Told jokes? Stole a girl from a friend? The typed pages took me three days to read. The story, like the man himself, seemed to forget its point. But I read till the end. It was strange to share his warped thoughts and guess at which bits he made up.

The Thaathi I knew was a foul-mouthed, argumentative prick. He has omitted many of his sins, especially that punch-up with Ari Uncle which I would rather not write about. He also doesn’t know that I didn’t bet on Kenya. That I forged the betting slip and pocketed the seven lakhs. Sara Marzooq, my Muslim princess, spent a quarter of my stolen dowry on shoes in the week that we were married.